I
t was the light that woke him, the clear early light, at once paler and hotter than the sun in Virginia. His sister snored softly in the bottom bunk. In the distance he heard a quiet rushing, the squawk of unfamiliar birds. The air was filled with sound.
Charlie climbed down the ladder and dressed: T-shirt, shorts, the plastic sandals Joan had bought him. His sister stirred but didn’t wake. He crossed the hall and went down the strange staircase. His father sat on the marble floor, legs stretched out in front of him.
“Good morning, son,” he said.
“Morning.” Charlie watched him bend forward and grasp his ankles with his hands. “What are you doing?”
“I’m about to go for a run.” His father stood and stretched his arms overhead.
“Can I come?” said Charlie.
“If you want.”
The morning air was damp, as if it had just rained. They crossed the road and climbed a wooden staircase. Tall grass grew all around, waving softly in the wind. At the top of the stairs they stopped.
“That’s it,” said his father. “The Atlantic Ocean.”
He broke into a run, across the soft sand to where the ground was firmer, packed wet from the waves. Charlie followed, clumsy in his new sandals. His father moved at an easy pace, breathing evenly. He didn’t seem to be working hard, but his legs were very long. Soon it was impossible to keep up.
Finally Charlie stopped. He took off his sandals; the water was stunningly cold. It wasn’t blue as he’d expected, but gray and silver; it rolled violently toward him, then back out into forever.
Nothing was the way he’d imagined it, the way his mother had told him it would be. His father hadn’t asked them to pray or do anything else; since arriving in Florida they’d barely seen him. After swimming, Joan had taken them shopping. All afternoon they had walked through a maze of interconnected, air-conditioned stores, more stores than Charlie had ever seen in his life. His father hadn’t appeared at dinner—he was working late, according to Joan. Charlie wondered what type of work a preacher did on a Friday evening. It seemed impolite to ask.
He watched the man grow small in the distance, running along the darker sand where the ocean met the shore. Charlie had never seen an adult run before. He thought of himself and Terence, racing through the woods that connected their two houses. He’d give anything to show Terence the big Cadillac, the swimming pool. They’d left Virginia so quickly; there had been no time to say good-bye.
He turned and looked back at the massive house, pale pink in the morning light. The front door opened; Joan appeared on the step and picked the newspaper from the lawn. Besides the sandals, she’d bought him an ice cream at the shopping plaza, and a mask and snorkel for swimming underwater in the pool. He couldn’t
remember the last time an adult had bought him something for no reason. Unlike his mother, Joan stayed with them every minute; not once since arriving in Florida had they been sent outside to play. Charlie supposed she’d been hired to look after them—like Dinah, the baby-sitter they’d had in Richmond.
“Joan loves children,” his father had said as he parked the Cadillac in the driveway, a path of crushed seashells leading to the house.
A
FTER BREAKFAST
they drove to Disney World, just her and the kids. (Ken had three properties to show; Saturday was his busiest day of the week.) It was nearly dusk when they got home from the park. Ken still hadn’t returned.
“Can we go swimming again?” said Charlie.
“Not just now.” Joan’s legs ached; all afternoon she’d raced back and forth between the roller coasters and the teacups, the merry-go-rounds and the Ferris wheels. Charlie loved the bloodcurdling rides; Jody preferred the gentler ones. Joan would have preferred a stiff drink and a comfortable sofa. Her head ached from Jody’s piercing squeal. She hadn’t been so tired in years.
At seven they sat down to dinner. At Joan’s request Rosa had made pizza. Already they’d eaten hamburgers twice. Joan wasn’t sure what else a child would like.
“Where’s my dad?” Charlie asked.
“He’s at work,” she said.
His brow wrinkled. “Maybe we should wait.”
“He said he’d be late. He said to start without him.” It wasn’t true, but she didn’t care. She’d held enough dinners for Ken to know it could be a long wait.
They ate in silence. Unlike his father, Charlie had excellent table manners—his mother’s influence, Joan supposed. Vivian had had less success with Jody. The girl dismantled each slice of pizza with her fingers. She made separate piles for cheese and pepperoni, then licked the tomato sauce from the bare crust. Joan tried not to watch.
Finally Charlie spoke. “Do we have to go to church tomorrow?”
