The lobby of the Omni Bayview, entered from under a wide maroon marquee through sliding glass doors tinted opaque like limousine windows, knocks you out, virtually blinds you with its towering space and light, its great prismatic chandelier and splashing fountain and high rear wall of plate glass flooded with the view of Deleon Bay: beach in the foreground and sea like a scintillating blue-green curtain hung from a horizon line strung between two pegs of land, rich men’s islands. “Wow,” Judy breathes at Harry’s side. Pru and Roy, coming behind them, say nothing; but the shuffle of their sandals slows and hushes. They feel like four trespassers. The woman at the black-marble front desk is an exotic color, her skin mixed of Negro and Indian or Oriental tints and stretched tight over her cheekbones and nosebone; her eyelids have been painted a metallic green and her earlobes covered by ribbed shells of gold.
Harry is so awed he makes a mistake in uttering the magic name of admission, saying “Silberstein.”
The woman blinks her amazing metallic lids, then graciously tells him, “You must mean Mr. Silvers. He is this morning’s beach supervisor.” With merciful disdain she directs them across the lobby, her ringed hand gesturing like a Balinese dancer’s, without letting go of a slim gold pen. He leads his little party into the vast air-conditioned space, across a floor of black marble inset with strips of brass that radiate out like rays of the sun from an aluminum fountain suggesting a pipe organ, beneath a remote ceiling of hanging rectangles of gilded metal like those glittering strips farmers hang to-scare away birds. A flight of downward stairs is marked To POOL AND BEACH in solemn letters such as you see on post-office facades. After taking a wrong turn in the milky-green terrazzo corridors on the ground floor and confronting a door marked STAFF ONLY, Harry and his group find Ed Silberstein’s son Gregg in a glassed-in, straw-matted area on the way to the hotel swimming pool - pools, since Harry sees there are three, fitted together like the blobs in an intelligence test, one for waders, one for divers, and a long one marked in lanes. Gregg is a curlyhaired man brown as an Arab from being off and on the beach all day. In little black elastic European-style trunks and a hooded sweatshirt bearing the five-sided Omni logo, he stands less tall than his father, and his inherited sharp-chinned accountant’s jaw has been softened by a mother’s blood and a job of holiday facilitation He smiles, showing teeth as white as Ed’s but rounder: Ed’s were so square they looked false, but Harry has never seen them slip. When Gregg speaks, his voice seems too young for his age; his curls hold bits of gray and his smile rouses creases in the sunbeaten face. He shouldn’t still be horsing around on the ‘beach.
“My father said you’d be coming. This is Mrs. Angstrom?” He means Pru, who has come instead of Janice, who after all that tramping around yesterday wanted to stay home and catch up on her errands and go to her aerobics class and bridge group and spend a little time with Nelson before he goes home. Harry is stunned that Ed’s son could make this blunder but then thinks he must deal all the time with men in advanced middle age who have younger wives. And anyway Pru is no longer that young. Tall and fairskinned like he is, she might well be his.
“Thanks for the compliment, Gregg,” Harry says, pretty smoothly, considering, “but this is my daughter-in-law, Teresa.” Teresa, Pru - she is like him even in having two names, an inner and an outer. “And these are my two handsome grandchildren, Judy and Roy.”
Gregg tells Judy, “So you’re the one who wants to be a sailor girl.”
Her eyes when she lifts them to Gregg’s face flood here by the pools with a skyey light that washes out their green and makes her pupils small as pencil leads. “Sort of.”
Moving and speaking in a relaxed thorough way that suggests his whole day could happily be devoted to them, Ed’s son leads them back into the terrazzo corridors and arranges for locker keys for them with a boy at a desk - a young black with his hair shaved into one of those muffin-tops they do now, an ugly style, with bald sides - and then leads them to the locker-room doors, and tells them how to exit directly onto the beach, where he will meet them and manage the Sunfish rentals. “How much do I owe you for all this?” Harry asks, half-expecting it will be free, arranged for by Ed in compensation for the twenty Harry dropped to him at Wednesday’s golf.
