Cherry blossom season. The hill behind the Metropolitan Museum is a sea of pink. I would eat it if I could. I climb up into the low-hanging boughs of a tree and hide myself in a canopy of flowers. Through the blooms I can see the ancient hieroglyphics on Cleopatra’s Needle.
Below me, my mother spreads a checkered cloth on the dappled slope, takes a paper plate from her basket, and dumps out a baggie of peeled hard-boiled eggs. She unfolds a square of tinfoil filled with a mixture of salt and pepper, dips in the pointy end of her egg, and takes a bite.
“Yum,” she says out loud to herself. She fishes her red-plaid thermos from the basket, unscrews the plastic cup from the top, and pours herself some milky coffee.
“Eleanor, come down from there. We don’t have all day.”
I make my way carefully. I’m wearing my new leotard and tights under my jumper and I don’t want to snag them. We are going straight from the park to my first ballet lesson.
“Here.” My mother hands me a brown paper bag and a little box of milk. “There’s peanut butter and butter, or liverwurst.”
It’s Saturday, and the park is crowded, but no one else bothers to climb up over the rocks and down into this hidden grove. I find a dry spot in the grass, lay my cardigan on it, and sit beside Mum. She’s deep in a novel, so we eat our lunch in silence. Above us, the sky is the crispest blue. I hear the distant crack of a baseball, a sudden happy cheering. The rocks smell sweet and clean. It’s the first real day of spring, and they are airing themselves in the sun after a long winter hibernating under banks of snow and dog shit.
“I brought Pecan Sandies,” Mum says. “Do you want the last hard-boiled egg?”
“I need to pee.”
“Well, go behind that rock.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t be prissy, Eleanor. You’re seven years old. Who on earth will care?”
“I’m wearing my leotard and tights.”
“Well then, you’ll just have to hold it until you get there.” She dog-ears her page, shoves the book in her bag, and starts packing away our picnic. “Help me pack this up.”
The ballet lessons were a present from my father—one I do not want. I wanted gymnastics, like every girl in my grade. Front handsprings and bridges. Anna says I’m way too big-boned for ballet. Worst of all, I missed the first lesson, so all the other girls will be ahead of me.
Mum looks at her watch. “It’s 2:45. We need to race or we’ll be late.”
By the time we get to Madame Rechkina’s studio, the other girls are already lined up in front of the mirrored wall, their perfect little buns in black nets. I’m out of breath, my tights covered with smudges of dirt.
“Mum, we’re too late.”
“Nonsense.”
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
“You’ll be fine.” She opens the studio door and gives me a little shove. “See you in an hour.”
Madame Rechkina gives me a tight-lipped smile and gestures for the girls to make a space for me in the center of the room. I take my place. Put my feet in first position. The pianist begins a minuet.
“Plié, mesdemoiselles.” Madame walks through the room, making corrections.
“Plié encore! Graceful arms, please!”
I watch the girl in front of me and try to copy her.
“À la seconde,” Madame calls out.
I place my feet wider apart and bend my knees. And then it happens. A large puddle forms on the glossy wooden floor beneath me, spreads out quickly, soaking the edges of my pink ballet slippers. Behind me, I hear a shriek. The music stops. I run from the room in tears, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the pristine floor, and lock myself in the bathroom.
“Miss Josephine!” I hear Madame call out to her assistant, “A mop, s’il vous plaît. Vite, vite!”
The next weekend, my mother makes me go back. “Eleanor,” she says sternly, “we are not a family of cowards. You have to face your fears head on. Otherwise you’ve lost the battle before it’s begun.”
I plead with her to let me stay home with Anna, but she waves me off.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You think those little girls have never peed before?”
“Not on the floor,” Anna says, laughing so hard that she has to hold her stomach.
12:30 P.M.
The beach parking lot is broiling. I climb out of the car onto the sandy blacktop and let out a yelp.
“Jesus fuckery.” I leap back into the Saab. “I think I scalded the skin off the bottom of my feet.” I feel around the floorboards in front of me for my flip-flops, find them wedged under the passenger seat.
