The Safety of Others by Joanna Friedman
Meg reminisces about her summer vacations growing up, reflecting on her friendship with Charlie and her interest in Henry.
When the three of us were eight, I saw Henry for the first time. He painted on the rocky pier above the tidepools where Charlie and I hunted for hermit crabs. Even back then, Henry wore a tan fedora hat like an old man, and I knew from the serious way he studied the easel that he was on a whole other level from us regular eight-year-olds.
His presence made me notice the world more: the cove with its fishing boats bobbing near the cliffs, the dogs with their salted fur stealing sandwiches from unguarded blankets, the tourist women lying face down with their bikini-tops untied. I tried to keep Mom's word about them, slutty, squashed down in my mind. But whenever I saw hints of skin, the word slutty popped back up again.
Even the twelve side-by-side cabins of the Seaside Motel where Charlie's family and mine stayed, seemed more interesting viewed through what I imagined to be Henry's painter's eye. The cabins stretched along the cove, and a short path up the cliff led to a boarded-up honeymoon suite that looked like it would tumble into the ocean at the next storm.
It became clear that at one point Henry wasn't just studying the scenery but glancing at Charlie and I. Specifically at me. So, while we hunted for animals in the tide pool, I tried to keep certain poses a moment longer, imagining that it gave Henry extra time to sketch.
"Want to hold him, Meg?" Charlie held out a hermit crab, oblivious to the modeling job I'd taken on.
Cold legs tickled their way to my palm; his eye stalks circled, and I lifted him to Charlie's face.
"Put him back." His voice rose to an urgent pitch.
The hermit skittered back and forth exploring my palm, fluttering between my index and thumb, extending his body out of his shell, wielding tiny red claws. The tide pool shifted from sun to shadow, and above us, Henry stood smirking. The moment of distraction cost my focus and the crab's pincers struck.
"Damnit! My finger." I shouted, but we weren't supposed to swear. Or shout.
Charlie's shoulders tensed. The crab had sunk to the bottom and was skittering sideways on the sand. Luckily the skin hadn't broken.
"He wanted to fight," Henry said, choking back a laugh.
The water splashed at my feet; barnacles dug into my toes. "Let me see what you're painting."
Still laughing, he sketched for a moment, then gave me the sheet of paper. A girl with heart shaped claws grasped a boy with a fedora hat by the neck, blood spurting everywhere.
"That's not art."
He turned and ran down the beach, cupping his mouth he yelled, "It's called impressionism."
Charlie poked around some more in the tide pool. "Too much gore, but it's good."
My fantasy of a romantic painter was fading down the beach. "He's just pretending to paint."
And I'd officially switched jobs, from model to critic.
Later, after Charlie went to his family's cabin, I smoothed out the picture on my cot. My hair looked crazy, snake like - terrible, with red blood everywhere, but he'd gotten my smile right, and filled in other details, like the freckle on my cheek, a shade of rose-pink on my chin. Details I didn't think anyone noticed.
The summer when I was eleven, my mom bought me a white bikini with tiny roses.
"It's too small," I said. In the back, in the front, the fabric rode high. The triangles on top attached with strings that unfastened way too easily.
"You have to take advantage, while your body's young and thin." She was covering herself with a linen shirt.
"Everyone's going to stare." I was cursing myself for not bringing my own cover up t-shirt. Or agreeing to this bikini in the first place.
"Who's going to stare? Charlie?"
"Maybe."
"That's what boys do."
I tugged at the bottom once more, but it jumped back up, way too high.
Like a spotlight, the sun followed me to where Dad and Charlie set tomatoes and pickles next to the bread. My arms circled my chest, then my stomach. I pulled at the bottoms of my bikini again. Dad continued to lay out the deli meats and mustard.
"Does this look okay?" I asked Charlie.
"You look like all the other girls around here. It's fine," he said.
On the rock pier, Henry and his fedora were back, observing between heavy strokes of sketching. But, this summer, I had my own art set.
Our two moms waded into the bay, while Dad pulled out a beer for Charlie's dad, their eyes following the bikinis down the shoreline. Henry was glancing our way again, raising Dad's radar to alert. "I don't know why your mother got you that bathing suit."
Charlie and I began painting the ocean. His - colorful circles and creatures. Mine - a straight line, with a palm tree and sun. As I drew the final lines of my island, Charlie kicked my foot, staring past my shoulder.
