The Ocean House

by Mary-Beth Hughes

  After an assault, Kai said, he, they, whoever, might send, I don’t know what you want to call them, rovers? Anyway, the rapist sends people to mill around. To make a larger point. There needs to be a community to really be effective. Schools, obviously. Churches. In random rape, this doesn’t happen. But think about helicopters that soar around a neighborhood for no reason but sound menacing. They never land. They never actually do anything. You know, rovers? Kai McCann smoothed the wrinkled collar on the button-down, then scratched her forehead, methodically, just above each eyebrow.

  So many little tics to sort out before Kai was even a little bit good at this. Still, Cece nodded. The rovers?

  Yes. Kai thought that might be why the Crestview boys had felt so problematic. Remember?

  But that wasn’t what happened at Crestview. The tall boys were only playing. Just learning how to be themselves. Wasn’t that the whole point of the experimental preschool, amplification of inherent strength? What was so different about these boys balancing on their toes to catch an extra inch? And holding still, because that was sometimes better. They’d figured that out already. Hold still. Stand really straight. Keep your eyes open. Don’t all talk at once. Create a little pattern. Overlap, yes. But not chaos. They were still working things out, and Cece understood that, listening to them, looking up at them—and she knew they were right about the eco-swings, which would have disintegrated in a year’s time—but then something else happened. Despite everything she understood about these very young men—boys—she was coming apart. She felt terrified and they felt it, too. And it confused them about themselves. And the confusion made them angry. What about our fucking swings?

  Beginning that summer, Clarence on Thursdays in the late afternoon had to go to Key Food with Deirdre to help carry home the groceries. Get used to it, she said. But she gave him the light sacks to carry, and when they dragged on the sidewalk, she would stop and reload.

  As usual, close to home, something got too heavy, so they paused on the corner, and right at that moment Clarence looked up. Over on the bench, Cece was crying. That was a bad idea.

  Don’t think I’m carrying those for you, said Deirdre. Clarence, you hear me? What’s the matter with you? But then she looked where he was looking and saw the problem. Can you believe how stupid?

  It was certainly stupid to cry in front of the big boys.

  Deirdre stretched all the way over then and clutched her knees, as if her back was killing her. Clarence had seen this movement again and again, usually on his mother and now on Deirdre. It made her look like an old lady, but she was only fifteen so far. Tell that dumb girl I sprained my ankle.

  Clarence looked at his sister. You did?

  You heard me. Run. Go.

  Clarence ran. Deirdre sprained her ankle! Deirdre sprained her ankle! He sang out over and over like a game. Deirdre sprained her ankle! He swung his arms around for emphasis. Deirdre! Deirdre sprained her ankle!

  He reeled up to the gathering around the bench and paused. Through the stockade of boys’ arms, Cece’s face was extra white and frozen now. But tears were still coming, like someone else in her body had taken over the crying.

  Clarence spiraled his arms again, just slightly, and said, Deirdre?

  What’s that?

  Now the boys looked around at him. It was possible they would have a different idea about the sprained ankle, the groceries, the crying girl who sometimes drew interesting things on her pad. There could be a whole new interpretation coming, and Clarence waited.

  What are you shouting about?

  Clarence rarely had this much attention all at once, except when Lennie stared him down in the language-­acquisition modules, and once again ideas seemed to stop in his head. What had he just been saying?

  You’re the bug we squashed yesterday. Back again? Now the boys were all turning and staring at him. Instead of standing on their tiptoes, they were squatting down, testing out the power of physical closeness on a lower level. Clarence remembered something. Words are little pictures, that’s all. No big deal. Cece had wedged that into his stopped brain when Lennie gave up and moved on to the more promising kids. Pictures? he’d said. Cece had nodded. He got that. That was pretty obvious.

  Deirdre sprained her ankle! Deirdre sprained her ankle. Her ankle is shot. Shot! Her back is one big fat ugly mess of pain.

  One big ugly mess of pain was something the boys had all heard before. A more familiar confusion began sifting in. The old confusion all the new choreography was meant to solve.

