Swim to Me (15 page)

Everything about this morning made Delores want to cry: her mother, all dolled up, barely noticing her, much less acknowledging her success; Westie not even recognizing her. This was her family: three pieces on a chessboard, each going its own way. And the fourth piece, her father, was gone, spilled over into a corner somewhere with no one even looking for him.

She welled up with dread: the beginning of an awful day. In less
than an hour, she would introduce her mother to Thelma Foote. Then she'd meet the other girls and see the show and come with her to WGUP and meet Sommers. All that she had created in the persona of Delores Taurus could come undone today with just one word from her mother—about their dingy apartment in the Bronx, about her jobs cleaning office buildings and working in a supermarket, about Delores's missing father—about almost anything that she was likely to mention.

Delores rapped on Thelma's door at precisely nine a.m. Thelma jumped up and greeted the three of them as effusively as if the Disney family had come to visit. She'd even dressed for the occasion. Her Keds were spotless and Delores thought she could still see the crease marks on what was clearly a brand-new windbreaker. Sometimes, right before the show, Thelma would whip out a tube of Sugar Blush natural lipstick and give it to one of the girls. “It will enhance your natural color,” she'd say. Now, it appeared, Thelma had put on a little Sugar Blush of her own. It was the only color on her unmade-up pale face and made her look as if she'd just eaten a wild cherry Life Saver.

Thelma took Gail Walker's hand in both of her own and shook it heartily. “Mrs. Walker—or should I call you Mrs. Taurus?—we are so honored to have you here.” Then, looking down at Westie and speaking a wee bit louder: “And you must be the little brother we hear so much about. How do you do, Westie? I'm Thelma Foote.”

Westie glared up at Thelma as if he thought she might try to kiss him or kidnap him.

“Please,” said Thelma. “Have a seat. Welcome to our funny little family. You must be so proud of your daughter's success. She's really turned things around here at Weeki Wachee.”

Gail smiled a new kind of smile. She stretched her lips, lowered her eyes, and, no, it couldn't be possible, she was sucking in her
cheeks just a little so that there'd be two little apples of cheekbones where there never were before. “My daughter has always had an attitude for the water.”

Oh God, she means aptitude,
thought Delores, hoping that Thelma missed it.

“You should have seen her in the Christmas show,” Thelma continued. “That's when it became clear that Miss Taurus here was star material, the real McCoy.”

Her mother's expression stayed fixed. “I think a flair for drama runs in our family. I'd have liked to be here at Christmas, but things just got so hectic back home.”

Delores could see that her mother was trying. She looked pretty good. Maybe she had really lifted herself out of the gummy drudgery of her life. With her new vibrant voice and her crispy dialect, who could tell? She'd reshaped her New York accent. “Wawkah” was now “Wahker,” and her vowels had acquired arches: “Westie doesn't feel
abahndoned
by his older sister. He knows she
adohrs
him.” Her consonants had become rolling hills: “I'll be meeting the woman I work for, Avalon
Mandhorr,
in Boca
Ratone.
We'll be doing the accessories show there.”

Delores understood that if you behaved a certain way long enough and told the same story over and over, the act of repetition was all you needed to fog the truth. Was her own act as transparent as her mother's? By now, she believed that she really was Delores Taurus, and she didn't need to prop herself up with as many lies and inventions. Did her mother still allow herself old private pleasures like watching
Glen Campbell,
or was that too common for the woman she was trying to become? And what of her father? Had her mother rubbed him out of this version of her life altogether?

If Thelma wanted to know where the singing Mr. Walker was, or exactly what Gail Walker did in the fashion business, she held her
tongue, just as she had done when Delores first came to audition in the bell. She let Delores's mother talk in that way she did, never betraying by so much as a fumble with her zipper whether or not she bought it. As the two women talked, Delores looked over at Westie. He had thrown Dorph to the floor and was leaning against his mother's shoulder, looking as if he might cry. Delores felt badly for him.

“What if Westie and I go off on a little adventure?” she suddenly said. “We'll meet the two of you at the amphitheater at ten thirty. That'll give me plenty of time to get ready for the eleven o'clock show.”