Before I saw him, Henry had grabbed Charlie's paintbrush and dotted my ocean in red and orange.
"You can't paint on other people's paintings." I swiped a streak of red on his arm.
"It's stepping stones toward the sun." He tossed the paint brush aside, and pressed his lips on mine.
"What the heck?" My hands struck his chest. With one hard push, he took two steps back. The fedora fell.
"Hey, Foxy. Henry's the name."
"Get out of here." Dad rose from his lounger, but he had already taken off down the beach.
My arms were useless for covering up.
"Here." Dad offered his shirt. "No swearing. And don't let anyone dumb make you feel bad. You aren't like those girls."
Mom came over from her wading and glared silently at Dad, her bathing suit and shirt dripping.
On the way back to the cabin, with the heat on my shoulders, sand on my skin and in my hair, I mumbled to Charlie. "Wearing nothing would be better than this bathing suit."
He shrugged. "Honestly, you look fine."
When I was thirteen, I snuck my mother's crimson lipstick, and initiated the Summer of Seducing Charlie. The plan involved waiting until both of our parents left for dinner, a black bikini, and a trip to his cabin.
He opened the door wearing his baby blue swim trunks. Tall, skinny, his muscles barely formed, a few hairs straggled across his chest. He sat on the edge of his cot, and I sat on his parents' bed.
"Do you want to practice kissing?" My calf bouncing against the edge, I stuck out my chest as far as it would go.
He touched my sandaled foot with his sandy one, shrugged and left for the bathroom. On his parents' bed, under a cool sheet, I watched the sun dip red into the horizon. He emerged, hair combed, aftershave on, and stood with his arms around his chest, stared at the bed, at me, then outside.
"Come on." Like in the movies, I patted the bed. When he came close, I trailed my fingers down his chest along his warm skin, and shifted to laying on top. My legs were wedged between his; my elbows propped; my face an inch from his. "How's this feel?"
We began pecking our sun-chapped lips, but when I tried to slip my tongue in his mouth -
"Let's not kiss that much." He pushed my hand away, hugging me instead.
"That's fine. We don't have to do everything at once." I curled around his body, my hips against his swim trunks. His breath falling into a rhythm, while my body ached to claw at something. My hand settled on his shoulder and I imagined all the sexy things we'd do one day.
The summer after Sophomore year, Charlie and I, decked out in shorts and T-shirts, made our way from the cabins, where Mom was nursing a headache, toward the cabana and bonfire. Red, blue, and green colors spilled onto the sand from the dance floor. Three barbeque grills sizzled with meat. The floor bounced with the rhythm of couples, mostly people's parents like Charlie's, dancing to the billboard top forty. Servers whisked Margaritas and other frothy drinks for the couples and -
My dad. He sat hidden in a darkened corner table of the bar with a woman. A woman who was not my mother. A woman, who was only wearing a bikini top and a thin skirt. He was dipping his fingers into her Margarita, and trailing them down her naked arm -
I couldn't not watch. And it seemed that the party was no longer a place I should be. And what about my mom? Would I need to tell her about this? I could walk over and confront him, but that seemed the worse of the scenarios. And why would he do that here? He knew everyone would be around to see. Then again it was better he did it here. I had my evidence of who men really were.
"No strappy sandals?" There he was, Henry, wearing a fedora and definitely taller. Coloring the world with his pervy observations.
Where the wooden floor ended and sand began, he'd set his easel. On it, he'd taped caricatures - men with large eyes, women with large breasts.
"People pay you for that?" The lead-in-my-stomach feeling had to go somewhere.
"My favorite critic." His unruly hair remained trapped under his hat; his eyes lusty and staring. "I'll draw you guys."
"No way." I wasn't about to become one of his large-breasted creations.
I pulled Charlie to the dance floor, into a side-to-side sort of shuffle. His arms landed on my neck, then my shoulders, finally on my biceps. I moved closer, hoping his arms would slide onto my back, but we might as well have been robots.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked.
"Do guys look better in Speedos or swim trunks?"
"Definitely swim trunks."
"But Speedos -"
"Okay if I steal Meg for a dance?" Henry's voice, deep, with some added bass.
Two thumbs up from Charlie, and he seemed happy to slip away into the darkness of the beach.
