Mary Jane by Jessica Anya Blau

At breakfast, Jimmy looked at the last two recipe cards. One was for pot roast and the other was for tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.

“Pot roast.” Jimmy slapped the card down in front of Izzy. Izzy had come to the table in her nightgown but removed it when I wasn’t looking. She was now eating her porridge naked.

“That’s not a summer food.” Sheba was in a different bikini than yesterday. This one was white with a crotch so small the fuzzy scribbles of her brown pubic hair poked out along the sides. I was wearing my new suit, but had thrown my new Dolfin shorts and new striped T-shirt over it, as I couldn’t bring myself to walk out of the bedroom wearing just the suit.

“But I love pot roast. And I’ve been so good!” Jimmy climbed off his chair, went to Sheba, and started kissing her all over. She batted him away, laughing. Izzy got out of her chair and ran over to kiss Sheba all over too, so Sheba was covered by the two of them. I watched, smiling, and wondered what it would feel like to kiss so freely like that.

Dr. Cone came into the room and Jimmy lifted his head up from the kisses. “Richard, what do you think of pot roast for dinner tonight?” He sat at the table.

Dr. Cone looked at me. “Mary Jane?”

“Well, we bought all the ingredients. But Sheba thinks it’s not summery enough.”

“If we bought the ingredients, let’s not waste them.” Dr. Cone went to the stove and served himself a bowl of oatmeal from the pot.

“Seriously, Mary Jane. Does your mother make pot roast in the middle of summer?” Sheba lifted her bare legs and crossed them on the table. Izzy settled on Jimmy’s lap. She looked over the recipe card and sounded out the letters.

“I copied her recipe cards for the meals she had scheduled this week, so, yes.” I wondered if Dr. Cone cared that his naked daughter was sitting on a grown man’s lap. No one else seemed to notice.

“You got a hell of a mother,” Jimmy said. “The best meal my mother ever made was when she’d buy a brick of cheddar cheese, pull out a sheet of tinfoil, and then melt the cheddar on the foil.”

“And then what?” I picked up Izzy’s nightgown from the floor and slipped it over her head.

“Then what what?”

Sheba said, “What did she do with the melted cheese?”

“Nothing. That was it. She took the foil out of the oven, put it on the coffee table, and we pulled it off with our fingers and ate it while we watched TV.”

I laughed. “What did you call it?”

“She called it ‘melted cheese.’”

“How did you ever get so creative and smart?” Sheba recrossed her legs, left over right now. “Your mother was of no help to you.”

“At least she was there. Unlike my dad, who was with the macramé lady who lived down the road.”

“We did macramé at camp!” Izzy cried.

“Who was the macramé lady?” I asked.

“She sold macramé plant holders outside the supermarket. She had big eyes and big tits. That and the macramé did my dad in. He followed her home one day and that was that.”

“Tits,” Izzy whispered. I hoped she wouldn’t ask what it meant.

Mrs. Cone walked in wearing a breezy yellow sundress and leather sandals. She paused, looked at Sheba, and then slipped off the dress, revealing another microkini. Then she sat at the table.

“Izzy and I made oatmeal,” I offered.

“Lovely!” Mrs. Cone clapped.

I went to the stove and ladled out a big bowl for her. “Do you mind pot roast for dinner?”

“What does everyone else think?”

“I think it’s too wintry.” Sheba recrossed her legs again. Each time she moved them, it was like a flash of lightning that everyone but Izzy turned toward.

“I want it,” Jimmy said. “It’s better than melted cheese on tinfoil.”

“Jimmy’s dad loves the macramé lady with big eyes,” Izzy said.

“Baby,” Sheba said, to Jimmy, “you’re right. This time is about you. Pot roast it is.”

“Hurrah!” Izzy shouted.

At two p.m., Izzy and I stuck the roast in the oven. It had to cook for four hours. Back on the beach, we decided we’d collect shells to decorate the dining room table.

“Hat.” I plopped a purple hat on Izzy’s head. Her face and shoulders had been burning and peeling all week long and I wanted to stop the cycle. Everyone but Dr. Cone and Izzy had been slathering on Bain de Soleil tanning oil all week, trying to heighten the sun’s effects. Sheba was the darkest, with Jimmy coming in second. Mrs. Cone only crisped and then molted, so she had to start all over again every second day. Dr. Cone was uninterested in tanning, but had been turning brown nonetheless. I looked as brown as a nut and my hair had gone blonder.

“Bucket,” Izzy said, and she gripped the handle of her bucket and started marching down the beach.

“We’ll be back in a bit,” I said, but Dr. Cone—the only one on the beach with us—wasn’t listening.

I hurried after Izzy. I hadn’t put on my shorts or shirt and felt like there was too much air on my skin as we walked along. Each time I bent over to pick up a shell, I pulled my bottoms out of my crack and checked the triangles of the top even though no one was around to see me.

Izzy started singing a Jimmy song from our favorite Running Water album. Soon, I was singing with her and forgot about my near-nakedness. After each song ended, Izzy paused for what seemed like the same number of seconds as the silence between songs on the album before starting in on the next one in order.

“Look!” Izzy stopped mid-song and pointed at a horseshoe crab shell as big as a serving platter. It was in perfect condition; a mottled, brownish-red, the color of Mrs. Cone’s skin just before she peeled.

“Cool!” We’d found half shells, three-quarter shells, and shell shards earlier in the week. But this was our first encounter with an unbroken, completely formed shell.

“Where’s the crab?”

“Probably eaten by seagulls.” I flipped it around so we could study the underside. “Look at how big this is! Horseshoe crabs are older than dinosaurs.”

“Can we keep it?” Izzy lifted the giant shell and tried to put it in the bucket. It was far too big.

“Yes. But let’s pick it up again on our way back.”

“What if someone else takes it?” Izzy pressed the horseshoe crab shell against her chest. It covered past her protruding belly.

“We can hide it in the dunes and get it on the way back.”

“Yes!” Izzy held the shell high above her head like a boxer with his trophy, and ran toward the dunes. I jogged a couple of paces behind. She climbed to the top of a dune and stopped as if she’d bumped into an invisible wall. When I caught up to her, my body did the same halting bump.

Behind the dune was Jimmy, naked except for his leather-and-feather necklace, and naked Beanie Jones. I supposed they were having sex, but I’d never imagined sex looking like this. Jimmy was on top of Beanie’s back; her rump was in the air and his mouth was on her shoulder, like a biting dog. Beanie’s face was half on the towel and half in the sand. Her blond hair was fanned around her head and covered most of the exposed side of her face. They were gleaming, sweaty. I was so stunned by this sight that I was silenced. I couldn’t move either; it was like I was trapped in mud.

Beanie’s eyes flashed open. She said, “Oh!” and then rolled out from beneath Jimmy.

“FUCKING SHIT! FUCK ME.” Jimmy stood. His penis jutted out in a way that I’d never seen in sex ed filmstrips or Izzy’s coloring book. It was airborne, upright—like there was a string attached to it and someone was yanking that string up.

