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Bobby's Girl

An elderly woman stood on a deserted New Jersey beach, a warm ocean breeze blowing through her graying hair. The forlorn cries of the gulls—the only sign of life in the desolate place—made her melancholy even more acute. It had been more than forty years since she had last stood on that beach. Directly ahead of her was the boardwalk or, rather, what was left of it. The entire half-mile expanse from Convention Hall to the Casino had been abandoned. The buildings that once housed arcades, games of chance, souvenir shops and food stands had been boarded up years earlier. Only the rotting shells were left to bear witness to what was once a thriving vacation spot on the Jersey shore.

* * *

Mary Lou Brennan and Francine Hopper were traveling south on the Garden State Parkway in a 1958 Chevy Impala. The tassel from Mary Lou's graduation cap proudly swung from the rearview mirror along with a pine-scented air freshener and a giant pair of pink foam rubber dice. Only two days earlier Mary Lou and Francine had graduated from high school, and they were now on their way to Asbury Park for a two-week vacation.

The radio was tuned to WABC in New York, and Cousin Brucie began playing Marcie Blane's "Bobby's Girl." The song held a special significance for Mary Lou, and she turned up the volume on the radio and sang along.

"When people ask of me, 'What would you like to be now that you're not a kid anymore?' I know just what to say. I answer right away. There's just one thing I've been wishing for. I wanna be Bobby's girl; I wanna be Bobby's girl. That's the most important thing to me. And if I was Bobby's girl, if I was Bobby's girl, what a faithful, thankful girl I'd be."

Francine shot a curious glance toward her friend and then shook her head.

"Don't tell me you still have a crush on that loser."

Mary Lou stiffened, and replied, "He's not a loser."

"He's a deadbeat," Francine insisted, leaving no room for argument. "He dropped out of school seven years ago, and he still doesn't have a job. He's twenty-three years old, and he lives off his parents. There is no future in getting involved with someone like that."

"We've been through all this before, Fran, and I'm tired of hearing it. Okay? Besides, there's nothing to worry about. Bobby Healy doesn't even know I'm alive."

"Good! I just hope for your sake it stays that way."

A sudden flash of anger lit up Mary Lou's blue eyes, but it passed quickly. She could never stay mad at Francine. They had been friends since kindergarten and were closer than most sisters. Francine only wanted what was best for her, but Mary Lou wanted what Marcie Blane wanted: to be Bobby's Girl.

"And if I was Bobby's Girl," she continued to sing as the song on the radio came to an end, "If I was Bobby's girl, what a faithful, thankful girl I'd be."

Twenty minutes later they arrived in Asbury Park and checked into the Ocean View Motel.

"Ocean View?" Mary Lou laughed. "Maybe if we stand on the roof, we might just be able to glimpse the water from here."

"And then only if we used a step ladder," Francine added. "Oh, well. Who cares if we can't see the Atlantic from our window? I don't intend to spend that much time in the room anyway. I want to get a tan so dark that people will think I've been dipped in chocolate."

"What will Lonnie say about that?"

"Nothing. Chocolate is his favorite flavor."

The girls fell into fits of giggles. They had long been looking forward to these two weeks of fun and sun. In September they would start on the path to their adult lives. Mary Lou planned on going to cosmetology school to study hairstyling, and Francine wanted to attend Katherine Gibbs and become a secretary. However, neither girl harbored any long-range career goals. Like most young women of their generation, what they wanted most were marriage, a house in the suburbs, a minimum of two children, a dog, a station wagon and a husband with a steady paycheck.

For Mary Lou Brennan and Francine Hopper—standing on the threshold of their adult lives—the future with all of its promises seemed just within their reach. But like the Atlantic Ocean, so close yet unseen from their motel room window, reality, with its attendant disillusionment and heartache, was waiting for them just beyond the horizon.

It was after eight o'clock when they checked into the motel, too late to go to the beach.

"Let's head down to the boardwalk and get something to eat," Francine suggested.

The summer night was alive with lights, music and crowds of people. The Drifters could be heard singing "Under the Boardwalk" from several transistor radios, all tuned to the same station.

