The cab meter ticks up slowly. “Do you think this would have happened if he had stayed?” my mother says. Her hair is flat, her strong beautiful face puffy and red.
My father takes her hand. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “They did everything they could. It’s no one’s fault.”
“It has to be,” she says.
And I know she’s right.
20
1989. February, London.
Halfway back to Mile End I ask Peter to pull over so I can pee. It is London, which translates as: every fucking place in the city is closed after eleven.
“Can you wait five minutes?” he asks.
“If I could wait, I wouldn’t be suggesting that I pull my pants down in front of a total stranger to piss in the street.”
“Right. Duly noted. Lovely.” Peter pulls the car over on a narrow, cobbled street. “Off you go, then.”
I squat down behind a tree, praying that no one looks out of the row house windows behind me. My thighs glow white in the pale light of a streetlamp. I groan, stomach sore from Pig Face’s beating. A puddle forms beneath me on the freezing ground. I move my feet out of the way as it makes a break for my shoes. I have never felt such pure relief. When I stand to pull up my jeans and underpants, Peter is watching me from the car. He laughs when I catch him, covers his eyes in mock dismay.
5:45 P.M.
My mind is filled with bees—the raw, sweet stinging of the day. I cannot seem to shake it. The swim home from the far side of the pond has washed Jonas off me, but he is here, stuck inside my head, as I stand at the kitchen stove in my wet bathing suit and towel waiting for the kettle to boil. I picture myself butterflying away from him, leaving him behind me on the shore. His stricken face. In the deep center of the pond where the green water blackens, I stopped to catch my breath, treading water, afraid to turn back and see Jonas standing there, afraid to swim home to Peter, to my life.
“You must be an absolute prune,” my mother says, taking an old black tin of Hu-Kwa tea down from the shelf. “You and Jonas were gone for hours. We were about to send out the Donner Party.”
“I’m not sure how useful that would have been.” I laugh. “And it was hardly hours. We walked over to have a quick look at the ocean. The afternoon light was so beautiful.”
“It’s a full moon tonight,” she says.
Behind us, Peter and all three kids are playing Parcheesi. I glance over to see if Peter is listening, but he has just rolled doubles and is busy trying to create a blockade.
“Anyone there?” my mother asks.
“I saw the Biddles camped out to the right, toward Higgins. And I could just make out her purple skirt, but I’m pretty sure it was Pamela, way down the beach taking her daily walk. Other than that, it was pretty empty. The piping plover signs are finally down.”
“Thank God.” She pries the lid off the tin of tea with the back end of a spoon. “Here.” She hands it to me, takes the kettle off the stove. “The water must be hot enough by now.”
“For god’s sake, Wallace,” Peter says, “wait until the water boils. You might as well just hand me a cup of warm piss. And do not even think about plying me with that Lapsang Souchong rubbish. Filthy stuff.”
“It’s smoked over pine needles,” Mum says.
“Even worse.”
“He’s a bit bossy, that husband of yours,” my mother says, but I can tell she likes it. She puts the kettle back on the burner and goes in search of some plain English tea.
Finn gets up from the table and comes to give me a hug. “I found a shark egg on the beach.”
“A shark egg?” I ask, dubious.
He sticks his hand in his pocket and brings out what looks like a small, crispy black pouch with devil horns on each end. “Here. Gina says it’s an egg sack. For a baby shark.”
“Everyone thinks that, for some reason. But it’s actually for a skate. It’s called a mermaid’s purse.”
“Which makes no sense unless the mermaid is Goth.” Peter laughs.
I hand it back to Finn. “Put it up on the shelf so it doesn’t break.”
“Maybe I should be a mermaid this year for Halloween,” Maddy says.
“Excellent idea. Though it might be hard to walk around the neighborhood with no feet,” Peter points out. “Come play the next round with us, wife.”
“I’m not really in a Parcheesi mood. I need to get out of this wet bathing suit.”
“You certainly do. You’ll get a urinary tract infection.” My mother comes out of the pantry holding a ten-pack of toilet paper. “Put this in the bathroom, would you? We’re out. I don’t know how you all manage to go through things so quickly. You’re like a bunch of locusts.”