Guests of August

by Gloria Goldreich

  ‘I don’t know whether to be relieved or sad,’ Susan replies. ‘It’s been a complicated couple of weeks for us.’

  ‘The Polly business?’ Helene’s question is cautious. She is always and forever the younger sister, conscious of boundaries, wary of trespass.

  ‘The Polly business. The Jeff business. The Susan business. What I said. What I should have said. His moods. What he said. What he should have said. A lot of stuff to work out. If we can work it out.’

  ‘You will.’ Helene grips her hand, the small-girl gesture of reassurance resurrected. ‘I have faith in you. And I hope you have faith in me.’

  She smiles enigmatically, a smile Susan remembers, Helene’s smile when she had a secret, a happy secret, ripe enough to be shared. Just as she had smiled when she told Susan about her scholarship to art school, when she won the grant that allowed her to go off to Europe. Just as she had smiled when she swooped down on Susan and Jeff and told them that she and Greg, her wonderful vagabond companion, had decided to get married.

  Susan pauses, plucks a long stalk of grass and turns expectantly to her sister. ‘Of course I have faith in you. But is there any particular reason you’ll need it?’ she asks, although she is almost certain that she knows the answer.

  ‘I’m late. I’ve never been late before and now I am. And I’m pretty sure it means – and I want it to mean – you know …’ Her voice trails off but her smile widens.

  ‘Of course I know. It probably means that you’re at least two minutes pregnant,’ Susan says and embraces her sister. ‘Oh, Helene, I’m so happy for you.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m nuts for thinking that so soon? I know that most of my friends waited for a couple of weeks at least before they even bought a pregnancy test. Which, by the way, I haven’t done.’

  ‘No. I don’t think you’re nuts. I believe in a kind of mystic instinct. I knew the very instant the twins were conceived, the same with Matt. Jeff laughed at me when I told him, but I knew both times and both times I was right. And I think you’re right. And I’m glad, so glad. You’ll be a great mother, a wonderful mother.’

  Arm in arm, they continue on their way. They speak of how things will change, of how now, at last, Helene and Greg will decide on a house, on whether or not Helene will continue to teach.

  ‘I’m so glad I saved our baby equipment,’ Susan offers. ‘I have a great bassinette.’

  ‘That’s one thing we won’t need,’ Helene says. ‘We have a cradle. I bought an antique one.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A couple of days after we talked. You remember how we talked that first morning. In the cemetery.’

  ‘I remember.’

  They are silent then. They have no need for words. They will not relive the past. They will not dwell on vanquished pain, on lingering fears now dispersed and etherized. They know that their mutual, hard-earned honesty was an exorcism of sorts for both of them. Now is the time to look to the future.

  ‘Do you want a girl or a boy?’ Susan asks playfully.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I just want to be a good mother.’

  ‘And you will be.’

  There is no uncertainty in the assurance she offers her sister. Their dark maternal legacy is nullified, both for Helene and for herself.

  Susan smiles and realizes that she has known, from earliest morning, exactly what it was she had to do.

  ‘Helene, I’m going to walk to the village. There is something I must take care of. You go back to the inn.’

  ‘You don’t want me to come with you?’

  ‘No. This is something I have to do alone.’

  ‘All right.’

  Helene asks no questions. She kisses her sister’s cheek and turns back.

  And Susan, walking swiftly now, continues on, veering off on to the road that leads into the small hamlet. At the village bakery she inhales the hearty scent of newly baked bread, the sweet aroma of browning pastries and, at last, orders a selection of cookies and croissants.

  ‘Would you like a pie? We have fresh baked blueberry and apple,’ the baker’s wife asks. ‘I know you like the apple.’

  She recognizes Susan from years past and knows her to be a guest at the inn. Susan, aware of that recognition, even comforted by it, nods.

  ‘Which one will freeze better?’ she asks.

  ‘The apple. You should take the apple. That’s what people always want somehow. You know – after.’