“Sorry,” I managed. Then I picked up Izzy, who was still holding the horseshoe crab, and ran back toward the water.

When we got to the bucket, I put Izzy down and dropped to my knees. I was shaking. Izzy got on her knees and laid her head on my lap. She breathed in deep, her tiny back rising and falling. Neither of us spoke for a minute.

Finally Izzy sat up and looked at me. “Was Jimmy addicting?”

“Yes, I think so.” I rubbed her hair. My hands trembled.

“What were they doing?”

“They were wrestling.”

“Naked-y?”

“Yeah. Naked-y wrestling.”

“Will Sheba be mad?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“But this isn’t our kitchen.”

I knew what she meant. “Yeah, it’s not. I don’t think Jimmy will break all the dishes here.” I wondered how I would have responded to a situation like this when I was Izzy’s age. All of it—the kitchen destruction, the beach lovemaking—had been unimaginable until I encountered it. I had to quickly get over my own shock and be the adult—the one who made everything okay for Izzy when the grown-ups messed up in extraordinary ways.

“Maybe we don’t tell anyone so Jimmy doesn’t get in trouble,” Izzy said.

I pulled Izzy onto my lap. Then I shut my eyes and thought for a second. It seemed important that I get this right. “You don’t have to keep secrets from your parents, okay? If it’s on your mind, you can tell your mom and dad.”

Izzy nodded into my neck. I could feel tears leaking into my skin. “I don’t want it on my mind.”

“I’ll talk to your dad and he can figure out what to do about it. He’s Jimmy’s doctor. This is his job.”

“I’m worrying about Jimmy.”

“Don’t. This isn’t your worry to have,” I said. “This isn’t your problem. You just be you. We’ll make dinner. We’ll decorate with shells. Okay? Jimmy’s problem is not your problem.”

Izzy nodded again. She sniffed and then wiped her nose on my neck.

“Let’s go back and make a centerpiece for the table.” I put Izzy on the ground and picked up the bucket. She carried the horseshoe crab against her chest with one hand. Her other hand was in mine. I squeezed her fingers and she squeezed back. We squeezed in a rhythm as we walked toward the house.

And then Izzy started singing to our squeezing beat, “Beanie Jones, Beanie Jones, first she hollers, then she moans.”

In my head I was singing too, Bones, bones, bones, Beanie, Beanie Jones.

I plugged the kitchen sink, then filled it with water and dishwashing liquid. Izzy pulled a footstool up and, one by one, placed the shells we’d collected in the water. She put the giant horseshoe crab shell in last.

I got out a cutting board and sliced up vegetables for the green salad. I’d add the lettuce last, just before dinner.

We were silently working like this when Dr. Cone came in from the beach. “Smells delicious.” He bent over and looked through the glass door of the oven. Then he went to Izzy and kissed the back of her head.

“I’m washing the shells so we can make the center—” Izzy looked at me.

“The centerpiece.”

“The centerpiece.”

“That will be beautiful.” Dr. Cone kissed his daughter again.

“And,” Izzy whispered, “Mary Jane, tell Dad about the sand dunes.”

“Yes?” Dr. Cone looked at me. My heart was banging. Izzy turned back to her chore.

I swallowed a walnut down my throat. “Can I tell you somewhere else?”

Dr. Cone nodded. “How about we go onto the porch?”

“I’ll be right back,” I said to Izzy. “Don’t climb off the stool. Just stay here and keep cleaning. Okay?”

“Okay.” Izzy’s head was down. She appeared to be scrubbing each groove of every shell with her tiny fingernail. I knew she was fully in the task and no longer worrying about Jimmy.

Out on the porch, I took a deep breath. “Izzy and I found Jimmy with Beanie Jones behind a sand dune.”

Dr. Cone blinked several times. “Were they doing drugs?”

“No.”

“What were they doing?”

“I think they were making love.”

Dr. Cone paused for a few seconds. Then he said, “Did you tell anyone else?”

“No. I told Izzy they were wrestling, and I think she believed me. But she also knows that the naked wrestling was wrong and that Sheba will be angry.”

Dr. Cone nodded. “Let’s keep this between us for now. After Izzy goes to bed, we’ll deal with it. As a family. Me, you, Bonnie, Jimmy, Sheba.”

“Okay.” I nervously smiled. Until I’d met the Cones, I had no idea that a family would dare discuss something as volatile and embarrassingly personal as infidelity. In my own house, each day was a perfectly contained lineup of hours where nothing unusual or unsettling was ever said. In the Cone family, there was no such thing as containment. Feelings were splattered around the household with the intensity of a spraying fire hose. I was terrified of what I might witness or hear tonight. But along with that terror, my fondness for the Cones only grew. To feel something was to feel alive. And to feel alive was starting to feel like love.

Izzy squatted on the dining room table. She placed the horseshoe crab shell, back up, in the center of the table. On the spiny, hard dome, she put the tiniest seashells, one by one. Around the horseshoe crab shell, she placed the bigger seashells, alternating faceup with facedown.

“That’s so beautiful,” I said.

“It’s the centerplace.”

“The centerpiece.”

“The centerpiece.”

Jimmy came into the room. We hadn’t seen him since the dunes, though we’d seen Sheba and Mrs. Cone as they’d passed through the kitchen to go to their rooms to dress for dinner. Jimmy was wearing cutoff shorts and no shirt. The leather string with feathers dangled on his neck. It seemed to be pointing down toward his crotch. I couldn’t stop myself from seeing his penis again, the way it had bobbed up in the air. My stomach lurched. I was now certain that I was a sex addict. I would have to ask Dr. Cone to treat me. But how would I pay for the therapy? And would he be required to tell my parents?

“Jimmy!” Izzy raised her arms, the signal to be picked up.

“Izzy, baby!” Jimmy lifted her up off the table, twirled her around, and then hugged her close to his chest.

“We saw you wrestling,” Izzy whispered.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Jimmy carried Izzy toward me, and with her still in his arms he hugged me. “I’m really sorry.”

“Um.” I didn’t know what to say. Jimmy clung to me and the three of us rocked back and forth, Izzy squished between us. I could smell the sun on Jimmy’s skin, and his chest hair tickled my face. His penis popped up in my mind again, just as it had popped up in the air.

“I’m really, really sorry.” Jimmy held on tighter and kept rocking. I closed my eyes. It felt good to be wedged in there like that. I tried to push Jimmy’s penis out of my mind, but instantly discovered that willing it away put as much focus on it as not willing it away.

When Jimmy let go, he stared into my eyes.

“I told Dr. Cone but no one else,” I confessed. Tears sprang to my eyes. I was angry at Jimmy for betraying Sheba, and for making love with the married(!) Beanie Jones. But I knew he was an addict. I knew his body was like a teenager’s that he had to wrangle into control every day. Until I met Jimmy, I hadn’t understood that people you loved could do things you didn’t love. And, still, you could keep loving them.

