33

The girl had fallen asleep, though she hadn't meant to; it was the cardinal sin for a baby-sitter with a two-year-old near the water.  Her sleep was light, barely deep enough to accommodate a fluttery dream about Princess Diana asking her to be her roommate and help care for the two little princes.  All of a sudden, out of nowhere, one of the princes was crying — shrieking, actually.

She bolted upright, knocking the magazine off her face, and turned to look for Jeremy.

He was there, sitting on the sand where he had been, and she was flooded with a rush of relief.

He was howling — head thrown back, mouth gaping, eyes closed — and she knew kids well enough to know that this wasn't a howl of temper or anger, but one of pain or terror, as if he had burned himself or cut himself or been bitten by a dog.

She went to him, and stood over him, and said, "What's wrong... you hurt?"

He didn't answer, not even with one of his dumb baby words, he just shrieked louder.

"Jeremy... don't be a wuss... tell me where it hurts."

He opened his eyes and raised his arms, begging to be picked up, which surprised her because he never wanted her to pick him up, he didn't like her any more than she liked him.  Their association was based on mutual tolerance, the tacit recognition of a bad situation that neither of them had wanted but both had to endure.

"Forget it," she said, shaking her head.  "You think I need poop all over my clothes?"

He howled again, even louder, and stretched his arms up to her.

Flustered, she said, "Jesus... shut up, will you?"  She looked around to see if anyone was watching.  "What is it?"  An idea occurred to her.  "Asshole burn, that what it is?  Yeah, that must be it.  Well, if you wouldn't poop in your pants all the time, your asshole wouldn't hurt."

She half expected her logical conclusion to provide consolation, but it didn't.  He still sat there like some yowling Buddha.

"Fuck!" she said, and she bent over, put her hands under his arms and lifted him up and, holding him as far away from herself as possible, walked toward the water.

He squirmed and kicked and screamed, and the closer she got to the water, the more violent he became, as if whatever it was that had frightened him or hurt him was out there in the water.

She fought to hold on, probably gripping him too tightly but not caring, and when she was in the water up to her knees, she dunked him to his waist and peeled off the adhesive strips that held the diaper on and let the diaper float away.  The she swirled the child around, hoping the water would clean his bottom.

After a minute or so, she hauled him out of the water and, still holding him at arm's length, walked back up the beach and set him down on his feet.

His crying subsided into breathless, staccato sobs, but still he begged for her to hold him, and when she wouldn't he grabbed her leg.

"Let go, goddamnit!" she said, and she raised a hand to slap his arm away from her leg.  But the instant she felt the impulse to strike the child, her anger vanished, replaced suddenly by fear, fear of herself, of her power over the little child and the damage it could do... to him and to her.

Fear quickly transformed into sympathy.  "Hey," she said, "hey... it's okay."  She knelt down and let him wrap his arms around her neck, and put an arm under his bottom and lifted him up.  "Let's go watch TV, what d’you say?

As she crossed the beach back to where she had left her towel, she noticed something awry, something missing.  Then she saw tracks in the sand, as if a heavy object had been dragged into the water, and she realized that the trash barrel wasn't there anymore.

She looked out into the harbor and saw — maybe twenty-five yards out, no farther than she could throw a stone — the black neck of the empty barrel as it floated on the surface.

"D’you believe it?" she said, soothing the child with the sound of her voice.  "Those guys fill the trash can with all that crap, and then they go and throw it in the harbor so it can wash up on people's lawns.  I tell you, Jeremy, the bottom line of life is, people stink.

She gathered up her towel and tote bag and, with the child settled on her hip, made her way through the gate and onto the sidewalk... talking nonsense to keep the child quiet, and vowing to herself that next summer, no matter what, she would find an easier way to earn five crummy bucks an hour.