Guests of August

by Gloria Goldreich

  ‘Have you talked to Annette about it?’

  Susan smiles wearily. ‘I tried. She just laughed at me and asked what century I was living in. Jeff finally left one of these books that a gynecologist wrote specifically for teenage girls on her bed. If she read it, she didn’t mention it. But I didn’t worry too much because she hangs out with a nice crowd of kids at school and there was never any special guy. They go everywhere as a group. But you know there’s always been a kind of chemistry between her and Paul Epstein and here at the inn they’re together constantly. We’ve been here for a day and already they’re off together. I don’t want to be the paranoid, nagging mother, but in fact I am frightened and I do want to nag. She’s so young, so vulnerable. Helene, did Mom ever talk to you about things like that? I mean sex stuff, the dos and don’ts.’

  The question is hesitant and takes Helene by surprise. Her heart beats faster and she struggles to find an answer that will not be laced with the bitterness she has struggled for years to overcome.

  ‘Our mother?’ she asks at last and amends the question with a laugh she knows to be too harsh. ‘Susan, you have to be kidding. I’m not the daughter she would have discussed something like that with. She wouldn’t have cared enough. Don’t you remember how it was with us? With Mom and me?’

  ‘I remember. Of course I remember,’ Susan says softly and Helene wills herself to accept her sister’s words as an apology of a kind although of course it is not Susan’s fault that she was the favored daughter.

  Neither of them can forget their mother but it is only Helene who cannot forgive her. She is haunted still, in dream and memory, by that long-faced, narrow-eyed woman, her features distorted by an irrational anger which she vented only on her younger daughter. Even in the days before her illness, Helene, the child she had never planned to conceive, had been the target of the wild rages that erupted without warning. She shrilled that it was Helene who had caused her father’s death, burdening him with financial worries, always asking him for extra money for her art supplies, her art lessons, always cloying at him with her hungry need for attention. So spoiled, so selfish. It was Helene’s arm that she twisted when a plate was broken, Helene’s face that she slapped when a bed was left unmade, Helene whom she forced out of the house without a coat during a blizzard because she had forgotten to buy milk on her way home from school. Susan, calm and golden haired, was mysteriously exempt from her abuse, favored only with her fierce admonitions. The world was a dangerous place. No one could be trusted. Friends betrayed you. Men had secret and dark agendas. Her own husband had deserted her when he died. All men lacked fidelity. Susan, so beautiful, so trusting, had to be careful. Susan had retreated into her bedroom, closing the door firmly against her mother’s fury and her sister’s misery.

  Later, when cancer darkened her life, their mother accused Helene of causing the carcinoma, shouting, in the delirium of pain, that even in utero Helene had been a restless, demanding baby, kicking angrily against the wall of the womb throughout that difficult, unwanted pregnancy.

  ‘Cancer-giver!’ she had shouted, writhing in agony, and the hospice nurse turned to the sisters and whispered, ‘Don’t be upset. It’s not her talking. It’s the pain.’

  But the sisters knew her to be wrong. It was their mother’s voice they heard. The words had preceded the pain.

  It is her voice that resonates in memory, even in these happier days of their womanhood as they walk on in sorrow-rimmed silence. Before they reach the cemetery at the end of the road they pause, as always, in the wild meadow to pluck bouquets of flowers. They fill their arms with the last brave blossoms of summer, long-stemmed asters, sprays of golden rod, small clusters of dark-hearted rogue roses. Holding their floral offerings close, they open the rusting cemetery gate and walk slowly down the rows of graves. They pause before a headstone, new since their visit the year before, its ground cover of dark soil studded with nubs of plantings that will not sprout for another year. Helene reads the inscription aloud.

  ‘Miles Henderson. Beloved Husband, Father and Grandfather. Protector of His Nation and His Family.’ They are silent in deference to Miles Henderson whose life has been reduced to these few words by chisel and mallet.

  Helene stoops and places a scarlet wild rose on the grave. Granules of moist earth cling to the hem of her colorful skirt. Susan brushes them off. They are both mindful that they do not visit their mother’s grave, that they brought no flowers to her burial. This tender offering to an unknown stranger somehow assuages their odd guilt. They continue on their way, their shadows falling darkly across the sunlit slabs.

