had grown to love. Gliding alone through the water, pretending I didn’t have a care in the world, didn’t make that last year go away, but for a few brief moments, it had helped.
Why did Mother have to come out there and ruin everything?
Kendy
We’re watching Maisey and Marcus swimming laps. It’s a freestyle race really, and since Maisey is behind with no hope of gaining the lead, she grabs Marcus’s feet and holds him in place. A skirmish ensues, and the race has become a water wrestling match. It’s fun to watch them have fun.
Shortly after the kids jumped into the pool, Miller told us he had asked Clay and Rebecca to stop by to pick up some material and to sign papers for a trip the four of them are taking in September. Clayton Laswell is Luke’s uncle, Miller’s younger brother—seven years younger.
Clay and Rebecca must have heard Maisey and Marcus carrying on in the pool, because they have come around to the back of the house and are joining us on the patio.
“I can’t believe we’re crashing the party,” Rebecca says.
“We won’t be long,” Clay adds.
I’m mortified.
Residue—the word residue comes to mind.
“Well, you need to be long enough to have some cobbler and ice cream with us,” Luke says.
“We’re glad you’re here,” I say, moving to make room for Rebecca between Anne and me before going into the kitchen with Luke to get what we’ll need for the dessert Miller has been waiting for.
The six of us sit amicably around the table, eating and talking, and after some coaxing, Maisey and Marcus get out of the pool, put a towel around their shoulders, and eat their dessert sitting shoulder to shoulder on a nearby lounger.
Marcus has never met Clay and Rebecca, though he’s been here five or six times in the last two years. Miller tells him that Clay retired in June, and Marcus seems to be genuinely impressed that Clay served one school district for forty years, over twenty of them as superintendent of schools. When Marcus asks him the secret to such a long tenure, Clay gives his standard answer: “Good teachers.” Marcus says it must be good administrating too, and after a rather thorough question-and-answer session, Marcus congratulates him on his years of service and his retirement.
I can’t help myself. I lean over and hug Marcus.
“What accounts for your impeccable manners in a day marked by so much crudeness and self-absorption?” I ask, more of a compliment than a question.
“That’s easy,” he says, “a drill sergeant disguised as my mother.”
Maisey, disinterested in the lively conversation Marcus has been having with Clay, has pulled up a chair behind and between Anne and Rebecca. She asks Rebecca about her job. There are always stories, remarkable stories.
Rebecca, the most reserved of the Laswell clan, has been the director of a shelter for battered women for the last nineteen or twenty years. Most people would say Clay is dedicated to his job; those who know Rebecca, however, would say she is fiercely committed. Clay always said it was too bad she was salaried, because she’d be rich if she had been paid by the hour. Rebecca, focused and no-nonsense, would respond that they were already rich by anyone’s standards, whereas the people she worked to help were needy in every way.
“So,” Maisey says, “are you retiring too?”
“As a matter of fact,” she says, “Friday is my last day—as director anyway.”
“I can’t imagine that, Rebecca,” I say.
“I know. It was a hard decision, very hard. But I’ll be assisting the new director part-time next year. And after that I may volunteer some. We’ll see,” she says, patting Maisey’s bare leg.
At one time, until she was in middle school and her friends became preeminent, Maisey had been as much Clay and Rebecca’s girl as she was Miller and Anne’s. Before we put the pool in, Maisey spent most summer days in their pool. Clay had the whole month of July off, and it was he who taught
Why did Mother have to come out there and ruin everything?
Kendy
We’re watching Maisey and Marcus swimming laps. It’s a freestyle race really, and since Maisey is behind with no hope of gaining the lead, she grabs Marcus’s feet and holds him in place. A skirmish ensues, and the race has become a water wrestling match. It’s fun to watch them have fun.
Shortly after the kids jumped into the pool, Miller told us he had asked Clay and Rebecca to stop by to pick up some material and to sign papers for a trip the four of them are taking in September. Clayton Laswell is Luke’s uncle, Miller’s younger brother—seven years younger.
Clay and Rebecca must have heard Maisey and Marcus carrying on in the pool, because they have come around to the back of the house and are joining us on the patio.
“I can’t believe we’re crashing the party,” Rebecca says.
“We won’t be long,” Clay adds.
I’m mortified.
Residue—the word residue comes to mind.
“Well, you need to be long enough to have some cobbler and ice cream with us,” Luke says.
“We’re glad you’re here,” I say, moving to make room for Rebecca between Anne and me before going into the kitchen with Luke to get what we’ll need for the dessert Miller has been waiting for.
The six of us sit amicably around the table, eating and talking, and after some coaxing, Maisey and Marcus get out of the pool, put a towel around their shoulders, and eat their dessert sitting shoulder to shoulder on a nearby lounger.
Marcus has never met Clay and Rebecca, though he’s been here five or six times in the last two years. Miller tells him that Clay retired in June, and Marcus seems to be genuinely impressed that Clay served one school district for forty years, over twenty of them as superintendent of schools. When Marcus asks him the secret to such a long tenure, Clay gives his standard answer: “Good teachers.” Marcus says it must be good administrating too, and after a rather thorough question-and-answer session, Marcus congratulates him on his years of service and his retirement.
I can’t help myself. I lean over and hug Marcus.
“What accounts for your impeccable manners in a day marked by so much crudeness and self-absorption?” I ask, more of a compliment than a question.
“That’s easy,” he says, “a drill sergeant disguised as my mother.”
Maisey, disinterested in the lively conversation Marcus has been having with Clay, has pulled up a chair behind and between Anne and Rebecca. She asks Rebecca about her job. There are always stories, remarkable stories.
Rebecca, the most reserved of the Laswell clan, has been the director of a shelter for battered women for the last nineteen or twenty years. Most people would say Clay is dedicated to his job; those who know Rebecca, however, would say she is fiercely committed. Clay always said it was too bad she was salaried, because she’d be rich if she had been paid by the hour. Rebecca, focused and no-nonsense, would respond that they were already rich by anyone’s standards, whereas the people she worked to help were needy in every way.
“So,” Maisey says, “are you retiring too?”
“As a matter of fact,” she says, “Friday is my last day—as director anyway.”
“I can’t imagine that, Rebecca,” I say.
“I know. It was a hard decision, very hard. But I’ll be assisting the new director part-time next year. And after that I may volunteer some. We’ll see,” she says, patting Maisey’s bare leg.
At one time, until she was in middle school and her friends became preeminent, Maisey had been as much Clay and Rebecca’s girl as she was Miller and Anne’s. Before we put the pool in, Maisey spent most summer days in their pool. Clay had the whole month of July off, and it was he who taught
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