She stood still, straining to hear a splash, a giggle, a whisper. She moved around in the pool, eyes closed, hands outstretched, and reached the steps. She took a step up to quiet the sound of her own movements.
“Marco!” she called out.
And there was no answer. She stood there, still.
“Marco!”
Silence. It was as though she were in a warm, wet, deserted world, alone. They were playing a trick on her. They had decided that no one would answer her. Josephine smiled and opened her eyes.
She was alone on the pool steps. Something made her look down. The bottom of her white bathing suit was stained with red, and there was a thin trickle of blood coming from between her thighs. The children were all standing on the sides of the pool, staring at her. Josephine looked up at them, stricken. “I—” She stopped, not knowing what to say. She quickly moved down the steps into the water, to cover her shame.
“We don’t do that in the swimming pool,” Mary Lou said.
“Polacks do,” someone giggled.
“Hey, let’s go take a shower.”
“Yeah. I feel icky.”
“Who wants to swim in that?”
Josephine closed her eyes again and heard them all moving toward the poolhouse, leaving her. She stayed there, keeping her eyes squeezed closed, pressing her legs together to try to stop the shameful flow. She had never had her period before. It had been totally unexpected. They would all come back in a moment and tell her that they had only been teasing, that they were still her friends, that the happiness would never stop. They would return and explain that it was all a game. Perhaps they were back already, ready to play. Eyes tightly shut, she whispered, “Marco,” and the echo died on the afternoon air. She had no idea how long she stood there in the water with her eyes closed.
We don’t do that in the swimming pool.
Polacks do.
Her head had begun pounding violently. She felt nauseous, and her stomach was suddenly cramping. But Josephine knew that she must keep standing there with her eyes tightly shut. Just until they returned and told her it was a joke.
She heard footsteps and a rustling sound above her and she suddenly knew that everything was all right. They had come back. She opened her eyes and looked up.
David, Mary Lou’s older brother, was standing at the side of the pool, a terrycloth robe in his hands.
“I apologize for all of them,” he said, his voice tight. He held out the robe. “Here. Come out and put this on.”
But Josephine closed her eyes and stayed there, rigid. She wanted to die as quickly as possible.
15
It was one of Sam Winters’s good days. The rushes on the Tessie Brand picture were wonderful. Part of the reason, of course, was that Tessie was breaking her neck to vindicate her behavior. But whatever the reason, Barbara Carter was going to emerge as the hottest new producer of the year. It was going to be a terrific year for costume designers.
The television shows produced by Pan-Pacific were doing well, and “My Man Friday” was the biggest of them all. The network was talking to Sam about a new five-year contract for the series.
Sam was preparing to leave for lunch when Lucille hurried in and said, “They just caught someone setting a fire in the prop department. They’re bringing him over here now.”
The man sat in a chair facing Sam in silence, two studio guards standing behind him. His eyes were bright with malice. Sam had still not gotten over his shock. “Why?” he asked. “For God’s sake—why?”
“Because I didn’t want your fucking charity,” Dallas Burke said. “I hate you and this studio and the whole rotten business. I built this business, you son of a bitch. I paid for half the studios in this lousy town. Everybody got rich off me. Why didn’t you give me a picture to direct instead of trying to pay me off by pretending to buy a bunch of fucking stolen fairy tales? You would have bought the phone book from me, Sam. I didn’t want any favors from you—I wanted a job. You’re making me die a failure, you prick, and I’ll never forgive you for that.”