  After. Susan is startled to hear the word uttered so knowingly. Does the baker’s wife know for whom the pie is intended, that it will most probably be set out at the modest meal offered after the funeral? She answers her own question. Of course she does. Susan is a guest at the inn where Polly Syms works and her bakery order is surely a gift to Polly. There are no secrets in this New Hampshire village.

  ‘All right then. The apple.’

  There is an approving nod and Susan’s purchases are carefully placed in stiff white boxes tied with red and white string. Susan pays and lifts her fragrant burden with great tenderness. The baked goods are heavier than she had anticipated and she shifts the boxes from one hand to the other as she walks to the rundown white clapboard house so oddly situated between village and woodland.

  She lifts the tarnished knocker and brings it down gently as though fearful that the metallic sound might intrude on the muted sorrow within. The dingy curtain on the front window flutters briefly and then Polly opens the door. Her face is blanched, all rosiness faded from her cheeks, her expression dazed as though she is still bewildered by the dark reality of her mother’s death. She blinks against the invasive brightness of the morning light and stares at Susan in surprise but says nothing.

  ‘May I come in, Polly?’ Susan asks.

  ‘Yes … I suppose … Of course.’

  She opens the door wider and Susan follows her into the house. A frail man, his gray hair matted, tightens the belt of his shabby brown bathrobe, rises from the sofa and shuffles into the kitchen.

  ‘My dad,’ Polly says and Susan nods.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my coming,’ she says. ‘I’m very sorry about your mother.’ She holds out the bakery boxes. ‘I wanted to bring you something sweet.’

  Her heart sinks at the absurdity of the gesture, the foolishness of her words. It is a ridiculous conceit to think that the offerings of cakes and cookies, the baskets of fruit and the boxes of candy that fill the homes of the newly bereaved, can assuage the bitterness of loss, the sourness of grief.

  But Polly passes her hands across the stiff white boxes, feels the lingering warmth of the freshly baked pie and smiles gratefully.

  ‘Thank you. Everyone’s been really nice. Our neighbors. The Abbots – Evan and Louise came by and brought us lots of food. And Mrs Epstein, Nessa, was here. She gave me an envelope. Checks. Contributions from the guests. My dad thinks we should return it. He says that we don’t need charity and we don’t.’

  ‘It isn’t charity,’ Susan protests. ‘It’s our way of saying thank you.’

  ‘That’s what Dr Edwards said. He was here yesterday.’ She drops her eyes and Susan sees that her hands are shaking.

  ‘I’m glad he came to see you,’ she says reassuringly. ‘He’s very fond of you, Polly. And you know that our family, all of us, have a special reason to be grateful to you. You saved our Matt. I should have said this to you days ago. I owe you an apology, a very big apology. I am so sorry for what I said that day. It was really hurtful and wrong and very foolish of me. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just that I was very tired and upset for all sorts of reasons. I hope you can forgive me.’

  Again, Susan feels the inadequacy of her words, the weakness of her explanation, but Polly merely nods.

  ‘It’s all right. I understand. People say all sorts of things when they’re upset and tired. I know how hard you work. I’m just grateful to Dr Edwards, but all I can think about now is my mother.’

  She is weeping now and she points to an array of photographs set
out on the coffee table which Susan notices for the first time. She stares down at a picture of a young girl who looks remarkably like Polly, full-featured and smiling. Next to it is a studio portrait of that same young girl, now a shy-eyed bride wearing a modest high-necked gown, and then a framed snapshot of that bride as a young mother with an infant on her lap, the infant Polly, of course, who grew into this hard-working, lovely young girl so determined to be a doctor.

  They are carefully arranged, those camera-captured images of a life so newly vanished. Polly lifts them, one after the other, and presses them against her heart. It occurs to Susan that she and Helene had never studied photographs of their mother, not during her lifetime, not after her death.

  ‘My mom. She was a really good woman,’ Polly says softly. ‘She worked hard, when she was still strong enough to work. She was a clerk in the insurance office in town. She put every penny she earned into a savings account for me. Because she wanted me to go to college. She was so proud when I told her I wanted to go to medical school. And now she’ll never see me graduate. If I do manage to graduate.’

