by Leslie Meier
“Well, within limits. I keep an eye on the time and turn over every ten minutes, and I make sure to drink a lot of water so I stay hydrated. And I’m aware of shadows and things like that. It makes a difference, it really does.
“And you don’t worry about tan lines?”
“Not a problem. I wear the same suit all season.”
“I’ll suggest that to Elizabeth. She can’t wait to join the crowd down at the pond. Says she doesn’t want to have tan lines.”
“Right.” Sue sounded skeptical.
“Well, I can’t imagine she’s interested in anybody down there. They all seemed a bit the worse for wear, if you know what I mean.” Lucy paused. “From what I saw, most of them could’ve benefitted from an article of clothing or two or ten.”
Sue laughed.
The next caller was Pam Stillings, the wife of Lucy’s boss, Ted, and the mother of Toby’s friend Adam, who had a summer job mowing lawns and trimming hedges.
“Wow, news travels fast in this town,” said Lucy, who hadn’t been back from the beach for an hour.
“It’s the heat. A lot of people had the same idea you did to go down to the pond for a swim. It’s funny, but most of the folks around here don’t like swimming in salt water. Anyway, I heard all about it from Adam. He went for a quick dip after work and got an eyeful.”
“You can say that again.”
“Oh, Lucy. You’re so prim and proper. Didn’t you go skinny-dipping when you were a kid. I did, all the time.” She lowered her voice. “I even have photos of the whole gang.”
“Photos? I’d get rid of them if I were you.”
“No way. They bring back happy memories of the days before I had cellulite,” said Pam. “But, you know, I grew up in North Carolina. It was a lot warmer there. I can’t imagine why these folks think Tinker’s Cove is such a great place that they put it on their Web site.”
“What?”
“Yeah. They’re an organized group. The American Naturist Society. Not nudist, naturist. That’s what they want to be called. And they have a list of the ten best places for ‘enjoying the natural world au naturel.’ Their phrase, not mine. And little Blueberry Pond is number one.”
“Well, I guess that explains why all those people were down there. There must’ve been at least a hundred.”
“And this isn’t the weekend, you know.”
“Ohmigod,” said Lucy. “There could be thousands.”
“Not if this heat wave breaks,” said Pam. “Don’t forget the average high around here in June is something like fifty-eight degrees.”
“We can only hope.”
“And don’t forget the black flies,” said Pam, giggling. “This hot, still weather will bring them out. Reinforcements are on the way!”
Rachel Goodman didn’t see anything funny about the black flies.
“Those poor people!” she exclaimed. “They don’t have any idea what they’re exposing themselves to.”
“I think they know,” said Lucy.
“They couldn’t, or they wouldn’t do it,” said Rachel, who was a firm believer in the value of education. “The black flies are just the beginning. There’s mosquitoes—they carry that West Nile virus. And I’m not at all convinced bug spray is safe for people. You have to figure that if it kills insects it must be full of toxins. And don’t forget the wild animals—raccoons and all use that pond, too—and when they’re rabid they lose their fear of people. And I know people like to swim there but I certainly wouldn’t do it because I don’t think that water is all that clean, what with the wildlife and all.”
“I wonder what all those people are doing for toilets,” mused Lucy.
“You know what they’re doing—and it’s filthy. You wouldn’t catch me anywhere near the place.”
“There were a lot of people. Children, too.”
“Not children!” Rachel was outraged. “I hope they were wearing sunscreen!”
“Oh, I’m sure they were,” said Lucy, not meaning to sound sarcastic at all.
“Oh, those poor babies,” moaned Rachel. “They’ll all get cancer and die. And their parents, too.”
“Maybe before the weekend, if we’re lucky.”
“Lucy!”
When Lucy got to work Thursday morning there was no sign of Ted. But Phyllis, who was looking cool and comfortable in a brightly-printed green and blue muumuu, handed her a packet of printouts from the American Naturist Society Web site.
