He kept staring, and I could see that he meant it. I could see in the lush brown of his eyes the torment he used to speak of but no longer did. And in the recesses of the irises, grand staircases to remote, inaccessible chambers. I couldn't speak. Our bodies had touched each other and interpenetrated in nearly every imaginable way, but I felt this moment was the most naked we had ever had. And I felt vastly sorry for him, more sorry, finally, than I did for myself.

He grinned; it was hesitant and shy, like a boy's grin. "Why are you looking at me that way?"

I told him what I had been thinking, about the nakedness and closeness.

"Do you really think so?" he said.

"Yes, I do. And maybe you're right, what you said. Maybe he is all that. But the thing is, you see, I liked him. I was crazy about him."

THE SUNFISH AND THE MERMAID.

GREGORY ALLOWED THE LINES controlling the Sunfish sail to rest loosely in his hands as he looked around with contentment at the placid lake ringed by dark, lush greenery, its sh.o.r.es dotted with cottages partly hidden by shade trees. At one of these cottages he was a weekend guest, and he located it from time to time, to keep his bearings.

The Sunfish was small-simply a flat deck about fourteen feet long and four feet at its widest point, with a shallow well in the center. Its silken, royal-blue sail billowed just now in the wind, making Gregory grip the line and tiller tighter and steer against the air currents. Near him lay an orange life jacket, one strap held down firmly by his foot. Gregory would feel foolish wearing it, yet he couldn't bring himself to go out on the lake without it. The wind calmed; he relaxed his hold. He loved the feel of the coa.r.s.e line in his fingers, taut or loose, and the sure knowledge that by applying the slightest pressure he could control the motion of the boat.

Steering cautiously, he headed back towards the house. He shouldn't be greedy-Joe or Jean might want to take a sail. The Sunfish was theirs, after all. The Franks were close friends; he had known Joe for several years at the office and Jean had become almost like a sister. Some ten years older than he, they babied him whenever he came to the lake, fed him and watched over him as though he needed special care. While Gregory protested, in secret he liked it. He had been a small boy when his mother died, leaving a void, and though he was not self-indulgent in other matters, he could never have his fill of older women fussing over him.

He was securing the boat to the small dock when he saw a station wagon crammed with people turning into the driveway. Arms waved from the side and back windows as Joe appeared from the house to greet the guests.

"Hi, Greg." Jean, smiling and energetic as always, was setting out lawn chairs. "How was your sail? The Carsons are here."

"So I see. I didn't know you were expecting such a crowd."

"They said they had people staying over, so I told them the more, the merrier." Gregory went to help with the chairs, stifling a pang of envy at how easily Jean could face meeting a carful of strangers. He had been looking forward to a tranquil afternoon with the Franks and another married couple. If only Margaret had come. With Margaret nearby it would be easier-they would make a pair, a safe, closed unit.

"We can do this later. Come-let's say h.e.l.lo." Jean reached out her hand to take him along.

There were six of them, all wearing bright, splashy bathing suits with bright-hued beach towels slung over their shoulders. Laughing and talking chaotically, they piled from the car, tanned legs and arms jumbled up and spilling out. One man wore dark gla.s.ses that were mirrors; they caught the sun's rays and became two splotches of flashing light. Dazzled by the glitter and the array, Gregory shook hands, knowing he would not remember their names five minutes later. Except that one, the last to be introduced, made such a rare and poignant impact, he felt his scalp tingle as he smiled h.e.l.lo.

She appeared about nineteen or twenty but couldn't possibly be that young; her soft, candid face showed experience and discernment. She had a ma.s.s of wavy, dark-red hair that billowed about her face and hung down her back. It must make her very hot, Gregory thought, and he noted how often she tossed her head to get it off her face or lifted it off the back of her neck with her left hand, her chin tilting slightly upward. He had never seen eyes like hers, extremely large and luminous and colored pure aqua, matching the splashes of gaudy flowers on her bikini. She was very suntanned, brown and glossy. He was glad, though he couldn't see why it should matter to him, that she didn't get pink, like most redheads-he didn't care for that seared-pink look on fair-skinned girls. The upper part of her face was gentle and relaxed-wide, inquisitive eyes and wide brow; the lower part more vivid and stern-narrow, curving mouth, squarish, a.s.sertive jaw and chin. She focused on him when she said h.e.l.lo as she focused on everything around her, with unabashed penetration and a.s.sessment. Watching her, he felt set apart, lifted out of the procession of time and in the presence of something he had waited for patiently, in his usual silence.

Her first words were not extraordinary at all, however. "G.o.d, it's hot here in the sun!" Looking up at the sky, she shielded her eyes, then flung off her blue denim shirt and carried it by one sleeve towards the chairs, letting it trail carelessly on the ground.

