Man, Woman and Child (7 page)

"Who's that foreign kid?"

"He's from abroad. A visitor."

"Who's he visiting—you?"

"Well, let us just say the Beckwith family, of which I am a member."

"Where's his parents?"

"None of your business. Actually he's an orphan," said Jessica.

"No shit," said Davey. "You guys gonna adopt him?"

This had never occurred to Jessica.

"I'm sorry, but Vm not at liberty to say."

* * * '

"Play ball!"

At last the annual Bemie Aclcerman Cape Cod Invitational Softball Game was under way. Parents and children had been split into two teams, led by Bemie and Jack Ever, a computer scientist. Bemie won the toss and got first draft choice. Purely on ability and all-important killer instinct, he selected Davey Ackerman.

Bob was chosen by Jack Ever on the seventh round. Though a distinguished academic, he was, as Bernie had to tell him candidly, a pretty mediocre catcher. The signing up of Nancy Ackerman and Patsy Lord as short-center fielders made the contest nominally coed. Paula Beckwith joined the senior citizens and toddlers seated on the first-base line, prepared to cheer her daddy. Jessica sought solitude beneath a tree with Baudelaire (in English). Hardly in a sporting mood. Sheila went to walk along the beach.

The shore was empty. Far up the beach, a solitary child was playing in the sand. But that was all.

She had realized something in the moment that they reached the party. Seeing all their friends and pseudo friends, she knew at once that things would never be the same. Not just because they all looked up to her and Bob. To hell with images. But Bob was no longer funny, loving, faithful Bob. Ever since she'd seen that child, the one certainty that had defined her life had disappeared.

God, she thought, how smug I must have been. All around us marriages were splitting or relationships eroding and Fd taken ours for granted. We were different. Unchanged, unchanging and unchangeable. Was it hubris to feel so secure? Is that where I went wrong?

She walked in the direction of the solitary child.

And now, to her dismay, she saw it was Jean-Claude, sitting on his haunches, digging in the sand. She slowed. She didn't want to have to talk to him. But from this vantage point she could observe him without being seen.

You know, we have a lot in common, Sheila thought. We both were happy once.

And numbed by melancholy, she fantasized a conversation they might have if they were meeting for the first time here, alone on this deserted beach.

*'Hello, whose little hoy are you?"

"My mother is Nicole Guerin, my father's Robert BeckwithJ'

''Really? Robert Beckwith is my husband,"

*'Ohr'

*'That sort of complicates things, doesn*t it?** Just then the little boy looked up, saw her, and waved. I know it isn't your fault, Sheila forced herself to think. She waved back. He looks so sad.

But then it isn't my fault either, dammit. She turned and walked along the shore away from him.

Tension was mounting. The score was 12-12 and they were into extra innings. Both teams were wilting from the heat, but no one more than Bob, who had been roasting in his catcher's mask. It was bottom of the tenth and Bemie's team was batting. Davey Ackerman had lined a double to left field and now was dancing boldly from the base. Once or twice Bob thought he might rifle the ball to the second baseman and catch Davey off guard, but his arm was sore just from returning the ball to the pitcher.

Now Bemie was in the batter's box.

"Come on, Dad, send me home!" called Davey, as he hopped up and down and whistled to encourage his father and distract the pitcher. Bob signaled

for a low fast ball, which, alas, came in shoulder high and slow.

Bemie's swing caught just a piece of it and popped a fly to shallow center. The instant Patsy Lord caught it, Davey Ackerman was off and flying toward third base. And it was clear that he would try to score. Patsy fired the ball to Bob, who had thrown off his mask and stood astride the base line, blocking home plate. But Davey rounded third and fearlessly charged homeward.

''Knock his head off, Davey!"

This parental counsel came from Bemie, shrieking like a maniac.

Davey was a cannonball aimed straight at Bob. As he drew near. Bob lunged to tag him, but couldn't. Davey dodged, and slid right into him. Bob fell backward on the ground. The Softball trickled from his glove. The other team was cheering. They had won!

