This feeling made her uncomfortable.
She saw Nina and Florin return to their spots by the pool, Florin with her brown pixie cut and her sensible bikini-and-wrap combo; the blonde Nina in the brightest pink bikini she could get away with. She saw Florin lie back down with her arm over her face, saw Nina reposition her straw hat with the pink bow. And then, for some reason, she noticed Ned Dunn again.
What is he doing?
He wasn’t with Pauline anymore. After all that arguing with James earlier, and despite finally having his bathing suit on, he didn’t seem interested in the baby pool anymore. Or the main pool, for that matter, though he was certainly a strong enough swimmer. He walked toward the pool edge as if he were going to jump in, but then turned at the last moment, zigging diagonally away. Now he walked parallel to the pool for a minute, then toward it, then back away again.
He was walking in circles.
Which would not have been worth noticing, except that Ned was not being careful with these circles. He was running into things. Stepping on people lying on towels as he moved over and past them. Already two men had glared at him for coming uncomfortably close to their faces, and one woman actually cried out as he stepped on her hair while walking by. The truly strange thing was that Ned didn’t seem to be doing any of this on purpose. He was not acting malicious, or even mischievous, which is the occasional privilege of eleven-year-olds everywhere. No, Devon thought, Ned just seemed oblivious.
He’s in some kind of fog.
Meanwhile, Frankie’s giggling had grown louder. Devon took her attention away from Ned for a moment, and she saw that Mr. Dunn was enjoying a rare daytime bout of high spirits. He was playing airplane with Frankie, swinging the child around and around in ever-widening arcs. Frankie sounded delighted, but Devon didn’t think James’s father looked sober enough to be spinning in the first place, let alone spinning while holding a ten-month-old by one ankle and one wrist.
It was a hot day. Surely that ankle and that wrist were sweaty. Slippery.
All at once, Devon’s concern tolerance was exceeded. She glanced back at her parents, who were both gazing at her with semi-rapturous expressions on their faces. “I need both of you with me,” she said, and stood briskly.
To their credit, Peter and Cynthia Hall did not stare back at her dumbly, or even ask her to explain herself. They rose immediately, trusting that more information would come as needed. Devon walked quickly to the stairs, talking as she went. “The pool is making me nervous,” she said. “Mr. Dunn, and Frankie, and Ned,” she added.
It was enough. Her parents took one second to digest the layout before them, and they saw exactly what their daughter had seen: an eleven-year-old pacing like a caged animal; a semi-stoned, semi-heat-stroked father twirling his infant son around like a mouse on a string; no one doing anything about it. Without a word, they set about their individual tasks. Peter Hall moved smoothly but quickly toward Mr. Dunn and Frankie, while Cynthia Hall and her daughter split up and began closing in on Ned Dunn’s position.
Mrs. Dunn, meanwhile, was still chatting with the pool lifeguard. Crossing and uncrossing her legs. Running a chipped fingernail helpfully down her oiled, tummy-tuck-scarred stomach, so that the boy sitting atop the chair could not possibly misunderstand what she meant.
Devon and her mother moved toward Ned slowly, not wanting to startle him. They ambled, as though corralling a sleepwalker. Or an errant Alzheimer’s patient.
Jerry Dunn was another story, and Devon’s father was moving as quickly as he dared toward the big man. Frankie was beginning to fly around in circles that were far too wide, far too fast. The biggest problem was that Mr. Dunn was simply very far away. There were too many people – people sitting in chairs, lounging under umbrellas, lying on towels – between Peter Hall and Mr. Dunn. The Beach Club pool had never seemed so huge. Peter could hear Frankie giggling even louder now, giggling in a breathless, over-stimulated, this-is-becoming-scary tone of voice, and Peter tried to move faster. He began jumping over people, risking shins, unprotected stomachs, even heads. But now Jerry Dunn was spinning faster and faster, and he was beginning to waver back and forth like a top that is losing its equilibrium, a top whose center of gravity has shifted outside the rotational axis and will, within seconds, go careening off catastrophically –
And suddenly big Mr. Dunn decided the game wasn’t fun anymore. The ride was over. From his own queasy expression, the spinning may have been making his own head turn in a way that felt not quite right. He stopped spinning, managing as he did so to avoid the edge of the pool by just inches, and put Frankie down. He deposited the child on the warm bricks behind a chair – as if that would keep him from crawling into the pool – and walked away without another glance in Frankie’s direction. Perhaps off to the bathroom. Or to order himself a fresh cocktail, to calm his spinning head.
