turned serious. “You wouldn’t tell on me, would you? My dad would murder me.” There was a pause, just long enough to be uncomfortable, then she said, “I have to get out at your end. Promise you won’t look.” In her hair were several large drops of water, diamond-bright, and her body shimmered in its veil of ripples. He felt a sharp pinch inside his chest, as if a small hand had held his heart and given it a good squeeze. He stood up slowly, careful to keep the terry- cloth robe over his lap, then wrapped it around his waist and knotted it on his right hip. “I need to go inside the house for a minute,” he said. “You get your clothes and scoot.” The ice-maker in the refrigerator wasn’t working right and he cleared a space on the counter, then took a butter knife by the blade and began knocking off chips from a chunk of eight or nine fused cubes. In between whacks with the knife handle he could hear Patti’s feet on the wet concrete as she gathered her clothes. He filled his glass with ice and started for the patio, but changed his mind and turned back to the bookcase in the living room. The big red book of Cheever stories had been a Christmas gift from the Cunninghams and he had put it on the shelf before getting around to it. On the flyleaf Harry had written, To the Shady Hill Bunch. Love From Both of Us, then signed the inscription with his and Claire’s names. His pants were still too damp for the living room furniture and he took the book back to the patio. When he got there Patti was gone. A second later he heard the thunk and splash of the Lawsons’ diving board and pool. He had meant to read “The Swimmer,” the story Patti had been talking about, but instead opened the book at random and started one called “The Country Husband.” The insect lamp gave enough light for reading and a small breeze blowing from the Law- sons’ yard into his carried the sounds of Patti’s swimming. The story was only fifteen or twenty pages and he read quickly, although several times he was tempted to put it down. There was,something in his meeting with Patti that hadn’t been sufficiently thought about, sufficiently realized, and from the beginning the story made him depressed. On the first page the story's hero, Francis Weed, survives a plane crash, but when he gets home his wife is preoccupied, his children are squabbling, and he can’t get in a word about the crash. The scene ends with a fight at the dinner table, the family dispersing, in tears, through a “living room divided, like Gaul, into three parts.” The suburban setting, with its slightly absurd opulence and spoiled children, seemed to drain something from the characters and make them smaller than they should be. The light from the mosquito lamp was beginning to make him squint, but he read on, following Weed through a series of dull parties until he falls in love with a teenage girl, a babysitter, a girl who seemed to look a lot like Patti. There was something uncanny in the coincidence, and the way it built itself into the day’s sense of oddity. He skimmed over the description of Weed’s feelings about the girl, then read it again, then finally read it aloud. Now the world is full of beautiful young girls, but Francis saw here the difference between beauty and perfection. All those endearing flaws, moles, birthmarks, and healed wounds were missing, and he felt a pang of recognition as strange, deep, and wonderful as anything in his life. It hung from her frown, from an impalpable darkness in her face — a look that impressed him as a direct appeal for love. Had he felt that way about Patti when she appeared in his pool, or did he feel that way only now, after reading those lines? Or did he feel that way at all? With a growing distaste, an almost physical one, he followed Weed through to the end — where he despairs of setting up an affair with the girl, sees a psychiatrist, and for solace takes up woodworking. In the last evening, in the last lines, Weed is in his basement workshop, making a coffee table, while outside, “it is a night where kings in golden suits ride elephants over the mountains.” For a moment he was struck, so that his heart actually ached, by the irony of his sitting on a patio, reading a story like that under an insect lamp, while fifty yards away a young girl swam naked. There were other stories he could read, of course, and perhaps his choice had been an especially bad one, but he was tired and his eyes ached. The story Patti had spoken of, “The Swimmer,” didn’t sound very pleasant, and he suspected the others would make him feel the same — that some parts of him would show up on any page he turned to. After flipping through several stories he came across one called, “Oh Youth and Beauty,” but the title scared him away. What would happen, he wondered, if he read through the whole book? Could he sleep with Louise, or talk to the boys, without looking over his own shoulder? Could he cut the grass without seeing himself — muted and sad — through Cheever’s eyes? He had suddenly become an object, something formed in another man’s image, with no longer a part in making himself. He