Endless Summer, page 29
Every time he tries to imagine how his family will react—with abject horror, disgust, anger, or, worst of all, mirth—he wants to put Sallie on the ferry back to the mainland. They should keep their union a delicious secret. How did he let her convince him that bringing her along was a reasonable idea?
Part of him wonders if he’s overreacting. Maybe it’s no big deal that he’s dating a forty-three-year-old woman. After all, everyone in the family likes Sallie. George is proud to be worthy of her desire and affection (he won’t presume love, though he feels they’re moving in that direction), and doesn’t he want to show it off?
Every second he’s back here massaging this quandary, he’s leaving Sallie out front by herself in the dark. George gropes around the patio for a loose brick, pries it free, then smashes the lower quarter pane of the back door’s window and reaches through to unlock it.
In his haste, he slices his hand on a jagged shard of glass, a nasty gash in the meaty part of his palm, just below his thumb. Even in the near dark, he can see a line of blood rising up in his white flesh. After he opens the door and steps into the kitchen, he grabs a dish towel hanging over the lip of the sink. He feels right away that it’s crusted with something—dried ketchup or a smear of melted Velveeta cheese. He’ll probably end up with gangrene but at least he’s inside—a triumph!—and with the towel pressed to his wound, he gallantly welcomes Sallie to his ancestral summer home.
He gives Sallie a quick tour of the house’s charms—the mural on the dining-room walls, the “buttery” hidden under the stairs, his great-grandmother’s collection of whirligigs and whimmy-diddles. Nothing in this house has changed in decades except for the key—where is the goddamn key? Now George is going to have to explain the broken window, but that will wait until tomorrow.
He lets Sallie pick which bedroom she wants, and she chooses George’s great-grandmother’s room, the one with a bed so high it requires a footstool. This is the last room George would have picked. Exalta died in this room and all George can think is that her spirit is hovering around in the cobwebbed corners or hiding in her cedar closet. Exalta had a reputation for being an imperious grande dame who could bust a grown man’s balls with one withering look, but George remembers a kind old lady who kept a stash of cherry Charms lollipops hidden in a drawer of the dining-room buffet. She would give one to George and one to Genevieve every afternoon, even though their mother forbade sweets before dinner. Exalta used to pinch George’s cheeks and tell him he looked just like her late husband, Pennington Nichols, “the finest man I’ve ever known.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay down the hall?” George asks, but Sallie pushes him back against the bed and undoes his belt, and George hopes Exalta’s ghost is averting her eyes.
He’s a fool for love.
He wakes up to birdsong and gentle light nosing in around the window shades. He gazes first at the white curve of Sallie’s ass; this is a lovely distraction from the angry, throbbing wound on his hand. He peels back the dish towel but his blood has acted as an adhesive, so the process is painful (and gross—the towel, he now sees, is stained with egg yolk).
He probably needs stitches; the wound is a deep black mess, though it might be too late for that. In the bathroom medicine cabinet, George finds a bottle of hydrogen peroxide that’s likely older than he is and a roll of white medical tape. He fixes up the wound as best he can, longing for a bottle of Tylenol, even expired Tylenol. His head is pounding from the three martinis. He descends to the kitchen, hoping for bread so he can make toast, and sees the broken glass glittering on the floor. He grabs a broom, thinking he’ll need to call someone to fix the window, but who? Mr. Crimmins is dead. Have they hired anyone to replace him?
In the refrigerator, George finds only one thing: a bottle of Moët et Chandon champagne, Sallie’s favorite. Aha! he thinks. What incredible luck! He checks the pocket of his khakis and finds one soft, wrinkled five-dollar bill. (He paid for the martinis the night before in an attempt to be a magnanimous host, but there’s a reason Sallie pays for everything, which is that she has money and he doesn’t.) He heads out the back door.
George’s first stop is the A&P down by the ferry dock, where he buys a carton of orange juice. He wants flowers as well but the only bouquets in the produce section are carnations (George once bought Sallie a bouquet of carnations and he noted the look on her face. Never again). He decides instead to cut a hydrangea blossom off the bush in front of All’s Fair.
