by Nancy Geary
“It’s too dangerous, much too dangerous.”
“We’ll get a good latch on the gate, I promise. And I’ll go to Ben Franklin and buy extra sets of floaties. Besides, the kids won’t be infants forever. Millions of people with small children have swimming pools, and nothing happens except that everyone enjoys themselves.”
Millions of people haven’t lost a baby to drowning, Grace thought. And flotation devices were not the solution. Why didn’t he see that he was building a gunite coffin? She couldn’t stand such a visual reminder in her own backyard, and couldn’t manage with the fear that history might repeat itself in the next generation.
“We’re not millions of people,” Grace muttered, feebly.
Bain took a bite of his sandwich. “My dear Grace, if only our boys had inherited your neuroses, they’d stay away from here to keep their children safe. Then we’d have some peace.” He chuckled and picked up a chip between his fingers. Before biting, he added, “My guess is that much to my dismay the pool will only be a further enticement for them to come visit. And you’d like that, now, wouldn’t you?”
Grace moved back to the butcher-block island and stared at the sliced turkey in its plastic wrap, the head of iceberg lettuce, the jar of mayonnaise, and the two slices of whole wheat toast she’d made for her sandwich. She had no appetite and couldn’t bring herself to put all the ingredients together, anyway. Instead she screwed the top back on the Hellman’s, giving it an extra twist to secure it. Looking at the blue label, she realized she’d forgotten to buy low-fat.
What had her boys inherited from her? Was it anything more than blue eyes, lean bodies, and good teeth?
As far as she could tell, Erin wandered aimlessly through life. For the past few years, he’d managed to stay in one place—somewhere outside Putney, Vermont. That was a feat in and of itself, and as close to something permanent as he was likely to come. He’d done odd jobs and God-only-knows what else to earn a living. Last month, it was a maple sugar company, which Bain had sent him a thousand dollars to start. So he spent his days tapping trees and talking with the people at Ben & Jerry’s, trying to get them to develop a flavor involving pieces of pancake and syrup. He wanted some sort of inventor’s fee, as well as an agreement to be the exclusive local supplier.
Before that, there had been an apiary, a project that came to an abrupt end after his weeklong hospitalization from bee stings. A job at the Putney General Store selling Bag Balm and cans of Chef Boyardee preceded the honey production, as well as an administrative position at town hall sending out delinquent tax notices. From that he’d been immediately terminated once the assessor realized he’d sent a notice to himself.
Meanwhile his wife, Marley, studied “energy healing” and spent money they didn’t have on equipment for her enterprise. According to Erin, a purple faux-leather massage table now filled most of their small living room.
Neither of them seemed to have much time for their children.
And then there was Hank, her baby. He was attractive, and had managed to parlay his good looks into a job as a rental broker with a real estate outfit in Wellesley, Massachusetts. “Clients love him,” his female boss had explained on the one occasion they’d had to meet her. Perhaps she did, too. But he earned enough to live in a center-entrance Colonial in the neighboring, though less prestigious, town of Natick with his similarly attractive wife, Susan, who sported quite the collection of tennis whites and volunteered at the library. He’d recently called to inform them with a great deal of pride in his voice that he’d bought a BMW.
He was only twenty-five and yet seemed to have the curiosity of a brick. On weekends he did nothing, as far as she could tell from their conversations, other than attend a cocktail party or take a trip to the car wash. “Simonizing really helps extend the life of the paint,” he’d mentioned more than once. “And you’ve got to keep the mag wheels clean.” He didn’t even play golf, and she couldn’t remember the last time he’d mentioned a book he’d read, let alone an article.
It’s genetics, Prissy had reminded her once before. Beyond her control. But the explanation seemed wildly unsatisfactory. Who were these boys? They lacked the ambition of their father, but they certainly hadn’t inherited her sense of whimsy, either. Perhaps they’d been born of a mixture of DNA that belonged to a slug.
Nonetheless, she couldn’t bear if anything happened in the pool. No one should have to suffer the loss she’d endured. If Bain insisted on installing a swimming pool, she’d buy the best safety cover manufactured and never take it off.
The rumble of the engine and the cracking of branches brought her back from her ruminations. Grace watched as the giant claws of the backhoe scooped down and ripped open the earth, tearing up moss-covered bricks, soil, rock, and plants with each pass. She could see leaves and flowers and root-balls with masses of thin roots dangling, lost, looking for the lifeline of soil to grip that they could no longer find. The ‘Honor’ bush had its first white buds of the season waiting to bloom.
Why had she let this happen? Why had she given up, or given in? Why had she sacrificed the roses she loved for a swimming pool she didn’t want and they couldn’t afford? That Sarah’s memorial garden was the casualty only added to the painful irony.
She looked across the yard to Bain, who stood beside the pool contractor watching the progress. Neither acknowledged her presence. Nor did they seem to notice Prissy, standing beside her with her arms folded across her chest and her jaw set.
“It was beautiful while it lasted,” her friend said.
“Aren’t we all?” she mumbled, but the mechanical roar covered her words. She watched as the huge metal arm plunged into the sandy soil once more.