  You shitheads get over here and pick up these groceries! Now! Deirdre shouted.

  This was an order they couldn’t possibly follow. They couldn’t even indicate they’d heard it. But one could peel off and laugh about what Deirdre had going on with her grocery bags spread out all over the sidewalk like garbage. And another could go over and register fresh disgust about the new swings. The idea of a mess of pain reminded another boy his mother had asked him to do something he’d forgotten. And so they dispersed. Clarence ambled off to the swings, too, bad as they were. And Deirdre rearranged the grocery sacks so she could carry them home.

  So, what about the rovers? The people who milled around her on campus? The ones who studied her like an art project?

  Right! And when did they finally disperse? Kai asked Cece.

  Disperse?

  Right. When did they stop?

  The answer of course was never, and Kai McCann knew that.

  The sky began to darken again right above the canal, as if the sludge had been used to color in the clouds. Ominous. Clarence glanced up at the sky then went back to his drawing. He was sketching long curling lines, strings or wires, attached to the points on the leaves. Cece was coloring in pink grass around her burnt-orange tree. She wasn’t much of an artist, but she liked artists. In school, she’d always been drawn to them. Even now, Lennie and her arty slant on preschool had been a draw. Above all, Sebastian had seemed radiant to her. The first thing she’d noticed besides his slender height and his rubber-tire earring, was the black wire dangling from beneath his T-shirt. And it had stopped her breath. She remembered this even now. Not being able to find her breath. This boy goofing on their prefab dormitories had wire dangling, which meant, of course, a medical device of some kind. Sebastian, in the greenish lighting saw her face twitch and right away lifted his shirt and she gasped. He had electrodes, three of them, attached to key parts of his chest. The wires tangled and gathered in a black pouch on his belt loop. Sebastian grinned, then he dropped his shirt without explaining.

  A few days later the wires no longer dangled. The pouch was gone. But she was alert to his presence by then, and that alertness was the beginning of something. For most of her only semester, he would seek her out and show her things. Drawings. Poems. Pocket sculptures in white flaky plaster. And each time he waited for her face to go through its changes. He relied on her. Like a blood test.

  Did she love Sebastian? She thought she did. She thought they loved each other. Even later when she heard the wires were a joke, a project. Equipment his mother had needed to monitor a chemotherapy and its wayward impact on her heart. Sebastian had worn the discard as an experiment, for fun. It was the one project she thought she really understood. He missed his mother, just as she missed hers. A big surprise, this longing for Faith. Cece had been eager, frantic even to get away from home. But she ached for her impossible mother. Then Sebastian appeared. The balm. The tender focus. Life’s recalibrator. And then he vanished, gone. Kai, the amateur therapist, wanted to zero in on that departure.

  This week, when Cece showed up at Kai McCann’s cubicle for their appointment, Kai had arranged some yellow Post-it squares in a half circle on the partition wall. Most had stick figures notable for their erect balloon-shape penises. The center Post-it had the two stick guys with the biggest balloons. rapists, Kai had printed in, helpfully, in block letters.

 
On another square, many guys crowded together—maybe four, no, five. The rovers? said Cece.

  Kai nodded.

  Then there was a single stick guy, alone, his yellow square at an angle. Unlike the others, his balloon penis pointed downward to one side, as if about to be fitted for an expensive pair of trousers. This was all incredibly odd. Early on, Cece had told Kai that she liked to draw with the kids at Crestview. Clearly a sickening mistake. On the desk, more pads and Sharpies at the ready.

  Interesting, right? said Kai. She made her semi-ironic we’re-in-this-together grimace. Cece had learned all of Kai’s expressions over the summer.

  No stick figure for me? said Cece.

  That’s good, said Kai. She made a fast-typed note on her phone. Or maybe just sent a text.

  Cece took the visitor chair and shook her head. Really, Kai, this is— But then she started to laugh.

  Come on. Just try it. Kai pointed her Sharpie to the stand-alone. For instance, who’s this guy?

  The one with the downward balloon?