Joan looked at him quizzically.
“It’s Sunday,” he said. “My mama said we’d have to.”
Rosa came to clear the plates. Joan hesitated. So Vivian was Christian: yet another thing Ken had failed to mention.
“Do you
want
to go to church?” she asked carefully.
Charlie looked down at his plate. “I’d rather not.”
She smiled, relieved. “Then you don’t have to.”
“But what about my dad?” he asked. “Doesn’t the minister
have
to go?”
“Minister,” she repeated. A sick feeling spread through her stomach. “Who told you he was a minister?”
“My mama,” said Charlie.
Jody beamed. “We never go to church.”
“Shut
up,
” said Charlie. His eyes met Joan’s. “You mean he isn’t one?”
Just then Joan heard the Cadillac in the driveway. “Here he comes,” she said. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
The front door opened.
“We’re in the dining room!” Joan called out. She noticed a strange quaver in her voice. No way was he going to bolt upstairs and take a peaceful shower. Not after this.
Ken came into the dining room, crisp in a linen suit, his starched collar snug at his throat. A cleric’s collar, Joan thought.
“I was going to change clothes,” he said.
Her heart raced. “We just finished dinner. Sit down and have some dessert.”
He sat. Rosa brought out dishes of strawberry shortcake. Joan watched him across the table. He glanced at his watch.
“How was your day?” he asked the children. “Did you have a good time?”
“It was okay,” said Charlie.
Okay? she thought. They’d eaten hot dogs and Sno-Kones for lunch; Charlie had ridden the roller coaster eight times. Surely that was better than
okay.
It wasn’t as if Vivian had ever taken them to an amusement park. Charlie had said so himself.
“That’s good.” Ken picked out the strawberries from his dessert, leaving the whipped cream behind; he was as bad as Jody. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”
Joan put down her fork. For the past two days he’d gone to the office, adhered to his jogging schedule. He’d gone about his business as if his children weren’t even there.
“You’re asking
me?
” She rose quickly, her napkin fluttering from her lap to the floor.
“I’m going upstairs,” she said. “To take a bath.”
S
HE SAT
in the tub for a long time, remembering. Their wedding, Ken handsome in his tallis and yarmulke, breaking the glass beneath his feet. After the ceremony her uncle Floyd had embraced him. “He’s like a son to me,” he’d said to no one in particular. “The son I never had.”
Early in their marriage they’d attended services together; sometimes at Beth Israel, but usually with Floyd and Cookie in Coral
Gables. Twice they’d gone to her uncle’s house for seder. Then Floyd had died, a sudden stroke. Joan and Ken hadn’t been to temple since.
She closed her eyes, picturing her husband’s face—his blue eyes, his straight nose. He’d been vague about his past: his years as a teacher, where he’d gone to school. The University of Missouri, he’d said the first time she asked; another time, she was fairly certain, he’d said Missouri State. She thought of the man at Mulligan’s Steak House, the one who’d recognized him. His old roommate, she thought. From Bethany Biblical Seminary. A stranger had told her the truth; she had simply refused to hear it.
Her husband was not Jewish.
W
HEN
K
EN
came into the bedroom, she was sitting at the dressing table in her bathrobe, drying her hair with a towel. She wanted a drink but was afraid to pour one. The glass decanter was a wedding gift from her brother; it seemed unutterably fragile. Everything around her seemed ready to break.
“What was that all about?” said Ken.
“All what?”
He stepped out of his trousers and draped them over a hanger. “Leaving me with the children like that. What am I supposed to do with them?”
Her heart beat as fast as a sparrow’s. “I’ve had them for two days straight. I thought you might enjoy a few minutes of their company. They are
your children
.”
“Wait a minute.” His eyes narrowed. “You were the one who was so hot to get them down here. I thought I’d never hear the end of it. Now you’re complaining?”
Joan put down her comb. Her pulse was loud in her ears. Just say it, she thought. She took a deep breath. “Charlie asked if we’d be going to church tomorrow.”
“What?” said Ken. “Why would he think such a thing?”
“Apparently Vivian told him we would be.”
Ken stared at her. He seemed puzzled but calm.
You lied to me,
she wanted to say.
You told me you were Jewish.
