The Lifeguard

by Mary Morris

  Ben nodded and rolled his eyes. “Yes, we want to be in the same room.” He winked at Laurel and she winked back but for a moment she thought it might be nice to be apart. Even though neither of them wanted to get involved, she found that they hadn’t been apart, except for when he went to Wisconsin and she went to Europe, a single night. Lately her feelings for Ben had been muddled.

  There were things about him she couldn’t stand. His Hawaiian shirts, the punk haircuts he insisted upon, the way he left dishes in the sink and drank Ovaltine in the morning, that digital watch he was always setting. In the middle of an argument he’d set the clock and tell her how much more time she had to blow up. And his notion of true love, which was right out of a nineteenth-century novel—certainly not the kind of love people who live in a loft in lower Manhattan should be thinking about. He wanted that perfect mingling of the souls. He wanted two people to act as one.

  Laurel acted at times like two people all by herself, Ben often commented. She’d thought about leaving him and occasionally told her sublettor to try and find something else. But in the end she’d stayed with him. She didn’t know why. She couldn’t explain it to him or to herself. It went beyond love. She knew that somewhere inside of them, they were alike. And, though she hated admitting this to anyone, let alone herself, she would be lost without him.

  Harry and Martha uncorked a bottle of wine when Ben and Laurel came downstairs. Harry poured the wine and Martha ran in and out of the kitchen, checking the parsley potatoes, the rainbow trout. “I’ll bet you caught it yourself, Dad,” Ben said when he saw the fish frying in the kitchen.

  “Naw,” Harry said, rather shyly. “If you’d get here more often, maybe I’d catch my own.”

  Martha passed the cheese platter around. “Why don’t you guys go off fishing. I’m sure we girls could amuse ourselves.”

  Laurel nodded. “I’m sure we could.” But she couldn’t imagine amusing herself while the men went off fishing.

  To Laurel’s surprise, dinner wasn’t very good. The fish was overcooked. The potatoes uncooked. The spinach was too salty. “So.” Harry turned to Ben. “You like running your own business?”

  Ben had recently opened his own graphic design studio. “You know, I’ve got more clients than I can handle right now.”

  Harry nodded, listening carefully. “No more thoughts about painting again, huh?”

  “I like what I’m doing,” Ben replied, coldly.

  “I don’t blame you,” Martha said. “I’d rather work with people around me any day.

  Harry looked annoyed and said he was tired. “And you guys must be exhausted, no?” Everyone agreed that everyone was tired and right after the dishes, they headed upstairs.

  Ben and Laurel crawled under the covers and Laurel said, “Will you hold me.”

  Ben yawned. “For a minute.” They both tensed up. Laurel always wanted to be held longer than Ben wanted to hold her. But he reached out and pulled her close to him.

  “I love you,” Laurel whispered.

  He kissed her on the forehead. “Me too.” And he rolled over and went to sleep.

  Laurel was up before Ben so she got dressed and went outside. When she got onto the beach, she saw Harry near the shore. He was dressed in fishing gear and on his hands and knees. In front of him were several boxes, filled with colored objects which Laurel saw as she approached. “Good morning,” Laurel said to him. Then she stooped down and picked up a yellow plastic fish, something that looked like a bug with feathers. “What’re these?”

  “Oh, flies, lures. I thought I’d get my boxes ready, just in case.”

  “How come they’re all different colors?”

  Harry looked up at her slightly. “Well, each situation requires a different type of tackle. For instance, you don’t catch a sturgeon with the same things you’d catch salmon with. You want to find the thing the fish thinks it knows. You fish with that.” He explained to her how the flies looked like the bugs that come off the streams and how the lures look like the different fish. “In the lake you use lures. In the lake when you go out deep, you want something that’ll shimmer like a minnow. You’ve gotta make the fish think you’ve got the real thing.” Harry laughed. “You gotta fake the fish out. If you’re gonna drag ’em up from the deep, you’ve gotta get the right lure.”

  “Sounds pretty complicated,” Laurel said. It did sound complicated to her.

  “No, it’s just common sense.”

  Later that morning Harry made one of his famous breakfasts—cranberry pancakes, crisp bacon, orange juice, scrambled eggs, a huge pot of coffee. Laurel groaned when she saw all the food. “I won’t have room for turkey.”

