The Descendants (28 page)

Both girls are focused on the woman’s every movement. I wonder if they’re comparing her to their mother, or if they’re looking at her the way one looks at something nice. I check behind me to see if her husband’s coming, but I see only a man on a riding mower and some local kids cutting across the lawn with fishing poles.

Her boys ride the waves on their stomachs. Every now and then she’ll look up to watch, marking her place in the book with her finger.

“You guys should go swimming,” I say.

“Will you go in with me?” Scottie asks.

I don’t really want to, but I don’t want to say no because I know the woman can hear us.

“Sure!” I say too enthusiastically. “Alex, you, too?”

Alex sits up. I never know when I’ll meet resistance. Once I think I know the pattern with these girls–fun, intimacy, fight, unpleasantness, smooth again—they change the order.

“Sid? Want to join us?” I feel phony, like I’m pandering to him. Now he deserves my courtesy because his father’s dead.

“Let’s do this.” He stands quickly, runs toward the ocean, and stomps through the waves, then dives in. I don’t see him for a while, and then I stop looking for him to surface.

The girls and I walk to the ocean, and I slowly sink into the water.

“Catch this one, Steven,” the older boy says to his younger brother. The younger boy looks back at the wave looming over his head. “Go!”

We all duck under the wave, and I look toward the beach to see if the boy caught the wave. I see him in the distance. He caught the wave to shore.

“That was awesome,” he yells.

The older boy yells back, “I told you.”

The older boy doesn’t give Scottie a single glance. He’s all business, watching for the next set, making false starts and slapping the water in frustration. What a little freak.

I can see their mother looking over the rim of her sunglasses at us. Alex and Sid have gone past the break. I see them heading to the floating green raft. Scottie inches toward the boys and lines up to catch a wave.

“I got dibs!” the older boy yells at her. “Go, Steven. This one’s yours. Go! Go!”

I can tell Steven is shaken. He’s out of breath, and the yelling is disorienting him. He glances at Scottie, then takes off, thrashing at the water, but the wave moves under him and he sails down its back.

“You’re in the way,” the older boy yells at Scottie. “Go find your own lineup.”

I watch Scottie respond with a hesitant, nervous look as though what the boy said was a joke.

“You’re in an ocean, buddy,” I say. “I think you can all manage to share an ocean.”

“I wasn’t in his way,” Scottie says. “He just didn’t swim hard enough.”

What are you going to say to that, little punk?
I stare him down and he backs off, perhaps because he sees his mother coming into the water. I soften my gaze and smile at the boy. “Here comes a set that has your name on it,” I say. “Thatta boy!”

Their mother nods at me. Her suit is modestly cut, and she has kept her sun hat on. It hides her face, so all I can see is her body plunging into the water. Her bronze hair splays out behind her like a cape as she glides toward her boys. Scottie seems enthralled. Joanie would have run into the water in a string bikini and behaved like the older boy, making a competition out of everything, urging everyone to go, go, go.

Mrs. Speer does a backstroke, her long arms windmilling behind her, the water falling off her fingertips. Her feet make tiny splashes in front of her. That she has left her hat on is somehow both silly and charming.

“Catch this, Mom,” the younger son says.

She looks at the small swell moving toward her and breast-strokes toward shore.

“Faster!” the boy says.

Scottie tries to catch the wave, too, her eyes still fastened on the woman. She sees Scottie and quickens her stroke to match. The wave is gaining height and it will reach its peak soon. Now I’m afraid, not for Scottie, because I know she’s good at this, but for the woman, who seems so fragile, like something you’d put on a high shelf, spotlit with soft illumination. As she swims, she looks back, a grin on her face, until she looks up at the wave over her head and gasps. Then the wave spills down and she’s gone.

I catch the next wave in and see both Scottie and the woman washed up on the shore. Scottie is already standing, but the woman is on her side in the sand, her long hair wrapped around her head, a strap of her suit down her arm and the bottom part hiked up and revealing her ass.

I run up to shore but remind myself that some women, such as my wife, don’t like men helping them. I pretend to be concerned about Scottie and ask the woman while laughing, “You okay?”

Another wave crashes into her, and she slides down the shore, receding with it; she’s caught in a set and can’t seem to get out. I look out at her boys, who are laughing hysterically. I go to her and swoop her up to standing. She steadies herself by placing her hands on my shoulders and then quickly moves them away. It has to be the strangest, warmest thing I have felt in months, possibly years: her hands on me. I can still feel them. I wonder if I’ll always sense them, like a tag burned onto my skin. It’s not necessarily because of her but because she’s a woman touching me.

“My God,” she says. “I feel like I’ve gone through a car wash.”

I laugh, or force myself to, because it’s not something I’d normally laugh at.

“What about you?” she says to Scottie. “How did you make out?”

“I’m a boy,” Scottie says. “Look at me.”

Sand has gotten into the bottom of her suit, creating a huge bulge. She scratches at the bulge. “I’m going to go to work now,” she says. I think she’s impersonating me and that Mrs. Speer is getting an unrealistic, humiliating glimpse.

“Scottie,” I say. “Take that out.”

“It must be fun to have girls,” Mrs. Speer says.

She looks at the ocean, and I see that she’s looking at Alex sunbathing on the floating raft. Sid leans over Alex and puts his mouth to hers. She raises a hand to his head, and for a moment I forget it’s my daughter out there and think of how long it has been since I’ve been kissed or kissed like that.

“Or maybe you have your hands full,” Mrs. Speer says.

“No, no,” I say. “It’s great,” and it is, I suppose, though I feel like I’ve just acquired them and don’t know yet. “They’ve been together for ages.” I gesture to Alex and Sid. I don’t understand if they’re a couple or if this is how all kids in high school act these days.