“I know, he told me. It’s okay.” Jimmy wiped my tears with his thumb.

“Mary Jane, are you crying?” Izzy leaned out of Jimmy’s arms into mine.

I shook my head, but tears were spilling down my face. I’d cried more this summer than I had in all the years since I was Izzy’s age. And I’d never been happier.

“It’s okay, Mary Jane. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Jimmy leaned in and kissed my forehead and this made me cry a little harder. I inhaled deeply in an effort to suck it up. I didn’t want to freak Izzy out.

“Mary Jane.” Izzy kissed my face all over. “Don’t cry. I love you.”

“Everyone loves Mary Jane.” Jimmy kissed my head and then he started singing, “Mary Jane, Mary Jane!”

Izzy sang with him and I started laughing. Jimmy sang as he went to the living room. He returned, still singing, with his guitar.

As Izzy and I set the table, Jimmy sat on a chair plucking at his guitar and singing. I wished so badly that we hadn’t seen Jimmy with Beanie Jones. Or that Beanie Jones had never moved to Roland Park.

Sheba came into the dining room first. She was wearing a long batik sundress with no bra, and was barefoot. She sat right beside Jimmy, watched him for a minute, and then harmonized. They sounded magical together. What if Jimmy and Sheba broke up because of Beanie Jones? What if they never sang together again? What if Sheba went nuts again and Jimmy ran off and did drugs and overdosed? Something was going to unravel and I felt like I was the person who was holding the loose string, about to pull and watch it all fall apart.

Nothing seemed unusual during dinner. If anything, Jimmy was happier and more upbeat than most nights, and Dr. Cone was more engaged. Everyone loved the pot roast and Izzy was thrilled with her centerpiece. Each time someone passed something across the table, she stood on her chair to make sure no shell from the centerpiece was disturbed.

After dessert, Jimmy pushed back his chair and said he’d clean up. Mrs. Cone stood and said she’d help him. Like Sheba, she was wearing a long sundress, but hers wasn’t batik and looked a little pilled and old. She was barefoot too. Every time someone walked across the kitchen, I said a quick thanks that no glasses or dishes had been broken and there were no unseen shards waiting for a soft, tender foot.

I pushed my chair back and looked at Izzy. “Bath time.”

“But wait.” Izzy stood on her chair. “We need a polar bear photo of my centerplace!”

“Excellent idea.” Dr. Cone went off to find the Polaroid camera as Sheba and I took dishes to the sink. Jimmy and Mrs. Cone had already started washing.

Dr. Cone returned within minutes. Izzy sat on the table near the shells and lifted her hands in a wide V. Dr. Cone clicked a picture and the flash exploded with a brilliant white light that made me see stars for a minute.

“Now everyone with my centerplace!” Izzy said.

“Another excellent idea.” Dr. Cone leaned over Izzy and kissed her head. “BONNIE!”

I was surprised Dr. Cone had shouted the way he and Mrs. Cone did at home. The dining room was open to the kitchen. We were looking right at Mrs. Cone and Jimmy, side by side at the sink, chatting and laughing.

“WHAT?” Mrs. Cone turned and looked at her husband.

“GROUP PICTURE.”

“Oh, we have to take a group photo.” Sheba was carrying the pot roast platter into the kitchen. She came back with Jimmy and Mrs. Cone.

“I’ll do it. Long arms.” Jimmy took the camera from Dr. Cone and we all gathered around behind him, Izzy’s centerpiece somewhere behind us.

“Say sober!” Jimmy pushed the button, the flash exploded again, and stars swam before me. Jimmy pulled out the photo and lay it on the table next to the one Dr. Cone had taken.

“We’ll look at them after your bath,” I said to Izzy. I could smell the gluey odor of the fixing agent Dr. Cone was applying to the Polaroids as I picked up Izzy and carried her to our bathroom.

In the tub Izzy sang the Beanie Jones song again.

“Let’s sing the rainbow song instead.” I’d taught Izzy “The Beautiful Land”from The Roar of the Greasepaint—The Smell of the Crowd soundtrack.

We started together, “Red is the color of a lot of lollipops. . . .”

When Izzy was in her pajamas, her hair combed, her skin smelling like line-dried cotton sheets, I carried her into the dining room to look at the Polaroids. The grown-ups were in the living room. The smoky eraser smell that accompanied them at night filtered into the dining room.

Izzy stared down at the photos. “We look pretty.”

“Yeah, we do.” Disaster was looming and yet we did look beautiful. Everyone was smiling. We all seemed relaxed, like we’d just fallen into place. And each body was connected to another body, closely. An unbreakable chain of love. It was the opposite of the staged family photo my mother sent out every Christmas. In Mom’s picture, our decorated tree—put up on the first of December—was in the background. My mother and I wore dresses and shoes the same color. Always red or green, with beige stockings on our legs. My father put on the same tie each year: red with a pattern of green Christmas trees. I stood a couple of inches in front of my parents, whose bodies didn’t touch. My mother placed her right hand on my left shoulder and my father placed his left hand on my right shoulder. Usually the photo was taken by our next-door neighbor, Mr. Riley. Once, on a family trip to San Francisco, we visited the Ripley’s Believe It or Not! museum at Fisherman’s Wharf. When I saw the wax people there, I thought of our Christmas photos. I’d always thought that waxy strangers-in-an-elevator look was just because no one in my family was comfortable in front of a camera. But now I wondered if it was because no one in my family was comfortable with any other person in my family.

“I love Mom, I love Dad, I love Mary Jane, I love Sheba, I love Jimmy.” Izzy leaned off my hip and put her finger on the photo. On Jimmy’s heart.

“I love you.” I put my finger on top of Izzy’s. Then I picked up the two photos and carried them into the bedroom with Izzy. I dropped Izzy on the bed and then propped the picture of her with the horseshoe crab centerpiece against the lamp base on her bedside table. The other photo I placed on the lamp base of my bedside table. Later I’d ask Dr. Cone if I could keep it.

I was in the middle of the moment, the picture had been taken less than an hour ago, and already I felt the loss of time, the loss of this summer, the loss of this makeshift family. I supposed it was preemptive nostalgia, inoculating me for what was to come. Would Izzy forget me? Would Dr. and Mrs. Cone remind her of the summer she spent with me? Would Sheba and Jimmy remember this the way I would? Was this summer changing their lives the way it was changing mine?

Izzy fell asleep as I was reading to her. I slipped out of her bed, shut the door behind me, and followed the smoke to the living room. Though I felt tremulous about family therapy this evening, I also wanted it to happen soon, just so I could stop wondering and worrying about how Sheba might react and how Jimmy would respond to Sheba’s reaction. My heart hurt for Sheba. And it hurt for Jimmy, too, even though I knew this was his fault.

Dr. Cone clapped his hands when he saw me. “Mary Jane!”

“Hey.” I awkwardly lifted my hand and waved. I hadn’t been this nervous since the first day I’d met Sheba and Jimmy.

