Montauk

by Nicola Harrison

  “Harry?” I whipped off the covers and sat on my knees staring in the direction of the movement. My eyes were focusing now and I could make out a shape. I felt my throat tighten and my breath tremble as I reached for the lamp on the nightstand, but in my haste I knocked it over.

  “Harry, is that you?”

  I stood up and managed to get the lamp upright and switched it on. Harry was sitting on the edge of the unopened trunk he’d had moved to the room; he was swaying slightly but staring straight ahead at the doorway in a daze, eyes fixed but dull, almost dead-looking. Lying across his lap, clenched tightly with both hands, was his shotgun. He was tapping the barrel with his thumbnail.

  “Harry, what on earth are you doing?” I instinctively wrapped my arms across my stomach and inched backwards away from him, glancing up at the door and noticing the dead bolt. He started mumbling something that I couldn’t make out. I’d seen him drunk before but not like this. It was as if he didn’t know I was there.

  “Harry, sweetheart,” I tried, softer this time. I was petrified. “What are you doing over there?”

  “We’re having a baby,” he said quietly, almost whispering. “It’s the most wonderful news.” He sounded delirious. He picked up the gun and began looking at it closely, examining it. My God, I thought, what if he’s already done something? What’s if he’s hurt Thomas? What if he saw him leave my room and he went after him?

  “Put the gun down, Harry,” I said. “You must be tired; you should try to sleep.” I had backed myself up against the chest of drawers.

  “Harry,” I said again, and this time he looked at me, piercingly, as if it were the first time he’d realized I was in the room. His stare startled me and I didn’t know what to say or do next. I stood there frozen. For the first time I thought he might actually turn the gun on me.

  “It’s not mine, is it?” His voice was dark and low. He didn’t even blink; he just kept his eyes on mine. I didn’t dare breathe, let alone move.

  “What?” I managed to say something, the word leaving my mouth as if of its own accord.

  “Is the baby mine, Beatrice?” All of a sudden his words were clear. Dark and terrifyingly somber but clear and precise.

  “What are you talking about, Harry? How could you ask me such a thing? I’m your wife.” I started to put one foot in front of the other and move toward him. My whole body trembled, but I kept moving forward.

  “You’ve had such a long day,” I said, my shaking hands reaching out toward him. “The hunt isn’t for a few more hours.” I placed the palm of my hand on his cheek and left it there for a moment, taking a deep breath, trying to remain calm. He felt cold. Then I put both my hands next to his on the long metal shotgun and I lifted it out of his lap. He didn’t let go and we held it between us, equal weight, neither one having a firmer grasp than the other, but as I kept lifting it away from him he gradually loosened his grip, until eventually he uncurled his fingers completely and let them drop into his lap. His head followed, dropping into his hands, curling into himself completely, and he began to sob. I stood a few feet away from him now, startled and in shock; then I walked the gun over to the other side of the room and put it under my side of the bed. He wept, the sounds only muffled by his hands, and I approached him once again.

  “It’s all right, Harry,” I said. “It’s going to be okay.” I put my hand on his head and felt him shaking. I couldn’t bear to hear him cry. It was all just terribly sad and too much to fathom. I smoothed his hair down the back of his head and when I did he wrapped his arms around my thighs, his cheek pressed to my stomach, his tears soaking my nightgown. I stood there, motionless, letting him cry until he seemed to run out of energy. When his sobs gave way to deep breaths, then more subdued breathing, I inched away from him slowly and he began to sit up.

  “Go to bed, Harry; you don’t want to miss the hunt in the morning.”

  He nodded and made his way toward the bed, head down, as if ashamed. Then he climbed under the covers and closed his eyes. His face was red from crying, but he still looked handsome, lying there, that same chiseled chin and jawline, the golden skin and hair. The image of a man. Within minutes he was breathing shallowly, already caught in the warm and healing arms of sleep.

