Maine

by J. Courtney Sullivan

  “No, I’m fine,” she said.

  Alice frowned. “Are you on the wagon?”

  “No. I’m a bit hungover, actually,” Maggie lied, since this was the only acceptable reason for not drinking among the drinking members of the Kelleher family.

  Alice filled Rhiannon’s glass and her own, emptying the bottle.

  “I will be too tomorrow, if I’m not careful. Don’t tell your mom,” she said, “or she’ll drag me off to rehab with that whoosie what’s-her-name actress.”

  “The meatloaf is delicious, Grandma,” Maggie said. Neutral ground.

  “It is, so moist,” Rhiannon said.

  “It’s just one part ketchup and one part Worcestershire that does it,” Alice said with a pleased grin. Then she slapped her palms against the table.

  “Drat, I forgot the rolls!” she said, getting up and rushing toward the kitchen.

  Maggie looked at Rhiannon.

  “What did I tell you?” she whispered.

  “What a character,” Rhiannon said.

  Alice returned with a basket of rolls in one hand and a fresh bottle of red wine in the other.

  “They’re only burned a smidge on the bottom,” she said. “Still perfectly good.”

  Rhiannon and Alice drained the second bottle of wine while Maggie led them in conversation about the most benign topics she could think of—the scaffolding she had noticed outside the church her grandmother attended each morning, movies they had all seen or wanted to see, the weather forecast for the week.

  Alice opened a third bottle after they had cleared their plates. Maggie pushed her glass away, still full. Rhiannon’s glass was full too. Alice filled only her own and took a long sip.

  “Maggie mentioned you’re a fellow book lover,” Rhiannon was saying. “Are you reading anything good?”

  Alice smacked her lips together. “Yes! The most marvelous biography of Vincent van Gogh. Fascinating, absolutely fascinating.”

  “How interesting,” Rhiannon said. “There’s an amazing collection of his work in Amsterdam. A whole museum dedicated to him.”

  Alice nodded, as if she was well aware of this fact. “You know, there’s an art museum a mile from here, by Perkins Cove,” she said.

  Maggie had been there once or twice as a kid. The Van Gogh Museum it was not. But she felt protective of Alice just then, and so she said, “It’s really lovely. It overlooks the ocean.”

  “There used to be an artists’ colony there,” Alice said.

  “Really?” Maggie had never heard that before.

  “Yes,” Alice said. “They were at their height when we built this place.”

  “Did you like the artists, or did you find them annoying?” Rhiannon asked.

  Alice scoffed. “Annoying? No. We knew them well. I used to be a painter myself.”

  “You did?” Maggie asked.

  “Yes, you knew that.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You did, Maggie.”

  Maggie was sure she had never heard this before. She made a mental note to ask her mother about it.

  “Why did you stop?” Rhiannon asked.

  Alice threw up her hands. “Who has the time? Between this and that.”

  Between what and what? Maggie thought. Cocktail hour and Masterpiece Theatre?

  “You should get back into it,” Maggie said. “I’m sure there are some great classes in Boston. It could be a fun thing to try this winter.”

  “Please, I’m too old for that,” Alice said.

  “You’re not too old for anything,” Maggie said.

  She wished Daniel were there, and said so out loud. “I’m sure Grandpa would love to see you painting again.”

  “Oh, hush,” Alice said sternly.

  “Did he not like the fact that you painted?” Rhiannon asked. She had obviously thought it was a harmless question, but Maggie braced herself.

  “My husband never said a harsh word to anyone, least of all me,” Alice said. “If I wanted to paint, he thought painting was just fine.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” Alice said. “Enough.”

  “But why?” Maggie asked. “Don’t you think it could be good for us to talk about him? We both loved him so much.”

  “I was his wife,” Alice said sharply. “You don’t get to say that you loved him like I did.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Maggie said, trying to ignore the sting of it, and too embarrassed to look toward Rhiannon. “I’m sure no one loved him as much as you. But that’s the thing: you never talk about him.”