"Hi, Tillie!" Mary Lou suddenly called out.

"Who's Tillie?"

"See those two smiling faces up there painted on the Palace Amusements building? That's Tillie. I look for him every time I come down here. To me, he's the official greeter of Asbury Park."

The girls each bought a corndog on a stick and strolled along the boardwalk. Mary Lou pulled a bagful of change out of her purse and shared it with Francine. The girls played Skee-Ball and took their chances on the wheels and the vending machines in the arcades. Francine won a bobbing-head dog when the wheel stopped on her lucky number, and Mary Lou won a heart-shaped pendant when she caught it in the mechanical claw. Next, they bought dessert: a slice of Neapolitan ice cream sandwiched between two warm waffles.

"Ummm! This is delicious," Mary Lou exclaimed, with something close to ecstasy.

"Yeah, but you better eat it quickly before it melts all over your new sundress."

As they headed toward the copper and glass carousel house on Ocean Avenue, the girls passed a small concession stand, with its doorway partly covered by a dark blue velvet curtain. Above the door was a sign identifying the proprietor as Madam Marie, a psychic reader.

"Know what the fates have in store for you," Mary Lou read on the sign beside the door.

"I already know my future," Francine announced confidently. "I'm going to become Mrs. Lonnie Mercer, buy a split-level house in Clifton and have three children, or maybe four."

"Has he asked you yet?"

"No, but that's because he's still got another two years to go on his enlistment. I know he'll ask me once he gets out. Till then I'm blue, navy blue. I'm as blue as I can be 'cause my steady boy said ship ahoy and joined the na-a-vy."

Diane Renay's song held as much meaning for Francine as Marcie Blane's had for Mary Lou.

"And what if he has a pretty senorita waiting for him down in old Mexico or meets some sweet fraulein down in Berlin town that makes his heart start to yearn? Or a pretty Polynesian baby over the sea and they walk in the sands of the Waikiki and he holds her oh so tight?"

"Enough with the song lyrics! Let's face it. Lonnie's no Ricky Nelson when it comes to looks. I can't see him as a 'Travelin' Man' owning the hearts of lovely girls in every port."

"He was cute enough to capture your heart, wasn't he?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I love him for his mind," Francine laughed.

"You may know what's in store for you," Mary Lou said, "but I haven't a clue as to what my future holds. Maybe Madam Marie can enlighten me."

Francine rolled her eyes in resignation and followed Mary Lou into the small, dimly lit room behind the velvet curtain.

* * *

The well-dressed, gray-haired woman slowly walked along the lonely boardwalk that was haunted by ghosts from her past. Toward its northern end stood a massive ten-story concrete and steel skeleton that had not been part of the Asbury Park skyline the last time she was there. She remembered reading about proposed plans to build luxury condominiums, an attempt toward redeveloping the seedy, run-down town that Asbury Park had become in the Eighties. Sadly, the construction was halted in the early Nineties, leaving the huge, half-built structure to serve as a tombstone to mark the grave of the dead seaside playground.

* * *

Francine stared at the inside of Madam Marie's lair. The ceiling was painted dark blue, and glow-in-the-dark moons, suns and stars were pasted onto it, creating a celestial panorama. The walls, painted a much lighter shade of blue, bore dozens of kabbalistic symbols and astrological signs. Black candles in wall sconces provided the only illumination. The furniture consisted of a small round table and four chairs, one of which was occupied by Madam Marie herself.

The fortuneteller was far from the stereotypical Romanian-looking women dressed in brightly colored gypsy skirts, kerchiefs and bangle jewelry. Madam Marie was young, blond and beautiful and bore a strong resemblance to actress Veronica Lake. She was dressed in a simple white and gold Egyptian-style tunic—a cheap costume, but it looked elegant and sophisticated on the stunning psychic. Madam Marie stood up, nodded her head in greeting and with her slender hands indicated that the girls were to take a seat.

