Swim, Butterfly Ch. 07

A Beautiful Day

I must take the rest of summer vacation day by day. I wish it would rain. It's hardly rained over the last month, save for a few paltry showers. We need a good soak to saturate the earth, to bring back the green grass.

Employing last-minute camps, lingering acquaintances with other moms, and a few day trips, I've kept June and Rudy reasonably occupied, and I fill summer by making different salads, homemade popsicles, and strawberry-green tea ice cubes, which Pete admits are pretty good. At least we found something he likes, and I smirk as he plunks one more into his second glass of iced tea. "Right," I tell Pete, "just drink your tea and don't forget to put the empty glass in the sink." The same glass I'll collect from the water ring-imprinted table by the easy chair later on.

About a week after the last phone call, I stand by the kitchen window, staring at the parched lawn and the empty driveway, and hold an ice cube at the hollow of my throat, melting, trickling down my chest, tickling me between my breasts underneath my linen blouse. I bring the ice cube to my lips, the sweet cold melting over my tongue and spreading through my mouth until I swallow. Tart, sweet--singular.

The mailman approaches the steps, drops the mail in the box, and continues his route. I wait until he's a few doors down, then I and my ice cube go out onto the stoop and retrieve the mail. I lay the pile of whatever on the kitchen table and start leafing through it. A bill (Pete), a bill (Pete), the grocery circular, a charity request, addressed to me. Start checking your junk mail.

I pop the reduced cube in my mouth and study the light blue envelope. Some kind of 'charity' on the return address. Postmarked Manhattan. My hand shakes, but I can't stop smiling. I look around me before I open the envelope, even though Pete's not home and the kids are in their rooms. Inside the envelope I find three folded sheets of letter paper and another envelope. On the return envelope, a Manhattan address. On the back flap, an ink sketch of a hillside and trees, just like the one from Central Park.

The envelope falls to the table. I gaze out the window, insulated from the dry late afternoon heat, sliced by a speeding commuter short-cutting through our quiet suburban street. Blank sheets of writing paper and an envelope. I don't think I've handwritten a letter in decades. Shame, it's a beautiful way to correspond. I mean, who saves emails from loved ones? Our children and grandchildren and so on will have no record of the relationships among themselves and their ancestors since digital took over. The impersonal world wide web will have it.

I peek into the kids' rooms. Rudy clicks together a homemade Legos castle. Junie cobbles together a collage with the contents of her pockets from the last three days, spread all over her floor. Time for Mom to get busy, too, warming up a pen and composing a letter.

Window shade drawn, I hunch over the cluttered desk in the den. My pen hovers over the paper. No emails. No texts. Letters are bygone, flying under the radar. I hope. No one checks the mailbox for infidelity anymore, besides Pete leaves sorting the mail to me. I bring a sheet of Jimmy's writing paper to my nose. Oh, no--it smells like his cologne! My fingertips brush the soft vellum, and I start,

Dear J.,

So nice to see you again, so to speak. Everything's moving along nicely

here. The weather's too hot and dry, though. We need a good rain to bring back

the lawn. Funny how I miss the spring grass, naps under trees, tubs of water for

two. Dealing well with the heat, though, with a neat little trick I learned--I make

strawberry-green tea ice cubes to suck on, sometimes letting a cube melt on

the hollow of my throat, the cool tea trickles down, down, all the way down...

The nights are hot, too, with little release for the heat, like steam

building in a water kettle. During the day, the clouds pass by, and I hope

they'll slow down and gather. I wonder if other people far away see the same

clouds I do, albeit shifting shape along the way. Maybe some day a cloud

will bring much needed rain, and relief.

And I didn't realize how much I miss reading until I saw your collection.

Maybe you can recommend something?

Biting the end of my pen, I move to cross something out, but leave it. I want to add more, but leave it alone. Finally, I sign the letter with a diminutive sketch of a stack of books, with Xs and Os imprinted on the bindings. I fold the letter, secure the envelope, stamp it, then copy his address into my day runner and burn his envelope. I don't put my return address on my letter to him, then slip it into my pocketbook, plotting the next chance to get to a post office box. I won't mail the letter from home.