sat there a moment longer, started to pour himself another drink, then decided he’d had enough. He closed the book, lit one of Louise’s cigarettes, and got ready to go inside, then heard the thunk of another diving board, and an instant later, a scream. Between his property and the Hendersons’ ran a hedge with a gate in its center, but the latch was tricky and he found it easier, even at his age, to vault the hedge. The Hendersons were vacationing in Greece, but their burglar alarm system also turned on the house lights at certain hours. Across the dark green of the lawn, from several first- and second-story windows, fell patches of white, like large quilts of light. By hop-scotching across the lighted squares he managed to find his way across the backyard without stumbling. He called out, “Patti, are you all right?” For several seconds there was no answer. He looked for an outside light but couldn’t find one. From the darkest part of the yard he heard a moan, confused and unnaturally high pitched. It reminded him of the whimpering the boys’ Airedale had made after it had been struck by a car. He lit a match, and a second later found the concrete steps at the shallow end of the pool. Four or five feet in front of the diving board Patti lay curled and shaking on the cement floor. As he approached she managed to get up on one knee. “Can you stand up?” he said. “I think so.” He put his hands on her shoulders and helped her to her feet, then struck another match. There were cuts and bruises on her hands and arms and two of her fingernails were broken. She took several seconds to get control of her breathing, then whispered, “I almost got killed.” For an instant he had a vision of her in a coffin, then a second vision, just as wrenching, of her in a neck brace and wheelchair, her body withered and twisted, a shawl thrown over her lap. “Didn’t you know the Hendersons were gone?” She looked down at her nails. “I forgot.” The pool light switched itself on automatically. “Stay right here,” he said. “I’ll get you a towel.” The ladder at the deep end had only two rungs, the lowest five feet off the ground. After one try he gave up and walked back to the shallow end, then found her canvas bag on the apron of the pool. As he returned she started to say something, but lapsed into crying. He held the towel in front of her, then draped it over her shoulders like a cape. There was a large trickle of blood on her leg from where she had skinned her knee. She pulled the towel closed and said, “I’m going to have a scab.” For an instant he wanted to slap her. Then she started to cry again. He held her against his shoulder. What could he say to her? That just as she had escaped death in an empty swimming pool, he had nearly perished that night in a marshmallow fire? Two months ago he had almost died in Boston at the Copley Plaza. His boss had talked him into ordering coquilles St. Jacques and, thinking that the bed of small white stones on which they were served was rice, he had scooped up a forkful while everyone was talking. He had been within a half-second of swallowing the hot stones when Tom Wooten had reached across the table and knocked the fork from his hand. For the rest of the evening he had sat there in near silence, mortified. Without a word he picked up Patti and carried her out of the empty pool, across the Hendersons’ yard and into his own, then put her beside him on the front seat of the car and drove her home. Instead of pulling into the driveway he stopped on the road beside her house. As she opened the door he instinctively put his hand over the ceilSome of the arrivals were still new enough to be known by their houses. The Watsons were introduced as the Dutch Colonial on the corner. ing light. She pulled the towel more tightly around her and started to get out, then turned back and said, “What’ll I do about my clothes?” “You can get them tomorrow,” he said. “The gardener doesn’t come until Thursday. I left your bag by the pool.” As she closed the door she leaned her head in the open window and started to thank him, then swallowed and said, “Please don’t tell anybody. I feel so stupid.” There was a light burning on the front porch, but she went around to the side. In the stillness he could hear the mat being lifted and the scrape of her key, then the door opened and closed and the lock clicked as the bolt slid into its strike. The porch light flicked off and a second later a light came on in one of the upstairs windows. He put the car into gear and pulled away. In the sideview mirror he watched the upstairs light wink out, then heard the sound of a small animal as it ran from his headlights. There was still something not right in his running into Patti, something that hadn’t happened, although he didn’t know what he could have expected. Certainly he didn’t want a sexual liaison — the idea of seducing a 15-year-old was repulsive — but there should have been something. He hadn’t saved her life exactly, but that was the feeling he had — of rescue. Neither the occasion nor the place had been appropriate, but still — he had pulled