He stretched in bed. Under the sheet he moved his toes and watched the lumps, like suddenly shifting mountain ranges, change shape. The sun lay in strips across his chest. He got out of the sun-warmed bed, and slices of light from the Venetian blinds climbed up and across his body.
He began to dress but saw that his ground-level window was open. He moved up to it cautiously and started to pull the string on the Venetian blinds to slant the sunlight downward. Seeing some of the guests standing in a large group beside the empty swimming pool, he paused. He remembered the cryptic warnings of the social director and shivered lightly, recalling against his will the confused and angry scene which yesterday had sickened them all. Was that the new excitement he had awakened with, he wondered.
He had even known the child slightly; she and her mother had sat at the table next to his in the dining hall. He had once commented to Norma that she was a pretty little girl. Her death and her mother’s screams (the cupped hands rocking back and forth in front of her, incongruously like a gambler’s shaking dice) had frightened him. He had come up from the tennis court with his racket in his hand. In front of him were the sun-blistered backs of the guests. He pushed through, using his racket to make a place for himself. He stood at the inner edge of the circle, but seeing the girl’s blue face ringed by the wet yellow hair sticking to it, he backed off, thrusting his racket before his face, defending his eyes. The people pushing behind him would not let him through and helplessly he had to turn back, forced to watch as Mrs. Goldstone, the girl’s mother, asked each of them why it had happened, and then begged, and then accused, and then turned silently back to the girl to bend over her again and slap her. He heard her insanely calm voice scolding the dead girl: “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.” He watched the mother, squatting on her heels over the girl, obscene as someone defecating in the woods. She struggled hopelessly with the firemen who came to remove the girl, and after they had borne her off, her body jouncing grotesquely on the stretcher, he saw the mother try to hug the wet traces of the child’s body on the cement. When the others put out their hands and arms to comfort her, crowding about her, determined to make her recognize their sympathy, he looked away.
Now he stood back from the window. Several of the people from yesterday were there again. My God, he thought, they’re acting it out.
He recognized Mrs. Frankel among them. She was wearing her city clothes and looked hot and uncomfortable standing beside Bieberman’s empty pool. She seemed to be arguing ferociously, in her excitement unconscious of the big purse that followed weirdly the angry arcs of her arms. The sun caught the faces of some stones on her heavy bracelet and threw glints of light into Preminger’s eyes as she pointed in the direction of the pool. He did not know what she was saying, but he could imagine it easily enough. He had heard her bullying before. She was like a spokesman for some political party forever in opposition.
In a moment he noticed something else. Beyond the excited crowd gathered about Mrs. Frankel, he saw Bieberman, who stood, hanging back, his head cocked to one side, his expression one of troubled concentration. He looked like a defendant forced to listen in a foreign court to witnesses whose language he can not understand. Beside him was the social director, scowling like an impatient advocate.
He turned and began again to dress.
When he approached the main building the others had finished their breakfasts and were already in the positions that would carry them through until lunch. On the long shaded porch in front of Bieberman’s main building people sat in heavy wicker rockers playing cards. They talked low in wet thick voices. Occasionally the quiet murmur was broken by someone’s strident bidding. Preminger could feel already the syrupy thickness of the long summer day. He climbed the steps and was about to go inside to get some coffee when he saw Mrs. Frankel. She was talking to a woman who listened gravely. He tried to slip by without having to speak to her, but she had already seen him. She looked into his eyes and would not turn away. He nodded. She allowed her head to sway forward once slowly as though she and Preminger were conspirators in some grand mystery. “Good morning, Mrs. Frankel,” he said.
She greeted him solemnly. “It won’t be long now, will it, Mr. Preminger?
“What won’t?”
She waved her hand about her, taking in all of Bieberman’s in a vague gesture of accusation. “Didn’t they tell you I was leaving?” she asked slowly.
He was amazed at the woman’s egotism. “Vacation over, Mrs. Frankel?” he asked, smiling.
