CARMINE KNEW THIS. But still. Still at night, to calm the images of that day in France in 1918, he summoned Eva Peretsky. Eva Peretsky was only six years ago, right before he left for the war, but she seemed a million years ago. Too much had happened since that weekend in Coney Island and tonight, lying in his bed in his mother’s house. He had to work hard to summon her, reach back before the thing that happened in the war. Back to Coney Island. First, Carmine closed his eyes and counted to three, picturing each number clearly before moving on to the next. The straight line of the 1 with its small hook at the top, like the hook at the end of a fishing pole; then the 2, swanlike and elegant; and finally the 3, its curves as round and bulging as Eva Peretsky’s breasts. But he could not think of them yet. No. First he had to count backward: 3, 2, 1. Again picturing each number clearly, the breasts of 3, the swan of 2, the fishing pole 1. Sometimes, he was already growing hard at this point.