Henry reached for my hand, but flashes of anger returned, about the uninvited kiss, and the terrible drawing from years ago - all dumb kid stuff. And also, my dad. "As long as you don't call me a fox." My fingers found his.
He gently touched the skin where the back of my shirt ended. "The truth does gets me in trouble sometimes."
We glided to the edge of the dance floor. "Best caricature tonight, you and Charlie dancing."
His one chance, and he was picking a fight. But I was too, I was in full on fight mode. "Charlie and I aren't funny."
"Sorry." Henry brushed his fingers against my chin. "Maybe I was wishing for something."
"Like?"
"How nice you might look in a yellow strapless dress." He whispered near my ear.
"I prefer T-shirts and shorts."
"Sorry, I mean you do look good, it's just -" His fingers searched for mine, but hand holding wasn't happening any more. Charlie's cabin, that's where I needed to escape.
Right now. And I was off, through the cool sand toward the cabins.
His voice traveled through the music and crowd. "I like Tees and shorts!"
This time, Charlie answered my knock wearing Speedos. His body had filled out.
"You think they'll work?" A pink flush colored his skin. "Out there on the beach?"
He'd grown hair on his abs, to the edge of his Speedos. Those were weird, but in a way that made me want to explore.
"They're working here." I reached for his hand, and we both bounced down on the cot. I moved in to hug him, but he gently pushed against my shoulder. His eyes stayed firm, keeping a distance.
"What do you think about a strapless dress for me?" I sounded like those desperate women in romance novels.
"Meg." He lifted his elbows, twisted away. "It's not right."
"Please. Can't we just fool around?" I hated myself for being just like my dad, pushy. Uncaring. Focused only one thing.
Charlie put on a shirt, kissed my cheek. "Just know that I love you." And ducked out of the cabin.
On the first day of my twentieth summer, after the sun had set, after pulling on a flannel shirt over knee-length shorts, my dad and I left the cabin, leaving my mom to rest. Charlie and sandy-haired Rick had started a bonfire. Dad and I passed them, heading toward the water where tiny shrimp brushed against my feet. He skipped flat rocks that spun and curved far into the bay, while mine sank. My toes bumped something sharp. Out of the wet mud, a gray-blue shell appeared, smooth against my fingers.
Rick and Charlie ran full speed into the ocean, dove in, and reemerged. Rick lifted Charlie up by the leg, flipping him back in. Then Charlie, coming up gasping for air, leaned back and slicked his hair. Rick dipped down for an encore.
Rick smoothed Charlie's bangs forward, and back again, until Charlie grabbed Rick's palm and held onto it. On the beach, red sparks flew off the bonfire. I gave both of them our familiar signal, two thumbs up. Rick kissed him without holding back, and Charlie responded with equal passion.
The breeze ruffled my buttoned-up shirt and khaki pants as I sat on the rocks near the pier. Waves washed over my feet. When they receded, barnacle crusts and snails popped with air and water. Charlie and Rick sunned on side-by-side towels. Dad read from an Adirondack and bikini-watched.
A familiar shadow fell on the rocks and my legs - his hand cool on my shoulder. "Hey there, tiny dancer. No more off the-cuff-opinions. I'm just here to draw." He smelled like linseed oil and paint.
Another wave washed over the chipped rose polish of my toenails. "I don't know if this will work. You've crossed so many lines."
"Or just the one when we were eight?"
"Well, that was a big one."
"I'm sorry I was such a dumb kid." His eyes were shaded by the fedora, but sincere.
The rock could have room for two, if I slid over a little.
He sat opposite, flicked through white pages and charcoal. "If it's okay, I'd like to draw you."
"Another caricature?"
"No." He laughed a deep laugh. "No. I'm more of a realist these days." His skin glowed smooth above his jaw. His hand made light movements on the page.
My hair whipped against my cheeks, strands of it refused to be held. His eyes traced lines up and down my arms as he sketched. The water was ice, but the sun burned through my shirt. He looked up at my face, then down, sketching. Dad glanced from his book as another bikini walked by.
After a while, Henry turned the picture toward me, expectant. My smile, my eyes with a sadness there, and - "Oh God! You made me look slutty!" My shirt was unbuttoned with way too much exposed.
He ran his fingers down the page, his hand resting on the bathing suit part of the drawing. "I'll change the hair and eye color. No one will know it's you." He closed the book.
