The Loved Ones

by Mary-Beth Hughes

  The beach club entrance was boarded up for the winter. The flagpole shook in the wind like it might be plucked out of the ground someday and fly away out over the ocean. Anthony Moldano had shown them the way to slip through the storm fence on the north side of the old building. Lily wondered if he would be here today. Margaret hadn’t said anything on the phone.

  Lily stopped and peered through the glass doors into the green and white room with trellises painted on the walls and bamboo chairs stacked in piles and covered by tablecloths past use. When they were tiny their mother played bridge here, until Cubbie got sick and she found it boring. What did they know, these women with nothing more to worry about than a silly game.

  Margaret had sounded a little bored too, as if the club and its secret entrances and hideouts had worn out for her. She might already be in one of the cabanas. Lily walked along the boardwalk and the wind whipped at her face, sand sparking her cheeks. She huddled down as she made her way to the line of cabanas at the far end. These were kept by the biggest families.

  All were shut down and locked for the winter, but Anthony had taught them how easily they could get inside if they wanted to. Actually Lily had only done this once before. Sat inside a musty cabana on someone’s wicker love seat, sharing a stale cigarette with Margaret. The taste so sour on the back of her mouth. When Anthony didn’t arrive that day, Margaret told Lily that his penis was blue and curved like a boomerang and he could only father boys. Never a girl. Because of the special shape, and how valuable that was in an Italian family. Any family really when you thought about it. And then she burst into tears.

  You know what? I’d pick you instead of Tommy anytime, Lily said. Seriously.

  Margaret had sighed and taken the cigarette. It’s hard for you to understand because you have some natural drawbacks. It’s not your fault. After that Lily wasn’t invited back to the closed beach club until today.

  In the summertime the cabanas were festive with flowering baskets and pots of sturdy geraniums that held up well in the salt wind. Red, white, and blue. White cabanas, red flowers, blue bathing suits as if everyone were stuck on one holiday. Now a stack of clay pots huddled against each cabana. One pot was turned right side up with a set of sparkling sequined reindeer antlers blooming and this was Lily’s clue. Margaret’s father wore them every Christmas to midnight Mass. Margaret thought it was funny until the year it became humiliating. Lily pried open the heavy storm door to the cabana and could see the beam of a flashlight lying on a counter. There was a smell inside like the last lobster was still boiling on the electric two burner. And the baby smell of changed diapers. Margaret? she whispered, but couldn’t see her.

  Early this morning when it was still dark out Lily tried to call her friends in London. She called Beven’s house first and her mother answered the phone. Lily? What a surprise! Lily could hear all her beauty rush down the line, opening up in a happy explosion just for Lily. She didn’t know what to say and then remembered to ask for Beven. Why, pumpkin, said Beven’s mother. Bevvie’s in Mykonos. She just loves it.

  But what about school? Lily asked and Mrs. Clark snorted a laugh. Well, she said. Entre nous, I don’t think we have a brain surgeon on our hands. Do you? But what about you, darling? When will we see you and your fabulous mother?

  Lily explained that they had left London and might not be back soon. But Paula Clark had already begun shouting to someone in the room about rancid cream left out overnight on a countertop. Poisoning Britain’s best and brightest. A man’s voice rumbled and then the line went dead.

  Lily sat still for a moment then decided to go ahead and try Geneva. She would find Lawrence. She was ready. She knew how to dial international information. After the long burbling rings an operator answered in French and then switched to English when Lily asked for Lawrence’s academy. Shall I connect?

  The long rings again and finally Lily could tell the answering voice that she’d like to speak to Lawrence Weatherfield. The man, who sounded as serious as a priest, said young Mr. Weatherfield had already left the school. For vacation? asked Lily.

  I’m afraid not. We have an excellent chorale society here, said the man. We’re quite proud. Sometimes we even tour outside Geneva. We’re renowned for Handel’s Messiah.

  Lily tried the Dorchester, though her hands shook a little at the thought of finding Lawrence in London now that she was gone. It was possible she’d be going back and forth a little bit. Her grandmother seemed to think her father had business to finish up there and it would take some time. The operator clicked through a series of pings and then spoke. Yes. The guest has checked out. Will there be anything else, madame?