Ten-month-old Frankie Dunn sat silently for a few seconds, unblinking, catching his breath and letting the world reorient itself around him. His head wobbled gently from side to side, as though the momentum of the adventure were still working itself through his system. His expression was uncertain. Had that been fun, or terrifying? He checked to his left and right, searching for a familiar face or voice. Or even a smell. Finding no source of immediate comfort, he decided abruptly that he was scared and angry, and began to cry.
At the sound of Frankie’s distress, James’s head popped up from its resting place as though tugged by a string. But his eyes were still closed. “Ned,” he called. “Can you please go pick up Frankie. Please?” The timber of his voice was painful. “I need two minutes of sleep.”
Ned stopped his pacing immediately. He seemed to realize where he was, and he began stepping carefully toward his little brother.
Devon and her mother stopped. Reversed direction. They retreated to the far corner of the pool, where they regrouped with Devon’s father.
Crisis avoided. Stand down.
Ned picked up Frankie, who was immediately comforted. He stopped crying, and he looked at his older brother with relief and adoration. My God, you’re exactly who I was hoping would pick me up.
Ned gave Frankie an affectionate poke in the belly, making Frankie burble with happiness. Then Ned poked his own naked belly and made a burbling sound himself. Frankie saw the connection and cackled with delight. My belly, your belly. Outstanding. Show me once more, won’t you?
Ned obliged him, still talking. “Did Daddy give you a nice airplane ride?” he asked. Frankie made a non-committal daa sound, as though the merits of Mr. Dunn’s airplane rides were still under review. “It looked like fun,” Ned said to him, nodding with encouragement.
Devon glanced at her mother, who shrugged. So he wasn’t catatonic. He was just pacing around. He saw his dad swinging his little brother. He’s okay.
But then, all at once, nothing was okay.
In a single, fluid motion, Ned Dunn shifted his infant brother from the crook of his arm to his hands, and he took hold of one ankle and one wrist. “Like this?” Ned asked, smiling brightly. Frankie giggled a half-hearted agreement. He was still in his older brother’s care, after all. Without pausing, Ned began spinning Frankie around in full-arm-length circles. Just as his father had. Except that these circles were smaller – and therefore faster – than Jerry Dunn had been making. Which Devon hadn’t thought was possible.
Stand up. Crisis back on.
The Hall family moved.
It was time for Frankie’s Big Ride.
The Injury Was Severe
Peter Hall was sprinting now. He had come this way before, and he was surer on his feet. Surer of the path he needed to take. Over those legs, around that chair, over that straw-hat-covered head and the upturned face with the arm over it (in the back of his mind, information presented but ignored: Nina and Florin). He was moving so much faster now, faster than the first time, but he wondered whether it would be fast enough. Ned was already very close to the edge of the pool, and Peter was sure the boy was go
ing to tumble in at any minute. Or trip on the edge and come crashing to the ground, taking Frankie with him.
Devon was frozen to the spot. She held her breath and willed her father to move faster, please, faster, even though he was already hurtling across the human obstacle course in front of him with a grace and speed that would have made a track coach proud. She looked at her mother, who was glaring at the pool lifeguard with distress and an uncommon glint of indecision. As if she thought he might actually make the situation worse, even if she did manage to get his attention in time. Devon broke out of her spell long enough to pull at her mother’s sleeve. “No, Mom. Use him.”
