T ime moved more slowly in a dead-end, beach town like Southport. I always said Southport was the final pit stop, right before the grave.
She moved to Southport for the warmer weather and low cost of living. My mother would soon follow her mother to Southport from South Jersey right after I was born so Grandma Helen could help raise me. The other half of Southport were the free-loving, aging hippies like my mother, Sonia. But Sunny had stormy days, too. Everyone else saw Sunny-Sunny. Stormy-Sunny would sleep for days. Stormy-Sunny would not shower.
Stormy-Sunny would not talk and would appear between boyfriends. I did not like Stormy-Sunny. The ones who were stuck behind, like me, stayed stoned to deal with the isolation, especially during those insanely quiet, winter months. We were a tourist town after all, right at the mouth of Cape Fear. Ever since Sunny started dating Buddy Lang, a local bait and tackle shop owner, she was never home anymore. She only came home to do her laundry, or check on our cats, Mr.
Mingles and Daisy-Girl. With Sunny, I knew not to get too deep or philosophical about anything. I swore his little house was going to blow away in that wind. I noticed her quick glances in between the long silence of our micro-exchanges. She used to say I looked like my loser father β a married, Italian construction worker, whom she once had a summer fling with in Atlantic City.
I was more petite with olive skin and jet black, wavy hair, and often got mistaken for Spanish. Grandma Helen and Sunny, having Scotch-Irish roots, were tall with reddish-colored hair and pale, freckled skin.