"Welcome," she finally said in a soft, low-pitched voice with a faint accent that the girls couldn't identify. "You are fortunate to be here today. The spirits are awake and willing to communicate."

Francine viewed matters of the occult with a good deal of skepticism. Mary Lou, on the other hand, often read her horoscope, kept an assortment of good luck charms and observed all the rules regarding known superstitions including never stepping on a crack in the pavement and crossing her fingers every time she passed a cemetery.

"Which of you young ladies wants to be first?" Madam Marie asked.

"I'm not getting my fortune told," Francine hastily explained. "I'm just along for the ride."

"Come on, Francine, don't be a party pooper."

"I'm not. This was your idea, so go ahead."

"You first," Mary Lou insisted, taking out her wallet. "My treat."

Francine gave in.

"All right, I'll go first."

Madam Marie took Francine's hand and turned it palm up. With a long red fingernail, she traced the lines etched in the skin.

Then she raised her head and announced, "I see a long life and good health. You will know great success in your chosen career and will earn a good deal of money."

"Oh, yeah?" Francine laughed. "I'd be the first woman who ever made it big typing letters and taking dictation! Are you sure you don't mean my husband will be rich and successful?"

"I'm afraid I don't see marriage in your future. On the contrary, you are destined to travel life's path alone."

Even though Francine didn't believe in all the clairvoyant mumbo jumbo, she was mildly insulted by the implication that she was destined to be an old maid.

"My turn."

Mary Lou bubbled with excitement as she thrust her upturned palm toward the fortuneteller.

Madam Marie silently studied the lines in her hand, reading them as intently as Mary Lou had read Grace Metalious's Peyton Place. A frown crossed Madam Marie's brow.

"There is cloudiness in your future. Apparently, the cosmic forces have not yet decided your fate."

Mary Lou was disappointed.

"Can't you look again?"

The fortuneteller seemed to be trying to come to terms with some internal conflict.

"I have never lied to my customers," she said finally as if hoping to confirm some mystic's code of ethics. "Do you want to know what I have seen, even if it is not what you had hoped to hear?"

"Yes."

"I see love in the very near future. You will be married before the year ends."

Mary Lou was visibly relieved.

"I thought for a minute you were going to tell me I'd be struck down with some fatal disease and die before I turned twenty."

Madam Marie laughed. Words could not describe the eerie quality of that sound. It was as though some long-dead Egyptian queen could be heard laughing deep within the stone pyramids, laughter that traversed through both time and space.

"No, you will not die so young. Your fate is to marry the man of your dreams. But ...." She hesitated briefly before continuing, "He will not make you happy for very long."

"If she's going to get married before the year is out, she'll have to meet him soon, right?" asked Francine, showing more interest in Mary Lou's fortune than in her own.

"She already knows him. He is the one who lives in her dreams right now."

Mary Lou's heart leaped. There was only one man in her dreams: Bobby Healy. Was she really destined to marry him? If so, there was no way her future could be anything but happy.

* * *

The next day the girls lay on their beach towels in the hot sun. Francine, her body glistening from the thick coat of Johnson's baby oil she'd applied, closed her eyes and daydreamed about being on a desert island with Troy Donahue. Mary Lou stared at the sea, her mind on Madam Marie's predictions.

At first, she was convinced the voice was a figment of her imagination, but then she heard it again: "Want me to bring you back a Coke or something?"

There was no mistaking that voice; it was Bobby Healy's.

Mary Lou looked around and spotted him about ten feet away, lying on a blanket next to a curvaceous blonde. A quiver went through her midsection, a peculiar sensation she felt whenever she saw those green eyes, that thick, wavy black hair and that sideways smile—so similar to that of Elvis Presley.

My God, he's gorgeous! Mary Lou thought with desperate longing.

But who was that girl he was with? It was no one she recognized, certainly no one from the neighborhood.

Bobby's companion had brassy bleached hair, thick layers of eye makeup and huge breasts barely concealed by her skimpy French bikini.

No wonder he never looked twice at me, Mary Lou thought gloomily, envious of New Jersey's version of Brigitte Bardot.

