The Grown Ups (36 page)
Authors: Robin Antalek
She scrambled ahead of George to the rocks and then waited for him to catch up. Along the way he stubbed his toe and skipped around as he cursed in pain. Miriam made appropriate murmuring sounds, a little cluck in the back of her throat. She looked down at his foot when he made it over to her but he shook his head and brushed her off although I could tell he was pleased. George could be a drama queen.
George took the leadâonly climbing to the lower ledge that was about four feet above the water. I couldn't even describe this as safer. Miriam stood beside him, peering down into the water as George pointed out the flat sheaf of shale rock to the right that she would want to avoid as she threw herself over the edge. That would be from experience. At one time or another that rock had sheared the skin of every one of my siblings, but not me. And that was not out of prowessâjust avoidance. I never dove and in my seventeen years I have heard every word there is to describe my cowardice.
Miriam placed her arms over her head with her palms together, like a beginner ballet student, except her legs were together and her feet pointed out. Without waiting for George to correct her she toddled toward the edge and jumped off. I winced as she hit the water belly-first.
When she came up, she was laughing, although her chest and neck were red from either the cold or the impact or both. She looked at me and waved and I waved back, hoping the pain would dissuade her from any more diving. George stood with his hands on his slender hipsâhis bathing suit hung dangerously lowâand shook his head from side to side.
She yelled up from the water, “Show me, George.”
And George, as effortlessly as breathing, made a graceful arc into the water. Miriam waited for him to surface and when he did, she held up her arms in the victory position.
They continued like this for what must have been another hour because I dozed off and when I woke and checked my watch, I had less than thirty minutes to get
to work. Before I left, Miriam insisted I watch her dive again. Her form had improved (or maybe
changed
was a better word) so that while she no longer looked like a demented ballerina, she now looked like someone with scoliosis.
George and Miriam's diving lessons continued for the rest of the week. The weather had turned oppressively hot, so much so that even the water felt tepid. When we weren't in the water and I wasn't working, we snuck into the movie theater in town. The back door faced an alley and a boy who had an unrequited crush on George propped open the door for us on the nights he worked. It didn't matter what was playing, because the theater had air-conditioning. We'd eat cheese sandwiches on thick sourdough bread, which Miriam made us, washed down with a huge Coke and some rum that George always provided. For dessert I contributed broken pieces of chocolate-dipped waffle cone that were free for the taking from work.
Sitting like that in the dark with George reminded me of all the hours we'd spent as kids in one theater after another while our parents rehearsed plays. Rehearsing really was a euphemism because in reality my parents spent more time fighting over lines, or fighting over actors or actresses that one accused the other of being attracted to. Not that we always understood it at the timeâwe only went to the theater when someone forgot to call the sitter and all of the older kids had plans.
By the time I was born my father's career had peaked. Years before he had written a play (about a large dysfunctional family, go figure) that had made it to Broadway and ran for nearly three years, winning several Tonys, including one for my dad, only to follow it up with four more plays that closed after five months, three months, six weeks, and the worstâopening night. That last, particularly painful failure happened the day of my fifth birthday. A day my father hasn't commemorated in twelve years unless you count him locking himself in his study to drink an entire bottle of Jack Daniel's.
After that, the offers were few and far between and so he took to the road, where obscure small towns filled with would-be theater-goers afraid to venture to the big city were more receptive to his work, and he reveled in their attentions, reluctant to relinquish the spotlight.
But an odd thing happened during that time. My mother's career mysteriously revived after she took a role as a crazy innkeeper in one of those stupid teen slasher movies that (surprise, surprise) made millions of dollars and my mother a “cult” actress. She wasn't quite in the John Waters league of quirky, but she was getting there. All of a sudden she was the one fielding offers and leaving for months at a time. And that was when my dad unexpectedly took a position as head of the theater department at Skidmore College in Saratoga Springsâabout three hours north of where we lived. It meant he was gone, living in some rented room four, usually five, out of the seven days of the week. We were never invited to visit and we never asked. In terms of parental guidance, George and I may as well have been raised by wolves.
On Sunday evening, after we'd sat through a double creature feature of
Halloween
and
Nightmare on Elm Street,
it was close to midnight and still 95 degrees according to the digital time-and-temperature clock on the bank across the street from the theater on Main Street. George suggested swimming. Too lazy to go into the house, we cut through the now well-trodden path to the pond and stripped down to our underwear.
Well, I did, anyway. George and Miriam pranced like naked toddlers to the
water while I, despite my rum buzz, felt like their maiden aunt standing in my bra and panties.
When George yelled, “Take it off, for Christ's sakes, Amy, and get in,” I shivered but managed to undo my bra and toss it onto the ground along with my underpants as soon as they both disappeared underwater.
The water over my bare skin was . . . indescribable. How could a barrier of Lycra make such a difference in how it felt to swim unencumbered? This was nearly as delicious as the technique I'd perfected in the bath (with the door double-locked) involving the faucets turned on full blast. Almost.