  “What exactly do you want to know?”

  “Anything! How did he propose? Where did you go on your first date? I don’t even know how you met!”

  “How we met?” Alice said, aghast, as though Maggie had asked about their favorite sexual positions.

  “Yes, how did you meet Grandpa? I’ve never heard the story.”

  “That’s because there is no story,” Alice said.

  “There has to be a story.”

  “There’s no story,” Alice said firmly. “My brother Timmy introduced us, and that’s all.”

  “And what did you think of him? Was it love at first sight?”

  “Maybe it’s a bit too hard right now, Maggie,” Rhiannon said.

  Though Maggie knew it was childish, she felt slightly betrayed. “But even if it is,” she said to her grandmother, “don’t you ever just want to get it out there?”

  Alice’s eyes widened. She looked at Rhiannon. “I hardly think that’s appropriate dinner table conversation,” said the woman who had probably imbibed a bottle and a half of wine over dinner, and brought up the cheap Mexican handyman and Kathleen’s postdivorce weight gain in the first ten minutes.

  “Are you gals about full?” Alice said. “Because I’m tuckered out.”

  It was exactly the way she had shut down the previous summer when Gabe was there. Maybe there would always be this wall with Alice, no matter how badly Maggie wished things might change, no matter how many times she forgot for a moment that their family wasn’t what she wanted it to be.

  Rhiannon stood and began piling the dishes.

  “I’ll get those later,” Alice said.

  “It’s the least I can do,” Rhiannon said. She stacked the plates and side platters into one neat load.

  Alice and Maggie followed her silently into the kitchen.

  The wax-paper bag of corn muffins Alice had bought for Gabe sat on the counter. Maggie missed him for an instant, a sharp pain in her chest.

  “Should I take these?” she asked.

  “No, don’t bother. Leave them,” Alice said. “They’ll go stale, but maybe I won’t notice if I toast them.”

  They were full from dinner and it had started to spit rain, so Maggie and Rhiannon decided not to walk on the beach after all. Still, Maggie didn’t want her to go. She was thinking in a panicked way about her grandmother and her mother. They were both selfish and stubborn, but as parents they had each been tempered by a good, kind man—Daniel, in both cases. She herself would have no such balance if she brought a child into the world. Not unless Gabe came back.

  “Why don’t you come to the cottage for a cup of tea before you get on the road?” she said. Maybe simply having another body in the room would calm her down.

  “That sounds good,” Rhiannon said. “I think your grandmother got me a bit smashed.” She shook her head. “That’s a sentence I’ve never said before.”

  They stood at the kitchen window. Maggie could see Alice across the way on her porch, talking on the phone. Who was she talking to? Probably Ann Marie.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” Maggie said. “It’s going to be so lonely after you’re gone. And my grandmother—I’m not sure I can take her.”

  “She’s not that bad,” Rhiannon said.

  “Maybe I should call Gabe.”

  “Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Rhiannon asked.

&n
bsp; “No. Yes? I don’t know. I can’t believe I haven’t heard from him.”

  “If I tell you something, do you promise to take it in the spirit in which it’s intended?” Rhiannon asked.

  “Sure,” Maggie said.

  “Remember when you and Gabe came to my restaurant for dinner?”

  Maggie nodded, feeling her heart sink.

  “Well, when you were in the bathroom, he put his hand on my ass. I think he tried to kiss me. I don’t know. He was drunk. I wasn’t going to say anything, but—well, I see you holding out hope and it scares me, Maggie. He’s not a good guy. And you’re wonderful.”

  With that, finally, she knew for sure what she had been trying not to know for days: it was only her in this; he wasn’t going to be there to raise a child.

  Maggie felt foolish about how much time she had spent with Rhiannon, talking about Gabe, without knowing that the two of them shared a secret of their own. Naturally Gabe wanted Rhiannon—what guy wouldn’t? Her body tensed up. She wished she had never introduced them.

