Pool Night, Part 2 of 3


"So do I get a guided tour of the house?" Monica asks. She stands up and
holds the wineglass close against her chest and begins to look around the
room.
"There's not much to see. It's a small house." The house is a long-term
lease from a friend in the English Department who has moved to Africa, where
he is teaching Kenyan students about James Joyce and William Faulkner. He
still makes payments on the house, and I reimburse him each month. People
have asked why I do not go ahead and buy the house, but I cannot tell them
the answer. Perhaps I am looking for something else, perhaps not. I do not
know, but my problem may be that buying a house would be an admission of
failure in my marriage. I do not know. "I thought we could barbecue some
steaks for dinner," I say.
"Neat. Lead on."
We go out into the backyard, where I have already prepared the gas grill and
have the steaks in an ice chest next to the grill. The steaks are marinating
in teryaki sauce and a little garlic. "I didn't tell you about the pool, did
I?" I ask.
She seems impressed by the pool. She goes to a lounge chair and sits on the
edge sipping her wine. "No, you didn't. If I'd known I could have brought a
suit." She is pretty, with long red hair tied at the back in a loose
ponytail, and her eyes are green, much like the cat's.
"I thought my daughter could have friends over," I say. I turn away from her
and open the grill. "How do you like your steak?"
"Medium-well, I guess. I'm not much into meat."
I turn back to her. "We could go out, if you like. Or there's salad. Lots of
salad. A big bowl."
She laughs and shakes her head. "I live in the dorm, and the meat there is
soybean. It's really gross. I love steak." She stands up. "Mind if I get
another glass of wine?" She holds the glass out; it's nearly empty.
"Sure, it's in the refrigerator."
She starts toward the sliding door, then stops and turns. "Would you like
something?" Her cutoffs are short, and in the late-afternoon light I can see
very fine reddish-blond hairs on her thighs glowing like tiny fires.
"No." I hold up my glass, which I've barely touched. "There's a bottle of
something in the cabinet under the sink." She stands there looking at me. "I
think the corkscrew is in the silverware drawer," I say.
"Okay," she says, and leaves into the house.
The grill is easy to use. Turn on the gas and get the heavy cast-iron grill
part hot, then put on the steaks. But for some reason tonight it won't
start. I use up half a box of matches before I realize the gas is barely on,
so I reach down and open the valve on the tank a little further. This cures
the problem, and when Monica gets back the fire is started and I'm getting
the steaks out of the plastic container in the ice chest. Below the ice are
twelve cans of beer which I bought earlier in the day.
"Why don't I put this on ice and then we won't have to go inside until it's
time to eat," she says. She's got a bottle of Burgundy and the corkscrew.
"Burgundy doesn't need to be too cool," I say. "But it's so warm outside it
wouldn't hurt to put it on top of the ice."
"You've got beer, too," she says when she kneels down to put the wine away.
Her legs are strong and well-shaped. She's a beautiful girl.
"Yeah. The beer. I didn't know what you'd like, and then I forgot it was
here until I got the steaks out."
She stands up and looks at me. "You're not going to try getting me drunk,
are you, David?" She must understand from my return look that this is not
the case, because then she winks and says, "I was just kidding. You wouldn't
do something like that, would you?"
"No," I say, but if the regents found out about Monica's visit, this would
be the first thing on their minds. "I just figured you're used to beer at
parties and things," I tell her. The steaks are beginning to sizzle, and
this gives me the opportunity to check them with the long-tined fork.
"Yeah, beer's okay, but wine's sort of . . . more sophisticated, somehow."
"I like wine, but I don't drink much of it. It's for company." The two
bottles have been here for over two months; I opened the Zinfandel two weeks
ago and drank it with a microwave dinner. "The white's been opened for a
while," I say. "How is it?"
She sits on the lounge chair again. "I wouldn't know if it's good or not,
really. I don't drink it too often."
"The steaks will be ready in a little bit," I say. "If you'll watch them for
just a minute I'll go get the salad. Unless you'd like to eat inside, that
is."
"It's nice out here. Let's stay."
Inside I get the salad bowl and set it on the kitchen counter. The cat jumps
up and puts her nose to the plastic wrap covering the top, and I say "No,
kitty. No, Scarlett," and the cat looks at me and meows. I get her some dry
food from the cabinet above the sink and pour some into her bowl. She jumps
down and sniffs at the food, then looks up at me and opens her mouth as if
she's going to say something, but she doesn't. The phone rings, and it
startles me. I get the wall phone and answer, "Lear residence."
"Daddy? I just wanted to call and ask if everything was okay."
"Sure, baby. Things are fine. Why should you worry?" I feel good to think
she's concerned about me, but her tone makes me feel like a child.
"I was just wondering," she says. There's another voice on her end, in the
background, and she says something soft which I don't catch. "I met your
friend when I was there a little while ago. She's kind of young, isn't she?"