When Bobby bent over and kissed the buxom blonde on her bare shoulder, Mary Lou groaned and buried her face in her beach towel. How could she have been so gullible as to believe Madam Marie?

Later that evening Francine and Mary Lou met several friends from school, and the whole group went out for pizza. Afterward, they headed for Palace Amusements to ride the Twister and the Scooters and enter the Fun House. Since the group consisted only of girls, they thought it best to bypass the Tunnel of Love.

As she walked under the smiling face of Tillie, Mary Lou again spotted Bobby Healy with his poor man's Jayne Mansfield. Wretchedness came over her that could not be dispelled by amusement park rides. Feigning a headache, she left Francine and the others at the Palace and walked along the boardwalk, alone, stopping occasionally to stare off at the whitecaps breaking on the beach.

As she headed back in the direction of the motel, she once again passed the curtain-covered doorway of Madam Marie's shop.

Psychic reader, my ass! she thought bitterly.

The sound of Marie's eerie laughter could be heard from within. Then the curtain parted and the fortuneteller appeared.

"So, you doubt what I told you?" the seer asked as though she had read Mary Lou's mind.

"The man of my dreams apparently has a dream of his own—one that doesn't include me."

"A man's interest in one woman can easily be redirected to another."

Mary Lou let out a cynical laugh.

"You didn't see the woman he was with. She looked like a centerfold for Playboy magazine. I can hardly compete with her."

"Why don't we go inside where we don't have to talk above the noise of the crowd?"

It was cooler inside the dimly lit room, and a heavy, perfumed scent hung in the air. In the middle of the table was a small plaster Buddha holding a smoking incense cone in his lap, a cheap knickknack from Woolworth's.

Once inside her domain, Madam Marie was prepared to discuss business.

"If you want this young man so terribly, I can help you get him."

This is crazy! Mary Lou thought. Madam Marie is nothing but a boardwalk charlatan. I should just forget about Bobby Healy and go back to the Palace Amusements and ride the Twister.

But even as these sentiments echoed in her mind, she couldn't help asking, "How?"

Madam Marie crossed the small room and opened a closet that had been hidden in the shadow of the doorway curtain. The shelves inside contained what looked to Mary Lou like props from a Boris Karloff or Vincent Price movie: a crystal ball, tarot cards and an assortment of small bottles containing powders and liquids in myriad colors. Marie reached for a small vial of amber-tinted liquid and handed it to Mary Lou.

"This will make him yours forever, for all eternity."

Mary Lou removed the stopper and sniffed.

"Phew," she said pulling back quickly. "This stuff reeks! It's definitely not Evening in Paris or Chanel No. 5."

"It's not meant to be worn; it isn't perfume."

"You don't mean I have to drink this vile stuff?"

"Not you—him. But don't worry. It has no taste, and the odor fades quickly. If you put it in something he drinks, he'll never notice."

"So, what is this exactly? Some kind of magic concoction like in the song 'Love Potion No. 9'?"

"Yes. But unlike the one in the song, this potion won't wear off."

"And what do you want for this bottled miracle?" Mary Lou asked warily.

Madam Marie eyed the young woman carefully as if trying to estimate her net worth.

"Only $25," she announced finally.

"Thanks, but no thanks."

Mary Lou tried to hand the bottle back to her. She'd only brought $150 to spend for the entire two weeks; she could hardly afford $25 on such a dubious item as a love potion. But Madam Marie pushed the bottle back toward her.

"Pay me nothing now. Take it and try it on the young man. If you are not satisfied with the results, you will owe me nothing."

* * *

It was two days before the opportunity to use the potion presented itself. During that time, Mary Lou had surreptitiously kept an eye on Bobby Healy's every move. Finally, he left the blonde on the beach and headed for the refreshment stand. While he was paying for his Coke, Mary Lou deliberately tossed her wallet at his feet. When Bobby bent to pick it up, she emptied the contents of the small vial into his soda.

"You dropped this," he said, handing her the wallet.

"Gee, thanks," she said. "Hey, don't I know you?"

"I don't think so," he said, without interest.