They sat languidly sipping iced drinks. Gregory, lying on the gra.s.s, stared up at her. She had kicked off her sandals, then crossed one brown leg over the other and swung it restlessly as she talked. Hypnotized, he regarded the roundness of the calf muscles, slack now as the leg swung from her knee, and the flesh of the thigh underneath, which stirred slightly from the friction. The rest of her body was calm. One long, narrow hand held a drink and the other lay flat on the arm of the chair. Only that leg, swinging in tiny, relentless motions like the flickering of a compa.s.s needle, hinted at turbulence. She talked too much, talked and laughed and gazed benevolently at her listeners as though her speech were a personal gift. Her voice was low-pitched, faintly husky, a shade too loud. When she was about to laugh, her tone grew higher and melodious, easing into the laugh like a singer easing from recitative to an aria. He wondered if she was an actress. A life-of-the-party type, he decided as she told an amusing story about how she and Phil-she leaned over and put her hand on Phil's arm when she mentioned his name-got their car embroiled in a wedding party that morning on the way up. There was a convertible with a bride and groom, she said, and a trail of twenty honking, singing carloads. She and Phil had woven in and out among them, waving and shouting congratulations, until finally they pa.s.sed them all and felt they had been part of the happy celebration.

Instinctively he disliked Phil, whose face was concealed by the flashing gla.s.ses and a beard. He seemed meager and unworthy of her. Gregory suspected that most bearded men were hiding weak jaws or chins. He, of course, was clean-shaven, but he let his dark hair grow fashionably long. He hoped she wasn't serious about Phil, and then chided himself. What business was it of his? For all he knew, they might be married, although he doubted it. Her radiant quality, the smooth texture of her flesh, made her appear pure and unused, unpossessed, despite the loud talk and overconfidence.

She set her drink down and glanced towards the water. "Ooh, you've got a boat!" she exclaimed, and half rose from her chair to peer at it.

"Our Sunfish," Joe said proudly. "Neat little thing."

On impulse, Gregory rose to his feet. He was pleased to be tall and muscular-that always put people a bit in awe at the start. "Would you like to go for a sail?" he asked. "I'd be glad to take you out on it."

"Oh, go with him, Deirdre. Gregory will give you a marvelous sail. He adores the Sunfish," said Jean.

"He's in love with the Sunfish-that's a fact," said Joe, leaning back lazily, puffing on his pipe.

"All right," she said, turning to Gregory directly for the first time since they met. "Why not?" And leaving her shirt hanging from a corner of the chair, she followed him down to the dock.

Deirdre, he was thinking. Even her name was outrageous, too much. Everything about her was overblown and overstated. She took up more s.p.a.ce and charged the s.p.a.ce surrounding her more than a young woman should. And this nagged at him: unfair that one person should exude such vibrating orange light while others were drawn and illumined inward, crouching, almost, in the dim, spare s.p.a.ce allotted. Margaret, for example. Probably a much finer person, all things considered, but her body did nothing to the air around it. Then he felt guilty, making comparisons on such foolish, intangible grounds, thinking this treacherous way about Margaret, of whom he was so fond. Anyway, Deirdre wasn't his type at all; she was a quite dangerous type, he suspected. It would be like playing with quicksilver or juggling bolts of lightning. His interest was mere curiosity, he a.s.sured himself: how did a girl get that way?

"It's a little tricky to manage," Gregory said. "You sit over on this end, don't move around, and I'll sit there." Once she was settled, he nudged the boat from the dock and hopped on. It quivered beneath them for an instant.

"We don't need this, do we?" She tossed the life jacket onto the dock. "It takes up s.p.a.ce."

They were off, too far to retrieve it. He glanced at the still lake. She was probably right. He would try to forget about it.

"If you like, I'll show you how to sail."

"Oh, good." She started towards him to take the line.

"No, no-stay where you are. I'll hand it to you. Pull on it like this." He explained and demonstrated, then gave her the line and showed her how to use the tiller. "There's nothing to it unless a wind comes up. Then you'd better give it back to me."

"Oh, I'm not worried about the wind. I'll manage. It's great fun."

"I'm not worried either," he said tersely. "I'm only telling you all this because it's a delicate craft and the wind can get a bit fierce without any warning."

"Okay, okay!" She smiled. "Do you want it back?" She held out the line.

She seemed very young at that moment, and he was sorry he had spoken so sharply. "No, it's all right. Tell me, what do you do?"

"Do? Oh, you mean work? I work as an editorial a.s.sistant." And she named a mildly liberal political magazine.

Her answer surprised him. He had been sure she would be in show business in some small way. Impossible to imagine her shut up in an office, head bent over a desk, quietly pondering arrangements of sentences and paragraphs.

"And what do you do?" she asked.

He sensed the irony in her tone but didn't know why it should be there. "I'm a securities a.n.a.lyst."

She was silent.

He grinned. "I bet you don't even know what that is."

