Southampton Spectacular (15 page)

“I just told you,” Devon said, in between sips from her soda cup. “Laid a guy out.”

“Start from the beginning, please,” Florin said.

Devon took another sip of her soda, taking her time. She was enjoying the moment.

Good first date
, she thought.
Just right. Not that I had much to do with it, but never mind.

She took yet another bite of dough. Another sip of soda. When Nina and Florin looked as if they were about to start yelling at her, Devon finally began to talk. It was a short story, but it was fun to tell. When she was through, they all just stared at her. Then they stared at Austin, who had stayed silent throughout. Barnes stepped closer to him.

“Hey.”

Austin looked up.

“You said ‘what did I miss’?”

Austin nodded.

Barnes shook his head. “That’s outstanding,” he said, and he began hitting James in the arm.

James shoved back. “Cut it out.”

“But how great is that? He’s like me in fifth grade with Hank Wilkes, right? And with that dick in the Trans Am?”

James looked skeptically at him. Barnes liked to boast of his hot-headed encounters over the years, even though most of these encounters ended up with Barnes bleeding or running away or crying uncle. Hank Wilkes, for example, had left Barnes with a sprained wrist and a bloody nose. And the guy in the Trans Am had actually stopped, gotten out of the car, and chased Barnes for a half-mile before giving up and stalking back to the road, muttering curses along the way.

In Barnes’s defense, virtually every fight (or near-fight) he had ever started involved standing up for James in some way. Hank Wilkes had said something behind James’s back. The guy in the Trans Am had run a red light, almost hitting James. Not that James needed special defending, necessarily; but Barnes’s sense of loyalty was deeply ingrained. On his own, Barnes was all smiles and sex jokes. But he didn’t like anyone messing with his friend. “It’s maybe a little bit different,” James said to him. “Austin is the one still standing, see?”

Barnes didn’t seem to hear this. He turned back to Austin. “‘What did I miss.’ I still can’t believe you said that. What is that from? Is that a line from something?”

Austin shrugged, looking embarrassed now. “I was trying to let them know I was back.”

“I’m going to do that next time,” Barnes said to James. He was almost hopping with excitement now.

“What?”

“I’m going to say something cool,” Barnes said.

“The next time you get your ass kicked?” Nina said.

“You watch,” Barnes said. “Something cool. Something saucy. Right before I kick some guy in the head.”

James looked at him. “Dude. What are you
talking
about?”

“Were you scared?” Florin asked Austin, a little breathlessly.

Austin glanced at Devon. “Yes,” he said. “Very. I thought they might have knives, or guns, or who knows what. And I’ve never been in a fight. Then again, I’ve never been on the Zipper, either. And here I am about to do that, too.” He took a last bite of fried dough and wiped the sugar off his chin. “It’s been quite a day,” he said through the mouthful, and he stood up. He put a hand out to Devon. “Time to go?”

She stood with him, and she gave him one more chance. “We can do the Zipper another time,” she said.

“It actually sort of sucks, that ride,” James added quietly.

“It’s not fun,” Barnes said, suddenly sincere.

Austin looked at them. “So why does anyone go on it?”

“To say that you did it,” Florin said.

“Because when you’re riding on it with a girl sitting next to you, she can’t help but grab you,” Nina said. And she gave him a look.

That did it.

“Time to get moving,” Austin said.

It wasn’t so bad. Barnes was right, in that there was nothing particularly fun about the ride. But Austin had to admit that it was an experience. He and Devon were locked into a steel, all-enclosed, body-shaped cage that was connected by a free-rotating hinge to a gigantic machine that looked like a chain-and-sprocket assembly from a bicycle. The cage they were in moved around the assembly by means of a huge chain running around the perimeter, and the assembly itself spun around a central axis that was anchored to the ground. Riding this machine, Austin decided, was like being rolled down a steep hill in a barrel, except that you had to imagine the hill itself shaking and turning as you rolled. The inside of the cage was not sufficiently padded, but at least it didn’t fly open in the middle of the ride. And after all, Devon did grab him several times. By the end of the ride, she was simply hanging on to him for dear life. And screaming.

When they stumbled out at the end, their friends clapped for them.

And Austin was laughing.

1

Devon’s father came home from the hospital the next day. He stepped out of the car under his own power, as his wife had done after giving birth so many years ago, but he was still wobbly on his feet. Cynthia knew enough to walk next to him – but not too close – without seeming particularly concerned. She kept her posture relaxed, her hands at her sides. Peter was staring down fiercely at his feet with each step, like a toddler slowly coming to grips with the instability of upright movement. The doctor had warned them that walking would be one of the last things to come back. When he could walk again – when he could
move
again – like the old Peter, they would know he was completely recovered. Devon reminded herself to be thankful that her father was alive at all.

The walk from the BMW to the front entrance of their Southampton house was only ten feet, but it took nearly a minute; Devon had to stop herself several times from dashing forward to grab one of her father’s elbows. He made it to the door, and made it inside, and then he was sitting on the couch in their brightly lit living room, legs crossed, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and a proud smile on his face. Devon and her mother congratulated him on the small but significant accomplishment of getting all the way from the car to the couch, and then Cynthia went to fetch him a glass of iced tea from the kitchen.