Dr. Cone stood. “Shall we do this in the Office?”

“Let’s do it.” Jimmy stood and stretched. His shirt lifted, revealing the downy hair on his belly.

“The beach? That Office?” I asked, though of course I knew the answer.

“Yeah, it’s really been a good place to open up, Mary Jane. The sound of the waves, the smell of the sea air—it brings you down to the basics. It reminds us that we’re alive, just another part of the physical world.”

“Baby!” Sheba hugged me. “Is this your first time in therapy?”

“Uh. Yeah.” I hadn’t really thought of it in those terms. That I was going to be in therapy.

“I’m bringing some wine.” Mrs. Cone held a bottle against her chest like a baby.

“What about Izzy?” I asked.

“She’s too young for this.” Dr. Cone shook his head. “But soon.”

“No, I mean, what about leaving her alone in the house? What if she wakes up and no one’s here?”

“Has she ever woken up since we’ve been here?” Mrs. Cone lifted the bottle and took a sip.

“No, but what if she does? Won’t she be scared to find no one home?”

“We’ll leave the doors to the beach open so she knows where to go.” Dr. Cone waved his arm as if to indicate the flow of air, the flow of Izzy.

“Mary Jane, Mary Jane!” Jimmy sang, and he walked out the door. Mrs. Cone followed him, the bottle of wine dangling from one hand.

Dr. Cone opened the door to the screened porch and pushed a wicker chair against it so it would stay open. Then he opened the screen door to the beach, and put another wicker chair there. “That should work.” He nodded to the side, meaning I should go out.

“Okay. But wait.” I wasn’t sure if I was really this nervous about leaving Izzy alone or if I was avoiding the pending family therapy. “Are there any animals that might enter the house and attack Izzy?”

“Mary Jane.” Sheba spoke firmly. “Take my hand. You’re coming with me.”

“Izzy will be fine.” Dr. Cone smiled at me. “No beach animals will enter the house and attack her. But I do appreciate your concern. You’ll make an excellent mother one day.”

Sheba pulled me out of the house. The moon was up and stars were scattered across the sky like spilled milk. It was light enough to see our bare feet as we walked through the dunes to the spot where Jimmy and Mrs. Cone waited. They were on the sheet, lying on their sides, facing each other. The bottle of wine leaned against Mrs. Cone’s breasts.

I sat cross-legged at Mrs. Cone’s feet. Jimmy sat up and crossed his legs and then Mrs. Cone sat up and tucked her legs behind her. Sheba hiked up her dress all the way to her pink underpants and then sat cross-legged next to Jimmy. Mrs. Cone swiveled around and pulled up her dress so that she, too, was sitting cross-legged. Dr. Cone sat between Sheba and Mrs. Cone.

Mrs. Cone took another sip from the bottle. Dr. Cone shot her a quick look. Usually the drinking of wine was more discreet.

“Mary Jane.” Dr. Cone looked at me. The whites of his eyes glinted. “This is a place where everyone is honest and open. There’s nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of. We share our feelings, and we don’t judge each other. We accept each other and we accept ourselves.”

I nodded at Dr. Cone, feeling even more nervous. Did I have to announce what Izzy and I had seen on the dunes?

“It’s all very frank,” Sheba said. “But you’re smart enough and grown-up enough to handle adult conversation, and to listen without freaking out about issues around sexuality, and childhood traumas we’re all still dealing with, our current relationships and all the complications there, of course.”

“Okay.” I nodded at Sheba now. Did I have to speak? The idea of talking about any of those things, especially sexuality—in light of the fact that I was a sex addict—was as terrifying a thing as I had ever imagined.

Dr. Cone said, “Let’s start by going around the circle and just checking in. Saying how we each feel. Where we are emotionally right now.”

“I’m feeling a little drunk.” Mrs. Cone tilted up the bottle and slugged down the last drops. “And maybe I smoked too much pot?”

“In light of Jimmy’s struggles, maybe we could all cool it on the weed, whites, and wine.” Dr. Cone looked directly at Mrs. Cone as he said this.

Sheba started singing, “And if you give meeeeee weed, whites, and . . .”

I had only recently learned that weed was the same thing as Mary Jane, but I had no idea what whites were. Probably something else Mrs. Cone smoked or drank.

“I’m feeling a little anxious.” Jimmy looked right at Dr. Cone. “Today was a bit of a fuckup, and I’m not feeling good about it. But I think my emotions have been pent up inside me, and instead of talking it through, I let my urges burst out in inappropriate ways. So. Uh. Yeah. I’m anxious.” Jimmy pulled a joint from one back pocket and a lighter from the other. He lit the joint, took a hit, then passed it to Sheba.

Sheba took a hit. Smoke puffed out of her mouth when she said, “I’m feeling incredible love for Jimmy. And pride, too. I mean, he’s working so hard. And I feel grateful for all of you. For this beautiful family.” Sheba and Jimmy stared at each other. They were both smiling with their mouths closed. Sheba then passed the joint to Mrs. Cone.

“Mary Jane?” Dr. Cone said.

“Uh, um.” I felt like I might throw up. Would Sheba still love Jimmy once she knew about his lovemaking in the dunes with Beanie Jones? Would the Cones fire me if they knew that I was a sex addict? “I feel very worried and nervous.”

“Why?” Sheba asked.

“Uh.” I looked from Jimmy to Dr. Cone, to Jimmy again.

“It’s cool,” Jimmy said. “You can say anything.”

Dr. Cone said, “Why don’t we let the others speak first since this is Mary Jane’s first time in therapy?”

“Okay, I’ll talk,” Sheba said. “I guess I’m a little anxious too. Jimmy and I have been incognito for weeks now and I’m finding that rather than feeling liberated by it, I sort of miss the reaction people have to me. I mean, I thought I hated it. I don’t understand why, but I miss waiters falling all over themselves and giving me the best table and I miss girls crying when they see me and I miss the gay men who tell me I’ve saved their lives.”

I wanted to ask Sheba how she’d saved gay men’s lives, but I knew it was not the right time.

“You miss your celebrity,” Dr. Cone said.

“Yeah. Isn’t that weird? I complained about it all the time. But I wonder if I’m sort of addicted to that high of being the person in the room everyone wants to look at or know.”

We all were looking at Sheba. She was so beautiful that even if she wasn’t a star, I would want to stare at her in a room. I’d want to know her too.

Dr. Cone said, “Let’s explore this further. What do you think you gain from being seen? Is it emotional? Is there a childhood interaction that is being recapitulated, or an unfufilled need that is being filled through the act of being seen?”

“Oh, Richard.” Sheba shook her head. She pulled on the tips of her bare toes. “You know my mother showed me no love. And she shamed me for my sexuality.”

“Your mom’s a bitch.” Jimmy spoke through nearly closed lips that allowed a thin sheet of smoke to slip out.

“She was. She shamed me for the very things that the public adores about me: my hair, my tits, my ass, my legs. Even my pussy . . .”

