more family.
As I watch the other kids at the pool, I catch myself wishing that Willie had some of the normal, everyday things they do. A decent house, or even an apartment, just a place where he could keep his toys, spread out, and stay for more than a few weeks. A mom who works, fine, but not such freaky hours, who’s home at night and can read to him before he goes to bed.
My favorite thing to daydream about is the house Willie and I will have if the band ever makes it. The house wouldn’t have to be big or fancy, but it would be way out in the country. All around would be yellow fields and purple wildflowers, maybe a winding brook for Willie to wade in on a hot day. On the front would be a porch big enough for a swing, a beautiful white one like our next-door neighbors had when I was growing up. The neighbors who looked at me with pity so often I couldn’t stand them—but I loved their swing.
Inside the house, the entire floor would be covered in the softest, thickest carpet. I would be able to get right out of bed without worrying about the cold boards. My kitchen would have a microwave that’s built in and a refrigerator that makes ice. The bathroom would have a big old claw-footed tub, like the ones you see in the movies, and after Willie was in bed each night, I’d get in and soak as long as I want. Then I’d go crawl into my bed with the three pillows and the thick pale blue quilt. I’d have a really good lamp and a table next to the bed, and on my table would be all kinds of books, not just the one music book I own now.
We haven’t been at the pool long when I find myself thinking about Rick, but that’s not strange; I’ve been thinking about him a lot this week. I still don’t know why Zeb was at the club. When I told Irene what happened—and about Zeb’s reputation—she seemed nervous too. “It’s kind of eerie,” she said. “Like he sent this creep to spy on you.”
“But we were just doing a gig. What’s the point?”
“I don’t know, but I’m telling you, there must have been something he thought he’d find out. Something he wanted to know.”
Her comment has stayed with me; I’m still pondering it as I sit on the side of the wading pool, soaking up the sun, watching Willie. Irene is doing laps, or trying to. The regular pool is crowded with teenagers horsing around, dunking each other. They’re at most five or six years younger than me but they seem like babies. It’s not just because I have a job and Willie; I felt this way when I was their age. I was with Rick, and Rick never horsed around.
There is one couple who reminds me of the way Rick and I were. They don’t look anything like us—he’s too short and skinny, she has a deep tan I couldn’t get if I stayed outside for months—but they act like we did. They’re lying on a blanket and they’re making out, seriously: her hand is caressing the back of his thigh; he’s licking the hollow of her neck, pressing his bare stomach against hers, then his pelvis against hers, now his whole body. They’re not doing this because they want an audience though. It’s clear they don’t realize they have one. They’ve forgotten they’re surrounded by strangers; they’ve forgotten they’re at a pool. They’re so taken with each other and what they’re feeling that no one else exists.
When he slides his hand around her breast, cupping it with his fingers, I realize I shouldn’t be staring at them like some peeping Tom. I force myself to turn away, feel my face burn that I watched so long. Willie is holding a plastic ball, trying to float, and I smile to encourage him. He’s still happy, that’s something, even if for me coming here suddenly seems like a mistake. I’d forgotten what a pool is like, the shimmering water, half-naked bodies, kissing couples. It makes me feel things I don’t want to feel.
After Irene sits down beside me, I try to turn it into a joke. I laugh and tell her I feel like a horny old lady,
As I watch the other kids at the pool, I catch myself wishing that Willie had some of the normal, everyday things they do. A decent house, or even an apartment, just a place where he could keep his toys, spread out, and stay for more than a few weeks. A mom who works, fine, but not such freaky hours, who’s home at night and can read to him before he goes to bed.
My favorite thing to daydream about is the house Willie and I will have if the band ever makes it. The house wouldn’t have to be big or fancy, but it would be way out in the country. All around would be yellow fields and purple wildflowers, maybe a winding brook for Willie to wade in on a hot day. On the front would be a porch big enough for a swing, a beautiful white one like our next-door neighbors had when I was growing up. The neighbors who looked at me with pity so often I couldn’t stand them—but I loved their swing.
Inside the house, the entire floor would be covered in the softest, thickest carpet. I would be able to get right out of bed without worrying about the cold boards. My kitchen would have a microwave that’s built in and a refrigerator that makes ice. The bathroom would have a big old claw-footed tub, like the ones you see in the movies, and after Willie was in bed each night, I’d get in and soak as long as I want. Then I’d go crawl into my bed with the three pillows and the thick pale blue quilt. I’d have a really good lamp and a table next to the bed, and on my table would be all kinds of books, not just the one music book I own now.
We haven’t been at the pool long when I find myself thinking about Rick, but that’s not strange; I’ve been thinking about him a lot this week. I still don’t know why Zeb was at the club. When I told Irene what happened—and about Zeb’s reputation—she seemed nervous too. “It’s kind of eerie,” she said. “Like he sent this creep to spy on you.”
“But we were just doing a gig. What’s the point?”
“I don’t know, but I’m telling you, there must have been something he thought he’d find out. Something he wanted to know.”
Her comment has stayed with me; I’m still pondering it as I sit on the side of the wading pool, soaking up the sun, watching Willie. Irene is doing laps, or trying to. The regular pool is crowded with teenagers horsing around, dunking each other. They’re at most five or six years younger than me but they seem like babies. It’s not just because I have a job and Willie; I felt this way when I was their age. I was with Rick, and Rick never horsed around.
There is one couple who reminds me of the way Rick and I were. They don’t look anything like us—he’s too short and skinny, she has a deep tan I couldn’t get if I stayed outside for months—but they act like we did. They’re lying on a blanket and they’re making out, seriously: her hand is caressing the back of his thigh; he’s licking the hollow of her neck, pressing his bare stomach against hers, then his pelvis against hers, now his whole body. They’re not doing this because they want an audience though. It’s clear they don’t realize they have one. They’ve forgotten they’re surrounded by strangers; they’ve forgotten they’re at a pool. They’re so taken with each other and what they’re feeling that no one else exists.
When he slides his hand around her breast, cupping it with his fingers, I realize I shouldn’t be staring at them like some peeping Tom. I force myself to turn away, feel my face burn that I watched so long. Willie is holding a plastic ball, trying to float, and I smile to encourage him. He’s still happy, that’s something, even if for me coming here suddenly seems like a mistake. I’d forgotten what a pool is like, the shimmering water, half-naked bodies, kissing couples. It makes me feel things I don’t want to feel.
After Irene sits down beside me, I try to turn it into a joke. I laugh and tell her I feel like a horny old lady,
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