Westie looked to his mother, who nodded at him. “Well now, doesn't that sound like a treat? Go on. Go with your sister and have an adventure.” The boy seemed dubious, but when Delores smiled down at him and took his hand, he gave it to her. Maybe he did remember her.

“C'mon, Westie,” said Delores. “There's someone who wants to meet you.”

Sometimes Delores would catch tree frogs by the side of the springs. They were tiny creatures with thin, moist skin, and she'd cup them in her hands for just a moment or two. After she let them go, she could feel the sticky residue from the tips of their toes. Westie's warm hand in hers felt like one of those frogs, and she was careful not to hold it too tight.

They walked past the amphitheater down to the bank of the Weeki Wachee River. The sun shone high in the sky, and the river was still and shimmery. Delores crouched by the water; Westie crouched next to her. “If you look closely, maybe we'll see Dorph's sister. Or remember the sea turtle I told you about? He lives near here, and I call him Westie, after you. If we sit real quiet, maybe he'll come by.”

Westie took in a gulp of air and held his breath for as long as he could. A few skinny carp floated past, but no dolphins or sea turtles. Westie had on a pair of shorts and a short-sleeved striped polo shirt. Delores wore her bathing suit under her shorts and sleeveless blouse. She stared at him. His chubby little legs had muscle in them now. He would have his daddy's build, that was for sure. Then she remembered that she had been only a few months older than he was now the first time her mother had thrown her into the lake.

“Westie,” she whispered. “Wanna go out and find the turtle?”

Westie nodded his head yes.

“Okay, here's what we'll do. You'll climb on my back and hold on as tight as you can. And together we'll swim out and find him. Okay?” Westie looked at her, his eyes filled with wonder and worry. Delores stripped down to her bathing suit and took off her sandals. She helped him take off his shirt and shoes, then bent down. “Hop on,” she said, as if she were giving him a piggyback ride. He straddled her back like a little monkey. Slowly, she walked into the lake, the muddy bottom of it oozing between her toes. When she was waist deep, she told Westie again to hold on tight. She let her body fall forward in the warm water and used the wide-arcing breast-stroke and frog kick to propel her forward. They swam this way for a while, the water making slurping sounds against their bodies. Then Delores saw the creature wandering through the murky water beneath them as if he were window-shopping. She could tell by his pale olive coloring and heart-shaped carapace that it was the same turtle that had swum by her many times during the show, the one she had named Westie. She whispered to her brother: “I see him. Hold your breath and keep your eyes open and hold on as tight as you can. Don't be scared.”

Reassured by his sister's ease in the water, Westie did as he was told. Delores dove underneath the water. She swam up close to the
old sea turtle and he studied her through his heavy-lidded eyes. Then a curious thing happened. The turtle floated up to Westie and just slightly bumped his round head against the boy's cheek before swimming away again. Delores swam to the surface again. “Did you see him?” Delores asked. Behind her head, she could hear Westie giggling. “The turtle touched me,” he said. “The turtle touched me.”

These kinds of things happened here.

“See, he knows you,” said Delores. “Next time we'll go looking for Dorph's sister.”

She stopped worrying about what would happen the rest of the day; Westie had seen the magic of the place, and she knew he would never forget.

Later that morning, Delores swam in the Cinderella show. When it was over, she floated up to the Plexiglas window, as she always did, and scoured the audience. She could make out her mother and the little boy at her side. They were both on their feet, and she thought that the little boy was pointing and jumping up and down, but the eyes play funny tricks sixteen feet underwater, so she couldn't be sure.

After the show, Thelma came down from the booth and caught up with Westie and Gail. “Talented little gal you've got there,” she said, arching her eyebrows. “A real fish in the water, don't you think?”

“Delores has flair in the water,” Gail said. “It runs in her family.”

Thelma nodded, trying to coax more enthusiasm out of this woman. “Combine that with her father's creative talents, and I'd say she's got it made.”

Gail wondered what Thelma could possibly know about Roy Walker's talents, which, other than throwing food around the house, were pretty minimal. “Yes, well her father is a piece of work,
I will say that.” The two women nodded the way women do when they talk about difficult men. “And what about you, young man?” said Thelma, spacing her words carefully. “Do you want to be a merman when you grow up?”

