by Nancy Geary
“I’ve suggested he start a contracting business,” Prissy said, sighing. “More and more houses are being built around here, and there seems to be loads of money for new construction. Since he doesn’t go out on the boat anymore, it would get him out of the house. Believe me, housebound with me is no treat. What’s that joke? ‘In sickness or in health but not for lunch.’ It’s just, well . . . we’re kind of independent.”
Separate lives.
“Why doesn’t he go out on the boat? What made him stop?”
Prissy looked out at the ocean beyond them. She appeared to think for a moment before responding. “He’s making a living without the hard physical labor. That’s better for him at this stage.”
Ferris raised his glass. “Cheers, then.”
“To what?” Grace asked.
“Independence.”
Prissy laughed again and raised her glass. When Grace didn’t move, she added, “Come on, it’s not a four-letter word.”
“I want to toast to Sarah’s memory, instead.” Grace covered her mouth with her hand to try to hide the quiver in her lips. She couldn’t bear to cry yet again. It had been less than two hours since she’d broken down in the kitchen. But that time, she had the chopped onions to blame.
“To Sarah, yes,” Ferris said quickly. “To her memory, to her sweetness—”
“And to her amazing mother,” Prissy interrupted.
“May her soul rest in peace,” he concluded.
That the reference was ambiguous nobody questioned.
Part Two
1975-1987
Chapter Nine
The passage of time had been kind to Grace. She could be thankful for that. Unlike with many of her friends, the decade barely showed in her face, and two more pregnancies had hardly altered the contour of her flat stomach.
Her first son had followed more quickly than most would have expected. Erin was born shortly before the anniversary of Sarah’s death. Although at times the stares at her pregnant belly had felt oppressive—she could almost hear her friends gossiping that it was “too soon”—she’d wanted a family, had felt a desperate need to fill a void, and pursued it with an intensity that even Bain questioned, begging him to make love to her night after night at the right time in her cycle. She’d needed to prove something to herself, even if she couldn’t articulate precisely what that was, and for once she didn’t care about how it made her look. Although he’d talked about recovering, surviving the tragedy, and taking the necessary time to grieve, he’d complied with her wishes.
And she would never forget the expression of utter joy on his face when the nurse at Cape Cod Hospital held out the bundle in a blue knit cap.
“Congratulations. You have a beautiful baby boy.”
Bain must have told her he loved her a hundred times that night. She’d done something right, something perfect. She’d given him a healthy child, his first son.
Grace insisted that Prissy be the godmother. She decided that even if Bain resisted, she’d stay firm. This mattered to her. Prissy had seen her through the loss of Sarah, and, more importantly, she’d kept her secrets: her confessions as they’d sat together that summer of the difficulties and frustrations of motherhood. That Prissy never reminded her of that—and never even remotely suggested that she was an unworthy or unfit parent—made her eternally grateful.
“Is she even religious?” Bain asked.
“I don’t know exactly. But what real difference does it make? How much religious instruction did you receive from your godparents?”
“Mine?” Bain laughed. “I viewed Roger and Lauren Buttonworth as suppliers of gifts—primarily Christmas—and sources of cash on birthdays and Easter. Lauren did manage to find an enclosure card with a religious theme, a cross or some passage from the Bible quoted on the front. But that was the extent of the religious references.”
“And you turned out all right.” Grace smiled.
“I don’t think the Buttonworths should be the model. The whole point is to find someone to promote the child’s spiritual development.”
“She has tremendous respect for nature, is in awe of its beauty, and believes in a creative force,” Grace recited. She’d thought through this conversation in advance.
“Great. That and a membership in Greenpeace and we’re all set to raise our son.”
“Prissy is not a radical.” Grace’s forcefulness surprised even herself. “She’s a dear person with good values and strong morals. I trust her completely.”
What Grace would never articulate to Bain was that Prissy had taught her what little she knew of independence. If the woman imparted that and nothing else, she’d play an invaluable role in her son’s life.