“His Lordship wants you to look these over and then interview some of these naturists at Blueberry Pond. Find out if they’ve got a leader or something and talk to him,” said Phyllis. Seeing Lucy’s shocked expression she added, “Or her.”
“You’re kidding, right? This is a joke.”
Phyllis pursed her Frosted Apricot lips and fanned herself with her hand. “I don’t think so, honey. He wants you to get reaction to that proposed public decency bylaw.”
“But those people are naked. I can’t talk to naked people.”
Phyllis was bent over, rummaging in her bottom drawer. “He wants photos, too.”
“What did you say?”
Phyllis sat up and held out a box of candy. “Want one? These are really good. I’d go for the square ones, if I were you. They’re usually caramels.”
She waited until Lucy’s mouth was full of gooey candy, then she repeated Ted’s request. “I’m pretty sure you heard me, but I’ll say it again. Ted wants photos of the nudists.”
“Mmmph,” said Lucy, plunking herself down at her desk and chewing furiously. She swallowed. “Absolutely not. I am not talking to naked people. I am not photographing them. If Ted wants this story so much he can get it himself. I’ve got another story. A bigger story. Lobster poaching.”
Phyllis’s brows rose above her rhinestone-trimmed half glasses. “You don’t say.” She examined her nails, which were painted bright blue, to coordinate with the muumuu. “That could get nasty.”
“Exactly. I want to get on it before somebody gets hurt,” said Lucy, scanning the printouts.
The American Naturist Society, she discovered, was indeed a national organization with thousands of members. Their purpose was to “promote and encourage the practices of healthful living including freeing the human body from restrictive and harmful clothing.” While they insisted that all clothing was detrimental because it “smothered the pores” they were especially concerned about anything that changed the shape of the body such as high heel shoes or support garments like girdles and bras. In particular, they believed pantyhose to be especially harmful.
Lucy found herself agreeing with them.
“So they’re not so crazy after all?” inquired Phyllis.
“They’re death on pantyhose.”
“Sensible group.”
“They don’t think much of elastic, either. They say it cuts off circulation.”
“They’re wrong there. The happiest day of my life was the day I discovered elastic-waist pants.”
Lucy smiled and resumed reading, wondering why she’d had such a strong reaction to the presence of the naturists at Blueberry Pond. Now that she was reading about the group, they seemed pretty reasonable. Just regular folks who happened to dislike wearing clothing. Come to think of it, clothing was pretty unnatural. She remembered how she’d had to struggle to keep the kids clothed when they were little. They hated wearing snowsuits and even on the coldest days pulled off their hats and mittens. She remembered watching one of Toby’s little sneakers floating downstream, after he’d pushed it off when Bill was carrying him across a bridge in a backpack when they were hiking on a nature trail. In fact, it had been difficult to keep that child in diapers; whenever she changed him he’d attempt a bare-bottomed dash for freedom. And the girls hadn’t been much different, struggling and squirming whenever she tried to get them into their snow boots and protesting loudly when she tried to get them to trade their comfy overalls and sneakers for starched party dresses and Mary Janes.
When she finis
hed reading the last page, Lucy leaned forward over her desk and propped her chin in her hand, asking herself what she found so offensive about the presence of naked people at the pond. She wasn’t prudish, really she wasn’t. She enjoyed a healthy sex life, she faithfully made appointments for annual physicals and mammograms, she’d given birth four times. She wasn’t ashamed of her own body, she just didn’t want to look at other peoples’.
Not that she didn’t enjoy watching a steamy love scene in a movie, or looking at nude paintings and sculptures in a museum. She’d made a point of taking the kids to museums and introducing them to great art, with or without fig leaves. And she’d never objected to Bill’s collection of Playboy magazines, they were fine with her. So what was the problem? Why was she so uncomfortable about these naturists?