“Both of you should put on socks. The sand will be scorching.” I hand Finn a pair of white sweat socks from my bag. “Maddy?”
“I’m fine. I’m wearing sandals,” she says.
“The sides of your feet will get burned.”
“Mom.” Maddy gives me a pained look. “I’m not going to wear socks and sandals. Gross.”
“What’s wrong with socks and sandals?” Peter gets out and starts unloading gear from the trunk. “It’s the Englishman’s uniform abroad.”
I wait until everyone is out of the car before pulling down the visor to check my face in the mirror. I run my fingers through my hair, pinch my cheeks, re-tie my sarong lower around my hips. I can see Jonas’s beat-up truck parked farther up ahead.
Peter opens my car door. “Here.” He takes my hand and pulls me up and out.
I grab a pile of towels and the thermos of ice water from the backseat.
“And be nice to Gina when she points out that we’re an hour late. No bitchy Eleanor. Just nice Eleanor.”
“I’m always nice.” I give him a kick in the butt as he walks past me, but he manages to dodge it.
As we crest the dune, a hundred umbrellas come into sight. Solids. Stripes. Red, white, and blue. The water is clear turquoise, an even break. No red tide, no mung. A perfect beach day. A Jaws day. Kids playing Frisbee, making castles and digging deep moats around them that fill with water from a wellspring underneath the sand. Gorgeous young things strut self-consciously in bikinis, pretending not to know they’re being watched. I scan for Jonas. He always walks to the left.
Peter sees them first. They’ve set up a yellow-and-white-striped beach tent. It looks like a circus pavilion, enclosed on three sides but open to the sea. Gina stands next to it waving a fuchsia towel, signaling us. Maddy and Finn race down the dune toward her, Peter following behind. I hang back, girding myself for whatever happens. What if Peter senses something different between me and Jonas? What if Gina noticed we were both gone? I try to visualize the room just before I went out the back door. Jonas at the table, leaning back in his chair, outside the fall of the candlelight. Peter lying on the sofa, Gina laughing at some comment Dixon had made, my mother pouring grappa into espresso cups, clearing plates, washing glasses in the sink. I’m pretty sure Gina’s back was to me. Jonas is sitting on the sand, staring out to sea. I take a deep breath. We are not a family of cowards.
I am floating on a blue rubber raft. My eyes are closed, face to the sun. Black motes dance around under my eyelids in the opaque red. I drift, listen to the sound of my breath going in and out, let the salt wind carry me to the middle of the pond. There is nothing but me. No one here but me. A perfect moment. I dangle my arm over the edge of the raft, open my fingers, feel the resistance of the water as it passes through them. I imagine I’m a duck. Any moment now a snapping turtle will swim up from the cold bottom and grab my sharp yellow feet, drag me to the deep. In the distance, I hear the clatter of wooden paddles being dumped in the bottom of a canoe. Anna and her friend Peggy have paddled over to the far side of the pond. It’s only a short walk to the beach from there. When I open my eyes, I can just make out the tiny flames of their bright orange life vests as they pull the boat up onto shore and disappear into the tree line.
Mum and her boyfriend Leo have gone into town to collect his kids from the Greyhound bus stop. They are coming to stay with us for ten days. Leo is a jazz musician from Louisiana. Saxophone. He has a thick black beard and laughs a lot. He believes exercise is for the weak. His favorite food is shrimp. Anna isn’t sure about him, but I think he’s nice.
Leo’s kids, Rosemary and Conrad, live with their mother in Memphis. They have heavy southern accents and say y’all. Rosemary is seven. Mousy. “Irrelevant,” Anna says. “And she smells weird.” Conrad is eleven, one year older than me. He is short and squat, with Coke-bottle glasses and bulging eyes. He stands too close. We’ve only met them once before, at a luncheonette, when they came to New York to visit their father. Rosemary ordered a rare steak and talked about original sin.