With this mission in mind, he heads back up Main Street. He’ll find a tray and bring Sallie the champagne in an ice bucket, the juice in a glass pitcher, the hydrangea in a bud vase. He strolls past an open-bed farm truck parked in front of the Camera Shop and slows to check out the cartons of fresh-picked strawberries that a woman is setting out. He wonders what she’s charging for them; he has three dollars and eighty-five cents left.
The woman turns and her eyes meet George’s. Does she look familiar? She’s older, probably close to his grandmother’s age, with long, hippieish gray-blond hair; she’s wearing a shapeless chambray dress and Birkenstocks.
“Good morning,” George says. “How much for a quart of berries?”
The woman studies his face for so long that George grows uncomfortable. The plastic bag with the juice is biting into his bad hand.
“Do you belong to the Nichols family, by any chance?” she says. “You’re a dead ringer for a man I used to know named Penn Nichols. He lived on Fair Street.”
“My great-grandfather,” George says, offering the woman his good hand. “I’m George Whalen, Blair’s son?”
The woman takes his hand and holds it between the two of hers. “Blair’s son, I can’t believe it. I’ve known your mom since she was born.” The woman laughs. “Though I haven’t seen her in thirty-five years.”
“She’s in Paris right now,” George says, gently but firmly reclaiming his hand. “Working on her doctorate.”
The woman shakes her head in amazement. “She was always so smart, reading her little books…”
George says, “Yes, that sounds like my mom. Well, it was nice to meet you.” He glances up the street, desperate now to get away. “I have to be—”
“Here,” the woman says, handing him a carton of berries. “Take these, a gift from me. They’re organic, picked early this morning from a farm I’m working on by the artist colony on Polpis Road.” She pauses. “Tell your mom I said hello, and your grandmother too, for that matter. My name is Rain.”
Rain? George thinks as he heads up the street. He has a hard time believing that either his mother or grandmother knows an aging hippie named Rain—but he is psyched about the free berries.
George bursts into the kitchen through the back door, excited to tell Sallie that the berries are organic (whatever that means) and even more excited to set down the bag with the juice. His hand is killing him, and when George looks, he sees he’s bled right through the white medical tape. As he moves to the sink, he hears a thunder of footsteps and then voices.
What?
George’s nine-year-old cousin, Frog, runs into the kitchen. “George is here!” Frog shouts, wrapping his arms around George’s middle.
No! George thinks. No, this isn’t happening! Two seconds later, he hears a shriek come from upstairs. That would be Aunt Magee, discovering a naked woman in Exalta’s bed.
Tiger and Magee and the kids are staying here? How did George not know this? They always stay at the beach house! George’s head starts spinning; his vision splotches black and yellow before narrowing to a pinpoint. He crumples to the floor.
3. NEW SENSATION
Kate tiptoes past the room where Jessie is sleeping, then creeps down the stairs, where she presses the button on the Mr. Coffee and prays that neither the gurgling sound nor the smell of Folger’s dark roast will wake her daughter up. Once her coffee is brewed and she has added two Sweet’n Lows to her mug, being oh so careful not to chime her spoon against the side, Kate slips onto the sunporch and eases the glass doors closed behind her. She picks up the phone and dials Bitsy.
The phone rings six times, then Bitsy breathlessly answers. “Hel-lo?”
“Bits,” Kate says. “It’s me.”
“Hold on,” Bitsy says. “I have to pause the tape.” In the background, Kate hears the drill-sergeant voice of Jane Fonda directing the viewer to lift her leg like a dog at a fire hydrant. Kate can just picture Bitsy on all fours in her leotard and leg warmers on the carpeting in front of the TV in the family room. She does the Jane Fonda tapes every morning because she wants to lose the twenty pounds she gained when she divorced Arturo. Unlike you, Bitsy said, I hope to have a man look at me again.
When Bitsy returns to the phone, she says, “You do realize what time it is? Why are you awake?”
“I need you to come pick me up,” Kate whispers. “Now.”
“Now?” Bitsy says. “I’m not finished with my workout.”
“Yes, you are,” Kate says. “It’s an emergency. I need you to save me.”
Kate hangs up and gazes out the screen toward the beach. The sun is just high enough to make the ocean sparkle.
