Dinitia and I stayed in the pool all morning, splashing, practicing the
backstroke and the butterfly. She flailed around in the water almost as
much as I did. We stood on our hands and stuck our legs out of the water,
did underwater twists, and played Marco Polo and chicken with the other
kids. We climbed out to do cannonballs and watermelons off the side,
making big geyserlike splashes intended to drench as many people
sitting poolside as possible. The blue water sparkled and churned white
with foam. By the time the free swim was over, my fingers and toes were
completely wrinkled, and my eyes were red and stinging from the
chlorine, which was so strong it wafted up from the pool in a vapor you
could practically see. I'd never felt cleaner.
THAT AFTERNOON I WAS alone in the house, still enjoying the itchy,
dry feeling of my chlorine-scoured skin and the wobbly-bone feeling you
get from a lot of exercise, when I heard a knock on the door. The noise
startled me. Almost no one ever visited us at 93 Little Hobart Street. I
opened the door a few inches and peered out. A balding man carrying a
file folder under his arm stood on the porch. Something about him said
government—a species Dad had trained us to avoid.
"Is the head of the household in?" he asked.
"Who wants to know?" I said.
The man smiled the way you do to sugarcoat bad news. "I'm with child
welfare, and I'm looking for either Rex or Rose Mary Walls," he said.
"They're not here," I said.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"Twelve."