The View From Saturday

“Not at all. The only claim my family has to hybridization is right there,” he said, pointing to Margaret. “Grandma Draper is a thoroughbred Protestant, and Izzy is a thoroughbred Jew. But they don’t plan on breeding.”

  I think I blushed.

  Margaret was in charge of fifteen permitted volunteers. That meant that if she could not do the turtle patrol, one of them could. Permitted volunteers were licensed to move a nest or dig out a nest after the eggs had hatched, but they had to be supervised by her. All fifteen of Margaret’s permitteds, plus friends and other interested parties showed up for the digging out. As soon as other beach walkers saw the hovering over the nest, they joined in. The audience was enthusiastic. They ooohed and aaahed, and at least once every three minutes, one way or another, someone said that nature was wonderful. Four people said, “Fascinating.” Ethan did not oooh or aaah, and he did not say fascinating. He watched as patiently as a cameraman from National Geographic. My father hovered with the rest of them and said “fascinating” twice. Hovering had become his great recreational pastime.

  Turtle patrols keep very close watch on all the nests on their stretches of beach, and they know when they are ripe for hatching, and sometimes they are lucky enough to be there when the turtle nests are emerging. That is what a hatching is called. When the turtles push their way out of the sand and start waddling toward the waters edge, they look like a bunch of wind-up toys escaped from Toys “R” Us. Watching a nest hatch is more interesting than digging one out after they’ve hatched, which is really only a matter of keeping inventory and making certain that everything that was or is living is cleared out. During old times, I had ooohed and aaahed at the digging out, but that evening it seemed as exciting as watching a red light change.

  Like a proud parent, Margaret watched as Grandpa Izzy dug out the nest. Wearing a rubber glove on his hand, he reached down into the nest as far as his arm pit. He removed:

  96 empty egg shells

  4 unhatched whole eggs

  l dead hatchling

  3 turtles that were half-in/half-out of the shell but were dead. Those are called dead-pipped.

  1 turtle that was half-in/half-out of the shell hut was alive. Those are called live-pipped.

  2 live ones

  Margaret took notes, counted again, and said at last that it all added up.

  Grandpa released the two live turtles onto the sand. Everyone lined up on either side of them as they made their way to the water’s edge.

  Turtles almost always hatch at night, and after they do, they head toward the light. Normally, the light they head for is the horizon on the ocean. However, if a hotel or high-rise along the ocean leaves its lights on, the turtles will head toward the brighter light of civilization and never make it to the ocean. They do not find food, and they die. Turtles are not trainable animals. Their brains are in the range of mini to micro.

  When the two hatchlings reached the water, everyone along the parade route applauded, and my father said fascinating for the third time.

  Back at the nest, Margaret examined the live-pipped. She announced, “I’ve decided to keep it.” Judge, jury, and defending attorney.

  Dad asked what would happen to it, and Margaret explained, “It’ll take a few days to straighten itself out. We’ll give it a safe, cool, dark place in the utility room and release it after sunset when it’s ready.”

  Dad could have asked me. I did get an A on that report.

  When baby turtles come out of their shells, which are round—about the same size as a golf ball—they are squinched up into a round shape that fits inside the eggs. After they break through the shell, they spend three days down in the sand hole straightening themselves out. Sometimes they die before they make it out of the shell. Those are the dead-pipped. They are counted and discarded with the unhatched and the empties. A permitted person has to decide if the live-pipped are more alive than dead. If the decision is that they stand a good chance of surviving, they need care. They are lifted from the nest and taken home and given shelter until they straighten themselves out, and then they are released onto the sand.

  “We never carry them to the water,” Margaret explained. “They must walk across their native sand. We think that something registers in their brains that kicks in twenty-five years later because they return to the beach where they were born to lay their eggs.”

  As Margaret was explaining this, I thought about my mother’s returning to New York. Her birthday is September 12, and I wondered if her need to return to autumn in New York had anything to do with some switch that had been turned on when she emerged.

