Authors: Peter Hedges
***
One night before dinner, near the end of the month, Claire told the Judge she didn’t see how the workers could have the pool ready by the Fourth of July. “There’s still so much left to do.”
The Judge sent Scotty to wash his hands, then whispered an explanation to his daughters. He pushed the workers for the fourth knowing that they’d be ready by the twelfth.
Claire understood. Maggie didn’t. “What’s the twelfth?”
“Scotty’s birthday.”
“Oh.”
“I want it ready for his party.”
(5)
All continued to go smoothly until the Judge woke his children the last Sunday morning in June.
“We haven’t been to services in weeks. We must go. We have much to be thankful for.”
So the Judge took them to church.
***
After the service, it didn’t take Mrs. Myerly and her boys long to find Scotty. He had spent the coffee hour playing outside on the jungle gym. As he entered the parish hall, Scotty watched a mother and her children approach him. The Myerlys had recently returned from a vacation in Florida. They were tanned and happy. Scotty didn’t recognize them at first. Mrs. Myerly was dark brown, her teeth a glaring, brilliant white. The tip of her nose was bright pink and had begun to peel.
“Hello, Scotty,” Mrs. Myerly said. She had a boy on either side and baby Elizabeth in her arms. It had been weeks since she’d seemed interested in Scotty. He stared at her. It felt nice to see her again.
“How have you been?”
“Good.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Tim has something he wants to ask you.”
Tim clung to her side. He hesitated. “Are you… are you getting a pool?”
Scotty didn’t want to answer Tim.
“My boys love swimming. Isn’t that right?”
Tim said, “Yes”—Jeff stuck out his tongue.
“Jeff,” Mrs. Myerly said, “be nice.”
“I’m a good swimmer,” Tim said.
“He’s a very good swimmer,” Mrs. Myerly said.
“At the YMCA, we take swimming lessons. Jeff’s only a Minnow. But I’m a Flying Fish.”
Mrs. Myerly explained the various levels of swimmers at the YMCA. She listed them in order: Minnow, Fish, Flying Fish, Dolphin, and Shark.
She lit a cigarette. Her cheeks sank in as she inhaled, making her look, Scotty thought, like a pretty fish.
Then Tim listed the kinds of dives he could do: “The cannonball, the can opener, which is the same as the jackknife.”
“Tell Scotty about the belly flop you did once,” Mrs. Myerly said. Before he could say anything, Mrs. Myerly started laughing at the memory of Tim landing hard on his stomach. Tim started laughing because she was laughing. Everyone was laughing.
Mrs. Myerly exhaled, sending her smoke violently up and out.
As Tim started to demonstrate his favorite dive, Scotty felt a mixture of feelings. He was confused. His mind raced. She’s pretty. They’re happy. It’s been a long time since she talked to me. Tim stretched his arms out and spread his legs, making the shape of an X. Mrs. Myerly, her sweet lips leaving lipstick on the cigarette butt, smoking, smiling. Tim saying, “This is my favorite dive. I call it…”
Scotty stepped up and kicked.
He kicked his Sunday best Buster Brown hard-toed shoe in between Tim’s legs.
Tim fell to the ground.
Mrs. Sheila Myerly dropped her cigarette and crouched fast to attend to her boy. The rest of the room grew blurry. Scotty heard voices, saw fuzzy figures moving on the periphery. Did he just do what he thought he did? He remembered the decision; he remembered his foot rising up through space; he remembered the feeling of impact. He remembered each moment individually—but now he was putting them all together. How could he be described? Culprit was the appropriate word.
Maybe Claire would say it, spell it, say it again.
Culprit.
Scotty stood for a moment. The people in the coffee hour scurried about, whispering, shocked at Scotty’s wrath. This was the feel of God. People had now seen the power of Scotty. He crossed his arms. He felt oddly satisfied.
Tim Myerly lay on the floor curled into a fetal position. He pressed his hands between his legs. His face was red. As he screamed, a white ring of spit formed around his lips. Little Elizabeth began her own crying. Someone could be heard to be saying, “Scotty, you should be ashamed of yourself.”
Scotty was about to say, “I am not. I am not ashamed!” when he felt a pull on his hair.
“Ow,” he went.