“Some vacation,” she said. “Do you think I’d stay with that murderer another day? I should say not! Listen, I could say plenty. You don’t have to be a Philadelphia lawyer to see what’s happening. Some vacation. Who needs it? Don’t you think when my son heard, he didn’t say, ‘Mama, I’ll be up to get you whenever you want?’ The man’s a fine lawyer, he could make plenty of trouble if he wanted.”
For a moment as the woman spoke he felt the shadow of a familiar panic. He recognized the gestures, the voice that would take him into the conspiracy, that insisted he was never out of it. Mrs. Frankel could go to hell, he thought. He’d better not say that; it would be a gesture of his own. He would not go through life using his hands.
Mrs. Frankel still spoke in the same outraged tones Preminger did not quite trust. “The nerve,” she said. “Well, believe me, he shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”
Bieberman suddenly appeared at the window behind Mrs. Frankel’s chair. His huge head seemed to fill the whole window. His face was angry but when he spoke his voice was soft. “Please, Mrs. Frankel. Please,” he said placatingly. Preminger continued toward the dining room.
Inside, the bus boys were still clearing the tables. He went up to one of the boys and asked for some coffee and sat down at one of the cleared tables. The boy nodded politely and went through the large brown swinging doors into the kitchen. He pushed the doors back forcefully and Preminger saw for a moment the interior of the bright kitchen. He looked hard at the old woman, Bieberman’s cook, sitting on a high stool, a cigarette in her mouth, shelling peas. The doors came quickly together, but in a second their momentum had swung them outward again and he caught another glimpse of her. She had turned her head to watch the bus boy. Quickly the doors came together again, like stiff theatrical curtains.
He turned and saw Norma across the dining hall. She was holding a cigarette and drinking coffee, watching him. He went over to her. “Good morning,” he said, sitting down. “A lot of excitement around here this morning.”
“Hello,” she said.
He leaned across to kiss her. She moved her head and he was able only to graze her cheek. In the instant of his fumbling movement he saw himself half out of his chair, leaning over the cluttered table, like a clumsy, bad-postured diver on a diving board. He sat back abruptly, surprised. He shrugged. He broke open a roll and pulled the dough from its center. “Mrs. Frankel’s leaving,” he said after a while.
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
“The Catskillian Minute Man,” he said, smiling.
“What’s so funny about Mrs. Frankel?”
Preminger looked at her. “Nothing,” he said. “You’re right. One of these days, after this Linda Goldstone affair had blown over, she would have gotten around to us.”
“She couldn’t say anything about us.”
“No,” he said. “I guess not.”
“ ‘Goldstone affair,’ ” she said. “The little girl is dead.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Affair,” she said. “Some affair.”
He looked at her carefully. Her face was without expression. What did she want from him—a statement?
“All right,” he said. “Okay. The Goldstone affair—excuse me, the Goldstone tragedy—was just the Goldstone drowning. Norma, it was an accident. Everyone around here carries on as though it has implications. Even you. I suppose the thing I feel worst about—well, the parents, of course—is Bieberman. He’s the only one who still has a
nything to lose. It could hurt him in the pocketbook and to a man like him that must be a mortal wound.”
Norma looked as if he had slapped her. It was a dodge, her shock; it was a dodge, he thought. Always, fragility makes its demands on bystanders. The dago peddler whose apples have been spilled, the rolled drunk, the beat-up queer, the new widow shrieking at an open window—their helplessness strident, their despair a prop. What did they want? They were like children rushing to their toys, the trucks, the tin armies, manipulating them, making sounds of battle in their throats, percussing danger and emergency.
He was in his bathing trunks. On his feet were the “low-quarters” he had been discharged in. He had not had time, so anxious was he to get away, to buy other shoes, not even the sneakers appropriate for afternoon climbs like this one on the high hill behind Bieberman’s.
