James Salter - All That Is

“You always say that.”

“It’s quite warm.”

“Brrr,” Anet said.

“Come in and see.”

“Anet, you go.”

“I’m afraid of the waves.”

“Those are no waves, those are just swells. Come on, I’ll go in, too. Philip almost drowned me last summer.”

“How?”

“In some real waves. They’re not that big today. Come on, let’s go in.”

The water was chilly at first. Anet stood in it unwilling but Christine went in and she followed, reluctantly walking deeper. The bottom was smooth. They passed the low line of waves and into the water beyond, where the swells lifted them gently. They swam without speaking, just their heads above the water, rising and falling. The sky seemed to smooth all feelings. Twice in the weeks past Anet had remarked to him after some jot of advice, “You’re not my father,” and he had felt the sting, but now she smiled at him, not in warmth but satisfaction.

“Well?” he said to her.

“I love it,” she replied.

They came out as a trio, out of breath and smiling. Anet walked ahead of them, lithe and striding, running her fingers through her hair to straighten it out. She sat down close to Christine, their knees almost touching, and leaned against her in happiness.

She had made some friends, among them a girl named Sophie, who was self-possessed and had wavy blond hair. She was the daughter of a psychiatrist. On a rainy day they had sat, the four of them, playing hearts. Sophie had taken off an earring and was examining it as the play went around the table. When it came to her she sloughed a low spade.

“You made a mistake,” Bowman commented helpfully.

“Did I?” she said. She was practicing for life.

She didn’t bother to pick up the badly played card, but then almost patiently took it back and played another. Christine admired her aplomb and the dark-red lipstick she used, until the night Anet went to the movies with her and didn’t come back until after midnight. Christine had waited concerned, watching television. She finally heard the door close in the kitchen.

“Anet?” she called.

“Yes.”

“Where’ve you been? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m sorry. I should have called.”

“Where’ve you been? The movie let out hours ago.”

“We didn’t go to the movie,” Anet said.

Bowman felt he should not be listening. He went into the kitchen but could still hear them.

“You said you were going to the movies.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What did you do?”

“We walked.”

“You walked? Where?”

“Just on the street.”

Christine’s waiting had made her nerves jagged, and there was something resistant in Anet’s voice.

“Have you had anything to drink?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Never mind why I ask. Have you?”

There was silence.

“Have you been smoking? Grass?”

“I had a glass of wine.”

“Where were you drinking? It’s against the law.”

“It’s not against the law in Europe.”

“This isn’t Europe. Where were you? Who were you with?”

“We were with some friends of Sophie’s.”

“Boys.”

“Yes.”

She was speaking in a lower voice.

“Well, who are they? What are their names?”

“Brad.”

“Brad who?”

“I don’t know his other name.”

“Who was the other boy?”

“I don’t know,” Anet said.

“You don’t know their names.”

“Sophie does,” Anet said.

Her voice had begun to waver.

“Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you crying about?” Christine repeated.

“I don’t know!”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t!”

“Anet!” Christine called.

She had left the room. After a few moments Christine came into the kitchen.

“I could hear it all,” Bowman said.

Christine was clearly disturbed.

“It’s my worst nightmare,” she said.

“She seemed very forthcoming. It didn’t sound like anything much.”

“Why is she doing this?”

“She’s not really doing anything. They do meet boys.”

“How do you know?”

“What does that mean, how do I know?”

“You don’t have a daughter.”

“No,” he said.

The front door slammed. Christine closed her eyes and put her forefingers over them to soothe them.

“Do you know I’m afraid I’m going to hear a car start. Darling, please. Would you go out and make her come in? I’m just too keyed up to.”

Bowman said nothing, but after a few moments he went outside in the darkness. Finally he made her out past the end of the driveway. She had heard him coming but didn’t turn. He had no confidence in what he was doing.

“Anet,” he said. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He waited.

“I don’t really have much say in this,” he said, “but I think it probably amounts to less than it seems.”

She seemed not to be listening.

“Perhaps you could just give her a call next time, say everything’s fine, you’ll be a little late. Could you do that?”

She wouldn’t reply. She was watching something white moving along the dark tops of the far-off trees. It went along and then seemed to turn somehow and disappear. Almost immediately it came back higher.

“It’s a heron,” he said.

As they watched, it went towards the solid black trees and then up through an opening in the topmost branches, into the night sky.

“That was a heron?” she said.

“You could see its neck.”

“I didn’t think they flew at night.”

“I guess they do.”

“Heron gone,” she said.

He glanced at her to see if she’d intended the pun but couldn’t tell. His fear of her had lessened and, saying nothing further, he followed her back towards the house.

On an afternoon that fall, Christine called him. Her voice was filled with excitement.

“Philip?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“The most wonderful thing. I found the house.”

“What house?”

“I found a perfect house, the one you’ve been looking for. I knew it the minute I saw it. It’s an old house, not terribly big, but it has four bedrooms, and it’s on a pond, part of a pond. There’s an old couple who’ve owned it for thirty years. They haven’t listed it, but they’re interested in selling.”

“How did you find it?”

“Evelyn knew about it. She knows everything that’s going on.”

“How much is it?”

“Only a hundred and twenty thousand.”

“Is that all? I’ll take it,” he said airily.

“No, but let me show it to you this weekend. You have to see it.”

The pond could not be seen from the road. It was down below. There was a long dirt driveway that appeared to end between two ancient trees. It was a clear October morning. As they drove up, suddenly there was the house. He would never forget the first sight of it, the feeling of familiarity he immediately had though he’d had no idea of what to expect. It was a beautiful old house, like a farmhouse but in isolation near the pond. They entered through the kitchen door across a narrow porch. The kitchen itself was a large square room with open shelves and a pantry in what had been a closet. The main bedroom was downstairs. There were three small bedrooms above. The stairway banister, he noticed, was plain unfinished pine worn smooth by hands. The floorboards were wide and the windows also.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s a nice house.”

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes, it’s really something special.”

The walls and ceiling were in good condition. There were no leak stains or cracks. Two of the small bedrooms he thought could be combined.