“All right, then,” Bain said, acquiescing with a shrug. “That’s who it will be. Just loan her something to wear for the service. Our guests will have heart failure if she shows up in tie-dye or one of her clamming hats.”
That evening, Grace went down to the beach with Erin Montgomery Alcott bundled in a striped cotton blanket. She held him tight against her chest and hunched her shoulders, protecting him from the cool wind.
Prissy looked up and smiled as they approached. Dropping her rake, she walked to where they stood at the waterline and admired Erin’s round face, pink skin, small hands, and large eyes.
“He’s beautiful,” she said. “Absolutely perfect. Fine work, Mrs. Alcott.”
Grace could tell from her tone that she meant it.
“Would you be his godmother?” she blurted out. She’d meant to ease into the discussion, but she’d been too excited to worry about timing. “It would mean so much to me.”
Prissy’s eyes widened. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m flattered, but you know I don’t go to church. I can’t believe Bain would approve.”
“We don’t care. And he already has.”
The water lapped up onto the sand, covering their feet. It was colder than Grace expected, and she hopped from foot to foot.
“Then I’d be honored.” Prissy rubbed the tops of Erin’s fingers as they clutched his cotton blanket. “Your parents may not know what they’re getting you into, but we’ll celebrate all the same,” she cooed.
Grace felt relief. “I’ll let you know as soon as we get the church service planned.”
“What?”
“Oh, it’s not a big deal. Baptisms are usually part of the regular Sunday service, and then we’ll have a lunch or something casual afterward.”
“Are you crazy?” She spun around with her arms extended. “Look where we are! Look at this ocean. Look at this spot. If this natural beauty isn’t a sign of God, then nothing is. You’ve got the purest, best water in the whole world right here, and much more of it than you need to do the job. What’s a routine service and a bunch of folks stuffed into pews and waiting for it to be over going to add?”
“But—but—” Grace looked down at the bundle in her arms. Erin had fallen asleep. She needed to protect him. She wasn’t sure what she believed about original sin, but if he had it, she wanted to cleanse him of it. Could something homemade do that?
“Come on, you say the words—whatever it is you want to hear, whatever prayers, whatever magic, make something up—and we’ll christen him in Stage Harbor. With that auspicious beginning, he’ll grow up to be the loveliest man the world has ever known.”
Was that true? Grace wanted to believe Prissy; wanted to be inspired, too. Her excitement was infectious.
“I’m sure John the Baptist would approve.”
Grace waded out into the water. It was cold and clear, and she could see a horseshoe crab crawling along the bottom. A few more steps and she felt dampness on her shorts. She turned back toward shore as Prissy bounded in behind her, splashing water and singing “Amazing Grace.”
They could have a proper baptism for Bain’s peace of mind later. Maybe even get someone from his office to be the godparent for that one, someone in the proper suit and lace-up shoes. If he wanted, she’d make wate
rcress and salmon sandwiches. Friends could bring silver teething rings in Tiffany boxes and stand around admiring the sleeping baby.
But this was the moment that truly mattered. She squeezed Erin tighter. In the salty Atlantic water, they could all seek repentance and renewal. She was ready.
Hank was born three years after that.
She’d been right. Starting over was what they’d needed.
Until both boys were strong swimmers, nobody except for her gave them a bath, or took them to the beach, or even filled a bucket to bob for apples. She’d almost harbored a reluctance to let them play outside after a rain if the puddles were more than a quarter inch deep.
But her diligence paid off. Erin and Hank passed safely through their infancy and toddler years, and into childhood. Grace actually looked forward to their adolescence. Perhaps then—when they were nearly grown—the worries would subside. Perhaps she would finally be relieved of the burden of waking up in the night to make sure that they were still breathing.
