The Condition

by Jennifer Haigh

  This.

  That one little word had the power to freeze her. Not, “I’ve been thinking about you.” But, “I’ve been thinking about this.”

  It would seem comical later, how deeply this upset her. Like so many of her quarrels with Frank, it seemed ridiculous in hindsight. Once, early on, she had tried to explain it to Anne: Frank loves sex. If he hadn’t married me, he’d be having sex with someone else.

  So? Anne said.

  For me it’s different, Paulette insisted. I love Frank. If I hadn’t met him, I never would have had sex with anyone.

  It wasn’t true, of course, but she wanted it to be. Her ideas were fixed, impossibly idealistic: Frank was the only man she could possibly have loved. Later this would seem a childish notion, but times had been different then. Paulette, her best friend, Tricia Boone, her closest girlfriends at Wellesley—all had thought, or pretended to think, this way.

  Frank, meanwhile, did not share in this illusion. She knew that he looked at other women. A certain type attracted him, large breasted and voluptuous, a figure nothing like hers. When they went out together, to the symphony or the theater, Paulette found herself scanning the crowd, looking for the women he’d be drawn to. She was nearly always right; Frank proved it by ogling them right under her nose. He’d ruined her birthday dinner by flirting shamelessly with the waitress. That night, at home—she declined the hotel suite—he was surprised when she wouldn’t let him touch her. What’s the matter? he asked, genuinely mystified. Didn’t we have a good time? She could have told him (but didn’t) that he’d made her feel invisible. By then she didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want him anywhere near her.

  They were apart twelve hours a day, six days a week. In that time, how many nubile young students did he imagine undressing? When, in a weak moment, she’d admitted her concerns, Frank had merely laughed. Honey, there are no pretty girls. It’s MIT.

  This was not the answer she’d hoped for.

  Recently her worries had grown sharper. The department had hired a new secretary. Now, when Paulette called Frank at work, a young female voice answered the phone. Paulette had done research: the secretary, Betsy Baird, was blond and attractive. Was it her presence that fired Frank’s libido?

  I’ve been thinking about this all day.

  “Here are the girls,” Anne said. Gwen and her cousins, Mimi and Charlotte, had come in a separate car. Sixteen that spring, Mimi had insisted on driving, proud of her new license.

  The three girls trekked down the beach, towels draping their shoulders. Mimi led the way—tall and coltish, with her father’s dark eyes and patrician nose. Charlotte, blond and freckled, resembled her mother. Gwen brought up the rear, her little legs scrambling. She was the same age as Charlotte, but a head shorter. Next to her cousins she looked tiny as a doll.

  Paulette watched them. “Charlotte certainly shot up this year,” she observed.

  “Yes, she did.” Anne turned over onto her back. “It’s done wonders for her tennis game. I think she takes after Aunt Martine.”

  The girls laid their towels high on the dunes, away from their mothers. The breeze carried their laughter as they stripped down to swimsuits. Mimi wore a triangle bikini similar to her mother’s; but on her the effect was different. The rear triangle scarcely covered her rounded bottom. Her breasts, high and firm, peeked out the sides of the top.

  “My daughter,” Anne said, laughing, as though she’d read Paulette’s mind. “Roy’s going to have a heart attack when he sees that bikini. If he had it his way, he’d never let her out of the house.”

  Paulette watched her niece in wonderment. Mimi was the first infant she’d ever held. In college then, she was overwhelmed by a feeling she couldn’t name. She’d loved everything about Mimi—her baby smell, the dense, rounded weight of her. Holding her, Paulette felt a knot low in her belly, an ache between her legs. The feeling was nearly sexual, shocking in its intensity: I want this. I want one.

  She had adored her niece for sixteen years. Now she was reluctant to look at the girl. Mimi with everything ahead of her—love, discovery, every gift and possibility. Mimi’s happiness lay in the future; Paulette’s, in the past. She was stunned by her own meanness. I love this child, she reminded herself. How ungenerous, how unseemly and futile to long for what was past.

  Anne lit another cigarette. “It’s awful. I have this beautiful daughter, and my whole body is sagging by the minute. I feel like a shriveled old hag.”