  “I’m going to bed,” Maggie said. “You probably shouldn’t drive. You can sleep in the big room. Okay?”

  Rhiannon seemed taken aback by her abruptness, but she just said, “Yeah, okay. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

  Maggie turned toward the bathroom to wash her face.

  “I’m sorry,” Rhiannon said. “Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “Maybe,” Maggie said. She closed the door behind her, feeling guilty. She was never mean like that, not to anyone, let alone a friend. She started to cry.

  Maggie couldn’t sleep. After she heard Rhiannon go to bed, she paced the living room, paying attention to each creak of the floorboards as she stared at her cell phone screen and searched for a signal.

  Finally, in the corner by the kitchen, she got two bars. She dialed the number, her heart racing as she listened to the phone ring. For a second, she thought he was going to let it go to voice mail, but then he picked up.

  She heard people laughing in the background, the sound of women’s voices.

  “Mags?” Gabe said. “Hello?”

  It was so bitter and sad, looking for safety in the person least likely to give it to you. Like drinking salt water, she thought. The house felt eerily quiet.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hold on, I can’t hear you—let me go outside for a sec,” he said, and then there was a lot of muffling and yelling and laughing before the noise faded.

  “How are you?” he asked. His voice was faint; she could hardly make it out. She crouched down lower, searching for a signal.

  “Fine,” she said. “Listen. There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “Hello? Are you calling from your apartment? You’re all fuzzy.”

  “No. I’m up in Maine.”

  She tried to sound unafraid, wanting him to be shocked by her, maybe.

  “What?” he said. “I can’t really hear you.”

  “I’m in Maine.”

  “Oh yeah? By yourself?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. She didn’t think she could mention Rhiannon’s name without crying again. “My brother and some friends are driving up now.”

  “Oh hey, fun,” he said. “Tell Chris I say hi.”

  “How’s New York?” she asked. And then—as furious as she felt, she couldn’t help it—“I miss you.”

  “I’m in East Hampton, actually,” he said. “Missing you too.”

  Her stomach flipped, and suddenly her sadness turned to anger, the two feelings so much aligned when it came to him.

  “Why?” she said.

  “Why do I miss you?” he said.

  “Why are you in the Hamptons?”

  “Some girl Hayes knows from college, her parents have this sweet beach place and he was going anyway with a bunch of people, and I don’t have any work for the next two weeks, because, well, you know, so I figured I’d hang here.”

  All that she had imagined fell away, set against those words. He was not curled up on his couch, waiting for her to come home. Had she stayed in Brooklyn, waiting around, he wouldn’t have shown up at her door tomorrow or the next day or the next.

  “It’s gorgeous here,” he said. “We’re actually about to take a nighttime sail.”

  He sounded like he was having the time of his life.

  “What did you need to tell me?” Gabe asked.

  “Forget it,” Maggie said. “I should go; I think I hear Chris’s car outside.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Listen, I’m sorry for how things went the other day. But it seems like cooling off for a while is probably smart, right?”

  “Good-bye, Gabe,” she said.

  She hung up, feeling wholly unsatisfied. She resisted the urge to call him back. Instead, she sat down at the table and switched on her computer. Her uncle Pat had had the cottage wired for Internet the previous summer, even though there was still no TV or phone.

  She started typing an e-mail, and when she finished she didn’t even bother to read it over. She just hit SEND.

  Gabe,

  There are two things I want to say that for some reason I could not get out over the phone just now. First, that I think I’ve finally realized how bad you are for me. I’m grateful to you for really hitting me over the head with it this time. Clearly I needed that. Second (and I admit this bit of news is complicated by my first point), I am having a baby. Mostly when I imagine it, this child is only mine. But I know that technically he or she is yours too. You deserve to know, so I’m telling you. I don’t think you deserve much more than that. Please leave me alone for now. I’ll be in touch when I’m ready.

  Alice

  After dinner, Alice went out to the screen porch and called Ann Marie.