  “Oh,” Martha said. “We’re having goose and you’ve got lots of time between now and dinner.”

  “Why don’t you kids go for a long walk on the beach,” Harry suggested.

  Laurel took the plate heaped with pancakes as Harry passed it to her. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I help Martha get dinner and you guys go for a walk?” Laurel saw Ben smile at her.

  But Harry shook his head. “Now don’t be silly. You’re on vacation. You should relax.”

  Fifteen steps led from the back of the Bancroft yard to the beach. Laurel and Ben climbed down slowly to walk on the sand. It was a cold, gray November day and they were bundled up. Ben held Laurel’s hand as they walked. She felt a tension in his fingertips. “See what I mean? He just doesn’t want to spend time with me. He’ll find any excuse. He won’t even take a walk.”

  “Well, you didn’t really ask him, did you?”

  Ben shook his head. “I don’t have to ask him. I can tell. He’ll always find excuses.”

  Laurel’s ears were red and cold and she put her collar up. “Sounds like you’ve got your own set of excuses. Takes one to know one.” Ben let go of her hand. He was irritated that she couldn’t see the situation the way he saw it. He knew his father had been ignoring him for years. Laurel was also annoyed with Ben as she walked toward the water. Ben watched her walk away. Her auburn ponytail bobbed like a cork on the water. She was watching the gulls, skimming the surface of the water.

  Ben caught up with her. “Mom used to love it here. She was crazy about the birds and the lake.”

  Laurel slipped her hand through Ben’s arm. “I guess you miss her.”

  He wrapped his fingers around her fingers. “No,” he spoke softly. “I miss him.”

  Later they sat down to Thanksgiving dinner. Martha had set the table with an old lace tablecloth and real silver. She cooked a tremendous goose. Laurel felt as if all she’d done since arriving was eat. She didn’t know how she’d make it through this meal. “I just love Thanksgiving,” Martha said, fluttering around the table. “Just think, Harry. It’s been eighteen years we’ve been doing this together. I don’t know where all the time went.”

  Harry was carving but his face suddenly seemed distracted. He looked up at the ceiling as if listening for an animal on the roof. “Is it really that long?”

  Martha continued to move around the table. “So, everyone has what they want, right? You know, I can’t remember when I cooked a goose last. Goose is fatty. You have to cook it slowly.”

  “Mom always made turkey, didn’t she, Dad?” Ben said.

  His father thought for a moment. “I guess so. I guess she did make turkey.”

  “You don’t like goose?” Martha asked Ben.

  “Oh, I’m just used to having turkey, that’s all.”

  “Well,” Martha said, sitting down, “I thought we’d try something different for a change.”

  Ben shrugged. “I’m just not used to it.”

  Then Martha rose quickly and tossed her napkin down. “I forgot the cranberry Jell-O.” Her voice was shrill and everyone stared at her.

  Harry kept his eyes on the napkin she tossed down. “What is it, dear?” Harry followed her into the kitchen.

  Laurel looked at Ben. His face was flushed. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

  “Sh
e can’t stand it,” Ben whispered back. “She can’t stand it even if we mention her.” But for some reason Laurel wasn’t sure that that was what was bothering Martha.

  The next afternoon Ben, Laurel, and Harry went to see Green Bay lose to Cleveland. Laurel sat between Ben and Harry and she rooted for Cleveland. They rooted for Green Bay. Laurel hadn’t wanted to sit between them, but that was the way they sat down on the bleachers. Laurel went to the bathroom in the middle of the second quarter and stayed away almost until halftime, but Ben and Harry didn’t close the space between them.

  That evening after dinner, everyone drank cognac and sat around the table. Ben played a fairly good ragtime and Harry did a few numbers from the thirties. Then Ben played a medley of show tunes. Martha poured more cognac and leaned on Ben’s shoulder. When Ben played “Some Enchanted Evening,” Martha sang into his ear, “You may see a stranger across a crowded room …” Her voice was gravelly and flat and she skimped on the high notes. She closed her eyes and let her body swing.

  Harry wrinkled his nose at Ben, but Martha opened her eyes in time to see it. She stopped singing. “Is it that bad?” No one said a word. “Tell me, if it’s that bad, I don’t have to sing at all.”