  * * *

  I sat in the chair in the corner of the room most of the night. I couldn’t bring myself to turn off the light. I wanted to know what had gone through his head, what his intention had been. He had sat on that trunk with a shotgun in his hands. He was just drunk, I told myself; he didn’t know what he was doing. But then I remembered how clear his words had been toward the end. My hands began to tremble at the thought of Harry knowing the truth.

  Finally, around 4:00 a.m., my body ached from sitting upright, so I lay on top of the bedcovers and allowed my eyes to close.

  * * *

  The next morning I forgot, for a second, that my room wasn’t my own. I stretched and thought about Thomas in my arms the night before. Harry’s hunting gear and the shotgun were gone, his tuxedo thrown over the chair, so I stayed in bed, slept on and off and got up only to bathe, letting myself soak in the hot water for what felt like hours. When I got out, dressed and walked into the bedroom Harry was back. I just about gasped out loud to see him.

  “Good morning,” he said almost cheerfully. “How did you sleep?”

  “Fine,” I said, but I could barely speak. My throat felt dry and raspy. I stood still and watched him unbutton his jacket and place it on the back of the chair. He ran his hands through his hair, looking ragged and regretful, but he kept on forcing a smile when he looked over to me. “How about you?” I said. “Did you manage to sleep?”

  “I did. I’m a bit tired, but the hunt and the fresh air helped a lot.”

  “Good.” I kept watching his face for signs of what to expect next, or what he might say.

  “To be honest, I barely remember the end of the night,” he said, glancing at me a little sheepishly.

  “Did you win anything?” I asked, trying to sound normal. Was that something I would have asked before? I could hardly remember anything from before. He looked confused. “You were playing blackjack.”

  “I’m sure I lost a hell of a lot of money. Absurd to play when you’re not in tip-top shape. Absurd of me really. But I had good reason to celebrate.” He smiled cautiously as if asking permission. Something in him had softened and I couldn’t tell if he was just pretending that last night hadn’t happened or if he really couldn’t remember it.

  “You’re going to be a fine mother,” he said.

  “Thank you.” I managed to press my lips into something that resembled a smile.

  “Are you scared?” he asked.

  I watched him for a moment and he watched me, waiting.

  “Yes,” I said. “A little.”

  “You’ll be fine, Beatrice. Just fine.” He walked over and awkwardly patted my arm, took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. “Listen,” he said; then there was a knock at the door. “Oh, I ordered breakfast.”

  A waiter delivered a tray of eggs, toast, a selection of preserves and coffee on a wheeled silver tray.

  “I thought you’d prefer breakfast in the room.”

  “Thank you.” We sat down. He didn’t continue his train of thought and I didn’t encourage him to.

  “So we’ll need to start looking for a nanny,” he said. “And we should plan a trip to see my parents as soon as we get back so we can tell them the news. Have you told your mother and father?”

  “No,” I said, keeping my eyes on the breakfast cart.

  “Of course my mother will want to be greatly involved, but you know her. She doesn’t change diapers; she said she was finished with that decades ago!”

  “I remember.”

  “You should talk to Jeanie; she’s got an army of nannies; the children don’t seem to interfere with their social life too much,” he said. “Talk to her, get some tips.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Harry poured some coffe
e and gulped it down. “I’m going up by old Fisher’s mansion for archery after breakfast. And this afternoon we’re going to sign the papers on that building in town. What do you have on the books?”

  We had barely spoken, let alone told each other our whereabouts, all summer long and it seemed strange that I should have to tell him my plans now. I was taken aback. Yet somewhere, in the very back of my heart and in the corner of my mind, I acknowledged that he was doing the best he could, given the circumstances. He ate a few bites of toast, waited a moment, then stood up, put his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor. I felt I owed him something.

  “What am I doing? A walk perhaps, to get some fresh air.”

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s supposed to rain this afternoon, or at least it looks that way, so best to get out there soon.” I nodded. “Make sure you eat something.” He took off the silver dome keeping the eggs warm. The smell turned my stomach.