  “Your niece arrived today, and not with Gabe,” she said.

  “Oh?” Ann Marie said, sounding distracted, not seeming to care.

  “Instead she brought a woman,” Alice said.

  “What do you mean, a woman?” Ann Marie asked.

  “A woman who lives next door to her,” Alice whispered, as if Daniel were sitting there and liable to scold her for gossiping with their bigmouthed daughter-in-law.

  “You mean, like a date?” Ann Marie said. “Hold on, Mom. Pat, honey, can’t you watch this in the other room?”

  It hadn’t even dawned on Alice that Maggie and Whatever-Her-Name-Was might be together in that way. No, she was positive they weren’t. Then again, Alice had always been clueless about such things. She had once remarked to Daniel that it was nice how many pairs of brothers you saw walking around Ogunquit, arm in arm, and he had laughed like a hyena.

  Now she replied, “I’m not sure what sort of relationship it is, to be honest. Just strange, that much I know. Maggie has the girl drive her here and tells me she’s leaving tonight. Well, I can see quite clearly that she hasn’t left. I’m not blind.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “Kathleen made such a mess of that child. I wish there was something I could have done to fix her. Now it’s probably too late.”

  She was fuming from their dinner conversation, but she didn’t feel like getting into the specifics with Ann Marie.

  “You’re always taking too much upon yourself,” Ann Marie said. “There’s nothing you can do. Lately I’m starting to think that children just become who they become.”

  “Well, I thank God every day that your three turned out the way they did,” Alice said.

  “Our three have their moments,” Ann Marie said.

  It was precisely this sort of comment that made her so dear, because really her children were angels. They had probably turned out so well because of Ann Marie’s refusal to make excuses for bad behavior, as Alice’s own two daughters were prone to doing for their kids. Alice had sent Christopher and Maggie a twenty-dollar check on every one of their birthdays since they were babies, and had either of them ever bothered to write a thank-you note?

  Little Daniel always mailed a card o
n Alice’s birthday and even sent her flowers on Mother’s Day. He was a handsome devil, a darling boy. He was quick as a whip, like his father, and engaged to a sweet young beauty, a Catholic, thank God. She was Italian, not Irish, but what could you do?

  Patrick and Ann Marie’s daughter Fiona was a saint. Alice often thought that if Fiona had been around in her day, she would have been one of the girls who chose to become a nun. Perhaps she still would. As a child, Alice had loathed the nuns. They rapped her knuckles, and made her write with her right hand, her left hand tied to the back of her chair, though it was perfectly clear she was a lefty.

  Even so, to have a granddaughter in the sisterhood would be a real point of pride at Legion of Mary meetings. Mary Daley’s son was only a deacon and she got so much attention for it, you’d think he was the pope.

  Patty, Ann Marie and Patrick’s middle child, had gone to law school and was now working long hours, despite the fact that she had three small children. She had married a Jew, which had just about killed Ann Marie. She never said so, but Alice could feel it.

  Still, Ann Marie and Pat’s three kids would always be her favorites, especially Little Daniel.

  She found Maggie to be the most difficult of all the grandchildren. When the girl let her guard down and had a few drinks, she could really be a hoot. She had a good sense of humor, like Daniel’s. But there was a sort of forced quality about her most of the time, a formality that rubbed Alice the wrong way. Maggie was obsessed with getting to the bottom of every conflict, thanks most likely to the fact that Kathleen had shoved her onto a therapist’s couch as soon as she was in middle school. After Daniel died, when Alice didn’t want to think of him or Kathleen at all, there was Maggie, calling her every other day like clockwork. Alice tried to ask God for patience, to tell herself that her granddaughter meant well, but she felt annoyed even so.

  Daniel had loved the stuffing out of that child, same as he had with Kathleen.

  Once, when Maggie was six or seven, Alice had gotten up for a glass of water and found her crying in the cottage kitchen in the middle of the night.