Cape May

by Chip Cheek

  Once they’d finished the platter and Henry had lost count of the number of whiskey sodas he’d had, Clara, in a lull, said, “It feels so late, doesn’t it? Is it late?”

  Effie slapped her thighs. “We should go.”

  “No,” Clara said. “That’s not what I meant. Stay as long as you like. Stay all night if you want to.”

  “Yes, please,” Max put in.

  “Our house is just across the way,” Effie said.

  “I know where your house is, darling. I just meant, stay as long as you like. Come and go, even—I’m serious. For as long as you’re here. Think of it as one house. Your wing, our wing. We never lock the doors.”

  The idea made Henry happy. He said, “Our windows are always open, I can tell you that. She can’t sleep without the windows open,” and Effie shoved him playfully.

  “Oh, good,” Clara said. “We’ll slip in and surprise you sometime.”

  “All of these houses are ours for the taking,” Max declared. “These past few nights, I haven’t seen a single light in any of them—except for yours. Haven’t you noticed? No one’s here, and no one will be until May.”

  Clara laughed. “Don’t instigate.” She put her hand on Max’s forearm and, leaving it there, said to Effie, “He’s been talking about breaking and entering all weekend. You’d better watch out for your belongings.”

  “I’ve just been making the observation. We could easily walk into any house on this street. Half the people who summer here don’t lock their doors for the winter, and the ones that do don’t lock their windows.”

  “What do you know?” Clara said, taking her hand away. “I know the people who live here. I grew up with them.”

  “Then prove me wrong,” Max said.

  “Not tonight, not tonight. My God”—Clara yawned dramatically—“I am exhausted.”

  But she didn’t move to get up, and no one said anything for a while. The fire had subsided to a dull glow, two or three little spears of flame. Clara’s feet were propped up on the coffee table beside Max’s, and their toes were lightly touching. Whatever they said, Henry thought, these two wanted to be alone.

  Down on the rug, on her back now, Alma turned a page of her book.

  “What is it you’re so engrossed in down there?” Effie said.

  Alma raised the book and looked down her nose at Effie, and when she saw that Effie was talking to her, she sat up and flipped the spine around as if to remind herself. “The Call of Cthulhu,” she said. “By H. P. Lovecraft.”

  “You didn’t find that here, did you?” Clara asked.

  Alma smiled. “Actually, I did.” She had beautiful teeth: very white but irregular, one canine more prominent than the other; it caught on her bottom lip.

  “I don’t believe it,” Clara said. “Here—hand it over.”

  With a sigh Alma scooched a few inches across the rug, lay on her side, and stretched her arm as if she could go no further. Clara had to lean forward to reach the book.

  “I bet it’s Uncle Otto’s,” Clara said, looking at the cover, which was red and unmarked as far as Henry could see. “He goes in for this pulp-horror shit. It’s about monsters or something.”

  “A giant sea monster,” Alma said, sitting up again and leaning on her hand. “And the secret cult that worships it. It’s sort of appropriate. It was up in my bedroom.”

  It was the most she had said all day. Her voice was clear and light and assured, a very fine and precise line of sound. There was the hint of an accent, maybe French.

  “It must be pretty good,” Effie said. “You’ve had your head buried in it all night.”

  “I guess I go in for the pulp shit too.”

  “Let me see it,” Max said, and he took it from Clara. He flipped a few pages and, in a baritone and English-accented voice, read: “‘I know not why my dreams were so wild that night, but ere the waning and fantastically gibbous moon…’”

  Alma rolled slowly onto her knees and with a show of effort got to her feet. “All right,” she said. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “A walk?” Max said, closing the book. “What are you talking about? What time is it?”

  “It’s not late,” Alma said. She stepped into her deck shoes, which she’d left by the fireplace, and lifted each foot in turn to pull the heels on.

  “It’s dark out,” Max said.

  “So? There’s nobody here—like you said. I’m just going down to the beach.”

  “Alma,” Max said. “You’re not going to the beach.”