Thinking about the letter to Jimmy leads me to think about the night we met, the glasses of wine and pints of beer. I still haven't had a drink since that night. Thinking about Jimmy so often, I don't need it. It's like he's a tonic for all that ailed me, for everything alcohol tried to replace. I know it can't really be that simple, but I go with it for now. Plus, I get a loose tongue when I drink too much, and God forbid I 'fess up to Pete. I won't let that happen. And Ido miss reading. I don't do it enough, just got so used to being disturbed every two minutest and too tired at night that I didn't bother.

The next day, during my daily walk with June to collect sticks for crafts and wildflowers for pressing, I slip the letter into the post office box a few blocks from our house.There! Done! I brush off my hands and smile. Just a little fun to spice up the everyday.

"It's a beautiful day, Mama," June says, her adorable little face turned up to mine.

"Yes, it is a beautiful day." Not a cloud in the sky.

***

June skips around the house, singing "Row Your Boat" over and over, despite Rudy begging her to shut up. I'm too busy getting ready for our late August trip to Cape May to play referee. I put the mail on hold, wondering if anything from Jimmy will end up rubbing shoulders with Pete's mail. I sweep the kitchen and living room, catch up on laundry, then pack. As I fold a few pairs of panties, I stare at my bed--the last time I packed a bag was April, when I went to New York. I sigh, putting the panties in the bag's bottom, then dig my bathing suit from deep behind the socks in the dresser drawer. I catch my reflection in the mirror and swallow hard. No one knows. Does that mean I can do it again?

Pete helps me pack the car and we drive to the shore the following day. He rolls down the window, letting the hot wind blow his curls straight. Rudy and June bicker a little, but overall, they get along. We find our rental on the quiet west side of the cape and dump our stuff. Once we finally hit the bayside beach, Rudy and June and Pete and I are so busy applying suntan lotion, rinsing off sand, chasing sandpipers and dodging sea nettles, that I scarce have time to think about Jimmy.

Pete and I actually laugh a lot. The change of scenery seems to loosen him up, and one afternoon, he takes the kids to explore the old World War II watch tower by Sunset Beach. I spend the hour alone strolling along the wet sand, looking for Cape May diamonds, those rock quartz pebbles perfectly polished by their long tumble down the Delaware River. A flutter of black catches my eye, and squinting against the sun, I watch a beautiful black and blue swallowtail butterfly flutter towards the bay, a long nine miles over deep water to Delaware's shore. I wonder about the butterfly's odd direction. Hope you can swim, butterfly.

During our last afternoon of vacation, we ditch the beaches and stroll Washington Street's charming shopping district. A dainty, light pink set of lingerie in a window catches my eye, the type of thing I haven't worn, or even felt like wearing, in years. As if it would fit, anyway. I imagine wearing it for Jimmy, and jump when Pete sidles up behind me. He murmurs in my ear, "That's nice, you should buy it." I recoil, glad that my eyes hide behind sunglasses. So much for desire.

I shake my head. "Nah, I don't think it would do much for me."

I take Pete's sweaty hand and resign to buying a pound of fudge instead. June clamors to visit the candy shop, anyway, but Rudy wants to go to the toy store. Naturally, they lie in opposite directions. I smile and nod in a standard sweet-mom way. Pete squeezes my hand. He's a decent husband and friend, sometimes, and it seemed like a good idea at the time to get married. I'm not saying it's a bad idea now, but he's just not the love of my life. I love Pete for practical reasons, and I'd never want to hurt him--he doesn't deserve that. I just wish I ever felt excited to see him.Sigh.

Pete looks at me. "Sorry vacation's over? Oh well, we'll go again in a few years."

"I guess, yeah." It's just as well I never gave Pete my heart; it would have ended up on the end table with the TV remotes, collecting dust while the remotes don't.

I persuade Pete to take the kids to the Christmas Shoppe way at the end of the street while I go use the bathroom. He says okay. I sneak back and buy the pink lingerie.