Three Women at the Water's Edge

by Nancy Thayer

  And then their persistence, and their innocence, their unusual way of seeing the world. Dale told the children that she also taught biology, and she tried to explain to them, on their level, what that meant. She said she taught about the way the body worked, and about animals, and about trees and leaves and grass and flowers.

  “Oh, good!” Danny interrupted her, pushing at her, intense. “Then you can tell me why grass is green.”

  Pleased by the question, Dale began to talk about chlorophyll, and the sun, and carbon dioxide, and water, and Danny sat listening to her patiently. “Do you see?” she finished.

  And Danny said, “No. You’ve just told me how grass is green. I want to know why.”

  And there was nothing she could do but to hug him with great affection, and to laugh, and to cop out: “Because God made it that way, I suppose,” she said. “What color would you make the grass?”

  They would make it orange, they would make it pink, they would make it yellow; it was all the same to them. And they got so silly that Dale decided to take them out for a walk, to use up some of their energy. “Come show me your lake,” she said.

  She dressed the children warmly—Daisy had told her about Jenny’s fall illness—and put on her own coat and a pair of Daisy’s rubber boots, and walked out with the children down the sloping backyard to the beach. It was a cold, windy day, but bright with sun and startling with the quick blots of clouds that the wind blew now over the sun, now away. The lake was dancing. Dale watched it, trying to capture its rhythm. Swells began far out and crested and broke, smaller whitecaps rose and fell, and birds swooped. Dale was surprised to see seagulls; she did not realize they lived inland. She walked with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat for warmth, and watched Danny and Jenny as they scurried about on the sand. The far stretch of lake seemed not to interest them at all; several times she tried to call their attention to it—look at the streak of sun on the horizon, see how it glows?—and they would politely agree that it was nice, but then return to their own business, which was scrabbling about in the sand, looking for bright chips of glass or pebbles, or making circles with their fingers or a bit of driftwood in the sand. Why did they so obviously prefer circles and spheres? Dale wondered as she watched. Why was that shape so satisfying to children? For they made it over and over again. But she could not come to a conclusion, and soon they were off, running to try to catch a flock of sandpipers that pecked at the water’s edge.

  The children’s noses began to grow red, and so did their cheeks and hands. It was cold; winter was very much nearby. Dale suggested that they return to the house, but first they begged to throw some stones in the water, and Dale acquiesced. She watched them, she threw rocks herself, and felt strangely pleased to see the concentric circles that spread out in the water each time a rock entered. The children did not seem to notice or care; it was the plop of sound they were interested in, and the drama of a splash; they shrieked with joy if a few drops of water sprang up onto their faces or clothes. It seemed that they were interested in the water only as much as it was close to them, that they were unimpressed by its vastness, or at least that they didn’t want to, or couldn’t, deal with it. But the water within their reach was exciting; Dale could feel how the children longed to walk right into it in spite of the cold, just for the pleasure of entering it, that fascinating, intriguing stuff that was somehow a solid thing like a box, and somehow something moving, like a bird, and somehow something spiritual, like a laugh. Danny and Jenny kept going closer and closer to the water, getting the toes of their boots and then all the boots wet, and then the cuffs of their jeans, and before she knew it they were wet up to their knees. She knew the water had to be very cold, but the children didn’t seem to care. They wanted to go more and more into the water, as if they were entranced. She took them each firmly by a hand and led them away. “You’d better wait until next summer to go swimming,” Dale said. “The water is too cold now. You’d get sick.” But they were reluctant to leave, they dragged their feet and looked back over their shoulders, and Jenny became whiny, and Dale felt irritated until she realized: oh, why, she’s tired and hungry! That’s why she’s acting this way.

  So she got the children into the house and into dry clothes, feeling a sensual satisfaction as she dried their wet pale legs and put them into clean warm dry cotton clothes and sweaters. She put them in front of the TV, as Daisy would have, and brought them plates with peanut butter sandwiches and apples, and they were quite happy, and Dale felt immensely pleased, almost smug. It pleased her too that Daisy was still asleep upstairs, trusting her children and her house to her sister’s care.