''No hard feelings," Bemie crowed at Bob. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Bob said, slowly getting up. He gritted his teeth. That little bastard. He wiped the dirt and sweat ofiE with his sleeve and walked away. Shit, my shins are aching.

"Are you all right. Daddy?" It was Paula, who had sprinted to her father's side.

"Don't worry, sweetie. I'll just get some water on my legs. See you in a sec."

As the players all stampeded for the beer and Cokes, Bob stopped, untied his sneakers and walked toward the beach. Just where grass ended and sand began, he saw the visitor from France perched on a dune. Jean-Claude looked concerned.

"Did he hurt you, Bob?" he asked.

"No, it's nothing."

"Is it permitted, what he did?"

*Tes. I was too slow. I should have tagged him and gotten out of the way." He patted the boy on the head.

*'Do you want to get your feet wet in the ocean?''

"Yes."

They walked together to the water's edge. He waited for Jean-Claude to take his shoes off and they waded in. Bob grimaced when the water reached his shins.

"I would like to hit that boy," said Jean-Claude, looking away. "

Bob laughed. And thought, Me too.

H,

.OW WAS YOUR DAY?"

''Not bad/' Sheila answered tonelessly. She was combing her hair as they both prepared for bed.

''Not good, either, huh?" said Bob, applying ice in towels to his aching shins. He looked at her. Even in her faded bathrobe and with night cream on her face, she was beautiful. He wanted her so badly.

"No, Robert, certainly not good." It was always in times of extreme emotion that she called him Robert. In the midst of making love, and when she was really angry.

"Do you think anyone suspected?" he asked.

"What?"

"Did they—uh—wonder who he was?"

"I don't think so. Anyway, I couldn't give a damn."

Yeah, she was very angry.

"Sheila, I-"

"What's important. Bob, is that I knew."

"I understand."

"You don't. You haven't any notion of how hard this is for me." She sat down on the bed and stared across at him. "I can't take it, Robert."

70

He was about to remind her that she had volunteered, but stopped himself. After all, he was the culprit.

''Then maybe we should send him home?" He looked at her hopelessly.

She examined the ends of her long hair. An activity to keep her mind off castigating him. To keep her deep resentment from erupting into words,

''Look, I said I would and I will," she replied, still looking down, "but..."

"But what?"

"Fm going to need a little relief. It's impossible to just pretend that this is some everyday occurrence. It's not, and Fm going to have to get away now and then."

"Of course." What could she mean? Her words unsettled him.

"Tomorrow. I want to go to Boston for the day."

"Oh, good. A good idea," said Bob, relieved that she had not demanded even more time.

She put her hairbrush down on the night table, turned out the light and climbed under the covers, her back to him. She was still wearing her bathrobe.

He reached over and put his hand on her right shoulder. Just a friendly touch, he told himself. In fact, it was an interrogatory gesture.

"I took a pill. Bob," she said very softly, without turning.

I only want to ... he was going to say. But that was not the truth and she would know it. It would make things even worse.

In a minute she was sleeping. She had deserted him. He turned to his own night table and rummaged for a magazine. He found a year-old issue of Boston, and immersed himself in it.

But reading only made him more awake. Perhaps it was the survey of good coffeehouses in the city.

Vicarious caffeine. In any case, he felt too restless to remain in bed. He got out quietly, glancing over at his wife who was in deep if troubled sleep, put on his slippers and left the room.

It was cold in the house, and at the top of the stairway he took his jogging jacket from the hook, zipped it up and started down the stairs.

In the living room he saw the boy.

He was seated in pajamas on the sofa, staring out the window at the ocean.

"Jean-Claude?" Bob said softly.

The boy turned quickly, somewhat startled. *'Oui -yes?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. I couldn't sleep."

"That makes two of us," Bob answered. "Aren't you cold?"

"A little."

Bob removed his jacket, wrapping it around the boy's shoulders.

"Thank you," said Jean-Claude.

"Would you like a glass of milk?"

"Yes, please."

^^Comeon."

