“You should have been paying attention,” Mrs. Flanagan yelled. The woman didn’t
seem to hear, but rather moaned and slumped over onto the grass. I ran inside to call for an
ambulance.
“ God ,” Mrs. Flanagan hissed.
From that point forward, she grew especially cruel and surly, as if she had no patience
for me anymore. But I didn’t really care; summer was coming to an end and I would be locking
up the pool for the season and heading back to classes. The last week we didn’t sp eak to each
other very much. The final day dragged on forever; I had this heavy weighted feeling that we
were building toward something inevitable, that we only had so much time left and it would all
come to an unpleasant head. I worked around her and she didn’t move, didn’t speak— the hours
dragged on. There were several other people at the pool that day and they stayed until closing
time, so that may have saved me from a scene.
When I blew the summer’s final whistle, Mrs. Flanagan got up and collected her bag
and towel. “I hope you enjoy yourself back at school,” she said as she walked past me. “Do
well. Make your parents proud.”
“Okay,” I mumbled.
And then it was over. She was gone, and I didn’t watch her as she left.
I only saw her once after that, in the grocery store about three years later. I ducked into
an aisle to avoid being seen and loitered at the frozen dessert case until she left. Then I watched
her through the window, where she ordered an employee in that gruff, humorless way of hers
to put the groceries in the trunk. Then she flicked on her sunglasses and was gone.
I moved away the next year. Eventually I got married — to Julie — and then divorced;
turns out I was a lousy husband.
18
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