Maybe, she decided, it was because they were practically in her backyard. Maybe it was because she could choose to look at a movie or a magazine or a work of art, but she had no control over the naturists. Now that they were around, they could pop up anywhere. What if they came to the house, asking for a Band-Aid or something? How could she talk to them? Where would she look? Not to mention the fact that the nudes in movies and works of art and even in magazines were carefully edited. They were presented attractively, even glorified. Imperfections were air-brushed away or edited out. Not like the folks at Blueberry Pond who were happy to let it all hang out.
Most of all, she decided, was the feeling she had that these people were depriving her of something she enjoyed by their presence. If she didn’t want to see them, she couldn’t go to the pond. Her pond. Well, it wasn’t as if she actually owned it. It was conservation land, owned by the town. But Blueberry Pond was so close to the house, and the family went there so frequently, that they all felt a bit proprietary about it. If she saw litter, she picked it up and so did the kids. If somebody had dumped an old appliance or couch there, as sometimes happened, she made sure the town sent workers to pick it up. She loved the pond and the naturists had seized it. They might as well have marched in with an army and raised a flag, claiming it for their cause.
The bell on the door jangled, announcing Ted’s arrival.
“What are you doing here, Lucy? I wanted you to go down to the pond and see what the naturists think about Pru Pratt’s proposed bylaw.”
“I’m pretty sure they won’t like it, Ted. In fact, I think it’s a foregone conclusion. There’s something else I want to work on. Are you aware that there’s lobster poaching going on? Chuck Swift told me.”
“I hadn’t heard anything about that, Lucy.” Ted scratched his chin. “Are you sure?”
“I told you. Chuck says his traps are being poached.”
“Anybody else?”
“That’s what I want to find out. So I’ll get right on it, okay?”
“No. The naturist story is top priority. This is big and you can bet it’s going to get some regional, maybe even national attention. TV even.” He waggled a finger at Lucy. “And we want to be the ones who break it.”
“Not me,” said Lucy. “I’m not interested. If you’re interested, I think you should cover it yourself. I could get some more reaction to the fireworks cancellation. Or get a head start on the listings—there’s a lot of holiday activities next week. We ought to play up the parade, for example, since there aren’t going to be any fireworks.”
“I would Lucy, except that’s what I’m paying you to do. I’m the editor. I’m the one who makes the assignments. You’re the reporter. You’re the one who does the assignments.” He gave her a hard look. “Do you understand?”
Lucy nodded and got to her feet. “If you’re going to put it like that. . . .”
“I am.”
She picked up her bag and checked to make sure she had her camera and a notebook.
“Well, I’m on my way.” She stopped at Phyllis’s desk. “If I die of embarrassment, let my family know that it was all Ted’s fault. Promise?”
“If you ask me, honey, you’re not the one who should be embarrassed.”
Lucy tried to remember that as she approached the pond, camera in hand. She hoped to get some discreet long-distance shots first, before attempting any interviews. That was the plan, anyway. She really wasn’t sure if she was going to be able to work up the courage to talk to any of the naturists.
But first she had to get to the pond, which was quite a hike. Recalling the lack of parking the previous day, she’d decided to leave the Subaru at home and walk. She wasn’t going to risk having to park in the underbrush and scratching the finish on her relatively new station wagon. Walking also had the benefit of buying her some time, time to figure out a way of conducting the interviews.
She wasn’t exactly marching along. She was dawdling her way down the trail, actually playing a little game of seeing how quietly she could walk. It was something she used to do when she was a little girl, pretending to be Lewis and Clark’s famous Indian guide, Sacajawea. She was walking so quietly, in fact, that she surprised Calvin Pratt, Pru’s husband, who was installing a wire fence along his property line.
“That’s a good idea, Calvin,” she said.
Calvin jumped a mile, dropping his hammer.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, smiling in a friendly manner.
Calvin looked like a deer caught in the headlights. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, a skinny fellow with a gaunt face sporting a stubble of beard in a pair of oversized farmer’s overalls. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and Lucy could see the ropey muscles in his arms and a tuft of gray hair sprouting from his hollow chest.
