Wish You Were Here (14 page)

Not that she wished for those years back, or regretted the present. Regretted the years that had passed. Yes, that was it. She lit a cigarette.

“You're awfully subdued,” Emily noted.

She couldn't say that she was weighing her life, tallying up what was lost, missed, forgotten. The mood had come on her suddenly, would pass like a summer storm.

“Just thinking,” she said.

“My feet are killing me,” Emily said.

“Mine too.”

From Heinz Beach, if their eyes had been what they once were, they could have seen their dock among their neighbors' on Prendergast Point. Instead, they admired the grand summer house that ketchup had built, the four inlaid chimneys and whimsical carpenter's lace. That was enough sightseeing for one afternoon, thank you, and they hobbled back to the Athenaeum.

They ended up, as planned, on the porch at three-fifteen, right as high tea began, just beating the lecture crowd leaving the Hall of Philosophy. Around them, the tables filled up; clumps of people filtered along the walkways, debating fine points, heads bent in discussion. The sight pleased the teacher in Arlene. This was the same crowd she'd seen for years coming out of Heinz Hall or the Benedum Center after the symphony,
except here they were wearing sandals and Bermuda shorts. She belonged to them, irrevocably, in the same way she belonged to Emily, but the realization, instead of comforting her, hurt. They did not know her beyond the simple image of the woman who sat next to them at
The Nutcracker
or the oratorio, the deacon who helped their children on with their acolyte's robes, the teacher who shook their hands at the end of open house. Like Emily, they were not the least bit interested in her. They passed, even now, intent on one another, as if involved in lives far deeper and more complex than hers would ever be.

“By the way,” Emily said, “I want you to have the TV in the living room. The tube's practically new.”

For a second Arlene didn't know what to say, then thanked her too effusively. She hardly watched TV as it was.

“Would you excuse me?” she asked, and Emily let her go.

She knew where the rest rooms were, to the right off the lobby. As she stepped inside, into the dull, artificial light, directly in front of her rose the fountain her mother had helped her toss a penny in. After all these years it still burbled, the water dribbling down to a pool, the bottom of which was tiled a light blue and spotted darkly with coins. She tried to envision her mother holding her wrist, the two of them together flinging the penny, her fingers opening, letting go. What had she wished for—or had her mother wished for her? Had Henry been given a penny? She could not remember, and she did not want to know if any of their wishes had come true. Her own had and had not across her life, and she would not be dwelling on this if Henry were alive, if the cottage were not being sold. Her life was her own, no one else's, and she had done the best she could.

She'd brought her purse and so she opened it and unsnapped her wallet. She had a fair amount of change. She stirred it with a finger until she found a nice shiny penny and plucked it out, but stopped before tossing it in, trying to get her wish perfect in her mind.

That I will always come back here.

Like a child, she closed her eyes.

Three times Justin told his mother he didn't want to swim off the dock. He sat on her bed, head down, while she stood over him, already wearing her suit and her flip-flops. The polish on her toenails was chipped like a broken dish.

“But you
love
to swim. Last week I couldn't get you out of the pool. Help me, I don't know what the problem is here.”

The problem was the water. It wasn't like the water at the pool, blue and chemical-tasting, the light making patterns on the bottom. The water here was green and brown and you couldn't see what was underneath. And it smelled bad, like the basement after it rained. It reminded Justin of water caught in old pop bottles you'd find buried in the high grass behind the playground. You'd step on one and think it was a ball but it wasn't. Inside would be what looked like root beer except it had old grass in it, and dead bees floating on top.

“I just don't want to,” he said.

“It's not a request. I can't watch all of you unless you're in one place, so put your suit on. You don't have to go in if you don't want to.”

“Why do I have to put my suit on if I'm not going in?”

“Everyone else is going to have their suit on.”

“Why can't I just wear my clothes?”

“Stop,” she said. “This isn't a discussion. I don't know why you're getting all winky on me, but I do not need this right now. Get your suit on and come downstairs with the rest of us. And bring a towel for yourself.”

