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Authors: Shirley Ann Grau
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speaking.”
“Now what the hell’s that supposed to mean.”
“Her two grandsons came with her. And she’s still got that housekeeping couple she’s had all these years. And her son and his wife will be down every weekend.”
“You are a veritable treasure trove of information.”
“I met her son in the post office.” Isabel chuckled smugly. “He also told me that they’ve booked in a steady series of guests. So that’s why I said that in a way she wasn’t alone.”
“Well, she sure has room for everybody in that big old house.” Liam lay back, talking to the heat-hazed sky. “Hugh Rowland’s dead. And… Isabel, hasn’t there been an awful lot of that this winter? I mean, an unusual amount of dying.”
“I don’t think so.” Isabel’s voice was muffled by the folded towel over her head. “Of course at our age you do have to expect a certain amount, I guess.”
“But so many: I mean, that’s not natural. There was Hugh, and there was that awful woman Edna. And Sally and Andrew, remember them?”
“Liam, they were killed in a plane crash. That’s not the same at all.”
“They aren’t here, that’s all I’m counting.”
Isabel’s legs began to move restlessly. “Don’t be silly.”
“And then there was Webster. Ed Webster.”
“He’d have been close to ninety.”
“We’re not that far away, duck.”
Her head jerked up, the towel slid to her shoulders. “Liam, you are nowhere near ninety and neither am I. Don’t exaggerate.”
“And Roger. Remember him, Roger Fasterling?”
Isabel began turning over, slowly sighing with annoyance.
“How many is that?” he asked the sky. “It’s a lot.”
Isabel completed her roll and settled down on her back. Eyes closed, she began rubbing sun lotion on her face. “Well, Liam, however many people died, there are still plenty left. The place is positively packed. Just look down the beach.”
“Kids,” he said.
“And up here,” she insisted. “This deck is as crowded as I’ve ever seen it.”
“Another thing.” Liam sat up. “I don’t know half the people here. I remember how it used to be. It used to be I could walk up and down and know every face I passed. I could sit down and talk to just anybody and everybody.”
“You can still do that.”
“What would I say? What do you want me to say? Who are you? Or maybe: I knew your grandfather when he was alive.”
“You could say: I like to meet people I don’t know.”
“I’d just look senile.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Isabel bounced up and down irritably, the padded cushions squeaking. “This whole thing is utterly silly. Next year I am going to wait until everybody has finished counting and knows who died over the winter and who’s too sick to be here.” She swiped her towel at a passing deerfly. “On opening day this whole place sounds like a bunch of lunatic gardeners: Did it survive the winter? Did it survive in good shape? Has it had a little stroke, nothing serious? … God, what crazy accounting.”
“But you haven’t said we’re wrong,” Liam insisted. “Only that you don’t want to hear us.”
Isabel put the folded towel across her face, carefully, deliberately, then lifted one corner to say, “Tell me if Myra comes this way.”
Myra Rowland changed into her bathing suit, moving and bending with careful deliberation. The locker room maid, she noticed, was the same as last year: a college girl, short, bespectacled, silent.
“Hello,” Myra said.
The young woman looked up from her book, flashing brilliant blue eyes at the bottom of deep lens pools. And smiled faintly.
“Studying?” Myra asked politely as she gathered her beach towel and hat.
The blue eyes blinked, vanishing behind their lids. Stubby fingers held up a book. Myra glanced at it: something about the endocrine system.
Good lord, she sits in this damp locker room and studies that. A silent blue-eyed toad under a rock.
“See you later,” Myra said.
The head nodded
“Now what the hell’s that supposed to mean.”
“Her two grandsons came with her. And she’s still got that housekeeping couple she’s had all these years. And her son and his wife will be down every weekend.”
“You are a veritable treasure trove of information.”
“I met her son in the post office.” Isabel chuckled smugly. “He also told me that they’ve booked in a steady series of guests. So that’s why I said that in a way she wasn’t alone.”
“Well, she sure has room for everybody in that big old house.” Liam lay back, talking to the heat-hazed sky. “Hugh Rowland’s dead. And… Isabel, hasn’t there been an awful lot of that this winter? I mean, an unusual amount of dying.”
“I don’t think so.” Isabel’s voice was muffled by the folded towel over her head. “Of course at our age you do have to expect a certain amount, I guess.”
“But so many: I mean, that’s not natural. There was Hugh, and there was that awful woman Edna. And Sally and Andrew, remember them?”
“Liam, they were killed in a plane crash. That’s not the same at all.”
“They aren’t here, that’s all I’m counting.”
Isabel’s legs began to move restlessly. “Don’t be silly.”
“And then there was Webster. Ed Webster.”
“He’d have been close to ninety.”
“We’re not that far away, duck.”
Her head jerked up, the towel slid to her shoulders. “Liam, you are nowhere near ninety and neither am I. Don’t exaggerate.”
“And Roger. Remember him, Roger Fasterling?”
Isabel began turning over, slowly sighing with annoyance.
“How many is that?” he asked the sky. “It’s a lot.”
Isabel completed her roll and settled down on her back. Eyes closed, she began rubbing sun lotion on her face. “Well, Liam, however many people died, there are still plenty left. The place is positively packed. Just look down the beach.”
“Kids,” he said.
“And up here,” she insisted. “This deck is as crowded as I’ve ever seen it.”
“Another thing.” Liam sat up. “I don’t know half the people here. I remember how it used to be. It used to be I could walk up and down and know every face I passed. I could sit down and talk to just anybody and everybody.”
“You can still do that.”
“What would I say? What do you want me to say? Who are you? Or maybe: I knew your grandfather when he was alive.”
“You could say: I like to meet people I don’t know.”
“I’d just look senile.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Isabel bounced up and down irritably, the padded cushions squeaking. “This whole thing is utterly silly. Next year I am going to wait until everybody has finished counting and knows who died over the winter and who’s too sick to be here.” She swiped her towel at a passing deerfly. “On opening day this whole place sounds like a bunch of lunatic gardeners: Did it survive the winter? Did it survive in good shape? Has it had a little stroke, nothing serious? … God, what crazy accounting.”
“But you haven’t said we’re wrong,” Liam insisted. “Only that you don’t want to hear us.”
Isabel put the folded towel across her face, carefully, deliberately, then lifted one corner to say, “Tell me if Myra comes this way.”
Myra Rowland changed into her bathing suit, moving and bending with careful deliberation. The locker room maid, she noticed, was the same as last year: a college girl, short, bespectacled, silent.
“Hello,” Myra said.
The young woman looked up from her book, flashing brilliant blue eyes at the bottom of deep lens pools. And smiled faintly.
“Studying?” Myra asked politely as she gathered her beach towel and hat.
The blue eyes blinked, vanishing behind their lids. Stubby fingers held up a book. Myra glanced at it: something about the endocrine system.
Good lord, she sits in this damp locker room and studies that. A silent blue-eyed toad under a rock.
“See you later,” Myra said.
The head nodded
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