by Nancy Geary
“I haven’t seen her recently. I wondered if she’s gone away.” Grace hoped the girl could not sense the anxiety in her question.
“She sure did. She and Kody left a while back. Just packed up that truck with its muffler dragging and its exhaust banging, and their belongings covered with a tarp. It was a sight. I told them they’d never get anywhere, but they were determined. Who knew they’d even make it to the Sagamore Bridge? But she bet me a buck they would, and I assume since they haven’t shown up asking to move back in that they made it somewhere. I guess I owe her a dollar.”
“Then your place is still empty?” It was only a thought.
“Yeah, if you know anyone, have them give me a call.”
“And Kody, he left, too?”
“I’d say he didn’t want to get left behind.”
Her husband hadn’t needed to run away, but if Grace was to venture a guess, he had no idea of the emotions behind his wife’s decisions. “Did she say why? Why they were leaving?”
“Prissy?” Emily shook her head. “I’ve known her for a long time. And I can tell you this: She might give you every detail she can think of to help you rake a clam, but when it came to her emotions, her private life, forget it. She was as tight as one of these little buggers.” She reached into her bucket and then extended her hand in Grace’s direction. Seawater dripped from a muddied clam. Its shell was locked shut.
Oddly, Grace felt some relief in the words. At least the behavior was consistent. At least her failure to confide in Grace wasn’t due to an aberration of Grace’s own personality. Everyone had been kept at bay, her secretive life, passions, and relationships carefully compartmentalized.
“Did she happen to mention where they were going?”
Emily scratched her thigh with a sandy hand. “No, she didn’t. All she told me was that it was time to do some exploring. She’d worked hard her entire life. I got the feeling she wanted an adventure, to see the world. Who wouldn’t want to bug out of here if they had the chance?”
“But what about Kody? What about his work?”
The girl made a face.
“The commercial fishing boat?”
“Kody? Work?” Comprehension passed over her face. “You didn’t know him, did you?”
Grace shook her head. “This must seem so odd to you. I’m telling you that Prissy and I were friends, close friends, old friends, but I realize now there was a lot I haven’t known.”
“Join the club.” Emily pushed her hair behind her ear, leaving a streak of muck on her cheek. “That was Prissy’s way. And don’t get me wrong. Kody can be a real sweetheart. You know, gentle and funny. But he couldn’t hold a job. Or at least no kind of job he wanted. Prissy tried to get him to be a mail sorter, said the federal government offered good benefits, but I don’t think he could manage.”
The phrase seemed odd. “Was something wrong?” she asked tentatively.
“With his head, no, but with his body, yeah. Prissy had to do almost everything for him.”
“Was that recent?”
“He’s always been in a wheelchair, or at least since I’ve known him. He was paralyzed. I heard he had a motorcycle accident, but I was never told details, and it wasn’t the kind of thing you could ask.”
Grace had the sensation that she was on a carnival ride, a whirling, spinning, falling machine with g-forces so strong that they made it difficult to breathe. Kody was disabled. The floor dropped from underneath her, and centrifugal pressures were the only thing keeping her from slipping into an abyss. Had Prissy made up everything? Her mind raced, piecing together the bits of information she’d been given over the decades. Kody was the partial owner of a fishing boat. He was handy around the house. He was antisocial. He was as stable as an old couch. No quality was inconsistent with paralysis. But wasn’t the overall impression a person made as much a part of the truth as actual factual detail? In that way, Prissy’s omissions had been horribly deceptive and misleading.
She wondered if Ferris had known.
“Maybe she didn’t want you to know. She was always kind of reserved about that. She didn’t want people . . . you know . . . to feel sorry for her.”
Their eyes met.
“How long ago did she leave?” Grace asked, although it was one answer she thought she knew.
