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ONE
Once upon a time, there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person.
She was fifty-three years old by then--a grandmother. Wide and soft and dimpled, with two
short wings of dry, fair hair flaring almost horizontally from a center part. Laugh lines
at the corners of her eyes. A loose and colorful style of dress edging dangerously close
to Bag Lady.
Give her credit: most people her age would say it was too late to make any changes. What's
done is done, they would say. No use trying to alter things at this late date.
It did occur to Rebecca to say that. But she didn't.
. . .
On the day she made her discovery, she was picnicking on the North Fork River out in
Baltimore County. It was a cool, sunny Sunday in early June of 1999, and her family had
gathered to celebrate the engagement of Rebecca's youngest stepdaughter, NoNo Davitch.
The Davitches' cars circled the meadow like covered wagons braced for attack. Their
blankets dotted the grass, and their thermos jugs and ice chests and sports equipment
crowded the picnic table. The children were playing beside the river in one noisy,
tumbling group, but the adults kept themselves more separate. Alone or in twos they
churned about rearranging their belongings, jockeying for spots in the sun, wandering off
hither and yon in their moody Davitch manner. One of the stepdaughters was sitting by
herself in her minivan. One of the sons-in-law was stretching his hamstrings over by the
runners' path. The uncle was stabbing the ground repeatedly with his cane.
Goodness, what would Barry think? (Barry, the new fianc?.) He would think they disapproved
of his marrying NoNo.
And he would be right.
Not that they ever behaved much differently under any conditions.
Barry had a blanket mostly to himself, because NoNo kept flitting elsewhere. The tiniest
and prettiest of the Davitch girls--a little hummingbird of a person--she darted first to
one sister and then another, ducking her shiny dark cap of hair and murmuring something
urgent.
Murmuring, "Like him, please," maybe. Or, "At least make him feel
welcome."
The first sister grew very busy rummaging through a straw hamper. The second shaded her
eyes and pretended to look for the children.
Rebecca--who earned her living hosting parties, after all--felt she had no choice but to
clap her hands and call, "Okay, folks!"
Languidly, they turned. She seized a baseball from the table and held it up. No, it was
bigger than a baseball. A softball, then; undoubtedly the property of the son-in-law
stretching his hamstrings, who taught phys ed at the local high school. It was all the
same to Rebecca; she had never been the sporty type. Still: "Time for a game,
everybody!" she called. "Barry? NoNo? Come on, now! We'll say this rock is home
plate. Zeb, move that log over to where first base ought to be. The duffel bag can be
second, and for third . . . Who's got something we can use for third?"
They groaned, but she refused to give up. "Come on, people! Show some life here! We
need to exercise off all that food we're about to eat!"
In slow motion they began to obey, rising from their blankets and drifting where she
pointed. She turned toward the runners' path and, "Yoo-hoo! Jeep!" she called.
Jeep stopped hugging one beefy knee and squinted in her direction. "Haul yourself
over here!" she ordered. "We're organizing a softball game!"
"Aw, Beck," he said, "I was hoping to get a run in." But he came
plodding toward her.
While Jeep set about correcting the placement of the bases, Rebecca went to deal with the
stepdaughter in the minivan. Who happened to be Jeep's wife, in fact. Rebecca hoped this
wasn't one of their silly quarrels. "Sweetie!" she sang out. She waded through
the weeds, scooping up armfuls of her big red bandanna-print skirt. "Patch? Roll down
your window, Patch. Can you hear me? Is something the matter?"
Patch turned and gazed out at her. You could tell she must be hot. Spikes of her chopped
black hair were sticking to her forehead, and her sharp, freckled face was shining with
sweat. Still, she made no move to open her window. Rebecca grabbed the door handle and
yanked it--luckily, just before Patch thought to push the lock down.
"Now, then!" Rebecca caroled. "What's all this about?"
Patch said, "Can't a person ever get a moment of peace in this family?"
She was thirty-seven years old but looked more like fourteen, in her striped T-shirt and
skinny jeans. And acted like fourteen, too, Rebecca couldn't help thinking; but all she
said was, "Come on out and join us! We're starting up a softball game."
"No, thanks."
"Pretty please?"
"For Lord's sake, Beck, don't you know how I hate this?"
"Hate it!" Rebecca cried merrily, choosing to misunderstand. "But you're
wonderful at sports! The rest of us don't even know where the bases go. Poor Jeep is
having to do everything."
Patch said, "I cannot for the life of me see why we should celebrate my little
sister's engagement to a--to a--"
Words appeared to fail her. She clamped her arms tight across her flat chest and faced
forward again.
"To a what?" Rebecca asked her. "A nice, decent, well-spoken man. A
lawyer."
