I look away from him, over toward the group of four teenaged girls who have positioned themselves around the lifeguard’s chair. Everything they do is designed for him. So far, he has looked at them once. I take in a breath, turn back toward Chip. “I’ll call Diann. I’ll go and visit her.”

“Diann.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll go on Saturday.”

“Yes. I guess so. Yes.”

“You haven’t thought about it at all, have you, Myra? About what you’ll do, either the day after or the weeks after.”

“I do have a job, Chip.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

I sit up, dig in the sand with my fingers. “It’s getting late,” I say. “Do you feel like eating dinner?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Do you? I’m really hungry.”

“All right.” He stands, slowly; and we call Frank, who, after a moment of clear ambivalence, runs toward us. It comes to me in a kind of rush that I’ve made no provisions for him. I’ll leave him with Theresa. He’ll wait for me for a while, and then he’ll get used to her. I reach down to pet his wet head, then let him run on ahead.

* * *

When we come home, it’s eight-thirty. Chip heads upstairs for a soak in the tub. I sit in the kitchen, staring out the window at the sun sinking lower and lower in the sky and thinking about the fact that I don’t have a will. I suppose it doesn’t matter—there’s no one to leave anything to. But I should write a note.

I go into my office, get out a piece of paper, and write, I am doing this of my own volition. And then I stop writing, sit back in my chair. This is real. It’s real! Someone will have to sort through my things. Is there anything I should throw away? Underwear? Journals I started, then abandoned?

I go into the basement, survey the metal storage shelves I have against one wall. I bought those shelves at Sears, then lugged them home and put them together. I felt so proud when I’d finished—it wasn’t nearly as easy to assemble them as the instructions on the box had suggested it would be. I’d wanted to show someone what I’d done, and I remember I spent some time sitting there with a wrench in my hand thinking, Who? In the end, I’d cracked open a beer and drank it while I sat there regarding my handiwork.