  ‘What does Jeff say about Annette?’ Helene asks.

  It is a cautious query. Her sister’s husband, she senses, has never quite approved of her or of Greg. She supposes it is because their careless lives, their carefree pasts, are an affront to his own calibrated agenda. That thought, unbidden, etches her question with acidity.

  ‘Jeff?’ Susan repeats her husband’s name as though it is foreign to the emotional equation she has asked her sister to solve. ‘He’s hardly ever home. His schedule at the hospital, his meetings, his research. And when he is with us, he’s exhausted. I talk but I’m never sure he’s listening. Sometimes I feel as though I’m living with a ghost. I know that it’s the craziness of our schedules, the constant demands of the kids – most of which I take care of because he’s at the hospital and I’m at home. But I can’t complain. I opted for translation because I could do it at my own pace and in my own home. It was my choice and I don’t regret it. I promised myself, when I became pregnant, that I would be a mother who was there and who cared, a good mother. Because I knew what it was like to have a bad mother. Mom couldn’t help it, I suppose. She was who she was. I try to understand. She was bitter, disappointed, angry, always at war with the world, at war with herself. I’m sorry for her now, the way I was sorry for her then, but there’s no avoiding the truth. She was a bad mother.’

  Helene nods but she remains silent.

  They reach the far end of the graveyard. The dead of centuries past are buried here, the veterans of distant wars who fought on southern battlefields and across distant oceans buried now in the New Hampshire town of their birth. Small, faded American flags, remnants of Independence Day or perhaps death day visits, are planted in the friable earth. Here too are the graves of women, mothers and wives, sisters and friends. Aged cedars shelter weathered gravestones, their granite worn thin over the decades, pocked by onslaughts of hail and sleet, gently brushed by low-hanging pine trees. The sisters read the fading epitaphs. Susan braids her long-stemmed asters and places them atop the grave of Gertrude Thompson, 1801–1860, Beloved Mother. A smaller gravestone, abutting Gertrude Thompson’s, reads Prudence Thomson 1820–1821. Our Beloved Babe. Susan scrapes away the dirt that encrusts the cursive carved letters and Helene, stooping to crown the tiny headstone with a spray of goldenrod, sees that her sister’s eyes are bright with tears.

  ‘You are a good mother, Susan,’ she says softly. ‘A wonderful mother. You were brave. I’m a coward, you know. Afraid to have children because I didn’t want to be like her.’

  ‘But it’s not too late,’ Susan says softly. ‘And you don’t have to worry. You could never be like her. Trust yourself, Helene.’

  Kneeling then, before the grave of Lesley Green, A friend who was like a sister according to the inscription, the sisters, themselves so newly bonded in friendship, join hands, and slowly, fingers linked, they make their way back to the inn and walk across the lawn, shading their eyes in search of their husbands. Helene spies Greg, strumming his guitar, and waves to him.

  ‘Jeff must be in our room,’ Susan says, but even as she speaks Jeff and Polly emerge from the red-brick building, both of them smiling, Jeff’s head lowered as though to better hear what Polly is saying. Susan stares at them and walks away, her cheeks burning, her heart heavy. She does not turn as Jeff hurries after her, almost colliding with Simon Epstein.

  ‘What’s his hurry
?’ Simon asks, sliding into the chair next to Nessa, who sits with her legs curled.

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ Nessa replies. ‘Are you done dispensing sage advice?’ Michael Curran, she notes, is still carrying his briefcase, a ludicrous burden for a man dressed in ill-fitting plaid Bermuda shorts and a faded red tennis shirt.

  Michael waves to her and heads toward the play area where the small boys are building a fort using stones and fallen branches. He smiles at his son and Cary, without breaking pace, waves to him and sets a large rock in place. Michael sets down his briefcase and claps. Nessa, the early childhood educator, accustomed to reading parents’ faces and gestures, nods approvingly. Michael Curran is clearly a man who loves his son.

  ‘Curran’s a bright guy,’ Simon replies. ‘He moved too fast but he’s on to a good thing. He just needs some capital infusion. I’m going to talk to Mark Templeton about it. Hey, I got a call from Tracy. She and Richie are driving up for lunch. They both have the afternoon off. That OK with you?’

  ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?’

  His question surprises her. She has never found it difficult to deal with Simon’s son and daughter and even her relationship with Charlotte, their mother, is untinged by anxiety. She considers Simon’s failed first marriage to be a closed chapter, a remnant of his discarded past which, except for Tracy and Richie’s occasional visits, barely impacts on their shared present. He has told her, and she believes him, that when he and Charlotte meet, he feels only indifference. She thinks of her friend Myra, long divorced, who confided that she had encountered her ex-husband in a restaurant and had difficulty recalling who he was and how their lives had been linked. Marriages end, relationships wither, some ex-wives, ex-husbands, become barely remembered specters.

  It is entirely possible, she thinks, that their friend Daniel Goldner, so newly wounded, his shoulders bowed beneath the weight of a loss still fresh and raw, will one day see Laura and, like Simon, he will feel neither pain nor pleasure. She has always been fond of Daniel, has always felt protective of him. She resists the urge to hold him close as she often does with a nursery school child who has suffered a grievous hurt, real or imagined. The thought amuses her; she ponders the weight of his head against her body and laughs at the absurdity of the image.

  She straightens her legs and Simon reaches out and tickles her toes, mischievously stroking each varicolored toenail until she collapses with laughter.

  Mark Templeton looks up from his book and Andrea Templeton sets down her needlepoint. They turn in their chairs and stare at Simon and Nessa, mystified by their merriment, not unlike bemused tourists from a silent world where spontaneous joy is unknown. Wendy, however, shakes her head so that her dark hair brushes her cheeks and smiles approvingly. As does Daniel Goldner who emerges from the inn, pauses for a moment and then walks toward his friends, straining to think of a comment that will evoke amusement and easy rapport.

  SIX

  They assemble for lunch, newly relaxed, eased into their new leisure. Louise Abbot flutters about the sun-filled dining room smoothing tablecloths, rearranging place settings, centering the vases of freshly picked flowers.

  The room hums with murmured conversations, now and again punctuated by bursts of soft laughter. The kitchen door swings open and shut as dishes are carried in and out, bread baskets replenished, fallen silverware replaced. The guests of August are content on this first day of their vacation. They wear the mantle of their new leisure lightly.

  Plans are being made for the weeks ahead. A day trip to the White Mountains. A sail on Lake Winnipesaukee. Blueberry picking. Whitewater rafting. The Concord outlets. Familiar names and activities emit frissons of anticipatory pleasure. Greg Ames unfurls a map of New Hampshire and Jeff opens a guidebook and studies it, avoiding Susan’s gaze.

  Matt looks anxiously at his father and then at his mother. He wants them to talk to each other. This new silence between his parents makes him as uneasy as the constant bickering of his older sister and brother who, even now, are glaring at each other. But Jeremy and Annette, as brother and sister, are bonded forever while husbands and wives, he knows, often part ways. Matt has three classmates whose parents have divorced. They come to school on Fridays, lugging bulging knapsacks. They are gypsy children, migrating from one parent to another. Matt does not want to be such a child. He struggles to engage his parents, to build a conversational bridge between them.

  ‘Mom, Dad, come and see our fort after lunch.’

  ‘Mom, what’s the French word for “fort”?’

  ‘Hey, Dad, were there hospitals in forts?’

  They offer monosyllabic answers.

  ‘Yes. Maybe.’

  ‘Fortresse. The French is almost like the English.’

  ‘Not hospitals. Maybe sick bays.’

  His parents do not look at each other as they offer their separate answers. Jeremy and Annette spar briefly over the last remaining roll. Defeated, Matt finishes his meal, pushes his chair back and joins Cary, who is racing toward Donny’s table.

  The small boys chatter about the fort they are building, putting forth new ideas.

  Wendy is grateful that Donny has these friends, that they are engaged on this project. She appreciates Daniel Goldner’s entry into their conversation as he tells them about the fort he and Simon built years ago, how they fortified it with stones carried up from the lake. He is a kind man, she decides, and she flashes him a smile.

  ‘You could paint the stones,’ Wendy tells Donny as Matt and Cary are summoned back to their parents’ tables for dessert. ‘That could be fun. Shall I drive to the craft store with Grandma and Grandpa and pick up some paint?’

