Thomas, reassessing him. That Thomas was in the girl could not be denied, even though the father’s beauty had been something quite different. Curiosity, bordering on a kind of jealousy, took hold of her as she tried to imagine the mother: Jean, her name was. Thomas’s first wife, Regina, a woman she herself had once known, had been large and voluptuous, heavy with her sensuality, but somehow not a threat. Never a threat.
Linda shook her head. That she should be jealous of a woman who had lost everything.
— That was taken in the backyard of our apartment in Cambridge.
Thomas was seemingly unable to look at the picture himself, though its worn edges spoke of many viewings.
Thomas glanced over at her, then quickly away, as if it were she who now needed the privacy. The cheeseburgers arrived, monumental irrelevance. She handed the photograph back to Thomas.
— She was very bright,
Thomas said.
Well, all parents say that, don’t they. And maybe they’re right. Compared to us, I mean.
Linda’s appetite was gone. The cheeseburgers seemed obscene in their lakes of grease, soaking into the paper plates.
— She could be stubborn. Jesus, could she be stubborn.
Thomas smiled at a memory he did not divulge.
And oddly brave. She wouldn’t cry when hurt. Though she could certainly whine when she wanted something.
— They all do.
Thomas ate his cheeseburger, holding his tie as he did so. Well, he’d have to eat, wouldn’t he? Linda thought. Otherwise, he’d have starved to death years ago. He glanced at her untouched plate, but said nothing.
— She was a good little athlete,
Thomas said.
I used to take a plastic lawn chair and sit and watch her T-ball games. Most of the kids would be in the outfield picking dandelions. Some would just sit down.
He laughed.
Linda smiled.
I remember those. Someone would hit a ball to the outfield and all the kids would run to get it.
— They say it would have lasted less than a minute. The drowning. A child gulps in water more quickly than an adult. And it was always possible she was knocked unconscious. I’ve spent years praying for that. That it was a blow and not a drowning. Amazing, isn’t it? Hundreds of hours of prayer just to spare her that one minute.
Not amazing, Linda thought. She’d have done the same.
— It’s awful to think I’m letting go,
he said.
And I am. I don’t remember as much as I used to. I don’t even remember what I don’t remember.
She touched him then, on the arm. It would have been inhuman not to.
There are just no words, Thomas.
— No, there aren’t, and isn’t that ironic? We who thought we had all the words. Jean, with her camera, has made us irrelevant.
A motorboat with a young blond woman at the helm sped around the corner. The girl seemed exuberant with her own beauty and the first warm day of the season.
Thomas bent his head slightly forward.
Scratch up near my shoulders,
he said.
----
On the way to the ferry, Thomas, who was either exceptionally hot or desiring to be cleansed, went into the water. Linda sat on a hillock and watched the way he dove in and stood, staggering with the shock of the cold, shaking his head like a dog, hiking his boxers up to his waist. They hung low on his thighs when he came out and molded his genitals, which had grown longer in the intervening years.
— It’s like electric shock therapy,
Thomas reported as he used his shirt to dry himself.
He shivered on the ferry, despite his jacket. Later they would learn that the lake was polluted. He held his shirt in a ball. She stood near to him to warm him, but the shiver came from deep within and would not be appeased. He seemed oblivious to curious stares, in the boat and at the entrance to the hotel, his hair dried into a comical sculpture by the water and the ferry breezes. He got out at her floor and accompanied her to her room, looking for all the world like a refugee from a disaster (and of course he was, she thought). He stood at the door and
Linda shook her head. That she should be jealous of a woman who had lost everything.
— That was taken in the backyard of our apartment in Cambridge.
Thomas was seemingly unable to look at the picture himself, though its worn edges spoke of many viewings.
Thomas glanced over at her, then quickly away, as if it were she who now needed the privacy. The cheeseburgers arrived, monumental irrelevance. She handed the photograph back to Thomas.
— She was very bright,
Thomas said.
Well, all parents say that, don’t they. And maybe they’re right. Compared to us, I mean.
Linda’s appetite was gone. The cheeseburgers seemed obscene in their lakes of grease, soaking into the paper plates.
— She could be stubborn. Jesus, could she be stubborn.
Thomas smiled at a memory he did not divulge.
And oddly brave. She wouldn’t cry when hurt. Though she could certainly whine when she wanted something.
— They all do.
Thomas ate his cheeseburger, holding his tie as he did so. Well, he’d have to eat, wouldn’t he? Linda thought. Otherwise, he’d have starved to death years ago. He glanced at her untouched plate, but said nothing.
— She was a good little athlete,
Thomas said.
I used to take a plastic lawn chair and sit and watch her T-ball games. Most of the kids would be in the outfield picking dandelions. Some would just sit down.
He laughed.
Linda smiled.
I remember those. Someone would hit a ball to the outfield and all the kids would run to get it.
— They say it would have lasted less than a minute. The drowning. A child gulps in water more quickly than an adult. And it was always possible she was knocked unconscious. I’ve spent years praying for that. That it was a blow and not a drowning. Amazing, isn’t it? Hundreds of hours of prayer just to spare her that one minute.
Not amazing, Linda thought. She’d have done the same.
— It’s awful to think I’m letting go,
he said.
And I am. I don’t remember as much as I used to. I don’t even remember what I don’t remember.
She touched him then, on the arm. It would have been inhuman not to.
There are just no words, Thomas.
— No, there aren’t, and isn’t that ironic? We who thought we had all the words. Jean, with her camera, has made us irrelevant.
A motorboat with a young blond woman at the helm sped around the corner. The girl seemed exuberant with her own beauty and the first warm day of the season.
Thomas bent his head slightly forward.
Scratch up near my shoulders,
he said.
----
On the way to the ferry, Thomas, who was either exceptionally hot or desiring to be cleansed, went into the water. Linda sat on a hillock and watched the way he dove in and stood, staggering with the shock of the cold, shaking his head like a dog, hiking his boxers up to his waist. They hung low on his thighs when he came out and molded his genitals, which had grown longer in the intervening years.
— It’s like electric shock therapy,
Thomas reported as he used his shirt to dry himself.
He shivered on the ferry, despite his jacket. Later they would learn that the lake was polluted. He held his shirt in a ball. She stood near to him to warm him, but the shiver came from deep within and would not be appeased. He seemed oblivious to curious stares, in the boat and at the entrance to the hotel, his hair dried into a comical sculpture by the water and the ferry breezes. He got out at her floor and accompanied her to her room, looking for all the world like a refugee from a disaster (and of course he was, she thought). He stood at the door and
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