She was right; he'd never even noticed her before.

"Aren't you Bobby Healy, the boy who lives on Totowa Avenue?"

"Yeah," he said, clearly anxious to return to the blonde.

"Your glass is kind of full. Be careful you don't spill your soda."

Mary Lou held her breath as Bobby took several gulps of his Coke. How long would it be before the potion took effect? Was it necessary for him to drink the entire amount? It occurred to her now that she should have questioned Madam Marie further.

Then, as Bobby glanced at Mary Lou above the edge of his paper cup, a strange look came over his face. He smiled that Elvis Presley smile that had worked magic on so many girls.

"Since you know my name, I think it only fair you tell me yours."

"I'm Mary Lou Brennan. I live a few blocks away from you, on Bergen Street."

"Mary Lou, huh? You passed me by one sunny day, flashed those big brown eyes my way, and oo I wanted you forever more. Now I'm not one that gets around. I swear my feet stuck to the ground. And though I never did meet you before, I said hello, Mary Lou, goodbye heart. Sweet Mary Lou, I'm so in love with you."

Mary Lou blushed, her cheeks turning the color of ripe strawberries.

"I love that song, and you sing it so well. You sound just like Ricky Nelson," she said, stretching the truth to the limit.

"Then that will be our song. I knew Mary Lou we'd never part. So hello, Mary Lou, goodbye heart."

His serenade over, Bobby took her arm and suggested they walk down to the Casino.

"But what about ...?"

She started to ask him about his top-heavy girlfriend but then thought better of it. After all, if he had forgotten about her, Mary Lou was the last person who wanted to remind him.

Just as Madam Marie had predicted, Mary Lou Brennan and Bobby Healy were married before the year was out. Only one small problem cast a shadow to mar the otherwise utopian state of matrimony in which Mary Lou existed: Bobby still hadn't found a job, and the newlyweds had to live above the groom's parents' garage.

Whenever the bride tried to tactfully suggest that it was time he seek employment, Bobby would cuddle up to her and sing, in his best Ricky Nelson impression, "I saw your lips; I heard your voice. Believe me, I just had no choice. Wild horses couldn't make me stay away."

An immature tactic, true, but it worked, at least for the first several months. But after nearly a year of living in the good graces of her in-laws, Mary Lou went out and got a job herself.

* * *

The years passed. The Beatles invaded America and changed the music, fashion and attitudes of a generation. Just as Brian Hyland, Fabian and Chubby Checker faded into rock 'n' roll history, so did Mary Lou's love for Bobby Healy wane. The unhappy Mrs. Healy—who now preferred to be called just Mary—still worked for the same sweatshop that had hired her ten months into her marriage. Her husband, after several short-lived jobs, gave up all pretense of seeking employment and openly lived off his wife's income.

Supporting Bobby Healy wasn't too hard, even on slave wages. Bobby's life was simple: he slept most of the day, not waking until three or four in the afternoon. Then, after a cursory attempt at personal hygiene, he headed toward the nearest bar where he drank cheap whiskey until closing. More times than not, the bouncer had to send him on his way, stumbling back to the three-room apartment above his parents' garage. Once home, he either staggered to the bed to sleep in peaceful oblivion or simply passed out sprawled on the staircase.

Mary, who'd long since realized her dream man was a complete nightmare, rarely saw her husband awake. She couldn't recall the last conversation they'd had. She did have some consolation, though. For four months she'd been seeing Phillip Simmons, one of the foremen at the factory. Mary felt no guilt over the affair; Phil made her feel alive and happy—feelings long since dead in her marriage. But now, he wanted more out of their relationship.

"I'm thirty years old," Phil complained. "It's time I settled down. I want a home and a family."

"Isn't that supposed to be the woman's line?" Mary asked.

Her years with Bobby had tainted her outlook on life with a cynical hardness.

"I was hoping you'd want the same thing."

"What I want doesn't matter. I'm married, remember?"

"Haven't you ever heard of divorce?"

"I've dreamed of little else for years, but Bobby won't hear of it. The last time I brought the subject up I got a black eye for my trouble."