  ‘Gee, that would be great.’ Donny’s face lights up and he is again out of his seat and off to share this new idea with Matt and Cary.

  ‘I couldn’t do that today.’ Andrea’s voice is dry. ‘I feel a headache coming on.’

  ‘I’ve already arranged to meet with Simon Epstein,’ Mark adds.

  Wendy feels the stirrings of anger at their indifference. These August weeks that she and Donny spend with Adam’s parents, this orchestrated celebration of her husband’s life in the month of his birth and of his death, is a stupid pretense, a sentimental charade, an on-demand drama crafted by her manipulative mother-in-law, that well-groomed mistress of secrets and lies.

  Louise, sensing the tension, excuses herself and goes into the kitchen. Evan does not excuse himself but simply leaves the table. Mark pours a second cup of coffee for himself and smiles grimly at Andrea.

  ‘Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down, my dear?’ he asks.

  ‘In a few minutes,’ Andrea says very softly, as though the sound of her own voice will trigger pain.

  Daniel Goldner peels a green apple, his gaze wandering from the haughty older couple to their gentle daughter-in-law. He is puzzling out the strange dynamic that impels their annual ritual. They are clearly not bound by affection or a commonality of interest. They are, simply, mutually bereft. Adam Templeton, he knows, died when Donny was a toddler. For how long then, he wonders, does the sorrow of loss linger, enmeshing abandoned survivors? He realizes, with surprise, that for the first time in days, he has not thought about Laura and his own loss. It is Wendy Templeton’s controlled anger, the soft sadness of her eyes that intrigues him.

  ‘I’ll drive over to the craft store with you,’ he offers. ‘My bike or your car?’

  ‘My car. I’m kind of afraid of bikes. But then I’m a bit afraid of cars as well. Although accidents can happen anywhere,’ she replies, and realizes she has said too much.

  Andrea pales, stares at her daughter-in-law and rises from her seat. How insensitive of Wendy to speak of her fear of cars, to spirit them so heedlessly into the sphere of Adam’s death.

  ‘Please excuse me. I really must lie down.’

  She does not look at Wendy. Walking too swiftly, she nearly collides with Tracy and Richie Epstein who burst through the door in a whirl of movement and laughter.


  Shrugging with annoyance, Andrea continues on her way as the two young people dash to their family’s table, laughing and talking, their faces brushed with summer’s brightness, their voices electric with excitement.

  Tracy’s many silver bracelets jangle. Richie’s long legs are a flash of bronze against his snow-white tennis shorts. Their energy – their frenetic greetings, exuberant hugs for their father and for Paul, their half-brother, dutiful affectionate cheek kisses for Nessa, their stepmother – changes the ambience of the room but there is no annoyance in the glances that are trained on them. The children of Simon Epstein’s first marriage, his handsome son and his beautiful daughter, leaping so gracefully toward adulthood, are not strangers at Mount Haven Inn and they are welcomed with admiring affection.

  Extra chairs and place settings are brought to the table and Richie and Tracy fill their plates, nodding pleasantly at Louise Abbot who hurries over to their table, beaming her pleasure at their arrival.

  ‘So nice that you could come for lunch,’ she says.

  ‘Hey, we’re here for more than lunch,’ Tracy says. ‘We didn’t have time to call, Dad, but the camp shut down. Three cases of measles. Richie spoke to Mom and she’s tied up with runway shows or something, so she told us to drive straight up here and she’d be in touch. It’s OK for us to stay, isn’t it?’

  She asks her question of Simon but she turns to Louise, her smiling face radiant with the certainty that she will not be denied.

  ‘Louise?’ Simon asks apologetically.

  He knows that the inn is full, that Louise managed to accommodate Daniel only because of a cancellation. (And, of course, because he was Daniel.)

  ‘We’ll manage something,’ she replies. She is already calculating the extra income that two more guests will bring and assessing her options. There are two tiny bedrooms and a small bath in the loft of the red outbuilding that Evan considers his study. They can house Tracy and Richie there. Evan will not like it, but she no longer cares about what Evan likes or does not like. She hurries off to speak to Polly about cleaning the rooms and making the beds. And towels. She sighs. Adolescents use so many towels.