  “I’ll start with toast,” I said, placing the cover back over the eggs.

  “All right.” He hovered a little at the door as though he might say something else. But what was there to say, really? The trying, the hint of kindness, after everything, after he hadn’t cared for far too long, after I’d fallen in love with someone else—it was all too late.

  “I’ll be back for lunch then,” he said, and he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  * * *

  I did walk, hashing my way through brambles and long grass and over fences. It was as if I were looking for something to fight with. Anything I could wrangle with so I could get my mind off the Manor, my marriage and even my pregnancy, just for a little while. I needed a break from it all—a few moments when I wasn’t turning it over in my head again and again. But I couldn’t escape, no matter how far I walked or how aggressively I pushed through the nature that seemed to be telling me not to go farther. A thorn scratched all the way up my forearm and beads of blood rose to the surface, but I didn’t slow down. I didn’t know if it was pity, if it was guilt or if it was just that I felt Harry’s hurt, but suddenly things didn’t seem as simple as I’d played them out in my mind. When I reached an open cattle field the cows started objecting loudly, protecting their calves. I kept on. Harry had made his choices. I didn’t want to hurt him, I just wanted to be free, I wanted the chance of happiness, but the guilt managed to seep in anyway.

  36

  Everyone congratulated us about the baby on Sunday night. Harry linked my arm through his and proudly paraded me around and stopped to thank everyone for the kind words and wishes. It felt awful.

  Dinner was at the Trail’s End Restaurant and our group took over the entire place. The men were particularly jovial and heavy-handed with the drinks from the get-go. Ordinarily, around that time on a Sunday evening they’d be getting off the train back in the city and starting to think about Monday morning at the office, but since this was the last weekend of summer, most of them stayed in Montauk with their families. The waiters had rearranged the tables in the small, home-style restaurant from several two- and four-tops to three long tables that stretched down the entire length of the place. Our dinner companions were basically everyone we knew: Dolly and Clark, Jeanie and Cecil, Clarissa and Mitchel and the rest of Jeanie’s crew. Winthrop and his wife and a handful of their boating friends were there as well as the Fisher investors, a group that had grown since I’d seen them last. Fisher’s luck was reported to be taking an even more ominous turn. He was not only bankrupt, he was now sick as well and quite a few others wanted in on the action. They smelled blood and wanted to get their hands in the pot.

  “I heard that Fisher is so ill he’s given up on traditional doctors and is seeing a veterinarian,” one of the investors said.

  “Apparently he’s suffering from cirrhosis and has to have twenty pounds of fluid drained from his body a week,” said another.

  “Sure, because he’s drinking that much in alcohol.”

  “If someone had twenty pounds of fluid drained from his body every week there’d be nothing left of him.”

  “There would if he kept replenishing.” They all laughed.

  “Honestly, he’s so desperate, he’s seeing a veterinarian!”

  “My God,” Harry chimed in. “What a pathetic end to a wealthy and successful man. Just about ten years ago he was worth one hundred million dollars.”

  “Before he built up Miami there was no way in hell anyone would have bought land down there. You couldn’t give it away.”

  “It was the hurricane that ripped the place to shreds—that’s how he lost all his money.”

  Harry spoke again: “That’s when he started building up here, borrowing against the places he had down there.”

  “The crash didn’t help him.”

  “Lucky us.” The investor next to Harry laughed.

  Here were these rich men from the city who’d been reaping the benefits of Montauk all summer long. Hunting its fowl and game, lying on the beautiful beaches, swimming in the pools, ocean and lakes, feasting on its cattle, sailing its waters, mooring their boats in the bays and yacht clubs, all of which would have been impossible if it hadn’t been for this guy, and they were mocking him for a lifetime of investment and vision. Unlike some of the other beaches we’d visited in Miami and even in France, where large, ugly hotels had been constructed, ruining the coastline, obscuring the view, Fisher had developed Montauk without ruining its beauty. He had enhanced it and made it more accessible, but there were still vast untouched beaches, acres and acres of land that were preserved for hunting and hiking, and the fishing village.

