“Sharon Lipschutz said that?”
Sybil nodded vigorously.
He let go of her ankles, drew in his hands, and laid the side of his face on his right forearm. “Well,” he said, “you know how those things happen, Sybil. I was sitting there, playing. And you were nowhere in sight. And Sharon Lipschutz came over and sat down next to me. I couldn’t push her off, could I?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no. No. I couldn’t do that,” said the young man. “I’ll tell you what I did do, though.”
“What?”
“I pretended she was you.”
Sybil immediately stooped and began to dig in the sand. “Let’s go in the water,” she said.
“All right,” said the young man. “I think I can work it in.”
“Next time, push her off,” Sybil said.
“Push who off?”
“Sharon Lipschutz.”
“Ah, Sharon Lipschutz,” said the young man. “How that name comes up. Mixing memory and desire.” He suddenly got to his feet. He looked at the ocean. “Sybil,” he said, “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll see if we can catch a bananafish.”
“A what?”
“A bananafish,” he said, and undid the belt of his robe. He took off the robe. His shoulders were white and narrow, and his trunks were royal blue. He folded the robe, first lengthwise, then in thirds. He unrolled the towel he had used over his eyes, spread it out on the sand, and then laid the folded robe on top of it. He bent over, picked up the float, and secured it under his right arm. Then, with his left hand, he took Sybil’s hand.
The two started to walk down to the ocean.
“I imagine you’ve seen quite a few bananafish in your day,” the young man said.
Sybil shook her head.
“You haven’t? Where do you live, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” said Sybil.
“Sure you know. You must know. Sharon Lipschutz knows where she lives and she’s only three and a half.”
Sybil stopped walking and yanked her hand away from him. She picked up an ordinary beach shell and looked at it with elaborate interest. She threw it down. “Whirly Wood, Connecticut,” she said, and resumed walking, stomach foremost.
“Whirly Wood, Connecticut,” said the young man. “Is that anywhere near Whirly Wood, Connecticut, by any chance?”
Sybil looked at him. “That’s where I live,” she said impatiently. “I live in Whirly Wood, Connecticut.” She ran a few steps ahead of him, caught up her left foot in her left hand, and hopped two or three times.
“You have no idea how clear that makes everything,” the young man said.
Sybil released her foot. “Did you read ‘Little Black Sambo’?” she said.
“It’s very funny you ask me that,” he said. “It so happens I just finished reading it last night.” He reached down and took back Sybil’s hand. “What did you think of it?” he asked her.
“Did the tigers run all around that tree?”
“I thought they’d never stop. I never saw so many tigers.”
“There were only six,” Sybil said.