  Right. What does that say?

  Well, said Cece. He’s a bystander? And not so interested?

  Okay. What’s he doing?

  Nothing?

  Nothing? Really?

  Cece sighed. It was a ragged sigh.

  Is he someone you know? Kai said.

  Maybe not?

  Listen, said Kai, leaning forward with sudden clarity. We’re exploring the roles you’re assigning. Maybe you’re putting people on the wrong Post-it? Or just adding the wrong labels.

  Cece felt herself blush. She was embarrassed for Kai but didn’t know how to steer things in a better direction. I don’t know, Kai, isn’t this—she made the you-and-me hand gesture Kai usually liked—supposed to be more evocative?

  Evocative. Kai wrote it down on a new Post-it.

  It’s like you’ve prearranged the story and yet I’m still being quizzed. It’s very strange.

  Quizzed. Kai scratched vigorously at the stubble side of her head. Sure, I see that.

  You do?

  Sure, said Kai. And I’m kind of struck by something.

  Oh?

  You remember that oral exam I had to take.

  Cece shook her head.

  Anyway, it was insanely hard. Like an inquisition. And I’d had no sleep for days. I don’t even know if I was talking in complete syllables. I think it may have imprinted me.

  Okay.

  But I passed. Don’t worry.

  Cece tried to refocus on the Post-its, then she looked back at Kai. Congratulations?

  You can add some squares, too, if you feel like it, said Kai. Look, like this. She stood and pasted evocative near the others. Then she sat and glanced down at her phone. Oh my god. Are we really out of time? Were you late?

  I don’t think so.

  I didn’t notice. Anyway, we have to stop and talk about the fall.

  The fall?

  Sure. Because Kai thought, you know, given everything, they might leave the counseling up in the air for now. Cece was doing amazingly well. And maybe Kai should just jam ahead on her master’s thesis and be done with it. What did Cece think?

  Cece studied Kai’s face across the desk for a long time. As if this were actual therapy and she were actually thinking. She’d never felt it appropriate to ask. But she asked now: What’s your thesis topic, Kai? Cece waved at the stick figures. Something about sexual assault? I’d guess that’s pretty popular right now.

  Well, no. It’s a little more off the main drag.

  Uh-huh.

  Yes, it’s the impact of a sibling’s death on children. On the surviving siblings.

  What?

  Yeah, you know, said Kai. She let a slack fingertip point toward Cece.

  You mean me?

  Yes. Of course.

  But? But you never asked me a single thing about that.

  Well, I’m more interested in what’s happening now. So much about the parents. Almost zero on the kids, especially grown-up.

  I don’t understand, Kai. I really don’t remember anything.

  Right! I know! Which is fascinating.

  Cece felt her eyes squint nearly shut involuntarily, like a loud light had been shoved at her. Not bright, loud. It made no sense.

  You’re perfect for me, said Kai. She offered one of her favorite therapeutic gestures, an appreciative head nod with soft closed-mouth smile.

  This was far beyond Kai’s usual ineptness. Something like disgust billowed up in Cece’s throat. A feeling almost unknown to her.

  Okay. Kai pushed back in her chair. So, anyway.

  But Cece kept very still. Finally she picked up a Sharpie and a pad. She stared at Kai as if for a portrait.

  I get it, said Kai. I get it. Recruiting a friend! Very good! But they’re actually going to lock up the gym. Some kind of weird half holiday. Who knows. Anyway, I think we’re probably finished here, don’t you? It’s been amazing getting to know you.

  Cece bent over the table and carefully drew a stick figure with a bubble head. Shaved stubble dots on one side and a black wedge on the other, a button-down shirt. Stick legs. Big boots.

  She stood up to study the half circle on the wall and then realized she needed to add some identifying block letters. She worked them in. Then she pressed the Kai figure right on top of the bystander Post-it. It was hard to read because the letters were so squished, but it said: stranger. And also, politely: goodbye.

  Then Cece zigzagged out through the haphazard cubicles and pushed hard on the swinging gym doors. Wait! she heard Kai shout behind her. Wait, you’ve got me all wrong!