  Danny did not have school that day because it was Thanksgiving vacation, so Dale told the children they would have to rest in the TV room, and made them snuggle up at opposite ends of the sofa under blankets to watch a TV show. It was a nice TV show: two young women were in a flawless stage garden singing songs to their audience, trying to teach them songs. There was a puppet, too, and it all seemed quite pleasant. Dale left the children there and went into the kitchen. She made herself a cup of coffee and ate an apple, and then began to work. She cleaned the Play-Doh off the kitchen table and washed the counters, the outside of the refrigerator and stove, wiping away millions of fingerprints. She swept the kitchen floor and then hurriedly washed it with hot water and scented detergent. She became aware of what a bright, cheerful kitchen it was to work in, how agreeably the sun shone in the windows, how really attractively Daisy had painted and wallpapered the room. Then she went through the rest of the house as if seeing it for the first time, dusting and straightening what she could, realizing how lovely Daisy’s house was, how lovely Daisy had made the house. And she suddenly became certain that it was not right for Daisy to have to leave this house, not when it seemed to embrace Daisy and the children so perfectly, not when each room seemed to have such a perfect, salutary function. Daisy and her children fit the house; the house fit them. It was right. It was so right that the very walls were warm with it, so right that even the dust seemed cheerful.

  Dale found the cat curled up in a living room window. She picked the creature up and held it in her arms, to give herself comfort. Then she sank down into a large wicker rocking chair and looked at the room around her. In this room the woodwork was eggshell white, all the woodwork—high ornate ceiling moldings, fireplace moldings scalloped and curved and ridged, doorframes, doors, and the beveled panels of wood and glass bookcases that rose on either side of the front bay window. And Daisy had scraped, and then primed, and then painted—twice—all that complicated woodwork. It was so fine and smooth and clean-looking, the woodwork, and as Dale studied it she saw how it all had the look of a sculpture, of a piece of material that had been painstakingly, lovingly adorned with more than paint, with craft and care and love. The walls were a bright, almost daffodil yellow, and were hung with a wonderful variety of pictures: an enormous bright acrylic in bold fresh greens and pinks and yellows, a dark Chagall poster framed in chrome; blown-up photographs of Danny and Jenny and Daisy and Paul down at the water, with the wind blowing their hair, one with them snuggled all together in the same bed, with toes peeking out of the covers every which way and everyone laughing. (Who, Dale wondered, had taken that picture? For everyone in that photo looked naked.) There were books in the room, and large bright pieces of pottery—a large vase holding peacock feathers, a lamp base with plump naked nymphs floating about on what must have been clouds of marijuana or opium, so sly and silly were their smiles, a large flat bowl in the middle of the coffee table, bright with slashes of blue and pink and green. Of course the bowl held various strange things: a pink rubber pacifier, two safety pins, what appeared to be a plastic replica of the head of Captain Kirk of Star Trek (where was the body?), a fingernail file. And there were the cardboard boxes standing around half full of books and things, large brown cardboard boxes which seemed like mute and tasteless intruders, like nasty deaf secret police who had invaded the house and were
standing about immobile, carrying out their duty to ruin everything, to make everyone miserable. It was wrong for the boxes to be here, Dale thought, and she actively hated the boxes. Here the house was, spreading itself about, harmoniously cluttered with children and toys and the paraphernalia of life, and all of it sheltered by these warm, lovely, loving walls. It was not fair that Daisy should have to leave, it simply was not fair at all. Daisy should not have to leave this house that was so truly her house, and she should not have to leave the access to the lake. Not now.

  Dale rose, restless with annoyance, carefully put the sleeping cat down in the chair, and left the room. She checked on Danny and Jenny—both children had fallen asleep on the sofa, so she adjusted their blankets and then quickly left the family room. The family room; well, the television was there, and the stereo, and it was not as formal a room as the living room, or as large, and the furniture seemed older and less expensive, but still it was a nice bright room, done in bright blues and yellows; it was a cheerful room. The house was a cheerful house, Dale thought, Daisy had been happy when she had worked on it, and this happiness showed in every doorframe and windowsill, in every curtain and rug. Dale shook her head and went into the kitchen to make a big pot of tea.

