by Nancy Geary
Once again Prissy was right. Although Grace welcomed her position as Bain’s wife—it was as comfortable to her as her own skin—navigating the uncharted waters of raising children together still seemed foreign.
She wished that Prissy could speak to Bain. She had a way of focusing issues. Where Grace waffled, struggling with words and concepts, being inarticulate and deferential, Prissy had strong views and had an even stronger ability to communicate them. She would challenge Bain to pay attention and to act.
But it would never happen. Bain largely avoided Prissy and would never tolerate a lecture from her on his conduct. This reality washed over her, leaving sadness in its wake.
Why was it that Prissy saw so clearly what Bain did not—that their sons needed an actively engaged father, not just a financial provider? Had she been more honest, more candid about herself and her family with her friend than she was able to be with her own husband? That had never been her conscious intent. The marital bond was supposed to be the very strongest, the steel belt of love, respect, and shared secrets. Nothing and nobody else was supposed to compromise that. So what had happened to them?
She didn’t have the courage to tell Bain about Rachel’s departure over the telephone. It was too complex a conversation. She feared Bain would blame her for Hank’s failings, or for inadequate supervision. Something. His rudeness was no doubt her fault.
But Friday night arrived. It was cool for July, and Bain lit a fire in the library. The family supper had ended without incident. Hank and Erin scampered off to watch television, leaving their parents to after-dinner drinks and conversation.
Bain seemed relaxed as he sipped a cognac and smoked on a thin cigar.
Grace took a deep breath, trying to think how to explain. She wished he would sense her apprehension and ask what the problem was. But that wasn’t Bain’s way. In fact, she wasn’t sure he’d even noticed that Rachel was gone.
“Hank was very rude to Rachel,” Grace finally said. “Beyond rude. He hit her. She may be working for us, but he has to learn that he can’t treat people that way.”
Bain raised one eyebrow.
“He told her to listen to him because he was paying her a salary or words to that effect. I was so upset by that time—I’d already seen him punch her for no reason—that I . . . I . . . I’m not sure I even remember the details. But the point is, Bain, we have a problem, a serious problem, if our nine-year-old has that sort of attitude.”
“It was one incident.”
“No, Bain. Not one.” She closed her eyes. “You don’t hear the harsh tones, the dictatorial commands he uses. ‘Get me my tennis racket.’ ‘You clean up.’ ‘You’re stupid,’” she imitated. Instructions to be polite, requests for please and thank you fell on deaf ears. And Hank was only nine. She hated to think what kind of a man he’d grow to be. “He’s not a baby anymore. He certainly should know what’s acceptable and what is not by this age.”
The air in the library was suffused with cigar smoke. The fire crackled. She stared at her husband. His bemused expression revealed not the slightest hint of concern. Why wasn’t he willing to agree with her? She’d fantasized that they would stay up late into the night talking through possible solutions and devising ways to correct what was obviously going wrong. They could be supportive of each other and collaborate as parents. But instead, he wanted to ignore it.
“Rachel was in tears. I don’t expect she’ll come back.”
“Well, perhaps you should have found someone with a slightly thicker skin to begin with,” he replied without a moment’s hesitation. “My guess is that hormonal girls aren’t the best babysitters.”
“Bain, I hardly think that hormones—”
“Oh, Grace, relax,” he interrupted. “You act as though we’re raising a monster. Hank’s a normal nine-year-old boy. I’m not saying he should hit—of course not—but you can’t get around the reality that boys are physical. They’re aggressive. It’s going to happen. But he’ll outgrow it. As for his comments—” Bain chuckled momentarily. “Frankly, it may not be the worst thing in the world that he knows his place in life. And hers.”
She gazed down at the grain of the wood on the wide-pine floors, and then studied the neat pile of the woven rug. She wanted the patterns to distract her, anything to avoid facing what this conversation revealed: that Hank’s attitude wasn’t such an anomaly; that his behavior was learned; and that his tutor was closer to home than she would have wished. Which meant that if changes were to be made in the way her children were raised, she was going to have to do it alone.