  “But I am.” She was walking toward the foyer now, smiling at Max in what seemed to be a loving way. “See? I already am.”

  When the front door closed behind her, Henry was sad to see her go. She’d pointedly ignored them all day, but her rudeness had a magnetism to it. Probably she knew this. All night, barely conscious of it, he’d been unable to keep himself from glancing at her legs, her bare feet bobbing rhythmically while she read, the lovely curve of her behind.

  “Is she all right?” Effie asked.

  Max shook his head. “She’s fine.”

  * * *

  They left soon after. A quiet had fallen over Clara, and when Henry saw Max running the backs of his fingers up and down the side of her armchair, he told Effie they’d better go. She agreed. They stood up before Max or Clara could protest.

  “Come back in the morning,” Clara said. “Ten o’clock? We’ll make mimosas. It’ll take the edge off.”

  The night was not as cold as they’d expected it to be. An almost full moon stood high in the sky, and all the houses of the street were clearly visible. Back at Clara’s, the lights had gone out already. The thought that she and Max were at that moment rushing to bed together gave him a pang—of excitement, or jealousy, he wasn’t sure.

  “Those two are having an affair,” Effie said, and the coolness of her tone surprised him.

  “Do you think so?” he said, playing dumb.

  “Oh, please.” She stumbled over a rut in the road and clung to him. “Now I see how her marriage works. Clara, Clara…”

  It was only a little past ten. Despite all the drinks, Henry felt wide-awake, and he wanted to go where Alma presumably was right then: down on the beach, watching the silvery waves crash. He asked Effie if she felt like going.

  “I just feel like going home,” she said, taking his hand, but before his disappointment could register she said, “King George has a full bottle of gin, doesn’t he?”

  The night wasn’t over. “I believe he does. I don’t remember any tonic water.”

  “There’s vermouth or something. We’ll manage.”

  * * *

  At the cottage they made their drinks and took them out onto the back porch, and within a few minutes they’d stripped their clothes off, flinging their shirts and shorts and bathing suits onto the deck, and made love—much too quickly, and awkwardly, Effie straddling him—on one of the deck chairs. Afterward she stood naked against the porch railing, looking out at the yard, while in the afterglow Henry lay back admiring her, trying to tamp down the feeling that he was inadequate. She looked like a marble statue in the moonlight. “The air feels amazing,” she said. “Doesn’t it feel amazing?”

  On her request he went inside to put ice into their glasses, to temper the nearly undrinkable mixture of gin and dry vermouth they’d made, and he liked the feel of his nakedness, his half-erect penis hanging in the open air, while he went about this little domestic task—opening the freezer, chipping a few shards off the block, dropping them into their drinks, swirling the ice around.

  When he went back outside, Effie was no longer on the porch. He whispered her name, and her voice came back from far away: “Out here.”

  She was a white ghost down on the lawn. Henry laughed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Come down here,” she said. “It’s exciting.”

  He walked down the porch steps and across the lawn to join her, the grass and fallen leaves soft on his feet, the cool air t
hrilling against his skin. In the moonlight Effie was vividly naked: the glowing white skin, the black patch between her legs, the black coins of her nipples. “You’re crazy,” he said, handing her drink to her.

  “Who cares, if no one’s here to see us?”

  He put his arms around her and pressed her body to his and kissed her neck. They were covered in goose bumps, they were laughing and shivering—an electric current was running through them. He took her hand and they made a circle around the yard. The tool shed lay mysterious in a dark bed of ivy. The line of silvery beech trees on one side of the yard, an old picket fence in need of repair on the other. In the neighboring yard stood a swing set, the rusty hinges singing, and the yard beyond it was crowded with thick trees. Against the light grass the shrubs and fence posts and lawn chairs became presences; he felt eyes upon him.

  “Let’s walk around a little,” Effie whispered.

  “Walk around?”

  But she had already turned away from him, and he followed her pale behind into the deep gloom at the side of the house. They were infected with laughter—the air was tickling their stomachs. “Effie,” he whispered. “Someone’s going to see us.” But she ignored him and continued on, stepping carefully over the taller grass, holding her drink out and high as if she were on a balance beam.