Emily frowned, remembering. “A month or so, maybe a little longer. It was a typical Prissy maneuver. She told me about this spot, how great the clamming was. I’d been driving out to Morris Island, but there were more and more problems with parking, and this is a town landing. We’d talked about that before. Anyway, she suggested I take this place. It was only when I asked her where she was planning to clam that she told me she was leaving Chatham. The next day the truck was packed. Between you and me I’m a little pissed. She gave almost no notice after being a tenant for nearly forty years. But she did give me a couch and some dishes that she said she couldn’t take with her. So I guess between the stuff and this spot, I ended up ahead of the game.”
“Did she say when she might be back?” Despite the recent revelations—all of them—it was difficult for her to fathom that there had been no telephone call, no letter, no communication whatsoever.
This time the clammer looked puzzled. “Boy, you really were out of the loop. Far as I know, she’s got no plans to return.”
Grace looked away, feeling her eyes well with tears. She had disappeared. Although Grace had sensed this, hearing the confirmation hurt more. There could be no discussion, no apology, no attempt to understand, and certainly no rapprochement. Grace felt her complete and utter absence in the pit of her stomach.
“Knowing Prissy, I’ll get a call one of these days to collect her winnings, the dollar I owe her. I’ll let her know you were looking for her.”
Grace forced a smile. “That’s very kind. But I’d hate to bother her.”
“No bother. Any message?”
“Well . . . um.” Grace paused to think. “Just tell her that I hope her quest is meaningful, whatever it is and wherever it takes her. If that’s not too much to remember.”
Emily smiled. “I like that. It sounds poetic.”
“Thanks,” Grace said. “Let’s just hope she knows what I mean.” She turned to leave.
“Hey,” Emily called after her.
Grace stopped.
“I’m sorry if I said too much. I have a tendency to ramble. Probably comes from living alone and working alone, too. The silence gets to me. Someone seems like they want to have a conversation, and the floodgates open. Truth is, I should probably get a roommate. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”
Grace smiled. “No need to apologize. I appreciate your candor. And I hope we meet again.”
Emily beamed. “Thanks. Me, too.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Is Dr. Preston there?” Grace whispered into the receiver. Bain had left nearly an hour before to meet with their lawyer about the purchase and sale agreement on their home, the insidious document that would begin to assign rights in their dwelling to Mr. and Mrs. John J. Marx of Wellesley. Given that it was legal business, he’d insisted it wasn’t necessary for her to accompany him. Even though he was several miles away in a conference room located in a modest office complex along Route 28, she still harbored the irrational fear that he could hear, and that her secret would be exposed.
But she had to make the call. Dr. Preston had telephoned nearly every day in the last week, and she couldn’t run the risk that Bain would answer the telephone directly or question one of several messages that had been left on the machine to date, all formal, all proper, messages that revealed or disclosed nothing, but nonetheless left with a sense of urgency. The very fact of the calls was dangerous, and Bain’s suspicions would no doubt be aroused even with his other preoccupations. No doctor would waste precious minutes leaving more than one message, not with how the insurance companies compensated him for his time.
Bain would have no choice but to conclude that there was either some
thing horribly wrong with her health or that she was having a torrid affair with her Boston physician. And she didn’t want either thought to pass through his mind.
“The doctor’s not in at the moment.” The female voice was raspy.
She heard the smack of chewing gum.
“Could you put me into his voice mail?” Grace’s hands trembled as she gripped the telephone tighter. She wanted to leave a message, a personal one, and didn’t want to have to explain or repeat herself to an administrative assistant scribbling on a While You Were Out pad.
“Yes, ma’am. But I can’t tell you when he’ll pick up those messages. Is this urgent?”
Grace paused a moment before answering, “No.”
“Oh, well then, voice mail will be just fine.” The woman sounded relieved. “Please hold while I transfer you.”
The phone line beeped several times, and then Grace heard Dr. Preston. The voice startled her before she realized it was, truly, a recording. Impersonal and automatic. She was safe.
“You’ve reached Dr. Preston. I’m sorry that I am unable to take your call right now, but please leave your name, number, and a brief message after the tone, and I will get back to you as soon as possible.”
