Dead Letters(68)

Our cries of joy are only temporarily stifled, though, and soon we’re squawking again. We are caught up in the frantic joy of play. The giddy desire to win but also the need to keep the game going indefinitely, regardless of the winner. To disregard the rules, heaving them to the side in order to prolong the suspense.

“I say, I say, this is a travesty,” Zelda giggles as, back on the dock, she tries to get leverage against Marlon’s hip bone. He deftly skips away just as she attempts to reinforce her position and lunges at him with the full weight of her body. Her hands slide off his wet midriff, her balance is shot, and she collapses into the drink. Her head pops up immediately. “You are an imitable cad, Mr. Marlon!” she calls out. She has been obsessed with anything concerning the Civil War for the last two months. She is entranced by this history of division, a separation that could have taken place but didn’t. She is prefiguring our parents’ divorce, exploring our eternal union. And talking in the most ridiculous southern belle dialect. It’s driving us all insane.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s correct,” Marlon booms. “But I’m afraid that I’m”—he picks me up—“the sovereign leader”—he dangles me out over the water as my feet scrabble for the wood, my fingers grab for his arms, and I giggle in terror—“of this here territory!” He drops me summarily into the water. “The Yankees win again!” he crows.

“Jesus, Marlon,” Nadine snipes from the shore. “You’re the adult. Someone’s going to get hurt.” We ignore her.

“But you’re not a Yankee, Daddy!” I correct. “You’d be a Confederate! Because you’re from Florida.”

“Geographically speaking, I would be,” Marlon says. “But not in my heart of hearts.” He seats himself on the edge of the dock, his legs dangling into the water as Zelda and I circle him; we are scheming little mermaids.

“I’d be a Rebel,” Zelda declares.

“Racist,” I inform her.

“That has nothing to do with it, idiot,” she responds, splashing me. “It’s about federal centralization.”

“Racist,” I repeat.

“Are you going to prevent the second Civil War, darling, or do I need to get involved?” Nadine threatens from beneath the shelter of her pin-striped beach umbrella.

“Let’s both try and get Daddy in the water,” Zelda says to me. I miss the undertone of her voice, fail to recognize the sound of her plotting.

“Now, I know neither one of you is thinking about pulling on my toes underwater. How absolutely just awful that would be. I know that it hasn’t even crossed your minds to try and get me off the dock….” Marlon baits us innocently. I giggle mischievously and paddle down to his toes, pretending that I’m a big fish taking the bait of his white digits. From beneath the water, I can hear him howling in exaggerated horror.

“Oh, God, some fish has my toes!” My knees thrash out and I encounter Zelda’s thigh, and she kicks back at me. When I surface for breath, I realize she’s trying to tug Marlon off the dock by towing on his calf. Though it’s clearly obvious this won’t work, I join her and we churn our feet, pulling on our father. “Oh, here I go! Crap, I’m going to fall in!” Marlon protests, subtly heaving himself into the water. We cry out in triumph and swarm around him, starved sharks in a feeding frenzy of parental attention. I cling to his arm joyously, swollen with victory. Now everything is perfect! This is all I wanted. But Zelda has not forgotten the purpose of the game: to win control of the dock. She knew that I would be content with this small conquest, hanging on Marlon’s arm and distracted by affection. She has dashed up onto the planking and crows the success of her coup.

“We can’t stand for that, can we, Little A?” Marlon asks me conspiratorially. “You ready?”

I nod feverishly, my eyes and nose burning from a day spent largely underwater, and prepare myself to be launched back toward the dock. I put my foot into the clasp of Marlon’s hands and he propels me up and through the water. I picture myself landing on the dock fully upright to challenge Zelda, but I’ve misunderstood the intended trajectory of Marlon’s launch; he seems to have imagined me covering a couple feet of water, splashing in, and then hoisting myself up. I realize too late that I am fully unprepared to reenter the water, that my head is angled all wrong, my hands outstretched. Time slows down as I fly toward the dock and collide into it, crashing back beneath the water.

When I come up, I’m wailing. Not just because I’m hurt, though I am, but because my dramatic attempt to retake the lost territory has been so indecorously thwarted. A military disgrace. I’ve smacked my ribs and swallowed water, and the raw burning sensation makes my eyes leak. It’s hard to cry and tread water.

“What did I say?” Nadine asks calmly, not lifting her eyes from her magazine. “Someone always ends up crying in your games, Marlon.”

Our father doesn’t give any sign of having heard her, though he does collect me sympathetically. “C’mon, let’s get out of the water, Little A,” he soothes.

“Nooo!” I wail. “I want to keep playing!”

“Maybe in a bit.”

“I guess I win,” Zelda says, smug, her hands on her hips.

“No, you don’t!” I spit out. “The game’s not over.”