"Maybe he w
as just socially immature," Jade interjected. "You said he was shy."
"It wasn't that, either," I replied quickly. "He never got to be a little boy like Rodney was and have fun like this. He was having a, what did you call it again?" I asked Doctor Marlowe. "Vicarry. . .vi . . ."
"A vicarious experience," Doctor Marlowe said. "Yeah, that. He was doing stuff through Rodney, being the little boy he wished he was."
"It amazes me how everyone's a psychoanalyst nowadays," Jade said smugly.
"Oh, and I suppose you don't do that?" Misty attacked. "You don't analyze everything?"
"He was probably just shy," Jade insisted. "Oh, what difference does it make what he was?"
"No difference to you, but a lot to her," Misty offered. Jade glanced at me and realized that might be so. Her expression changed.
"He ignored you the whole time?" she asked in a softer voice. "Some first date that turned out to be, I suppose. Boys can be so aggravating:'
"I didn't say he ignored me. He was into doing things with Rodney more, that's all. I admit I was jealous and wished he paid more attention to me, but I saw how much fun Rodney was having and he hadn't had much fun in his life till then, so I wasn't about to complain.
"Afterward, Rodney sat on the beach and played in the sand while Steve and I took off our shoes and let the water run over our feet.
"'Thanks for what you done for my brother today,' I told him.
"He nodded and looked out over the ocean and said he'd never been to the pier before. I was surprised to hear that.
"'Me and my father never really went anywhere together, anywhere that was fun for me, that is. I've been to his friends' houses with him and such, but he never took me anywhere that was fun for me.'
"He said he could barely remember the places he went with his momma.
"Then he looked back at Rodney and said, 'I know what it's like for him growing up with a drunk for a parent.'
"'Your daddy still drinks a lot?' I asked. I knew how hard it was to answer that question when someone put it to you, but I thought how could his father still drink after what had happened. Steve laughed.
"'Still drinks a lot? You remember when you told me how as a little girl you thought the smell of whiskey on your momma was just her perfume?'
" 'Yes; I said.
"'Well, I grew up thinking whiskey came out of the kitchen faucet. I still wonder if it does,' he said. 'What difference does- it make?' he added quickly. 'He'll die soon and put himself out of his misery.'
"'You hate him?' I asked
Of course, when he had told me about his mother and the accident, I just imagined he would blame his father forever.
But when he looked at me, those eyes were a mixture of hard, cold anger and some sorrow, too.
" don't care about him enough to hate him,' he said. " don't even think about him much if I can help it.' "'But you live in the same house with him,' I said.
'You see each other every day, don't you?'
"'We're more like two people renting some rooms together. I'm usually out of there before he gets up to go to work and I have my supper before he gets home most of the time.'
"'You cook for yourself?'
"'Yeah. The cook quit,' he said. He was quiet for a moment and then he added, 'He eats my food, too, when he wants to eat at home.'
" 'I'm impressed,' I said.
"He laughed. He had a nice laugh when he allowed it. It was like it was shut up in his heart and he opened the door just a little and let happiness breathe. Sadness can be more like a disease. It makes you sick anyway:'