“Shh!” Mom said to me. “That’s not going to help.”
“Go in the water, Lucy.” I sat up, feeling guilty. I didn’t want to be a nasty older sister. I knew how that felt. “Then later I’ll go on the swings with you.”
With a sigh too heavy for an eight-year-old, Lucy got to her feet. My mother pulled on her own bathing cap, tucking her dark, wavy chin-length hair up inside it. Then she helped Lucy pull hers over her short permed curls, as though my sister might actually go into water deep enough to get her hair wet. I watched as the two of them walked toward the roped-off section of the water, holding hands. Mom pointed to a plane that was flying above the water, trailing a Coppertone banner behind it. As I’d figured, Lucy went in up to her knees and refused to go any farther. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but I could tell that my mother spent much of it coercing and Lucy spent much of it shaking her head no. Finally giving up, my mother walked into the water by herself. I watched her dive in once she’d reached the deeper water. She swam underwater to escape from the roped area, then began swimming parallel to the shore with long, fluid strokes. She looked beautiful, like a sea creature instead of a woman. I longed to be out there with her. She’d taught me to swim when I was half Lucy’s age.
I looked at my younger sister. She was still standing in the knee-high water, her yellow ruffly bathing suit dry, the pathetic Flintstones tube around her waist as she watched our mother swim. Suddenly I felt so sorry for her that I thought I might cry.
“Lucy, honey,” I called, the endearment slipping from my mouth before I could stop it.
She turned to look at me.
“Come back to the blanket,” I said.
She did. She trudged back to the blanket, pulled off the bathing cap, shimmied out of her tube and sat down next to me to read.
“Lay down and I’ll put some suntan lotion on you,” I said.
Mom had already coated her with it, but I just wanted to do something nice for her. She lay down on her stomach, and I rubbed the coconut-scented lotion on her back. I felt her shoulder blades, pointy beneath my palms. She seemed so fragile. I wanted to bend over and hug her. I wished I could give her just an ounce of my courage. I had more than I could manage.
I was putting the lid back on the tube when I realized Mr. and Mrs. Chapman were now on the beach directly behind us. They were sitting on striped, legless beach chairs, and Mrs. Chapman had her head tilted back, her eyes closed, face held toward the sun. She had pretty blond hair, cut short in a cap around her head. Mr. Chapman was reading a book, but he must have sensed me looking at him, because he took off his sunglasses and I could see him returning my gaze. He did not look happy to see me.
“Oh,” he said. “Hello, Lucy.”
“I’m Julie,” I said.
“Julie, of course.”
I looked toward the sea grass where I’d seen Ethan lying down, but he was no longer there. Then I spotted him sitting on the pier, holding one end of a string that disappeared below the water’s surface. He was probably crabbing. If I could still stand him, I would have enjoyed doing that with him.
“Has Charles…has your father gone back to Westfield for the week?” Mr. Chapman asked me.
I nodded. “Don’t you have to go home during the week, too?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not since I’ve been on the Supreme Court,” he said. “We break for the summer.”
I was confused. I’d had no idea Mr. Chapman was on the Supreme Court. “Why did you outlaw school prayer?” I said, taking up my father’s fight.
“What?” He looked puzzled, then he laughed. His features were softer when he laughed and I could see some of Ned’s good looks in him. “That’s the United States Supreme Court,” he said. “I’m chief justice of the New Jersey Supreme Court.”
“Oh.” I felt embarrassed, as though this was something I should have known.
“I would have outlawed school prayer, though,” he added, “had I been in the position to do so.”
I suddenly understood why my father didn’t seem to like Mr. Chapman. I couldn’t remember ever seeing them talk to each other.
“Don’t start, Ross.” Mrs. Chapman didn’t move her head from her sunbathing, but she smiled as she chastised her husband.
“I think there should be a prayer to start the day in school,” I said, feeling immensely adult and grateful for my father’s guidance.
Mr. Chapman leaned forward. His eyes were the color of my mother’s pewter coffeepot. “It’s wonderful that you’re taking a stand, Julie,” he said. “It’s important to get involved, no matter what side you’re on. But I happen to disagree with you. In this country, we don’t only have Christians. We have Jews and Muslims and atheists. Do you honestly think those children should have to say a Christian prayer in school every morning?”
I only knew one Jewish girl and I certainly didn’t know any Muslims. I wasn’t sure how to respond. He had a point I could not argue against, but I clung so fiercely to my father’s righteousness that I couldn’t back down. “Atheists are stupid,” I said, my cheeks reddening instantly because I knew it was my statement that was stupid.
He laughed. “And they might say the same thing about your beliefs.”
“Are you an atheist?” I asked, suddenly wondering if that was his reason for wanting to abolish school prayer.
“No, I’m Catholic. Just like you are. But even Catholics can disagree on important issues.”
His wife suddenly dipped her head. She shaded her eyes to look at me, then smiled. To her husband, she said, “Stop badgering her.”
“We’re having a healthy debate,” Mr. Chapman said, and I was glad he felt that way even after my weak comment about atheists.
“How are you, Julie, dear?” Mrs. Chapman said. “We’ve barely had a chance to see your family yet this summer. Where’s your mother?”
I turned to the bay, pointing toward the last place I’d seen my mother swimming, but she was walking out of the water, pulling off her bathing cap, her dark hair springing into curls around her face. Like most women her age, she wore a black bathing suit with a little skirt on it, but it was clear that her long, lean thighs did not need to be hidden in any way. I felt a surge of pride. She was so pretty.
“Hello, Joan,” my mother said, picking up a towel from the blanket and patting it to her face. “And Ross.”
“Maria.” Mr. Chapman nodded to my mother.
“How’s the water?” Mrs. Chapman asked.
“Chilly,” my mother said. “But very refreshing.” She turned her attention to Lucy and me. “Let’s have some lunch, girls, okay?” She sat down on the blanket, her back to the Chapmans, blocking my view of them and putting an end to the “healthy” debate.
We were eating our bologna on Wonder Bread sandwiches when I looked over to where
