Next morning she screams when he tells her to get in the car to go to camp, cries
when he leaves her, won’t look at him when he picks her up or do anything later but
complain to him at home. Same thing the next two days but worse. It’s the freezing
lake water, rough games, competitive sports, smelly outhouses, baby stuff they do
in arts and crafts, a sort of open shed the girls have to undress in and which the
boys are always peeking into, no drinking water anywhere so you have to lug around
your heavy thermos everyplace or die of thirst, scavenger hunts that take hours in
the woods or hot sun and turn out to mean nothing—either they disqualify half the
things you find or the prize is a piece of old bubble gum.
She’s sullen most of the weekend. He works a couple of hours both mornings but they
do a few things after that—go to the ocean, eat in a restaurant, climb halfway up
a big hill but what the locals call a mountain, pick blueberries that aren’t ready
yet, but he can tell that camp on Monday’s usually on her mind. “All right,” he says
at dinner Sunday night, “list everything that’s good and bad about camp, but be honest.
First of all, from what I can see the girls are darn nice. One of them—Laurie or Lauren,
I think—when we got to camp late Friday, ran up to you and said ‘Debbie, where were
you? I missed you. I thought you weren’t coming today, and then you’d have missed
the field trip to Goose Cove,’ and took your hand and you both walked happily away.”
“I wasn’t happy. And except for the rougher boys, it’s not the kids at all.” She enumerates
what she hates most about camp. When she gets to “Eight, the mosquitoes, I get so
many bites, I itch all day even with the scallion you rub on,” he says “Listen, enough
already, will you? You’re just trying to fortify your argument with anything you can
think against camp. Next it’ll be horse flies, then poison ivy, then poisonous snakes
you hear are around, though I don’t think there are any in all of Maine. I’m sorry,
sweetie, but after everything you’ve said so far, I don’t buy your argument.” Tears
appear; “I hate you, Daddy,” and she runs outside, minute later the kitchen door slams
and she runs to her room. “All I’m asking,” he shouts, “is for you to give it another
week and then decide; what the heck’s that?” Then thinks: How’s he supposed to take
what she said to him? She was never that harsh before. Well, just a kid her age having
a tantrum, not getting what she wants, thinking he’s not being completely fair, and
maybe he isn’t, but the hell with it. Later he’ll call her in for dessert, act as
if nothing happened, and she’ll be fine, or almost, and probably even apologize without
his prompting.
Calls her later and she doesn’t come. Goes to her room. She’s in bed, asleep or pretending.
“Deborah, if you want to continue with the numbers where you left off, we can; I won’t
butt in till you’re finished. I mean, no butting in; say what you want, and I’ll listen
and consider it seriously tonight.” No response. Takes her glasses off, feels around
under the covers for a book but doesn’t find any, she didn’t brush her teeth or get
in her pajamas but he’s not going to start putting them on her—hasn’t for a couple
of years at least—kisses her, turns the night light on and shuts off the overhead.
She gets in his bed around three. “What do you think you’re doing?” “I can’t sleep,
and my pillow’s all wet.” “What are you, sweating?” “No.” “Just turn it over.” “Please,
Dada.” He doesn’t like her sleeping with him but her voice is so sad, and after what
happened before, so he says okay, “Tonight only, now go to sleep without another word.”
He gets out of bed. “Where are you going?” “The bathroom,” and he takes his T-shirt
and underpants with him and puts them on outside the room.
Morning, she’s snuggled up to him. He gets out of bed, does his exercises in the living
room, and later when he wakes her she says “Please don’t send me to camp today.” “Oh
come on now.” “Please, I only want to stay home with you, and I promise not to be
a bother.” “Okay, today will be the exceptional day off, but you have to leave me
the entire morning free, take care of your own needs, all that stuff, and then if
I want the afternoon to work to at least the time I would have left to pick you up
at camp, that too.” She reads, draws, sets up her easel outside and paints, swings
on the swing set, jumps rope, goes down the road several times for mail and when she
gets it—he sees all this through his second-floor studio window—knocks on his door.
“Want me to leave your mail outside or give it to you by person?” and he says “Just
leave it, sweetie, I’m in the middle of something, and thanks.” Makes her lunch and
sits opposite her with a coffee and yesterday’s
Times
, which came in the mail today, and she says “Your cut doesn’t look so ugly anymore;
even if it needed a Band-Aid up to last night, you don’t need one now,” and he says
“Yeah, seems to be healing nice, and I don’t feel so dopey anymore. That’s what happens
when you don’t do anything about it.” After lunch she says “You don’t have to, of
course, but if you want can we go to Carter Pond to swim? I’ve been thinking of it
all winter,” and he says “Sure, I’ve done enough already, two pages, and I haven’t
swum since we got here.”
Swim, diner for fish burgers, play checkers that night. Later: “What do you want for
lunch tomorrow?” and she says “When I’m ready to eat it, I’ll tell you.” “I mean for
camp.” “Dada, I’m not going to camp.” “You’re going, now don’t give me another argument.
