The Vacationers

“Who, Bobby? Or Charles?” Jim swam slowly over to Sylvia’s side of the pool.

“Both of them.”

“I thought you liked Lawrence,” Jim said. He extended his arms and grabbed the lip next to Sylvia. She let go and floated onto her back.

“I do, I do, it’s just . . . I’d rather have him alone, you know? When Lawrence is around, Charles has to pay attention to him, like he’s a little dog. They’re not like you and Mom, who are, like, just people who happen to be married to each other, you know? They’re always fixing each other’s clothes and reading over each other’s shoulders. It’s gross.” Sylvia shuddered, her wet hair sending droplets of water flying into the pool. “It’s like, at a certain age, people should get over the idea of being in love. It’s gross,” she said again.

“That’s not true,” Jim said. He wanted to say more, to tell his daughter that she was wrong, but couldn’t find the words.

Fra

Jim had found a stack of beach towels in the laundry room, and Sylvia grabbed one after she hoisted herself out of the pool. Her father stayed bobbing in the pool, his hands cupping the concrete rim.

“You’ll be happy to see Bobby, though, won’t you?” Jim asked, staring up at Sylvia. He wanted the children to remain uncomplicated with each other, though he knew it was futile. Parenting adults wasn’t at all like parenting kids, when the whole merry band was inclined to believe you, just because. Sylvia knew what had happened because she lived in the same house as the two of them, and it was impossible to keep it from her. It would have been hard to keep it from a child, but teenagers had ears like suction cups, soaking up everything around them. Bobby didn’t know anything. Jim almost wished that he was staying at home, staying far, far away from the implosion of his nuclear family.

Sylvia had wound one gigantic towel around her body and another around her hair. “Sure,” she said. “I guess.” She waited for Jim to pull himself out of the pool before going inside, but she didn’t say anything else, challenging him to complete his own thought.

The master bedroom was over the study, and had its own en suite bathroom. There was a closet on the left-hand side of the bed and a dresser on the right. Jim had unpacked his things in five minutes flat, and was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Fra

“How much clothing did you bring?” Jim took off his glasses and placed them, folded, into his shirt pocket. “I’m exhausted.”

Fra

“Wouldn’t it make more sense for them to all drive together and save us the trip?” Jim knew it wasn’t the answer she wanted. He stood up and cracked his knuckles.

Fra

It didn’t make any sense, not to Jim, but he wasn’t going to argue with her. This was the problem with including Charles and Lawrence: Fra

Jim ambled into the bathroom and dug his toothbrush out of the dopp kit. The tap water tasted like old metal, but it still felt good to brush his teeth and wash his face. He purposefully took longer than usual, in part because he wasn’t sure how the night would go. How the night went, so went the vacation. If Fra

“I would prefer if you slept in Bobby’s room. For the night,” she said. “Obviously not once they get here.”

“I see,” Jim said, but he didn’t move.

“Sylvia sleeps like a hibernating bear, she’s not going to hear you,” Fra

“Fine,” Jim said. “But we’ll have to deal with this tomorrow, you know.” He picked up the novel he was reading from his nightstand and made his way to the door.

“Yes, we’ll have to deal with this, won’t we?” Fra

Jim pulled the door closed behind him and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark.

Day Three

WHEN LAWRENCE DUCKED INTO THE MEN’S ROOM, Charles leaned against the terminal wall, pulled his wheeled suitcase so that it rested against his feet, and shut his eyes. They’d left their house in Provincetown at three o’clock the previous afternoon in order to get to Boston Logan for their evening flight, and flying coach was more exhausting than he remembered. Lawrence was the thrifty one—if Charles had come alone, he would have sprung for business class, at the very least. He was fifty-five years old. What was he saving the money for, if not for transatlantic flights? Lawrence would have scolded him, had he been able to hear Charles’s thoughts. This was a conversation they had on an extremely regular basis. Just because a baby hadn’t come along yet didn’t mean that one wouldn’t, and then wouldn’t he feel guilty about those thousands of wasted dollars floating somewhere over an ocean? Weren’t organic apples/private school/te

The terminal smelled like disinfectant and heavy perfume, a mixture that gave Charles a headache on the spot. He shifted his body to the right, so that he was facing the stream of disembarking travelers. The Spanish ones had better faces than the tourists—better cheekbones, better lips, better hair. When he was younger, Charles would paint from life, but now he just snapped photos with his digital camera and painted from those. He loved that freedom, being able to have anyone’s face in his pocket.