Mrs. Speer looks at me curiously, as if she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t.

“And boys.” I gesture to her little dorks. “They must keep you busy.”

“They’re a handful. But they’re at such a fun age. It’s such a joy.”

She gazes out at her boys. Her expression does little to convince me that they’re such a joy. I wonder how many times parents have these dull conversations with one another and how much they must hide.
They’re so goddamn hyper, I’d do anything to inject them with a horse tranquilizer. They keep insisting that I watch what they can do, but I truly don’t give a fuck. How hard is it to jump off a diving board?

My girls are messed up,
I want to say.
One talks dirty to her own reflection. Did you do that when you were growing up?

“Your girls seem great, too,” she says. “How old are they?”

“Ten and eighteen. And yours?”

“Ten and twelve.”

“Oh,” I say. “Great.”

“Your younger one sure is funny,” she says. “I mean, not funny. I meant entertaining.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s Scottie. She’s a riot.”

We are both silent for a while, watching Scottie sit on the sand and let the waves toss her around.

“Actually,” I say, “they’re both a little sad. Their mother is in the hospital.” I realize how uncomfortable this will make Mrs. Speer. “She’ll be fine,” I add after the obligatory “Oh, no!” “They’re just worried. That’s all.”

“Sure,” she says. “That must be so hard. What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“She got into a boating accident.” I watch to see if she recognizes any of this.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Sailing? Or was she on one of those with motors?”

I laugh, and a red splotch blooms on her neck. “One with a motor,” I say.

“Sorry, I don’t know a thing—”

“No, I’m laughing because it was charming, that’s all. You’re charming.”

She touches her palm to her chest. I think this is as close as I’ll ever get to cheating on Joanie, as close as I’ll get to revenge. If Joanie was in love with someone else, why didn’t she tell me? I wonder if she was really waiting for me to sell my shares to file for divorce. I hope she wasn’t that cold. I’m grateful that I probably will never find out. Her silence lets me make her into whomever I want her to be.

Mrs. Speer looks at the ocean. I do the same.

“We saw John Cusack here yesterday,” she says. “And Neve Campbell. They were surfing.”

“Oh,” I say. “And who are they?”

“They’re actors,” she says. “Hollywood. They’re, you know, celebrities.”

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah, there’s a lot of them here. What movies are they in?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I can’t think of any.”

“Interesting,” I say.

“Silly,” she says. “Talking about celebrities. Anyway.”

“No,” I say. “It’s fascinating, really.”

I give her a look of encouragement. She bites her thumb and looks down and then looks back up at me and says with a grin, “I think you couldn’t care less.”

I laugh. “You’re right. Actually, you’re wrong. I do care! I can’t stand celebrities. I can’t stand how much we pay them, and those award shows, my God. It’s absolutely ludicrous.”

“I know. I know. I get it, but I can’t help myself.”

“You don’t buy the magazines, do you?”

“I do!”

“Oh, no,” I say. I press my palm to my forehead and then see Scottie running toward us and realize I’ve momentarily forgotten who this woman is. She is Brian’s wife. She isn’t my friend. I’m not supposed to be laughing right now or enjoying life in any way.

“Your hat!” Scottie says. “I found it.” She holds up the hat with the long and floppy brim. It’s wet and resembles a strip of seaweed as Scottie wrings it out.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Speer says, reaching for it.

Scottie stares at her shyly, as though expecting an award. “Do you want your towel?” she asks. “You have goose bumps.”

I look down at Mrs. Speer’s legs, the tiny bumps dotting her skin.

“I guess I could use a towel,” she says.

“I’ll get it.” Scottie runs toward Mrs. Speer’s bag, and I look at her apologetically, but she seems relaxed. She walks up the incline to the warm dry sand and sits. I follow her lead, running my fingers through the sand. I glance over at the bumps on her legs.

Scottie comes back to us and wraps the towel around Mrs. Speer’s shoulders, then sits beside her. “I shave, too,” Scottie says. The woman looks at Scottie’s legs. “Wow,” she says.

“I had to because I got attacked by a herd of minor wars. Man-of-wars, I mean.”

This is the line she wanted to use on her mother. I’m angry at how disloyal Scottie is. She has moved on, adopted a new form of mother so easily. She’d need only a day to fall in love with someone else, but I guess this is what kids do. They won’t mourn us the way we want them to.

“So you had to shave?” Mrs. Speer asks.

“Yeah. Shave off the poison.”

“Are you staying in the cottages?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “My husband had to come here for work. We thought we’d make a little vacation of it. He knows the owner, so…”

“Hugh.”

“That’s right.” She seems relieved that I know someone she knows.

“He’s my cousin,” I say.

“Oh, I see. Oh. Okay. You probably know my husband, then. Brian Speer?”

I look straight ahead. I see Sid and Alex jumping off the raft, which lists back and forth. The woman’s older son has drifted farther out. He could drown, possibly; he’s unsuccessfully fighting the current to get back in. I could tell her everything. I could make her feel as bad as I feel, and we could talk about things more consequential than the ages of our children. We could talk about love and heartbreak, beginnings and ends.

“I don’t know your husband,” I say.

“Oh,” she says. “I just assumed—”

“Scottie, go tell him to swim sideways to get in.”

Scottie, surprisingly obedient, stands and walks to the ocean.

Mrs. Speer shields her eyes to look for her son, then stands. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. Current’s just tricky. Scottie will help him.”

She looks at me, her face full of worry. I can read it clearly. She wants me to help her. Brian’s wife needs me to rescue her son. I can’t see the boy’s face, but I know what he’s feeling. He’s frustrated and embarrassed, he’s both incredulous and mindful of the predicament he’s in. He’s alive. He has a simple desire:
Get back in, get back in, just get back to shore.