Mary

I first saw her as my husband, his friend, Dave, and I were chatting at his kitchen counter. “Don’t you think, Bob,” Dave looked at my husband but gestured at me, “that these wives of ours nag us too much?” Dave was always looking for a co-conspirator in ranting about his wife’s many (as Dave tells it) character flaws. It didn’t escape my notice that these rants almost always occurred in her absence. Bravery, if not fondness, increases in a loved one’s absence. At least, for Dave. Perhaps for all men. Perhaps, for everybody.

When I saw her I knelt to her. She was just a tiny thing. Slight. Her dripping wet figure seemed to fold into itself in her yellow bathing suit. Dark hair clung to her forehead and framed her face. She held on to the entryway hall, peeking to us in the kitchen. I whispered. Full volume, I sensed, might scare her off.

“Hi, honey, would you like a towel?” Clearly, she was a guest of Dave’s parents who were out enjoying the pool. She shook her head, but stayed staring at us. She was probably four or five years old. The air conditioner had been turned off, the screen door open to the pool area. Still, she was so thin. I shivered just looking at her. Just as I was about to insist on getting her a towel, Bob interrupted my thoughts.

“Who are you talking to?”

“That little girl...” I gestured toward the entryway. But, she was gone. The floor, where she had been standing, was bone dry. I was still shivering.