The Whore's Child

deafness. Having been misinformed about the professor’s area of study, Robbins had quickly cornered him and announced that he himself was something of a Civil War buff, proceeding to regale Snow with the tactical details of some obscure battle. Snow, loath to offend, first feigned interest, then distraction and finally—when the major said, “Now here’s where it gets complicated”—intellectual exhaustion. Robbins was not alone in appearing disappointed when the Snows made their excuses and escaped through the garden, the major’s party watching their retreat with the weary expression of people who’d been promised, then cheated of, a lengthy reprieve.
    This morning, at breakfast, Robbins’s companions looked haggard, as though a single night’s sleep had not been sufficient for them to face this new day, though the major himself looked fresh and ready for anything. All four were dressed in beach attire and Snow noted with relief that they had finished eating and were unlikely to invite the Snows to join them. June, who professed to have enjoyed their company, was veering sociably toward their table until Snow touched her elbow and guided her to a table on the other side of the dining room. “Try the Mexican eggs,” Major Robbins bellowed.
    â€œI will,” Snow promised, holding June’s chair for her, a gesture that seemed appropriate here at the Captain Clement.
    Mrs. Childress, who had been in the kitchen, came out to greet them and to inquire how they’d slept. Snow had slept badly, but insisted otherwise.
    â€œWhat a shame we can’t offer you breakfast in the garden,” the Childress woman said, sounding almost stricken. “But the bees have claimed it, I fear.”
    From where they sat, the Snows could see that the garden was indeed set up for dining, pristine white tables scattered among the potted plants and hedges. They could also see bees swarming beyond the French doors.
    â€œAre they the price of such lovely flowers?” June wondered.
    â€œAlas, no,” Mrs. Childress said, her faintly British accent kicking in again. “It’s the storm. The bees are disoriented, or so we’re told. They think it’s spring.”
    Major Robbins noisily pushed back his chair. “The beach!” he cried, as if commencing a dangerous amphibious assault, though his troops looked potentially mutinous. The major’s wife, the first to venture outside, let out a whoop as the bees closed in and then she bolted for the white trellised arch, arms flying about her head, her companions close behind, also beating the air wildly.
    The Snows’ waitress was a pretty girl named Jennifer whose tan was dark and remarkably even, Snow noticed when she bent to pick up a fork she’d managed to knock to the floor. He wondered whether it was the girl’s clumsiness or her immodesty, given the scoop-necked uniform that caused Mrs. Childress to roll her eyes at June before disappearing into the kitchen.
    â€œSouth Shore has the best beaches,” the girl explained in response to Snow’s question about where they might spend the afternoon. “Really awesome bodysurfing.”
    As the girl said this, he thought he saw a trace of doubt flicker across her heretofore untroubled features, perhaps registering her realization that bodysurfing might not be what these particular guests had in mind.
    â€œOak Bluffs is nice too,” she added hastily. “That’s got a lagoon.”
    Another flicker of doubt—had she insulted them?— and a weak smile, as if to concede she wasn’t the person to ask. She didn’t know what older people did, or where they did it, or why.
    Her plight was so touching that Snow decided to help her off the hook. “Which is the beach with the cliffs?” he asked, suddenly recalling it from their previous trip.
    â€œGay Head, you mean?” the girl said, surprised. “That’s clothing optional.”
    â€œOh,” June said with a wry smile. “Well
that’s
out then.”
    â€œRight,” the girl said sympathetically, though Snow couldn’t tell if she was reluctant to shed her clothing in public now or if she was looking ahead thirty years. Actually, if they stayed right around the area where the trail joined the beach, they’d be fine. It was only farther down the beach, beneath the bluff, where the nudists gathered. They liked to cover their