What I Saw and How I Lied

Chapter 10

In the end the Graysons came, too, and we all drove down to Delray Beach in their brand-new Cadillac. We sat on a terrace in the shade, where we could feel an ocean breeze. Everyone ordered hamburgers. I sipped on my lemonade, pretending it was a cocktail.

Mom and Peter and the Graysons kept the conversa­tion going. All the things grown-ups talk about smashed together: the weather, would the Commies get the bomb, did you hear Fiorello LaGuardia was in a coma, Peter's home in Oyster Bay, Long Island. You could tell he didn't want to brag about it, because he changed the subject to the Graysons. Peter had heard of the hotel Mr. Grayson owned, the Metropole, and he said it was one of the best in New York. You could see this pleased Mr. Grayson. He was a thin man in horn-rimmed glasses who looked more like a professor than a hotel guy; he didn't look like an easy man to win over, but Peter did it so smoothly.

As the adults talked, I couldn't seem to punch a hole in the conversation. I couldn't capture his attention, not like I had the night before. I felt young and stupid again, with my glass of lemonade and my brown sandals.

Joe chomped on his hamburger moodily. I'd never seen him like this, grumpy and looking old in the bright sun. When he turned to signal the waiter for another beer I could see his scalp through his hair.

"Everybody wants to just jump in a car and go these days," Peter said. "Especially ex-GIs. I enlisted the day after graduation. I drove down to New York from New Haven."

"Ah, a Yale man," Mr. Grayson said.

"Then I had three years of being told what to do and where to go. Enough already. Right, Joe?"

Joe didn't answer. He had a big bite of hamburger in his mouth.

"How about you, Tom?" Peter asked.

"4-F," Mr. Grayson said. "Bum ticker."

No one said anything for a minute. Back home it was the biggest shame, 4-F. Unfit for service.

"What I felt over there was, the fellows that couldn't fight, they held the country together. They gave us some­thing to come back to," Peter said. "My brother John was 4-F, same as you. He did more for the war than I did. Worked as an engineer in a defense plant. All I did was slog through a couple of acres of mud. John was the real hero." He said it seriously, giving Mr. Grayson a look of respect. Mr. Grayson's shoulders relaxed, and Mrs. Grayson looked grateful.

Mom took a sip from her glass. "Mmm, I can't get enough of this orange juice," she said. "Have you ever had anything like it, Arlene?"

"Never," Mrs. Grayson said. "They keep the best oranges for themselves down here, I guess."

"Rats live in orange trees," Joe said. It was the first thing he'd said in a while.

"Don't be morbid, Joe," Mom said.

"Who's being morbid?" Joe asked. "They need their vitamins, just like we do."

Mrs. Grayson laughed.

Mom hadn't touched her hamburger. I pushed mine aside. The meat seemed heavy and ancient, something that would soon be stinking in this heat.

Tom Grayson's forehead was shiny with sweat. "I found out why our hotel is open in the off-season," he said. "It's for sale."

"You thinking of buying it, Tom?" Mrs. Grayson said, smiling.

"You think that's so crazy?"

"Yeah," she said. "I do." gas to get anywhere we want. Lots of folks will be traveling."

"Exactly," Mr. Grayson said. He sat up straighter. "And wait until all the buildings are air-cooled. That will bring the tourists."

"I'm thinking of adding those units to my business, selling to restaurants and hotels," Joe said. "There's a market out there."

"Here's where you should be selling them," Mr. Grayson said. He cleared his throat, as though he was just waking up. "I'm telling you, this place is due for a boom."

"Joe here is a smart businessman," Peter said. "He knows when to grab the big chance. Right, Joe?"

Joe didn't answer Peter. He nodded at Mr. Grayson, as though they were the real businessmen in the group because they were older than Peter.

Peter didn't care. He turned to Mom. "How about you, Beverly? Do you think Florida is going to boom?"

"People like to start fresh," she said, looking at him from under the brim of her big straw hat. "You won't go broke betting on that."

He laughed softly. "Paradise seems like a good place to do it."

"Maybe paradise is overrated."

"Lady, you are one tough customer."

Mom's lips curved. "Me? I'm just a softy."

"We should all go fishing one day," Joe said. "Rent a boat and get out on the water."

"I don't like fishing," Peter said.

"You feel sorry for the little fishes?" Mom asked.

"Yeah," Peter said. "I feel sorry for anything that gets hooked."

"I love boating," Mrs. Grayson chimed in. "Tom and I used to go in the south of France, before the war. Those were the days, really. We didn't think anything could change." She stubbed out her cigarette. "What we need is some coffee."

Mr. Grayson twisted around, looking for the waiter.

I felt panicked. Was the lunch over already? I hadn't said more than two words.

"Who's game for a walk?" Peter asked.

I stood up quickly, almost knocking my chair back­ward. "I'll go."

"Don't worry, Sarge," Peter said to Joe. "I'll take good care of her."

We walked out of the courtyard and down the street toward the beach, toward the pavilion there.

Peter leaned over and spoke in my ear. "We finally ditched the chaperones. Come on."

He took my hand as we ran across Atlantic Avenue. He linked his fingers through mine and swung our arms.

We walked to the pavilion and he dropped my hand. We looked out at the ocean instead of at each other. All I wanted to do was hold his hand again.

The breeze picked up, and we faced right into it.

"You're a watcher, aren't you?" Peter said. "I can tell. You watch and listen. But you know what I'm betting? The thing you can't see so clear is yourself."

I was startled. Here I was, trying to come up with something to say about the weather, and he said some­thing real. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"You don't walk like a girl who knows how pretty she is, for one thing. That's a crying shame."

"Once I heard Grandma Glad tell someone that I was as plain as a bowl of Yankee bean soup," I said.

I expected him to laugh, but he didn't. "Your problem is that your mom's such a looker. You get all balled up. You can't even see what's in front of you in the mirror. So you've got to listen to an older brother type like me. You're pretty."

An older brother type. That stung.

"If you were an older brother, you'd call me Rubber Lips," I said. "That's what Frank Crotty back home calls me."

"That's because he likes you."

"Frank? He only thinks about the Dodgers."

"Pussycat, you've got a lot to learn about boys."

I pretended I was Barbara Stanwyck and tossed my hair. "Yeah? Who's going to teach me?"

He smiled. "Now that's a tempting assignment."

The weather had changed. I hadn't noticed how low and dark the clouds were. The ocean was now a flat dull gray, thick and molten-looking.

The first fat drops began to fall, but he didn't move.

"A tempting assignment," he repeated, "but I'm going to pass. I should stay away from you, pussycat."

I couldn't say anything. Of course he would stay away. What man wouldn't?

"At least, I'm going to try," he added.

The sky opened up, and the rain hit us hard. We stood there, looking at each other. I started to shiver because I knew something was happening. Something adult and mysterious.

He grabbed my hand and his grip was warm and wet and tight as we ran through the raindrops back to the others.