Kate’s house is filling up for the twins’ twentieth-birthday celebration, and although this is exactly the kind of gathering Kate and David dreamed about when they bought this house, Kate can’t help but feel… invaded. Just look at her: She’s sneaking out to avoid her own daughter!
The evening before, Jessie arrived in the foulest of moods. She was bent out of shape because Genevieve had shown up ten minutes late (that Genevieve had deigned to show up at all was a minor miracle, Kate thought. Genevieve didn’t do well with “being told what to do”). Then, when Jessie learned that Kate was going out with Bitsy to hear David Halberstam speak at the Atheneum and then to dinner at 21 Federal, she had what amounted to a toddler’s meltdown. Kate might have expected such theatrics from Kirby and, on a bad day, from Blair, but not from Jessie.
“I’m sorry I made plans, darling,” Kate said. “George and his new girlfriend aren’t getting in until late tonight, and Tiger and Magee arrive first thing tomorrow, so I didn’t anticipate having to entertain anyone this evening.”
“Because I don’t matter,” Jessie said.
“If you remember correctly, darling,” Kate said, “you were supposed to be coming with Pick. I thought the two of you would be having dinner at the Second Story like you usually do the night you arrive.”
“Pick is in Berlin, Mother.”
“I’m aware. But when we made the plans…” She waves a hand. “I don’t want to quarrel. I’m going out with Bitsy.”
“You’ve been out with Bitsy every night this summer, from what I understand!” Jessie said.
What of it? Kate thought. “If I had another ticket, I would offer it to you, darling.”
“That’s not the point!” Jessie said.
Well, then, what is the point? Kate thought. “I’m leaving you the car. You and Genevieve can go to the Mad Hatter if you want. Or call Bitsy’s girls. Helen is single now too, you know… such a bizarre and upsetting story. It would be good for her to get out. Maybe she’d like to go to Thirty Acres.”
“I can fend for myself, Mother.” Jessie took a breath and seemed to soften. “You and I need to have a talk, and we should do it before everyone else arrives.”
Immediately, Kate’s hackles went up. “Of course, darling.”
“Tomorrow morning?” Jessie said. “Early?”
Kate gave Jessie a thumbs-up, but she had absolutely no intention of being around for any kind of talk.
Kate quickly downs her coffee, grabs her round Jackie O. sunglasses, and goes out to wait for Bitsy on the porch.
Hurry up, Bitsy! Kate thinks.
She spies a billow of dust and sand in the distance, and a few seconds later, Bitsy’s red Miata comes to a screeching halt at Kate’s front door. Wasting no time, Kate hops in. “Go!” she says.
“I feel like we’re on the lam,” Bitsy says, cackling. “What are we running away from? I thought Jessie got in last night.”
“She did,” Kate said. “That’s the problem. She told me we needed to talk. Alone.”
“About what?” Bitsy says.
“I haven’t the foggiest, but from her tone of voice, I could tell it was something I wanted to avoid. It’s like she’s the parent now and I’m the child. She’s so… judgy. And not cute like Judge Wapner.”
“He is cute,” Bitsy agrees. “I wonder if he’s single.”
Kate leans back in the seat, her whole body relaxing now that they’ve made a clean getaway. She fears that Jessie wants to “talk” about Kate’s lifestyle—namely, her drinking and gallivanting about with Bitsy. Jessie may suggest, encourage, or demand that Kate “tone it down.” Kate is, after all, a widow.
But that’s just the thing.
Kate’s second husband, David Levin, died in January, and before he passed, he made it eminently clear that he wanted Kate to keep on living. “We had thirty-five beautiful years together,” he said. “How lucky are we? If you cry, let the tears be ones of gratitude. And then go out and enjoy your freedom.”
Kate had shushed him; what he was saying was absurd. She was losing her husband, her best friend and beloved. People didn’t just bounce back from that.
But Kate discovered that David was right. After a few months of wallowing around in sorrow and misery and loneliness and the pragmatic reality of being in charge of everything (property taxes, insurance policies, oil changes in their cars), Kate woke up one day and felt… lighter. She had been a wife since she was twenty-two years old—first the wife of Wilder Foley and then, a scant year after Wilder killed himself, the wife of David Levin. Kate realized there was a flip side to loneliness—liberation. Kate didn’t have to worry about anyone but herself; her whims and wants were the only ones she needed to consider.