We took off one day, it was very nice, but not two.” “You can’t make me,” and he says
“Oh, I’ll make you, all right. And I’ll prepare whatever I want you to have for lunch,
if you’re not going to help me, now get ready for bed.” When he comes into her room
for a mosquito check and to say good night, she says “A story?” He says, looking at
something on the wall he thinks is a mosquito but turns out to be the head of a nail,
“No story, nothing for you tonight, just go to sleep,” checks some more and turns
off the light.
She tries to get in his bed early that morning. “No; you’re not going to camp, you
don’t sleep in my bed.” She goes back to her room. Wrong thing to say, he thinks,
and wrongly worded. He doesn’t want her in his bed, period. That wouldn’t be how to
say it either. How then? “Listen, you sleep in your bed, I sleep in mine, that’s the
way life is.” No. Just: “We sleep in our own beds, period.” Maybe he’ll come up with
something better later, or maybe he won’t have to, for she might not try again.
At eight he goes to her room to wake her. “Deborah, Deborah dear,” but she pretends
to be asleep. He knows she’s pretending. She had plenty of sleep last night, and she’s
a light sleeper. Feels her forehead. She’s okay. Raises the shade, opens the window
more, “Rise and shine, sweetheart,” shakes her shoulder. She opens her eyes. “I’m
not going, you can’t force me.” “Then I’ll have to dress you and drag you there.”
No, wrong move and words again, and she’s crying. “Okay, don’t go, what the hell do
I care? But don’t bother me till three. You know how to read time?” “You know I do.
You don’t have to act sarcastic.” “Good. Then don’t bother me till then.” “Why would
I want to?”
She makes herself breakfast and lunch and a snack. He can tell by the sounds in the
kitchen, dishes left in the wash pan and food spills on the tablecloth. She reads
and plays in the living room and behind the house. They bump into each other a couple
of times when he comes downstairs for coffee or to go to the bathroom, and he says
“So how’s it going?” and she says “Fine, why?” and he says “I’m glad,” and quickly
finishes or does what he came down for and goes upstairs. Later he’s at his desk typing
and sees her in her garden, her mother’s sun hat on. His ex-wife left it in one of
the houses they rented for the summer around here—last time they were together for
a summer and when Deborah was three—and he carried it with him from house to house
since, along with her duck boots and garden tools. Hair flows over her shoulders,
like her mother’s did and same color, and it’ll be bleached the same color by the
sun. She looks so beautiful and busy. Is so beautiful. Really, she doesn’t want to
go to camp—seems to be occupying herself okay—he shouldn’t force her. Why break her
will or try to? He should be subtly encouraging her to strengthen it. That the right
wording? She’s a shy kid, most of the time meek, and he wants her stronger, standing
up to people—himself, everyone—when she thinks she’s right and even when she only
sort of thinks she is, but to keep an open mind while she’s doing it. That’s so hackneyed,
he knows it, but what’s the use of a more original way of saying it? What’s important
is what he means. Force her to go, it’ll be like raping her, then, with her will busted,
she’ll let herself get raped again and again. Maybe it could turn out like that. And
raping her mind, he means, and why that word? Because it’s strong. He has no sexual
feelings for her, though feels deeply for her in every other way. Parentally, the
rest. Feels like crying. In the throat, a feeling she must have had first day he left
her at camp, probably the other days too. His for his love for her, hers for what?
Deserted, hurt, and that if he loves her, why’s he doing this? On one knee now, digging,
maybe weeding or replanting, garden started for her by the owner before they came
up. Hell with his work—he should be spending more time with her here, little to a
lot, and giving in to her more. What’s his work mean anyway in comparison to her?
Can’t be compared, but he can find time to do it when he wants to. Before she’s up,
after she’s asleep, or maybe not, since he doesn’t want to wake her with his typing.
Here and there though, silently on a pad, mornings if she lets him, and she will.
She understands and actually likes being by herself to play and read, or he thinks
she does. Wishes the marriage had worked out. Wasn’t him. And why’d they have a child
if it was as bad from the start as she said? Or maybe just was ten to twenty percent
him. But of course glad they had her. Ecstatic, everything like that. Nobody could
love his kid more, or close to it, even if he isn’t such a great father. He can also
work the few weeks a year his ex-wife takes her, though if she doesn’t, as she didn’t
last Christmas and won’t the end of this summer, he’s happy to have her. No, he is;
he’s not just saying it. Wouldn’t care—might even prefer, though it wouldn’t be good
for Deborah—if his ex-wife didn’t spend another sustained period with her.
Look at her. Sun hat off, wiping her brow, maybe to show him how hard she’s working,
hair stuck over her face by the wind and just sticks there and she has to brush it
away, throw it in back. Doesn’t recall if that’s like her mother and doesn’t care
to dig back in his memory to find out.
She looks up at him. He waves, she waves, he yells “Working hard?” “Yeah.” “Anything
growing?” “Lots.” “You look so beautiful out there gardening.” “How come? I’m sweating.
Sweat is ugly, and I’m dirty too.” “You just do. I was watching you.” “Please don’t.
