changed into bathing suits and slathered with lotion. (Skin cancer!) Brenda found plastic sand toys, bleached white by the sun, in a net bag in the shed. The toys were covered with years of dust and cobwebs and had to be rinsed with the hose. Then, lunch. Vicki suggested, for the sake of ease, picking up sandwiches at Claudette’s, but Brenda insisted on a picnic hodgepodged together from the bizarre ingredients she had brought home from the market: bread and goat cheese, figs and strawberries. At the mention of these provisions, Melanie gagged and ran for the bathroom. Vicki and Brenda listened to her throwing up as they folded the beach towels.
“Try not to upset her,” Vicki said.
“She’s pretty sensitive,” Brenda said.
“She’s going through a lot,” Vicki said.
“ You’re going through a lot,” Brenda said. She stuffed the towels into a mildewed canvas tote that had belonged to Aunt Liv. “What are we going to do on Tuesday, when I take you for your port installation? The doctors said it would take all morning. There is no way she can handle both kids by herself all morning.”
“Sure she can.”
“She cannot. I could barely do it myself. And, I hate to bring this up, I mean, I’m happy to help with the kids and all, that is why I’m here, but I was hoping to get some work done this summer. On my screenplay.”
Vicki took a breath. Brenda was so predictable, but maybe only to Vicki. Vicki heard Ted’s words: Your sister says she wants to help, but she won’t help. She’ll be too busy reading to help. That was how it always went. When Vicki and Brenda were children, Brenda had been excused from all kinds of chores—setting the table, folding laundry, cleaning her room—because she was too busy reading . Even if it was only the newspaper, when Brenda was reading, it had been considered sacrilegious to ask her to stop. Buzz and Ellen Lyndon had done a thorough (if unintentional) job of labeling their girls: Vicki was the go-getter, organized and hardworking, whereas Brenda had been blessed with the kind of rarefied genius that had to be coddled. Although Brenda was only sixteen months younger than Vicki, nothing was expected of her. She and her “great mind” were tiptoed around like a sleeping baby.
Melanie came out of the bathroom, wiping at her lips. “Sorry,” she said. “Can I just have a piece of bread, please? With nothing on it?”
“Sure,” Brenda said. “My pleasure.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Okay, Vicki thought . Okay?
The morning sparkled. Vicki, Brenda, and Melanie rambled down the streets of ’Sconset toward the town beach. Vicki was carrying Porter, who kept sticking his hand into her bikini top and pinching her nipple. She had tried to give him a bottle that morning, but he threw it defiantly to the floor. Then he lunged for Vicki, fell out of the high chair, and bumped his head on the table. Tears. The subsequent fussing over Porter made Blaine irate—he proceeded to march out the front door and urinate on the flagstone walk. Lovely.
Vicki removed Porter’s hand from her breast. “Sorry, buddy.” Brenda was up ahead schlepping the beach bag with towels and lotion, the net bag of plastic sand toys, the cooler with lunch and drinks, two beach chairs, and the umbrella. Melanie was wearing her wide-brimmed straw hat and carrying a leather purse. Brenda had caught Vicki’s eye when Melanie emerged with the purse as if to say, Who the hell takes a purse to the beach? As if to say, I’m loaded down like a camel traveling across the Sahara and she’s got a little something from Coach? Vicki almost suggested Melanie leave the purse behind—there was nothing to buy—but she was afraid she’d scare Melanie away. Melanie hadn’t even wanted to come to the beach; she’d wanted to stay in the cottage in case Peter called.
Melanie was also attempting to hold Blaine’s hand. She grasped it for five seconds, but then he raced ahead, into the road,
“Try not to upset her,” Vicki said.
“She’s pretty sensitive,” Brenda said.
“She’s going through a lot,” Vicki said.
“ You’re going through a lot,” Brenda said. She stuffed the towels into a mildewed canvas tote that had belonged to Aunt Liv. “What are we going to do on Tuesday, when I take you for your port installation? The doctors said it would take all morning. There is no way she can handle both kids by herself all morning.”
“Sure she can.”
“She cannot. I could barely do it myself. And, I hate to bring this up, I mean, I’m happy to help with the kids and all, that is why I’m here, but I was hoping to get some work done this summer. On my screenplay.”
Vicki took a breath. Brenda was so predictable, but maybe only to Vicki. Vicki heard Ted’s words: Your sister says she wants to help, but she won’t help. She’ll be too busy reading to help. That was how it always went. When Vicki and Brenda were children, Brenda had been excused from all kinds of chores—setting the table, folding laundry, cleaning her room—because she was too busy reading . Even if it was only the newspaper, when Brenda was reading, it had been considered sacrilegious to ask her to stop. Buzz and Ellen Lyndon had done a thorough (if unintentional) job of labeling their girls: Vicki was the go-getter, organized and hardworking, whereas Brenda had been blessed with the kind of rarefied genius that had to be coddled. Although Brenda was only sixteen months younger than Vicki, nothing was expected of her. She and her “great mind” were tiptoed around like a sleeping baby.
Melanie came out of the bathroom, wiping at her lips. “Sorry,” she said. “Can I just have a piece of bread, please? With nothing on it?”
“Sure,” Brenda said. “My pleasure.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Okay, Vicki thought . Okay?
The morning sparkled. Vicki, Brenda, and Melanie rambled down the streets of ’Sconset toward the town beach. Vicki was carrying Porter, who kept sticking his hand into her bikini top and pinching her nipple. She had tried to give him a bottle that morning, but he threw it defiantly to the floor. Then he lunged for Vicki, fell out of the high chair, and bumped his head on the table. Tears. The subsequent fussing over Porter made Blaine irate—he proceeded to march out the front door and urinate on the flagstone walk. Lovely.
Vicki removed Porter’s hand from her breast. “Sorry, buddy.” Brenda was up ahead schlepping the beach bag with towels and lotion, the net bag of plastic sand toys, the cooler with lunch and drinks, two beach chairs, and the umbrella. Melanie was wearing her wide-brimmed straw hat and carrying a leather purse. Brenda had caught Vicki’s eye when Melanie emerged with the purse as if to say, Who the hell takes a purse to the beach? As if to say, I’m loaded down like a camel traveling across the Sahara and she’s got a little something from Coach? Vicki almost suggested Melanie leave the purse behind—there was nothing to buy—but she was afraid she’d scare Melanie away. Melanie hadn’t even wanted to come to the beach; she’d wanted to stay in the cottage in case Peter called.
Melanie was also attempting to hold Blaine’s hand. She grasped it for five seconds, but then he raced ahead, into the road,
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