"She's not a student, if that's what you're thinking," I say. I am not lying
to her. Monica is an ex-student now. "We're just about to have dinner, in
fact." I realize I'm not making much sense, but I don't want my daughter
talking to me right now. "I thought you and Kevin had a date tonight. What
happened?" I ask.
"We're here at the house. Mother offered to cook dinner, and then we're
going to play Monopoly or something."
"That's good. In fact, if I don't get outside and check the steaks we'll
have to go out to eat, so I'd better let you get back to what you were
doing." The cat has wandered off somewhere, and I want to go ahead and get
the salad outside.
"Be careful, Daddy."
"I will, baby. Tell your mother hello for me."
"She knows I called you. She doesn't hate you, you know?" There's a
plaintive quality to her voice when she says this, and I am sorry all over
for not being with them. I want to apologize somehow, but I do not know how.
For the last two years of my marriage I had trouble communicating with my
wife, and Mandy was trapped in the position of mediator and messenger,
always having to translate for us.
"I'm glad you told her. I don't want you to have to feel guilty about being
in touch with me." I think she's crying, but maybe it's just something in
the line. "And if you want to come out here with your friends or anything,"
I say, "you can use the pool for a party or something."
"I'd like that, Daddy. Take care, huh? Please?"
"I will." I make a kissing noise into the receiver, only it comes out like a
slurp. "Bye, honey," I say, and the line goes dead. I hang up before the
dial tone starts and stack paper plates and salad dressing on a tray with
the bowl of salad.
When I get outside, Monica is sitting on the edge of the pool dangling her
legs in the water. She looks up and says, "The steaks smell good. I'm
starved." She stands, and I see that water runs down in droplets off her
calves, to her ankles, to the tops of her feet. She sees me looking. "It was
so warm, and the water felt so good. You don't mind, do you?"
She is truly a beautiful girl. In class she was always quiet, but when I
asked questions she was quick with answers. "Not a bit. I mean, not at all.
That's why the pool is here."
"Let's eat," she says.
There is a small picnic table under the awning by the back door, and we sit
there to eat. I turn on the bug zapper and it glows blue, begins almost
immediately to snap and pop with the tiny gnats and mites which fly into its
grill. As we eat our salads I have a momentary fantasy about being a bug
drawn into the machine, and I wonder whether they feel pain. While I think
this I look up at Monica sitting there across from me, her jaws working
gently on lettuce and tomato and radishes. "I'll get the steaks," I say.
The grill has been off during salad, but the meat is still hot, and I serve
the small T-bones on paper plates. Monica cuts off a small piece and holds
it on the fork in front of her lips, purses them, and blows on the meat, as
if blowing a kiss, then puts the piece in her mouth and chews with her eyes
closed. "It's perfect," she says. The expression on her face says this is
so. She cuts more and eats, and we don't talk, we just eat and sip wine and
look up at each other occasionally.
I finish my steak first. "Would you like something else? I could run down to
the store and get some pie or ice cream." She is just finishing, dabbing at
her lips with a paper napkin. "I'm not prepared so well. I'm not used to
company."
She stands and begins stacking up the paper plates. "Why don't you make
yourself comfortable," she says. "I'll go do the dishes." She giggles. "Pour
us a glass of wine. Sit down and relax. I'm not running off."
I start to protest, but she touches my shoulder and nudges me in the
direction of the lounge chairs. When she's gone I pour wine and leave her
glass on the table. I sit down and watch the water. The outdoor lights have
come on, and they glow softly. Insects flit in and out of the light like
tracer bullets in a war movie. The lights are small, more for atmosphere
than illumination, I suppose. They highlight the pebbles imbedded in the
concrete around the pool, but then the lights go off, leaving only the glow
of the pool's underwater lights. I start to rise, but Monica comes out and
gets the glass of wine from the table. She sits in the lounge next to me.
She tilts her glass back and takes a long sip. "I found the light switch,"
she says. "I always liked the way a pool shines at night."
"I sit out here sometimes and watch the water. It's very peaceful," I say.
There are a few small, white clouds moving in from the east, and I wonder if
it's going to rain. "I hoped my daughter Mandy and her friends would come
out and use the pool."
"I know," she says. I look at her. "You mentioned that before, David."
"Yes." As I answer I have a momentary thought of Mandy and her friends from
the high school splashing in the water of the pool, while her mother and I
sit back and watch them, then we get up to serve sodas and sandwiches. "I'm
not thinking too well lately," I say. "Or maybe it's just the wine."
She stretches, her arms extended fully like a cat's legs when it's getting
up from a nap, and the cotton blouse rides back up over her shoulders, then
goes back into position when her arms are down. "I feel . . . delicious,"
she says. "The water felt really good earlier. I'd love a swim."
I look at the water. The surface is calm, broken only by the slight breeze
blowing over the wooden privacy fence. "It's too bad you don't have a suit,"
I say. "And besides, you should never swim on a full stomach."