"Of course I do. You a.n.a.lyze securities."

And they both laughed. She was nicer alone, quieter, more subdued. He didn't feel overwhelmed by her as he had on the lawn. Maybe all that loud talk was an act; maybe she was really timid and covered it by a show of flamboyance. The notion gave him courage.

He cleared his throat. "Do you live alone? I mean, you're not-uh-married to anyone?"

"Married?" She laughed broadly, throwing her head back so the tendons in her neck stretched taut. With the deep throaty laughter she seemed to expand and send out ripples. "No! How did you get that idea? Do I look married?"

"I was only asking. You did come up with someone. ..."

"Phil? No, he's just a friend. Just a friend."

She chuckled softly to herself. Gregory wasn't sure he liked her at all anymore. The laughter was excessive.

"How about you, since we're asking? Are you married?"

"No."

"That's nice."

He had to smile at her quick response. Then he asked her to turn the Sunfish so they could head towards the far, secluded end of the lake. "Why is that nice?" he asked.

She was sitting cross-legged now, leaning towards him, interested. "Most men your age are married. It's curious-rea.s.suring, I guess-to find one who's not, that's all. Who's perhaps taking some more original route. Though of course I don't know a thing about you," she amended. "I have no grounds for a.s.suming anything at all. Maybe you're a wastrel, a cad." She grinned at him. "Can a man be that and a securities a.n.a.lyst at the same time?"

He had to concede to himself, then, that she might indeed do work that involved thought and spirit.

"What do you mean, my age? How old do you think I am?"

"Oh," she said, frowning, "thirty? Thirty-one?"

"I'm twenty-eight." He was often taken for older and was used to it. He knew he had a somber face, and it was a help in business, in fact. Yet coming from her, the judgment hurt.

"Don't look so sad. I'm never very good at guessing ages. How old do you think I am? Here's your chance to get even."

"Well, to look at you, I'd say seventeen." They laughed together once again. "But seriously, let's see. Twenty-two?"

"Twenty-four."

"I wasn't so far off, then."

She handed him the line and tiller. "Here-you sail for a while. I want to look around. Lord, but it's hot, isn't it?" She stretched her legs out in front of her, brushed the hair off the back of her neck with the familiar, intimate gesture, and leaned back on her elbows, facing the serene sh.o.r.e.

They drifted quietly for a while. Gregory was feeling very peaceful. This girl, this Deirdre, he was thinking, made him feel peaceful. True, she took up a lot of s.p.a.ce; yet she managed to leave him plenty of his own. He could possess the whole lake; her presence didn't limit or hinder him. She took what she needed and left the rest alone.

"Why do you love the Sunfish so?" Her question didn't break the calm but was part of it.

"I don't know. I've never thought about it. Maybe because it's so compact and easy to manage. And so open, no secret parts. It's almost the smallest thing it can be and still be a boat. Essence of boat." He smiled, and then added impulsively, in a rare general statement, "Who knows why people love things? It can't be a.n.a.lyzed."

"We're so different. If I got to love it, it would be because it's so close to the water. You can practically feel the water under you, through it. In it and not in it at once. I love the water." She dipped a hand in and let water run through her fingers.

"Do you?" He looked sharply into the aqua eyes. "I don't trust water."

She sat upright and shook out her hair again. Suddenly, with her gesture, the air between them was alive and turbulent. "I do. I'm really a mermaid. Didn't they tell you?"

"Mermaids don't have legs." He glanced down at hers, shining, with spa.r.s.e, light hairs; they stretched along the deck, her toes a mere few inches from his thigh.

"Oh, that's a minor technicality. You know what, Gregory? I'm going to take a swim." She swung her legs over the side and dangled them in the lake.

"Wait a minute. I mean, we're all balanced here, and-"

"There's no problem," she said kindly. "You move closer to the center and I'll ease off."

He had a flash of hot anger. She spoke as if she understood the Sunfish better than he did, and it was her first time out. Before he could think of a proper answer, she slid down and dived beneath the surface. Rapidly, he edged to the center.