"There you go. Get a lawyer and tell him that Bobby is abusive. It shouldn't be hard for you to get a divorce based on mental and physical cruelty."

"I haven't exactly been a model wife. If he contests the divorce—which I know he will—it could cost a fortune. I don't have that kind of money. Look, Phil, I've come to accept the inevitable: I'll be stuck with Bobby forever."

Phillip sighed, trying to hide his impatience.

"I don't want to press you, darling, but it can't go on like this much longer. I love you more than anyone I've ever known, but I don't know how long I can wait."

Mary's face clouded over as she recalled Madam Marie's ominous predictions.

* * *

It was almost dawn. Mary lay awake on the sofa listening to Bobby's drunken snoring in the next room.

It's so unfair! she thought. I was so young and foolish, jumping into an impossible marriage, blinded by green eyes, wavy hair and an Elvis-like smile.

Was she destined to pay for that one mistake for the rest of her life? Phillip might very well be her one chance for happiness, for a real marriage to a decent man—not a zombie who spent half his life in an alcoholic stupor.

Mary wondered bitterly—and not for the first time—why God had condemned so many fine young men to death on the battlefields of Vietnam while sparing a useless bum like Bobby Healy.

Then Mary was reminded of Francine Hopper. She hadn't seen her old friend in nearly two years. Fran had been devastated by Lonnie Mercer's death, and the last Mary heard, she quit her secretarial job with Prudential Insurance and enrolled in college.

"I guess Madam Marie was right about Frannie's life, too."

Finally, Mary forced herself to drink a cup of coffee and get ready for work. As she left the apartment, she didn't bother to lock the door. Her old beat-up Ford Thunderbird, parked in the garage below, was the only thing she owned worth stealing, and even that wasn't worth very much. When Mary turned the key in the ignition, the engine sputtered briefly and then died.

"Great!" she moaned, slamming the driver's side door shut after her third unsuccessful attempt to start the car. "Why do you have to act up now?"

Her in-laws were out of town for the week, and Mary had no one to drive her to work. The buses ran every fifteen minutes, but the closest bus stop was almost a mile from her home.

She went back upstairs and phoned the factory to let her boss know she'd be late getting to work. Then she tried to wake Bobby. Cars were his only interest besides drinking. Maybe he could fix the Ford so that she could drive to work. Unfortunately, Bobby was out like the proverbial light.

"Passed out cold again, huh?" she asked. "I wonder how long it takes a person to die of cirrhosis. Oh, who am I kidding? I won't get rid of you that easily."

As she started to walk away from her husband, Mary saw the butt of a cigarette clenched between the fingers of his right hand. An automatic fear shot through her: had he been stupid enough to smoke in bed? Even a mental pygmy like Bobby should know how dangerous that was. But her fear was quickly followed by inspiration and hope.

Her hand shaking, she reached for the lighter on the night table. After three flicks, a tiny flame shot up. She leaned over and set fire to the blanket. Within seconds, however, the flame smoldered and died. She lit it again. Then she set fire to the pillowcase, the sheet and finally Bobby's flannel shirt. Only when Mary saw the flames start to spread to the bedroom curtains did she grab her jacket and leave the apartment.

As she shut the front door behind her, she thought she heard the unmistakable sound of Madam Marie's laughter.

* * *

The elderly woman stared up at the smiling face of Tillie that still peered down from the now condemned Palace Amusements building. It was a bittersweet reminder of that summer she had graduated from high school, long before Madam Marie's predictions had been proven true, before the Kennedy assassination and the war in Vietnam, before anyone had ever heard of Watergate or a disease called AIDS and when personal computers lived only in the realm of science fiction.

As she peered into the wreckage of the Palace, she remembered names that had echoed through its walls that long ago summer—names of people who, like Asbury Park itself, now lived only in her memory. Lonnie Mercer had died a hero's death in Vietnam. The "Travelin' Man," Ricky Nelson, was killed in a plane crash several years later. More recently, Bobby Healy died in his bed, the victim of a tragic fire. And Mary Lou Brennan...