He felt a hand grab his belt and lift him up. Floating in the air, his pants pulled tight up into his groin, he said, “Owww,” as quietly as he could. One hand came down on his rear end as the other held him up. Scotty could only see the floor and a pair of men’s shoes below him. Shoes he had polished that morning. Shoes of his father.
Whap on his rear end. Whap. Repeated whaps. But they didn’t hurt. He found it funny and giggled. The Judge said, “Bad boy. Bad boy!”
Scotty thought, I’m not a boy. I’m seven. Seven is not a boy.
“Apologize.” He stood Scotty up. He took Scotty’s face in his large hands and made him look at Tim Myerly sobbing in his mother’s arms. “You want your old man to kick
you
there? Is that what you want?”
The Judge took Scotty by the hair with one hand and smacked Scotty on the rear end so hard it looked as if Scotty might snap in two. Some hair came out in the Judge’s hand.
Scotty apologized but the conditions were not ideal. He
hung his head as he spoke. He could barely be heard, his voice signaling that any moment he would burst into tears.
It was not the spanking, or his father’s rage, or the humiliation in front of so many people that finally broke Scotty open. It wasn’t that Mrs. Sheila Myerly would forever hate him. Scotty wept as the sting of slaps set in because he knew he got what he deserved.
***
The family returned home from church, and Scotty was sent immediately to his room with orders to clean it. He spent the afternoon putting away his clothes, clearing off his dresser, and arranging his toys in his closet.
Downstairs it was strangely quiet. The phone rang once.
He could hear the Judge talking, but Scotty couldn’t make out the words. When he’d cleaned as best he could, he climbed in bed and pulled the covers over him.
***
Later, when the Judge pushed open the door, he found Scotty still under the covers. He pulled off the sheets, raised Scotty up, and shook him.
“That was the dumbest thing I think you’ve ever done.”
Claire and Maggie could hear all the way down in the living room.
“So stupid I can’t even begin to tell you. The boy isn’t hurt. You are lucky! Do you realize that?”
“Yes,” Scotty said.
“Clean up this goddamned room. Every bit of it.”
“I did.”
The Judge opened the closet door and emptied a box of toys. He dumped out the sack of Scotty’s school supplies.
“Clean it again. And while you do, ask yourself, ‘Aren’t I lucky?’ And your sisters—get up here, girls.”
Claire and Maggie hurried up the stairs.
Scotty began to clean the room.
“Faster.”
Claire and Maggie stood in the hallway.
“Girls, what am I to do? What more can I do? Your brother, help me…”
Claire said, “Dad, please, enough.”
The Judge appeared to calm down. He spoke firmly. “You are grounded, young man. You are to stay here. On this property. You are to stay here until I say so.”
The Judge pulled out Scotty’s top dresser drawer, dumping his socks and underwear all over the room. The grenade fell out, and Scotty watched to see if it was going to explode. The Judge emptied a second drawer on top before he or the girls saw it. The Judge began to shout again. The girls cried for Scotty, begging the Judge to stop, to please calm down.
But he didn’t stop. Even Tom Conway could hear him—up and down the street, every neighbor, too, if they closed their eyes and listened, could hear him—Judge Walter Ocean screaming, screaming until his voice gave out. “Is this how you thank your father? Is this how you thank me!”
(6)
The next day as the workers plastered the pool, Scotty stayed inside. His room was spotless. It had never been so clean.
Maggie and Claire called up to Scotty, saying that grounded didn’t mean he couldn’t come out to the backyard.
That night, after he finished cleaning his plate, he returned straight to his room.
Later, Maggie came and knocked on Scotty’s door. He could hear the theme music for
Hawaii Five-O
downstairs. “Dad wants you,” she said.
The Judge tried to make pleasant conversation over the nightly bowl of popcorn. Claire and Maggie tried to make jokes. These were their attempts to lighten what had been a tense last two days.
Scotty sat quietly.
Finally, the Judge realized what to discuss. This topic would turn the night around and get Scotty back on track.
Answering back in faint voice, Scotty asked, “What party?”
“
Your
party.”
Scotty said nothing, for he didn’t understand.
“Your
birthday
party.”
“What birthday?”
The Judge forced a smile. “You’re turning eight, remember?”
Scotty seemed confused.
The Judge said they had better get planning. “It’s coming up; it’ll be here before you know it.”
