The Risk Pool

the summer he would not have dreamed of packing off to the beach, which would have been “littered with Mohawk County.” Even the tattooed men who pressed his concave plastic turtles would be there with their swarming families, perhaps at the very next picnic table, an egalitarian circumstance to be avoided. There would be no such problem today. The long, sloping beach stretched before us, white and empty, not one in fifty picnic tables occupied.
    I helped Mrs. Claude carry the bags of food, while Claudes Sr. and Jr. unloaded the trunkful of paraphernalia. Young Claude had a set of large black fins, and a mask and snorkel I knew I wouldn’t get to try even when he was done with them. I wouldn’t ask to, of course. He’d volunteer the refusal, saying, “It’s expensive stuff,” an explanation apparently preferable to more generous alternatives like “The fins wouldn’t fit,” or “Dad would feel responsible if you got hurt.” Claude was
such
a shit.
    As soon as we were unloaded, Claude Sr. said that the last one in was a rotten egg and immediately bolted for the water, his flabby middle jiggling. It was the same strategy his son often used to ensure victory against me. Running was the only contest Claude Jr. feared, since his size and weight were no great advantage. He knew that unless he took me by surprise I would beat him. For this reason there was never any “ready-set-go” nonsense. Rather, he’d wait until I was carrying something or heading in the opposite direction. He also liked to determine the finish line, and having crossed its invisible barrier to his own satisfaction, he would stop, catch me as I flew by and after explaining “No, not that tree,
this
one,” he’d raise my hand in the air and proclaim, “The LOOZAH!” It’s difficult to say for certain whether there was any bottom to the abyss of my humility with regard to Claude.
    That day I was more than content to watch father and son as they hurtled down the beach toward the water, their pear shapes generating little speed but a terrible momentum. It looked for a second like Claude Jr. might win, but they were running close together, and when the boy came abreast of his father, the older man gave him a big hip that sent him sprawling into the moist sand at the water’s edge, plowing it with his chin, as Claude Sr. parted the water of the green lake, his arms upraised in victory.
    Other than just that single defeat, Claude Jr. had a winning day, though beating me at stone skipping, kickball, hamburger eating, and sudden foot races did not engender in him the usual satisfaction. His raw chin was bubbly, and he behaved a little as if he regretted inviting me. After lunch we tossed the football around listlessly in knee-deep brackish water. The only other people on the beach were a group of teens roughly Claude’s age. They were fifty yards or so down the beach, and he eyed them sadly, as if they were much further. I myself wouldn’t have minded strolling down the beach in that direction to have a look at the girls in their bikinis, but Claude said he wasn’t up for it.
    “Go on,” Claude Sr. said to his son. “Nedley’s got the right idea, and he possesses a mere fraction of your age and native intelligence.”
    Claude Sr. always called me Nedley. I never knew why. He also liked to make comparisons between his son and me. They were supposed to be jokes.
    “And quit feeling your chin,” he went on. “It’s just a little scrape.”
    I wouldn’t have characterized it as “just” a scrape. Claude had a lot of chin, and all of it was raw and oozing, like a burn.
    “Don’t be a baby always,” Claude Sr. concluded.
    After a while I became aware of somebody besides us and the teenagers. There was a solitary man at the crest of the hill where the trees had been cleared to form a path to another section of the campsite. The man just stood there, a silhouette, with the sun at his back, watching Claude and me toss the football.
    “I’m tired of this,” Claude Jr. said. “Besides, you stink.”
    Mrs. Claude was stretched out on the beach towel nearby, her nose, eyes, and forehead beneath a ribbed hand towel. “I don’t think
that’s
a very nice way to address your friend,” she said vaguely.
    “I don’t mind,” I said. If you objected to being told that youstank, Claude wasn’t the person to chum around with. Besides, I wasn’t paying any attention.
    “Who the hell’s that?” Claude said, following my line of