Southampton Spectacular by M. C. Soutter

earlier, and despite finally having his bathing suit on, he didn’t seem interested in the baby pool anymore. Or the main pool, for that matter, though he was certainly a strong enough swimmer. He walked toward the pool edge as if he were going to jump in, but then turned at the last moment, zigging diagonally away. Now he walked parallel to the pool for a minute, then toward it, then back away again.
    He was walking in circles.
    Which would not have been worth noticing, except that Ned was not being careful with these circles. He was running into things. Stepping on people lying on towels as he moved over and past them. Already two men had glared at him for coming uncomfortably close to their faces, and one woman actually cried out as he stepped on her hair while walking by. The truly strange thing was that Ned didn’t seem to be doing any of this on purpose. He was not acting malicious, or even mischievous, which is the occasional privilege of eleven-year-olds everywhere. No, Devon thought, Ned just seemed oblivious.
    He’s in some kind of fog.
    Meanwhile, Frankie’s giggling had grown louder. Devon took her attention away from Ned for a moment, and she saw that Mr. Dunn was enjoying a rare daytime bout of high spirits. He was playing airplane with Frankie, swinging the child around and around in ever-widening arcs. Frankie sounded delighted, but Devon didn’t think James’s father looked sober enough to be spinning in the first place, let alone spinning while holding a ten-month-old by one ankle and one wrist.
    It was a hot day. Surely that ankle and that wrist were sweaty. Slippery.
    All at once, Devon’s concern tolerance was exceeded. She glanced back at her parents, who were both gazing at her with semi-rapturous expressions on their faces. “I need both of you with me,” she said, and stood briskly.
    To their credit, Peter and Cynthia Hall did not stare back at her dumbly, or even ask her to explain herself. They rose immediately, trusting that more information would come as needed. Devon walked quickly to the stairs, talking as she went. “The pool is making me nervous,” she said. “Mr. Dunn, and Frankie, and Ned,” she added.
    It was enough. Her parents took one second to digest the layout before them, and they saw exactly what their daughter had seen: an eleven-year-old pacing like a caged animal; a semi-stoned, semi-heat-stroked father twirling his infant son around like a mouse on a string; no one doing anything about it. Without a word, they set about their individual tasks. Peter Hall moved smoothly but quickly toward Mr. Dunn and Frankie, while Cynthia Hall and her daughter split up and began closing in on Ned Dunn’s position.
    Mrs. Dunn, meanwhile, was still chatting with the pool lifeguard. Crossing and uncrossing her legs. Running a chipped fingernail helpfully down her oiled, tummy-tuck-scarred stomach, so that the boy sitting atop the chair could not possibly misunderstand what she meant.
    Devon and her mother moved toward Ned slowly, not wanting to startle him. They ambled, as though corralling a sleepwalker. Or an errant Alzheimer’s patient.
    Jerry Dunn was another story, and Devon’s father was moving as quickly as he dared toward the big man. Frankie was beginning to fly around in circles that were far too wide, far too fast. The biggest problem was that Mr. Dunn was simply very far away. There were too many people – people sitting in chairs, lounging under umbrellas, lying on towels – between Peter Hall and Mr. Dunn. The Beach Club pool had never seemed so huge. Peter could hear Frankie giggling even louder now, giggling in a breathless, over-stimulated, this-is-becoming-scary tone of voice, and Peter tried to move faster. He began jumping over people, risking shins, unprotected stomachs, even heads. But now Jerry Dunn was spinning faster and faster, and he was beginning to waver back and forth like a top that is losing its equilibrium, a top whose center of gravity has shifted