she saw the man-of-war, its tentacles oozing out of a moth-eaten corner and squishing up against the back wall. “There’s something under it,” she said, her heart beginning to beat fast. “Maybe somebody’s sleeping.”
Inexplicably, Daisy was suddenly reminded of the man with a face like Walt Disney who had rubbed his private parts when she passed him outside the ladies’ room at Bonwit Teller, his mouth making a perfect O , like a fish. She hadn’t mentioned the man to her mother, about how he had grunted and then wet his own pants right outside a bathroom, the small dark stain blooming on the front of his trousers. Instead, she spent five minutes fingering the red Mary Janes in the girls’ shoe section, until her mother relented and bought them for her.
“I don’t think anyone’s sleeping,” Ed said, walking into the shelter, as Daisy began to back away.
“Yes, I think so,” she said. “We should go. I don’t like it here.”
Ed caught her arm, his hand pushing her rope bracelet painfully into her wrist. Daisy stopped moving. Ed took a step toward the humped tartan blanket and, stooping over it, reached out.
“Don’t,” Daisy said, but she felt like she was trying to talk underwater.
Slowly, he raised the rug.
The fathers were called in. Daisy heard her mother on the phone to Cambridge.
“Goddamn it, Hughes. She saw it.”
Her mother paused and Daisy could hear a faint buzz coming from the receiver, her father’s voice.
“Well, they’re not sure. There’s some talk that it may be somebody’s maid. Apparently, she’s one of the Portuguese girls.”
Her mother paused again.
“Well, I didn’t see it,” her mother said, running her ringed fingers through her hair. “No, I didn’t ask her. I don’t know what to do, honestly. You have to come here. And Hughes? You call Avery and you get him on the next goddamn flight out here. No excuses. That boy’s already way too much for his poor mother, and this certainly isn’t going to help.”
Daisy was put in a hot bath with Epsom salts. Her mother sat on the powder-blue toilet, drinking a cup of black coffee and watching her. Daisy wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for and it made her uncomfortable. Should she be crying? After all, a girl was dead. But she didn’t feel like crying. She wanted to talk to Ed about it, but she hadn’t seen him since she had run into the house, flushed and shaking with excitement, tearing through the rooms to find her mother and tell her to call the police.
“Where’s Ed?” Daisy finally asked.
“I don’t know,” her mother said, stirring from the seat and kneeling next to the tub. “We have to wash your hair, too, baby.”
Daisy couldn’t remember the last time her mother had called her that. Had she ever called her “baby”? She couldn’t be sure. But it sounded nice and Daisy surrendered willingly as her mother began to rub the shampoo into her hair, massaging her scalp and wiping back the suds that built up on her hairline.
Her mother turned on the tap and gently pushed Daisy’s head back under the stream of warm water, humming “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” under her breath.
“All done,” she said, holding out a towel to gather her in, like she sometimes did at the beach when Daisy came screaming out of the water, frigid with cold.
Daisy adjusted the towel. Her mother gripped her shoulder and stared at her, but said nothing.
“Let’s get your pajamas on,” she finally suggested, in a forced, cheerful tone.
“It’s only two o’clock, Mummy,” she said.
“Oh, yes.” Her mother laughed. “Well, put on whatever you like, I guess.”
Downstairs, Daisy found her mother in the summer kitchen, staring at a chicken on the counter. Sun streamed through the yellow polka-dotted curtains, making the room look like the inside of a bright lemon.
Her mother stood motionless, both hands gripping the polished wooden counter, peering at the uncooked bird like it might sit up and
Inexplicably, Daisy was suddenly reminded of the man with a face like Walt Disney who had rubbed his private parts when she passed him outside the ladies’ room at Bonwit Teller, his mouth making a perfect O , like a fish. She hadn’t mentioned the man to her mother, about how he had grunted and then wet his own pants right outside a bathroom, the small dark stain blooming on the front of his trousers. Instead, she spent five minutes fingering the red Mary Janes in the girls’ shoe section, until her mother relented and bought them for her.
“I don’t think anyone’s sleeping,” Ed said, walking into the shelter, as Daisy began to back away.
“Yes, I think so,” she said. “We should go. I don’t like it here.”
Ed caught her arm, his hand pushing her rope bracelet painfully into her wrist. Daisy stopped moving. Ed took a step toward the humped tartan blanket and, stooping over it, reached out.
“Don’t,” Daisy said, but she felt like she was trying to talk underwater.
Slowly, he raised the rug.
The fathers were called in. Daisy heard her mother on the phone to Cambridge.
“Goddamn it, Hughes. She saw it.”
Her mother paused and Daisy could hear a faint buzz coming from the receiver, her father’s voice.
“Well, they’re not sure. There’s some talk that it may be somebody’s maid. Apparently, she’s one of the Portuguese girls.”
Her mother paused again.
“Well, I didn’t see it,” her mother said, running her ringed fingers through her hair. “No, I didn’t ask her. I don’t know what to do, honestly. You have to come here. And Hughes? You call Avery and you get him on the next goddamn flight out here. No excuses. That boy’s already way too much for his poor mother, and this certainly isn’t going to help.”
Daisy was put in a hot bath with Epsom salts. Her mother sat on the powder-blue toilet, drinking a cup of black coffee and watching her. Daisy wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for and it made her uncomfortable. Should she be crying? After all, a girl was dead. But she didn’t feel like crying. She wanted to talk to Ed about it, but she hadn’t seen him since she had run into the house, flushed and shaking with excitement, tearing through the rooms to find her mother and tell her to call the police.
“Where’s Ed?” Daisy finally asked.
“I don’t know,” her mother said, stirring from the seat and kneeling next to the tub. “We have to wash your hair, too, baby.”
Daisy couldn’t remember the last time her mother had called her that. Had she ever called her “baby”? She couldn’t be sure. But it sounded nice and Daisy surrendered willingly as her mother began to rub the shampoo into her hair, massaging her scalp and wiping back the suds that built up on her hairline.
Her mother turned on the tap and gently pushed Daisy’s head back under the stream of warm water, humming “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” under her breath.
“All done,” she said, holding out a towel to gather her in, like she sometimes did at the beach when Daisy came screaming out of the water, frigid with cold.
Daisy adjusted the towel. Her mother gripped her shoulder and stared at her, but said nothing.
“Let’s get your pajamas on,” she finally suggested, in a forced, cheerful tone.
“It’s only two o’clock, Mummy,” she said.
“Oh, yes.” Her mother laughed. “Well, put on whatever you like, I guess.”
Downstairs, Daisy found her mother in the summer kitchen, staring at a chicken on the counter. Sun streamed through the yellow polka-dotted curtains, making the room look like the inside of a bright lemon.
Her mother stood motionless, both hands gripping the polished wooden counter, peering at the uncooked bird like it might sit up and
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