  Lily put down her grandmother’s heavy telephone and climbed back upstairs and into bed until the sun rose and Ruby began her normal singing in the kitchen.

  Hey, there you are, said Lily, her eyes adjusting to the dark. Margaret stubbed out a cigarette on the top of a beer can and nodded as if Lily had been there all along. I hate Kools, she finally said, but you can have one if you want. She pushed the pack across the glass top of the coffee table along with a bloated pack of matches. They work, she said.

  Lily fingered the hat in her pocket. Margaret was wearing a Santa beard slung low across her chin. She moved it higher and pulled another cigarette from the pack. Pass the matches, she said. You look completely different. I wouldn’t even recognize you if I just ran into you on the street.

  It’s just the coat, said Lily.

  Yeah, that’s a beast, but I think it’s your face. You’ve got something strange happening, like your cheeks are swollen or something.

  Lily touched her cheek, maybe the wind had made her face puff up, but it felt normal. Is that your dad’s Santa beard? she said.

  You remember it?

  Just a guess.

  Yes, Margaret pulled it off and revealed a constellation of red pimples framing both sides of her mouth. As if something she’d eaten had exploded outward and then stuck there. Lily tried not to stare. She sat on the plastic weave settee, which sagged and cracked under her weight.

  Don’t break it, Jumbo.

  I saw Anthony, said Lily.

  So? You already told me.

  Lily watched Margaret take a careful drag on the new cigarette. Do you think we’ll be in the same class?

  Unlikely. I’m fast-track.

  I’m probably fast-track, too, said Lily. I wasn’t doing that badly.

  You know what Anthony used to call you? And he wasn’t being mean or anything, just offering an adult perspective. He called you Lobo.

  What’s a lobo?

  For lobotomy, like you’d already had one. Or you were a good candidate. He said that’s what the Kennedys had to do with a deficient daughter.

  Lily just coughed and closed her eyes against the smoke. Anthony had seemed pretty happy about the twins. He probably wasn’t thinking much about lobotomies anymore.

  Do you even know what deficient means? Margaret asked.

  It means disqualified.

  Lily looked around the cabana and noticed some old-looking beer cans lined up on the counter and a small rusty thermos, a black sweatshirt caked with sand turned inside out. Does Anthony still come here?

  Sure.

  Lily looked harder as if to bring her into better focus. The room was dim except for the flashlight, and the wind punched at the boards outside. Margaret’s chest seemed to fall inward a bit and her belly even under her pink ski jacket still looked round like it always had. She hadn’t changed much really and that made Lily sad as if she understood that Margaret just hadn’t grown up fast enough to keep Anthony’s friendship, and they had that in common somehow. That need to grow up faster, much faster or everyone they loved would disappear.

  Is he coming here today?

  Maybe.

  Lily nodded. Margaret plucked out a new cigarette and put the Santa beard back on.

  Do you want to go to my grandmother’s house?

  What’s there?

  Nothing, s
aid Lily.

  They didn’t bother to clean up the cabana and they left the antlers sticking up out of the clay pot as a sign. Let him worry for once, said Margaret. Lily set them a little higher as if to taunt him and Margaret laughed.

  When they got home, Ruby and her grandmother were playing double solitaire at the kitchen table, moving their hands fast and shouting. Pure hell! cried Momo. Ruby gets all the good cards. They gathered the decks and Ruby stood up and put on an apron. Let me get a look at you, Margaret, said Momo. Well, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine. The pair of you. She shook her head with delight and smiled.

  26

  Sticky thighs and an ache in her belly, her old room in Doris’s house was hot, but Jean’s shoulders when she sat up were soft under her touch, the skin soft and the bones easy as if holding Nick there had made a difference. Holding his chest close to hers. Her hips were bruised feeling, but here at her throat and her shoulders and her breasts she’d opened to him, was still opening to him.

  Christ, she said and pulled herself out from the covers and tiptoed across the floor for her cigarettes. She’d come in when Lily and Doris were already asleep. So she didn’t need to explain where Nick had gone; she just crept silently up the stairs, an old expertise. Now all she wanted to do was sleep, too.

