The Curse: Second Installment

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After that, I saw Miku intermittently: at the bank, the hardware store, and the strawberry festival. Usually she was alone, but occasionally her husband accompanied her. He was a quiet man, balding and spectacled. They made an unusual pair: she, tall and elegant, with striking features; he, stocky, short, his moon shaped face unmemorable. She always greeted me with a wave, but he usually turned his head away—a gesture I attributed to shyness. His reticent demeanor seemed to have a dampening effect on her when she was in his presence; our short conversations were limited to the occasions she perused the supermarket offerings alone, or rode her bike solo in the park. When I had Jason in tow, she often seemed more eager to approach me. She crouched to his level to deliver a piece of chocolate or other treat she pulled from her purse.

Our conversations never ventured into topics any more serious than the latest community events. After a few attempts to draw out personal information, I gave up, for she was an expert at diverting the conversation away from herself. After a year of conversations held in passing, I knew little more about Miku than I did when we first met.

The August my son turned six was unbearably hot. New Hampshire is not known for its humidity, but the barometric pressure climbed to heights most weatherpersons had deemed impossible. Our neighborhood consisted primarily of older Victorian homes, very few of which had been outfitted with air conditioning. The sweltering heat drove harried mothers and babysitters in droves to the local pool. Most days, Jason and I unloaded the towels, lawn chairs, and pool toys from the minivan around noon, hoofing our way across the blacktop to join the throngs enjoying relief from the heat. I very rarely saw Miku in either of the two Olympic size bodies of water.

Occasionally, lounging in my lawn chair with a book, or chatting with another mother, I would glimpse her across the pool lawn. The first time I saw her in that setting, I failed to recognize her. A wide-brimmed straw hat and sunglasses covered most of her face, and the remaining portion was hidden behind a magazine. It wasn't until she lowered the magazine to watch a child cannonball off of the high dive that I realized it was her. She was alone, as was her habit, so I decided to approach her and offer my company. I gathered my suncreen, lawn chair, and reading materials, and flip-flopped my way across the lawn in her direction. I gave a cheery greeting as I approached, and she looked up, startled.

“Do you mind if I join you?” I inquired.

“No, no, please sit down.” She quickly hid her surprise and lowered the magazine. I opened my chair, careful not to step on an open cloth bag housing a file folder on the grass beside her.

“What a hot day,” I said, fanning my face with the paperback I had been reading and adjusting my sunglasses.

“Oh, yes. Supposedly it's going to break in a week or so.” She slid her magazine neatly into the cloth bag between our chairs, concealing my view of the folder. She then tucked the bag under her chair and kicked off her sandals. “Good day to be at the pool, though.”

“Jason has been enjoying himself—it's tough to get him out of the water!” I watched him bobbing in his tube at the shallow end, splashing with a friend. Even though the lifeguards watched vigilantly from their chairs, my eyes never left my son for more than a minute at a time. I had heard too many stories about children drowning to let down my guard while Jason was swimming.