But what if, as Prissy had said, it was genetics, a hardwired sense of entitlement and arrogance? Did that mean that there was nothing she could say or do that would make any difference? Then why struggle to raise a family, to impart values and morals? After birth, children could be let wild, and they would turn out exactly the same. For a moment, she imagined Hank and Erin running through the cedar swamp in loincloths instead of corduroys, shredding small animals for food, the Tarzans of Cape Cod.
She wasn’t willing to accept that reality, at least not yet. They would grow up to be Alcotts—good, decent, hardworking men like their father—if it was the very last thing she did. Raising the next generation was what she was supposed to do.
1993
Chapter Ten
A quarter century, my darling. And you look as lovely as the first time I laid eyes on you. Happy anniversary,” Bain whispered as he handed her a flute of champagne and then stepped past her into the living room.
She took a sip. From where she stood in the library, she could watch Bain. He moved smoothly with the air of confidence that came from financial and personal success, shaking hands, offering a joke or a liquid refill, and backslapping his way through the crowd of gatherers.
The whole thing had been a mistake.
“Great place,” a heavyset man said.
He raised his tumbler in her direction. Dark hairs wrapped around the gold ring on his finger, and his black briefs showed through his white trousers. She had no idea who he was.
“We’re fond of it,” she replied with a smile, trying to make conversation. “It’s been our home now for quite some time.”
“I wish me and my wife had been smart enough to buy into Cape real estate back in the seventies. You sure could get something for just about nothing. But then again, that wife isn’t my wife anymore so I probably would have lost it anyway. Divorce will kill you if something doesn’t get you first.” He laughed. “Anyways, it’s a great party. Thanks for the invite,” he added, moving on into the crowd.
She never wanted so public a celebration of their anniversary. She’d pictured a small dinner, close friends, the children, a simple meal at a table set under the scrubby pines on the bluff, but as soon as she’d raised the issue of a party, Bain had seized on the opportunity to make it a business affair, a way to entertain potential clients for his new endeavor, Alcott Savings & Loan. “You should be thrilled. You can hire the best caterer and serve the finest champagne. It’ll all be tax-deductible.”
Maybe. But she didn’t want such flash. It didn’t feel right. In fact, his career change hadn’t felt right. Much to her disappointment, he’d left the Bank of Boston, abandoning the slow but steady corporate climb with health benefits and retirement contributions for the promise of a financial windfall. That she liked the security and stability of his position as vice president wasn’t relevant. He was on a mission. “There’s real money to be made out there.”
“We’re comfortable now,” she’d said, even as she knew that neither her words nor her feelings had an impact on his career.
“And we’ll be more comfortable later. I’d like to retire while I’m young enough to still enjoy it—but I won’t do that on a salary with an incremental annual raise and a measly year-end bonus.”
So there it was. And one of the immediate ramifications was that on this special day, many acquaintances and even more total strangers mixed with a few of her Chatham
friends. People spilled out onto the patio and across the lawn. Bain had sent most of the invitations, letting his secretary address them. Although he referred to his guests as “money people,” judging by the rapid rate of consumption this evening, none of them had eaten in weeks. The overweight men held soggy cigars between their thick fingers while they stuffed down mushroom caps and shrimp cocktail and oysters. Their young-enough-to-make-a-statement wives, one of whom stuck her wad of chewing gum under the ledge of the bookcase in the library, mainlined white wine.
Grace checked herself in the mirror. She wore a chartreuse gauze blouse and white pants, matching flats, and a scarf tied around her loose ponytail. The outfit seemed off—too collegiate, too young. No one would ever accuse her of looking old, but tonight she felt that way.
Forty-seven. She quickly did the math. She’d passed midlife long before, unless she planned to make it to ninety-four.
