Chapter 48
I had let the Navarro slip more and more from my mind, half convincing myself it could be undone, things were returned all the time, people changed their minds.
It vaguely occurred to me that in my drunkenness I’d neglected some crucial step—I hadn’t specified the form of shipping, for example, or had incorrectly entered the card’s security code—and so the sale had not gone through.
Neither did I think much of Louise, with a few exceptions.
At the farthest corner of the beach, at the base of an outcropping of rock, Ida had discovered clay.
I’d never seen clay in its natural form.
It was orangey-brown and dried in the sun to a dull mud color.
While Henry played in the waves, while Tom and I sunbathed or swam, Ida quietly went about her “work” sculpting small animals and other things, cups the size of thimbles, dice.
She and Henry soon evolved a game that they played each day at low tide, deeply absorbed for hours.
It involved harvesting hunks of clay and stacking them in a mysterious yet particular order on a flat, ovate rock they termed “the factory.” The factory, about five feet from the ground, was accessible by a “staircase” of rocks.
It was unclear what the purpose of the factory was, only that their livelihood depended upon it.
“We’re poor,” I heard Henry say, adding the customary, “right, Ida?”
“Yes, very poor. With the money from this factory, we can go to the market and get things we need, like salt, and”—she paused—“maybe pasta.”
“And candy!”
“No, Henry. You don’t need candy.”
“But I like candy,” he cried in that piercing tone, as if this were all completely real; never again would he taste candy.
“Henry, we don’t have time for this! We have a lot of work to do. Maybe we’d make enough for a lump of sugar,” she allowed. “Once a year maybe. For Easter, or maybe Thanksgiving.”
Listening to this back-and-forth, my initial charm morphed into agitation.
I was affronted by the way she bossed Henry, his self-effacement in response.
Her tacit endorsement of poverty and disdain of wealth reminded me unpleasantly of Louise; the way she was attempting to press those ideas onto Henry, who now said grudgingly, “All right, Ida,” lingering on his thumb for a few more seconds before falling in line with the harvesting, rinsing, shaping of clay into cubes.
Ida smiled imperiously. I fought my urge to shout a warning to him not to go along, to stay true to himself, his own joy.
She’ll crush you! Beside me, Tom dozed on his towel, a straw hat propped over his face.
Turning to watch him sleep, I calmed myself.
I shook the thoughts of Louise away, promising myself again that I wouldn’t see her anymore; Tom would never need to know how tangled things had gotten.
I pressed my body to his. I lifted my face to the sunlight as if to let it bleach me clean.
Now and then, a twitch passed along the length of Tom’s leg. Except for this, I was alone.