He had lost interest in the hike. He turned his back on the sandy, rock-strewn path that continued on up the hill and into the woods he had promised himself to explore, and he looked down to see where he had come from. Below him was the resort. He had never seen the place from this vantage point, and its arrangement in the flat green valley struck him as comic. It looked rather like a giant fun house in an amusement park. He had the impression that if he were to return to his room he would find, bracketed in heavy yellow frames, mirrors that gave back distorted images. In the trick rooms, constructed to defy gravity, he would have to hang onto the furniture to keep from falling. He looked at the fantastic spires that swirled like scoops of custard in cups too small for them, and he pictured Bieberman climbing at sunset to the top of these minarets to bellow like a clownish muezzin to the wayward guests. He saw the beach umbrellas, bright as lollipops, on the hotel lawn. They were like flowers grown grossly out of proportion in a garden.
He grinned, shifting his gaze from the hotel grounds and letting it fall on his own body. It rested there a moment without any recognition and then, gradually conscious of himself, he stared, embarrassed, at his thighs, which exposure to the sun had failed to tan deeply. He traced his legs down past bony kneecaps and hairless shins and mocked in silence their abrupt disappearance into the formal shoes. Why, he was like someone come upon in the toilet. The fat thighs, the shiny pallor of the too-smooth legs, like the glaucous sheen on fruit, betrayed him. He seemed to himself clumsy and a little helpless, like old, fat women in camp chairs on the beach, their feet swollen in the men’s shoes they have to leave untied, the loose strings like the fingers they lace protectively across their busts.
Just what was he really doing at Bieberman’s, he wondered. He could write off his disappointment as an experience of travelers who, having left the airport in their hired cars, and spoken to clerks about reservations, and made arrangements for the delivery of bags, at last find themselves alone in strange cities, bored, depressed, sleepless in their rented beds, searching aimlessly for familiar names in the telephone directory. But what, finally, was he doing there at all? He thought of the other people who had come to the hotel and had to remind himself that they did not live there always, had not been hired by the hotel as a kind of folksy background, a monumental shill for his benefit. They were there, he supposed, for the access it gave them to the tennis court, the pool, the six-hole golf course, the floor show “nitely,” the card tables, the dining room, each other. And he, fat-thighed lover, abandon bent, was there to lay them. Fat chance, Fat Thigh, he thought.
He wondered whether to start up the path once more, and turned to estimate the distance he had yet to travel. He looked again below him. He saw the drained pool. A little water, like a stain on the smooth white tile, still remained at the bottom. Some reflected light flashed against his eyes and he turned, instinctively shielding them with one cupped palm.
“I didn’t think you’d see me,” someone said.
Preminger stepped back. He hadn’t seen anyone, but assumed that the boy who was now coming from within the trees that bordered the path had mistaken his gesture as a wave and had responded to it.
“If you’re trying to hide,” Preminger said, “you shouldn’t wear white duck trousers. Law of the jungle.” The bare-chested boy, whom he recognized as the lifeguard, came cautiously onto the path where Preminger stood. Preminger thought he seemed rather shamefaced, and looked into the green recess from which the boy had come, to see if perhaps one of the girls from the hotel was there.
“I wasn’t hiding,” the boy said defensively. “I come up here often when I’m not on duty. I’ve seen you down there.”
“I’ve seen you too. You’re the lifeguard.” The boy looked down. They were standing in a circle of sunlight that seemed, in the woodsy arena, to ring them like contenders for a title of little note. He noticed uncomfortably that the boy was looking at his shoes. Preminger shuffled self-consciously. The boy looked up and Preminger saw that his eyes were red.
“Have they been talking about me?” the boy asked.
“Has who been talking about you?”
The boy nodded in the direction of the hotel.
“No,” he said. “Why?” He asked without meaning to.
“Mr. Bieberman said I shouldn’t hang around today. I didn’t know anywhere to come until I remembered this place. I was going all the way to the top when I heard you. I thought Mr. Bieberman might have sent you up to look for me.”