“Vivian,” she said instead. “Your ex-wife. The one you just spent three days with.” She was exhausted, near tears.
Ken frowned. “Is that it? You’re jealous of Vivian?” He sat at the foot of the bed. “Be reasonable. I haven’t seen the woman in four years. I couldn’t drive off with the children just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “It took a little persuasion.”
“I’ll bet it did,” said Joan. “I’ll bet you were much more persuasive without your wedding ring.”
“Joan.” He reached for her; she brushed his hand away. She tightened her bathrobe around her and went downstairs.
C
HARLIE LAY
in the top bunk. Their father had sent them to bed early; it wasn’t even dark yet. From across the hall he heard low voices, his father’s and Joan’s. Even with the door closed he could tell they were fighting.
“What are they saying?” Jody whispered.
“I don’t know,” he said.
A while later the voices stopped. His sister’s breathing deepened; in the distance the ocean whispered. Charlie sat up in bed. Outside the moon was full, the sky fuzzy and starless. He stared out the window for a long time. The garden was filled with strange trees, shapes he couldn’t identify. He thought of the three slices of strawberry
shortcake downstairs in the refrigerator. “Rosa made extra,” Joan had told him. “If you get hungry, help yourself.”
He crept down the staircase and into the dining room, then peered through the archway, into the kitchen. Joan sat at the counter with her face in one hand, a burning cigarette in the other. Her shoulders shook; even from behind he could see she was crying.
He heard footsteps on the stairs, his father’s voice. “Joan? Honey, where are you?”
Charlie felt suddenly sick. If he turned back now, he’d run right smack into his father. He looked around. The doorway was flanked by small trees in clay pots; he crouched behind one of them, making himself small. He held his breath as his father swept past.
“Are you smoking?” his father asked.
Joan turned to him. Her face was red from crying. “Obviously,” she said. “Obviously I’m smoking.”
His father took the cigarette from her hand and stamped it out in an ashtray.
“You’ve been under an enormous strain,” he said, stroking her hair. “I should have seen that.” He sat on a stool next to her. “You have nothing to worry about with me and Vivian. That was finished long ago. She means nothing to me now.”
Charlie thought of his mother flushed and pretty in the flowered dress, hanging on his father’s arm. His mother standing in the backyard, waving as they drove away.
Joan sniffed loudly, a moist, slurry sound. “Do you love me?”
“You’re my wife. Of course I love you.”
He leaned over and kissed her. A long kiss, like the one he’d given Charlie’s mother two days before. Charlie thought of the man’s hands, the band of white skin where a wedding ring would be.
“I’ve made a mess of things,” said Joan, wiping her eyes. “I don’t think the children like me.”
“Sure they do. You’ve been great with them. It just takes a little time, is all.” He stood and offered her his hand.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go to bed.”
Charlie held his breath as they passed through the doorway. He listened to their footsteps climbing the staircase, a door closing upstairs. Finally he tiptoed up the steps to the room where his sister slept.
“Get up,” he whispered, shaking her. “It’s time to go home.”
T
HEY WAITED
until dark, then waited some more. Finally they crept down the stairs, Charlie carrying the old suitcase. The moon had risen; a cold light bathed the marble floor, pooling softly in the thick white carpets.
“Be careful,” Charlie whispered. All he needed was for Jody to miss a step and fall headfirst down the iron stairs. He thought of a cartoon he’d once seen, a cat’s head bumping along a staircase, each step sounding a different tone, like a large xylophone. His sister’s head would make a hollow noise; she was that stupid.
They reached the bottom stair and tiptoed across the foyer. Charlie turned the dead bolt and the heavy door opened with a creak.
“Which way do we go?” Jody whispered.
“Don’t worry. I know.” Over and over they’d passed the bus station in the car, driving back and forth from the shopping center and again on the way to Disney World. Charlie hoped he could find it in the dark. He fingered the three twenty-dollar bills in his pocket. It was an enormous sum of money, more than he’d ever
held in his hand at one time. He’d stolen it from a straw pocketbook Joan had left on the sofa. It bothered him a little—he wanted to steal from his father, not Joan—but they were in a hurry, and it was too good to pass up. Sixty dollars would be enough to buy their tickets home. At least he hoped so.