* * *

The orderly unlocked the door to Mary Lou's room. Fran barely recognized her old friend, even though at one time they had been closer than most sisters. Mary Lou's once auburn hair had turned white. Her blue eyes were glazed over in a vacant stare. She looked a good twenty years older than she actually was—although considering the horrors she'd lived through, it was hardly surprising.

Fran was at a loss for words. What should she say to someone who was clinically insane? Tragically, she brought up the one subject that should have been avoided.

"Remember the summer we graduated from high school?" she asked innocently. "It was the first vacation we'd ever taken without our parents."

Mary Lou suddenly screamed and began beating the walls with her fists.

"She said it wouldn't wear off, that he'd be mine through all eternity. Why didn't I listen to her? Why? Why? WHY?"

Fran ran to the door and tried to call the orderly, but Mary Lou clutched at her arms.

"He comes back to haunt me every night. His blistered skin is burned so badly that you can see his bones in many places."

"Mary Lou, you're upset. Let me get a doctor."

But Mary Lou didn't want a doctor.

"The worst thing is the odor. It clings to him like the Canoe cologne he used to wear when I first met him. Only now he smells of burned and decayed flesh."

"It's only your imagination," Fran replied weakly, trying to extricate herself from Mary Lou's grasp.

"No. You see, that summer I bought a magic potion from Madam Marie, one that made Bobby Healy fall in love with me. She told me then that it would never wear off, that he'd be mine for all eternity. Oh God! Why didn't I listen to her?"

"Calm down, honey; you're getting all upset."

"Once I realized what a mistake our marriage had been, I wanted out. But he was like a leech; I couldn't get rid of him. So, I had to kill him."

"You didn't kill Bobby. His death was an accident."

Poor Mary Lou was confused. Her mind had been unhinged by grief over losing Bobby Healy. She'd remarried shortly after his death, but for some reason known only to her, Mary Lou had murdered her second husband, Phillip Simmons, on their wedding night. Now, apparently, she felt she was also guilty of Bobby's death.

"I did kill him," Mary Lou insisted, not quite as insane as everyone believed. "I deliberately set him on fire, and he's been haunting me ever since. Then when I married Phil ...."

Mary Lou shuddered at the horror of the memory.

"On our wedding night, the lights were out. I couldn't see his face, but I smelled the burning flesh, and then I heard his voice. He was singing our song, 'Hello, Mary Lou, goodbye heart. Sweet Mary Lou, I'm so in love with you.'"

So that's what happened, Fran thought. In Mary Lou's twisted imagination, Phillip had become the ghost of Bobby Healy. That was why she killed him.

Fran looked with compassion at her old friend, but Mary Lou was lost in a world of her own, one filled with terrors beyond imagination, as she continued to sing, "I knew Mary Lou we'd never part. So hello, Mary Lou, goodbye heart."

* * *

A month after her visit with Mary Lou, Fran spied a short article in The Star-Ledger:

* * *

Francine Hopper took one final look at the ghost town that had once been Asbury Park and then unlocked the door of her car. Safely behind the wheel of her late-model Mercedes, she said a final farewell to Tillie, Lonnie Mercer, Bobby Healy, Mary Lou Brennan and her own youth and shattered dreams. As she drove away, above the sound of the seagulls' doleful cries, she thought she heard the eerie laughter of Madam Marie.

"Bobby's Girl" © Gary Klein and Henry Hoffman.
"Hello Mary Lou, Goodbye Heart" © Gene Pitney.
"Travelin' Man" © Jerry Fuller.
"Navy Blue" © Bob Crewe, Edward Fluri [executor] and Bud Rehak.

Since I wrote this story in 2000, progress has been made in bringing Asbury Park back to life. There are concert venues, restaurants, shops and the annual Zombie Walk to attract new people to the boardwalk. And, there's still the legendary Stone Pony.

Salem decided his face should be above Palace Amusements, right next to Tillie's. (I wonder if that's why Asbury Park is virtually a ghost town.)