would come to watch them; then the father would come and later on, about eleven, the mother. By that time most of the Bay Vista people would have appeared: the children first, the children suddenly everywhere, the adults coming out gradually, saying good morning and carefully choosing lounge chairs, moving them closer together or farther apart, turning them to face the swimming pool or the sun or away from the sun.
The Fishers would come to the pool.
The couple on their honeymoon would come to the pool. From No. 10, the cabana directly across from Virginia Murray’s.
The family with the little dark-haired children, probably Italian, would come to the pool and the mother would talk to Mrs. Fisher, the two women with heavy legs and beach coats and straw hats with ornaments in the bands that looked like pine cones.
The people in No. 1 would stay on their lawn at the umbrella table and from the shade watch their children on the beach.
The two young couples in No. 11-without children or away from them-who were building a wall of empty beer cans along the railing of their screened porch (Virginia Murray had counted and estimated over 100 cans by Sunday evening) would go down to the beach at ten; one of the men would come up for the Scotch-Kooler of beer just before noon; they would all come up for lunch at one, return to the beach at two, and begin drinking beer again at four, at ease, the men saying funny things and all four of them laughing.
The woman in No. 9, the redhead who wore makeup to the pool, would come out with her little girl about eleven, though the little girl would have come out several times before to watch the other children. Sometimes the little girl would beg to go down to the beach and play in the sand, but her mother would tell her, Cheryl Ann, it was too sunny today.
There were other people at the Bay Vista, in the cabanas and in the motel units facing the Beach Road, who would be at the swimming pool sometimes and at the beach sometimes. Virginia Murray recognized most of them, but she had not labeled them or decided anything about them.
There was Mr. Majestyk, too. He seemed nice. Friendly in a brusk, uneducated sort of way; walking around in his undershirt-always the undershirt and a baseball cap-always going somewhere to fix something or moving the diving raft farther out or driving his bulldozer around the beach.
And since yesterday morning, Jack Ryan.
There was no doubt in Virginia Murray’s mind now; he was the one in the newspaper picture with the baseball bat. It was amazing that she still had the paper, over a week old, and yesterday, wrapping her grapefruit rind in the paper, seeing him in the picture and then seeing him here. She had watched him all yesterday afternoon; the same one all right.
She sat on the couch in her aqua bathing suit, gazing out the picture window of No. 5, waiting for the day’s activity to begin and trying to think of who Jack Ryan reminded her of. Sort of the type who’d wear a black leather jacket. Sort of. But he wasn’t dirty or greasy-looking. It was the way he stood. Like a bullfighter. That was it-like the one on the poster in their rec room at home:
She had not seen him speak to anyone but Mr. Majestyk and she wondered what it would be like to talk to him, though she knew they had nothing in common; he wasn’t her type. She pictured herself alone in Cabana 5. Late at night. She saw herself reading in bed, then turning off the light and lying in the dark. It wouldn’t happen right away. But after a few minutes she would hear the sound, the scratching sound-no, more of a creaking sound- the screen door opening. She would lie in the dark with her eyes open and hear someone moving about the front room. She would hear him in the hall, then see his dark shape in the bedroom doorway. She would wait until he was in the room before switching on the light. “Can I help you?” Virginia Murray would ask. It would be Jack Ryan, a kitchen knife in his hand as he came toward the bed.
She would have to think about the next part a little more. It was still not clear exactly what she would say. Her voice would be calm, not soothing really but having the same effect, and her eyes would hold his, showing not fear but understanding. Gradually he could relax. He would put the knife down. He would sit on the edge of the bed. She would ask questions and he would begin to tell her about himself. He would tell her about his past life, his problems, and she would listen calmly, not shocked by anything he said. He would ask her if he could speak to her again and she would touch his arm and smile and say, “Of course. But right now you’d better run off to bed and get a good night’s sleep.”
Something like that. She pictured the two of them sitting on the beach, but it was a glimpse of a scene. That would be later on. There would be time for that later.
Now, sitting on the couch, she saw him coming out from between No. 10 and 11 carrying the long aluminum pole with the fine net on the end of it. She looked at her watch. Nine twenty.
She watched Jack Ryan dip the net in the water at the deep end and walk the length of the pool with it, skimming the surface to pick up leaves and dead insects. He said something to the two Fisher boys and they grinned at him and jumped into the water, trying to touch the net end of the pole. He moved gradually back to the deep end, intent on what he was doing, his elbows out and his arms rigid, holding the pole: a boatman, not a bullfighter, a dark gondolier with no shirt or shoes or belt-he should have a big wide black belt-and not khaki pants cut off above the knees, some other kind, whatever gondoliers wore. Virginia couldn’t remember. It had been four years ago with her mother and father, the year she had graduated from Marygrove College.
When the Fishers’ teenage daughter appeared, walking along the side of the pool, Virginia Murray got up and went into the bedroom. In front of the mirror she tied a kerchief loosely over her hair, the eyes not looking into the eyes in the mirror but aware of the fixed semiexpectant expression of her face. She turned to go out. But now she went to the window next to the bed, unlocked it, and tried to raise it from the bottom. No, it wouldn’t budge. It still wouldn’t budge. Virginia returned to the front room, folded the towel over her arm, picked up the straw bag, and stepped out of No. 5, letting the screen door close gently. Putting on her sunglasses, looking up at the sky and the trees this beautiful morning, she strolled over to the swimming pool.
“Just the bugs and crap,” Mr. Majestyk said. “You can vacuum the bottom tomorrow.”
“What else?”
“The beach. Rake it up where the kids had the hot dog roast. Maybe you should do that next.”
“It doesn’t matter to me.”
Mr. Majestyk looked at him. “Then the shower head in Number Nine. She says it just drips out. Leaks up in the ball joint.”
“I don’t know how to fix any shower.”
“You clean it out. You take it off and bring it over the shop, I’ll show you how to clean it. The tools are in the storage room next to yours.”
“What else?”
“I got to check. I’ll let you know.”
“I haven’t had any breakfast yet.”
“So get up in the morning. I eat at seven. You want to eat, you eat at seven.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Don’t mention it,” Mr. Majestyk said. He walked off between 11 and 12.
Ryan worked a flat, almost empty pack of Camels out of his pants pocket and lighted one with the aluminum pole angled down into the water from under one arm. The first drag tasted awful because he hadn’t had any coffee or anything to eat.
He started along the edge again, holding the aluminum pole rigid.
Virginia Murray said, “I wonder if you might have time-”
But he was past her, the pole angled into the water and the net skimming the surface.
She waited for his return pass. Almost to her lounge chair. Now.
“I wonder if you could look at my window?”
“What?”
“I have a window I can’t budge. It won’t open at all.”
“What one are you in?”
“Number Five.”
“Okay, I’ll look at it.”
