The Vacationers

Fra

“We could cash out some stocks,” Fra

“We could.”

“But is it our responsibility?” Fra

“No, it’s not,” Jim said, and rolled over to face her. “Not directly. Not legally. He’s almost thirty. Most young people have debt. Anyone who goes to law school has three times as much debt as that.”

“But they’re lawyers! And can make it back! I just don’t know if this is one of those times when we’re supposed to let him figure it out for himself. Clearly he meant to—he didn’t bring it up, she did. God, that woman. And to think, all night, I was really starting to like her. But she did that to him on purpose!” Fra

Seeing his wife in such a state should not have thrilled Jim, but it did. It was rarer and rarer for Fran to get so riled up about something that she could discuss only with him—now that the children were so old, they no longer needed to have the endless conversations of their late youth and early middle age, wherein they would talk about their offspring’s friends and teachers and punishments and all the ensuing guilt and pride for days on end.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, and reached out to stroke her face, but she was already rolling back toward the windows, settling in for sleep, and so he reached only her back, but when she didn’t shrug him off, it felt like a small gain.

All the lights were out—even Bobby and Carmen’s, Sylvia could tell from the dark crack of air underneath the door. Something was off, in addition to Bobby’s bank statements. She didn’t know what it really meant to be in debt, but Sylvia imagined men with fedoras and briefcases knocking on the door and threatening to cut off meaningful body parts.

At home, she knew all the noisy stairs, which wooden planks creaked and which ones didn’t. Here, she had to guess and so just stayed close to the banister, placing each foot carefully and slowly before moving down to the next step. She wanted to check the living room sofa. There was no evidence that her father hadn’t been sleeping in bed with her mother, but their room had just felt strange, that’s how Sylvia would have described it, had anyone asked, which they wouldn’t. It felt strange in the same way some places felt haunted, when she just knew that there were ghosts present who were friendly or not but definitely dead.

The downstairs was all dark, too, except for a single light in the dining room that someone had left on by mistake. The house was cool, and Sylvia shivered. She nudged her way over to the wall between the foyer and the living room and squinted into the darkness. She could make out the couch, but not well enough to see if there was anyone sleeping on it. She took a step closer but felt like she’d stepped into the middle of an ocean, completely unmoored and lost, and so she retreated to the wall, touching it with both her hands. “Dad?” she said, quietly. There was no response. Even if he’d been asleep, her father would have answered her. Sylvia waited for what felt like forever and then repeated herself.

Of course he wasn’t there. Everything was fine, except the things that weren’t. Her parents were screwed up, but maybe not as screwed up as she thought. Sylvia was relieved, and embarrassed that she’d even wanted to check. When she was a little girl, and had a nightmare, her father had always been the first one on the scene, opening closet doors and poking his head under the bed. That’s all she was doing—making sure that the monsters were pretend. Sylvia felt immediately tired, though she’d been wide awake until just that moment. She could hardly make it back up the stairs and into her own bed before falling asleep, so secure was she in her fact-finding mission.

Day Ten

FRANNY BUSIED HERSELF IN THE KITCHEN, MAKING Tupperware containers of snacks that wouldn’t melt in the sun. Gemma had the glass ones, of course, nothing plastic. Fra

One by one, her guests trickled out of their bedrooms. Charles and Lawrence liked the beach and were easy to convince. Sylvia was nervous about seeing Joan and was more than happy to put him off for the day. Bobby said yes, and Carmen said yes, though they appeared in the kitchen separately and seemed not to be speaking to each other. It wasn’t even nine o’clock before Fra

Gemma recommended three beaches: Cala Deià, opposite the Robert Graves House, which was remote and rocky and “rather magic” (no bathrooms, no snack shops); Badia del Esperanza, a wide “golden sandy paradise” (high possibility of children/tourists); and Cala Miramar, “a functional beach within a half-hour’s drive. Lots of Spanish families. Less-than- glorious bathrooms on-site.” (No more exciting than a trip to Brighton Beach.) How could they argue with paradise? Surely children wouldn’t be at the beach at this hour, when they should be napping or parked in front of cartoons. Fra

The beach was a twenty-five-minute drive over the mountains—up, up, up, then down, down, down. Jim drove under Fra

“Hey,” Sylvia said to her brother, and jostled his leg.

“What?” Bobby said, and looked at her warily.

“What did you say to Carmen? Clearly you told her about the girl. Otherwise, why would she have done that to you, right?” Sylvia was genuinely curious—she tried to imagine Gabe Thrush coming to her and telling her about his stupid indiscretion, instead of just showing up at school holding hands with Katie Saperstein. She might even have forgiven him.