"Except for you." It was us, eight-year-old again. My body tensed with a familiar anger.
"For the record -" He tipped his hat, his eyes tense with emotion. "I'd never draw you looking slutty."
The sand kicked up onto Charlie and Rick's towel when I landed between them and Dad. "Why do men have to look at everything?" Even with my eyes shut, the sun seemed too bright.
"We like beauty," Dad said.
Then Charlie, "I notice things about Rick no one else does -"
"You perv," but Rick laughed. "Don't you like it when you catch Henry looking?"
"Dad, do you notice things about Mom?"
"I used to." His newspaper snapped in the wind. "When she was fun."
But, if I let Henry see me again, he'd realize that most of the time I wasn't fun.
At the end of that summer, even in the middle of the day I needed a sweater. Charlie and Rick left for a honeymoon in faraway places. Suitcases carefully packed. Sheets stripped from the bed. Dust swept out the door. Dad left for the city. Mom had ordered a taxi, and left earlier that morning, 'for a life of my own.'
I lay in my bikini and watched Henry approach.
"So, did you make millions off that drawing?"
"Nope." He opened his book. "It's still right here."
"Doesn't matter now." I rolled over. "Go ahead. Look all you want."
Henry grimaced. "You're lovely." His eyes fixed on mine. "But no way am I taking a chance on a critic. I'm more into the artsy type."
I turned back, shutting my eyes. The sound of sand rustling and the waves as goosebumps prickled my skin.
The mist had rolled into the beach. Pencils rolled on his open sketch book. He'd drawn a fedora hanging to the right of a door frame. Sand spilled past the entry, framing a glass ocean reflecting the sun.
Sitting on my towel, in the faded light, I sketched on his drawing a woman's curves under a yellow strapless sundress and left the book open in the sand for Henry. Or anyone in a fedora.
The next year when we arrived at the hotel, the waves still lapped at the rock pier. Ground white shells stuck to our feet, as we walked toward the honeymoon suite. The out-of-order sign had been removed. Mosquito netting and a desk stood near the open window. Palm fronds scratched against the roof.
Henry sat on the white comforter and smoothed out the spot for me. I kissed hard, eager and pushy, but his kiss was gentle, quiet, patient. I took off his fedora. The sun glowed on our legs. The lace curtain grazed my knee. The weight of his hand on my shoulder. The salt was still in the air, but the critic had gone.
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
His presence made me notice the world more: the cove with its fishing boats bobbing near the cliffs, the dogs with their salted fur stealing sandwiches from unguarded blankets, the tourist women lying face down with their bikini-tops untied. I tried to keep Mom's word about them, slutty, squashed down in my mind. But whenever I saw hints of skin, the word slutty popped back up again.
Even the twelve side-by-side cabins of the Seaside Motel where Charlie's family and mine stayed, seemed more interesting viewed through what I imagined to be Henry's painter's eye. The cabins stretched along the cove, and a short path up the cliff led to a boarded-up honeymoon suite that looked like it would tumble into the ocean at the next storm.
It became clear that at one point Henry wasn't just studying the scenery but glancing at Charlie and I. Specifically at me. So, while we hunted for animals in the tide pool, I tried to keep certain poses a moment longer, imagining that it gave Henry extra time to sketch.
"Want to hold him, Meg?" Charlie held out a hermit crab, oblivious to the modeling job I'd taken on.
Cold legs tickled their way to my palm; his eye stalks circled, and I lifted him to Charlie's face.
"Put him back." His voice rose to an urgent pitch.
The hermit skittered back and forth exploring my palm, fluttering between my index and thumb, extending his body out of his shell, wielding tiny red claws. The tide pool shifted from sun to shadow, and above us, Henry stood smirking. The moment of distraction cost my focus and the crab's pincers struck.
"Damnit! My finger." I shouted, but we weren't supposed to swear. Or shout.
Charlie's shoulders tensed. The crab had sunk to the bottom and was skittering sideways on the sand. Luckily the skin hadn't broken.
"He wanted to fight," Henry said, choking back a laugh.
The water splashed at my feet; barnacles dug into my toes. "Let me see what you're painting."
Still laughing, he sketched for a moment, then gave me the sheet of paper. A girl with heart shaped claws grasped a boy with a fedora hat by the neck, blood spurting everywhere.
"That's not art."