I swallowed hard. I’d never heard anyone use that word, but I did know what it meant. I tried to let my brain move past the idea that Sheba was discussing this part of her body; I tried to be the adult Sheba expected of me.

“You’ve been nominated for an Academy Award,” Dr. Cone said. “You’re always asked to sing on talk shows. I think it’s factual that you are also adored for your many talents.”

“But, Richard, no one on this Earth would pay five cents to see my talents if I didn’t look the way I do.” Sheba threw her hair forward.

“Do you feel any gratification when you’re rewarded for your talents, or do you only feel gratified when you’re rewarded for your physical attributes?”

“When I was in Playboy, I got more recognition, more adoration, more praise than I did for anything else I’ve ever done. And you know what?”

“What?” Mrs. Cone asked, too loudly, and then she hiccuped.

Sheba and Dr. Cone both looked at her like she’d just shouted during a silent prayer in church.

Sheba turned her head back to Dr. Cone as if he had asked the question. “It made me feel good. It made me feel like I mattered. Playboy filled the hole my mother carved out of me when she told me I was a whore and a slut and that I’d never be as good as my brothers.”

“Like I said,” Jimmy grumbled, “lady’s a bitch.”

“So you’re defying your mother, in a sense.” Dr. Cone was nodding. He paused for a moment and then said, “Does this defiance feed you spiritually?”

Sheba thought about this, and I thought about it too. Wearing the crochet bikini Sheba bought me did seem like it filled some spiritual need. When I wore it, it was like I was transforming into the freer, less afraid person I wanted to be. But could I really compare my semi-nudeness in a bathing suit on a private beach to Sheba’s total nudeness in a magazine that just about every man in the world looked at?

“It might. Allowing myself to flaunt what my mother wanted me to hide makes me feel like I exist on my own terms,” Sheba said, and I understood her completely.

“Let’s look at it from another angle,” Dr. Cone said. “Is there anything that’s worth doing without an audience? Is there any part of you that doesn’t need to be seen?”

“When Jimmy and I make love, I feel whole. Complete. Like everything that’s missing in me is filled.” Sheba reached her arm out to Jimmy and they held hands. He leaned in and whispered something to her. Mrs. Cone sighed so loudly, I wondered if she wanted to interrupt them. Dr. Cone looked entirely calm, like he had no problem waiting for the two of them to finish whatever it was they were whispering, lip to lip.

I heard Jimmy say, “Baby, I just love you so much.”

My stomach rumbled again. Sheba had just admitted that her most complete moments in life were when she was making love to Jimmy. And mere hours ago, Jimmy was doing exactly that with Beanie Jones.

When they finally stopped whispering, Sheba said, “I think I need to meditate on how I can feel complete and whole without continuous feedback from exterior sources, including Jimmy. Like, I need to totally chill out and sit with myself, just see what it means to be me without the world telling me who I am, or who I’m not, or who I am to them.”

“You have given yourself excellent advice,” Dr. Cone said. I thought it was neat that he didn’t feel like he had to be the one to come up with the advice. And then I wondered if I should see what it felt like to sit with myself without taking into account feedback from exterior sources, even though I usually felt comfortably and quietly invisible, except to my mother, who gave me continuous feedback. Maybe part of my joy in being at the Cones was the joy of not getting feedback from my mother. I wanted to think about this more, but then Jimmy started talking and I didn’t want to miss anything he had to stay.

“But wait. I mean, fuck, man, if Sheba’s not the superstar sucking up all the attention, then everyone’s gonna look more closely at me.” He knocked his thumb against his chest when he said me.

“So you prefer to be in the background?” Dr. Cone asked. Were all psychiatrists like this? It seemed like Dr. Cone offered very little. Though maybe his questions were designed to help people come to conclusions on their own.

“Fuck yeah. I was never after fame. All I’ve ever wanted was to make enough money to buy guitar strings and eat. I hate celebrity. If I could do what I do anonymously, I sure as fuck would. I just want to play my damn guitar and sing. I don’t want strangers talking to me or trying to touch me, or even telling me how much they love my music. And I sure as hell don’t give a shit what they think about how I look. In fact, I’d prefer they didn’t look at me at all.”

“Does Sheba’s missing celebrity feel threatening to you?” Dr. Cone tapped his fingertips together, his two hands making the shape of a tent.

“Yeah, it feels threatening. Doc, you more than anyone understand that half the reason I love shooting junk is to get away from feeling like a show pony. I do it to get away from the screaming masses and the greedy fucking producers. When I’m high, celebrity doesn’t exist. It’s just me. Me and my music, numbing out on a level that doesn’t take into account the world and what everyone else wants or needs. When I’ve used, I can hear my thoughts. I can feel my heartbeat. I’m content in just sitting with myself. There’s no self-consciousness. None! It’s fucking soulful, man.”

“No!” Sheba said.

“Jimmy,” Dr. Cone said. “Your soul was there before the drugs. Your soul has peeked out since you’ve been sober, has it not?”

“But junk is a direct line to my soul.” Jimmy thumped his heart with his thumb again.

“That’s not your fucking soul, Jimmy!” Sheba sat up straighter. “That’s fake soul. That’s powder soul. That’s no more soulful than Captain and Tennille singing at that damn piano! It’s an illusion!”

“Celebrity’s a fucking illusion, Sheba! We’re all just humans: we’re born, we eat, we shit, we fuck, and then we die. The fact that random strangers think you and I are better than them is the biggest illusion of all!”

“That’s not true,” Sheba said. “You have more talent than others. You are better than them.”

“I might be better at playing guitar,” Jimmy said. “But there are millions of things that other people are better at. Shit, Mary Jane’s a better cook than everyone here, and she fucking sings better than most people in the studio.”

Goose bumps covered my skin like a sheet that had just been thrown over me. Did Jimmy really think I sang better than some people in recording studios?

Mrs. Cone was vigorously nodding. Then she said, “If Sheba loves celebrity and you hate it, isn’t that hard on your marriage?”

“No,” Sheba and Jimmy said at once.

Sheba said, “If we both wanted it, we’d be competing.”

“Like I said, she guards me from it.” Jimmy leaned over and rubbed Sheba’s leg. “She’s my smack.”

“I’d love to be a star,” Mrs. Cone said. “I mean, come on. It’s like being the most popular person in school but school is the world.” Mrs. Cone hiccuped again. “If I were Sheba, I would pose in Playboy too. Hell, I’d pose in Oui.”

We all looked at Mrs. Cone curiously. Dr. Cone said, “Is being seen like that something you feel you need, Bonnie?”

Mrs. Cone kept talking as if he hadn’t asked a question. “Who wouldn’t be addicted to stardom? I mean, c’mon. Seriously.”

“Well, we’re all addicts of some sort,” Sheba said. “Part of being alive is figuring out the balance between what you want, what you need, and what you have with what you don’t want, don’t need, and don’t have. I mean, Jimmy, man, you are so not alone here. This whole family, each of us, we’re all addicts in one way or another.”