“His ex-wife wants him dead,” my mother says to a friend over the kitchen phone. “If it were up to her, Leo would never see his children again.” She lowers her voice. “Frankly, I’m with her, but don’t you dare repeat that. They aren’t very likable children. Though I suppose very few people actually like other people’s children. Leo says the boy hates to get in the water, so being on the pond with him in this infernal heat is bound to be an absolute nightmare. Let’s just hope he bathes.”
She has told us to be on our best behavior.
In the center of the pond where the water is deepest, forests of bladderwort grow up from the bottom. The fish like to hide here. I flip onto my stomach and peer over the edge of the raft. The patch of shade I cast creates a lens that allows me to see everything beneath me in focus. A school of minnows moves through lily pad stems and rotting grasses with swift, jerky motions. A painted turtle swims slowly through the dull green toward the surface. Far below it, a sunfish guards its nest with a vigilant, lazy waft. I lean forward and put my face into the water, open my eyes. The world becomes a soft blur. I lie like this for as long as my lungs can take it, listening to the sounds of the air. If I could breathe underwater, I would stay here forever.
Across the pond, I hear the slam of a car door, Leo’s booming laughter. They are here.
12:35 P.M.
Jonas is leaning back on his elbows, his black hair slicked like an oily duck. A thin white cotton shirt clings to his shoulders. A spark of sunlight glints off his wedding ring. He doesn’t turn as we approach. I wonder if it’s because he can’t face me now, face what we have done. Or maybe wanting me all those years was the point, and now I’m just someone he fucked and has to deal with. Or maybe he, too, wants to avoid this moment of acknowledgment—keep his old life alive for one moment longer, before everything changes. Because, either way, it will.
Peter sits down right next to him, points to something on the horizon. Jonas leans in to answer. Dizzying ripples of heat rise off the sand.
“Hey!” Gina shouts, eyes narrowed, and starts coming at me across the sand. I stare at her pierced belly button as it comes in and out of sight beneath her tankini top. Finn and Maddy have spread out their towels nearby and are spraying each other with sun block.
Jonas hasn’t turned, but I think I see his forearms tense ever so slightly.
I glance over at the kids; a rising dread.
“Seriously, Elle?” Gina says, squaring off with me.
“Mom,” Finn calls out, “I need you to tighten my goggles.”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Whatever you have to say, I think, please say it quietly.
“We’ve been waiting for you for over an hour. The sandwiches are gonna be totally soggy.”
I will my voice to keep its cool, stay level, sure my face is betraying me. Under the pile of towels I’m carrying, my hands are shaking. “I’m so sorry. We should have called. I had a stupid fight with Jack this morning and it spiraled. Let me just put these towels down. I’ll run to the market and get fresh sandwiches.”
Gina looks at me as though I’ve gone nuts. “Um, earth to Elle? I’m kidding! I can’t believe you honestly thought I’d be pissed off about the sandwiches.” She laughs, but for a millisecond a strange expression flashes across her face, and I wonder if she has felt my intestines unfurling.
“Of course not.” I force a laugh. “I’m losing it. It’s either the Ambien or perimenopause.”
Gina puts her arm through mine, drags me over to the others. “I’m just glad you got here. Jonas is refusing to come into the water. Is this the most beauteous day, or what?”
“It’s too hot.”
“I swear to Christ, I will never understand you Back Woods people. You have the perfect life in the most gorgeous place on the planet and all you can say is ‘It’s too hot.’ Jonas was like pulling teeth this morning. Swim time,” Gina calls out to Finn and Maddy. “Last one in, cutie pies. It’s time to boogie.” She gives a little booty shake. Maddy looks over at me with an expression of pure horror, but they follow her down to the water, racing to dive in headfirst.
“Hey, missus,” Peter calls over to me. “Toss me that water jug, will you? I’m dying of thirst over here.”
I take aim and throw the thermos at him. It slaloms through the air and lands perfectly upright at his feet.
“Nice,” Peter says.
Jonas turns then. Looks directly at me. He stands up and brushes the sand off his palms, walks toward me, arms outstretched, grabs the stack of towels I’m carrying, leans in to kiss me on the cheek. “I missed you,” he whispers in my ear.
“Hi,” I say softly. I can’t bear it. It is too much to bear. “I missed you, too.”