He watched her swim. She moved with long, competent, slow but strong strokes, and her hair, darkened by the lake, was truly like a mermaid's, streaming on the glistening water. A beautiful swimmer. Gregory was in panic. They were all alone in the middle of the lake-if she got a cramp, what could he do? The Sunfish would drift away with no one holding it. And he couldn't save anyone; he could barely ... It was exactly as he had first surmised. She was a dangerous girl and did dangerous, impetuous things. At last, ten yards from the boat, she stopped swimming and began to play, diving under, treading water, floating on her back in the dark lake striped by undulating beams of sunlight. His heart was pounding and he knew it would not stop until she came safely back. He desperately wanted her to come back but he wouldn't call to her. And abruptly, summoned up by visceral memory, by the fierce rhythm in his chest, there appeared other sunlit scenes long gone, when his heart had pounded in just that way, and he had watched from a distance while others partook of the sun and the light. After his mother died, his brother, twelve years older and away at school, would come home to see him, mostly in summer, bringing him toys and playing ball. For all his trying it was an unsuccessful brotherhood. To Gregory his brother was always a remote, younger version of his father, both big fair-haired men with powerful shoulders and clear eyes, who negotiated their paths through the world with a sureness and ease he despaired of copying. He understood even then that it could not be copied, that copying its outward forms would belie its very nature. After he was sent to bed his brother and father would have long, man-to-man talks on the lawn in the warm, waning light. He looked on, trapped in his darkened window. Now, immobilized on the Sunfish as he saw Deirdre flip carelessly in the water, he recalled one sunny afternoon, hot like this one, with the same dry, exciting heat, and his father and brother standing close together on the lawn, their fair hair shining, their light summer clothes hanging gracefully on their muscled bodies. They were laughing in low tones and talking confidentially as Gregory approached. He was small and runty and a whiner, and though they would doubtless welcome him into their midst, he feared their welcome might not be genuine and he would be shattering a perfect, mysterious moment in the world and camaraderie of grown men. Ten yards from them he stopped, watched, and turned, downcast, to walk the other way. He hoped they might call him back, but there was no sound; he felt that he would never penetrate the circle of light that enclosed them.

"Hey!" Deirdre called, waving. "Can you leave the boat and come in?"

"I can't. It would drift away," he called back.

As she came swimming towards him the pounding in his chest eased. He was afraid, though, that she might grasp the edge too hard and tip the boat over. The Sunfish capsized very easily. Jean and Joe upset it all the time in reckless play and then struggled to right it. But Gregory hated the feeling of slipping off. He had tried it once with Joe and landed awkwardly on his stomach, gulping cold water.

He was relieved to see that she could be sensible. Treading to keep afloat, she placed one hand lightly on the edge, leaning no weight on it.

"Go on, Gregory. You take a swim now and I'll mind the boat. It's glorious."

"No, I'll swim later. There's a wind coming up-we ought to go back." He reached out and helped her aboard. He liked the feel of her upper arm; it was muscular and firm.

"You know," he said as she settled herself on the deck, "I was a little worried about you out there. The lake is deceptive. It's about a hundred feet deep in this part."

"What's the difference?" she said carelessly, intent on gathering the heavy hair in a coil and wringing it out. "Ten feet or a hundred. If you're on top, it's all the same. Oh, that felt marvelous."

"You're a good swimmer."

"When I was a teen-ager I worked as a lifeguard."

He blushed under his tan, feeling an utter fool for having worried and trembled over her. The girl was a lifeguard, while his orange life jacket had lain like a badge of dishonor on the deck of the Sunfish.

She stretched out flat to dry off in the sun. Her eyes were closed, so he could indulge himself, studying her as he would some wondrous natural terrain. The full curves of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s slipped down out of the sides of the scant bikini top; he could see where pale skin merged into suntan. Her stomach was flat and her hipbones jutted up sharply. Where her bathing suit cut across her thighs he could see a few curly hairs, but he looked away quickly, as if he were taking unfair advantage, looking there while her eyes were closed. Her body was ample, strong and large-boned, but not heavy. Five pounds more and there would be too much of her, but as she was, he found her perfect. Her wrists, an anomaly, were narrow and delicate; he could easily ring his thumb and forefinger around them. Drops of water were poised on the hairs on her knees. He wanted to run his hand over them and feel the damp, warm skin, but he didn't dare.

They were silent till they reached the dock, where she sat up and said, "Thank you. That was a lovely sail."

"My pleasure." He smiled.

As they walked side by side towards the others on the lawn he thought they must make a striking couple. He with his coa.r.s.e black hair, dark skin, and straight features looked like an Indian, he had been told. St.u.r.dily built now, far from the runt he had once been, he diligently kept his body in shape by playing squash during his lunch hour with Joe and other men from the office. He shouldn't feel surprised that she seemed to like him. Girls did like him. He went out a lot, dinners and concerts and theaters; they liked being seen with him. It was only Margaret, though, whom he was close to. He must remember to drop Margaret a line later on.

They all had another drink, and the Carsons and their friends swam, then said they had to be getting along; they had steaks marinating at home. Gregory wished he might have the chance to say goodbye to her alone, though what he wanted to say he didn't know. It just felt clumsy this way, as if she were merely another stranger shaking hands, as if their shared sail were obliterated.

Surprising him, she took his hand and pulled him aside.

"Call me in the city, why don't you?" She gave him her wide, frank look, straight into his eyes.

He blinked under the gaze. "But I don't even know-"

"Deirdre, come on," the others called.

She turned to go to the car. "Call the magazine," she whispered over her shoulder, then got in, slammed the door, and was gone.