“Say, Calvin, I’m supposed to write a story for the Pennysaver about these naturists at the pond. Would you mind giving me a quote? How do you feel about having all these naked people so close to your property?”
Calvin didn’t answer her. He bent down and picked up his hammer and, next thing Lucy knew, he was gone. He had vanished into the woods.
Lucy shrugged and continued down the path, wishing it would go on forever. It didn’t, of course. It ended and she found herself in the cleared space bordering the pond. The rocks were once again full of people. It was still morning so there weren’t quite as many people as there were the day before, but there were still quite a few naturists stretched out on blankets or sitting in beach chairs, enjoying the sunshine. It was a peaceful scene. Only one radio was playing and a few kids were splashing in the water. One serious swimmer was crossing the pond in a neat Australian crawl.
Lucy snapped a few shots of the general scene, figuring she was far enough away that the figures in the photo would be an indistinct jumble of arms and legs. No faces. No breasts. Maybe a round bottom or two, but no sex organs.
The thought froze her in her tracks. She wanted to flee, like Calvin. If only she could. But unlike Calvin, who had probably been forbidden by Pru to even glance at the pond, she was under orders to see everything she could.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she told herself, putting on her sunglasses. They would give her a bit of privacy, which she valued even if her subjects didn’t. She took a few steps forward, scoping out the situation. Not so bad. The rock closest to her was occupied by a young woman, an attractive girl who reminded her of Elizabeth. She ought to be able to handle this, she told herself. Just pretend she was talking to her daughter.
Lucy took a few more steps. She looked closer. It was her daughter.
“Elizabeth!”
“Mom!”
“What are you doing here?”
“Getting a tan! It’s great, Mom. You should try it.”
“Put something on!”
“Relax, Mom. It’s no big deal. Everybody’s naked. It’s cool.”
Lucy didn’t know what to say. Like Calvin, she was standing transfixed, with her mouth open. Like Calvin, she turned and ran for home. She was running pell-mell down the path, panting heavily, when she ran smack into somebody very solid. A naked somebody.
“I’m so sorry,” she stammered, recogni
zing another neighbor, Mel Dunwoodie, who owned a nearby campground.
“Take it easy, Lucy,” he said.
“I will,” she said, continuing on her way at a brisk clip.
Thank goodness Mr. Dunwoodie had brought something to read.
Chapter Five
Ted was not amused when Lucy returned to the office empty-handed. He stared at her, incredulous. “You mean to tell me you didn’t get any interviews? Any photos?”
“Sorry,” said Lucy, slinking into her chair.
“Why the hell not?” he demanded, standing over her.
Lucy shrank into the chair, making herself as small as possible. “I got scared and ran away.”
Ted scratched his chin. “Didn’t you see any familiar faces down there? Wasn’t there anybody you knew?”
Lucy spoke in a very small voice. “That was the problem.”
Phyllis was intrigued. “Who? Who did you recognize?”
“Mel Dunwoodie, for one.”
Phyllis let out a hoot. “Mel Dunwoodie! He must weigh two hundred and fifty pounds!”
“At least,” agreed Lucy, who was trying to erase the image of all that naked flesh from her mind. She had an awful feeling the memory was going to stay with her for a long time.
“Anybody else?” asked Phyllis.
“Well, yes. In fact that’s why I exposed my film.”
“Who was it?”
“Elizabeth.”
“No!”
“As much as it pains me to admit it, my own daughter was sunning herself in her birthday suit.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that, Lucy,” muttered Ted, adding up potential sales that would not now be realized. “A nice, discreet shot of Elizabeth would have been perfect for the front page. Just think what it would have done for newsstand sales.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking of, Ted,” snapped Lucy, looking at him through a red haze. “There’s no way my naked daughter’s photo is going to appear in this paper. Not while I have breath in my body. No way.”
