Letting Go (85 page)

Though the hit on the head would probably knock some sense into that kid.

She spoke these words out loud; when she tried them a second time, they made her giggle. The hit on the head will probably knock some sense into that kid. Boy, that little kid didn’t know anything … What she knew for sure and didn’t need anyone to tell her, was that she was much smarter than her brother. She was an exceptional child—that was what the teachers at her new school said.
She had the mentality of a ten-year-old, which made her
five
years older than Markie. She had reason to be proud of herself. When she was an adult she would be more intelligent than others. They would all have to come to her to ask what the best thing was for them to do.

Cynthia suddenly felt herself so full of pep, so convinced that life was made for pleasure, her pleasure, that she jumped up and went racing toward her stepmother. Because she had seen Markie’s blood she knew she could finally get June to agree to take her in the water. She wanted to walk right into the ocean holding June’s hand. She left Markie’s pail and shovel where it was and went flying to the blanket—but there was a man walking down the beach in her direction. She was momentarily stilled by the familiarity of his gait. Everything about him was so familiar, though at first she could not think what his name was. It did not take her very long, however, to remember, or to stop being able to forget. But where was Mommy? Mommy had come with him to see Markie in the hospital! Mommy would find out that she had pushed him! Well, she hadn’t—he fell! That’s what he got for committing a sin.

“June,” she called, “can we go—”

But Gabe had already seen her. He had come to catch her for her mother. All she could do now was scream and run into her room, but they were not even in the house. They were on the wide beach, under the bright sun, and he was so big that wherever she fled he would find her and bring her back.

In the second before he removed his sunglasses, she wondered if she might not be mistaken. Then his hand reached out—and yes, oh yes, oh what would happen—

“Hi, Cynthia. Hello.”

June looked to see who it was. Cynthia thought of making believe that he was a strange man, for she was not supposed to speak to strange men. But when her mother appeared, it would be evident to everyone that she had been lying—and then they would know for sure that she had pushed her brother.

“Hello,” Cynthia said.

“You remember me?”

“Uh-huh. Gabe.”

“Well, how are you? You look brown as a berry—you look healthy and grown-up and—”

“I’m fine.”

“Where’s your little brother?”

Cynthia shrugged.

June was standing. “I’m Mrs. Reganhart.”

Gabe extended his hand. “I’m Gabe Wallach. How do you do? I’m a friend of Martha Reganhart’s. From Chicago.”

Now Cynthia looked up to where the cars were parked. She recognized Gabe’s car as soon as she saw it—and inside she could make out the figure of her mother; she was crouching in the back, spying on her. This was not the first time that the child had had occasion to suspect her mother of spying. When she had first arrived at her new school in New York, she had been certain that her teacher, Mrs. Koplin, was actually her mother in disguise. Then one rainy afternoon Mrs. Koplin’s husband had come to pick her up; he had been carrying an umbrella, and Mrs. Koplin had called him Herb, and she had said that before they went home they must stop first at the A&P on Twelfth Street. And when she said that, Cynthia had known that Mrs. Koplin wasn’t her mother after all. Yet she had been so certain … Now, however, she could actually see who the woman was, crouched in the back of the car. Cynthia started to whistle and to look up at the sky and to kick her toes into the sand. She was being watched and she did not intend to do a single thing wrong. If she could manage, she wanted it to seem as though she were having a very good time.

“—in the hospital—”

“—how long?”

“—he’ll be all right, of course—”

Cynthia turned so that her mother could see only her back. Turning, she saw Markie’s pail bobbling up and down at the water’s edge. It was just about to be washed away, and if it was washed away who would they blame but her! They would blame her, and then they would start asking questions—Fast as she could, she started down the beach, her arms outstretched toward the pail.

“Cynthia—”

“Cynthia,
what—
”

“Cyn—” Just as she got hold of the handle, somebody grabbed her arm. It was Gabe; behind him stood June, her mouth open, her hand up to her pale cheek.

“Cynthia—oh Cynthia,” June said, “what are you doing? Never—”

“Getting Markie’s pail.” She did not know whether it would help any to cry.