He sat at the kitchen table as Bob poured some milk into a pan and started heating it. While it warmed, he opened up a beer. Then he gave Jean-Claude the milk, and sat down v^th him. It was very quiet in the house. They could hear the ocean.

"Did you enjoy today, Jean-Claude?"

The little boy looked lost and sad. "I am sorry that I don't know baseball."

"It's not important," Bob replied, and added, "As you could see, I don't know too much baseball, either."

Silence. Jean-Claude sipped his milk.

**What were you looking at when I came down? The sea?"

Jean-Claude hesitated, and then answered, "Yes, I was wondering how far it was .. /'

"... to France?"

"Yes.""

"Too far to swim." Bob smiled, and then, "Are you homesick?"

"Well, a little. When I look out at the water I imagine that I see my village."

Bob felt sorry for him.

"Come on. Let's go back and look out at France."

The boy padded after Bob back to the living room. He sat on the sofa once again. Bob in the easy chair right near him.

"It's a lovely village, Sete."

^*Do you know it?" asked Jean-Claude.

Bob sensed this would be the first of many innocently probing questions. But he felt a need to talk, if only indirectly.

"I was there once," he replied, "many years ago."

The next question, though inevitable, still made Bob's heart beat faster.

"Did you know my mother there, or just in Boston?"

Bob hesitated. Something in the verb "to know" stirred deep emotions in him. Well, what should the story be—platonic friendship in the States or casual acquaintance on a trip to France?

"Uh—just in Boston. When she was a resident at Mass General. We met at someone's house."

The little boy's eyes brightened.

"Did you like her?"

How should he answer?

"She was very nice," Bob offered.

"She was a very good doctor," the little boy

added. "We could have lived in Paris, but she preferred the south."

"I know," said Bob. And wondered suddenly if these two syllables had not been too revealing. But the boy said nothing for a moment. Then finally:

"We would go camping sometimes, just Maman and I. We went to Switzerland at Easter and she promised next year I could have skiing lessons...." His voice trailed off.

Bob wondered what to say.

"You can still take lessons/'

"I don't want to now."

Life goes on, he stopped himself from saying. What an idiotic thing to tell a lonely child.

They sat in silence. Bob had drained his beer and wanted to get another. But he couldn't leave the boy alone.

"Did you know my father?''

Though he knew it had to come, it nonetheless sent shivers up his spine. What did the child know really? Had Nicole, had Louis ... ?

"Did you, Bob?"

He was still unsure how to answer.

"Uh—what did your mother tell you about him?"

He braced himself to hear the answer.

"That he was married to someone else." The boy lowered his head.

"And?" Bob's heart was hammering.

"That she loved him. And they loved each other and decided to have me. But of course he could not stay in France."

"Uh—did she ever tell you who he was?"

"No. But I have my own idea."

"What?"

"I think perhaps he was an Englishman."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because if he was Italian, I think she would

have made me learn Italian. So I could someday talk to him."

Bob's next thought embarrassed him. For in the early hours of morning, his guard was lowered and he told himself, How logical he is: sort of like me. The boy continued wistfully.

"I always hoped that maybe when I was grown up, Maman would .. /'

".. . tell you all about him?"

"Yes. But now she's dead."

For the first time since he arrived, he had ex-phcitly refened to his mother's death. And his own words caused the child to burst into tears.

Silent, choking sobs that shook his little body.

Bob's heart was aching for the child. He longed to lift him up and take him in his arms.

At last he did.

The little boy responded instantly. He threw his arms around Bob's neck and clung to him.

"Mczmdn," he murmured, crying all the while.

^*I know," Bob answered softly, rocking him. "I know."

They held each other tightly, neither wanting to let go. Until their intimate embrace was interrupted.

"Bob?"

It was Sheila, standing sleepily on the first step.

To Bob, his wife's expression seemed to reflect betrayal.

Slowly, he let the boy slide onto his feet.

"Sheila—are you okay?"

She was slightly woozy from the pill.

"I woke up and you were gone," she said.

"I couldn't sleep. Jean-Claude was sitting here when I came down."

"Oh," she answered hoarsely.

"We'll all go to bed now," Bob said quickly.