But Gregg sheds a little amiability and says, “The boats are exclusively for the use of hotel guests and get included in their charges, but I think about a hundred twenty for the four of you would cover it, with the lockers and beach access and two Sunfish for an hour each.”
Pru speaks up. “We don’t want two. I’d be terrified.”
He looks her up and down and says with a new thrust in his voice, a little friendly lean in from a guy who deals with a lot of women in this job, “No need to be terrified, Teresa. They can’t sink, and lifesavers are compulsory. Worst case and you feel you have no control, just let go of the sail and we’ll come out for you in the launch.”
“Thanks but no thanks,” Pru says, a bit perkily Harry thinks, but, then, she and this guy are about the same age. Baby boomers. Rock and roll, dope, Leave It to Beaver, physical fitness. And wait till they discover they both come from Ohio.
Gregg Silvers turns to him and says, “Ninety should about do it, then.”
The sum seems an invitation to tip him ten, but Harry wonders if this wouldn’t be insulting, since he is here as a family friend, and waits for Gregg to fetch the bill from the muffin-topped boy at the desk. When Rabbit and Roy are alone in the locker room, he tells the child, “Jesus, Roy, that just about cleaned out poor old Grandpa’s wallet!”
Roy looks up at him with frightened inky eyes. “Will they put us in jail?” he asks, his voice high and precise, like wind chimes.
Harry laughs. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“Daddy hates jail.”
“Well who doesn’t!” Harry says, wondering if the child is quite right in the head. Roy doesn’t understand you should loosen the string of bathing trunks to pull them on, and while he fumbles and struggles his little penis sticks straight out, no longer than it is thick, cute as a button mushroom. He is circumcised. Rabbit wonders what his own life would have been like if he had been circumcised. The issue comes up now and then in the newspapers. Some say the foreskin is like an eyelid; without it the constantly exposed glans becomes less sensitive, it gets thick-skinned and dull rubbing against cloth all the time. A letter he once read in a skin magazine was from a guy who got circumcised in midwife and found his sexual pleasure and responsiveness went so far down his circumcised life was hardly worth living. If Harry had been less responsive he might have been a more dependable person. Getting a hard-on you can feel the foreskin sweetly tug back, like freezing cream lifting the paper cap on the old-time milk bottles. From the numb look of his prick Roy will be a solid citizen. His grandfather reaches down a hand to lead him out to the beach.
Harry and Janice after their first year or two in Florida, when in their excitement at being here they bought a telescope for the balcony and three or four times a week would drive the two miles to the Deleon public beach for a walk and picnic supper if not a swim, gradually stopped visiting the Gulf. So it hits him now as something fresh, unforeseen, this immensity of water, of air, of a surface of flux battered into a million oscillating dents. The raw glory of it all overpowers for a moment the nagging aches and worries in his chest and releases him into self-forgetfulness. Such light-struck and level grandeur is like nothing he knew in the Pennsylvania landscape, hemmed in by woods and hills and housetops, a land dingy with centuries of use, where even the wild patches, the quarries and second-growth woodland and abandoned factories and rnineshafts, had been processed by men and discarded. Here, all feels virgin, though in fact there is a history too, of Indians and conquistadores and barefoot mailmen who served the mosquito-plagued coastal settlements. On the right and left of the horizon are islands where the millionaires used to come by private railroad car for the tarpon fishing in April. Spanish and French pirates once hid among these islands. Gold
is still buried in their sands. They are flat and seem very distant from where Harry and Roy stand on the beach wall. It is all so bright, so open, the world feels created anew, in synthetic elements. Sailboats, windsurfing rigs, those motorcycles that buzz along on top of the water, plastic paddleboats, and inflated rafts dot the near water with colors gaudy as a supermarket’s. A distance down the beach, in front of another hotel, someone is flying a kite -a linked pair of box kites that dip and dive and climb again in unison, trailing glittering orange ribbons. For a mile in either direction, a twinkling party of tan flesh and cloth patches is assembling itself, grainlike live bodies laid on top of the beach of sand.
