the side fence with a short bit of clothesline. He barked viciously as we approached, even growled—as if the few hours he’d spent on the property had made him responsible for the security of the house. I told the girls to stay where they were—I could see them drawing back anyway, and then I approached him and said, “What are you growling at, you silly dog?” At the sound of my voice he immediately cowered a bit and thumped his tail, whining an apology. He was a sweet but odd mutt, mostly collie, I think, by turns skittish and friendly and shy, schizophrenic, I supposed.
And stupid. He came and went, a stray for the most part, probably left behind by some summer people who didn’t want the year-round responsibility of a pet; occasionally—those times when we didn’t see him for weeks—adopted by another summer family who made him theirs for whatever time they were out here. The Moran kids weren’t allowed to keep him, but they dragged him back to me whenever he came around. Rags, being stupid, tolerated them for the most part, although I’d seen him nip their fingers once or twice. Now he rolled over in joyful submission as I petted him and talked him into calming down. I then let the girls bring him some water and dog biscuits.
With Rags still tied to the fence but happily subdued, I stripped off baby June’s dirty clothes in the yard and washed her off with my father’s garden hose. Then I wrapped her in a beach towel and carried her into the bathroom, where I filled the tub with water and shampoo and let June and Flora both play in the bubbles. Daisy laughed, watching them, but didn’t want to join in, not even in her bathing suit. Out on the lawn again, in what were now the long shadows of the afternoon, I gave everybody cookies and fruit punch. Judy and Janey wandered over to take Rags for a walk, but there was no sign of the boys. I turned baby June over to her sisters and asked Daisy if she might possibly want to get out of her bathing suit, and maybe even change her shoes for the afternoon walk. To my surprise, she nodded and went into the house, coming out a few minutes later not in her new sneakers but in the old saddle shoes she had worn on the train.
“They look comfortable,” I said, mostly because she seemed so disappointed to be wearing them again.
We got Flora into her stroller and walked her home, singing loudly most of the way—“Barnacle Bill the Sailor,” a song that came to me as we passed Mr. Moran, standing, swaying, shirtless in his driveway, mumbling to himself. We were trying to keep Flora from falling asleep before she had her dinner.
The lights were still on in her father’s painting place, but there was no sign of him, or Ana either, which was just as well, since I didn’t have the straw hat. Inside, there was the familiar smell of the place: her perfume, his cigar, something new and complicated riding on the scent now. The cook was in the kitchen, just taking a single baked potato out of the oven, and when I told her Flora had already been bathed, back at my house, she reached up and ran her hand over my hair. She was a lady who went to our church, a vague friend of my mother’s, fat and grandmotherly but not, I now realized, unaware.
“Thank you, dear,” she said.
“That helps.” As if she knew, and I knew, that Ana’s duties would fall to her tonight.
As tired as she was, and perhaps because she was tired, Flora cried when Daisy and I said goodbye. She didn’t cling, or even run after us, she was too exhausted for that. But she sat at the kitchen table in the terrycloth bib the cook had tied around her neck and simply sobbed. On the plate in front of her were the steaming baked potato, a few peas, some cut-up bits of poached chicken. She sat on a couple of phone books, but still her chin was only just above the food. She cried with her mouth open, the tears streaming down her cheeks. The cook sat at the table with her, wiping away the tears with her thumb.
And stupid. He came and went, a stray for the most part, probably left behind by some summer people who didn’t want the year-round responsibility of a pet; occasionally—those times when we didn’t see him for weeks—adopted by another summer family who made him theirs for whatever time they were out here. The Moran kids weren’t allowed to keep him, but they dragged him back to me whenever he came around. Rags, being stupid, tolerated them for the most part, although I’d seen him nip their fingers once or twice. Now he rolled over in joyful submission as I petted him and talked him into calming down. I then let the girls bring him some water and dog biscuits.
With Rags still tied to the fence but happily subdued, I stripped off baby June’s dirty clothes in the yard and washed her off with my father’s garden hose. Then I wrapped her in a beach towel and carried her into the bathroom, where I filled the tub with water and shampoo and let June and Flora both play in the bubbles. Daisy laughed, watching them, but didn’t want to join in, not even in her bathing suit. Out on the lawn again, in what were now the long shadows of the afternoon, I gave everybody cookies and fruit punch. Judy and Janey wandered over to take Rags for a walk, but there was no sign of the boys. I turned baby June over to her sisters and asked Daisy if she might possibly want to get out of her bathing suit, and maybe even change her shoes for the afternoon walk. To my surprise, she nodded and went into the house, coming out a few minutes later not in her new sneakers but in the old saddle shoes she had worn on the train.
“They look comfortable,” I said, mostly because she seemed so disappointed to be wearing them again.
We got Flora into her stroller and walked her home, singing loudly most of the way—“Barnacle Bill the Sailor,” a song that came to me as we passed Mr. Moran, standing, swaying, shirtless in his driveway, mumbling to himself. We were trying to keep Flora from falling asleep before she had her dinner.
The lights were still on in her father’s painting place, but there was no sign of him, or Ana either, which was just as well, since I didn’t have the straw hat. Inside, there was the familiar smell of the place: her perfume, his cigar, something new and complicated riding on the scent now. The cook was in the kitchen, just taking a single baked potato out of the oven, and when I told her Flora had already been bathed, back at my house, she reached up and ran her hand over my hair. She was a lady who went to our church, a vague friend of my mother’s, fat and grandmotherly but not, I now realized, unaware.
“Thank you, dear,” she said.
“That helps.” As if she knew, and I knew, that Ana’s duties would fall to her tonight.
As tired as she was, and perhaps because she was tired, Flora cried when Daisy and I said goodbye. She didn’t cling, or even run after us, she was too exhausted for that. But she sat at the kitchen table in the terrycloth bib the cook had tied around her neck and simply sobbed. On the plate in front of her were the steaming baked potato, a few peas, some cut-up bits of poached chicken. She sat on a couple of phone books, but still her chin was only just above the food. She cried with her mouth open, the tears streaming down her cheeks. The cook sat at the table with her, wiping away the tears with her thumb.
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