“Oh … Oh, Cynthia, that’s a good girl, that’s fine—oh honey,
don’t go near the water alone—not today.” It was June who seemed as though she were about to weep.

“I won’t,” she said, and she hoped her mother had seen just how much June worried about her and took care of her. They all started up the beach, and while June moved off ahead, Cynthia asked Gabe, “Why doesn’t Mommy come out of the car?”

He smiled. “Martha’s not in the car, Cynthia. She’s in Chicago.”

“What’s that?” she said.

“You mean that, in the back seat? That’s a beach umbrella. That’s my father’s beach umbrella.”

“Yes?” She took another look. She felt as she had when Mrs. Koplin had called her husband Herb.

“Martha’s in Chicago,” he said. “She has to work. I’m visiting with my own father in East Hampton. I thought I’d come over and say hello. Your mother wanted me to.”

“How did you find me?”

“Oh I just asked anybody on the streets, you know, where Cynthia Reganhart was, and they said you were down here by the ocean.”

“We don’t even usually come here.”

“Then I suppose I was very lucky. I expected to see Mark too.”

“Well, he’s in the hospital.”

“When you see him will you tell him I was here to visit?”

“Okay. He has to learn not to fall out of his bed, that’s all.”

June was standing by the blanket; she had closed her book. “Mr. Wallach,” she said, “could I ask you a favor? Will you be here awhile?”

“A little while, yes—”

“Could you stay a few minutes with Cynthia? Do you mind?”

“No, no, I’d like to—”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Cynthia said.

“No, dear. You stay with Mr. Wallach. All right? I just have to phone.”

But it wasn’t all right! He would start to ask questions, just as her father had. When she answered, he would become angry. Her father, she remembered, had turned red in the face; she had heard him tell June that Martha was irresponsible beyond imagining, that she just had hot pans. Cynthia had wanted to say that hot pans weren’t dangerous so long as you kept the handle in toward the pilot light, but she had not dared say anything. She had, in fact, liked his being angry with Martha, only it frightened her, and that made her think
that perhaps she didn’t like it. Finally she had asked June if she had done something to anger her father too; and June had explained. Usually, she said, you slept in bed with somebody after you were married and not before, though different people did, certainly, have different beliefs. June said she wanted it clear to Cynthia that her father was angry with her mother and not for a moment with Cynthia herself. Then she had gone on to say that this was natural too; divorced people often had differing opinions—it was what generally decided them to be divorced and live separately.

Now that Gabe had her alone, she knew that he would ask her questions too. He would ask if she had told. She wanted to go off in the car with June, but June was running up the beach, and Gabe was sitting on the blanket as though he belonged there.

“Well,” he was saying, looking up at her, “how do you like New York, Cynthia? It’s a big city, isn’t it?”

“It’s okay.”

“Are you having a pleasant summer?”

“It’s okay.”

“Well, you really take things in your stride. Just okay?”

She took a quick look down at him. “Uh-huh.” Maybe he wasn’t going to ask if she had told about him and Martha sleeping in the same bed—but then she knew from experience that adults did not always ask what they wanted to know right off.

Gabe was leaning back on his elbows, and he did not say anything more. He seemed to be thinking about himself. He was wearing a blue shirt and white trousers and his feet were bare. She kept wanting to look at his feet, but she was afraid he would catch her.

“Is your father still a dentist?” she asked.

“He still is,” he said. “You remember?”

“You know,” she said, “my mother didn’t take very good care of my teeth.”

“Didn’t she?”

“I had four cavities when I got here.”

“All kids have cavities,” Gabe said. “I used to have cavities, and my father was a dentist, with an office right in our house.”

“Markie didn’t have any,” she said.

“Mark’s too small probably. Little children his age just naturally don’t get cavities. I think Martha took care of your teeth, Cynthia. Didn’t she take you to Dr. Welker?”

She chose not to answer. He would take Martha’s side in anything;
they had slept in bed together, so he had to. “Well, it wasn’t funny when they had to start drilling,” she said.

“I’ll bet it wasn’t. Are you all right now? Let me see?”

