“Want to fight me for the taffy?” she whispers.

He moves to kiss her again. Someone raps on the door.

“Eddie! Are you in there? Eddie?”

Mr. Nathanson, the baker, lives in the ground-level apartment behind the store. He has a telephone. When Eddie opens the door, he is standing in the doorway, wearing a bathrobe. He looks concerned.

“Eddie,” he says. “Come down. There’s a phone call. I think something happened to your father.”

“I am Ruby.”

It suddenly made sense to Eddie, why the woman looked familiar. He had seen a photograph, somewhere in the back of the repair shop, among the old manuals and paperwork from the park’s initial ownership.

“The old entrance …” Eddie said.

She nodded in satisfaction. The original Ruby Pier entrance had been something of a landmark, a giant arching structure based on a historic French temple, with fluted columns and a coved dome at the top. Just beneath that dome, under which all patrons would pass, was the painted face of a beautiful woman. This woman. Ruby.

“But that thing was destroyed a long time ago,” Eddie said. “There was a big …”

He paused.

“Fire,” the old woman said. “Yes. A very big fire.” She dropped her chin, and her eyes looked down through her spectacles, as if she were reading from her lap.

“It was Independence Day, the Fourth of July—a holiday. Emile loved holidays. ‘Good for business,’ he’d say. If Independence Day went well, the entire summer might go well. So Emile arranged for fireworks. He brought in a marching band. He even hired extra workers, roustabouts mostly, just for that weekend.

“But something happened the night before the celebration. It was hot, even after the sun went down, and a few of the roustabouts chose to sleep outside, behind the work sheds. They lit a fire in a metal barrel to roast their food.

“As the night went on, there was drinking and carousing. The workers got ahold of some of the smaller fireworks. They set them off. The wind blew. The sparks flew. Everything in those days was made of lathe and tar…”

She shook her head. “The rest happened quickly. The fire spread to the midway and the food stalls and on to the animal cages. The roustabouts ran off. By the time someone came to our home to wake us, Ruby Pier was in flames. From our window we saw the horrible orange blaze. We heard the horses’ hooves and the steamer engines of the fire companies. People were in the street.

“I begged Emile not to go, but that was fruitless. Of course he would go. He would go to the raging fire and he would try to salvage his years of work and he would lose himself in anger and fear and when the entrance caught fire, the entrance with my name and my picture, he lost all sense of where he was, too. He was trying to throw buckets of water when a column collapsed upon him.”

She put her fingers together and raised them to her lips. “In the course of one night, our lives were changed forever. Risk taker that he was, Emile had acquired only minimal insurance on the pier. He lost his fortune. His splendid gift to me was gone.

“In desperation, he sold the charred grounds to a businessman from Pennsylvania for far less than it was worth. That businessman kept the name, Ruby Pier, and in time, he reopened the park. But it was not ours anymore.

“Emile’s spirit was as broken as his body. It took three years before he could walk on his own. We moved away, to a place outside the city, a small flat, where our lives were spent modestly, me tending to my wounded husband and silently nurturing a single wish.”

She stopped.

“What wish?” Eddie said.

“That he had never built that place.”

The old woman sat in silence. Eddie studied the vast jade sky. He thought about how many times he had wished this same thing, that whoever had built Ruby Pier had done something else with his money.

“I’m sorry about your husband,” Eddie said, mostly because he didn’t know what else to say.

The old woman smiled. “Thank you, dear. But we lived many years beyond those flames. We raised three children. Emile was sickly, in and out of the hospital. He left me a widow in my fifties. You see this face, these wrinkles?” She turned her cheeks upward. “I earned every one of them.”

Eddie frowned. “I don’t understand. Did we ever … meet? Did you ever come to the pier?”

“No,” she said. “I never wanted to see the pier again. My children went there, and their children and theirs. But not me. My idea of heaven was as far from the ocean as possible, back in that busy diner, when my days were simple, when Emile was courting me.”

Eddie rubbed his temples. When he breathed, mist emerged.

“So why am I here?” he said. “I mean, your story, the fire, it all happened before I was born.”

“Things that happen before you are born still affect you,” she said. “And people who come before your time affect you as well.

“We move through places every day that would never have been if not for those who came before us. Our workplaces, where we spend so much time—we often think they began with our arrival. That’s not true.”

She tapped her fingertips together. “If not for Emile, I would have no husband. If not for our marriage, there would be no pier. If there’d been no pier, you would not have ended up working there.”

Eddie scratched his head. “So you’re here to tell me about work?”

“No, dear,” Ruby answered, her voice softening. “I’m here to tell you why your father died.”

The phone call was from Eddie’s mother. His father had collapsed that afternoon, on the east end of the boardwalk near the Junior Rocket Ride. He had a raging fever.

“Eddie, I’m afraid,” his mother said, her voice shaking. She told him of a night, earlier in the week, when his father had come home at dawn, soaking wet. His clothes were full of sand. He was missing a shoe. She said he smelled like the ocean. Eddie bet he smelled like liquor, too.

“He was coughing,” his mother explained. “It just got worse. We should have called a doctor right away…” She drifted in her words. He’d gone to work that day, she said, sick as he was, with his tool belt and his ball peen hammer—same as always—but that night he’d refused to eat and in bed he’d hacked and wheezed and sweated through his undershirt. The next day was worse. And now, this afternoon, he’d collapsed.

“The doctor said it’s pneumonia. Oh, I should have done something. I should have done something…”

“What were you supposed to do?” Eddie asked. He was mad that she took this on herself. It was his father’s drunken fault.

Through the phone, he heard her crying.

Eddie’s father used to say he’d spent so many years by the ocean, he breathed seawater. Now, away from that ocean, in the confines of a hospital bed, his body began to wither like a beached fish. Complications developed. Congestion built in his chest. His condition went from fair to stable and from stable to serious. Friends went from saying, “He’ll be home in a day,” to “He’ll be home in a week.” In his father’s absence, Eddie helped out at the pier, working evenings after his taxi job, greasing the tracks, checking the brake pads, testing the levers, even repairing broken ride parts in the shop.

What he really was doing was protecting his father’s job. The owners acknowledged his efforts, then paid him half of what his father earned. He gave the money to his mother, who went to the hospital every day and slept there most nights. Eddie and Marguerite cleaned her apartment and shopped for her food.

When Eddie was a teenager, if he ever complained or seemed bored with the pier, his father would snap, “What? This ain’t good enough for you?” And later, when he’d suggested Eddie take a job there after high school, Eddie almost laughed, and his father again said, “What? This ain’t good enough for you?” And before Eddie went to war, when he’d talked of marrying Marguerite and becoming an engineer, his father said, “What? This ain’t good enough for you?”