"U" is for Undertow (33 page)

Deborah jumped at the chance to have them gone, even for a short time. “That’s fine. I just filled the tank with gas. The keys are on the hook by the back door,” she said. “What about Sky Dancer?”

“He doesn’t want to come so we’re leaving him here.”

“Would you object to his coming with Rain and me? She has her swimming lesson this morning.”

“He doesn’t need babysitting. He’s fine on his own.”

“I thought he might enjoy being out and about.”

“Sure, whatever. I doubt he’ll do it, but why not? If we’re back late, don’t worry about it. He doesn’t like to be fussed over. He can take care of himself.”

“What time does he go to bed?”

“He’s a night owl. He gets hyper. It’ll be one A.M. before he falls asleep.”

“I see,” she said, and then hesitated. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to get to know your daughter. She’s an adorable little girl. In many ways, she reminds me of you.”

“Yeah, well, Shelly’s kind of touchy on the subject.”

Deborah bit back a remark. She was sick to death of his catering to the woman. “Fine. I just thought I’d mention it.”

Deborah waited until she saw Greg and Shelly pull away and then she went out to the bus. The day was overcast and inside there was hardly enough light to see by. She knocked on the folding front door and Shawn opened it. He wore a T-shirt and a pair of ragged cutoffs. He’d been lying on his futon, his flat pillow rolled up to support his neck. On the floor around his bed there were piles of dirty clothes.

“Would you like to come inside where the light’s better?”

“Did Mom say it was okay?”

“Greg did.”

“You mean Creed.”

“That’s right. Creed. I keep forgetting. You might round up a jacket while you’re at it.”

Shawn picked his way toward the back of the bus, lifting up garments in search of his jacket. Deborah removed the dead pillow from its case and stuffed dirty clothes into it until it bulged. Shawn came back, pulling on a sweatshirt of Greg’s that hung to his knees.

“I thought we’d give this a quick wash,” Deborah said of the pillowcase full of dirty clothes. “I can show you how to use the washer and dryer.”

“My mom showed me once at the laundromat.”

“Ours might be different. It won’t hurt to take a look.”

Shawn pulled on his tennis shoes and followed her.

Deborah loaded his clothes and showed him how to operate the washer. As soon as the cycle was under way she said, “I’m taking Rain for her swimming lesson this morning at the Y. Would you like to come along? You and I can paddle around in the pool.”

“I don’t have a suit.”

“I can stop at a store and pick one up. You probably need a new toothbrush, too. You know how to swim?”

“Not really.”

“Well, we can practice.”

While Rain had her lesson with six other little kids on the far side of the pool, Deborah and Shawn sat with their legs dangling in the water. In his bathing suit he looked younger than ten, more like a seven-year-old, with his bony shoulders and his collarbones exposed. He was afraid of the water, though he pretended he really wasn’t interested. When Rain joined them half an hour later, they persuaded him to get into the shallow end with them. Rain had a set of weighted rings that Deborah dropped into the water, one by one. Rain would upend herself like a duck, kicking to the bottom to retrieve them. Shawn didn’t want to get his face wet, but Rain made the game look like fun and at the end of an hour, he would at least hold his nose and sink to the bottom briefly. He and Rain would look at each other underwater and blow the air out of their mouths before they shot to the surface.

After they’d showered and dressed again, Deborah ushered them into the station wagon. “On swim days, we have a late lunch at McDonald’s and then we skip dinner unless we decide to have popcorn,” she said.

“That’s a hamburger stand.”

“Yes, but they have other things as well. I can get you lettuce and tomato on a bun. It’ll be fine.”

Once at McDonald’s, she told Rain and Shawn to secure a booth while she ordered their lunch. She came back to the table with their order number and sent the two off to get paper napkins, salt, mustard, and ketchup in small packets. When their number was called, Deborah went back to the counter and picked up their food, which was piled on a plastic tray. She brought a glass of ice water for Shawn and a large chocolate milkshake that she and Rain would share. She doled out a paper-wrapped sandwich for each and put a large container of fries in the middle of the table where everyone could reach them.

Shawn opened his sandwich. In addition to the lettuce and tomato there was a meat patty with cheese melted on top. He put his hands in his lap and looked at her.

“Do you see lettuce and tomato?”

“Yes.”

“You want condiments? You’re allowed to eat mustard and ketchup, aren’t you?”

“Sure.”

Rain was munching on her burger, dipping fries in a puddle of ketchup and eating them rapidly. Deborah bit into her cheeseburger, and a moment later Shawn picked up his and took a hesitant bite. Neither of them said a word, and she kept her attention focused elsewhere. The next time she looked, Shawn had devoured his lunch.

