1972. June, the Back Woods.
I am running through the woods in my cotton nightgown along the narrow path that connects our camp to my grandfather Amory’s house. The path follows the shape of the land uphill and down around the pond’s ragged shoreline. My father cut it between our two properties when he and my mother were first together. Granddaddy Amory calls it the “Intellectual’s Path” because, he says, it wanders around and around without ever getting to the point. Where the path approaches my grandfather’s house there is a steep downhill run. I race along it, careful not to stub my bare toes on the stumps of the bushes my father cut down. Those nasty little stumps are my father’s only other legacy to this place.
I tiptoe past my grandfather’s bedroom window, careful not to disturb him, then sprint to the end of his wooden dock. I sit down, dangle my feet in the water, scratch my itchy stomach, try my best to sit perfectly still. Microscopic bubbles cover my feet in a carbonated sheath. Soon they will come. Hold still. Don’t move. Let your feet be lures. Then the swift dart from the shadows. Their courage gets the best of their fear, and at last I feel a little sucking feeling. One by one the sunfish are kissing my feet, sucking off little bits of dead skin and the crumbs of forest floor that have attached themselves to me. I love the sunfish. They are the color of pond water, with dappled backs and sweet, pursed lips. Every morning I bring them this breakfast of fresh feet.
My mother and Mr. Dancy are still in bed when I get home. Their cabin has a plate-glass window overlooking the pond. I run into their room without knocking, jump up and down on their bouncy mattress with my wet, sandy feet. My nightgown rises into the air every time I come back to earth.
“Out,” Mr. Dancy growls in a half sleep. “Wallace, Jesus Christ.”
Through the window I see Anna and her best summer-friend Peggy in the water, splashing each other. Peggy has orange hair and freckles.
“What are those?” My mother points at my belly. “Hold still!”
I stop jumping, pull up my nightgown, and let her examine my stomach. It is covered in red spots.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” she says. “Chicken pox. How did this happen? I’d better go check Anna.”
“They itch,” I say and flip off the bed.
“Stay here,” my mother orders. “I’ll get the calamine lotion.”
“I want to go swimming.”
“Stay in this room. I don’t need you infecting Peggy.”
I push past her and make a run for the door.
Mr. Dancy snatches my arm, hard. “You heard your mother.”
I try to pull away, but his grip tightens.
“Carl, stop. You’re hurting her,” my mother says.
“She needs to be controlled.”
“Please,” Mum says. “She’s five.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“Of course not,” Mum says, placating.
He throws off the covers and starts pulling on his clothes. “If I want to deal with spoiled brats, I’ll go spend time with my own kids.”
“What are you doing?” My mother’s voice sounds tight, high-pitched.
“I’ll see you back in the city. This place makes me antsy.”
“Please, Carl.”
The door slams behind him.
“Do. Not. Move,” Mum says. “If I find you out of this room there will be hell to pay.” And races out to stop him.
I sit down on the bed, watch Anna putting on a mask and snorkel. She squats down at the water’s edge, her back to the pond, dips her mask in the pond, empties it, spits in it. Behind her, Peggy wades out into deeper water. With every step, a few more inches of her disappear. A car engine starts up. I hear my mother shouting, her voice getting fainter and fainter as she runs up the driveway, chasing Mr. Dancy’s car. I watch as the bottom of Peggy’s red pigtail disappears. Now only her head is above water, floating, disembodied. Now only the top of her head, like a turtle’s back. Now Peggy is a trail of bubbles. I imagine the suckerfish, giving her their soft kisses. The bubbles stop. I wait for her to reappear. I bang on the glass, trying to get Anna’s attention. I know she can hear me, but she doesn’t bother to look up. I bang again, harder now. Anna sticks her tongue out at me, sits down on the beach to pull on her yellow flippers.
4
10:00 A.M.
There are already five cigarette butts in the ashtray next to Peter. A Camel Light dangles from his mouth. He drinks his coffee through it, unaware. No hands. Like a carny trick. A thin trail of smoke drifts from his lower lip as he swallows. He reaches into his shirt pocket and takes out an orange Bic lighter, worries it over and over in his hand like a string of prayer beads, turns the newspaper page, gropes blindly for a piece of bacon. If it were possible to smoke in his sleep, he would. When we were first together, I hounded him, begged him to stop. But it was like asking a chicken to fly. I want to save his life, God knows, but he’s the only one who can do that.