David Handler - The Blood Red Indian Summer

They followed him inside, gazing around as he flicked on the lights.

“Man oh Manischewitz, this place is straight out of an American history book,” Chet exclaimed. “Did George Washington sleep here?”

“Actually, he slept on Sour Cherry Lane before he crossed the Connecticut River. It was a ferry landing in those days.”

“No closets, Ruthie. He wasn’t kidding.”

“Of course he wasn’t kidding.”

Mitch got his first good look at his parents now-and their appearance alarmed him. They weren’t ancient. His dad was sixty-four, his mom a year younger. Yet both of them had… shrunk. His dad had always proclaimed himself to be six feet tall on the button. Yet Mitch towered over him, even barefoot. Chet had always been stocky, too. But he’d been on such a strict diet to bring down his cholesterol and blood pressure numbers that he actually looked gaunt. He wore his salmon-colored Florida slacks way up near his armpits. The lines in his face were deeper. His salt-and-pepper hair was more salt than pepper. He was still his same old peppy self. Mister Go-Go-Go. But he came off less like Chet Berger and more like Jiminy Cricket.

Was it he who had the grapefruit-sized tumor?

Or was it his mom-who had turned into one of those stooped little white-haired ladies that Mitch always offered his seat to on the subway. Ruth wore a pair of reading glasses on a chain around her neck. Once a librarian always a librarian. She had on a floral-patterned blouse, pink slacks and a pair of those bone-colored walking shoes that are the official footwear of AARP members who reside in the Sunshine State. Mitch’s mom was a shy, sensitive woman. But very direct. She said what she meant-just did so in a much quieter voice than his dad. Then again, Bobcat Goldwaith was quieter than his dad.

Was it she who had the grapefruit-sized tumor?

“You’re looking well, sweetheart. And I’m glad you let your eyebrows grow back. You reminded me of-”

“Joan Crawford, I know.”

“I was going to say Robert Taylor.”

“Wow, there’s a name you never hear anymore. He was such a huge star in his day. Yet he’s totally vanished into the celluloid haze-along with the likes of John Hodiak, Farley Granger and Elliott Gould.”

Chet made a face. “Don’t mention that bum Elliott Gould around me.”

“Why, what’s wrong with?…” Mitch noticed the dreamy look on Ruth’s face. “Oops, I forgot. He was your chief competition for Mom’s heart.”

“My entire adult life I’ve had him hanging over me,” Chet grumbled. “She even watched that stupid Friends on TV because every once in a while he’d turn up as Ross and Monica’s father. He’s a fat old man now, you know.”

“He is not,” Ruth objected. “And I could say a few words about your girlfriend Sharon Gless, mister. So behave yourself.”

By now the sun was rising up out of the Sound. Mitch went into the kitchen and put the coffee on, groping around in the cupboard under the sink for his reserve box of Cocoa Puffs. He helped himself to a starved handful out of the box, cursing himself for not having bought more donuts yesterday. It had been appallingly shortsighted of him.

Clemmie sauntered into the kitchen and had some kibble.

“Since when are you into cats?” Chet wanted to know.

“Des rescues feral strays.”

Clemmie padded out into the living room, sniffed at Mitch’s folks and elected to go back up to bed. Another rough day at the office.

When the coffee was ready, Mitch filled three mugs and asked his folks if they wanted to check out Big Sister while they drank it. They did. He led them down the path toward the lighthouse and the narrow strip of beach. There was a soft early-morning haze hanging over the tranquil water. A great blue heron was having breakfast at the water’s edge. It took flight in the direction of the river. Mitch could hear the flapping of its wings.

“This is just lovely, sweetheart,” Ruth said as they strolled along. “It’s the sort of a place that you dream about.”

“I still can’t believe I actually live here. I keep waiting for someone to notice me and yell, ‘Hey, you with the curly hair-get the hell off our island!’”

“I was hoping for real autumn weather,” Chet groused. “The McCoy.”

“Soon, Pop. We’re supposed to get a storm tonight.” Mitch took a sip of his coffee and said, “Okay, give it to me straight-which one of you is dying?”

His parents exchanged a confused look.

“Dying?” Chet repeated dumbly.

“Is it you or is it Mom? Tell me everything right now. I mean it.”

Chet shook his head. “What in the heck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about all of those ‘appointments’ that you had in the city. I’m talking about you showing up here in the middle of the night.”

“We like to beat the rush hour traffic.”

“Pop, you practically caught up with last night’s rush hour traffic. I know you two. Something’s up.”

“Nothing’s up. Everything’s sa-weet.”

“And will you please stop saying that? You’re driving me ka-rayzee.”

“Everything’s fine, sweetheart,” Ruth assured him. “We’re both fine.”

“Oh, yeah? Then what’s going on?”

“Lots of stuff,” Chet said. “We’re ‘happening’ people.”

“Pop, I swear…”

“We’ll discuss it tonight, okay? First, we want to meet Desiree. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“Not really.”

“Sure you can.” Chet squinted at the beach up ahead of them. “What’s that lying in the sand-is it a seal?”

It lay a hundred feet ahead of them at the edge of the water. It was dark-skinned and shiny. But it was no seal. It was a young black woman. She appeared to be naked. She also appeared to be dead.

Mitch dashed toward her with his father in hot pursuit. She lay facedown in the sand. She was not naked. Her thin, sleeveless undershirt and panties were just so plastered to her wet skin that they were see-through. The undershirt had been torn in several places. Mitch turned her over. She was freezing cold to the touch-the air was warm but the water in the Sound wasn’t. She was a teenager, no more than eighteen. A beautiful girl with a voluptuous figure. Her knees were badly scraped. There were fresh bruises around her wrists and throat. Also atop her thighs. Someone had gotten rough with her.

“Here, let me…” Chet had been a lifeguard at Jones Beach in his youth. He fell to his knees, wiped the caked sand from her face and stuck his ear to her mouth, listening closely. “She’s alive but she’s barely breathing.” He performed mouth-to-mouth on her, then listened once again, shaking his head. “She’s full of water. Got to get it out of her.” He flipped the girl back over onto her stomach, turned her head to one side and pressed firmly against her back with both hands. She coughed up some seawater. He pressed again. More water came up. “Mitch, I’m going to stay with her. You run back to the house and call an ambulance, okay? And bring back plenty of blankets.” He turned her back over and tried more mouth-to-mouth on her. “Hurry, son. We don’t have a lot of time.”

The girl coughed once again-except this time she abruptly regained consciousness, her big brown eyes gazing up at them wildly. “Don’t make me go back there!” she cried out. “ Please don’t make me go back there!” Then she passed out and stayed out.

By the time Des got out to the island Marge and Mary Jewett had already loaded the girl into the back of their EMT van in Mitch’s driveway. Mitch was standing there with an adorable little sun-browned couple who were instantly identifiable as his parents. Mitch had his mother’s dense curly hair and busy little rabbit nose. And his father’s bright, probing eyes. Happily, Mitch did not share his father’s fashion sense. Mr. Berger’s salmon-colored slacks were yanked up so high it was a wonder the man could swallow.