He turned and ran down the beach, cupping his mouth he yelled, "It's called impressionism."
Charlie poked around some more in the tide pool. "Too much gore, but it's good."
My fantasy of a romantic painter was fading down the beach. "He's just pretending to paint."
And I'd officially switched jobs, from model to critic.
Later, after Charlie went to his family's cabin, I smoothed out the picture on my cot. My hair looked crazy, snake like - terrible, with red blood everywhere, but he'd gotten my smile right, and filled in other details, like the freckle on my cheek, a shade of rose-pink on my chin. Details I didn't think anyone noticed.
The summer when I was eleven, my mom bought me a white bikini with tiny roses.
"It's too small," I said. In the back, in the front, the fabric rode high. The triangles on top attached with strings that unfastened way too easily.
"You have to take advantage, while your body's young and thin." She was covering herself with a linen shirt.
"Everyone's going to stare." I was cursing myself for not bringing my own cover up t-shirt. Or agreeing to this bikini in the first place.
"Who's going to stare? Charlie?"
"Maybe."
"That's what boys do."
I tugged at the bottom once more, but it jumped back up, way too high.
Like a spotlight, the sun followed me to where Dad and Charlie set tomatoes and pickles next to the bread. My arms circled my chest, then my stomach. I pulled at the bottoms of my bikini again. Dad continued to lay out the deli meats and mustard.
"Does this look okay?" I asked Charlie.
"You look like all the other girls around here. It's fine," he said.
On the rock pier, Henry and his fedora were back, observing between heavy strokes of sketching. But, this summer, I had my own art set.
Our two moms waded into the bay, while Dad pulled out a beer for Charlie's dad, their eyes following the bikinis down the shoreline. Henry was glancing our way again, raising Dad's radar to alert. "I don't know why your mother got you that bathing suit."
Charlie and I began painting the ocean. His - colorful circles and creatures. Mine - a straight line, with a palm tree and sun. As I drew the final lines of my island, Charlie kicked my foot, staring past my shoulder.
Before I saw him, Henry had grabbed Charlie's paintbrush and dotted my ocean in red and orange.
"You can't paint on other people's paintings." I swiped a streak of red on his arm.
"It's stepping stones toward the sun." He tossed the paint brush aside, and pressed his lips on mine.
"What the heck?" My hands struck his chest. With one hard push, he took two steps back. The fedora fell.
"Hey, Foxy. Henry's the name."
"Get out of here." Dad rose from his lounger, but he had already taken off down the beach.
My arms were useless for covering up.
"Here." Dad offered his shirt. "No swearing. And don't let anyone dumb make you feel bad. You aren't like those girls."
Mom came over from her wading and glared silently at Dad, her bathing suit and shirt dripping.
On the way back to the cabin, with the heat on my shoulders, sand on my skin and in my hair, I mumbled to Charlie. "Wearing nothing would be better than this bathing suit."
He shrugged. "Honestly, you look fine."
When I was thirteen, I snuck my mother's crimson lipstick, and initiated the Summer of Seducing Charlie. The plan involved waiting until both of our parents left for dinner, a black bikini, and a trip to his cabin.
He opened the door wearing his baby blue swim trunks. Tall, skinny, his muscles barely formed, a few hairs straggled across his chest. He sat on the edge of his cot, and I sat on his parents' bed.
"Do you want to practice kissing?" My calf bouncing against the edge, I stuck out my chest as far as it would go.
He touched my sandaled foot with his sandy one, shrugged and left for the bathroom. On his parents' bed, under a cool sheet, I watched the sun dip red into the horizon. He emerged, hair combed, aftershave on, and stood with his arms around his chest, stared at the bed, at me, then outside.
"Come on." Like in the movies, I patted the bed. When he came close, I trailed my fingers down his chest along his warm skin, and shifted to laying on top. My legs were wedged between his; my elbows propped; my face an inch from his. "How's this feel?"
We began pecking our sun-chapped lips, but when I tried to slip my tongue in his mouth -
"Let's not kiss that much." He pushed my hand away, hugging me instead.
"That's fine. We don't have to do everything at once." I curled around his body, my hips against his swim trunks. His breath falling into a rhythm, while my body ached to claw at something. My hand settled on his shoulder and I imagined all the sexy things we'd do one day.