"A corporate lawyer. A man who brings his appointment book to a picnic; did you
notice his appointment book? Him and his yacht-looking, country-club-looking clothes; his
ridiculous yellow crew cut; his stupid rubber-soled boating shoes. And look at how he was
sprung on us! Just sprung on us with no warning! One day it's, oh, poor NoNo, thirty-five
years old and never even been kissed so far as anyone knew; and the next day--I swear, the
very next day!--she pops up out of the blue and announces an August wedding."
"Well, now, I just have a feeling she may have kept him secret out of
nervousness," Rebecca said. "She didn't want to look foolish, in case the
courtship came to nothing. Also, maybe she worried you girls would be too critical."
Not without reason, she didn't add.
Patch said, "Hogwash. You know why she kept him secret: he's been married once
before. Married and divorced, with a twelve-year-old son to boot."
"Well, these things do happen," Rebecca said drily.
"And such a pathetic son, too. Did you see?" Patch jabbed a thumb toward the
children by the river, but Rebecca didn't bother turning. "A puny little runt of a
son! And it can't have escaped your notice that Barry has sole custody. He's had to cook
for that child and clean house, drive the car pool, help with homework . . . Of course he
wants a wife! Unpaid nanny, is more like it."
"Now, dearie, that's an insult to NoNo," Rebecca said. "Any man in his
right mind would want NoNo for her own sake."
Patch merely gave an explosive wheeze that lifted the spikes of hair off her forehead.
"Just think," Rebecca reminded her. "Didn't I marry a divorced man with
three little girls? And see, it worked out fine! I'd be married to him still, if he had
lived."
All Patch said to this was, "And how you could throw a party for them!"
"Well, of course I'd throw a party. It's an occasion!" Rebecca said.
"Besides: you and Biddy asked for one, if I remember correctly."
"We asked if you planned to give one, is all, since you're so fond of engagement
parties. Why, Min Foo's had three of them! They seem to be kind of a habit with you."
Rebecca opened her mouth to argue, because she was almost positive that Patch and Biddy
had requested, in so many words, that she put together a picnic. But then she saw that she
might have misinterpreted. Maybe they had just meant that since they knew she would be
planning something, they would prefer it to be held outside. (Oh, the Davitch girls were
very unsocial. "I guess you're going to insist on some kind of shindig," one of
them would sigh, and then they would show up and sit around looking bored, picking at
their food while Rebecca tried to jolly things along.)
Well, no matter, because Patch was finally unfolding herself from the minivan. She slammed
the door behind her and said, "Let's get started, then, if you're so set on
this."
"Thank you, sweetie," Rebecca said. "I just know we'll have a good time
today."
Patch said, "Ha!" and marched off toward the others, leaving Rebecca to trail
behind.
The softball game had begun now, at least in a halfhearted way. People were scattered
across the meadow seemingly at random, with Rebecca's brother-in-law and Barry so far off
in the outfield that they might not even be playing. The catcher (Biddy) was tying her
shoe. The uncle leaned on his cane at an indeterminate spot near third base. Rebecca's
daughter was sunbathing on first, lounging in the grass with her face tipped back and her
eyes closed.
As Patch and then Rebecca came up behind home plate, Jeep was assuming the batter's
stance, his barrel-shaped body set sideways to them and his bat wagging cockily. NoNo, on
the pitcher's mound, crooked her arm at an awkward angle above her shoulder and released
the ball. It traveled in an uncertain arc until Jeep lost patience and took a stride
forward and hit a low drive past second. Hakim, Rebecca's son-in-law, watched with
interest as it whizzed by. (No surprise there, since Hakim hailed from someplace Arab and
had probably never seen a softball in his life.) Jeep dropped his bat and trotted to
first, not disturbing Min Foo's sunbath in the least. He rounded second, receiving a
beatific smile from Hakim, and headed for third. Third was manned by Biddy's . . . oh,
Rebecca never knew what to call him . . . longtime companion, dear Troy, who always
claimed it was while he was fumbling a pop-up fly at age five that he first realized he
was gay. All he did was wave amiably as Jeep went trundling past.
By that time, Barry had managed to locate the ball. He threw it toward Biddy, but she was
tying her other shoe now. It was Patch who stepped forward to intercept it, apparently
without effort. Then she turned back to home plate and tagged her husband out.
Patch and Jeep might have been playing alone, for all the reaction they got. Biddy
straightened up from her shoe and yawned. NoNo started clucking over a broken fingernail.
Min Foo was probably unaware of what had happened, even--unless she'd been able to figure
it out with her eyes closed.
"Oh," Rebecca cried, "you-all are not even trying! Where is your team
spirit?"