  But Kai was right. Therapy was finished now for Cece. And her mother, Faith, was correct, too. Cece wouldn’t be moving closer to any kind of useful degree. And she might not go on a date, either. Though nobody had offered an opinion on that front. She wasn’t against a profession or love. More like the impulse or intrigue or curiosity or drive or desire had tipped over and stopped without her noticing.

  But she would like to take another English course. Lately, Cece was interested in Dorothy Wordsworth. She’d popped up as a side note in the summer survey class. Her lifelong devotion to her brother, the poet. Her exquisite lists. Words without context or meaning. As if he were her only context. He was the only meaning. That couldn’t possibly be true. That couldn’t be the whole story.

  Five o’clock and still no sign of Sebastian. She’d already re-sent the map. But only once. The bells of St. Agnes began their loud raucous exuberance. You never knew what song the bells might play now that they were computerized. Often old show tunes—“Hello Dolly”?—rarely a hymn.

  The closest entrance to the Crestview Houses was a wide metal door painted a lemony green topped with a striped metal awning at the end of a winding walk. The awning, the twisty walk, the junipers in oval beds nodded to a fierce negotiation long ago about what was absolutely necessary for postwar urban housing. For all the returning soldiers who’d need a new kind of home.

  Now the bright metal door squealed open, as if rigged for this very alert. Both Clarence and Cece looked up. But it was just Deirdre. She stood under the awning surveying the scene with displeasure. Deirdre was a short, compact girl with an abundance of long braided hair, today tucked under a blue cap. Like Clarence, she was dark skinned. Her shorts and top were new. Clarence and Cece looked back at their drawings. Deirdre took her time on the winding path, looking around, as if scouting for storm damage, but the hail, so dramatic, had already dissolved. Everything was just steamy and for the moment smelled of soapy fabric. A vent from the laundromat across the street had briefly doused the air.

  Are you behaving? Deirdre called out to Clarence.

  Yes, he said. The right answer to a frequent question. It allowed Deirdre to come closer.

  Are you sitting on wet?

&
nbsp; No, said Cece, smiling up at Deirdre. I wiped things off.

  I hear you’re getting fired.

  Maybe. Probably not renewed.

  Yeah, well. I already told him it’s no big deal. Okay? This thing wasn’t much, you know? Come on, bug. We’re going to Key Food now.

  Cece began packing up the crayons and the pad while Clarence stood up to go, as usual, as if he’d see her tomorrow afternoon, just as before.

  He’s not a big talker, Deirdre said.

  Cece nodded. She understood. It was a disappointing outcome for Clarence. All this enrichment, and nothing would be any better for him. Quite possibly worse. Cece was disappointed, too. Though now that she thought about it, she might go over to his new school. She knew exactly which one. She would ask to speak with his teacher. There were things she could say. Why not try?

  Cece looked to Clarence, then at the pad in her hands. She flipped open to the pages they’d been working on together. She touched the point on one of Clarence’s flowers. This is very nice, she said, widening her eyes, because it was. And Clarence gave the kind of grin Cece loved, on anyone really, a glimpse of the person newborn to old, all at once.

  He doesn’t talk a lot, but he talks about you. Deirdre was lodging a different complaint now. He talks about all this shit. Deirdre waved at the pad and crayons. He says he’s just trying to teach you something. But you’re not that smart.

  Cece looked into Deirdre’s determined, curious, never-miss-a-trick eyes and saw where Clarence might be going next, if he was lucky.

  True, Cece said, as if saying something she could only just begin to know.

  Yeah. Well. Don’t forget. Whatever it was.

  Fragile X

  1.

  Faith hadn’t been to the Beach Club in years and years. I wouldn’t know a soul anymore, she said, nervous, wooing a potential new client. Her bookkeeping, business-planning venture had formed slowly, mistake by mistake. But by now she thought she knew what she was doing. Right away, Faith had mentioned her daughter Cece’s looming visit. Children, always the first subject. Disarming, Faith had learned.