by Karen Mulvahill
Ruth’s gray-streaked hair stands up like the fur of a scared cat. A man’s plaid shirt covers the top of the grungy sweatpants that she sleeps in and, truth be told, lives in on her days off. In the hall, she blinks the half-sleep from her eyes and surveys the boys. Ricky sits cross-legged on the floor, twelve inches from the TV, eating Sugar Pops from the box and watching Bonanza. Dave, clad only in a pair of cut-offs and old tennis shoes, sprawls across the sofa reading a Valkyrie comic book. She’d finally been able to sleep in after a late shift at Big Boy’s and this is what she has to wake to? Ruth kicks a Frisbee to the other side of the room before switching off the TV and staring down at Ricky.
“Are you going to spend your entire vacation watching that idiot box? ’Cause if that’s what you think, you got another think comin’. Didn’t I tell you to cut the grass this morning?”
“Aw ma, it’s too hot! Nobody else is out there. Their moms don’t make them go out and sweat. I could get heat stroke.” He clutches the cereal box and falls flat against the carpet, then spasms, mimicking the death of a gunfighter.
Ruth’s glare travels to Dave, who keeps his gaze studiously fixed on the comic book. “How many times have I told you not to put your filthy shoes on the couch? Huh? A thousand? A million? Am I mistaken or did you not just turn 16? Old enough to take the car out and drive around with your friends whenever you feel like it—and leave it on empty, by the way—but apparently not old enough to keep your feet off the couch.” She’s still making payments on the new green tweed Herculon and is determined not to have it ruined.
Moving past Rick, she swats Dave’s feet. He moves them just enough to dangle off the sofa, not looking up. Pushing her hands through her hair, Ruth turns toward the kitchen. Cereal boxes, a dirty bowl and spoon and a half-full milk carton sit upon the flowered oilcloth that covers the table.
“Have I or have I not asked you boys to pitch in?” She squeezes back tears. Her tone changes to a robotic cadence. “I cannot go to work and still do everything I used to. Will you please clean up after yourselves?” The timbre of her voice rises again. “Do you think money grows on trees? If you had to drink sour milk like the kids in Africa, you’d be glad we have a refrigerator!”
She rips the comic book out of Dave’s hands. “Get in there and clean up that mess! You, too, Ricky.”
Ricky unfolds his gangly legs and pushes himself up from the floor, then walks to the kitchen with the gait of a prisoner headed to the gallows. “Drat,” he mutters, “All we ever do is chores. We never have fun anymore.”
Ricky and Dave are banging dishes into the sink as Ruth sinks into the sofa, elbows on knees, and covers her face with her hands. Her shoulders begin to shake, but she straightens, wipes her eyes and walks to the beat-up piano. She sits on the bench and begins to play scales; the regular cadence brings her a bit of peace when everything becomes overwhelming. Plunking the keys forcefully as if to prove to the piano she’s in control, she feels her breathing slow. In the kitchen Dave looks at Ricky and rolls his eyes.
A minor, D minor, E flat minor, one of her favorites. Her fingers begin to travel more lightly across the keys. She looks up at the framed photo of Bill in his Army uniform, a small American flag propped in front of it. His striking good looks were made approachable by the crooked incisor he exposed when he smiled. Another photo shows the family at the beach: Ricky riding piggy-back on Bill, Ruth in a red sundress with an arm draped around Dave—he must’ve been thirteen then, that summer before Bill went to Vietnam. They are all grinning.
The boys hear a loud series of dissonant chords, then the bang of the piano lid closing. Ruth pulls a hair tie out of her pocket, puts her hair in a ponytail and walks to the kitchen door. Ricky and Dave look up uneasily. Their mother is smiling.
“You know what? You’re right. It’s really hot. You know what I think we should do?”
The boys freeze, exchange glances.
“I think we should go to the beach!”
A guarded smile crosses Dave’s face. Ricky jumps up and down, then runs over to hug her.
“Cool! When? Can we go to West End? Can we please?”
“That’s exactly where we’re going. West End Beach. Now get this stuff put away, then put your suits on.”
“Can I drive?” Dave asks.
“Sure.”
The boys slap each other’s palms.
The glare of the sun, intensified by all the windshields in the parking lot, makes Ruth’s eyes water. She digs into her straw beach bag for her Jackie-O sunglasses. Ricky’s out of the car already, hopping from one foot to the other on the searing asphalt.
“Where are your shoes?”
“I forgot them.”
Ruth presses her lips together.
Dave reaches into the massive trunk of their ‘65 Olds, embarrassed to be seen in this eight-year-old monstrosity. Benny’s father just bought a new Camaro and lets Benny drive it all the time, but Dave’s mother insists they can’t afford a new car. He pulls out the boom box he got for Christmas and shoves a handful of cassettes into the pockets of his cut-offs. The Who, The Doors and, a recent discovery, Credence Clearwater Revival. He’s played Favorite Son so often the tape now warbles at that spot. Thankfully, his mother hasn’t noticed his flip-flops, because she’s told him repeatedly that it’s dangerous to drive in them. Driving barefoot, which he does when she’s not around, is even more taboo. Grabbing a Frisbee, he starts toward the beach.
“Hey,” Ruth shouts. “Where you goin’?”
“Don and Benny are over there. We’re gonna toss the Frisbee around.”
“Well, we’ll be over by the bathhouse. Come back and check in now and then. Maybe think about leaving around 3.”