Chapter Twelve
Frank Sinatra crooned Christmas carols, a Duraflame-assisted fire now blazed, and, after several failed attempts, Grace had managed to roast enough chestnuts to fill a small silver bowl. Miniature white lights, red velvet bows, and seashells adorned the blue spruce. The quilted tree skirt was covered by wrapped packages, each tied with dried lavender and gold pinecones that Grace had painted herself. Red poinsettias framed the hearth, and a slow-burning scented candle filled the living room with cinnamon.
The forecast had been for snow, but Chatham weather was unpredictable. The unrelenting rain had started early that morning. The weight of accumulated water made the pool’s safety cover droop precariously, and Grace had double-checked that the French doors were locked. After her grandchildren arrived, she bolted the front door behind them. Feeling trapped was a small price to pay for safety.
Breaking with tradition, Grace had experimented with a turkey recipe from Gourmet magazine that involved an orange glaze and a sage-and-sausage stuffing. The picture of the shiny bird on a transferware platter had enticed her. In fact, she’d tried to emulate the entire holiday setting that appeared in the glossy pages, complete with red etched-glass goblets, silver chargers, and loose arrangements of white flowers. Casual family elegance, the article had labeled it. She wanted some of that, too.
But now as she lit the votives on the sideboard and the tapers in the candelabra on the dining table, she felt apprehensive about the change. Perhaps she should have warned Bain that he wouldn’t be getting corn bread and apples—her mother’s recipe—for the thirtieth time. Perhaps she should have checked with him before she’d purchased this array of mismatched antique china from various shops along Route 6A. Maybe her family wasn’t what Gourmet magazine had in mind. Maybe casual elegance was an unobtainable goal.
She checked the place cards. She and Bain had done the seating, but suddenly the prospect of sitting next to Hank for the entire meal seemed exhausting. She made the switch, giving him to Marley. That they had nothing in common might keep them quiet, although that was no doubt wishful thinking. She couldn’t bear another holiday ruined by discord over Hank’s failure to recycle. It wasn’t fair for Marley to blame all of the world’s environmental problems on the unsorted trash of a single Natick resident.
She’d take Ferris as her dinner companion instead. He’d called at the last minute to ask if he could share the holiday. The confirmed bachelor never accepted her invitations flat out, hoping, perhaps, that a lady friend might offer something better, an invitation to a weekend party on the French Riviera or a wine tasting in the Napa Valley. When nothing materialized, he’d call sheepishly to see if there was still a place for him at her table.
Erin’s children, India and Deshawn, were sandwiched between their parents in the middle seats. India, the precocious four-year-old, made Grace nervous. She’d announced on her last visit that she’d gotten her name because she’d been conceived while her parents were trekking in that country. It was bad enough to imagine Erin procreating in a tent surrounded by Sherpas or in the dirt on the side of some mountain. They shouldn’t have shared such details with their young daughter. But the origin of India’s name prevented Grace from asking how they’d arrived at something African American for their son. As far as she knew, neither parent had visited that continent.
Deshawn was a small child even for two and would need another Yellow Pages to bring him to the appropriate height. Staring at the makeshift booster, Grace wondered why she’d never bought a proper molded plastic one. Most of her friends had high chairs, spare diapers, and every other necessity for their grandchildren. All she’d managed was to hang on to last year’s directory for an added three inches.
She’d expected to enjoy being a grandmother—all the pleasure of children with none of the hardship, no discipline to impose, no bedtimes to enforce, no homework to supervise. Her friends treated their grandchildren as if they were visiting heads of state, anticipating needs and planning activities. Instead she found herself resenting the arrival of Erin and his clan and Hank and his family. It was work: more meals to make, more beds to change, more towels to wash. It wasn’t right; it wasn’t warmhearted. And, just as she’d done each time before her sons had arrived with their families, she’d vowed to make it different.
On the twenty-third, when Erin and Marley showed up empty-handed once again, she’d forced herself to overlook their bad manners and to hold on to her determination to reach out to the children. She could be the storybook grandmother. But India refused her offers to read Beatrix Potter. “Animals in clothes are unnatural,” she’d said. Nor would she help wrap presents or bake reindeer-shaped cookies. Neither child wanted to look for seals along the coastline. Even her vision of the family together at St. Christopher’s was shattered when Erin and Marley refused to bring the children to Christmas Eve services. “Organized religion is mind control,” Marley declared emphatically.
When exactly had Marley gone from giggly freshman to arbiter of independent thought? Grace had wondered. Now all she wanted was for the holiday to be over and the house to be quiet.
Baby Henry, Hank and Susan’s seven-month-old, could sit in his Toys “R” Us rocker chair, or his bouncing swing, or his port-o-crib, or whatever other apparatus Susan had brought for him. Shortly after his arrival, he’d eaten, watched his Baby Einstein video, and done one round of flash cards. “Several studies show a correlation between this sort of early brain stimulation and higher IQ levels by second grade,” Susan had reported as she’d unpacked one gadget after another. “And that’s just where we want to be, right, Hank?”
Hank had nodded. It seemed quite clear he left the baby’s brain stimulation to his wife.