“I suppose so,” she said. She wouldn’t let him look in her mouth; it was none of his business. “Except where I hurt myself this morning.”

“Where?”

“My elbow. Right here.”

When he leaned over to look, she knew he would see that she hadn’t hurt herself at all; it was Markie who had fallen. He tried to touch her and she jumped. “Oww! Watch it.”

He looked at first as though he was going to be mad at her; then he was bending his own arm up and down from the elbow. “Just move it like this,” he said. “That should make it feel better.”

She bent it up and down once. It did feel better;
she
felt better.

“Does that help any?” Gabe asked.

“Yes, I think so.” She bent it twice more. “Oh yes,” she said. “Would you like to make a sand castle?”

He looked at his watch. “I don’t think so, Cynthia.”

“Would you like to watch me make one?”

He smiled.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Do you have to go home?”

To this he shrugged. “Cynthia, I really don’t know.”

She did not understand him. Did he or didn’t he? He leaned back again and was no fun. No one was. Except sometimes Markie. She would tickle her brother until he couldn’t hold it in any longer, and then, with that funny look on his face, he would give in and wet his pants—and then he’d start to cry. But he didn’t even get punished for it. June would come in and pick him up and hug him, even though his legs were all wet. Cynthia would sit on the lower bunk and watch until little Mark was promised something or other that would make him stop crying. He liked to be tickled, but when it was over and his pants were changed, he would say that she had made him do it. She wondered if he had come up into her bunk this morning just to be tickled. Well, it wasn’t her fault—he wasn’t supposed to climb that ladder to her bed anyway. If he fell it was his own fault. She didn’t want anybody in her bed with her at all. It was irresponsible. Probably Markie thought he was going to give her a baby because she wasn’t married. That’s what could happen, of course. June said that one of the most important reasons for getting into bed with
somebody was to have a baby; that was why her father felt it was only for married people. Otherwise, her father said, it was a damnshame. And a damnshame, she knew, was the same as a sin—and a sin, for example, was leaving hot pans around on which children could burn themselves. It showed no regard for your children, that was for sure.

She turned on her belly and looked up at the parking lot. Yes, it was still a beach umbrella in the back seat. She found herself wondering if June was going to come back—not in a few minutes, but at all. It might be that all the adults were going to make a switch; maybe that was why Gabe was here. Maybe it had all been arranged beforehand, even Markie’s falling out of the bed. June and Markie and her father would go one way, and then she and Gabe would have to move back to Chicago and live with her real mother once again. Then she could get to see Stephanie. And Barbie. That might even be fun. And she wouldn’t have to sleep in a double-decker bed any more, so there’d be no accidents to worry about. She could sleep in her old bed and her mother could read to her from that
Charlotte’s Web
book. They would get to have dinner at the Hawaiian House, and her mother would bring extra-thick milk shakes to their table because she worked there and knew the cook personally. She could see Blair and Sissy in Hildreth’s. She knew that Sissy was probably going to have a baby from sleeping in bed with Blair; she knew they slept in bed together because one night she had seen them, before her mother had made Sissy move out. If they were all in Chicago then Markie wouldn’t be in the hospital right now. She wondered if Markie would ever stop being unconscious.

“Markie’s unconscious,” she said.

“Is he?” She could not tell whether or not he had known.

“He just lay there, and then I screamed and my dad came. I didn’t see him fall. I was sleeping.”

“Well,” said Gabe, “he’ll be all right, Cyn. I don’t think you have to worry.”

“I’m not. I think he was sleeping anyway. I don’t think he was unconscious. He’s not even supposed to be in my bed anyway, you know.”

He looked down at the blanket. Didn’t he believe her? “Well, he’s not! Ask anybody!” she said. He would always take her mother’s side against her father, so how could he know anything!

“I want to go in the water!” She could not think of anything else to say.

“Yes?”

“But,” she said wearily, “somebody has to take me, and nobody ever will.” That was a lie; her father took her—but Gabe couldn’t know that either. She waited, but he did not even answer; he always seemed to be thinking about himself.

Finally he asked, “Would you like me to?”

“To what?”