  (Years later Paulette would marvel at the memory: how old they’d felt at thirty-five, how finished and depleted. We were still young and beautiful, she would realize far too late.)

  “So don’t I,” she agreed. “I’m not ready. I don’t want Gwen to grow up, not ever.”

  Anne chuckled. “I wouldn’t start worrying yet. It looks like she has a long way to go.”

  They watched as Gwen charged into the surf. She wore a red tank suit with a pert ruffle around the hips. Her chest was perfectly flat, her belly rounded like a little girl’s.

  Anne frowned. “She’s twelve, right? Same as Charlotte?”

  “Older, actually. She’ll be thirteen in September.”

  For a long time Anne was silent.

  “Funny,” she said finally, “how these things work.”

  THAT NIGHT they grilled hamburgers on the porch. Paulette squelched a wave of panic as Martine showed Billy how to light the charcoal. “Relax, will you?” said Martine. “He’s a big boy. He’ll do fine.”

  “You’re right, of course. Frank is always telling me not to hover.” Paulette said this lightly, hiding her irritation. How like Martine to instruct her on child rearing, an expert despite having no children of her own.

  She spread a checkered cloth over the picnic table. This was her favorite part of the summer, these long, manless evenings. The children amused each other, leaving her free to drink wine with Anne and Martine. Had Frank and Roy been there—holding court on the patio, talking past each other, airing their opinions about nothing too interesting—the women would have retreated to the stuffy kitchen. They’d have turned the dinner into more work than was necessary, simply to have something to do.

  That year Mimi had taken over the kitchen, mixing the salad, husking ears of corn. Watching her—fully dressed now—hand the platters to Billy, Paulette remembered the triangle bikini, the miserable wash of envy she’d felt. The feeling had dissipated completely. As if sensing this, Mimi flashed her a shy smile, filling her with tenderness.

  “What a helpful daughter you have,” she told Anne.

  “Billy’s a good influence. Trust me, she never does this at home.”

  In that moment, warmed by the wine, Paulette was proud of the children they’d raised. In the fall Billy would go away to Pearse; in a few years he would bring home girlfriends, pretty girls like Mimi. He would fall in love. Watching him, she was struck by all that was delightful about this. Falling in love with Frank was the most thrilling thing that had ever happened to her. It seemed tragic to experience this just once, at the age of nineteen, and never again. Raising her children would give her a second chance at living those best years. A second and third and fourth chance.

  “It’s all so exciting,” she told Anne, so moved she could barely speak. “The children growing up. It’s a wonderful time.” For years the summers had blended into each other, each much like the last. But now every summer would bring new developments. Mimi, then Billy, starting college, getting married, having children of their own. Of course there was sadness, the depressing reality of aging. (Anne: I feel like a shriveled old hag.) But Paulette refused to feel as Anne did. She had been the pretty one in her family, a distinction she’d enjoyed her whole life. Now she would cede the title gracefully. Watching Mimi clear the table, she was proud of her own generosity.

  Good for you, sweetheart, she thought. It’s your turn.

  Inside the house, the telephone rang, a shrill intrusion. The distant world seemed perfectly irrelevant. Everyone she need
ed was right here, close enough to touch.

  “Paulette,” Martine called through the open window. “Frank’s on the phone.”

  “Daddy!” Scott cried. “I want to talk to Daddy!”

  “In a minute,” Paulette said, rising. “Let Mother talk to him first.”

  She hurried into the kitchen. The house’s only telephone, a rotary model heavy as a bowling ball, sat on the counter. “Frank?” She drained the wine from her glass. “Is everything all right?”

  “Hi.” He sounded rushed, agitated. “Listen, I only have a minute, but I wanted to tell you. I think I can get down there this weekend.” She heard the clack of a typewriter. Frank was always doing two things at once.

  Are you there alone? she wanted to ask.

  “What are you typing?” she said instead.

  Mimi came into the kitchen then, loaded down with dishes. Excuse me, she mouthed. She placed the salad bowl in the sink.

  “More revisions on the paper. Sorry. I need to get this thing out the door.”