By the bar at the entrance to the living room, Hank and two of his friends stood in silence. Hank had so far managed to avoid the awkwardness of teenage years. He was lean but not gawky, and his complexion remained free of the horrid acne that smothered the faces of several of his friends. Grace had persuaded him to change his clothes; he now looked every bit the respectable Chatham youth in a clean pin-striped buttondown and khaki trousers. Compared with his friends, who hadn’t bothered to shed their black T-shirts with unrecognizable rock bands on the front and tour dates on the back, he made her proud.
The light from the bay window reflected off the green glass beer bottles they held in their hands. Underage drinking caused some alarm, but there was plenty of room for all the boys to sleep over—and sleep off the alcohol before their parents could notice. She didn’t want to be the killjoy.
Hank tilted the bottle back, took a long swig, wiped the foam with the back of his hand, and burped. His companions laughed.
She turned away. Why on earth had she ever agreed to this party?
“Would you care for one of these, Mrs. Alcott?”
The voice surprised her. A waiter in black pants and a black T-shirt smiled a flash of white teeth and offered a platter of shrimp cocktail.
“No. No thank you,” Grace replied as she stared down at the mound of peeled pink bodies and orange shell tails. Freshly grated horseradish garnished the well of red cocktail sauce in the middle of the arrangement.
“They’re going fast,” the young man said.
“Everything seems to be,” she murmured.
The waiter didn’t move. She looked up. He seemed frozen with his platter extended. Was something the matter?
“I’m Jesse,” he said after a moment more. His voice hummed. Then he leaned toward her. “Hey, congratulations. I hear this is twenty-five years. Your husband’s a lucky man. He’s got the hands-down best-looking woman here.” He nodded to emphasize his point.
“You’re very kind,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t notice her blush.
Although he wasn’t what she considered her type, she couldn’t deny she found him attractive, in a tawdry sort of way. He had prominent features that seemed exotic, or at least ethnic, and dark hair that he’d slicked back with a scented gel. The T-shirt outlined his well-developed pectoral muscles.
“Just observant.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue.
She stared at his mouth for what she knew was an inappropriate length of time, but she couldn’t turn away from his full lips and strong jaw. Who was this person? Then she remembered. “Whatever do we pay you to say such outrageous things? No doubt not enough,” she said, sounding more flirtatious than she’d intended. “You’d best be getting back to work, hadn’t you?”
“Whatever you want. You’re in charge.” He winked as he forged his way into the living room, balancing the platter on his right hand.
This unexpected exchange made Grace feel dizzy, and she leaned against the wall for balance. The boy was half her age. And this was her anniversary. But she was still sorry that he was going about his job, passing and refilling platters. She would have preferred his company to whomever else she was likely to find this evening.
She rested her flute on the windowsill. More champagne was out of the question. Her thoughts were already running amok.
Through the window Grace could see Erin in the rose garden holding hands with Marley, his “friend,” as he called her because he claimed that girlfriend sounded derogatory. Erin was the more handsome of her two sons; he’d inherited Bain’s square shoulders, long torso, and natural grace. She wished he’d trimmed his hair for the occasion; his wavy locks almost reached his shoulders. But at least he’d made the effort to come.
What had been the great surprise, though, was that he’d arrived with Marley, a freshman from the University of Vermont with a freckled nose and long strawberry-blond hair. This evening she wore a white tank top that didn’t properly obscure her dark nipples, along with a flowing batik skirt. Grace observed the gaze of several men linger as Marley strolled through the party. In fact, several women stared, too, though no doubt for different reasons. Eleanor would have called her a “free spirit.” Grace wasn’t inclined to be so generous.
Erin now leaned toward Marley and licked her ear. She giggled and pressed her body into his. Although they were alone at the moment, the conduct still seemed too intimate, too sexual for something out of doors. Marley then licked him back, and Grace thought she spotted a flash of silver on her tongue.