  The moon was a heavy half globe hanging close to the water. No stars visible behind the snow clouds. A cold rush of air came through the seam of the window like a blade along her thighs. And then the phone rang. Nick no doubt, calling from a bar phone in Red Bank to say Lionel could wait until morning. Wouldn’t it be better to come back and see Lily first? Spend the night with her at Doris’s? As if they hadn’t already discussed it. Half an hour and he was already breaking their agreement. She wouldn’t answer. Anything more could wait. Until she knew her own mind, until she could think straight, certainly until he’d sorted things out with Lionel. He’d promised her. At least that was how she understood all that had happened at the house, a promise. Now she’d wait and see. But the phone kept ringing, like he was some teenage boy with confidence and a crush. Why did she want to laugh. She picked up the phone saying, You’re impossible.

  It was the driver who mispronounced her name, Mrs. Devon? he said. She would tell Lionel this later on. Hello?

  Mrs. Devlin, she said.

  Yes, ma’am. It’s Clifford speaking, ma’am. How are you?

  Clifford?

  Yes, ma’am.

  Who is this? One of Lily’s friends up in the middle of the night making trouble. She’d have his head. Probably one of the boys they saw in Red Bank earlier today, hanging out around the diner. This Clifford sounded colored. How did he get this number?

  Mrs. Devlin?

  I’d like to speak to your mother or father immediately. Please put one of your parents on the telephone. Right away, please.

  Mrs. Devlin? I’m Mr. Byron’s driver? Clifford? Mr. Byron said it was a special favor tonight. He sent me to drive Mr. Devlin to New Jersey. That nice house, on the river and all.

  I’m sorry?

  Yes, I waited mostly in the car, but then took a quick walk around the dock. I hope you don’t mind.

  Hold on, she said, and got up and clicked closed the door, wrapped the light silky quilt around her; she smiled to see herself in the mirror. Nick’s borrowed driver was calling to say Mr. Devlin would like to turn around. She felt the flush on her skin and shook her head. Always the same. Always the same old craziness. But then thought, Well, maybe.

  Clifford?

  Yes, ma’am, I’m right here.

  You can bring Mr. Devlin back. If that’s the question.

  No, ma’am. I’m calling because we’ve been here at the Cheesequake service station for quite some time now. And Mr. Devlin won’t come out of the men’s restroom.

  Won’t?

  I don’t want to make trouble.

  Jean was quiet for a moment. Have you called out to him? Have you gone in to look?

  I can’t really do that, ma’am.

  Why not?

  Clifford was quiet.

  All right. But is there someone else?

  I think Mr. Byron wouldn’t want me to raise a fuss. Make a commotion. If Mr. Devlin just got tired in there and fell asleep. Which is probably the case. He did say he had a headache and wanted a sip of water. But I get someone involved and it becomes a commotion.

  A service attendant?

  No. That’s what Mr. Byron said.

  I see. You spoke with him.

  Yes, ma’am. But fortunately he was awake, too.

  Why had she answered the phone? There must be a way to learn not to answer the phone in the middle of the night. A simple rule. She would enforce it. Soon.

  So Mr. Byron thought, if it isn’t an inconvenience?

  I see, said Jean. All right.

  You’ll come, Mrs. Devlin?

  Yes, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in half an hour.

  Thank you, Mrs. Devlin. That’s good to hear. And if Mr. Devlin chooses to come out of the men’s room before then, I’ll suggest we not leave until you arrive.

  Jean took a breath. Here she was again, running out into the night.

  All right, Clifford. Good-bye.

  She’d forgotten how dark the parkway could be. No other cars for miles and her headlights made a scant light on the blacktop. She felt herself crawling through sludge though the speedometer read sixty, sometimes more. This car that Doris had lent her, an old Pontiac her father never used but had tuned to a boaty feeling she’d never liked. Silent, plush, slow. Why had Doris kept hold of this car? But then Jean remembered the televisions. How they’d fought and she almost laughed. Nick would laugh harder. Little Goebbels he liked to call her. I just like a little order now and then she’d plead. A little sanity. And here she was, sane Jean, plowing up a black highway, breaking up the dark with some feeble old headlamps set too low to reach a husband making a scene in a pull-off gas stop. Usually he liked a bigger audience than a borrowed driver.