  Back at the condo, Grandpa carried the bucket containing the live-pipped into the utility room, and we all sat down to have milk and cookies. Oreos. Bubbe would have had homemade ruggelach. Margaret did not even know what ruggelach were until Grandpa Izzy took her to a kosher delicatessen and introduced her to them. She already knew about bagels because bagels have become popular even in places that never heard of them.

  Margaret liked ruggelach, but I could tell she had no intention of learning how to make them. Grandpa Izzy, who had enjoyed ruggelach and bobka as much as anyone, had adjusted to Entenmann’s and Oreos. I asked Ethan if he knew ruggelach. He did not. Knowing ruggelach is a hybrid advantage.

  Before the evening was over, Grandpa Izzy suggested that Dad bring me back early enough so that I could take the morning turtle walk with him and Margaret and Ethan.

  Then Margaret said, “Allen, why don’t you come, too? The exercise will be good for your foot.” Dad had broken his foot on the day of their wedding, and it had not yet healed. Margaret believed that a bad mental attitude had slowed it down. Much to my surprise, Dad agreed. “What about Ginger?” I asked.

  “No problem,” Grandpa Izzy said. “Just keep her on a leash like old times.”

  I started to say that Ginger has grown to hate the leash, but once again a look on Dad’s face told me something, and I said nothing. So it was from a look of Dad’s and a sentence left unspoken that the sequel to the turtle habit got started.

  Dad and I would leave his apartment early, meet Margaret, Grandpa, and Ethan on the beach, and do our walk. Then Dad would return to Grandpa’s and change into his business suit and leave for work. If time permitted, Dad would join us for breakfast. If not, the four of us would eat without him. We usually watched the rest of the Today Show before going for a swim.

  Grandpa and Ethan got into an unofficial contest about how many laps they could do. I did not participate. I took a short swim, got out of the water, sat on the sidelines and read while Grandpa was teaching Ethan how to dive. He wanted to teach me, too, but I preferred not to.

  One afternoon, we went to the movies. It was blazing hot and bright outside. We went into the movies where it was cool and dark, and then we came back out into the bright, hot sun. I felt as if I had sliced my afternoon into thirds, like a ribbon sandwich. Ethan, who never said much, had a lot to say about the camera angles and background music and described the star’s performance as subtle. Never before in all my life had I heard a boy use the word subtle.

  Dad had tickets for The Phantom of the Opera. This was the real Broadway show except that it was the road company. Not knowing that Ethan would be visiting, he had bought only four. As soon as he found out that Ethan would be in town, he started calling the ticket office to buy one more, but there were none to be had. He kindly volunteered to give up his ticket, but Grandpa Izzy and Margaret would not hear of it. Margaret said that she would stay home, and Grandpa Izzy said that he didn’t want to go if she didn’t.

  I expected Ethan to do the polite thing and say that he would stay home. But he did not. Of course, Ethan usually said nothing. Even when it was appropriate to say something, Ethan could be counted on to say nothing. But on the subject of who should give up a ticket, Ethan was particularly silent, which was a subtle hint that he really wanted to go. At the very last minute, the problem was solved. One of Dad’s clients mentioned that he had an extra ticket, an
d Dad bought it from him on the spot.

  We met at the theater. Ethan had insisted upon taking the odd seat, saying that he would be fine. The odd seat was three rows in front of ours and closer to the center of the stage, but I do not think Ethan knew it at the time. I think he wanted to be alone, or, I should say, without us. At intermission, Ethan bought one of the ten-dollar souvenir programs, and after the show he thanked my father at least five times for getting him a ticket.

  Dad was pleased with the way the evening had turned out. We went to the Rascal House for ice-cream sundaes after the show. Ethan could hardly keep himself from thumbing through his ten-dollar program. His head must have stayed back at the theater long after we left, for when the waitress asked for his order, he said, “They must have more trapdoors on that stage than a magic act.”

  My father actually hummed as he looked over the menu, and then right after we placed our orders, he dropped his bombshell.