That was quite enough.
She stepped outside, purposely interrupting the romantic interlude, although neither of them seemed the least bit embarrassed.
“You’re good to come home, Erin,” Grace said, extending a hand. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.” And then, so as not to exclude Marley, she added, “And you were very kind to accompany him.”
Marley giggled. It was an odd sound, rather like hiccups.
“Well, Dad sure has a strange way of making us feel welcome,” Erin responded. “In case you weren’t aware, he’s been totally unreasonable about the sleeping arrangements. He wants Marley in the downstairs guest room. That’s bullshit.”
“Please don’t use that language.”
“Marley and I sleep together at school virtually every night. Why should we pretend the situation is different here?”
Grace looked at Erin’s stern expression and then glanced at Marley, who smiled and giggled, again. Finding the whole situation stressful, Grace had missed whatever it was about Erin’s conversation that was amusing.
“Please, let’s leave it alone.” There wasn’t any point revisiting what had been an already dreadful exchange between Bain and Erin earlier in the day. Bain had a temper and harbored no reluctance to let it show, especially with the boys. But Erin was gentle by nature. His elevated tone of voice and steadfast determination had shocked her. She’d broken up the argument by pleading with everyone to get ready for the party. Bain seemed to have forgotten about the unpleasantness, but apparently the same could not be said for Erin.
“You know how your father is,” she said. “Formalities matter. They matter to us both. We know we can’t control what you do when you’re not here, but this is our home.”
“It’s my home, too.”
“I’m sure Marley’s parents would feel the same way,” she said, ignoring his remark.
“Actually, they don’t.”
Why hadn’t she anticipated that response? She felt increasingly annoyed at this strange girl and now at her family, too. Perhaps they were all lovely people and she was being horribly judgmental, but, then again, Marley’s mother had made no effort to teach her daughter about appropriate dress or, apparently, social proprieties. She hoped Erin’s fascination would be short-lived.
“Buzz and Mom are crazy about Erin,” Marley offered.
“Excuse me?”
“Buzz is her dad,” Erin explained.
Buzz. What happened to Daddy or Dad or Father or even Papa? More to the point, when had Erin met her parents? Even during summer school
, didn’t he require permission to leave campus? Focus, she said to herself. Focus on the issue at hand. Her eighteen-year-old son and his girlfriend wanted to share a bed—and presumably have sex together—in her house.
That was out of the question. This overpierced, moral-less girl and her family might corrupt her son in Vermont, but not here in Chatham. Whatever in God’s name it was that the stud in her tongue was designed to achieve would have to await the drive back north.
“I’m sorry. Your father said no; that has to be the final word. Please try to understand. And help us celebrate this day instead of being angry.” She forced a smile, hoping he would return it.
Erin was grinding his teeth.
“Erin,” she coaxed. “It’s only one night.” She debated stating the obvious—that Erin could sneak down the back staircase to norgle with this floozy once Bain had retired—but even she couldn’t bring herself to utter the suggestion aloud. Why did he insist that their overnight bags go in the same bedroom?
“It’s hypocritical,” he said. His tone was flat. “You just refuse to stand up to Dad and his old-fashioned morality. You’ve always taken the path of least resistance and hidden behind him.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You didn’t hear me? Should I repeat myself?” Erin barked.
“No . . . I . . . That’s not true,” she stammered in her confusion. She waited for Marley to giggle but no sound came. The girl appeared to grapple with some sort of itch inside her nostril.
“Of course it is, and you know it. If this were your house—on your own without Dad’s judgment or temper—you wouldn’t give a shit. Just because you’ve been chained to him the last twenty-five years shouldn’t change that.”
The words stung. “Don’t swear in my presence,” she said again because she couldn’t think of a proper retort. Her head was spinning. “You’re being very rude.” She struggled to hold back tears.
“I thought more of you, Mom. I really did,” he said as he took Marley’s arm and headed inside.