CHEEVERESQUE BY MARK GRAY He was lucky. When his shirt caught fire he had been only a few feet from the pool. One of the twins, Timmy or Jimmy, had gotten careless with a marshmallow stick, and before he could turn around, the blue acrylic shirt had turned dark orange and begun to smoke. As he surfaced he saw both boys standing by the poolside, pointing their sticks at him and giggling, “Daddy’s on fire. Daddy’s on fire.” As soon as he climbed out he collared them both in one hand and paddled their bottoms. The boys howled and tried to break free. From the other side of the patio Louise screamed at him, ‘Stop it, Tom, stop it! You don’t even know which one of them did it.” He loosened his grip and the boys ran sobbing to their mother. With a weeping child under each arm, she looked like a mother hen, protecting her chicks from a predator. He raised his hands palm up — a gesture of peace — and took a step towards them, but the twins wailed and pressed themselves against her. From her side of the patio Louise shouted at him, “Stay away from us. Just leave us alone.” Gradually the children’s crying subsided, although they still kept an eye on him. He took off his sneakers and poured the water into the drain beside the pool, then mixed himself a drink. So far the day had run true to some kind of pattern. On his way to work he had been stopped for speeding and at the bank that afternoon a man had walked up to one of the drive-in windows and exposed himself. He and a security guard had chased the man across the entire shopping center, but the flasher, pot-bellied and fiftyish, had been maddeningly nimble, dodging around the parked cars and planters as if it were a game of tag, then stopping every fifty feet or so to laugh and pop open his coat. When they finally got him cornered he sprinted between them and scampered across the highway. A car swerved dangerously to avoid him, the woman behind the wheel leaning one fist on the horn and shaking the other as she slammed on the brakes. Among the shrubs and high grass of the lane divider he had paused just long enough to cup his hands into a megaphone and shout, “See you next week.” “I’m putting the children to bed now,” Louise said. “Don’t come near us. Just stay where you are.” Instead, he mixed himself another drink, took a lawn chair from the patio, and sat in the garden. The white linen pants clung to his thighs and calves and smelled of chlorine. The shirt, burnt and discolored, was ruined, and he pulled Lt off and dropped it beside the chair. It was Monday night, and in an hour he would be inside at the kitchen table, settling the family accounts with a pocket calculator and a large ledgerlike checkbook. He would write checks for the mortgage, for the cars, for the dentist, for the boys’ doctor, for Louise’s doctor, for the piano teacher, for the tennis instructor, plus enter and balance Louise’s checks for the gardener, for the grocery store, the drug store, the toy store, the shoe store. The whole thing would take the better part of an hour, provided he didn’t make any mistakes. The task filled him with a faint dismay — a sorrow for the abstractions of checking, of banking in general. In an earlierage he might have held court on the lawn, Drawing by Ron Shepherd disbursing his largesse from a leather sack as a long line of tradesmen filed past, collecting their pieces of silver and gold. From the near corner of the house lights flicked on and off in the bathroom and the children’s bedroom as the boys were bathed and put to bed. A minute later lights came on in the front bedroom and he watched its side window as Louise’s shadow crossed and re-crossed behind the curtain before she turned out the light. He was tempted to pick up a handful of pebbles from the driveway and toss them one by one against the glass. When she opened the window he would apologize and ask if he were allowed inside. It was a scene he remembered from an old movie, and he imagined it would go the same way here. When she opened the window she would be curt. He would apologize. She would be hurt. He would explain why he was so upset, what kind of day he had had. She would look There’s this story called “The Swimmer, ” she said. “It’s about this man who goes to a swimming party. And at the end of the party he decides to swim all the way home through his neighbor’s pools. It’s got a real neat ending. ” doubtful, perhaps accuse him of callousness. He would be careful not to argue. Pouting, still a little tearful, a little hurt, she would gradually relent. It was a bit corny, but he imagined it would get him back into his own bedroom. He bent over and gathered a dozen pieces of gravel and walked to the window, then heard the slapping of feet on the patio, and a second later, the creak of his diving board. Jeremiah,-the Tysons’ Labrador, sometimes stole a late-night swim, but the sound of the diving board made a human more likely. As he walked on to the patio he heard a splash. A pair of feet disappeared into the water and a few seconds later, the blonde head of the Bishops’ 15-year- old daughter, Patti, rose and broke through the surface. He watched her tread water as she shook the hair from her face, then called to her, “Come on out and have a Coke.” For a moment the girl looked startled — the look he expected from someone caught sneaking a swim in a private pool. She backpedalled into the oblong shadow of the diving board, then cleared her throat once, twice, as if preparing to explain her presence. “Mr. Borden,” she said, “are you wearing anything?” The reasonableness of her question surprised him and he sat down abruptly. On the chair beside him lay a terrycloth robe and he draped it over his lap. “I fell into the pool,” he said. “My pants are still wet.” He picked up a pant leg between his thumb and first finger and held it away from his ankle. The girl came forward a little, just to the edge of the shadow, and said, “How did you fall in?” “It’s a long story,” he said. “Come on out and have a Coke. I’ll tell you all about it.” For a moment she was motionless, then shook her head. He had known her for perhaps three years, although he hadn’t run into her in the last year or so. Between 12 and 14 she had babysat for them, then given the job to her younger sister. Now she appeared transformed — not by the changes a year can bring to anyone,- not even by the abrupt ones it can bring to an adolescent, but by something else, a change not in degree but in kind. She bore only the most tenuous connection — shared name — to their former babysitter. Even in the refracted light of the water she appeared miraculous, complete and wholly formed, as if Venus had risen from the waves of his own pool. He couldn’t remember the last time she had watched the children. She treaded water a moment longer before answering. “I can’t,” she said. “I’m not wearing a suit.” She cleared her throat again and said, “I’m skinny- dipping home.” “You’re what?” he said. “I’m skinny-dipping home. Like in that Cheever story.” “What are you talking about?” “There’s this story called ‘The Swimmer,”’ she said. “It’s all about this man — I forget his name — who goes to a swimming party. He lives in a neighborhood a lot like this one, and at the end of the party he decides to swim all the way home through his neighbors’ pools. Everybody has one. Their backyards are almost paved with them. He has to walk a little bit from one pool to the next, but most of the time he’s in the water. It’s got a real neat ending.” “You’re acting out a John Cheever story?” “Sort of. Except my way’s more fun.” She let herself sink down until only her fingertips appeared above the water, then abruptly surfaced. “That’s just the problem. We really do live in Cheever country. It’s just like everybody says at school. Nothing ever happens here.” For a half-second he thought of telling her about the marshmallow incident, or even about the flasher, but there was something in her appearance that precluded conversation. Her bobbing beneath the surface had brought her just beyond the shadow of the diving board, and in the yellow reflections from the insect lamp her body looked pale gold. The ripples she made broke up the light just enough to keep her modest and indistinct. “Where are your clothes?” “Over there.” She pointed to a green canvas bag beside the pool. “Just in case. I still have six more pools to do.” “Do your parents know about this?” She shook her head, creating just the slightest dimple in the ripples already fanning out. Suddenly she ClintonQuarterly, 5
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