  “Dear, this isn’t a competition.” He waved his hand at her. “I’m going to track down some more firewood.” But when he went outside, Martha went upstairs. A little while later Harry came back in. His face was red and a white cloud came from his mouth. “This should make a nice fire.” Then he looked around. “Where’s Martha?” Ben pointed upstairs and Harry said, “Damn.” He went up and didn’t come back down again that evening.

  When they got into bed later, Ben and Laurel had a fight. It was their first real fight in a while. Normally they just sulked away from each other, but tonight when they got into bed, Laurel felt as if she just had to make love and she was certain Ben would not want to. “Please, don’t go to sleep. I need you.” Laurel shook Ben, trying to convince him not to fall asleep.

  “Not here. You can hear everything in this house. How about tomorrow night in New York?”

  Laurel put her hand on his shoulders. “Please, please don’t go to sleep. Please, I want to talk to you. Ben, I love you.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders but she felt him drifting away from her, into that place where he could always hide.

  He lay with his back to her. “Look, Laurel, I don’t think this is what I want. Maybe you should move back to your apartment for a while.”

  “Then why did you bring me here? To sit at a football game between you and him. Is that all I’m here for?”

  Ben groaned. “Would you please keep it down?”

  “How can you possibly know what you want? You don’t even try. You haven’t even tried since I met you.”

  Suddenly Laurel was out of bed. She stood in her pink nightgown in the middle of a hooked rug in a patch of light, coming from the moon. She stood in that patch of light and Ben turned over onto his back.

  She was crying and Ben just stared at her. He saw her standing there at the side of the bed, the light coming from the window through her pink nightgown. He saw her legs, her thighs, her breasts. He looked up at her hands, shielding her face and her disheveled hair, and she reminded him of another moment in his life, when he’d thought he’d seen his mother standing at the edge of his bed, just before she died. “Come here.” He pulled the covers back and made a space for her to lie down. She was cold and shivering and he held her close. He kissed her gently on the forehead as she drifted to sleep.

  But Ben couldn’t sleep and after a little while he eased his way out of the bed. Leaving Laurel resting on the pillow, he slipped downstairs to get a drink of water. When he reached the first landing, he saw his father, sitting under a small lamp, reading from a journal on biochemistry. Ben wanted to go back into his room but his father had already seen him. “Hi there,” Harry said. “Wanta beer?”

  Ben said sure so Harry went and got two Heinekens. He popped them open and they sat down across from one another. “I had a fight with Laurel,” Ben said, wondering why he said that.

  Harry nodded. “The house isn’t very soundproof.” Harry took a long swig. “So, do you guys have plans?”

  Ben was starting to feel uncomfortable. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe and he wanted to go back upstairs. “No, we don’t have plans. We fight too much.”

  “Nothing wrong with a good fight now and then. Martha and me, we fight sometimes, but I think it’s better than keeping it all inside, the way your mother did.”

  The wind was howling outside and the house suddenly seemed colder to Ben. His father looked odd under the light of the Tensor lamp. Finally Ben whispered, “But you and Mom, you were so happy.”

  Harry shrugged. “Oh, I loved your mother, but I never felt close to her. Martha, she’s my friend. We don’t have any secrets.” He finished his beer. “It’s not the same as with your mother, of course. But in some ways it’s better.” He paused, as if expecting Ben to say something, but Ben could think of nothing to say. “Hey,” his father put his hand on his knee, “why don’t you guys stay a few extra days and go fishing with me?”

  Ben shook his head and yawned. “We’ve gotta get back. I guess I’d better get some sleep now.” His whole body trembled. He didn’t know what else to say. His father got up too, stretched, and they climbed the stairs together. When they reached the landing, they paused. His father touched him on the shoulder. “Don’t say I didn’t ask.” Then they went into their separate rooms.

  In the morning Laurel got up first. She looked out the window. It was a clear, cool day, good for flying. The room was chilly and she dressed quickly. Ben reached out and grabbed her while she was dressing. He pulled her to him and kissed her on the neck. “Hey,” she said to him, “what’s gotten into you?”

  When Laurel went downstairs, she saw Martha sitting with a cup of coffee, staring down at the beach. “Look at that bird,” Martha said. “It must be hurt.”