She waited for the beep.
“Dr. Preston, this is Grace Alcott. I received your messages and appreciate your concern, but my mind is made up. I am not going to return to the hospital until . . .” She felt her face flush even as she stood alone in her house talking to a machine. Until what? Her incapacitation? Her death? She took a deep breath. When she continued, her words came slowly. “I’m feeling fine, really, better than ever, and whatever happens . . .” Her voice drifted off.
Focus, Grace, she told herself. She didn’t want the tape to cut her off for leaving too lengthy a message. She didn’t want to have to call back and get the gum-chewing assistant to put her through again. “Dr. Preston, I do want to handle the current situation in my own way.” She would control the manner in which she died. Wasn’t that some sort of God-given entitlement or constitutional right? Wasn’t that one area where the rest of the world couldn’t intervene? She wanted—needed—that to be true.
“I’ve made my decision, and I believe it is the best one under the circumstances. If you disagree, I’m sorry. But this is my choice.” Her decision, yes; even the words made her feel stronger. “Please do not call the house anymore. I do not want Bain to be alarmed.”
Her voice cracked as she pressed the receiver to her face. “I wish you all the best, health and happiness. Thank you . . . Thank you very much for your care.”
She slammed down the telephone as though it had suddenly ignited, making it too hot to hold. Her heart pounded in her chest. She didn’t know the details of the Hippocratic oath, and hadn’t kept the copy of the Patient’s Bill of Rights that the nurse-technician had given her when she’d had her fateful X-ray, but she did understand the only thing that mattered at the moment: He was her doctor and he’d have to honor her wishes, even if he disagreed. He had an obligation to maintain her privacy and secrecy.
She’d done it. Covering her face in her hands, she leaned against the wall and wept.
Chapter Twenty-two
Dust filled the air of the cramped space. Sunlight through the triangular window at one end of the attic was insufficient to illuminate the interior, so Grace worked by a bare-bulb lamp she’d rigged using two extension cords and a plug in the guest bathroom a full story below. Although she’d dreaded the task earlier that morning, now she relished having something to keep her mind occupied.
The array of worthless possessions formed a road map of her life. The Pucci slips she’d cherished, their elastic waistbands now frayed, were wrapped in a bundle beside several flattened purses, and a collection of Bain’s old suspenders was at the bottom of a trunk. Baby clothes worn by Erin and then Hank mixed with old photographs and a broken wooden dog on a pull string. Paintings on dried and cracked paper were rolled and kept in place with rubber bands. Some were dated. Others were indecipherable. Had Hank or Erin made the art? Had it been a finger-painting project in kindergarten, or were the lines and colors sophisticated enough to have been done at an older age? She couldn’t tell. She’d even come across her wedding dress, the lace yellowed, that she’d packed away in pink tissue in the hope that it would be worn again, a hope that had never come to pass. No doubt Sarah would have wanted a new one, a smart style of her own choosing with a brocade bodice and a flowing train.
Looking at the relics, the tangible memories, she regretted that all of Sarah’s belongings had been donated to Goodwill just days after her death. Bain had wanted to purge the house, as if the elimination of tiny possessions could eliminate the enormous human loss. And she’d agreed. She’d even taken some comfort at the thought that a disadvantaged baby girl might benefit from the beautiful clothes, toys, and furniture. Now Grace hated that she had artifacts from only two of her three children, that there was nothing stored in the attic that had belonged to her daughter, and that despite her every hope, she wouldn’t discover a bootie that Sarah had worn or a teddy bear that she’d embraced. No doubt those objects no longer existed.
Bent over, Grace half crawled to the next box, fiddled with the masking tape that had lost its adhesive years before, and opened the top. She reached in. Her hand found Erin’s tennis trophy. The small metallic man poised in service position atop a column of gold and blue, his left arm extended and his right arm bent back with the racquet, his face lifted to the sky. The plaque on the faux-marble base read: WINNER. 14 AND UNDER BOYS’ SINGLES. Erin had triumphed even though in the summer of 1988 he was still a few months shy of thirteen.