“I’ve grown addicted to pot since you two moved in,” Mrs. Cone said.

“You’re not addicted to pot.” Sheba said it in a way that made it feel irrefutable. “But I am addicted to fame.” I wondered, if Mrs. Cone or Sheba had a sex addiction like me, would they openly admit it? Then again, Sheba did talk about sex with Jimmy, so maybe she would.

Jimmy said, “Richard’s addicted to work. Shit, Richard, you’ve now spent more hours talking to me than my mother has over my entire life.”

Dr. Cone said, “I may be addicted to work, but you’re in high need now, and I want to see you through to the successful end. I want us all to finish this summer successfully.”

“High need!” Sheba laughed, and held up the joint.

“Mary Jane’s already a success,” Jimmy said. “She’s perfect as she is.”

“Is that how you feel, Mary Jane?” Dr. Cone asked, and everyone turned their heads toward me.

“Well.” I took a deep breath. It felt like my lungs were crated in a metal box that wouldn’t let them expand properly. “I think I have problems too.”

“You do?!” Mrs. Cone laughed. “I can’t imagine one thing that’s out of whack for you. Except maybe your parents.”

“You’re safe here, Mary Jane. We’re here to listen. There’s no judgment.” Dr. Cone ran his fingers down his goaty sideburns, like he was combing them.

“Um . . .” My heart was beating so hard, I thought I might pass out. But if there ever was a chance for me to be cured of my problem, this seemed like the best place.

“Oh, Mary Jane. Nothing you say could shock us or make us love you any less.” Sheba crawled over Jimmy so that she was beside me. She picked up my hand and held it between her two hands. “You can say it.”

I took a deep breath and then blurted it out before I could think it through any longer. “I think I might be a sex addict.”

There was silence. Sheba put her head closer to mine and stared into my eyes, blinking. I looked toward Dr. Cone. His eyebrows were drawn together. I’d never seen him look so serious.

“Have you been having reckless and indiscriminate sex?” Dr. Cone asked.

“No!” I was surprised he would imagine I had. “I’ve never had sex.”

“Have you been fooling around with someone?” Mrs. Cone stared at Jimmy as she asked this, as if she expected me to be fooling around with him.

“No! No. I’ve never even kissed a boy.”

Dr. Cone said, “Are you looking at pornographic magazines?”

“No, of course not. I’m taking care of Izzy all day.”

“Compulsively masturbating?” Dr. Cone asked, and my face burned hard and deep.

“No, I’ve never done that. But I think about sex all the time. Or at the wrong time. Like, I see penises when I’m making dinner. Or, if I’m grocery shopping, I can’t get the word sex out of my brainor maybe I’ll think sex addict sex addict sex addict just because I’m thinking about sex. Or I’ll see something that is totally not related to sex and it will remind me of sex.” I felt a rush of lightness after having poured all this out. It was like my head was filled with helium.

“Like a zucchini?” Sheba asked.

I paused. “Well, I never thought of that. But I will now. That’s what I mean. From today on, I’ll think of sex, or a penis, I guess, every time I look at a zucchini.” I searched their faces in the shadowy moonlight to see if they were repulsed by me. Or disappointed in me. But everyone was smiling.

“Oh, sweetie.” Sheba put her arms around me and pulled me against her. She kissed my head like I was Izzy. “You’re fine. Those are just normal human girl thoughts.”

“Are they?” I couldn’t imagine my mother ever thinking of penises while shopping for zucchinis. And the twins probably wouldn’t even think of penises if they were standing in a boys’ locker room with abundant visible penises. Would girls who wanted to be president ever think about sex?

“Those thoughts are fully within the range of normal,” Dr. Cone said. “And if you were masturbating or looking at pornography, that would still be normal, as long as it wasn’t to the exclusion of your daily needs and responsibilities.”

“Dr. Cone, are you sure about this?” At the beginning of the summer I would have thought this conversation would be impossible. I’d thought I was going to die an old woman with my secret sex addiction. But now, what surprised me more than the conversation itself, was the enormous unburdening I felt. It was like a great wind was suddenly blowing through my hollowed-out body.

“I am certain. You aren’t even verging on an addiction.”

“Mary Jane! Baby!” Jimmy leaned forward toward me. “I’m the one who’s fucking half addicted to sex. You saw what happened! It’s not you, baby.”

“You’re SO fine!” Sheba hugged me. Then she pulled away from me and said, “What did she see? What are you talking about?”

Dr. Cone said, “Jimmy, maybe you should save Mary Jane the discomfort of having to say what happened.”

“WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?” Sheba stared hard at Jimmy.

Mrs. Cone leaned forward. “What? Wait? What happened? Richard, do you know what happened?”

“Let’s let Jimmy talk. And please, everyone, try to reserve judgment and keep your emotions in check until he’s had his say.” Dr. Cone looked at Sheba as he said this.

“I was walking down the beach today,” Jimmy said. “And I ran into that Beanie woman—”

“No!” Sheba said. “That blond-bob housewife can’t stay the fuck away from us!”

“I didn’t know how to say no.” Jimmy sounded pained by this. Like saying no caused him physical distress. “I didn’t know how to stop it. I really didn’t want to do it, but I also didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and my dick wanted it, for sure, and then Mary Jane and Izzy saw us—”

“YOU MADE LOVE TO BEANIE JONES!” Mrs. Cone stood. She had the wine bottle in her hand and for a second I thought she was going to hit Jimmy with it. I was surprised she wasn’t upset about Izzy having seen Jimmy on top of Beanie Jones.

Sheba said, “What the fuck, Jimmy?!”

“I’m sorry.” Jimmy shook his head, like even he was sick of himself.

“How could you do that to us?! Beanie Jones??” Mrs. Cone shouted.

Everyone was silent. Dr. Cone stared at Mrs. Cone. Sheba stared at Mrs. Cone too. Jimmy looked nervous, or confused; his eyes roamed from his wife to Mrs. Cone, back and forth.

Mrs. Cone looked like she was trying not to cry. “It’s just, I mean, Beanie Jones?! COME ON! Beanie Jones?!” And then, in a quick semi-collapse, she sat back down. The bottle remained in her hand.

Sheba turned away from Mrs. Cone like she’d had enough of her. “Seriously, Jimmy. Beanie fucking Jones? What the fuck? Every fucking housewife in the neighborhood is going to be lined up at the door to fuck you now.”

In my head I saw all the mothers from Roland Park holding cakes and cookies, lined up at the Cones’ front door, waiting to make love to Jimmy. Would Mrs. Cone get in line too? Seemed like she’d want to be first.

I thought about how my body felt electric when Jimmy locked his eyes onto mine. His furry chest was warm against my cheek when he hugged me. I’d seen his penis and despite my best attempts, I couldn’t get that image out of my head. But when I stopped and asked myself if I wanted to kiss Jimmy, the answer was no. He was handsome, and he had sexiness pulsating out of him like sound waves. But he was . . . well. He was old.