  He asked Margaret if he could be listed on her permit. He would like to be able to substitute for her or Grandpa Izzy. His apartment house was not far from a beach, he explained, and he would transfer to someone’s permit there after I went back north. Then he would like to train so that he could head up a turtle patrol. His goal was to get licensed.

  “Like father, like son,” he said, patting Grandpa Izzy on the back.

  Margaret said, “We’ll get the process started tomorrow.” She must have been quite proud of her loggerheads. They got her my grandpa, and now they got her my dad.

  I did not care. I had Ginger. I preferred animals with fur and some measure of intelligence. Ginger had grown sleek and muscular with our long turtle walks. She was more affectionate than ever. For example, when we got back to the apartment after The Phantom of the Opera, she greeted me as if I were the best friend she had ever had.

  Inside me there was a lot of best friendship that no one but Ginger was using.

  The day after Dad dropped his bombshell, he and Ethan, Margaret and Grandpa walked the beach together, a tight, three-generation foursome. They got ahead of Ginger and me, and I made no effort to catch up. Instead, I slowed down and walked at the water’s edge so that I could kick at the waves as they rolled ashore. Ginger and I fell farther and farther behind the others. I saw Ethan stop to wait for Ginger and me to catch up. He did not call to us, and I pretended that I did not notice. Ethan waited until Ginger and I were midway between Grandpa, Dad, and Margaret—until we were half-pipped—and then I slowed down even more. Dad stopped, called to Ethan—not to me—to catch up. Ethan looked toward Ginger and me, then toward Grandpa and Margaret, waited another second or two, and then walked fast-forward until he caught up with Dad, Grandpa, and Margaret.

  On Tuesday evening we watched a nest hatch. It was one of theirs. “Theirs” means that it was one that Margaret had moved. Like the one on the first night of our turtle walks, this one also contained a hundred and seven eggs, but this time all one hundred seven turtles emerged. “One hundred percent,” Grandpa cried, and he hugged Margaret. Then he congratulated Ethan and Dad. Ginger and I stayed on the fringe because I had to hold Ginger on a short leash so that she would not start chasing the baby turtles. Grandpa did not hug or congratulate me.

  We all returned to Grandpa’s apartment, and Dad insisted on taking us all out to the Dairy Queen to celebrate. Margaret ate a whole Peanut Buster Parfait without once mentioning cholesterol or calories.

  I was sitting at poolside, reading. After doing our turtle walk, Margaret had gone to her volunteer duties at the garden club, and Grandpa Izzy had gone to his at the public library. Ethan and I were to let ourselves into their condo and start lunch. Ethan finished his laps and came out of the water. He sat at the deep end with his legs dangling into the water. I joined him at the pool’s edge and put my feet into the water, too. I noticed that he had his key on an elastic cord around his ankle, and I also noticed that he had a key chain ornament that looked like a giant molar. As the daughter of a dental hygienist, I was interested in his key chain ornament and asked him where he got it.

  “From your mother,” he said.

  I was not prepared for his answer. “My mother?” I asked in a voice that was too loud even for the out-of-doors.

  “Well, yes. Your mother works for Dr. Gershom, doesn’t she?”

  “As a matter of fact, she does.”

  “She cleaned my teeth,” he said.

  There is not a worse feeling in this world than the feeling that someone knows something about you that he has known for almost a whole summer and has kept to himself. Even sharing what he knows about you with others is not as bad as knowing something and not telling you he knows. All you can think about is what he was really thinking the whole time he was speaking to you or walking the beach with you or swimming laps or playing fetch with your dog Ginger. I felt as if I had been spied on. I felt as if I had been stalked.

  My heart was pumping gallons of blood up to my face. I could feel my neck throb. I controlled my voice so that it would not quiver. I said, “You should have told me that. You should have told me long before now. A person with good manners would have.”

  Ethan said, “I didn’t think it was important.”

  I caught my breath and asked an intermediate question, “Does your mother also know Dr. Gershom?”

