truffle cake.”
Jerry was right about Betsy. She perked up during the dolphin show, giggling as they caught rings on their noses and did their little swimming tricks. By the time we’d finished looking at all of the exhibits, she was chattering our ears off and starting to negotiate for what she would be allowed to get from the gift shop.
“One stuffed animal,” said Jerry.
“But I need an eraser for my eraser collection.”
“One eraser, then.”
“But I need a stuffed animal for my stuffed animal collection.”
“One or the other.”
We made our way toward the exit walkway. A giant, three-story aquarium surrounded the ramps on three sides. Somewhere around the middle, the sharks swam by, their slow slippery bodies scattering the smaller fish around them. At the bottom, where we were, green seaweed waved like mermaid hair; anemones in all shades of pink and fuchsia made little sucking motions, and little yellow fish nibbled at them before zooming suddenly upward, as though startled or stung.
“Whoa,” said Betsy.
“Like being underwater, isn’t it?” asked Jerry.
“Yeah. Like being a fish.”
In the stroller, Marco had fallen asleep. His little chipmunk cheeks were relaxed, fat little legs curled up beside him. Jerry pushed the stroller toward the ramp, weaving his way past all the people who had stopped still, staring up at the surrounding water.
“My sister used to want to be a mermaid,” I mentioned.
Jerry looked over at me. “She did?”
“Yeah. That’s how she got her nickname. From the movie
Splash
. When we were kids she’d put on her swimsuit top and a long skirt and safety-pin it really tight in the back, so it was like a tail, and pretend to do the backstroke on the carpet. I guess she was waiting for Tom Hanks to come along.”
“Still is.”
“Yeah, I guess she is, isn’t she? I hope she wins. I think she has a good shot at Rhett, don’t you think?”
He stopped on the landing. We were only halfway up to the second story. People flowed by from behind us; Betsy leaned against the metal railing, her shoulders and chin bunched up against it. “Look, there goes a shark,” she said.
I watched the shark go by, then turned back to Jerry. “You know, maybe if she—”
He put his hand under my chin and I caught my breath, heart racing, its rhythm pounding in my neck and in my ears, and when he kissed me he wrapped his arm around my waist to pull me closer, his other hand still resting on the stroller. I closed my eyes, drifting along into the touch of his lips, the pressure of his hand on my waist, the deep muted somnolent sound of the water. He kissed me slowly until Betsy tugged on the bottom of his T-shirt, his lips still parted as he moved away, his stone-blue eyes still locked on mine.
“Can I have my stuffed animal now?” she asked.
On Monday morning my mother left four hysterical voice-mail messages on my phone. I called her back on my break, hiding in the teachers’ lounge that was empty except for a nineteen-year-old student teacher with a fairy tattoo on the small of her back and a stack of worksheets to photocopy.
“Will you
please
explain this
thing
I just read in the
Star?”
she asked indignantly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t read the Star.”
“Well, I don’t, either, you know. I was just having a piece of pecan pie at the linger-longer after church yesterday when Rosalie Welsh—do you remember Rosalie Welsh?”
“Yeah.”
“Rosalie Welsh comes up to me and
apologizes
for what she read about my daughter. So you
don’t
know what I’m talking about?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea.”
I heard the sound of paper wrinkling, being folded. “Former
Playboy
Playmate Looking for Love,” she read aloud.
“Mom, okay. First of all, she wasn’t a Playmate.”
The college student at the copy machine glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. My mother kept reading, her voice rising in a blend of accusation and
Jerry was right about Betsy. She perked up during the dolphin show, giggling as they caught rings on their noses and did their little swimming tricks. By the time we’d finished looking at all of the exhibits, she was chattering our ears off and starting to negotiate for what she would be allowed to get from the gift shop.
“One stuffed animal,” said Jerry.
“But I need an eraser for my eraser collection.”
“One eraser, then.”
“But I need a stuffed animal for my stuffed animal collection.”
“One or the other.”
We made our way toward the exit walkway. A giant, three-story aquarium surrounded the ramps on three sides. Somewhere around the middle, the sharks swam by, their slow slippery bodies scattering the smaller fish around them. At the bottom, where we were, green seaweed waved like mermaid hair; anemones in all shades of pink and fuchsia made little sucking motions, and little yellow fish nibbled at them before zooming suddenly upward, as though startled or stung.
“Whoa,” said Betsy.
“Like being underwater, isn’t it?” asked Jerry.
“Yeah. Like being a fish.”
In the stroller, Marco had fallen asleep. His little chipmunk cheeks were relaxed, fat little legs curled up beside him. Jerry pushed the stroller toward the ramp, weaving his way past all the people who had stopped still, staring up at the surrounding water.
“My sister used to want to be a mermaid,” I mentioned.
Jerry looked over at me. “She did?”
“Yeah. That’s how she got her nickname. From the movie
Splash
. When we were kids she’d put on her swimsuit top and a long skirt and safety-pin it really tight in the back, so it was like a tail, and pretend to do the backstroke on the carpet. I guess she was waiting for Tom Hanks to come along.”
“Still is.”
“Yeah, I guess she is, isn’t she? I hope she wins. I think she has a good shot at Rhett, don’t you think?”
He stopped on the landing. We were only halfway up to the second story. People flowed by from behind us; Betsy leaned against the metal railing, her shoulders and chin bunched up against it. “Look, there goes a shark,” she said.
I watched the shark go by, then turned back to Jerry. “You know, maybe if she—”
He put his hand under my chin and I caught my breath, heart racing, its rhythm pounding in my neck and in my ears, and when he kissed me he wrapped his arm around my waist to pull me closer, his other hand still resting on the stroller. I closed my eyes, drifting along into the touch of his lips, the pressure of his hand on my waist, the deep muted somnolent sound of the water. He kissed me slowly until Betsy tugged on the bottom of his T-shirt, his lips still parted as he moved away, his stone-blue eyes still locked on mine.
“Can I have my stuffed animal now?” she asked.
On Monday morning my mother left four hysterical voice-mail messages on my phone. I called her back on my break, hiding in the teachers’ lounge that was empty except for a nineteen-year-old student teacher with a fairy tattoo on the small of her back and a stack of worksheets to photocopy.
“Will you
please
explain this
thing
I just read in the
Star?”
she asked indignantly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t read the Star.”
“Well, I don’t, either, you know. I was just having a piece of pecan pie at the linger-longer after church yesterday when Rosalie Welsh—do you remember Rosalie Welsh?”
“Yeah.”
“Rosalie Welsh comes up to me and
apologizes
for what she read about my daughter. So you
don’t
know what I’m talking about?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea.”
I heard the sound of paper wrinkling, being folded. “Former
Playboy
Playmate Looking for Love,” she read aloud.
“Mom, okay. First of all, she wasn’t a Playmate.”
The college student at the copy machine glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. My mother kept reading, her voice rising in a blend of accusation and
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