  Mimi bent over to scrape the plates into the trash. Paulette stared at her suntanned legs. The denim shorts—she hadn’t noticed, until then, quite how short they were—rode up dramatically, revealing the bottom crease of her buttocks. For a moment Paulette saw the girl as Frank would see her. She felt her throat tighten.

  “Are you still there?” Frank asked. “I’ll try to make it down there on Friday. It won’t be easy, but I think I can swing it.”

  No. Paulette felt again the wave of sickness she’d felt watching Mimi at the beach, sour and corrosive, sharp as glass. Her family, summer at the Cape, her love for this dear girl: these were precious things, and fragile. Too delicate to be placed in Frank’s careless hands.

  “Dear, I know you’re very busy. You don’t have to come if it’s too difficult. I shouldn’t have pressured you.”

  “That’s okay. I want to.” He lowered his voice. “I’m not good at sleeping alone.”

  More typing, a bell sounding; he had reached the end of a line.

  ENDLESS DAY. The blond expanse of the National Seashore: the sand fine as sugar; coarse tails of sea grass undulating in the wind. The days were cut along a template. Each morning sandwiches were made, a basket packed. Damp swimsuits were retrieved from the line. For the rest of her life, Paulette would remember these summers. Would long to return there, to the quiet richness of those days, the life of her family unfolding like a flower, ripening as it was meant to, all things in their proper time.

  One morning, the car loaded, she noticed a child missing. “Gwen!” she called. “Where’s Gwen?”

  “Out back,” Scotty said.

  Paulette found her curled up on a chaise longue on the porch, still in her nightgown. Paulette hadn’t seen her since breakfast. With three adults and five children in the house, Gwen had gotten lost in the shuffle.

  “Gwen? Get dressed, darling. We’re going to the beach.”

  “I’m not going.” Her cheeks were red, her mouth set. Paulette had seen this look before, after an altercation with her brothers, an unfair reprimand. It was a look that meant trouble.

  “Gwen, don’t be silly. Everybody’s waiting. Mimi, and Charlotte.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “What’s the matter?” She laid a hand on her daughter’s forehead to check for a fever, only half joking. Gwen was crazy about the beach. At the end of the day, shivering, sunburned, she clamored for an extra half hour. Paulette often resorted to blackmail—strawberry ice cream at the general store in town—to get her to leave.

  Gwen shrugged her mother’s hand away. “I hate the beach. It’s no fun anymore.”

  Paulette frowned. Gwen had a sunny disposition: more extroverted than Billy, who was prone to moody silences; less rambunctious than Scotty. She had always been the easy one.

  “I hate Charlotte,” she said vehemently. “She won’t even go in the water.”

  “Well, you can swim with your brothers. And Aunt Martine.”

  “I hate my bathing suit,” she said, her chin trembling.

  Paulette sat next to her. “What happened? You liked it a week ago.” They had shopped for the suit together, making a day of it, lunch and shopping at Filene’s downtown. Charmed by the little ruffle, Gwen had chosen the suit herself.

  “I hate the stupid ruffle,” she said now. “I look like a big baby.”

  “Sweetheart.” Paulette chose her words carefully. She’d known this conversation was coming; she just hadn’t imagined it would happen so soon. “Are you upset because Charlotte looks so different all of a sudden?”

  Gwen would not answer.

  “It’s strange for you,” she said gently. “To see Charlotte growing up.”

  “But I’m older. Her birthday isn’t until December.” Gwen’s face reddened. “It isn’t fair.”

  “I know. It isn’t.” Paulette brushed the hair back from Gwen’s forehead. “When I was your age, I was the smallest girl in my class. I came back to school in the fall and it seemed that all my friends were entirely different people. They were taller, and their figures were changing. And I hadn’t changed at all. I was exactly the same.”

  Gwen stared up at her, her eyes rimmed with red.

  “Back then they called it being a late bloomer. It took me a little longer, but it all happened eventually. And when it did I was very glad.” Paulette drew her close and Gwen settled in. She was a cuddly child, more affectionate than her brothers. The difference, Paulette supposed, between boys and girls.

  “I know what we can do. Let’s get you a new bathing suit. A two-piece, like Charlotte’s. We can drive into Provincetown tonight.”

  “Okay,” Gwen said grudgingly.