her, crumpled and bleeding, from a dark pit, and after that they had sat together naked in a car. Or almost naked. The white linen pants were still wet, nearly transparent, and she had worn only a towel. What more was needed? What had been missing? At the end of Druid Lane he turned onto Fairway Drive, trying to imagine the rooms Patti had run through a few moments before. He had been at the Bishops’ no more than once or twice, for Christmas parties or a barbecue, but the house seemed oddly clear in his memory. In the center stood a staircase and to the left of that was the living room, with a large picture window facing the road. A fireplace centered one of the side walls, and on the opposing wall hung several paintings and some bookshelves. A mahogany case that took up most of the back wall held a combination television and stereo. Two recliner chairs were turned to it. With some minor variations it was the same arrangement, tasteful and unobtrusive, he could find all over the neighborhood. Fairway Drive was the newest addition to the suburb, all the houses slightly larger and more expensive, all built within the last five years. On one side of the road lay the golf course, on the other side the houses. Set far back from the road, with lawns neat as golf greens, big as small pastures, even the newest of them appeared ancient and stately. He drove by mock Colonials, mock Tudors, one ersatz half-timbered cottage the size of a small hotel. Some of the arrivals were still new enough to be known by their houses. The Watsons, whom he had met just last weekend, were introduced as the Dutch Colonial on the corner. Suddenly, from the other side of the road, deep within the golf course, there was a small circle of light, bouncing erratically toward the road. An instant later he saw behind the light a bright red torso, and above that a bright white blur. As the figure came into the path of his headlights he recognized the white hair of Mrs. Martin above her jogging suit. He slowed the car. Mrs. Martin was in her sixties, though she and her husband hung around with a younger crowd. They were active at the club, and in the summer tennis league were known as a tough doubles team. She waved her flashlight in greeting. “Out kind of late, Tom.” “You, too.” “Last mile.” He watched her recede in the sideview mirror, running as if pursued by something in no particular hurry. She jogged the way women in his childhood had knitted, for hours, with complete, mindless absorption. On the few occasions he had seen her standing still, she had seemed unnaturally wholesome. Her face was drawn and her eyes were feverishly bright, as if the strain of good health were too much for her. He drove another hundred yards, then slowed the car again. Without knowing why, he had an urge to take off his remaining clothes, to pull the car over to the curb and divest himself of pants and underwear and walk home unadorned. He took his foot halfway from the gas and tried to imagine what would happen. If he made a left on Fieldcrest he could circle around and park at the top of Druid Lane. From there he would be certain to run into Mrs. Martin again. Would she actually see him? Or would she merely shout hello and wave her flashlight in greeting as she jogged past? He could, he supposed, stop in for a drink at the Bellmans’. By now there would be a single light burning in the living room as they had the first of several nightcaps. Would they invite him in? Could he sit comfortably in the shadows, unobserved? Would they be sober enough to see he was naked? Even if they were, what would happen then? Would the village policeman haul him before a magistrate? Would he be fined and warned not to do it again? Would that be the end of it? Would everyone simply forget? He pulled the car into his own driveway, turned off the engine and shut the car door as quietly as he could. Inside, he whispered to no one in particular, “I'm home.” Normally he inspected the house from bottom to top, testing all the doors and windows to make sure they were locked, but tonight he made the tour in reverse, starting with the bedrooms. The boys were sleeping peacefully. In his own room, Louise turned over and mumbled something in her sleep, something that sounded snappish and short, then began again a slow, quiet breathing. Downstairs, the streetlight filtered through the elm dappled the walls, making them seem as flimsy as a silkscreen. He stood still a moment and the solution came to him. He took off his pants and underwear and left them on the floor by the front door. Between the Lawsons’ house and Patti’s lay four others besides the Hendersons’ — the Baldwins’, the Paleys’, the McAlisters’, the Reeds’ — all with pools. Those must be the four she still had to do. Before leaving he walked into the living room, naked, and took the ball point and a piece of paper from the pad by the phone. On his way back he’d stop at the Hendersons’ and leave a note — just the names of those four not yet consecrated pools — in her bag. ■ 6 Clinton St. Quarterly
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