Claire said she hoped he’d invite many people. “Since it’s the official opening of the pool and all.”
The Judge said, “Scotty can invite anybody he wants.”
Maggie said she wished her birthday party could have been a pool party. “But I was born in January,” she moaned.
Claire wondered aloud if a hand-delivered invitation to Tim Myerly wouldn’t be just the thing.
The Judge thought it would be better to mail it and enclose a personal note.
As the Judge, Claire, and Maggie tossed around their ideas, Scotty made an announcement, “I don’t want to be eight.”
“Tough luck,” Maggie said.
Scotty said it again. “I don’t want to be eight.”
The Judge said, “We all get older, Scotty. There’s nothing you or I can do about it.”
“Except,” Claire added, “have the best party ever.”
***
The homemade invitations had a blue piece of paper shaped like a kidney glued to the front. Claire drew on a stick figure of a boy in a swimsuit, telling Scotty, “That’s you.” Inside, she and Maggie wrote the vital information with Magic Markers. The Judge had told them that a nice party for Scotty would make all the difference. “Help put the last year behind us,” he said.
The girls addressed and stamped the invitations, and the following morning the Judge mailed them.
***
The workers put up floodlights and worked late each night on the final touches. Ceramic tiles were put in, the diving board mount secured. Soon they would paint.
***
The phone began to ring with enthusiastic confirmations. “Everyone will be coming,” the Judge predicted, “because everyone likes you, Scotty.”
Maggie said, “Everyone wants to get in the pool.”
Claire said, “And because they like you.”
Mrs. Myerly called to say she and Mr. Myerly and especially Tim appreciated Scotty’s note. Scotty had written “I am sorry” on the back of the invitation. Then he wrote, “
Please
come to my party.”
(Claire had told him what to write. When apologizing, she believed, it’s always best to be simple.)
Mrs. Myerly called to say she wished Tim could attend, but they would be out of town visiting grandparents. Before hanging up, she said, “Maybe next year.”
***
Scotty watched the filling of the pool from his bedroom window. The Judge was in shorts and the girls in bikini bottoms and T-shirts; they were sitting in new lawn chairs watching the water rise.
Scotty didn’t understand their hurry. After the pool was filled, the water still had to be treated, purified, chlorinated. There was much to learn about keeping the water clean.
The Judge never seemed happier. “Come on down,” he called up to Scotty. The girls covered their noses with a white cream to keep from burning.
“Come on, Scotty,” Claire said.
“Yeah,” Maggie added. They both waved.
Scotty stayed in his bedroom.
***
Joan called to say she was coming to the party. She had purchased a new swimsuit, floral patterned, and bought two for the girls that matched. She asked to speak to Scotty, but Claire said that he wasn’t talking much. “He’s preoccupied.”
“Is he all right?”
“Oh yeah,” Claire said, lying. “It’s the pool. He thinks about it all the time.”
***
The next day the new fence was finished. It kept the neighbors from watching. Maggie said that it made her feel safe.
Claire and Maggie spent that afternoon planning Scotty’s cake. Claire wanted to bake it. They rejected a swimming pool cake. “Too obvious,” Claire said. And besides, how would they replicate the kidney shape?
***
That night, before dinner, the Judge and the girls took their first swim. Scotty stayed inside, lying on his bed. He listened to their splashing.
(7)
On his last night as a seven-year-old, Scotty Ocean came downstairs to find the party preparations were nearly complete. Three garbage bags were full of blown-up balloons. The streamers remained in their packaging. The cake in the refrigerator only needed candles.
Claire was the first to notice Scotty standing in the kitchen doorway. He wanted to try explaining it one more time. “I like being seven,” he said quietly. “I like it a whole lot.”
“But you haven’t been eight,” Claire said, “and everyone else here has.”
Scotty wondered aloud if maybe there was a way he could stay seven.
His sisters laughed.
The Judge smiled and pulled him close. “I liked being thirty-nine. But I had to turn forty. I had no choice.”
Scotty broke away from the Judge. He ran up the stairs to his room, slid open his sock drawer, and grabbed it.
No one downstairs had any reason to suspect.
When Scotty returned to the living room, he held the grenade firmly in his hand.
“I’m seven. I’m…”
Rivers came out his eyes. He stood there—powerful, confident, and sad.