  “He’s our family dentist.”

  “And Margaret? Does she also know him?”

  “I told you. He is our family dentist. Grandma Draper is part of our family. Before she moved to Florida, he was her dentist, too.”

  “Do not adopt that tone with me, Ethan Potter.”

  “What tone?”

  “The tone of being patient and tolerant as if the questions I am asking are dumb questions. They are not dumb questions. I need to know what you know that I do not.”

  “I don’t know what you don’t know, so how can I know what I know and you don’t?”

  “Now, that is a dumb question. That is really a very stupid question.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Just tell me what you knew about my mother and me and my father before we met.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell you what I knew about you if you’ll tell me what you knew about me.”

  “All right. You go first.”

  “When your mother said that she was divorcing your father and wanted to move to New York where she grew up, my grandmother set things up with Dr. Gershom.”

  “Margaret set what things up?”

  “The job interview.”

  “Mother’s job interview with Dr. Gershom?”

  “I thought that was what we were talking about—your mother’s job with Dr. Gershom.”

  “We are talking about what you know that I do not.”

  “And I am trying to tell you. Your mother told Izzy and Grandma Draper that she wanted to move to New York State, so Grandma set up a job interview with Dr. Gershom.”

  I had stayed in Florida with Dad while Mother had gone north to find a job and a house. No one—not Dad, not Mother, not Grandpa Izzy—no one had told me that Margaret had set up Mother’s job interview with Dr. Gershom. Margaret could have. The others should have. No one seemed to think that it would matter to me where I lived. No one seemed to think that it would matter to me whether I spent my life in New York or Florida or commuting between the two.

  My throat was dry. I took a deep breath of the chlorine-saturated pool air and asked, “Is there anything else you know about me that I don’t know?”

  Ethan shrugged. “Only that Noah was best man at Grandma and Izzy’s wedding.”

  “The whole world knows that. I am asking you one last time. What do you know about me that I do not know you know?”

  “Not much. Only that Noah never said what nice guys your dad and Izzy are.”

  “That is what you do not know. I was asking you what you do know.” The pulse in my neck was about to break through the skin.

  “I do know that you’re pretty mad right now, and I think now you oug
ht to tell me what you knew about me.”

  “Nothing.”

  “My grandma told you nothing about me?”

  “That is correct. She said nothing about you. She did not even tell me that you were coming even though she had several opportunities to do so.”

  Ethan then asked a strange question. “Did she tell you anything about Luke?”

  “Luke what? Luke warm?”

  “My brother Lucas, called Luke. Did she tell you anything about him?”

  “She did not.”

  Ethan smiled, more to himself than to me. “Well,” he said, “we Potters make an art of silence.”

  “Your grandmother is a Draper.”

  “See?” he said, grinning. “It comes to me from both sides of my family.”

  I did not speak to him for the rest of the day, and when he left the pool to return to the condo for lunch, I did not go with him. I thought that it would do him good to know how it felt to be the recipient rather than the giver of silence.

  It was obvious that it was Margaret who had made possible my mother’s leaving my father. Margaret Diamondstein, formerly Draper, helped my mother move to New York. She moved turtles from one nest to another. She moved Grandpa Izzy out of Century Village. And now, she was helping my father get permitted. By next turtle season, she will be helping him move to the beach. Margaret Diamondstein, formerly Draper, was an interfering person.

  I did not need Margaret interfering with my life. I would have nothing more to do with her. That meant no more walking on the beach. That meant no more swimming and breakfast. That meant no more turtle walks.

  Never again a turtle walk. Never.

  I would stop and never tell her why.

  Never.

  I was still at the pool when Dad came to pick me up. I went back to the condo while they all went down to the beach to check on a nest. After I showered and dressed, I watched from the balcony, staying back by the wall where I could not be seen. Ginger whimpered to let me know that she wanted to be down there, but I thought that at the very least, my dog ought to stay by—and on—my side.

  I wanted to leave my father’s house. I wanted to go home, to autumn.