Preminger shook his head.
The boy seemed disappointed. “Look,” he said suddenly, “I want to come down. I’m not used to this. How long do they expect me to stay up here?” For all the petulance, there was real urgency in his voice. He added this to the boy’s abjectness, to his guilt at being found, and to the terror he could not keep to himself. It wasn’t fair to let the boy continue to reveal himself in the mistaken belief that everything had already been found out about him. He didn’t want to hear more, but already the boy was talking again. “I’m not used to this,” he said. “I told Mr. Bieberman at the beginning of the summer about my age. He knew I was sixteen. That’s why I only get two hundred. It was okay then.”
“Two hundred?”
The boy stopped talking and looked him over carefully. He might have been evaluating their relative strengths. As though he had discovered Preminger’s weakness and was determined to seize upon it for his own advantage, he looked down at Preminger’s knees. Preminger felt his gaze keenly.
“Does anyone else know?” Preminger asked abruptly.
“Mrs. Frankel, I think,” he said, still not looking up.
Preminger shifted his position, moving slightly to one side. “She’ll be going home today,” he said. “I saw her this morning. She didn’t say anything.” He did not enjoy the cryptic turn in the conversation. It reminded him vaguely of the comical communication between gangsters in not very good films. A man leans against a building. Someone walks past. The man nods to a loitering confederate. The confederate lowers his eyes and moves on.
He made up his mind to continue the walk. “Look,” he said to the boy, “I’m going to go on up the path.” Having said this, he immediately began to move down toward Bieberman’s. He realized his mistake but felt the boy staring at him. He wondered if he should make some feint with his body, perhaps appear to have come down a few steps to get a better look at some nonexistent activity below them and then turn to continue back up the path. The hell with it, he thought wearily. He could hear the boy following him.
Some pebbles that the boy dislodged struck Preminger’s ankles. He watched them roll down the hill. The boy caught up with him. “I’m going down too,” he said, as though Preminger had made a decision for both of them. The path narrowed and Preminger took advantage of the fact to move ahead of the boy. He moved down quickly, concentrating on the steep angle of the descent. Just behind him the boy continued to chatter. “He needed someone for the season. It was the Fourth of July and he didn’t have anyone. I got a cousin who works in the kitchen. He told me. Mr. Bieberman knew about my age. I told him myself. He said, ‘What’s age got to do with it? Nobody drown
s.’ I had to practice the holds in my room.” The path widened and the boy came abreast of him. He timed his pace to match Preminger’s and they came to the bottom of the hill together.
He began to jog ahead of the boy but, soon tiring, he stopped and resumed walking. Though the boy had not run after him, Preminger knew he was not far behind and that he was still following him. He went deliberately toward one of the tables on Bieberman’s lawn, thinking that when he reached it he would turn to the boy and ask him to bring him a drink. He did not notice until too late that it was Mrs. Frankel’s table he was heading for. The wide, high-domed beach umbrella that stood over it had hidden her from him. He saw that the only way to take himself out of her range was to veer sharply, but remembering the boy behind him and the mistake he had made on the hill, he decided that he could not risk another dopey movement. What if the kid turned with him, he thought. They would wind up alone together on the golf course. He would never get away from him. He considered between Frankel and the kid and chose Frankel because she didn’t need advice.
Mrs. Frankel, in her hot, thick city clothing, looked to him like a woman whose picture has just been taken for the Sunday supplements. (“Mrs. Frankel, seated here beneath a two-hundred-pound mushroom she raised herself, has announced…”) But when he came closer he saw that she would not do for the supplements at all. Her legs, thrown out in front of her, gave her the appearance of an incredibly weary shopper whose trip downtown has failed. Her expression was disconsolate and brooding. It was an unusual attitude for Mrs. Frankel and he stood beside her for a moment. She stared straight ahead toward the useless pool.
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