Andersen farm—would have nothing to do with him, communicating on faculty business through memos. If he were squeezed out, Elliot would be relieved. Might even go so far as to actively lobby for his dismissal. For all of these reasons he'd considered resigning immediately, to make sure he kept his tenure, and then finding a position at another school. But he wouldn't do it any more than he would sell his house and voluntarily leave Los Alegres. It would be running away, and he was all through running—from people, things, phantoms, and himself.
So there you had it. The law punishes the victims; society punishes the victims. Fair? Hey, nobody ever said life was fair. But there were moments when he would have liked to get into the faces of all the self-righteous people, friends and strangers alike, and say to them: “What would
Cecca stirred in the chair beside him. “Amy,” she called, “you shouldn't lie in the sun like that. You'll burn.”
“It's not that hot out here.”
“At least put some sunblock on your back and shoulders.”
“Oh, all right. Where is it?”
“Stay there, I'll get it.”
He watched her fetch the sun creme, take it to where Amy was stretched out on a towel, begin to apply it to the girl's shoulders. Average middle-class domestic scene: family at poolside on the last day of Indian summer. False illusion. They weren't average, not anymore. They were a cluster of three little islands cut off from the mainstream, alone and vulnerable. And he felt a fierce protectiveness toward each of them, himself included.
Surviving victims. People damaged and set apart by circumstances beyond their control. People no one could truly understand or empathize with except others like themselves.