Cynthia Hall looked where her daughter was pointing, and she saw the new boy still at his laps, nearing the far end of the pool. Ned and his infant brother were now going even faster, turning like a pair of drunken skating partners. “Austin Riley!” Cynthia boomed, and her third-grade-teacher voice, brought automatically to its full volume and its highest, most authoritative register, made every last person at poolside – and many up on the cafeteria overlook, far out of sight – sit up quickly and hope that they were not the ones in trouble. They had done all their homework, and they would be happy to come up to the board if necessary.
Austin was in mid-stroke when Mrs. Hall called his name, but he obviously heard her perfectly well. He stopped and treaded water, looking for that voice of unmistakable command.
“Austin Riley, you are on immediate lifeguard duty, do you understand?” Cynthia said, and pointed at the spinning boy at the edge of the pool.
Ned’s infant brother was now beginning to make distinct sounds of distress.
Austin did not answer. He turned and faced the direction that Mrs. Hall had indicated, and he put his hands up above the surface slowly, like a water-polo goalie anticipating a shot. Devon Hall, in spite of the stress of the situation, found herself pleased at Austin’s reaction. She was glad that he had not protested or questioned her mother’s command. That would have been unforgivable. Also, she couldn’t help but think:
How did my mother know his full name? Or even his first name? Why didn’t she tell me? What else does she know about him?
Peter Hall was almost there. He was dimly aware that his wife had managed to cover the pool side of the equation, and he adjusted his course to favor the remaining half of Ned’s now frighteningly rapid rotation. The boy was drifting farther and farther away from the pool as he spun, moving closer to the low brick wall of the main club enclosure. There were flower boxes of beach roses there at roughly hip level, to distract from the sight of the road and the narrow brick sidewalk below. Peter was less than five feet away now, and he slowed his speed by a quarter step to avoid knocking into Ned and his little brother. He put out one hand, reaching to create a cushion that would slow and then stop this dangerous game. Devon saw him there, and she allowed herself to begin breathing again. He only needed another half-second.
But that was when Ned let Frankie go.
It may have been because it was so hot. Either because Ned’s hands had grown slippery with the sweat of an active and overheated eleven-year-old, or because Frankie himself had been in and out of the baby pool that morning to ward off the heat, and was still slick with a combination of moisturizer and sun lotion and water. It may also have been that Ned Dunn momentarily lost focus; that he was thinking, just for an instant, about things no eleven-year-old should have to consider.
For this we should not and will not judge him.
Regardless, little Frankie Dunn suddenly found himself flying through the air. Not toward the pool, where Austin Riley briefly raised his hands up higher, as though protesting that the pass should have gone to him, that he was open, damn it, and ready to score. Ned had been facing the other direction at the moment of release, and his hands were approaching the top of their arc. It was an unintentional and perfectly executed hammer-throw, generating optimum height and speed. Except that the hammer was Frankie.
Frankie knew none of this. He felt a sudden and welcome lack of pressure in his head and midsection – the centrifugal force that had been building as Ned’s speed increased – and without this pressure, the ride became fun again. As he soared up and over the brick wall and the flower boxes and off toward the sidewalk and street outside the club, Frankie made a happy and relieved cooing sound. The air moved past him and tickled his naked belly.
Peter Hall’s hand was already outstretched – he actually felt the warmth of Frankie’s smooth skin brush past his fingertips on that last swing – but he also saw Frankie’s ankle, as though in slow motion, work its way free of Ned’s grasp, and in the instant before Frankie’s arm had a chance to let go as well, Devon’s father was already planting one foot low and hard on the bricks.
Ready for the jump.
From the side, it was a beautiful thing to watch. The front desk man was the only one with the right viewing angle; he would tell the story quietly, reverently, after hours to the cafeteria staff and the head office workers for years afterward, how Mr. Hall and the Dunn child had seemed to be leaping at the same moment; how they could not have moved with such synchronous precision if they had tried to plan it; how Peter Hall’s body had gone completely horizontal as he jumped, one arm reaching out with full, desperate extension, like a wide receiver putting everything on the line for the final touchdown play.