  ‘You will graduate.’ Susan speaks with authority. ‘You’ll finish college and you’ll finish medical school. My husband says you’re very bright, very talented.’

  This is untrue. She and Jeff have, of course, never discussed Polly. They had perhaps feared that such a discussion would be fraught with emotional hazards – a dangerous confrontation with her irrational jealousy, his smoldering discontent. But the lie does not disconcert her. She plunges on.

  ‘Polly, there are scholarships, fellowships. My sister and I both relied on them and we both worked our way through college. Our father died when we were young and our mother was a very sick woman.’

  She hesitates. She cannot – will not – speak of her mother’s death.

  ‘It was very hard. I know how painful it is to lose a parent. But you’ll recover from that pain. You won’t forget but you’ll recover. We all do. And you’re a very strong girl, Polly. Strong and brave. You’ll do what your mother wanted you to do. And your father will be fine. You’ll see.’

  She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a handkerchief and very gently wipes away the tears that streak the young girl’s cheeks.

  ‘Thank you,’ Polly says softly. ‘Thank you for coming. Thank you for talking to me.’

  Susan opens the box of pastries and together they study the assortment. There are two chocolate croissants and they each take one and smile at the mutuality of their choice. In silence they eat the sweet cakes which, in fact, do assuage the lingering aftertaste of their shared and bitter grief.

  The last afternoon of their vacation is strangely fractured for the guests of August. The adults pack sporadically, husbands and wives in shifts, unwilling to sacrifice the last bright hours of this final day. They flock to the lake where, amid much amusement, Michael Curran submits himself to swimming lessons following the instructions of Richie who captains his university swim team. He demonstrates, he commands.

  ‘Kick!’ Paul shouts and holds the older man afloat.

  Simon’s sons work in tandem, any uneasiness between them banished. There is great applause as Michael at last manages the dead man’s float and a cheer when he dog paddles on his own. Liane leaps toward him, holding out a towel and planting an exuberant kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Michael can swim. The summer’s prime achievement,’ Greg murmurs to Helene who smiles.

  ‘I don’t know. There have been a lot of achievements this summer.’

  ‘And a couple of disappointments.’

  He glances over at Wendy who is perched on a boulder, her sketchbook open, her drawing pencil poised, her eyes focused not on the laughing swimmers but on the two swans who float majestically by. She does not look up when Daniel wanders down to the small beach. She does not look up when he leaves.

  ‘Wendy will be all right,’ Helene says.

  ‘Everyone will be all right eventually.’

  ‘Susan and Jeff? I’m not so sure.’

  She sighs, remembering their cool interchanges at lunch, Susan commenting on the egg salad, Jeff asking her too politely to pass the salt. Her sister and brother-in-law might have been strangers sharing a table in a crowded restaurant, so muted and restrained were their voices, so careful were they not to touch each other when, in fact, the salt was passed, the egg salad bowl emptied. Their children had watched them, wary-eyed and silent.

  ‘They’ll work things out, Susan and Jeff,’ Greg says but there is no certainty in his voice. ‘I just can’t figure out what’s going on between them.’

  A cool breeze wafts across the lake and reluctantly towels are gathered, goggles are sought and found. Matt, Cary and Donny stick their brightly colored Styrofoam surf boards in the shed, covering them with a tarp so that they will be preserved and ready for use in the year to come. They share the innocent certainty peculiar to the very young that their lives will continue on a set course, that their August vacations will forever remain unchanged.

  ‘Next year you’ll learn the crawl stroke, Dad,’ Cary says, and Michael smiles.

  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Next year.’

  He looks at Liane and she nods. His words are a promise, a contract of a kind.

  The vacationers rush to their rooms to change into dry clothes. Unwilling to waste any part of this last golden afternoon, they once again assemble on the lawn. Jeff, his medical journal in hand, settles down to read in his usual chair.

  ‘Where’s Susan?’ Helene asks him.

  ‘Packing.’