The family settled into an apartment on Beacon Hill with a balcony off the living room, a partially obstructed view of the Charles River, and a much-coveted parking space at the Brimmer Street garage. As the boys grew up and had longer school days at the Advent School, Grace turned her attention elsewhere. Primarily, her focus returned to her home on the Cape. Not to say it had fallen into disrepair. But she’d had projects and ideas in her mind that she’d simply lacked the time to execute. And one of them was to install a rose garden, a traditional English design that would forever transform the Chatham house. She would build it as a living tribute to Sarah.
The idea started with books: dozens of picture books on specimens and varieties, followed by more technical volumes. But self-teaching wasn’t her strength, and she’d decided to return to Radcliffe to finish her degree. A year later with a number of landscape design credits earned but still shy of a diploma, she dropped out of school for the second time and began to execute her vision. She’d mapped out the paths and beds for a twenty-by-thirty-foot garden. She’d interviewed masons from all over New England and finally found the perfect Scottish gentleman from Jamestown, Rhode Island, who could build the stone walls and lay the brick walks. It had taken him several months—and several cost overruns—to finish the work, but the result was exquisite. She’d left the installation of the right mixture of floribundas, David Austins, and hybrid teas for herself. By working in the soil, planting, feeding, and fertilizing, she’d create a beautiful garden worthy of symbolizing her daughter.
After the children’s academic year ended in June 1987, Grace brought the boys to Chatham for ten glorious weeks of vacation. By that summer, Erin was old enough to ride his bike to the yacht club, and he spent most of each day there, practicing his knot work, cleaning the boats, and racing his Sunfish. She loved the collection of freckles that appeared around the bridge of his nose and the blond streaks that the sunshine brought to his hair. He was happy surrounded by his friends and well adjusted according to the club staff, the gentle, good-natured sort of boy who painted flowerpots as Mother’s Day gifts or brought pieces of sea glass up to the house to leave on the windowsill in the kitchen. Erin was her living proof that she could be a good mother. If only he could sail with a banner attached to his boat. She wanted everyone to know.
That summer, Bain had convinced her to hire a mother’s helper, a college girl who could make meals for the children, run errands, and babysit. Neither of them wanted to admit that their social life had suffered, but there was no doubt that it had. Because Grace was often too reluctant to leave the boys, many invitations had been declined. For others, elaborate ruses of sudden stomach viruses or too much sun had been devised at the last moment. If their friends were to piece together all the illnesses, they might conclude that the house on Sears Point was plagued.
“You’ve hardly seen anyone but Prissy. Just get some help so we can start to live normally,” Bain insisted.
Rachel, the strawberry-blond nineteen-year-old, arrived with a small duffel bag and a guitar. She’d completed her freshman year at Leslie College, where she was studying to be an elementary schoolteacher, and her parents had a home in Barnstable, only five exits west on the Mid-Cape Highway. On her day off, she could go home. After two weeks, she’d learned the routine, and the boys seemed to like her. Or so Grace thought.
She’d left the hatchback of the station wagon open so that the tubs of roses she’d squeezed in the back wouldn’t overheat. It had been a long day of exploring nurseries and garden centers in search of specific varieties, and she couldn’t begin to unload the car before she’d used the bathroom. Public restrooms harbored too many germs to fathom, but five hours on the road left her nothing short of desperate. She threw open the screen door and hurried inside.
From the toilet in the small powder room off the kitchen she could see outside. There was a soccer ball on the lawn, and Rachel and Hank were engaged in some conversation. Hank was sweaty, red-faced, and dirty-kneed. Rachel stood a few feet away from him with her arms dangling by her sides and her shoulders slouched. As Grace opened the window to try to overhear their interchange, she saw Hank make a fist with his pudgy hand, run toward Rachel, swing, and sock her in the stomach. The girl took a step away and covered her midsection with her arms.
“I don’t need to listen to you,” Hank screamed, his face reddening even more. “I pay you. Remember? You’re just my em-ploy-ee.” He strung out the word. “You have to do what I say. My father knows how to handle you if you don’t.”
