“In third place, for the honored bronze medal,” Bittner said, “I happily announce Mr. Jonas Whelan of Austin, Texas.”
“I just thought of something funny,” Sandy said.
“Really? What?” Trate asked, eager to get away from a subject that was becoming more disturbing by the minute. The crowd applauded as Mr. Jonas Whelan went up to the bandstand to accept his medal. Sandy’s laughter trailed, and a radiant smile replaced it.
“Mary Margaret would appreciate this,” she said, and her voice held all the intimate promise of someone about to reveal a cherished secret to a dear and trusted friend. Hans Bittner, grinning, said, “In second place, for the silver medal, I am happy to call to the microphone, Mr. Andrew D’Allesandro of Yonkers, New York.” There was more applause as Mr. D’Allesandro shuffled modestly to the bandstand.
“This happened the summer before I met the boys,” Sandy said. “I was fourteen at the time.”
“I didn’t realize you’d known each other that long,” Mary Margaret said. Her initial surprise had given way to curiosity. She leaned forward expectantly now, arms on the table, green eyes faintly suspicious.
“Yes, I met them when I was fifteen,” Sandy said.
“How old are you now?” Trate asked.
“You’re not supposed to ask women their age, Johnny.”
“I’m twenty,” Sandy said.
“I figured about twenty-two or — three,” Trate said.
“Johnny, that’s even worse!” Tish said.
“What’d I say?” Trate said.
At the microphone, Hans Bittner said, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pride that I announce the name of the gold medal winner in today’s race, and that is...” He hesitated, trying to build suspense, even though everyone had already read the names of the winners on the lobby bulletin board. “Mr. Arthur Greer of Pensacola, Florida. Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Greer!”
Applause broke out from the crowd as Mr. Greer rose and walked briskly to the bandstand. Sandy waited for the applause to die, and then said, “The summer I was fourteen, my mother and I went up to Martha’s Vineyard. We...”
“I have been there once,” Max said. “It is very nice there.”
“Yes, it’s lovely,” Sandy said.
“I’ve never heard of it,” Trate said.
“We went there because my father had just left after seventeen years of marriage...”
“Left?” Tish said.
“Yes. Left my mother.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well, it was a long time ago.”
“Are you an only child?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not so bad, then.”
“My mother has since remarried,” Sandy said.
“I’m so happy,” Tish said.
“But we were both sort of in shock that summer, and we went up there to get over it.”
“You will have to excuse me,” Max said. “I think we are ready for some music. David? Join us later, yes?”
“I’ll see,” David said.
Max clasped him on the shoulder in farewell, and went up to the bandstand, where his fellow musicians were waiting for him. Sandy suddenly laughed again, anticipating her own story, enjoying it in advance.
“It it that funny?” Mary Margaret asked.
“It’s pretty funny,” Sandy admitted.
“I’m dying to hear it,” Trate said.
“Then, keep quiet and let her tell it,” Tish said.
“Well, there was a party at our house one night,” Sandy said, “and everybody was drinking a lot, and the conversation got around to swimming, and somebody said that women were good endurance swimmers because they had an extra layer of fat on their bodies and could...”
“That isn’t true,” Tish said.
“Yes, it’s true, honey,” Trate said.
“I don’t know whether it’s true or not,” Sandy said, “but this person was saying that women are supposed to be able to stay in the water longer because of that extra layer of fat.”
“Where’d you say this happened?” I asked.
“Martha’s Vineyard.”
“It sounds familiar,” David said. “Have you told it before?”
“Maybe,” Sandy said, and again laughed. “I don’t remember. The extra layer of fat is supposed to protect women from the cold.”
“I could have used an extra layer of fat on the north face today,” Trate said.
“Hush, honey.”
“So the argument went back and forth and finally someone said, ‘Look, Joanna...’”
“Who’s Joanna?” Trate asked.
“My mother. Someone said, ‘Look, Joanna, you’re a fantastic swimmer, and you haven’t got an ounce of fat on you, why don’t you prove to everybody that it’s got nothing to do with fat, it’s only got to do with women being superior!’”
“We are superior,” Tish said.
“Quiet, honey.”
“When did you say this happened?” I asked.
“The summer before we met.”
“It still sounds familiar,” David said.
It did sound familiar. It was familiar. I remembered it now, and it wasn’t Sandy’s story, and it hadn’t happened the summer before we’d met, and it wasn’t even funny. It was Rhoda who’d told it to us one rainy afternoon, and it had happened to her when she was ten, and it was about the night her mother drowned trying to prove to a bunch of drunken idiots that she could swim nonstop to a sand bar half a mile offshore. Puzzled, I looked at Sandy. She laughed again, reassured me with an almost indiscernible nod, and said, “The grown-ups decided to have a race. This must’ve been about two in the morning, you understand, and most of... ”
“What were you doing up so late?” Tish asked.
“What?” Sandy said.
“You were only fourteen!” Tish said, shocked.
“Yes, but it was summertime. No school.”
“Still,” Tish said, and shrugged.
“In fact, there were a lot of kids still awake,” Sandy said, and I realized she was going to invent this as she went along, using Rhoda’s story as a springboard, and leaping off from it into Christ knew what uncharted waters. David suddenly remembered the origin of the story, too, and looked sharply across the table at Sandy, surprised, fascinated and, I was sure, wondering how she hoped to twist an essentially tragic event into something she had already advertised as funny. The suspicion in Mary Margaret’s eyes had given way to curiosity. She was genuinely interested in the outcome of the story, eager to know what had happened that night on Martha’s Vineyard the summer Sandy was fourteen. I was more interested in trying to figure out what Sandy hoped to accomplish. There was no question but that she was winging this directly at Mary Margaret, her eyes, her subdued laughter somehow promising a revelation only the two of them might share. I would have felt enormously neglected if I didn’t know Sandy better. She was after something. I watched and listened now as she pursued whatever the hell it was.
“The kids who were still awake ranged in age from twelve to fifteen, and since the grown-ups were...”
“That is young,” Tish said. “Twelve. To be up at two in the morning.”