  She reminded herself the exit was on the left. She always forgot and she might sail right past and then this night would be truly interminable. But she didn’t need the reminder because two fire trucks, four police cars, and an ambulance were all aflame it seemed as she rounded the bend into their brightness. What poor soul, she wondered, as the ambulance pulled away without any lights spinning. She looked for the accident.

  And inside, in the men’s room Nick was playing a game, but there was no bite in her for him; something was giving inside her, a vicious pain low down. A volunteer in an orange vest flagged her to stop immediately. Signaling fast to roll down her window. Sorry, ma’am. No service. I’ll have to guide you back onto the highway. She was about to comply, when she said her name. She didn’t know why. Mrs. Nick Devlin, she said. I’m Mrs. Nicholas Devlin. He tilted his head without changing his expression. Over here, Mrs. Devlin, and pointed to a spot near the pumps, away from all the emergency vehicles and their spiraling lights. For a half moment she thought Clifford may have told them to expect her. Right over there, ma’am. She was glad she’d worn shoes. Almost, almost, she’d left the house in ballet slippers, and now she’d need to step around all these big trucks and cars and talk to a lot of men before she got to Nick. She was glad she’d worn shoes. And a jacket. Just a red cotton jacket. She buttoned it up and stepped out of the car and walked to the trooper who took off his hat before he began to speak to her.

  27

  Nick’s plane had left London late, then circled the Eastern Seaboard for over an hour before touching down at Kennedy, then sat on the tarmac for another two until a gate came free. On the other side of a long customs line, he was surprised to see Clifford waiting. Tania must have alerted the New York office. Relieved not to deal with a rental, he sank into the back of the maroon limousine. The leather smelled of orange peel and hair tonic. It was Billy Byron’s personal stretch, not from the pool, which was odd.

  He stopped to call Jean at Doris’s after they crossed into New Jersey.
She said go straight to the house. She’d meet him there. At the pull-off, Nick asked Clifford to go all the way down the driveway and then to please wait a moment. He’d find Mrs. Devlin, then Clifford was free to go. One of Clyde’s old cars was parked near the garage, so she must be here. The house was completely dark. There was a bright moon over the water half covered by clouds.

  Aim the headlights at the door, sir?

  I can see, thanks, he said, but actually he couldn’t. He felt as if a thick film had formed over his eyes and he blinked to dispel it. His body sagged with weariness against the dip in the seat. Right, he said and forced himself out.

  The yard was streaked, all white moonlight and gray shadow, but when he got to the back steps he held on to the rail and stopped. The space before him went black as if the strange film had now canceled his sight completely.

  Clifford stepped out of the car. Mr. Devlin? You need help?

  Fine, fine. Nick waved him away. I’m fine. Thank you, Clifford. Give me a minute or two.

  He felt his way up the railing, and then, like nothing, he was out of the blackness and holding fast to the knob of the back door. A porcelain thing with a painted rose and silver edging. Strange for a kitchen door, but a gift from Jean’s father and usually shining.

  He stumbled his way through the dark house, calling out, Sweetheart? Jean? But she wouldn’t answer. He started up the precarious stair, lit bright by the wide Palladian window on the landing. This is where the ghost sat, Lily always said, right at the turn. Thick white rectangles playing on the damaged treads and up the curved banister. Then all went black again.

  He stood and waited. Gripping tight to the old mahogany. What had he taken on the plane? Just some sleeping pills, he thought. Then Clifford gave him something in the car for jet lag, saying that Billy Byron swore by it. Maybe the remedy for this was also in Billy’s car stash. His head began to splinter in pain behind his right eye, and that seemed an improvement; it broke up the dark and there, the rectangles of light were back on the wrecked treads and the satiny comforting feel of the banister opened up in his hand again. Yes, better. He climbed the stairs. Jean? he called out. He heard something drop in Lily’s room and palmed his way down the dark hallway to the door. Jean?