“That was quick. You want another one?”

He nodded.

She ordered him a second cheeseburger, and when that was ready she brought it to the table, passing him an extra straw so he could help with the milkshake, which she said she and Rain couldn’t finish without help.

After they got back to the house, she moved Shawn’s clothes into the dryer. Later the two of them folded his clean clothes and made a neat pile of them. Then he and Rain read stories and worked on her printing skills. For supper they had a huge bowl of popcorn, corn being a vegetable, as Deborah pointed out. She made sure they bypassed the television set, and played board games until Rain’s bedtime at 8:00.

Deborah asked Shawn if he wanted to sleep on the couch. She had a knitting project she was working on and said she’d work in the next room.

The idea made him anxious. “I better not. Mom and Creed might come back and wonder where I am.”

“We can leave them a note,” she said. “That way they won’t wake you up when they get in. With Patrick gone, I could use the company. I don’t know about you, but I sometimes get scared on my own.”

“Okay.”

She let Shawn write two notes and he went off to brush his teeth while she taped one to the back window of the bus and slipped the second into the front bifold door. She settled him on the couch under a big puffy quilt and a spare pillow she told him he could keep. Then she sat in the den with her knitting, leaving the door open between the two rooms so the light would slant in.

At 9:00 he called, “Deborah?”

“I’m here.”

“Do you think my mom will get mad about what I ate?”

“I don’t see why she would. You had lettuce and tomato on a bun with a glass of ice water on the side. We won’t mention anything else, okay?”

“Okay.”

And after a few minutes, “Deborah?”

“Yes?”

“You know what?”

“What, Shawn?”

“This has been the best day of my life.”

“Mine, too, sweetheart,” she said. Her eyes filled and the knitting blurred in her lap. She had to put a finger on her lips to maintain silence while she blinked back tears.

 

 

I let myself into my studio at 7:00, the manila envelope full of letters tucked under one arm. I tossed the package on the desk and then went and poured myself a glass of wine. I confess I was looking to alcohol to bolster my courage. This might have been the first step on the road to a drunken downfall, but I doubted it. Twice I picked up the envelope and turned it over in my hand. I was reminded of that old question that comes up occasionally at a cocktail party: if you knew that in your top dresser drawer there was a piece of paper on which was written the date and time of your death, would you peek?

I’ve never known the right answer. There probably isn’t one, but the dilemma is whether you’d opt for total ignorance or for information that might affect the rest of your life (however short it might be). Since all of the letters had been returned, it was clear Aunt Gin had rejected Grand’s peace offering—if, indeed, that’s what it was. Maybe the messages were Grand’s berating of Aunt Gin for failings real and imagined, impossible to know unless I sat down and read them. I hesitated for the following reasons:

I went to bed and slept like a baby.

In the morning, I went through my normal routine—the run, the shower, clothes, a cup of coffee with a bowl of cereal. I picked up my shoulder bag and the packet of letters and drove to the office, where I made yet another pot of coffee and settled at my desk. This was an environment where I felt safe, the arena in which I experienced my competence. What better setting in which to risk personal peace?

Before launching myself into uncharted territory, I made one more quick evasive move. I called Deborah, asking if Rain would be willing to meet with me. She put Rain on the line and after a brief discussion, we agreed to get together Saturday morning at a coffee shop on Cabana Boulevard, in walking distance of my studio. The place was a favorite of hers and she’d been looking forward to having breakfast there while she was in town.

I made a note on my calendar. That done, I got down to business. I divided the letters into two piles. In the first I placed those addressed to Virginia Kinsey; in the second, those addressed to me. I began with Aunt Gin’s. The earliest was postmarked June 2, 1955, three days after the accident in which my parents died. A quick examination suggested that this was the only letter she’d opened before sealing it up again and sending it back.

I closed my eyes, marveling at the sentiments expressed. Did Cornelia Straith LaGrand know nothing about her two oldest daughters? I couldn’t be sure, but I suspected my mother would have reacted badly if she’d received such a letter. Virginia, younger by a year, was doubtless incensed. The Aunt Gin I’d known growing up, was volatile, opinionated, and fearless in the face of authority. She’d have been livid at Grand’s barely disguised attempts to gain the upper hand. The pointed omission of my father’s name must have infuriated Virginia further. Grand’s reference to “a proposal” would have been especially offensive, as though my future were subject to a carefully constructed business plan that Aunt Gin would warm to as soon as she understood its many virtues and advantages.

I returned that letter to its envelope and took up the next in date order, postmarked June 13, 1955.