I hate when people stare at me. It makes me you-know-what.” “Hey, I can do it, I’m
your daddy. I was staring because your movements make me happy.” “Thank you, even
if I don’t know what you mean. Boy, the sun’s hot.” “So come in. What do you want
for dinner tonight?” “I can make it.” “You kidding—dinner? You already made breakfast
and lunch for yourself. We’ll go out. The Fish and Pizza, or the Lobster Inn. Maybe
to the lake first for a swim. All I need is to work another hour.” “What time is it
now?” “Quarter to two.” “Work all you want. Till before five. I’ve lots to do. But
can you take me to the library before it closes? I read all the books I got when we
came.” “We’ll do it now. You’re more important than my work anytime. Or as much as,
each in its own slot.” She looks confused. “I’m saying I can do both, have you happy
and me happy when I do my work and also happy because you’re happy, and so on. Maybe
I’ll even take the whole day off tomorrow so I can have more time with you.” “But
you’ve said you’re not happy unless you’re working, and that every day if it’s not
a working day is wasted.” “I said that? I must have been lying to myself and through
me to you. Anyway, who says I can’t change? For you, anything. You don’t want to go
to camp—you don’t, do you?” and she says “No, you know that.” “Well, you tried it
out, it’s not for you this summer, so I shouldn’t force you, as you said. But if you
later change your mind and want to go, that’s okay too, right? Now let’s go to the
library. Or give me a half-hour at the most.”
She knocks on his open door; he jumps. “Sorry if I startled you, Daddy, but it’s been
way more than an hour.” “My darling, I’m sorry,” and opens his arms to her and she
steps forward a few feet but not into them. “I got so absorbed in my work. But watch.
I’ll stop right here, in the middle of a sentence, simply to show you, and prove to
myself, I can stop whenever I have to and go back to it when I’m able to and with
nothing lost.” He covers the typewriter, gets up, they get in the car, are turning
onto the main road from the house road when she says “Oh, gosh, I forgot the ones
I’m returning.” “So we’ll go back.” “You’re not mad?” “Why should I be? It’s summer,
we got time, plenty of it, and you’re my darling. I might even take out a book for
pleasure too.”
They go back, get her books, after they turn onto the main road again, she says “Tell
me about my mother. What was she like when you first met? And I bet you were just
as much a nice and smart man then too.” “Thanks, but what’s to tell? Eventually she
said she was bored stiff with me and our marriage and also of our dull university
town. I said those weren’t sufficient grounds for divorce and that, if she insisted
on going, I wanted to keep you. Of course I wanted to keep you anyway, but traditionally,
as you know, the mama gets the child. But that’s not what you asked. You wanted to
know about her. But you know about her. You see her at least two to three weeks a
year, plus a few additional days if she happens to be in town or nearby.” “That’s
not nice to her. You’re being unfair.” “Am I?” “You don’t like her anymore?” “I don’t
mind her. She does what she wants to, and I don’t have to be around it anymore. We
grew apart. I was sorry we did, for you and me. What else can I tell you, sweetie?
I liked to stay put and she liked to get out and away. I had my work, and, other than
for having you, she never knew what she wanted to do. I knew this when I married her,
even when I first met her, which sort of answers one of your original questions, though
maybe that not-stay-putness and no real direction of hers was one of the things—two—that
drew me to her. Haven’t we spoken of this before?” “Not for a long time. When I was
younger you once got very sad and said you once loved her very much and maybe still
did.” “Was it at night?” “I don’t remember.” “It probably was, and I was probably
drinking too much that night, something I’ve stopped doing to avoid those kinds of
false feelings drinking brings.” “That’s not at all nice too.” “Well, I don’t love
her anymore, if that’s what you’re asking. As to liking her, what’s not to like? as
my dad used to say about certain things. But I love you, I love grandma, I love my
brothers and sort of their kids, and I have good feelings about a few friends, but
no love for them or any woman since your mother. And why should I be nice? What’s
she done for me lately? as my dad also liked to say.”
“Daddy.”
“I’m kidding. Or a little. Your mother, she was a beauty. Probably still is. She
had a fine mind, maybe still has. Good heart, plenty of energy, adventurous spirit—restless,
that’s the word I’m looking for and what I think did our marriage in, besides what
she finally discovered she didn’t see in me. Now she’s married to a much more exciting
and interesting man. He’s in TV; he wears gold beads; he has a physique of someone
twenty years younger and likes sports and travel as much as she does. They weekend
in Tahiti. He knows everyone, or everyone he has to know. He makes oodles and is loaded
with love for her. Let’s forget her for now and just enjoy ourselves. Ah, the library.
Books, the old bean, simple fish burgers—‘Hold the tartar sauce!’—and handfuls of
chips. Later a quick sunset dip in salt water at Sandy Point and then ice cream with
jimmies. If I only knew someone who had a daughter around your age or there was a
girl you met at camp whom you could pal with, that would even be better for you. Not
to pawn you off but to enlarge your landscape.” “Doesn’t matter. It’s nice just being
with you.” “Ah, my dearest, I’d hug you so tight if I wasn’t driving.”