She left him sitting there and banged down the stairs. For a moment he didn't move, then he stood up and opened the bottom drawer of the dresser for his suit. He went into the bathroom to pull it on and discovered he needed to pee. The toilet kind of smelled like the lake. When he came out he remembered the towel, and then he couldn't find his water shoes and went around the room looking under the beds.

“
Jus
-tin!” his mother called up the stairs.

“I'm
com
ing,” he called.

“You watch your tone of voice.”

“I can't find my water shoes!”

“They're right down here, I already got them for you.”

“God,” he said to himself, the way his father used to when his mother called them in to dinner from watching TV. At least they weren't going out on the boat. Then everyone would know he was a chicken. It wasn't that he was afraid of the water, but what was underneath, the pale hands reaching up to drag him down. He knew there was no such thing, that it was something he'd seen on TV, but when he was in the water his imagination tricked him, made every weed feel like the brush of wrinkled fingers.

“What do you say?” his mother asked as he was slipping his water shoes on, and he was so busy he didn't understand the question.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Very heartfelt. Now get going, slow Joe.”

They were all waiting for him in the yard, knocking the croquet balls around, their towels flung over their shoulders.

“About time,” Sarah said, lifting her sunglasses. She had a new suit that showed off her boobs. He'd already gotten in trouble for making fun of it at the pool, his mother sitting down with him all serious and telling him how everyone was sensitive about the way they looked. Not me, he wanted to say, but then she said, “You know how it feels in gym when you're the last one picked,” and even if it wasn't true (sometimes Michael Schulz was the last one), he understood what she meant. But no one called Sarah gay because she had boobs, or laughed at her when she tried to dribble a basketball. It was different. When his friends said anything about her (“
She's
your sister?” Michael Schulz said), he told them to shut up.

“Here we go!” his mother said, herding them ahead of her with both arms.

Rufus ran onto the dock, looking back at Sam, who had his tennis ball. Justin cut through the girls to join him. Weeds and lily pads floated in the shallows. Once he'd seen a dead fish bobbing by the rocks, but today the only nasty thing was a muddy milk jug. As they walked out, the dock bounced, and a pair of ducks took off, flew a couple of docks down toward the point and landed again. Rufus didn't even see them.

“Can he go in?” Sam asked when they reached the end.

“Yes, but not for long,” his mother said. “You have to remember, he's old.”

Sam threw the ball, and Rufus launched himself off the dock. He did a belly flop, hitting the water with a smack, making them all laugh. He paddled out, his head turning like a periscope until he saw the ball.

Sarah laid her towel out and went down the ladder slowly, afraid to get wet, testing the water with a toe.

“Jump in,” their mother said. “It's easier.”

Sarah lowered herself step-by-step, hunching her shoulders against the cold. The water only came up to her waist. She kept her hands flat over the surface like it was quicksand.

“How is it?” Ella asked.

“Freezing!”

Rufus paddled around Sarah as if she might steal the ball from him. There was no way for him to get back onto the dock. He had to swim all the way in past the motorboat, his lips puffing around the tennis ball, and then climb the slick rocks. Justin and Sam walked along above him, scooted out of the way as he dropped the ball and shook. He was breathing hard and his tongue stuck out to one side.

Justin got the ball—all slimy—but when they reached the bench, his mother looked up from her book and said, “I think that's enough for now.”

“Sam got to throw one.”

“That's because I love Sam more than I love you,” she said. “Go swim for a while. Maybe when you get out he'll be rested.”

“I don't want to go swimming.”

“Not this again,” she said. “Is there something in there you're afraid of?”

“No,” he lied. “I just don't like the mud.”

“How's the mud?” she called to Sarah and Ella, practicing handstands, holding each other's legs straight.

“Muddy!” Sarah said.

“I'm going in,” Sam said, and scrambled down the ladder. Rufus stood at the top, watching him.

