The Vacationers

“I didn’t.” Bobby raised a finger to his mouth and shushed her. Then he pointed to their parents.

“Oh.” Sylvia scrunched up her face. “So why was she so mad?”

“Shit, Syl, I don’t know, because I went out without her, and got drunk, and came home and puked. Do we really need to talk about this right now?”

“We’re not listening,” Fra

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Great.”

They were close—the air was saltier. Sylvia decided to let it drop. It was strange to see Bobby this much—when he came back to New York, he never stayed more than a few days at a time, and even then he was always ru

Jim parked in a slanted spot on the side of the road, and Charles pulled in two spaces behind them. They all loaded up their arms with Fra

Gemma was right—the beach was glorious. Once they were through the trees, the beach opened up like an unfolded map, with more and more clean, bright sand in both directions. There were several clusters of people—umbrellaed colonies here and there—but on the whole the beach was quiet, and the water was nearly empty. The water! Fra

“I’m going in!” she a

Sylvia curled up like a sleeping dog in the narrow and shifting shade offered by the umbrella.

“You know that the sun will not actually set you on fire, right?” Bobby said. He was lying on his back, with his T-shirt thrown over his face.

“I’m a delicate flower,” Sylvia said. She stuck out her tongue for emphasis, but Bobby was no longer looking. On her other side, Charles and Lawrence had set up shop on an impressive scale—magazines, chairs, their shoulder bags weighing down the corners of the beach towels. They were both reading novels, and Charles had his camera in his lap, in case he saw anyone he’d like to paint. Lawrence had also brought his laptop on the off chance that the beach had Wi-Fi, which it didn’t. There was a large hotel just up the road, and he pla

Fra

“Maybe she’ll drown,” Jim said, appearing next to Fra

“Oh, stop,” Fra

“So it sounds like Bobby did more than get too drunk the other night,” Jim said.

Fra

“Didn’t sound good.”

Bobby stood up, dusted off his bottom, and walked slowly into the sand. He nodded at his parents when he passed them, but kept going. Fra

“Fuck!” Bobby said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He struggled to stand up, and began to hobble back to his towel. The other beach patrons turned to look. “I think something bit me.” He was clutching his calf, just above his right ankle. Carmen had heard the commotion and swum closer, her head and shoulders above the surface.

Jim hustled to his son’s side. “Here?” he asked, pointing to where Bobby was clutching his leg. The skin was raised and turning red, in a lacy pattern. Bobby lost about twenty-five years immediately, his face as open and expressionless as a baby’s right after its very first shot—that wide surprise. Growing up in the city meant little exposure to stings and bites of the natural variety, unless they were ornery pit bulls walking down Broadway. Fra

“Sweetie, are you okay?” She reached out for his leg but then withdrew her hand. “Can I touch it?”

Sylvia had rolled onto her side and was watching with some amusement. “Did karma bite you, Bobby?”

“Sylvia!” Fra