  “Don’t you think you’re all being a bit crass about a man who’s on his deathbed?” I said.

  “How awfully sympathetic of you,” Jeanie chimed in from the other end of the table, joining a conversation that she hadn’t been part of before I piped up—as if she was waiting to pounce the moment I spoke. “Do you always have a soft spot for the dead and dying?”

  I turned back to the offending men. “We should all just remember that we wouldn’t have had this summer if Fisher hadn’t developed Montauk.”

  “I still would have had this summer,” Harry’s investment partner said. “It just would have been in Newport or Cape Cod instead.” His jowls shook with laughter and he pounded the table with his hand, sending his drink spilling over the edge of the glass.

  “Perhaps we should all be a bit more grateful,” I said.

  “Steady on, Beatrice,” Harry said, glaring at me. “Who are you to complain? You’ve been out here all summer long sunning yourself.”

  “It’s all right, Harry,” the man said. “I am grateful, Beatrice; I’m grateful that he’s drinking himself to death and that he’s desperate to sell up all of Montauk for a cheap dime. I’m very grateful because he’s making us all very rich men—and women.” He tipped his hat to me.

  “Hear, hear.” The table all raised a glass. “To Fisher!”

  * * *

  These vultures devouring the carcass before he was even dead struck me as disgraceful and ugly. Lies were everywhere. Jeanie patronizing Cecil, smoothing down his hair, while her lover sat opposite with his arm casually draped around his wife’s shoulder. Harry intent on taking credit for a child who couldn’t possibly be his. Jeanie blackmailing me to get her name in the paper so that Winthrop would add to her prestige with the March of Dimes appointment. And me. Sitting there with a child growing inside me, a plan to leave my husband, all the while giving off false pretenses that I’d be returning to the city along with the rest of the city folk, when all I could really think about was sneaking off to the lighthouse so I could climb into the bed and arms of my lover. It was all lies. Deceit.

  I excused myself to go to the powder room and splashed my face with cold water.

  “Are you quite all right there, Beatrice?” Jeanie followed me in.

  “Fine, thanks, Jeanie,” I said, dabbing my skin dry.

  “Say, I believe congratulations are in order. I heard you a
re in the family way. Harry must be thrilled.”

  “Yes,” I said, not looking at her. “Thank you.”

  “You know, I haven’t heard from you about your progress with the newspaper profile,” she said. “As you can see, we are quite close with Winthrop and the choice to select me for the March of Dimes is going to be very clear. But I need that profile to appear in print as soon as possible. Do you have something for me?”

  I looked at her stone faced. I had given a lot of thought to the piece I was supposed to write and I’d halfheartedly attempted to put pen to paper about her for Mr. Rosen, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything nice. She was beastly to everyone and didn’t deserve the favor.

  “Do you have something for me or not, Beatrice? Because I just don’t know how much longer I can keep your little lighthouse escapades a secret.” She threw up her hands. “It’s quite a lot to keep to myself. Especially now that there’s the baby to think of. I’m just wondering how Harry would take it.”

  I thought I might explode. I could have slapped her right across the face, but I managed to regain control of myself, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring instead. “I have something for you, Jeanie; I do. I’ll be sure to leave it with you before the end of the night,” I said, and then I walked out and returned to my seat at the table.

  I barely touched the dinner of scalloped potatoes and lamb chop and I couldn’t eat the dessert either.

  “Are you not feeling well?” Harry asked at the end of the meal, a crease of concern on his brow. “I thought you loved lemon syllabub.”

  “I’m nauseated,” I said, and wasn’t lying for the first time in ages. “Very nauseated, actually. I think I’ll get George to drop me back at the Manor.”

  Most of those at the table had moved to the bar area while the waiters cleared away the plates. Harry got up to go over to join them. “I’ll see you back in the room then,” he said.