Man, woman, and child(19)

God, she thought, how smug I must have been. All around us marriages were splitting or relationships eroding and Fd taken ours for granted. We were different. Unchanged, unchanging and unchangeable. Was it hubris to feel so secure? Is that where I went wrong?

She walked in the direction of the solitary child.



And now, to her dismay, she saw it was Jean-Claude, sitting on his haunches, digging in the sand. She slowed. She didn't want to have to talk to him. But from this vantage point she could observe him without being seen.

You know, we have a lot in common, Sheila thought. We both were happy once.

And numbed by melancholy, she fantasized a conversation they might have if they were meeting for the first time here, alone on this deserted beach.

*'Hello, whose little hoy are you?"

"My mother is Nicole Guerin, my father's Robert BeckwithJ'

''Really? Robert Beckwith is my husband,"

*'Ohr'

*'That sort of complicates things, doesn*t it?** Just then the little boy looked up, saw her, and waved. I know it isn't your fault, Sheila forced herself to think. She waved back. He looks so sad.

But then it isn't my fault either, dammit. She turned and walked along the shore away from him.

Tension was mounting. The score was 12-12 and they were into extra innings. Both teams were wilting from the heat, but no one more than Bob, who had been roasting in his catcher's mask. It was bottom of the tenth and Bemie's team was batting. Davey Ackerman had lined a double to left field and now was dancing boldly from the base. Once or twice Bob thought he might rifle the ball to the second baseman and catch Davey off guard, but his arm was sore just from returning the ball to the pitcher.

Now Bemie was in the batter's box.

"Come on, Dad, send me home!" called Davey, as he hopped up and down and whistled to encourage his father and distract the pitcher. Bob signaled



for a low fast ball, which, alas, came in shoulder high and slow.

Bemie's swing caught just a piece of it and popped a fly to shallow center. The instant Patsy Lord caught it, Davey Ackerman was off and flying toward third base. And it was clear that he would try to score. Patsy fired the ball to Bob, who had thrown off his mask and stood astride the base line, blocking home plate. But Davey rounded third and fearlessly charged homeward.

''Knock his head off, Davey!"

This parental counsel came from Bemie, shrieking like a maniac.

Davey was a cannonball aimed straight at Bob. As he drew near. Bob lunged to tag him, but couldn't. Davey dodged, and slid right into him. Bob fell backward on the ground. The Softball trickled from his glove. The other team was cheering. They had won!

''No hard feelings," Bemie crowed at Bob. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Bob said, slowly getting up. He gritted his teeth. That little bastard. He wiped the dirt and sweat ofiE with his sleeve and walked away. Shit, my shins are aching.

"Are you all right. Daddy?" It was Paula, who had sprinted to her father's side.

"Don't worry, sweetie. I'll just get some water on my legs. See you in a sec."

As the players all stampeded for the beer and Cokes, Bob stopped, untied his sneakers and walked toward the beach. Just where grass ended and sand began, he saw the visitor from France perched on a dune. Jean-Claude looked concerned.

"Did he hurt you, Bob?" he asked.

"No, it's nothing."

"Is it permitted, what he did?"



*Tes. I was too slow. I should have tagged him and gotten out of the way." He patted the boy on the head.

*'Do you want to get your feet wet in the ocean?''

"Yes."

They walked together to the water's edge. He waited for Jean-Claude to take his shoes off and they waded in. Bob grimaced when the water reached his shins.

"I would like to hit that boy," said Jean-Claude, looking away. "

Bob laughed. And thought, Me too.



H,

.OW WAS YOUR DAY?"

''Not bad/' Sheila answered tonelessly. She was combing her hair as they both prepared for bed.

''Not good, either, huh?" said Bob, applying ice in towels to his aching shins. He looked at her. Even in her faded bathrobe and with night cream on her face, she was beautiful. He wanted her so badly.

"No, Robert, certainly not good." It was always in times of extreme emotion that she called him Robert. In the midst of making love, and when she was really angry.

"Do you think anyone suspected?" he asked.

"What?"

"Did they—uh—wonder who he was?"

"I don't think so. Anyway, I couldn't give a damn."

Yeah, she was very angry.

"Sheila, I-"

"What's important. Bob, is that I knew."

"I understand."

"You don't. You haven't any notion of how hard this is for me." She sat down on the bed and stared across at him. "I can't take it, Robert."