"For that, we need more than one side," Jeep said, wiping his forehead on his
shoulder. "There aren't enough of us playing."
To Rebecca, it seemed just then that there were far too many of them. Such a large and
unwieldy group, they were; so cumbersome, so much work. But she said, "You're
absolutely right," and turned in the direction of the river. "Kids!" she
called. "Hey, kids!"
The children were hopping in an uneven line a good twenty yards away, beyond a stretch of
buzzing, humming grass and alongside flowing water; so at first they didn't hear her. She
had to haul up her skirt again and slog toward them, calling, "Come on, everybody!
Come and play ball! You kids against us grownups!"
Now they stopped what they were doing (some version of Follow the Leader, it seemed,
leaping from rock to rock) and looked over at her. Five of the six were here today--all
but Dixon, the oldest, who'd gone someplace else with his girlfriend. And then there was
Barry's son, what's-his-name. Peter. "Peter?" Rebecca called. "Want to play
softball?"
He stood slightly apart from the others, noticeably pale-haired and white-skinned and
scrawny in this company of dark, vivid Davitch children. Rebecca felt a tug of sympathy
for him. She called, "You can be pitcher, if you like!"
He took a step backward and shook his head. Well, no, of course: she should have offered
him the outfield. Something inconspicuous. The others, meanwhile, had broken rank and were
starting toward her. "Not It, not It," the youngest child was chanting,
evidently confused as to what softball was all about. Patch and Jeep's three (wouldn't you
know) were vying to be first at bat. "We'll draw straws," Rebecca told them.
"Come on, everybody! Winning team gets excused from cleanup after lunch."
Only Peter stayed where he was. He was balanced on a low rock, alert and motionless,
giving off a chilling silence. Rebecca called, "Sweetie? Aren't you coming?"
Again he shook his head. The other children veered around her and plowed on toward the
playing field, but Rebecca gathered her skirt higher and pressed forward. Long, cool
grasses tickled her bare calves. A cloud of startled white butterflies fluttered around
her knees. She reached the first rock, took a giant step up, and leapt to the next rock
just beyond, teetering for a second before she found her footing on the slick, mossy
surface. (She was wearing rope-soled espadrilles that gave her almost no traction.) So far
she was still on dry land, but most of the other rocks--Peter's included--turned out to be
partly submerged. This meant that the children had been disobeying instructions. They'd
been warned to stay away from the river, which was unpredictably deep in some spots and
wider than a two-lane highway, not to mention icy cold so early in the season.
Peter kept as still as a cornered deer; Rebecca sensed that even though she wasn't looking
at him. For the moment, she was looking at the scenery. Oh, didn't a river rest your eyes!
She sank into a peaceful trance, watching how the water seemed to gather itself as it
traveled toward a sharp bend. It swelled up in loose, silky tangles and then it smoothed
and flowed on, transparent at the edges but nearly opaque at the center, as yellow-green
and sunlit as a bottle in a window. She drifted with it, dreaming. It could have been a
hundred years ago. The line of dark trees on the opposite shore would have looked the
same; she'd have heard the same soft, curly lapping close by, the same rushing sound
farther off.
Well. Enough of this. She tore her gaze away and turned again to Peter. "I've got you
now!" she told him gaily.
He took another step backward and disappeared.
For a moment, she couldn't believe what had happened. She just stood there with her mouth
open. Then she looked down and saw a turmoil in the water. A small, white, big-eyed face
gulping air and choking. A frantic snarl of thin, bare, flailing arms.
She jumped onto the rock he'd been standing on, skidding slightly and bruising an ankle.
She plunged in waist deep and gasped. (The water was so cold it burned.) First she grabbed
Peter's wrist but lost it. Then she clutched blue denim. She hitched him up by the seat of
his jeans and found the time, somehow, to consider how absurd this must look: a
middle-aged woman plucking a boy from a river like a sack of laundry, hoisting him aloft
for one split second before her muscles registered his weight and they both went under.
But she still had hold of him. She kept her grip. She fought to thrust him above the
surface even while she was half sitting on the bottom. Then she was up and struggling
shoreward, stumbling and falling and rising and staggering on, hauling him by his armpits.
(A good thing he was so undersized or she never could have managed, adrenaline or no.)
Between his coughs now he was drawing huge, rough, scraping breaths, and once or twice he
gagged. She dragged him in a bobbling way across the rocks to the grass, where she dropped
him. She bent double to clear her head and noticed, in that position, how her skirt was
streaming with water; so she collected a handful of hem and wrung it out.
Excerpted from BACK WHEN WE WERE GROWNUPS © Copyright 2001 by Anne Tyler. Reprinted with permission by Knopf, an imprint of Random House. All rights reserved.
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