Pru and Judy come out of the hotel to join them and they descend concrete steps. The hour has passed ten o’clock, and at their backs the tall hotel, shaped like an S fifteen stories high, fringed at each story with balconies like fine-toothed red combs, still has its face in shadow, though its shadow has shrunk back to the innermost of its pools. The sand is freshly raked underfoot; yesterday’s footprints and plastic glasses and emptied lotion bottles have been taken away and the wooden beach chaises stacked. Today’s sunbathers are arranging themselves and their equipment, their towels and mystery novels (Ruth used to read those, and what she got out of them was another mystery) and various colorcoded numbers of sunscreen. Couples are greasing each other. Old smoothies already the color of leather are rubbing oil into their bald heads, the hair of their chests pure white. The smell of lotion rises to intertwine with the odor of salt air, of dead crab, of seaweed. As he leads his group across the sand Harry feels heads lift and eyes behind sunglasses slide; he feels proud and strange to be seen with this much younger woman and two small children. His second family. Or his third or fourth. Life moves through us family after family.
At the water’s slapping, hissing, frothing edge sandpipers scurry. and halt, stab. the foam for some morsel, and scurry on. Their feet and heads are so quick they appear mechanical. Roy cannot catch them, though they seem like toys. When Harry takes off his unlaced Nikes, the sand bites his bare feet with an unexpected chill - the tide of night still cold beneath the sunny top layer of grains. The tops of his feet show wormy blue veins, and his shins are all chalky and crackled, as if he is standing up to his knees in old age. A tremor of flight comes alive in his legs. The sea, the sun are so big: cosmic wheels he could be ground between. He is playing with fire.
Gregg is waiting for them at a but of corrugated Fiberglas on the beach, back from the water near some palms with their roots exposed. He has taken from the but a rudder, a centerboard, and two life jackets of black foam rubber. Rabbit doesn’t like the color, the texture; he wants old-fashioned Day-Glo kapok from Thomas Edison’s kapok trees. Gregg asks him, “You’ve done this before?”
“Sure.”
But something in Harry’s tone leads Gregg to be instructive: “Push the tiller away from the sail. Watch the tips of the waves for the direction of the wind. When the wind gets behind you, hold the mainsheet loose.”
“O.K.., sure,” Harry says, having not quite listened, thinking instead, resentfully, of Ed Silberstein’s bogey on the first hole yesterday and how its being enough for a win got the whole round off to a lousy start.
Gregg turns to Pru and asks, “Your little girl can swim?”
“Oh, sure,” she says, picking up Harry’s lazy word. “She was the champion in her swimming class at summer camp.”
“Mom,” the girl pleads. “I came in second.”
Gregg looks down at Judy, the sun at his back so bright that the shadow on his face has a blue light ofits own. “Second’s pretty close to champ.” Still needing to talk to Pru, Gregg says, “I wouldn’t advise your little boy to go. There’s an offshore breeze today, you can’t feel it in the lee of the hotel here, but it takes you out there pretty fast. There’s no cockpit, it’s easy to slip off.”
She gives Gregg Silvers her crooked wry grin and shifts her weight, as if the closeness of this man her own age makes her awkwardly aware of her near-nakedness. She is wearing a tie-dyed brown dashiki over her one-piece white suit with those high sides that expose leg up to the hipbone. The cut means you have to shave the sides off your pussy. What women go through. There’s even a kind of wax job you can have done to make it permanent. But suppose bathing-suit fashions change again? Rabbit preferred that pre-Reagan look of the two-piece bikini with the lower half like a little skimpy diaper slung under the belly, like Cindy Murkett used to slosh around in. Still, this new style nicely lengthens Pru’s already long legs and keeps her thickening middle in. “He’s going to stay with me right on the beach,” she tells Gregg Silvers, and by way of emphasis bows down, so her red hair flings forward, and pulls off her dashiki, revealing string straps and white wide shoulders mottled with pale freckles.
“How long do I have it for?” Harry, feeling ignored, asks Ed’s son. Those tight little European-style bathing trunks definitely show the bump of a prick.
“One hour, sir.” The “sir” just popped in absentmindedly and the boy tries to revert to friendly casualness. “No sweat if you don’t bring it in on the dot. There’s not much action today, a lot of people don’t like taking them out in this much wind. Take number nineteen, on the end there.”