Jimmy was stuttering, blubbering, “. . . I couldn’t find my way out of it—the words wouldn’t come to me. And once it started, I didn’t know how to stop it.”

Dr. Cone said, “Jimmy, it’s your body. You’re in charge of it. You can choose not to make love to every beautiful woman who offers herself to you.”

“You think Beanie Jones is beautiful?!” Mrs. Cone said. She seemed more upset than Sheba. I had expected Sheba to run into the house and start throwing dishes, Jimmy-style. Her husband had had sex with another woman! But Sheba seemed relatively calm.

“Bonnie, please.” Dr. Cone lifted his hands and dropped them, palms down, as if he were dribbling two basketballs.

“We agreed, no fooling around while you’re getting sober,” Sheba said. I thought about this. Was Jimmy allowed to fool around with other women when he wasn’t getting sober?

“And no fooling around with gossipy social climbers like Beanie Jones!” Mrs. Cone said.

“Bonnie!” Sheba said. “He is my husband. He has an open marriage with me, not you! I agree with you about Beanie Fuckface Jones, but I don’t understand what your fucking stake is in this. Are you two making love? Have you been sleeping with my husband?”

The words open marriage echoed in my head. What exactly did that mean? Did Sheba have sex with other people? Did they discuss it beforehand? Did they report to each other what had happened afterward? I could barely admit my sex addiction in group therapy and Sheba had just blurted out “open marriage” as if it were no big deal!

“Of course Bonnie and I aren’t making love! That’s fucking absurd!” Jimmy said, and Mrs. Cone’s eyes flashed like she’d been slapped.

“Bonnie?” Dr. Cone looked at his wife. “What is your stake in this?”

Mrs. Cone dropped her head for a second, like she needed to gather air or courage or maybe just the strength to lift her head. When she finally did, she said, “It’s just, God, I don’t know. Jimmy and Sheba are ours, they belong to us! And . . . and . . . I don’t know, I sort of feel like Jimmy betrayed us, too.”

“You need to detach,” Dr. Cone said. “It’s not your marriage.”

“And you need to not fuck Beanie Fuckface Jones,” Sheba said to Jimmy.

“I don’t want to be with anyone but you, baby.” Jimmy stared at Sheba. “I don’t even want to have an open marriage. I only agreed because you wanted it.” The idea that Sheba had pushed for the open marriage more than Jimmy knocked around in my brain. I’d always thought men wanted sex more than women. But maybe that was as wrong as the ideas that Jewish people were untrustworthy or Black people should “know their place.”

“Oh, baby, I love you so much!” Sheba was tearing up. And then she and Jimmy leaned in toward each other and started kissing. With tongues. Dr. Cone, Mrs. Cone, and I all watched.

Dr. Cone caught my eye and he said, “Mary Jane, are you okay with everything that’s come out here tonight? Do you have any questions about any of this?”

“Um . . .” I did, but I wasn’t sure I should ask.

Dr. Cone nodded at me, and then he stared at Jimmy and Sheba until they stopped kissing and looked at me too.

“So. Uh. Does Beanie Jones have an open marriage too?” Was the world full of people whose lives were entirely different than what I had imagined?

“Nah.” Jimmy shook his head.

“It’s just ’cause it’s Jimmy.” Mrs. Cone appeared to be talking to the sand. “Women will do anything for the chance to make love to Jimmy.”

“Bonnie!” Sheba said. “What the fuck? Are you in love with my husband?!”

Mrs. Cone pulled up her head and stared at Sheba. “What did you say?” It seemed like she was stalling for time.

“Are you in love with my husband?” Sheba said each word precisely, like she had to put air around the syllables and give them space.

“Well, who isn’t, Sheba?” Mrs. Cone looked around vaguely, somehow not making eye contact with any of us, and then said, “I mean, I’m not saying I’d fool around with him. But I want your life. I want to spend a month at Cap-Eden-Roc in southern France! I want to go to Muscle Shoals and make a record and drink whiskey in the studio until six in the morning! I want to hang out with Lowell George and Linda Ronstadt and Graham Nash! I want to spend ten thousand dollars on clothes and carry an alligator handbag picked up at the Marché aux Puces in Paris and eat in all the best restaurants . . . and I want—I want—”

“What the fuck do you want, Bonnie?” Sheba’s voice had an sharp, impatient edge.

Mrs. Cone said, “I want to be in a marriage where we want to kiss each other like you two just did. I want to be with someone who’s so passionate he’s bordering on insane. I want to be with someone who will call me baby and cry for me and look at me the way Jimmy looks at you. I don’t want to be a doctor’s wife living in Baltimore. I . . . I just want more than this.” Mrs. Cone dropped her head and started crying.

None of us spoke. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Dr. Cone. Finally he said, “Are you saying you don’t want to be married to me?”

“I think I drank too much.” Mrs. Cone stood, turned, and then started vomiting in the sand. Dr. Cone rushed to her. He held her thick red hair back with one hand and put his other hand on her shoulder so she didn’t nose-dive as she barfed.

Sheba took my hand and pulled me to standing. Jimmy stood too and the three of us quietly walked away.

I followed Jimmy and Sheba into the kitchen. Jimmy turned on the tap, leaned over it, and took a few dog laps. Sheba sat at the table. She looked at me and patted the chair beside hers.

“Do we have any Zonkers?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah, in the cupboard,” I said. “I’ll get them.”

“I got ’em.” Jimmy opened the cupboard, and I sat on the chair beside Sheba.

Jimmy brought the Zonkers to the table and sat across from me and Sheba. After he took a handful from the box, he passed it to me. I took a huge handful, the size of a throwing snowball. Sheba reached into the box and did the same.

“Shit.” Jimmy reached for the box. He took another handful.

“I know.” Sheba took the box back from him. She dumped a pile of Zonkers out on the table.

“I mean what the fuck?” Jimmy grabbed the box again.

“What the fuck is right. Poor Richard.”

“Do you think Mrs. Cone is going to leave Dr. Cone?” I took the box from Jimmy and poured out more Zonkers into Sheba’s pile.

“Who knows, man?” Jimmy reached across the table and pulled the box closer to him. “But even if they don’t break up, he’s gonna be hurtin’ over that little one-act show.”

“Can’t un-ring that bell.” Sheba picked up a nutty chunk from the pile and popped it in her mouth.

“Can’t put that toothpaste back in the tube.” Jimmy shook the box, letting the last crumbled bits gather in the corner so he could pull them all out in one handful.

“Where do you want to go to college?” Sheba asked me, as if we’d been talking about school and not the Cones’ imploding marriage.

“I’ve been trying to get my parents to take me to New York City, but they don’t like New York. So I kinda thought the only way I’d ever see it was if I went to college there.”

“I didn’t even finish high school,” Jimmy said. “I’m not made for school.”

“You’re still the smartest man I know,” Sheba said. She looked at me. “He reads constantly, if you haven’t noticed. History, biographies, fiction.”