  Paulette stood and held out her hand. “Come on. Everybody’s waiting.” Thank God that’s over, she thought.

  For girls it was never simple. Later, riding in the car, shading her eyes against the morning glare, Paulette thought of her own puberty. All these years later, the memory still pained her: the interminable months of waiting, her failure so conspicuous, displayed for all to see. In her long, sunny childhood she’d never felt envy, but at puberty it filled her every waking hour. She envied ceaselessly, obsessively, the few classmates who, heaven knew why, seemed to transform overnight. She’d hated them blindly, indiscriminately; hated even Marjorie Tuttle, her dear good friend. Now, as a mother, she remembered those girls with compassion, knowing they’d faced their own difficulties: attention from older boys, grown men even; foolish adults like Frank who couldn’t distinguish between a woman and a child. Once, twice, she’d caught him ogling girls barely out of grammar school. I’m not a pervert, he insisted when she brought this to his attention. How am I supposed to know? She had to admit, it was a fair question. The girls had adult-looking bodies, and dressed to show them: miniskirts, tight T-shirts, sometimes with nothing underneath. She’d been lucky—hadn’t she?—to come of age in more modest times. She recalled how, at Wellesley, they’d worn raincoats over their whites as they crossed campus to the tennis court. Those rules had existed to keep girls safe and comfortable. And, it seemed to her, to make things more equitable. Proper clothing kept the buxom from feeling conspicuous, and preserved the vanity of the shapeless and the plump. How cruel to be a girl now, with no such safeguards in place. To be exposed to adult reactions no child was equipped to handle, the lust and ridicule and pity, the creeping shame.

  God help Gwen, she thought. God help us all.

  The ferry was crowded with people: the young in college sweatshirts and denim cutoffs, showing suntanned legs; the old in windbreakers and clip-on sunglasses, comfortable shoes and Bermuda shorts. There were a few windblown men, like Frank McKotch, in business attire; but most wore chinos and golf shirts. They toted bicycles and fishing tackle, suitcases, duffel bags. A group of longhairs carried tents in backpacks. The whole crowd inhaled the ferry smell—a potent blend of fish and diesel—and shouted to be heard over the engines. On every face, in every voice, a palpable elation: W
e’re almost there! We’re going to the Cape!

  Frank watched them in mute puzzlement. He witnessed the same phenomenon each summer in his wife and children, his decrepit in-laws. Even his sour sister-in-law displayed a brief burst of enthusiasm. The Drews considered Cape Cod their birthright. Summer after godblessed summer, they did not tire of strolling its beaches, sailing its shores, guzzling its chowder. For heaven’s sake, what else was summer for?

  He could think of a hundred answers to this question. To him the Cape meant crowds and traffic, glacial waters, unreliable weather that often as not left you marooned indoors with a crew of whiny, disappointed children and restless, irritable adults. What, exactly, was the attraction? For once, he was stumped.

  It was a sensation he had seldom felt. Frank read widely in all the sciences, in English and in German; he followed the latest developments in theoretical physics, the emerging field of string theory, with rapt interest. He believed, fundamentally, that all things were knowable, that the world could be understood. But when it came to the Cape, he simply didn’t get it. Summer after summer, he landed at Provincetown with the same deflated feeling: Okay, now what?

  He supposed it came down to upbringing. Didn’t everything? His wife had spent half her childhood on the water, or near it. She could swim, sail, dive like a porpoise. Frank was twenty before he caught his first glimpse of the ocean, on a road trip to Atlantic City with some buddies from Penn State. His recollections were vague, clouded by alcohol: White Castle hamburgers, girls in bathing suits, cans of beer smuggled onto the beach.

  The ocean wasn’t the point, Paulette reminded him each summer. What mattered was getting The Family together. But Frank had never gotten too excited about anybody’s relatives, his own included. Since his marriage, he’d made exactly three trips back to the Pennsylvania town where his father still lived. The place paralyzed him with sadness. The company houses, the black smoke of the steel mills. His mother had died early and horribly, a metastatic breast cancer. Grief had turned his father stern and silent, or perhaps that was simply his nature. A dour old man, fatalistically pious, plodding through the years in mute patience, waiting for his life to be over. Frank couldn’t imagine him any other way.