“Wouldn’t he like to open a present?” Grace had asked, timidly. “This is his first Christmas, after all.”
Susan had glanced under the tree. “Thanks, but we’ve got plenty to keep him occupied right now. And he’ll just suck on the wrapping paper.” With that, she’d produced a box with musical squares from a duffel bag. “Come on, my little Mozart,” she’d said in a saccharine sweet voice. “Let’s compose.”
The science of parenting. Grace had known nothing of the sort. Would it have been a comfort to her? She wondered. If she’d followed the expert advice and bought the right neurological stimulants, would her sons be different now? If they’d imitated musical patterns or recognized the letters of the alphabet at an earlier age, would they have grown up to be more considerate, more whimsical, more interesting men?
She remembered the days when she’d put them on a blanket in the sand and found small rocks and shells on the beach to keep them amused. Her sons had seemed enchanted, cooing and gurgling at the collection of natural objects. Once Hank had swallowed a pebble, but that passed without obvious complications. What happened to that simpler life?
As Susan directed and coached, Henry had struggled with the music box. Grace had hoped for his sake that he could fall asleep and have a few hours off from the unrelenting pursuit of excellence.
The food was ready. She lifted the lids of the covered dishes, inserted serving spoons into the sweet potatoes, turnips, and brussels sprouts, and stirred her cranberry sauce, wishing her dishes more closely resembled the picture instead of looking lumpy and overcooked.
Ferris appeared in the threshold and surveyed the room. His eyes were bloodshot, and he held on to the doorway for balance. “It’s beautiful as always, Gracie.”
“We’re glad you’re here,” she replied. “You know you’re always welcome, Ferris. I meant to tell you that when you called, when you acted as if you were imposing, but I got caught up in our conversation and didn’t mention it. I hope that you would know that, that our home is yours, no advance notice required.” She smiled.
Sweet Ferris, her slightly broken brother. His sweetness grew with age.
“Prissy’s coming, isn’t she?” he asked.
Grace pretended not to be taken aback. “I invited her and Kody, but she said they had other plans. Knowing how he feels about social functions, I didn’t press.”
“It would have been great to see her,” Ferris said. His voice sounded wistful. “It’s been so long.”
“Yes, I don’t know where the years have gone.”
He didn’t respond. She couldn’t tell if he had something he wanted to say and was holding back, or whether his brain, already pickled in alcohol, had shut down after its previous thought.
It was true that ever since the days following Sarah’s death, he’d seemed particularly intrigued by the clammer. Each time he’d visited, he’d made sure that Grace invited her for a meal, or that they had the opportunity to share a drink or a walk on the beach. Prissy seemed quite taken with him, too, and their conversation was always animated. Occasionally, one or both of them would make a remark that left Grace with the impression that they’d been in contact, perhaps even seen each other between his periodic visits to the Cape. She’d wondered, harboring suspicions, but tried her best to push the thoughts from her mind. That they were friends was fine—nice for both of them—but it couldn’t be anything more significant than that. Prissy was a married woman. It had to be innocent.
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly three, later than she’d intended for the holiday meal. “Why don’t you call everyone in for lunch?” she suggested.
Ferris started, apparently surprised by her voice. When she looked again, she could see him quickly wipe away a tear.
“Ferris, what is it? Is something wrong?”
He reached into his pocket, produced a handkerchief, and blew his nose. Then he folded it quickly. “Do you ever wonder about what might have been? The road not taken?” His voice cracked. “I’m sure I’m not right with my attribution, but wasn’t it Robert Frost who wrote about the fork in the road?”
She nodded. “The one less traveled.”
“Right. That’s it. And his view was that the alternate road was better, or at least better for him. But I wonder not about which route, necessarily, but what happens when you get to the fork, the moment of decision. We made choices—consciously or not—so young, so early, and yet they affected the rest of our lives.” He slumped back against the doorway, as if needing support from the wall. “I’m rapidly approaching sixty. And although I plowed
through the fifty-year hurdle with little fanfare and no crisis, life was different then.”
Wasn’t one supposed to soar over hurdles as opposed to barreling through them? Grace thought of the Olympic track stars she’d seen on televison. They appeared to take flight over the barriers in their way. She wished her brother had that same ease.
“But I think about how easy it might have been to end up a completely different kind of person in a completely different kind of life,” Ferris continued. “Why you and Bain? Why here in Chatham? Why am I alone as one more year comes to a close?”
“You’ve wanted to be alone,” Grace said, although she knew her comment was unconvincing. Despite what Ferris said about choice, she’d long ago concluded that at least some of his fate was accidental. “You’ve never wanted a family or commitment.”
“Maybe the right person never came along.”
“Oh, please, you’ve been making fun of me my entire life. You wouldn’t have wanted to settle down.”
“Perhaps. But I admire you for it, too, and I’m terribly envious of that husband of yours.”
They both smiled. Grace stepped toward him and gently stroked his cheek. “You know as well as I do that some of whatever life we make is deliberate and other parts are purely accidental. Then we try to undo some of the accidents and fail miserably.”