  Laurel looked out and saw the gull, running around in circles. Its head seemed connected to its wing and it kept twisting and turning. Then it would flop down exhausted on the sand. Then begin again. Something protruded from the wing, like a piece of bone, and it seemed to be sticking through. The gull turned and ran frantically, then sank back into the sand again.

  Ben and Harry had come down by this time and they went out to the railing above the beach to look. “Its wing looks broken,” Ben said.

  But Laurel saw the thin, silver-blue fish protruding from under the wing, the wire wrapped around the body. “It’s tangled up in something.”

  Ben leaned further over the railing. “You’re right. It’s all tangled up.” Harry thought of the thick, green gardener’s gloves and the wire cutters and he headed for the garage. Laurel and Ben went down to the beach together. They bent over the gull as it shook with pain, its wing hooked to its neck, the neck hooked to the mouth. It had three hooks in it and the blue-silver fish was the lure it had tried to take in its mouth. “Go tell my dad to hurry,” Ben said.

  Laurel ran up the steps. She wished she hadn’t had any coffee on an empty stomach. She began to feel jittery and nauseous as she raced across the yard. She went into the house. “She’s taken a lure,” Laurel said to Martha.

  “Oh, how awful,” Martha replied, handing Laurel a warm sweater. “Put this on, dear.” Laurel went into the garage, but Harry had already headed to the beach. She saw his head disappear as he descended the steps. She ran back to the railing to see if they needed anything from the house.

  Ben and Harry had already put on the gardener’s gloves and they were stooping over the bird. She watched from the railing above them while Ben held the gull as steadily as he could and his father, the doctor, snipped at the wires connecting the plastic sardine. After a few moments Harry tossed the sardine away. Ben and Harry, their hands entangled, worked on the hooks, squatting over the gull. In whispers they gave each other instructions. Laurel heard Ben say, “Dad, I can’t get this one out
of her wing.” She heard Harry reply, “We’ll have to give it a good yank.” Then their voices faded and all Laurel could hear was the sound of the water.

  Laurel was about to head down to join them when Martha, who had come to the railing, caught her by the arm. “They seem to be making out well,” Martha said, as she led Laurel by the arm back toward the house and into the kitchen. The two women stood by the sink, cracking eggs, with their eyes to the window, watching the horizon. After a few minutes, they saw the gull rise from the beach and fly shakily to a distant rock. It landed on the rock and flapped its wings several times. They kept their eyes on it until it flew away.

  Ben convinced Laurel to stay a little longer so that he and Harry could go fishing. They came back with enough lake trout for dinner. The trout had sleek, rainbow bodies and Harry commented on how it was rare this time of year to be able to catch this many because the water was already turning cold and the fish had gone down deep.

  The winter my parents took us from the freezing suburbs of Chicago to Florida, I began to steal. It wasn’t anything I’d intended, anything I had planned. It just happened that way. Every year we begged them to take us with them and every year they said no. In winter when the Illinois snow was piled in six-foot drifts and I could skate in the streets to school, my mother and father would get into their car, leaving us with Mini, the Italian woman who cleaned our house, or with our dreaded aunt Miranda, who raised children by the book, and head south for two weeks without us.

  I watched them go. I’d place my nose against the window of the car and stare as my mother disappeared behind her own breath, steaming the glass first with kisses, then with admonishments, and finally with her shouts, pleading with whomever was in charge to take us away. Once I had to be pried off the car as if dry ice held me there.

  Those two weeks without my parents were always unclear in my mind, foggy like my mother’s image through the glass. What I found I remembered most wasn’t what I’d done while they were gone, but where they’d been. They sent us cards from along the way. Year after year it was the same cards. Thoroughbred horses grazing on the bluegrass of Kentucky. Moss-covered manses from Georgia. And then from Florida a stream of oranges, thick upon the trees, aquatic birds, rising, a view of the sea, the generic alligator. The postcards came from places that had dream names to me—Chattanooga, Savannah, the Everglades. For the two weeks each winter that they were away and my brother Sam and I waded knee-deep in snow, I pictured my parents on islands named Sanibel or Paradise, surrounded by pink birds and lianas, alligators nipping at their heels.