It was late in the day, and the sun was streaming across the west-facing rear enclosure of the Hall property; the Hard-True tennis court was swept of pine needles and bird droppings, the 1.2-acre lawn was soft, clipped, and dandelion-free, and the pool was clean and waiting, 76 degrees day and night, the doors in the filter boxes clucking softly to themselves with the gentle ripples from the breeze. Peter and Cynthia Hall had bought the house 21 years ago, after only one year of marriage. It was near the top of First Neck Lane, within biking and even walking distance of the Meadow Club and Cryder Lane and the Beach Club and the town center. It was a big old shingle-style house with dormer windows at the top and additions in the back, and it had served as the town post office from 1910 to 1922. It didn’t look big from the front (for a Southampton house), but the additions gave it a sprawling, roomy feel from the inside. It had a three-car garage off the wing in the back with extra storage and a separate apartment on top, so the Halls had more space than they needed.

They had
much
more than they needed.

Even by the standards of rich, airline-owning New Yorkers, the Hall house was unusually empty. Peter Hall had been coming to Southampton since he was a small boy himself, and he had known that he would want to have a place out here with Cynthia. By the time they were married, he was already successful and secure; it made sense to get the right sort of house – a house they could keep even as their family grew – right from the beginning.

When he had brought Cynthia here the first time, she had put her hands over her mouth. Then she had promptly made it better, simpler, more beautiful than it had been when they arrived. She knocked down the walls in the rear entryway, had the basement renovated, and cut the immense, long-untended garden down to a manageable size. Finally, she made sure all the extra bedrooms upstairs were perfect. Not too big. Enough space between each one. Good access to bathrooms.

Except that they only ever managed to fill two of those bedrooms: their own, and Devon's.

It was not just Devon’s birth that had been trying; conceiving her had taken far longer than expected. It had taken them
years
. First the trips to the doctor for conferences; endless, embarrassing conferences in which they were asked pointed, probing questions about sexual habits and frequency and hygiene, and treated like barely-literate children while it was explained to them, without the slightest hint of deference or apology, that there were certain times during the month that were better than others when trying to conceive a child; that Cynthia should be sure not to smoke; that no spermicidal lubricant should be used.

Having managed to get through these meetings without once yelling at their doctor, they were then asked to fill out long questionnaires about past history and lifestyle and eating habits and associations with heroin addicts and prostitutes.

Again, they did not lose their tempers.

Then, finally, after a full year of information they already knew and advice they had been following since the start, the real process began. Actual medical intervention came in the form of tests and samples and countless deposits in little plastic cups, all preceded and followed by more discussions with their doctor that made having a baby seem less like an act of love and more like a huge, fantastically expensive chemistry project.

They had succeeded in the end.

After Devon was born, the subject of another child had never been discussed with any real enthusiasm. It was as if each one were waiting for the other to broach the subject. To be the cheerleader for round two. Devon herself wondered, quite early, why no little brother or sister ever materialized. One day when she was five, she asked her mother about it.

“It’s not easy to have a baby,” Cynthia Hall said to her little girl, looking down from her work in the kitchen. She smiled at Devon to show her that this was to be taken as a compliment. “We had to work for a long, long time to make someone as perfect as you.” She picked Devon up and began smothering her with kisses. Devon giggled. Cynthia put her down and returned to chopping celery and onions with the maids. Apparently the conversation was over.

Devon tried asking her father once, too. Perhaps because she was not yet tired of the subject, or perhaps because even then, at the age of five, Devon Hall was perceptive enough to smell something else going on. But her father only shrugged, putting down his newspaper and sitting back in his chair with a sigh. As if it were a question barely worth answering. “I worried about your mother after you were born,” he said at last. “About how much she had gone through beforehand. And during.”

Devon cocked her head at him, and Peter realized abruptly that he was speaking to a child. A five-year-old child who was not ready to grapple with the idea that her arrival into this world might have been unpleasant. “Because you’re perfect,” he corrected himself, and reached for her. “Perfect for
eating
.”

Devon yelped and ran, laughing. That seemed to put the matter to rest. Same answer from both, and a believable one, too. Devon was loved, and cared-for, and told repeatedly by her parents – and by others – that she was a wonderful, perfect little girl.

Still, there were times in later years when the subject would present itself to her. When she was looking at a couple with a new baby. Or at a mother with a whole brood of children in tow. It was confusing. Because if she was so perfect, so wonderful, then shouldn’t her parents have wanted to try making
another
wonderful little girl? Or a wonderful little boy?

For whatever reason, the answer was no.

So the Hall house, sprawling and beautiful and equipped for a family of five or more, sat still and serene and, at times, in need of more activity, more
noise
than was immediately available. Which was one of the reasons why Devon had so many slumber parties there over the years. Why so many play-dates and get-togethers were held at the Hall house. Why her parents didn’t mind if Devon brought friends over for dinner, or after dinner, even when those friends were getting older and bigger and louder. Because on such nights Cynthia and Peter Hall would retreat to their bedroom, and they would hear the muted din of those teenagers’ voices at the other end of the house. And without ever openly acknowledging it to one another, they enjoyed the fantasy.

The idea that
they
could have filled the house like that. On their own, somehow.

But they had also grown used to the peacefulness of the place over the years, and at times like this – with Peter now sitting in the living room with the late afternoon sun on his face and the bandage on the back of his head down to a small, 4-by-4-inch covering – they were glad for the space, and for the quiet.