Free Body Surfing by Anita Shreve
Authors: Anita Shreve
a fast friendship beginning, though it is not clear yet what Marissa has to offer Wendy apart from riveted attention. Marissa's husband, Ferris, has the studied reticence of a recovering alcoholic surrounded by alcohol. Victoria is speaking somewhat louder than necessary and is having trouble with the word decision. Before her sits a nearly empty champagne bottle from which only she has been drinking, Mr. Edwards--ever the genial host--pouring liberally. Sydney is fascinated by the way alcohol blurs the features as well as the consonants. Victoria's mouth has relaxed considerably, and the whites of her eyes have grown pinkish. Even the skin under her eyes has loosened. In a subtle though somewhat devastating transformation, Victoria can no longer be said to be the most beautiful woman at the table.
"You've heard about Princeton and Yale," Ben is saying.
"Princeton's scandal, really," Jeff says.
"No, what?" Art asks.
"Princeton was caught breaking into Yale's admissions files," Ben announces with some glee.
Perhaps the man did not get into Princeton, Sydney thinks.
"I thought they said they didn't use the information," Mr. Edwards says.
"Dad, they broke into the Yale computer fourteen times over a three-day period."
"Heads will roll," Art pronounces.
The dinner party cannot be said to be entirely successful. The lamb is underdone. Wendy and Art bicker publicly, Wendy annoyed at being drawn away from her conversation with Marissa by Art's constant queries. When is that screening we're going to? I already told you, the twentieth. Honey? What? Ben is quiet, and Jeff casts worried glances in Victoria's direction. Mrs. Edwards, her attention on the dessert, does not ask where Julie is going or when she will be home when the girl rises with a quick good-bye--a lapse of parental attention Sydney finds unnerving. It is all she can do to stop herself from jumping up and following Julie into the kitchen. And jumping up is what she'd have to do, because Julie is almost instantly out the door. The girl doesn't drive. Is she walking? Or is a car waiting for her on the road by pre-arrangement? And when exactly was this getaway prearranged? After Julie's jubilant foray into the water? By phone? Initiated by the boy with the lovely brown hair or by Julie herself?
Sydney feels the responsibility of a parent. Mr. Edwards, locked in at the far end of the table, appears not even to have seen Julie's departure.
Eleven o'clock, Sydney decides. She will not start worrying until eleven o'clock.
"The Acela's been shut down," Ferris ventures in one of his few contributions to the dinner conversation. Perhaps he has been saving it up all evening.
"You're kidding," Art says.
"Cracks in the shock absorbers."
This has the makings of a major crisis. How will Art and Wendy get home? Even Sydney knows that the plan is for them to take the bus to Boston on Monday morning, the Acela, the high-speed train, to Manhattan later that afternoon. Mrs. Edwards looks momentarily stricken.
The dirty dishes are monstrous. Jeff comes in to help, and no one shoos him away. "Dad, I'll take over," he says, putting a hand on his father's shoulder. Mr. Edwards appears exhausted, a sail collapsing in a dearth of wind.
Jeff rolls the sleeves of his blue oxford shirt. For a moment, Sydney studies his wrists.
The dishes are dotted with pink globules of fat, reminding Sydney of Mrs. Edwards's hardening arteries. Plates of cake reveal varying appetites for a confection she knows was a trick, a cake mix doctored with Miracle Whip, instant vanilla pudding, and orange juice to make it look and taste homemade. Sydney has seen the recipes in Mrs. Edwards's cookbook, the bizarre ingredients listed there: lemon Jell-O, chopped Snickers bars, condensed tomato soup. It is Sydney's considered opinion, having had four bites of her piece of cake, that neither the Miracle Whip nor the instant pudding successfully masked the store-bought chemical aftertaste.
Sydney develops an
"You've heard about Princeton and Yale," Ben is saying.
"Princeton's scandal, really," Jeff says.
"No, what?" Art asks.
"Princeton was caught breaking into Yale's admissions files," Ben announces with some glee.
Perhaps the man did not get into Princeton, Sydney thinks.
"I thought they said they didn't use the information," Mr. Edwards says.
"Dad, they broke into the Yale computer fourteen times over a three-day period."
"Heads will roll," Art pronounces.
The dinner party cannot be said to be entirely successful. The lamb is underdone. Wendy and Art bicker publicly, Wendy annoyed at being drawn away from her conversation with Marissa by Art's constant queries. When is that screening we're going to? I already told you, the twentieth. Honey? What? Ben is quiet, and Jeff casts worried glances in Victoria's direction. Mrs. Edwards, her attention on the dessert, does not ask where Julie is going or when she will be home when the girl rises with a quick good-bye--a lapse of parental attention Sydney finds unnerving. It is all she can do to stop herself from jumping up and following Julie into the kitchen. And jumping up is what she'd have to do, because Julie is almost instantly out the door. The girl doesn't drive. Is she walking? Or is a car waiting for her on the road by pre-arrangement? And when exactly was this getaway prearranged? After Julie's jubilant foray into the water? By phone? Initiated by the boy with the lovely brown hair or by Julie herself?
Sydney feels the responsibility of a parent. Mr. Edwards, locked in at the far end of the table, appears not even to have seen Julie's departure.
Eleven o'clock, Sydney decides. She will not start worrying until eleven o'clock.
"The Acela's been shut down," Ferris ventures in one of his few contributions to the dinner conversation. Perhaps he has been saving it up all evening.
"You're kidding," Art says.
"Cracks in the shock absorbers."
This has the makings of a major crisis. How will Art and Wendy get home? Even Sydney knows that the plan is for them to take the bus to Boston on Monday morning, the Acela, the high-speed train, to Manhattan later that afternoon. Mrs. Edwards looks momentarily stricken.
The dirty dishes are monstrous. Jeff comes in to help, and no one shoos him away. "Dad, I'll take over," he says, putting a hand on his father's shoulder. Mr. Edwards appears exhausted, a sail collapsing in a dearth of wind.
Jeff rolls the sleeves of his blue oxford shirt. For a moment, Sydney studies his wrists.
The dishes are dotted with pink globules of fat, reminding Sydney of Mrs. Edwards's hardening arteries. Plates of cake reveal varying appetites for a confection she knows was a trick, a cake mix doctored with Miracle Whip, instant vanilla pudding, and orange juice to make it look and taste homemade. Sydney has seen the recipes in Mrs. Edwards's cookbook, the bizarre ingredients listed there: lemon Jell-O, chopped Snickers bars, condensed tomato soup. It is Sydney's considered opinion, having had four bites of her piece of cake, that neither the Miracle Whip nor the instant pudding successfully masked the store-bought chemical aftertaste.
Sydney develops an