The summer after Sophomore year, Charlie and I, decked out in shorts and T-shirts, made our way from the cabins, where Mom was nursing a headache, toward the cabana and bonfire. Red, blue, and green colors spilled onto the sand from the dance floor. Three barbeque grills sizzled with meat. The floor bounced with the rhythm of couples, mostly people's parents like Charlie's, dancing to the billboard top forty. Servers whisked Margaritas and other frothy drinks for the couples and -
My dad. He sat hidden in a darkened corner table of the bar with a woman. A woman who was not my mother. A woman, who was only wearing a bikini top and a thin skirt. He was dipping his fingers into her Margarita, and trailing them down her naked arm -
I couldn't not watch. And it seemed that the party was no longer a place I should be. And what about my mom? Would I need to tell her about this? I could walk over and confront him, but that seemed the worse of the scenarios. And why would he do that here? He knew everyone would be around to see. Then again it was better he did it here. I had my evidence of who men really were.
"No strappy sandals?" There he was, Henry, wearing a fedora and definitely taller. Coloring the world with his pervy observations.
Where the wooden floor ended and sand began, he'd set his easel. On it, he'd taped caricatures - men with large eyes, women with large breasts.
"People pay you for that?" The lead-in-my-stomach feeling had to go somewhere.
"My favorite critic." His unruly hair remained trapped under his hat; his eyes lusty and staring. "I'll draw you guys."
"No way." I wasn't about to become one of his large-breasted creations.
I pulled Charlie to the dance floor, into a side-to-side sort of shuffle. His arms landed on my neck, then my shoulders, finally on my biceps. I moved closer, hoping his arms would slide onto my back, but we might as well have been robots.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked.
"Do guys look better in Speedos or swim trunks?"
"Definitely swim trunks."
"But Speedos -"
"Okay if I steal Meg for a dance?" Henry's voice, deep, with some added bass.
Two thumbs up from Charlie, and he seemed happy to slip away into the darkness of the beach.
Henry reached for my hand, but flashes of anger returned, about the uninvited kiss, and the terrible drawing from years ago - all dumb kid stuff. And also, my dad. "As long as you don't call me a fox." My fingers found his.
He gently touched the skin where the back of my shirt ended. "The truth does gets me in trouble sometimes."
We glided to the edge of the dance floor. "Best caricature tonight, you and Charlie dancing."
His one chance, and he was picking a fight. But I was too, I was in full on fight mode. "Charlie and I aren't funny."
"Sorry." Henry brushed his fingers against my chin. "Maybe I was wishing for something."
"Like?"
"How nice you might look in a yellow strapless dress." He whispered near my ear.
"I prefer T-shirts and shorts."
"Sorry, I mean you do look good, it's just -" His fingers searched for mine, but hand holding wasn't happening any more. Charlie's cabin, that's where I needed to escape.
Right now. And I was off, through the cool sand toward the cabins.
His voice traveled through the music and crowd. "I like Tees and shorts!"
This time, Charlie answered my knock wearing Speedos. His body had filled out.
"You think they'll work?" A pink flush colored his skin. "Out there on the beach?"
He'd grown hair on his abs, to the edge of his Speedos. Those were weird, but in a way that made me want to explore.
"They're working here." I reached for his hand, and we both bounced down on the cot. I moved in to hug him, but he gently pushed against my shoulder. His eyes stayed firm, keeping a distance.
"What do you think about a strapless dress for me?" I sounded like those desperate women in romance novels.
"Meg." He lifted his elbows, twisted away. "It's not right."
"Please. Can't we just fool around?" I hated myself for being just like my dad, pushy. Uncaring. Focused only one thing.
Charlie put on a shirt, kissed my cheek. "Just know that I love you." And ducked out of the cabin.
On the first day of my twentieth summer, after the sun had set, after pulling on a flannel shirt over knee-length shorts, my dad and I left the cabin, leaving my mom to rest. Charlie and sandy-haired Rick had started a bonfire. Dad and I passed them, heading toward the water where tiny shrimp brushed against my feet. He skipped flat rocks that spun and curved far into the bay, while mine sank. My toes bumped something sharp. Out of the wet mud, a gray-blue shell appeared, smooth against my fingers.
Rick and Charlie ran full speed into the ocean, dove in, and reemerged. Rick lifted Charlie up by the leg, flipping him back in. Then Charlie, coming up gasping for air, leaned back and slicked his hair. Rick dipped down for an encore.