  —

  Daisy lay in her bedroom staring at the ceiling. She was tired, but she could not sleep. She heard Dale moving through the house and smiled at the sound—oh, it was such a pleasant sound, that of a friendly adult moving capably about the house. She often thought she missed just that, the simple presence of another grown-up human being. It occurred to her that she should go down and help Dale, but she was so tired, and it was so sweet lying still underneath the quilt. Still she could not sleep, and her thoughts drifted away from Dale and focused finally on what Dale had told her.

  Her father. Her daddy. He had always been so strong and optimistic, and she almost could not bear the thought of him as Dale had described him, pitiful and pathetic, burrowed in his grief like some surly animal, almost greedily licking at his wounds. He was better than that. Oh, they’d be a fine pair if he came up for Christmas, Daisy thought, smiling to herself: they could sit by the fire together like a pair of invalids and commiserate. Yes, they would be a fine, maudlin, mawkish pair. For Daisy had all too clearly seen herself in Dale’s description of their father—how many nights over the past month had she sat in a chair or in bed or in the bath, sniffling and crying and thinking over and over again how lonely she was, how afraid. Now she was as irritated with the thought of herself like that as she was at the thought of her father. She would have to hold on to that irritation, Daisy thought, and use it somehow to force herself into a newer mood, into some sort of positive action. But then it seemed her thoughts went into helpless circles: she was five months pregnant, she had two young children, she was lonely, she was afraid—what could she do?

  After a while, she heard Dale climbing the stairs, and she decided that for now she could do at least this much: she could put on a pleasant face. She sat up and smiled.

  “Tea—how nice!” she said.

  Dale sat on the end of Daisy’s bed and together they drank the sweet tea and talked about Daisy’s house. Daisy didn’t have to pretend pleasantness as she talked with Dale; she became almost vivacious as she described all the work she had done.

  “But you haven’t seen the attic yet!” she exclaimed. “Come on, bring your cup up, let me show you!” And she threw back the quilt and went ahead of Dale, moving up the back stairs as lightly as her stomach would allow.

  The attic was a wonderful place, perhaps the most wonderful place in the entire house, because it had once been the servants’ quarters in the days when people had live-in servants. So the original oak woodwork was unpainted, and the walls were papered in lovely old pale-flowered paper, and the windows in each room were leaded and rounded or triangular or oval in shape, and the ceiling slanted down differently in each room, giving the rooms strange and magical shapes, as if they had been cut like diamonds or emeralds into small jewels of rooms. The water view from the windows was quite fantastic; one could see far out onto the horizon. There were four large rooms in the attic, each with built-in wood drawers with large ornate brass pulls. The light fixtures were electric, but looked like candle sconces. There was a delightful bathroom with a shining wood floor and a mammoth white porcelain clawfoot bathtub, and a huge porcelain sink with porcelain taps that said hot and cold in an inky blue. The walls in the bathroom were wainscoting; it was one of the most charming rooms in the house.

  “I love it!” Dale said, wandering through the wide hallway and in and out of each angled, slanted, cozy, elfish room. “If I lived in this house, this is where I’d live!”

  “I know,” Daisy said. “It’s marvelous. But it’s too many stairs for me and the children to climb. Still, it’s a shame to let it sit here empty—Oh, Dale!” Daisy stared at her sister, then rushed into and out of each of the bedrooms.

  “What is it?” Dale asked. “What’s the matter?”

  “Each room has its own radiator,” Daisy said.

  “What?”

  “And each room has its own window, and its own cupboard. Unfortunately there are no closets, but those could be added, or maybe hooks would be sufficient. Dale. Dale! Why couldn’t I rent the attic out as apartments? Or as rooms. Student rooms! Or whatever. Look, a little kitchen could be put in here at the end of the hall, and the bathroom is so large—well, there are four fabulous bedrooms. I could rent them to college students. We’re within easy walking distance of the university. It would have to be all boys, or all girls, but then maybe not, not these days. But I could fix it up, and rent the rooms, and I’m sure I’d make enough money to pay the taxes and perhaps some of the mortgage or some of the fuel bills. Then I could stay here! We wouldn’t have to move!”

  Dale looked at her sister, whose hair was sticking out in frazzled clumps from lying so recently on a pillow, and whose face was pink with excitement. Dale wanted to cry, she found her sister so touchingly hopeful, so vulnerable.