  He opens the journal and turns to an article that does not interest him. He knows that his answer was curt, almost rude, but he does not want to discuss his wife with her sister. What, after all, would he say? His own feelings are in confusion. He feels himself sinking in a quicksand of indecision. Should he, shouldn’t he? He struggles to grasp the elusive verb to append to the ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’ of his dark imaginings. Should he, shouldn’t he … what?

  Helene walks away and he allows the journal to slip from his hand on to the grass.

  He watches as Richie and Jeremy set up a volleyball net. Tracy and Annette dash across the lawn dribbling a ball. He stares at his son and daughter, startled by Jeremy’s height, by Annette’s beauty, thrust back in memory to the day of their birth. He acknowledges that he is a father ambushed by his children’s sprint out of childhood, a husband bewildered by his wife’s moods and his own. He is, in fact, a middle-aged man uneasily balanced on the high wire of indecision, the personification of a cliché he has long rejected. Midlife crisis. The words are both apt and repellent. He smiles bitterly and leans forward as Tracy tosses the ball into the air.

  ‘Game time,’ she calls. ‘Guys against gals. Who’s in?’

  Liane darts forward.

  ‘I was pretty good in high school,’ she says and joins Tracy and Annette.

  Daniel and Simon take up positions but Nessa settles lazily on to a chaise.

  ‘I’m out. Definitely out,’ she says. ‘Are you out?’ she asks Wendy, who sinks into a chair beside her.

  ‘On many counts,’ Wendy agrees.

  Nessa looks at her. ‘Who knows?’ she asks. ‘Nothing is forever. Things happen. Simon and I still want you to visit us in New York. Spend a weekend. A week. Whatever. Whenever.’

  ‘I’d like that. And so would Donny. You know, he adores Paul.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled then. No bridges burned?’

  ‘No. No bridges burned.’

  But she does not look at Daniel nor does he look at her.

  Jeff, strangely energized, springs to his feet. ‘Can you use another player?’ he asks.

  ‘Great,’ Richie says, and motions him to a position.

  Jeremy and Annette flash each other looks of shared annoyance. They do not want their father, who has not played the game for years, to embarrass them. Their annoyance intensifies when their mother, who has been standing on the porch, calls out that she too will play. Susan i
s, in fact, dressed for just such a game in white shorts, a white T-shirt, white sneakers, a white baseball cap, the immaculate uniform of an athletic vacationer. She is emancipated. Her translation is shooting its way through an electronic world. She is free to spend this sun-bright day sprinting skyward in a game that was so much a part of her past. Hers and Jeff’s.

  She smiles at him across the net, willing him to remember the days of their courtship when they played barefoot on public beaches with friends long vanished from their lives. She remembers still his soaring leaps to spike a ball, her successful and unsuccessful intercepts, their joint collapses on to the burning sand, choking with laughter, their limbs entwined.

  ‘We were happy,’ she wants to shout out to him. ‘We can be happy still. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  She would apologize to him for breaking their vacation pact, for her irrational jealousy, although she now recognizes that it was nourished by her mother’s cynical warnings repeated year after year, and by Jeff’s own irritability and distance over the last several months. She acknowledges that she herself was seared with pain but she cannot yet forgive herself for the hot spurt of anger and suspicion that ignited her words that had singed Polly so unfairly. She had apologized to Polly but Jeff has no knowledge of her words of regret; she has not told him of peace offerings tendered in white cardboard bakery boxes. Her sadness remains unmitigated; her questions remain unanswered.

  ‘What has happened between us?’ she would ask Jeff. ‘That I should think such thoughts? Can we go back to where we were?’

  But Jeff kneels to tighten the lace of his sneaker, ignoring her smile, indifferent to the plea in her eyes. He nods to Greg and Paul who have abandoned their guitars for the game.

  Other guests join the teams, pleased to feel themselves part of the vacation community. The sorority women warm up by chasing each other across the lawn. Donny, Matt and Cary take up positions on either side of the net ready to retrieve a ball hit too widely.

  They play with great exuberance. The ball soars, expertly passed by the women and thrust back by the men who rely on individual strength rather than cooperative effort. Nessa watches this dynamic with wry amusement.