Rachel burst into tears and covered her face with her hands.
“Hank!” Grace called in alarm through the window.
Hank turned toward the sound of her voice. A look of surprise crossed his face.
“Don’t ever use that language or that tone of voice.” She pulled up her pants, flushed, and hurried outside.
By the time she got there, Hank was dribbling the ball. Rachel was still standing precisely where Grace had last seen her.
“Hank, I want you to come back here and apologize right now.”
“Why?” he asked without stopping his game.
“Because you were rude and unkind.”
“It’s only Rachel.” With that, he kicked the ball, and it disappeared over the knoll in the lawn. Hank broke into a run after it.
“Hank! Hank!” Grace called, but she knew it was useless. Turning to Rachel, she held out her arms, offering an embrace. Rachel didn’t move. “I apologize. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I hope you’ll forgive him.”
Rachel didn’t speak for a moment but rubbed her nose. “Yeah, yeah sure,” she said finally in a voice utterly lacking in conviction.
Grace felt her heart begin to race. Please don’t leave because of this, she wanted to plead. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” she offered instead. “I hate to see you upset. You could go home if you like and come back on Friday. And when you come back, perhaps we should discuss a raise. I know this work is difficult.” She hoped her generosity might soothe the poor girl’s injured feelings but even as she spoke, she knew what would happen.
So it was no great surprise when Grace noticed that Rachel’s duffel bag and guitar were gone, too.
“What would you do if you were me?” she asked Prissy.
Her friend had stopped by the house to drop off a basket of Wellfleet oysters, and the two women stood together at the sink washing the sand out of the shells and shucking them.
“I’m the wrong person to give advice.”
“Please, you’ve spent time with Hank. You know him.”
“I know both boys, sure, but not like you. You’re the mother. You’ve got to decide what’s best.”
Grace glanced over at Prissy, who remained focused on the task at hand. “I don’t know what’s best, that’s the problem. I still can’t believe he acts the way he does.” Here she was again, confessing to her dear friend how she’d failed basic parenting. She hadn’t been able to raise a boy with mann
ers. She hadn’t managed to teach him about respect. “How do I talk to him? Should I discipline him?”
“Oh please, Grace, kids don’t get sent to bed without supper anymore. That’s a cruel throwback to our childhood.”
“But I don’t want him to be a spoiled child. You’ve got to help me!” Grace begged. “I can’t believe I’m doing a terrible job again.”
Prissy turned off the running water and pulled the rubber gloves off her hands. “I can’t tell you what to do, that’s the point. I can’t begin to be a mother. Raising a child is the hardest thing in the world. In some ways, how the person turns out is completely dependent on you, the values you impart, the experiences you give, and in other ways it’s completely beyond your control. It’s genetics. There’s nothing you can do. I’m not saying anything new—it’s the old nature-versus-nurture debate—and I’m certainly not telling you anything you don’t know. But my point is that you’re trying. And you’re doing the best you can. You’ll figure this one out like you’ve figured out the rest. You’ve got tremendous courage, Grace. Don’t sell yourself short.”
“I don’t know how to change him.”
“Maybe you can’t. But he’s got a father. Why don’t you get Bain’s input? Maybe it’s time your husband actually got involved in child raising.”
Her suggestion sounded accusatory, which Grace supposed was the design, and she felt instantly defensive. Bain was a committed father. He worked hard to provide for all of them, and he stepped in when there was a serious problem. But he expected her to smoothly manage the day-to-day issues, and she’d accepted her role without question. It was the normal division of labor between man and wife.
Now she didn’t know how to respond.
“He wanted these kids as much as you did. Let him help with some of the tough calls, the times when it’s not so fun to be a parent. You can’t do everything alone, and, frankly, you shouldn’t have to. Being your husband’s wife and being the mother of two boys are two very different roles.” Prissy smiled.