I went under and opened my eyes. Through the cloudy haze of moonlight that spilled through the trees I could make out a flash of leg in front of me. I swam toward it only to have it disappear. When I popped up to the surface, it took me a moment to find George and Miriam. They were standing on the lower ledge, Miriam poised to dive first.
I was sober enough to think “be careful” but not enough to yell out to her. I'd noticed the raw skin and accumulation of deep scratches along her arms and legs from the rock. I'd insisted she put salve on some of the worst and then I had to help her apply it because she couldn't reach them. Her diving had not improved much in a week and so she hit the water with another grand belly flop. When she surfaced, she swam over to where I was treading water and we both turned to watch George dive.
“Goddamn! I haven't seen such a pathetic excuse for manhood in a long time!”
I spun around. The voice came from the bank and belonged to our brother, Finn.
George flipped him the bird and laughed as I called out, “Finn?”
He didn't answer. Just stripped off his clothes and climbed up to meet George. They fake-tussled for a momentâtheir strong limbs and smooth torsos entangled and made paler than they were by the moonlightâbefore they fell into the water still holding on to each other.
I swam over to them and then was pulled underneath by a tug on my leg. I hadn't had time to take a breath and I fought harder than usual, kicking someone in the groin; with my toes I felt the curl of pubic hair and tuberous flesh and I instantly recoiled. Growing up with brothers was like living inside a boys' locker room and I was used to seeing (and smelling) a lot, but physical contact was another thing. It wasn't until I came up gagging, my throat and nose burning from inhaled water, that I realized what I'd done.
“Nice to see you too,” Finn said, although through his scowl I could tell he wasn't that hurt.
“What the hell are you doing home?” George asked as he filled his mouth with water and spit it at Finn, barely missing his left ear. “It's not the end of August yet, is it?”
Finn shook his head and said without explanation, “I felt like cutting it short.”
“Did Dad come with you?” I asked.
“Nope.” Finn looked past me to Miriam.
I turned and motioned for her to join us. “Miriam, this is our brother Finn.”
Miriam swam closer. “Finn,” she said demurely, “hello.”
I turned to Finn, “Finn, Miriam.”
He flicked water at George before he said, “I know who she is.” I looked at Finn and made a face like “don't be a rude shit,” but he didn't get it. He oozed charm without trying, even when he was being a jerk. In that instant it struck me that Finn reminded me a lot of our father. He continued to ignore my pointed stare. Instead
he shouted to George, “Race you to the high ledge.” And they were off.
“Weird,” I said out loud more to myself than Miriam. I had never known Finn to miss an opportunity to impress a girl. Or maybe this was all part of his game. Who knew?
“Weed?” Miriam repeated incorrectly in an attempt to understand the word. She mispronounced it a few more times but I ignored her; I didn't feel like playing translator right now. She gave up and dipped her head back so her face was level with the water. Her hair fanned out around her like seaweed.
I was getting tired of treading water so I swam over to where I could stand on a rock. The water lapped over my breasts as they floated on top of the surface and I folded my arms in an attempt at modesty. Miriam didn't follow me. She was watching my brothers clown around on the high ledge, probably still pondering the meaning of the word
weird
. Let's see, what examples could I give her that she would understand? My life, her presence in our house, or my brothers up on that ledge? George hung back while Finn hot-dogged it, one set of toes curled around rock, his calf muscles taut, while he dangled the other leg over the side like he was going to fall. His arms made windmills while from his mouth came a
whoop-whoop-whooping
sound.
When Finn did finally dive, it was expert but not as elegant as George. I couldn't see the expression on Miriam's face but she clapped. Finn stayed in the water near Miriam and shouted insults to George until he jumped inâa major cannonball that drenched us all. I waited until the water cleared and George and Finn climbed back up on the ledge and then I said good-night to Miriam.
Her mouth turned down into a little pout but she didn't try and stop me from leaving. On the bank I skipped over my bra and underwear entirely and pulled on my T-shirt and shorts as fast as I could. I took a quick look back and felt a little guilty. Finn and George were ignoring Miriam, although either she didn't mind or didn't notice. I hesitated a second and then fatigue settled on me like King Kong himself and I dragged myself back to the house, dropped into bed in my wet clothes, and fell into a hard dreamless sleep.
FICTION
Cover design by Julia Gang
Cover photograph © by Sean Malyon/ Getty Images; Author photograph © by Jill Cowburn
Grateful acknowledgement is made for permission to reprint the following:
The lines from “(The Floating Poem, Unnumbered)” of “Twenty-One Love Poems.” Copyright © 2013 by The Adrienne Rich Literary Trust. Copyright © 1978 by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., from
Later Poems: Selected and New, 1971â2012
by Adrienne Rich. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
P.S.⢠is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE GROWN UPS
. Copyright © 2015 by Robin Antalek. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-230247-2
EPub Edition January 2015 ISBN 9780062302489
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