The experience was, for Peter Hall, less serene. He knew that he would not be able to reach the child. That despite everything, despite jumping as far and as fast as he could, he would be too late, and that little Frankie would plunge the fifteen feet down to the uncaring, unyielding brick sidewalk at the outside of the Beach Club wall with a sickening crunch of skull and bone.
Still, Peter Hall would try. God, he would try.
As he flew through the air, reaching, reaching to save the life of a child who knew only that he was going on quite an airplane ride, he heard Frankie Dunn coo with pleasure.
Devon was briefly convinced she was hallucinating. She saw her father make it to Ned in time. He made it in time, she thought, and relaxed. And then both Frankie and her father were suddenly gone, leaving Ned standing alone at the end of the pool. It happened so fast that Devon couldn’t be sure she had seen it right. No, she argued to herself. No, he made it in time. I saw him. One minute her father was there. And then he was flying through space, as though he had stepped on a land mine hidden in the brick patio of the Beach Club. An instant later, both he and Frankie were gone, the only evidence of their existence to be found in the trembling of beach roses, brushed in their flower boxes by the hurtling Peter Hall as his trailing legs passed over them.
Did my father just dive over the fucking wall?
There was a long moment of silence, and then the entire pool enclosure erupted into chaos. Men and women jumped up from their towels and chairs and chaises and went running to the edge of the wall, peering over and jostling for position as if hoping to catch a glimpse of a passing rockstar. Cynthia Hall took a single, hesitant step toward the wall, and then stopped.
Devon could not move at all.
“Can you see them?” someone shouted. Devon was vaguely aware that Nina and Florin had appeared at her side. They were asking her what had happened, was she okay, was her dad okay, what should they do, but Devon only shook her head. Her eyes were locked on the place where her father had just been, where the beach roses were still swaying slowly.
There was a sudden wail from beneath the lifeguard chair. Someone had managed to explain to Tracy Dunn what had happened, and she jumped up and began waving her arms up and down frantically. Her eyes were wild, her expression more angry than upset. She seemed to be searching for someone to blame.
That person would suffer, those wild eyes said.
Jerry Dunn appeared at the top of the mezzanine stairs, holding a fresh drink and looking perplexed. He knew very well the sound of his wife’s anger, but he was puzzled to hear this particular tone of fury – which was usually reserved for curse-laden speeches o
n his uselessness and infidelity – being delivered when he was not even present. He wondered what, or who, could have set her off like this. Certainly not the poor pool lifeguard, who was still sitting atop his white perch, looking disoriented and helpless. And not Pauline, who was generally assumed to be the victim of his own advances, rather than the other way around.
Even though that was certainly not the case, Jerry Dunn thought. And he allowed himself a satisfied smirk. The affection between Pauline and himself was mutual, and real. He would never have admitted as much to his wife – or to anyone – but lately Jerry Dunn had been telling himself that he might actually be falling in love with the babysitter.
Not that his wife could have understood such a thing, he reminded himself. She would probably just shout at him some more.
James Dunn was fully awake and up now, too, but handling himself far better than either of his parents. He was standing by Ned, and trying to extract a clear explanation of what had happened. Amazingly, he was not yelling at Ned, or even raising his voice. Perhaps because he had learned always to act in a way that was the exact opposite of whatever Pauline would do. “But where did Frankie go?” James said slowly. “You were swinging him, and then what?”
Ned looked up at his older brother with an expression of profound confusion. There had been some mistake. He had been trying to help. “Dad was spinning him,” Ned said, his words halting and unsure. “And… you told me to pick him up. I thought… he’d want to spin again. Like Dad was doing with him.” Ned stopped and craned his head forward, trying to emphasize a point. “Dad was spinning him. Like a dad, you know? Like dads do?” His eyes were desperate. Wanting so badly for James to understand. To understand these things that he could not say. Did not know how to say.
Southampton Spectacular Page 5