“Aren't you going to swim with your cousins?” his mother asked.

“You said I didn't have to,” Justin said.

“For Christ's sake, don't go in then,” his mother said, “I don't care.” She put up her book like a shield, and he lay down on his towel, facing away from her.

Rufus came over; his breath smelled like dead fish.

“Go away,” Justin said.

Last year he would be crying now, but he'd learned to stop himself. It only made her madder.

Lying flat, he didn't feel the wind so much. The wood of the dock smelled hot and dry. A blue dragonfly landed on top of the piling next to him, then took off, flying crooked, the sun in his wings. Up by the bell tower he could see a lot of little sailboats. Out in the middle, motorboats crisscrossed, headed up and down the lake, making noise like stock cars. Rufus wouldn't sit down, and every time he moved to follow Sam, the dock shook.

“I'm sorry,” his mother said. “If you don't want to go in, that's fine. No one should make you do things you don't want to.”

He didn't roll over or turn his head, just lay there, knowing she was looking at him, waiting for him to say it was okay. He wouldn't. Silence was his only weapon against her.

Sam and the girls were having a splash battle, Ella shrieking, “Get him!” Rufus barked, wanting to be part of it.

“Can I throw the ball for him now?” Justin asked.

“Not yet,” his mother said. She looked at her watch. “You can throw the ball in half an hour.”

“What time is it?” he asked, and she sighed and told him.

If he were living with his father, he thought, it wouldn't be like this. His father took his side the same way his mother always took Sarah's. And he was like his father. His father liked to stay home and do nothing; his mother liked to go places and do things. His father watched
The Simpsons
with him; his mother thought it was rude. It only made sense to Justin that Sarah should live with their mother and he should live with their father. Whenever they visited him, his father never asked Justin if he'd like that, but Justin knew that one of these times he would. And Justin would say yes.

He was sure half an hour was up when Rufus got up and ran off and the dock shook hard.

“Look who it is,” his mother shouted, because it was Uncle Ken and Aunt Lisa wearing their suits, carrying the inner tube between them. They set it down by the motorboat and Uncle Ken unsnapped the cover.

“Who's ready for some inner-tubing?” Aunt Lisa asked, and everyone splashed for the ladder. Rufus waited at the top, wagging his tail.

“Is a half hour up yet?” Justin asked.

“You really want to throw that ball,” his mother said, only half joking, like he might have changed his mind. She gave it to him. “Just once and that's it.”

He showed the ball to Rufus, who jumped by his side. In gym, kids imitated the way he threw to make fun of him, so he tossed it underhand, Rufus diving after it. Rufus was so close to it he lunged, showing his teeth, and got a mouthful of water, came up hacking. “He almost caught it!” Justin hollered, pointing, but Sarah and Ella and Sam were drying off and his mother was helping Aunt Lisa with the boat cover. Rufus swam for the shore. In the boat, Uncle Ken stopped to watch him paddle past. “Good boy!” Justin called, but Uncle Ken didn't look at him.

While they were waiting for Uncle Ken to say they could get in, Rufus came running out on the dock with the ball. He didn't look tired. “Drop it,” his mother said, and took it away from him. “All done.”

“Okay,” Uncle Ken said, “everybody grab a life jacket.”

Justin hung back, thinking they might not have enough, but then Aunt Lisa threw him one. His mother didn't have one, and he tried to give her his.

“That's yours,” she said. “I'm staying here and reading my book.”

He held it, unsure what to do. She looked at him, waiting, then, when he looked back, hoping she would save him, sighed like she was mad at him.

“I don't want to go,” he said softly, hoping no one else could hear him.

“Not this again. What is the problem?” She said it loud enough for Sarah and Aunt Lisa to look over and then look away. “I don't understand where all this is coming from. Can you tell me?”

“I just don't want to.”

“That's not good enough. This is what we're here to do. If you're not going to go in the water, we might as well stay home.”