Rick smoothed Charlie's bangs forward, and back again, until Charlie grabbed Rick's palm and held onto it. On the beach, red sparks flew off the bonfire. I gave both of them our familiar signal, two thumbs up. Rick kissed him without holding back, and Charlie responded with equal passion.
The breeze ruffled my buttoned-up shirt and khaki pants as I sat on the rocks near the pier. Waves washed over my feet. When they receded, barnacle crusts and snails popped with air and water. Charlie and Rick sunned on side-by-side towels. Dad read from an Adirondack and bikini-watched.
A familiar shadow fell on the rocks and my legs - his hand cool on my shoulder. "Hey there, tiny dancer. No more off the-cuff-opinions. I'm just here to draw." He smelled like linseed oil and paint.
Another wave washed over the chipped rose polish of my toenails. "I don't know if this will work. You've crossed so many lines."
"Or just the one when we were eight?"
"Well, that was a big one."
"I'm sorry I was such a dumb kid." His eyes were shaded by the fedora, but sincere.
The rock could have room for two, if I slid over a little.
He sat opposite, flicked through white pages and charcoal. "If it's okay, I'd like to draw you."
"Another caricature?"
"No." He laughed a deep laugh. "No. I'm more of a realist these days." His skin glowed smooth above his jaw. His hand made light movements on the page.
My hair whipped against my cheeks, strands of it refused to be held. His eyes traced lines up and down my arms as he sketched. The water was ice, but the sun burned through my shirt. He looked up at my face, then down, sketching. Dad glanced from his book as another bikini walked by.
After a while, Henry turned the picture toward me, expectant. My smile, my eyes with a sadness there, and - "Oh God! You made me look slutty!" My shirt was unbuttoned with way too much exposed.
He ran his fingers down the page, his hand resting on the bathing suit part of the drawing. "I'll change the hair and eye color. No one will know it's you." He closed the book.
"Except for you." It was us, eight-year-old again. My body tensed with a familiar anger.
"For the record -" He tipped his hat, his eyes tense with emotion. "I'd never draw you looking slutty."
The sand kicked up onto Charlie and Rick's towel when I landed between them and Dad. "Why do men have to look at everything?" Even with my eyes shut, the sun seemed too bright.
"We like beauty," Dad said.
Then Charlie, "I notice things about Rick no one else does -"
"You perv," but Rick laughed. "Don't you like it when you catch Henry looking?"
"Dad, do you notice things about Mom?"
"I used to." His newspaper snapped in the wind. "When she was fun."
But, if I let Henry see me again, he'd realize that most of the time I wasn't fun.
At the end of that summer, even in the middle of the day I needed a sweater. Charlie and Rick left for a honeymoon in faraway places. Suitcases carefully packed. Sheets stripped from the bed. Dust swept out the door. Dad left for the city. Mom had ordered a taxi, and left earlier that morning, 'for a life of my own.'
I lay in my bikini and watched Henry approach.
"So, did you make millions off that drawing?"
"Nope." He opened his book. "It's still right here."
"Doesn't matter now." I rolled over. "Go ahead. Look all you want."
Henry grimaced. "You're lovely." His eyes fixed on mine. "But no way am I taking a chance on a critic. I'm more into the artsy type."
I turned back, shutting my eyes. The sound of sand rustling and the waves as goosebumps prickled my skin.
The mist had rolled into the beach. Pencils rolled on his open sketch book. He'd drawn a fedora hanging to the right of a door frame. Sand spilled past the entry, framing a glass ocean reflecting the sun.
Sitting on my towel, in the faded light, I sketched on his drawing a woman's curves under a yellow strapless sundress and left the book open in the sand for Henry. Or anyone in a fedora.
The next year when we arrived at the hotel, the waves still lapped at the rock pier. Ground white shells stuck to our feet, as we walked toward the honeymoon suite. The out-of-order sign had been removed. Mosquito netting and a desk stood near the open window. Palm fronds scratched against the roof.
Henry sat on the white comforter and smoothed out the spot for me. I kissed hard, eager and pushy, but his kiss was gentle, quiet, patient. I took off his fedora. The sun glowed on our legs. The lace curtain grazed my knee. The weight of his hand on my shoulder. The salt was still in the air, but the critic had gone.
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