Westie fidgeted with his tattered dolphin and ignored her. Thelma remembered why she disliked children so much. They were self-absorbed, sulky little creatures and frankly, not very interesting, this one even less so than most. But then again, look at his mother. Thelma's judgment about Gail Walker hadn't veered an inch from the moment she met her that morning. She was a scared person, who seemed to resent her own daughter's success; sad, really. She would hate it if her own sadness were that palpable to other people. But, of course, it wasn't. Anyway, if she were honest, she'd have to say she wasn't sad, exactly: discouraged sometimes, but not sad. Sad was too complete. Whatever it was she felt, she kept it under wraps—unlike Gail Walker. It was funny how Gail and Delores looked so much alike, both tall and big-boned, yet one was brimming with life while the other seemed to bleed it out. But the thing that really got to Thelma was how Gail treated Delores. Not that Thelma knew a whole lot about maternal feelings, but she knew enough to know that any mother in the world would consider herself lucky to have a daughter like Delores Taurus. Any mother, that is, except this one.

She was really trying with Gail Walker, and it wasn't often that Thelma put out this kind of an effort, making small talk, being nice to a child. But all she was getting back was a person with a fake, fancy accent and outrageous clothes. The worst part was that Gail hadn't asked Thelma a single question about herself or about running an enterprise like Weeki Wachee. Even at her hoity-toity fashion magazine, it wasn't every day she was going to meet someone who supervised mermaids for a living. Thelma was hardly one of those women's libbers, God forbid, but it always surprised her when
one of her own sex was curt or dismissive. She understood that maybe she was threatening, being an independent businesswoman and all, but still, if other women weren't going to be generous to her, who would be?

“So, should we go find Delores?” Thelma continued, with gristle in her voice. Delores had gone back to the dorm to change. She had told them she had a quick errand to run and said she would meet them in front of the theater by the river. Westie was the first to notice Delores coming across the lawn. He broke loose from his mother and ran to her. “Hey, Westie,” she called out. He could see she had a white package with a blue ribbon in one hand. “Hi,” he said.

“Did you like the show?” she asked. He reached for her empty hand. “I have an idea,” she whispered. “Come with me. We'll tell Mom and Thelma that we'll meet them later.”

Gail put a tentative arm around Delores's shoulder. “That was a very interesting show. I can't believe that someone with so much talent would come from my gene pool.”

Delores was tempted to say, “You mean your gene puddle,” but for the fact that her mother insisted on keeping her arm around her. She recognized the faint odor of Mum.

When she finally wriggled free, she said: “Listen, Mom, Thelma, I'm going to take Westie back to the dorm for a few minutes. I'll introduce him to the other girls, and then we can all get some lunch at the refreshment stand.”

Her mother looked at her watch and tapped its face with her nail. “Oh, sweetie,” she said. “I'm sorry, but I'm afraid Westie and I are going to have to run along. I spoke to Avalon earlier, and she wants me in Boca ASAP. Apparently the merchandise arrived sooner than expected, and we really need to get prepared for the show.” That was the truth, sort of. She had spoken to Avalon earlier in the day,
and Avalon had been close to tears. “Everything arrived late,” she had said. “So I'm sitting here in my room, drowning in shoes and watches and who knows what. I'll never get this stuff opened and tagged in time.”

“Would it help if I came a little earlier?” Gail had asked.

“Would it help?” Avalon cried. “It would be . . . it would be a godsend.”

“Okeydokey then. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

G
AIL HAD ASSUMED
that Delores would be happy if she left early.
She certainly doesn't need me here,
she rationalized.
She's got all those girls around her, not to mention that Thelma Foote. What a weirdo, that one.
She hated the way Thelma Foote hovered around Delores and kept whispering her praises as if she wasn't aware enough of her own daughter's accomplishments. How could a woman like that—was she even a woman at all?—understand what it was like to be a mother, to have to make the kinds of choices she'd made, to bring up a little boy on her own? People like her tried to put Gail in her place. But uh-uh, she was working too hard to let someone like Thelma Foote make her feel inferior.