He runs the tip of his finger down my arm and I shudder.
“Who’s going in?” Peter calls over to us. “It’s bloody broiling.”
Fifth grade. A snow day. Anna and I are staying with her godfather Dixon for the week. Dad and Joanne are living in London—he has been transferred for work—and Mum and Leo have gone to Detroit for a gig. They are getting married in May. Dixon is Mum’s “cool” friend. Everyone loves Dixon. He has long dirty-blond hair in a ponytail and drives a pickup truck. He knows Carly Simon. Mum says he doesn’t need to work. They’ve been best friends since they were two years old; otherwise I don’t think he would even speak to her. They went to preschool together and spent summers together in the Back Woods, skinny-dipping and digging for quahogs and littlenecks in the muck when the tide was out. “Even though I hated shellfish,” Mum says. “But Dixon has a way of making you do things.” A long time ago, Anna asked Mum why she hadn’t married Dixon. “Because he’s a rake,” Mum had said. And I thought of leaves.
The Dixons live in a rambling apartment on East Ninety-fourth right off the park. Dixon’s daughter Becky is my best friend. Anna and Becky’s older sister Julia are the same age, but they’ve never really clicked. Julia is a gymnast. Two years ago, their mother left them to join a commune. Becky and I spend most of our time unsupervised, playing cat’s cradle, going into Central Park on roller skates, coming up with disgusting recipes we force each other to eat. This morning we made shakes in the blender out of brewers’ yeast and instant strawberry pudding mix. Dixon says he doesn’t give a shit, as long as we eat. The last time Mum left us at Dixon’s he took us to see Deliverance at the Trans Lux. We ran around the rest of the weekend screaming, “Squeal like a pig.” Mum had a fit, but Dixon told her to stop being so narrow-minded and puritanical. He’s the only person who gets to talk to her like that.
A strange quiet has come over the city. Out the window there is nothing but a blinding flurry of white. I listen to the clanging of hot steam in the pipes as they expand and contract. The apartment is claustrophobic with dry heat, and the metal radiator cover burns the fronts of my legs as I lean forward, using all my weight to inch open the heavy window, but it refuses to budge.
“Can someone please help me? I need air.” But no one moves. We are playing Monopoly, and Anna has just landed on Marvin Gardens. She needs to think.
Dixon and his new wife Andrea have been in their room all morning with the door shut. “They have a water bed,” Becky says, as if this explains everything. Andrea and Dixon met at a sweat lodge in New Mexico. Andrea is six months pregnant. They’re pretty sure it’s his.
“I don’t mind her,” Becky says when Mum asks what she thinks of her new stepmother.
“I think she’s nice,” I say.
“Nice?” My mother looks as though she’s just swallowed an olive pit.
“Why is that bad?” I ask.
“Nice is the enemy of interesting.”
“She talks to us like we’re grown-ups, which is pretty cool,” Becky says.
“Well, you’re not. You’re eleven,” Mum says to Becky.
“The other night at dinner she asked me whether I was excited to begin menstruating,” Becky says.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen my mother at a loss for words.
“Elle,” Anna calls out now, “it’s your turn.” I sit down next to her on the living room floor and roll the dice. The wood floors smell good to me. The same butcher’s wax my mother uses.
I’m looking down the long hallway that leads to the bedrooms, trying to decide whether I should use my Get Out of Jail Free card, when a door opens. Dixon steps into the hall, naked. He scratches his balls absent-mindedly. Behind him, Andrea emerges. She arches her back like a cat, stretches her arms up in the air. “We just had such a good fuck,” she says. The light is dim, but we can see everything—her massive red bush, her frizzy Janis Joplin hair, her satisfied smile.
Dixon walks past us across the living room, squats down next to the turntable, and places the needle on an album. I can see dark hair in the crack of his behind.
“Listen to the backing vocals on this track,” he says. “Clapton is a genius.”
I stare at the miniature silver wheelbarrow in my hand, wishing I could disappear into the floor.
Becky shoves me, just a bit too hard. “Are you going or not?”