Still in a squatting position, Boo Boo put her left hand through the V of her legs, touching the pier boards in order to keep her balance. “Your daddy’s a nice fella,” she said, “but he’s probably the biggest landlubber I know. It’s perfectly true that when I’m in port I’m a lady—that’s true. But my true calling is first, last, and always the bounding—”
“You aren’t an admiral,” Lionel said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You aren’t an admiral. You’re a lady all the time.”
There was a short silence. Lionel filled it by changing the course of his craft again—his hold on the tiller was a two-armed one. He was wearing khaki-colored shorts and a clean, white T-shirt with a dye picture, across the chest, of Jerome the Ostrich playing the violin. He was quite tanned, and his hair, which was almost exactly like his mother’s in color and quality, was a little sun-bleached on top.
“Many people think I’m not an admiral,” Boo Boo said, watching him. “Just because I don’t shoot my mouth off about it.” Keeping her balance, she took a cigarette and matches out of the side pocket of her jeans. “I’m almost never tempted to discuss my rank with people. Especially with little boys who don’t even look at me when I talk to them. I’d be drummed out of the bloomin’ service.” Without lighting her cigarette, she suddenly got to her feet, stood unreasonably erect, made an oval out of the thumb and index finger of her right hand, drew the oval to her mouth, and—kazoo style—sounded something like a bugle call. Lionel instantly looked up. In all probability, he was aware that the call was bogus, but nonetheless he seemed deeply aroused; his mouth fell open. Boo Boo sounded the call—a peculiar amalgamation of “Taps” and “Reveille”—three times, without any pauses. Then, ceremoniously, she saluted the opposite shoreline. When she finally reassumed her squat on the pier edge, she seemed to do so with maximum regret, as if she had just been profoundly moved by one of the virtues of naval tradition closed to the public and small boys. She gazed out at the petty horizon of the lake for a moment, then seemed to remember that she was not absolutely alone. She glanced—venerably—down at Lionel, whose mouth was still open. “That was a secret bugle call that only admirals are allowed to hear.” She lit her cigarette, and blew out the match with a theatrically thin, long stream of smoke. “If anybody knew I let you hear that call—” She shook her head. She again fixed the sextant of her eye on the horizon.
“Do it again.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
Boo Boo shrugged. “Too many low-grade officers around, for one thing.” She changed her position, taking up a cross-legged, Indian squat. She pulled up her socks. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, though,” she said, matter-of-factly. “If you’ll tell me why you’re running away, I’ll blow every secret bugle call for you I know. All right?”
Lionel immediately looked down at the deck again. “No,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because I don’t want to,” said Lionel, and jerked the tiller for emphasis.
Boo Boo shielded the right side of her face from the glare of the sun. “You told me you were all through running away,” she said. “We talked about it, and you told me you were all through. You promised me.”
Lionel gave a reply, but it didn’t carry. “What?” said Boo Boo.
“I didn’t promise.”
“Ah, yes, you did. You most certainly did.”
Lionel resumed steering his boat. “If you’re an admiral,” he said, “where’s your fleet?”
“My fleet. I’m glad you asked me that,” Boo Boo said, and started to lower herself into the dinghy.
“Get off!” Lionel ordered, but without giving over to shrillness, and keeping his eyes down. “Nobody can come in.”
“They can’t?” Boo Boo’s foot was already touching the bow of the boat. She obediently drew it back up to pier level. “Nobody at all?” She got back into her Indian squat. “Why not?”
Lionel’s answer was complete, but, again, not loud enough.
“What?” said Boo Boo.
“Because they’re not allowed.”
Boo Boo, keeping her eyes steadily on the boy, said nothing for a full minute.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” she said, finally. “I’d just love to come down in your boat. I’m so lonesome for you. I miss you so much. I’ve been all alone in the house all day without anybody to talk to.”
Lionel didn’t swing the tiller. He examined the grain of wood in its handle. “You can talk to Sandra,” he said.
“Sandra’s busy,” Boo Boo said. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk to Sandra, I want to talk to you. I wanna come down in your boat and talk to you.”