As Harry moves off, he hears Gregg ask Pru, “Where’re you folks from up north?”
“Pennsylvania. Actually, I’m from Akron, Ohio.”
“Hey! You’ll never guess where I was raised - Toledo!”
The boats are up on the dry sand in a line, along with some other big water toys - those water bikes, and squarish paddleboats. Harry pulls at the nylon painter attached to the bow and the hull is heavier than he thought; by the time he’s dragged it forty feet through the sand his breathing feels shallow and that annoying binding pain has begun to flicker on the left side of his ribs. He gives the boat one more heave and sits down in the sand, near where Pru is settling herself on a beach chaise Gregg has dragged down from the stack for her. Another beachgoer has momentarily called him away. “You like those?” Rabbit pants. “Don’t you like feeling the sand under your - you know, like sort of a nest?”
She says, “It gets into the bathing suit, Harry. It gets in everywhere.”
This needless emphasis, when he had got the picture, excites him, here in the bewildering brightness. He dimly remembers an old joke in high school about women making pearls. Cunts like Chesapeake oysters. That sly old Fred. He tells Judy, “Give me a second to get my breath, couldja honey? Go for a quick swim in the water so it won’t be a shock when we’re out on it. I’ll be with you in one minute.”
He should try to talk to Pru about Nelson. Something rotten there. Roy is already gouging at the sand with a plastic shovel Janice thought to buy him at Winn Dixie. Frowningly the child dumps the sand into a bucket shaped like an upside-down Garfield. Pru says, since Harry seems unable to begin, “You’re awfully nice to have arranged all this. I was astonished, how much he charged.”
“Well,” he says, feeling slowly better as his bare legs absorb heat from the top layer of sand, “you’re only a grandfather once. Or twice, in my case. You and Nelson plan any more?” This feels forward, but not in a class with the sand getting in everywhere.
“Oh no, my God,” she too swiftly answers, in a trough of silence as one long low wave follows another in and breaks in a frothy cresting of glitter and a mechanical scurrying of sandpipers. “We’re not ready for any more.”
“You’re not, huh?” he says, not sure where to take this.
She helps him, her voice in his ear as he gazes out into the Gulf. He doesn’t dare turn his head to look at her bare feet, their pink toe joints and cracked nail polish, and her long legs lifted on the chaise, exposing contrasting white pieces of spandex crotch and soft flesh underside. These new bathing suits don’t do much to hold a woman’s ass in. She confesses to Harry, “I don’t think we’re doing justice to the two we’ve got, with Nelson how he is.”
“Yeah, how is he? He seems jump
y, and only half here.”
“That’s right,” she says, too enthusiastically agreeing. That’s all she says. Another wave collapses and shooshes up the sand. She has pulled back. She is waiting for him to make an inspired guess.
“He hates Toyotas,” he offers.
“Oh, he’d complain if they were jaguars,” Pru says. “Nothing would satisfy him, the way he is now.”
The way he is. The secret seems to be in that phrase. Was the poor kid with his white-around-the-gills look dying of something, of leukemia like that girl in Love Story? Of AIDS he caught somehow - how, Harry can’t bear to think -hanging around that faggy Slim crowd Lyle the new accountant is part of. But it all seems distant, like those islands where pirates hid gold and rich men caught tarpon, mere thickenings of the horizon from this angle three feet above sea level. He can’t focus on it, with the sun on his head. He maybe should have brought a hat, to protect his Swedish complexion. His suspicion has always been he looks foolish in a hat, his head too big already. Roy has filled the bucket and pretty carefully, considering he’s only four, dumps it upside down and lifts it off. He expects to have a sand Garfield but the shape is too tricky and crumbles on one side. A bad principle, fancy shapes. Stick with simple castles and let the kids use their imaginations. Harry volunteers, speaking into the air, not quite daring to turn his head and face Pru’s crotch, and those nameless bits exposed by the way her legs are up, “He was never what you’d call a terrifically happy child. I guess me and Jan are to blame for that.”