Lucy by the Sea (21)

I have always liked Melvin. He has a charm to him, he is youthful-looking, and I always sort of felt bad that he was married to Barbara, who I thought was never—since I had known her—a happy woman.

William said, “Hello, Melvin. Let’s not shake hands, there’s a pandemic going on.”

“Look at you guys,” and Melvin laughed. Without his sunglasses on you could see the whiteness of the laugh lines by his eyes; his face was that tanned. “You all look ready to do surgery. Holy Christ.”

William said to Melvin, “Let’s talk,” and he indicated with his hand that the two of them should go back to the pool area.

“Okay then,” said Melvin, with a small shake of his head. “But my God you’re making me feel strange.” He put his sunglasses back on.

The driver took suitcases and golf bags out of the trunk and leaned them against the car.



—

William stood while Melvin sat in a pool chair. I asked Barbara how she was, and she said, Oh, you know, she was fine, but she put her attention to Michael and asked after him and they talked about Michael’s brother, who lived in Massachusetts, and I looked back at the girls, and they seemed tense, as was I, but we kept glancing at one another in a conspiratorial way and trying to chat.

Melvin finally pushed his chair back, noisily, and he stood up and he said, “Okay, okay.”

I thought he’d be irritated but he came back smiling. He said, “Lucy, how are you?” And I said I was all right. Then he said to Michael, “Son, why don’t you go inside and get the key for the SUV, I’d appreciate it. And then we’ll leave you alone so you won’t get our Florida cooties.” He turned and beamed at all of us, spreading his hands out, up and flat into the air with his fingers wiggling.

Michael went inside and came out and tossed a key to his father. His father caught it, and I was glad he did, I could tell it made him feel manly. Michael went to the garage and pushed a button and the door rose in front of the big black SUV. Melvin backed it out, and he put the suitcases in it, and the two bags of golf clubs, and then he said to his wife, “Let’s go,” and Barbara said, “Goodbye, Lucy.”

“See you kids in two weeks,” Melvin said, and they drove down the driveway.



—

We stood there, the five of us, all of us were serious. The breeze was picking up and you could hear the leaves of the trees rustling. I thought that William looked exhausted; his face was pale. Finally Chrissy said, “Thanks, Dad. Boy, thank you so much.” And then Michael said the same. Becka was silent, she looked frightened. So we only stayed about twenty more minutes; my head felt very swimmy. William clapped his hands as though to try and be jovial and he said, “You kids are all doing just great. You all look wonderful.” And they did. We spoke a little more, I don’t remember about what.

But Becka walked me away for a moment, and she put her hand up to block the sun from her eyes and said, “Mom, you know how we used to meet up at Bloomingdale’s? Well, Chrissy and I were talking about Bloomingdale’s the other day. It might have to close down, we don’t know yet, but so many places are going out of business. But we were saying it doesn’t matter if Bloomingdale’s folds, because it’s really a place of bad things when you actually think about it. I mean—Mom!—all that stuff made overseas by kids working for terrible wages, and it’s just so materialistic, I can’t believe I never thought about that, Mom. But it’s gross. So when you come back to the city we’re going to find a different place where we will meet you.”

“Okay,” I said. “That sounds wonderful. I’m very proud of you two. I look forward to it.”

But I was surprised; I really was.

And then we walked back and we stood there with the others, and Becka said, “We can’t even do a family hug.” She started to cry then, and I said, “That’s okay, we all got to see each other—” And Becka’s sobs became deep, and I could barely stand them, my pain for her was so great. I looked at Chrissy and I remember thinking: Oh, she is like William, but I did not mean this in a bad way, I just meant that she was controlled.

“Becka,” said William, “you have a family that loves you very much. Now we have to get going, we’ve had a long day, and we’ve got a long trip back.” He raised his hand. “You all stay safe.”

And Becka stopped her crying.





As soon as we were in the car William said not to talk to him, he was too tired. And then as we left Connecticut, William said, “Lucy, you have to drive, I’m dead.” So we stopped and each ate another sandwich and then I drove. William fell asleep, his head dropped to his chest. I was worried about him, but as we got to the New Hampshire border he seemed to rouse himself, and he said, “The girls looked great.”

“They looked wonderful,” I said. Then I said, “William, what did you say to Melvin?”

William looked out the window on his side and then back at the windshield in front of him and he said, “Oh, I gave him time to tell me how stupid I was being—he said it jokingly, of course, being Melvin—and then I told him every single fact of the pandemic that he obviously did not know. And before he could suggest that they go to Barbara’s mother’s place, I told him there were three kids and two of them and only one bedroom there.