flipped the goggles overboard. They sank at once.
'That's nice. That's constructive,' said Boo Boo. 'Those belong to your Uncle Webb. Oh, he'll be so delighted.' She dragged on her cigarette. 'They once belonged to your Uncle Seymour.'
'I don't care.'
'I see that. I see you don't,' Boo Boo said. Her cigarette was angled peculiarly between her fingers; it burned dangerously close to one of her knuckle grooves. Suddenly feeling the heat, she let the cigarette drop to the surface of the lake. Then she took out something from one of her side pockets. It was a package, about the size of a deck of cards, wrapped in white paper and tied with green ribbon. 'This is a key chain,' she said, feeling the boy's eyes look up at her. 'Just like Daddy's. But with a lot more keys on it than Daddy's has. This one has ten keys.'
Lionel leaned forward in his seat, letting go the tiller. He held out his hands in catching position. 'Throw it?' he said. 'Please?'
'Let's keep our seats a minute, Sunshine. I have a little thinking to do. I should throw this key chain in the lake.'
Lionel stared up at her with his mouth open. He closed his mouth.
'It's mine,' he said on a diminishing note of justice.
Boo Boo, looking down at him, shrugged. 'I don't care.'
Lionel slowly sat back in his seat, watching his mother, and reached behind him for the tiller. His eyes reflected pure perception, as his mother had known they would.
'Here.' Boo Boo tossed the package down to him. It landed squarely on his lap.
He looked at it in his lap, picked it off, looked at it in his hand, and flicked it--sidearm--into the lake. He then immediately looked up at Boo Boo, his eyes filled not with defiance but tears. In another instant, his mouth was distorted into a horizontal figure-8, and he was crying mightily.
Boo Boo got to her feet, gingerly, like someone whose foot has gone to sleep in theatre, and lowered herself into the dinghy. In a moment, she was in the stern seat, with the pilot on her lap, and she was rocking him and kissing the back of his neck and giving out certain information: 'Sailors don't cry, baby. Sailors never cry. Only when their ships go down. Or when they're shipwrecked, on rafts and all, with nothing to drink except--'
'Sandra--told Mrs. Smell--that Daddy's a big--sloppy--kike.'
Just perceptibly, Boo Boo flinched, but she lifted the boy off her lap and stood him in front of her and pushed back his hair from his forehead. 'She did, huh?' she said.
Lionel worked his head up and down, emphatically. He came in closer, still crying, to stand between his mother's legs.
'Well, that isn't too terrible,' Boo Boo said, holding him between the two vises of her arms and legs. 'That isn't the worst that could happen.' She gently bit the rim of the boy's ear. 'Do you know what a kike is, baby?'
Lionel was either unwilling or unable to speak up at once. At any rate, he waited till the hiccupping aftermath of his tears had subsided a little. Then his answer was delivered, muffled but intelligible, into the warmth of Boo Boo's neck. 'It's one of those things that go up in the air,' he said. 'With string you hold.'
The better to look at him, Boo Boo pushed her son slightly away from her. Then she put a wild hand inside the seat of his trousers, startling the boy considerably, but almost immediately withdrew it and decorously tucked in his shirt for him. 'Tell you what we'll do,' she said. 'We'll drive to town and get some pickles, and some bread, and we'll eat the pickles in the car, and then we'll go to the station and get Daddy, and then we'll bring Daddy home and make him take us for a ride in the boat.
You'll have to help him carry the sails down. O.K.?'
'O.K.,' said Lionel.
They didn't walk back to the house; they raced. Lionel won.
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For Esme:--with Love and Squalor
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JUST RECENTLY, by air mail, I received an invitation to a wedding that will take place in England on April 18th. It happens to be a wedding I'd give a lot to be able to get to, and when the invitation first arrived, I thought it might just be possible for me to make the trip abroad, by plane, expenses be hanged. However, I've since discussed the matter rather extensively with my wife, a breathtakingly levelheaded girl, and we've decided against it--for one thing, I'd completely forgotten that my mother-in-law is looking forward to spending the last two weeks in April with us. I really don't get to see Mother Grencher terribly often, and she's not getting any younger. She's fifty-eight. (As she'd be the first to admit.)
All the same, though, wherever I happen to be I don't think I'm the type that doesn't even lift a finger to prevent a wedding from flatting.
Accordingly, I've gone ahead and jotted down a few revealing notes on the bride as I knew her almost six years ago. If my notes should cause the groom, whom I haven't met, an uneasy moment or two, so much the better. Nobody's aiming to please, here. More, really, to edify, to instruct.
In April of 1944, I was among some sixty American enlisted men who took a rather specialized pre-Invasion training course, directed by British Intelligence, in Devon, England. And as I look back, it seems to me that we were fairly unique, the sixty of us, in that there wasn't one good mixer in the bunch. We were all essentially letter-writing types, and when we spoke to each other out of the line of duty, it was usually to ask somebody if he had any ink he wasn't using. When we weren't writing letters or attending classes, each of us went pretty much his own way. Mine usually led me, on clear days, in scenic circles around the countryside. Rainy days, I generally sat in a dry place and read a book, often just an axe length away from a ping-pong table.
The training course lasted three weeks, ending on a Saturday, a very rainy one. At seven that last night, our whole group was scheduled to entrain for London, where, as rumor had it, we were to be assigned to infantry and airborne divisions mustered for the D Day landings. By three in the afternoon, I'd packed all my belongings into my barrack bag, including a canvas gas-mask container full of books I'd brought over from the Other Side. (The gas mask itself I'd slipped through a porthole of the Mauretania some weeks earlier, fully aware that if the enemy ever