Grace remembered the day of the finals. She’d found a seat on one of many Adirondack chairs that overlooked the tennis courts of the Chatham Beach and Tennis Club. Erin and his opponent, Herbie Grant, were in the middle court. The sun was high and hot in the sky, but Erin had brushed off her attempts to apply sunscreen and taken his place on the service line, pulling down his baseball cap. It was a pro set, the first of eight games. She’d watched anxiously as Erin scrambled for each point, rushed the net, or tried to smash an overhead. She’d clapped at his victories and been careful not to applaud Herbie’s mistakes. When Erin’s beautiful crosscourt backhand ended the match, she’d jumped out of her seat with a surge of pride and excitement, and run down the steps to offer congratulations.
“What a wonderful job you did! That was fantastic!”
Erin, surrounded by his friends, had barely glanced in her direction.
She’d watched for several seconds as he laughed and joked with a red-haired girl and her pigtailed friend. Neither face was familiar. “Are you too tired to ride your bike home?” she’d asked. Without a response, he’d turned away from her and walked off the courts.
She’d spun around, not wanting to watch him leave. The signal was too obvious. There were still spectators on the porch. No doubt all had seen her failed attempt to interact with her son, to share in his victory.
Herbie sat on a bench, tying the lace of his sneaker. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Grant was anywhere in sight. His tennis racquet lay on the ground at his feet beside a half-empty bottle of orange juice.
“Congratulations. You played beautifully,” she’d offered to the runner-up. It was true. Just because Erin had won didn’t mean this little boy hadn’t put up a valiant struggle. He was a good player. His family should have been there to remind him of that.
Herbie smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Alcott. And thanks for coming to watch.”
What had become of the boy with his sweet face and curly red hair? She wondered whether Herbie had won the tournament the following year, or any of the years after that, and hoped he had.
Erin wouldn’t care about the trophy, and probably wouldn’t remember the details of his finals match. Perhaps she should send it to Herbie. She made a note to herself on a Post-it and stuck the yellow square to its base.
She reached into the box again and produced a packa
ge of papers, the typewritten collection of report cards from Hank’s days at the Advent School. She skimmed the one on top.
Although Henry is quick to grasp the principles of geometry and consistently performs well on his exams, his attitude is, regrettably, a disruption to the class. He is sarcastic, disengaged, and often rude, all clear indications that he has difficulty with authority and direction. It is a shame that his comportment cannot rise to the level of his comprehension as he shows considerable promise in the area of mathematics.
Mr. McFarland. She remembered the seventh-grade math teacher, the charming, handsome academic whose criticism of her son had been so devastating. She had been too ashamed to face the man directly and resisted his invitation for a conference to go over the obvious problems. Her solace had been that Hank had a new teacher the following year for algebra.
Beneath that bundle was a similar one marking Erin’s academic record. He’d lacked his brother’s intellect and struggled throughout high school with mediocre grades, incompletes, and one required session of summer school in order to be awarded a diploma with his class.
She remembered the apprehension over his graduation, the precariousness of his status. In his junior year, he’d been expelled from a middle-tier preparatory school for marijuana use after he’d been placed on probation for poor performance. He’d arrived home by Greyhound bus without ever calling to ask her to come get him. His duffel bag, stereo, and a box of albums were still in the hallway when Bain had returned from work. Bain had been livid, but in the quiet, controlled sort of way that she found infinitely more frightening than when his temper exploded in a passing fit. Yet even as his father told him that he was an embarrassment, that he’d squandered opportunities that most boys weren’t given and that, perhaps, he didn’t deserve, Erin had remained calm, seemingly unfazed. “They didn’t discover half of what I’d done,” he replied, as if to suggest he possessed a cleverness and cunning that his parents should admire.