“Cool.”
Ricky’s left foot is stacked in front of his right on one of the yellow-painted lines, which he’s discovered are not nearly as hot as the asphalt. He wobbles as his mother tosses him two towels. She locks the car and heads for the beach, Ricky running ahead in big leaps on his toes to get to the cooler sand. He turns and watches Dave approach a group of tanned girls in bikinis and boys sporting long hair and psychedelic tee shirts.
His mom approaches, wearing her old-fashioned one-piece suit, heavily flowered and saggy. She reaches for Ricky’s hand, but he slides it away and lags behind her, hoping no one will notice he’s with his mother. He rubs his crew cut, wishing he’d refused the traditional summer crop as Dave had. Ruth spreads out her blue and white striped towel, sits down, and takes a romance novel out of her straw bag. Two boys about Ricky’s age are playing Frisbee nearby. Ricky just stands there.
Ruth looks up from her book. “What’s the matter? I thought you were so hot. Why don’t you go jump in?”
Ricky toes the sand, scratches the top of his head where sweat has started to push through his pores.
“I’ll go with you,” Ruth says encouragingly. “I could probably use a swim.”
She places her open book face down on the towel and reaches back into her bag to extract a white rubber bathing cap with raised blue and yellow flowers on it.
“Aw, Mom, do you have to wear that?”
“Well, yeah. This way my hair won’t get all frizzy. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nobody else is wearing one.”
“Well, maybe everybody else likes frizzy hair. I don’t.”
She gets up and marches toward the water. Ricky hangs back, edges over to where the other boys are playing Frisbee. No way is he going swimming with his mother.
“Are you coming?”
Ricky points to the flat-roofed cement bathhouse that had been painted a milky green so many years before that now, with all the missing spots of paint, it had the texture of a turtle’s back. As he walks toward it, he glances at the other boys. One of them catches the Frisbee, then sees Ricky looking at them.
“Hey, your mommy’s calling you! Or is it your granny?”
The other boy sniggers. “I think it’s his granny. She looks crazy.” He misthrows the Frisbee, nearly hitting Ricky in the head. Ricky ducks as the boys laugh.
“Better get back to your crazy granny, it’s not safe out here!”
Ricky hurries toward the bathhouse.
Leaning back on his elbows, Ricky watches his mom dogpaddle out in the bay. Haze fuses the horizon, the sun a dirty yellow orb pulsing against the vapid air. The smell of his sweat alternates with that of his mother’s Coppertone. He picks up a handful of hot sand and squeezes it languidly, watching it sift through his palm like the grains of an hourglass. When Dave’s with his friends, he usually tells Ricky to get lost, but maybe today will be different. Ricky looks out to the water, thinking he’ll ask his mom if he can go and play with Dave. He sees her standing with her hands to her face, blood streaming from her forehead. One of the boys next to him says to the other, “Look! It’s the creature from the black lagoon!” They laugh.
Ruth comes running from the water, drops to her knees in the sand and grabs the edge of her towel, pressing it above her left eye.
“Mom! What happened?”
“I dove in and hit a boulder on the bottom.”
She scrabbles one-handed through her bag, coming up with a gold compact, lifts the mirror to her face. As soon as she lowers the towel, a red rivulet forms.
“Mom!” Ricky exclaims. “Should I go find Dave?”
“No, no, let him have his fun. I’m fine. Really.” She takes another look, then presses the towel back against her forehead. “It’s just a cut, Ricky, looks worse than it is. But I need to stop the bleeding, so I’m going to go up to the first-aid station.”
Ricky starts to pick up his towel.
“Don’t bother with that, honey. You stay here. I won’t be long. I’ll just get this bandaged up and we can spend the rest of the day here, like we planned. No reason to have our beach day ruined.” Ruth bends and plants an awkward kiss on the top of Ricky’s head.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Ricky asks, even though now his mom really looks weird, with that bathing suit and cap and a bloody beach towel pressed to her face.
“I’m sure. I’ll be right back.”
Ricky shakes the sand out of his towel and repositions it. One of the two boys next to him runs off, with a quick wave to the other. The remaining boy starts throwing the Frisbee up in the air, then running to catch it. His long blond hair falls over one eye. The Frisbee lands near Rick’s foot; he picks it up and throws it back.
“Feel like tossin’ it?” the boy asks.
Ricky shrugs. “Cool.”
Ricky tosses the Frisbee with the other boy for a while, then sees his mom approaching. She has a large bandage over her forehead. Ricky hesitates, then runs over and grabs her hand.
“Oh mom! Does it hurt? Can I get you anything?”
He guides her to his towel, quickly smoothes it out and takes her elbow as she sits down. She smiles up at him.
“No, honey, I’m fine. Really. Just a little sting when he put the antiseptic on. But everything’s okey dokey now. Go on and play. You don’t have to sit with me.”
Ricky looks over at the other boy, who shouts, “Hey, dude, c’mon! You got the Frisbee!”
“C’mon!” the boy yells again, hopping from one foot to the other. “Whattsa matter, you a mama’s boy?” Ricky stares at him for a few seconds. Ruth is searching in her bag for her novel. Ricky looks at her bent, thin shoulders, the white bandage bulbous above her eye.
With a single, sudden movement, he whips the Frisbee toward the boy, just missing his head. The boy yelps and dives sideways. Ricky drops to the sand at Ruth’s side and leans back on his elbows, face to the sun.