She bought pretty flowered sheets for her bed. She stocked the fridge with Ballpark franks and the cabinets with bags of Fritos. She watched Thirtysomething every Tuesday night on the new TV she’d had installed in her bedroom, often with a bowl of rocky road ice cream on her lap, and she left the dirty dish on her nightstand until morning. She went days without applying lipstick; she stopped coloring her hair but then felt that being gray made her look too much like her mother, so she went platinum blond.
When Kate arrived on Nantucket, she reconnected with her lifelong friend Bitsy Dunscombe. Kate and Bitsy’s relationship had been something of a roller-coaster ride; there was a summer, twenty years earlier, when they’d had a screaming match in the middle of the Opera House restaurant. But beneath the petty jealousies and the score-keeping lay genuine affection. Kate and Bitsy were both older now—a stone’s throw away from seventy!—and Bitsy found herself single as well. She and Arturo had amicably parted ways after nineteen years of marriage, and Bitsy, who was on the hunt for husband number three, was only too happy to serve as Kate’s partner in crime. The two ladies were as inseparable this summer as they had been as teenagers—and they were having even more fun. They used to spend every waking moment at the Field and Oar Club but Bitsy had soured on the place. It’s so uptight! There are so many antiquated rules! There was a whole social scene that they had previously largely ignored waiting for them outside the club.
They went for brunch at the White Elephant and for drinks at the Atlantic Café. They had Italian food at DeMarco’s and a delicious cocktail called the Elbow Bender at the Lobster Trap. They lounged by the Summer House pool and even ventured once to the Muse to hear live music. They went to plays at Bennett Hall and to lectures at the Atheneum. Every Friday night, they strolled the galleries of Old South Wharf, holding little plastic cups of bad white wine, then headed over to the Rope Walk for lobsters. On sunny days, they would drive Kate’s Scout out to Smith’s Point and sit in upright chairs doing their needlepoint. Kate was making a belt for Tiger, and Bitsy was working on a pillow that read: Lord, lead me not into temptation. I can find it well enough on my own.
Kate couldn’t remember ever having so much fun. The last thing she wanted to hear was that Jessie didn’t approve.
Of course, it was also possible that Jessie wanted to talk to Kate about Genevieve—and Kate relished this idea even less. It’s true that Genevieve is having a difficult time. At first, Kate was not only appalled but frightened by her only granddaughter’s appearance. She wore black from head to toe, even black lipstick. She was pierced like a human pincushion and she’d gotten a tattoo on her forearm, where everyone could see it. She had shaved off her lovely blond hair and dyed the resulting crew cut flamingo pink. She wore a leather jacket that smelled like a rotting animal, apparently a gift from the oh so inappropriate punk-rocker boyfriend who lived somewhere in Rhode Island.
What had happened to the sweet, smart girl Genevieve used to be? Kate wondered back in June when Genevieve set foot in the house on Red Barn Road with an army-green rucksack at her feet. (Where was the cute quilted duffel from Pierre Deux on Newbury Street that Kate had given her for Christmas?) Was this Invasion of the Body Snatchers?
Kate realized she had two choices: Freak out, as the kids liked to say, or pretend everything was fine. She chose the latter. She told Genevieve that she’d spoken to Erica Wilson at the needlepoint shop and to Reggie at the watercolor gallery about hiring Genevieve for the summer. Genevieve had laughed and said, “Uh… no and no.” Kate was almost relieved; she couldn’t imagine someone who looked like Genevieve selling embroidery thread or landscapes of Nantucket harbor. Kate couldn’t even bring Genevieve to the Field and Oar Club; she didn’t begin to meet the dress code.
Somehow, Kate managed to keep her composure as she got Genevieve settled in the guesthouse and reminded her about using only the outdoor shower. “I bet you’ve missed the pool,” Kate said. “And the ocean!”
Genevieve shrugged. “I didn’t pack a bathing suit.”
Kate clapped a hand over her mouth. Her granddaughter had come to Nantucket for the summer without a bathing suit? This was no longer the little girl in the pink ruffled one-piece and plastic goggles that Kate had to bribe with a tin of Charlie’s Chips to get out of the water. This was a young woman who was wearing what looked like… combat boots.