  “It might be a good idea,” she said cautiously. “You’d have to check the cost of putting in a kitchen. And then you’d have to get some furniture—”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Daisy said. “There would be a lot to do. But then I could keep the house—and I’d have people in the house. More life. Young people clattering up and down the stairs, thinking of love or their homework. Oh, yes, Dale, yes! Now. Let’s go through this attic and make a list.”

  —

  But two hours later, as Daisy was driving Dale to the airport, Daisy was crying. Her face was red and blotched. Mrs. Wentworth had called shortly after lunch to say that an offer had been made on the house, a good offer; could Daisy please come down to the real estate office at four that afternoon so that she could explain it to her and to Mr. Mitchell at the same time?

  Daisy had taken her children to her friend Karen’s house; Karen would keep them while Daisy took Dale to the airport and then went on to the real estate office. So there was nothing cheerful in the car; the backseat seemed only a filthy backseat, without any sign of energetic joy, and the front seat was absolutely dismal. Daisy cried; Dale felt hopeless.

  “The bastard,” Daisy was saying. “The bastard. Oh God, Dale, never trust a man, never. Marriage is a pack of lies. Love is a nasty trick. No wonder mothers cry at weddings; they’re thinking of all the misery their daughters will face in the future. And these damned deceitful songs! Someone should murder Barry Manilow!”

  Daisy hit the radio with her gloved fist so hard that Dale was afraid she had broken it, but the violins, the tender masculine voice, the surging of desire continued to flow out from the radio like a river that Daisy’s worst wrath could not stop.

  “These love songs that make women mushy and weak. Love! Sex! What tricks! What lies! All those times Paul held me in his arms, telling me how he loved me, how I possessed his soul, how my slightest touch moved him so greatly, how he was no longer afraid of death because h
e had experienced the best life had to offer—why do people say such things! We should all have our tongues cut out. All we can talk is foolishness and lies. What are we anyway, what are people? Fucking machines. That’s all it’s really about. At least that’s all men are about. Oh, Dale, I married the wrong person, everyone marries the wrong person. I wanted a family, I wanted a big house full of children and Sunday picnics—I wanted to be the goddamned Brady Bunch. Instead I’m just an old wrecked divorced woman, and I’ve got to give love to all these little children, and there’s no one around to give love to me. Oh, damn Paul, why did he stop loving me? Or what’s wrong with nature, why doesn’t it involve the man equally in the child-rearing thing, why don’t women carry the babies but men nurse them or something? It just does not work out the way it is now, it just does not work. Why couldn’t Paul love the children the way I do, and be involved with them the way I am, and have his sexual energies channeled toward them—for just a few years? This way is so lopsided, so unfair. Or I should have been Victorian; then he would have had to stay married to me, I could have kept the house, he could have screwed around on the side, I would have had ten children and been happy. Oh, Dale, Dale, never fall in love, never get married, it’s all a farce, it’s all a bad joke.” Daisy had to stop talking to blow her nose.

  “Daisy,” Dale said, taking advantage of her sister’s momentary silence, “don’t be so upset.” Although Daisy’s words had upset Dale more than she could say, more than Daisy could guess. “Look. Be sensible. That house is enormous, and would be difficult for you to keep up. There are lots of lovely smaller homes in Milwaukee, and homes in neighborhoods where there will be other children for Danny and Jenny to play with. They will probably be happier somewhere else. And you’ll be less exhausted; just think of all the energy it takes just to get from your bedroom down through that huge house into the kitchen. You’ll find another, smaller house that you like better; you know you will. And then you’ll have your lovely new baby, and you can just totally devote yourself to your children and have a lovely gooey time like you have talked about so much. And then in a year or two you can start losing weight, and you’ll meet new men, you know you will, you are beautiful, Daisy, really you are. And just because Paul wasn’t a good father, a good husband, well, that doesn’t mean all men are bad. All men can’t be bad; come on, Daisy, that doesn’t make sense. Men are people. Men can be good. And lots of people can have good, fine, solid marriages. Don’t be so despairing. You’re young, you aren’t even thirty yet, and you’ve got two wonderful wonderful children, oh, Daisy, I love Danny and Jenny so much, you’re so lucky to have them! Stop beating at yourself, try to be optimistic, try to be cheerful, it will all work out, it will.”