I had noticed. “Did you go to college?”

“I went to UCLA—I had to stay in Los Angeles because we were shooting the show there. But I didn’t have a normal college experience. People stared at me and followed me around campus. And I didn’t trust that anyone really wanted to be my friend. Even the professors wrote notes like Let’s meet in my office and discuss this. I always thought that most people just wanted to spend time with the famous girl.”

“Kinda like Bonnie,” Jimmy said. Sheba and I both looked at him.

“It seems like Mrs. Cone really does like you, though,” I said.

“No, I’m sure she likes me. And I like her, too. But it’s hard to have a balanced friendship when one person wants everything the other person has.” Sheba poked her nail through the pile of Zonkers, searching for the best bits, I guessed.

Jimmy got up, kissed Sheba on the lips, and then kissed the top of my head. He left the room and came back a few seconds later with his guitar.

“How about this?” Jimmy started plucking a song I didn’t know. I knew all his songs by then, so it must have been from someone else’s album. Sheba sang along, and by the time they started through it a second time, I knew the words and was harmonizing: “And I’m wasted and I can’t find my way home.”

“I like that song,” I said when we finished. “Did you write it?”

“Hell no,” Jimmy said. “Stevie Winwood wrote it.”

“We gotta take you record shopping,” Sheba said. She got up, went to the cupboard, and pulled out a new box of Zonkers.

Jimmy started a new song. Before each line, he said the words aloud so I would know what to sing. Sheba stayed on melody and Jimmy took the harmony with me. I could feel our voices vibrating in the air, perfectly balanced like a mathematical equation.

Dr. and Mrs. Cone didn’t come in through the beach door, but I did hear the front door open and close. This was late, after the second box of Zonkers was gone. Sheba and Jimmy and I sang through the night—sometimes the same song three or four times just so I could learn it right. Around four in the morning, Jimmy put the guitar down and we went to bed.

Izzy woke up before seven, as usual. “Birds in a nest?” she asked.

“Just come snuggle with me for a minute.” My eyes felt like they’d been cemented closed.

She crawled into my bed and I wrapped my body around hers like we were side-stacked seashells.

“Can we read a book?”

“You look at a book and I’ll sleep for twenty more minutes. And then we’ll get up and I’ll make you birds in a nest.”

“Okay.” Izzy didn’t move to get a book. She just lay there, as still and warm as a curled-up kitten. I thought of Dr. and Mrs. Cone with pangs of guilt for not having worried more about them last night. I wanted all to be right and safe in their marriage so that Izzy could grow up in that wonderful house with both of her parents coming in and out. I vowed to do the best job I could taking care of Izzy, to make sure she always felt loved and safe and secure.

“Is twenty minutes up?”

“No. Two minutes are up.”

“How long is twenty minutes?”

“Twelve hundred seconds. Count to twelve hundred. Minus the hundred and twenty seconds that already passed.” I knew I could fall back asleep if I had only a moment of silence.

“What’s twelve hundred seconds minus a hundred and twenty seconds?”

“Um . . . one thousand . . . um . . . one thousand eighty seconds. Count to one thousand and eighty.”

“OK. One. Two. Three . . .”

Izzy made it to eighty-five and then rotated in my arms so we were face-to-face. I could feel her warm breath on my nose. I could feel her eyes bearing down on me. She was being so good—saying nothing, barely moving, breathing deeply and quietly. I opened my eyes and stared right back at her. We looked at each other for the longest time, neither of us speaking.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll get up now.”

Izzy leaned in and kissed my nose. And then she tumbled out of bed, half falling, half cartwheeling, pulling off her nightgown and talking all at once.

It was a long, lazy day. Dr. and Mrs. Cone stayed tucked away in their room. Izzy didn’t seem to notice their absence and Sheba and Jimmy didn’t seem to mind. By early afternoon, Jimmy put down his book and napped in a chair on the beach. Sheba lay on her back, put on her oversize sunglasses, and sunbathed. Maybe she was sleeping too. I couldn’t see her eyes.

Izzy and I worked on sculpting a giant sunbathing couple out of the sand. Izzy heaped mounds of sand for the woman’s breasts. I thought about making a penis for the man, then decided to make a Ken-doll lump instead. After last night, I felt confident that my initial urge to sculpt male genitalia didn’t make me a sex addict.

“That’s a funny penis,” Izzy said.

“It’s just a mound. We’re going to cover it with a bathing suit.”

We each took a bucket and walked along the beach collecting driftwood and shells for bathing suits. For hair we collected sea grass.

We were silently working on the seashell bathing suits when Dr. and Mrs. Cone approached, each carrying a chair. Mrs. Cone wore a giant hat and sunglasses. Her lips were orange and waxy. Her bikini covered so little, I wondered why she was wearing it at all.

“Look what we’re making!” Izzy said, and they both put down their chairs and came to examine the people.

“Beautiful!” Dr. Cone kissed Izzy’s head. She was sweating and her hair gleamed like a new penny.

“Amazing.” Mrs. Cone bent over Izzy and kissed her head too. “Everything okay?” She looked at me.

“Yeah. Everything’s good.”

“We had birds in a nest for breakfast and Jimmy made West Virginia steak for lunch!”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Mrs. Cone looked at me.

“Skinny, skinny, skinny meat.” Izzy went back to placing shells.

“Fried bologna. He said it’s what he ate for lunch when he was a kid.”

Mrs. Cone looked over at Jimmy and Sheba, who had barely moved. She turned back to me. “I’m sorry about what I might have said last night.”

I couldn’t tell if she was apologizing to me or just expressing regret. “It’s okay,” I said quickly.

Dr. Cone settled in his chair and opened his book.

Mrs. Cone forced a smile at me. She rubbed Izzy’s sweaty head and then went to her chair beside Dr. Cone’s.

Jimmy and Sheba woke up a few minutes later. I could hear Mrs. Cone apologizing to them, too. She claimed she was drunk and didn’t even remember what she had said, but that Dr. Cone had told her and “Boy, was it a doozy.”

“I’ve done way worse,” Jimmy said. But I thought he’d probably never said worse. Jimmy seemed to take good care of the feelings of everyone around him. He was always trying to make Sheba happy first, and the rest of us happy next.

If you’d been watching a film of us that last day, or over dinner that night, or even the next morning as we packed up the car, it wouldn’t have seemed that anything had changed. But something had. I felt like an invisible vibrating net had separated us into three alliances. The first was Jimmy, Sheba, Izzy, and me. The next was Dr. Cone, who had always remained outside everything anyway, as if someone had to be the real adult, the one in charge of keeping things aligned. And the third was Mrs. Cone. Mrs. Cone seemed slightly adrift and abandoned. She and Sheba chatted as usual, but their chumminess felt a little more stiff and guarded. Sheba wasn’t letting her in anymore. I knew she’d never again mention hotels in Antibes or handbags purchased at the flea market in Paris.