  They came out onto the cement sidewalk in front of the house, in the shadow of an elm tree, and looked up and down New Hampshire Avenue. Henry’s heart was pounding. Effie dared him to walk up the sidewalk. “That way,” she said, pointing to a long stretch of open moonlight in the direction away from Clara’s house.

  “You do it,” Henry said, and Effie said fine and walked out of the safe harbor of the shadow. Laughing, trembling all over, he jogged up to join her, cupping himself pointlessly until, after a moment, he took his hand away.

  They sipped their drinks and strolled easily down New Hampshire Avenue, past house after deserted house. Henry had never felt so liberated. Everything was enchanted and strange, and neither of them spoke, as if in respect to something hallowed. The breeze was strong. The trees cast impenetrable shadows, and the houses seemed bathed in silver. Henry’s loins tickled him and he kept touching himself.

  Now the moon went behind a thin line of clouds and the neighborhood dimmed. Henry pointed out that today marked a week since they’d arrived in Cape May, and what a difference a week made. “Aren’t you glad we didn’t leave?”

  “I’ll tell you when it’s over,” she said.

  They were coming within reach of the yellow streetlights on Philadelphia Avenue, but they continued on anyway, until they reached the corner. Another large elm tree sheltered them. Three blocks down, Philadelphia ran into Beach Avenue and the seawall, and beyond the lights of the promenade long pale lines appeared out of the darkness and then faded away, one after another. They stood watching them for a while. Henry, emboldened now, was about to suggest they risk a dash down to the beach, when Effie said, “Look,” and pointed with her empty glass.

  A lone figure was walking along the promenade. They were too far away to make it out, but Henry thought it must be Alma, still wandering the night. A slender frame, an unhurried pace. The thought of her out there within sight of them thrilled him in a way he couldn’t articulate. “I guess we’re not entirely alone,” he said, his voice trembling.

  Effie laughed and hugged her shoulders, and Henry rubbed the goose bumps away from her arms. They watched until the figure went out of sight.

  “We better head back,” Effie said, “before we get thrown into jail.”

  They started back down the sidewalk, in no hurry. Effie wandered into the middle of the street, and Henry followed, but the street was dirt and gravel and broken seashells, and they retreated after a few yards. Just before they reached Aunt Lizzie’s, the moon came out again from behind the clouds and caught them in a bright segment of the sidewalk. Effie had gone a pace ahead. She seemed to give off her own light. Henry reached forward and grabbed her hips and pulled her back against him. He didn’t want the night to end. Neither did she. She took his hand and pulled him onto the next-door neighbor’s lawn, and they dropped their empty glasses and got to their knees. The grass was dewy and cold, but they wouldn’t have to lie in it: he told her to bend over, gently nudging her down, and she complied, and after a little searching, a little adjusting—they’d never done it this way before—he found her.

  For a few perfect, suspended minutes Henry was the master of himself. It was the whiskey and gin, it was the quick release on the back porch, it was the strangeness of the evening and the watchful presences all around them. He imagined a ceiling inside of her and aimed for that and thought he could feel himself striking it. The day rose before him: the scent of Dial soap, the taut and shuddering sails, the bank of clouds, the warmth of the fire, Alma’s long, slender legs—and now Effie’s buttocks spread open at his waist. The best days of his life were upon him. Live wires ran under his skin from every extremity, converging at his groin, and he tried to keep the center warm but not to overheat it. He held her hips to steady himself. But then the scales tipped subtly and Effie wasn’t under his control anymore—she was up on her elbows now, pushing back against him, more quickly than he wanted. She had discovered something, an edge of something, and now she was trying to get at it. Henry stopped moving and let her do the work. Their bodies clapped. Her flesh shuddered. He saw the dark cleft between them, where they met in a ring of friction, and the sight brought him to the verge—so he closed his eyes, and imagined her father scowling at him, and then his own mother, and he was so concentrated on the struggle that he didn’t realize he was coming until the crest had passed and the wave was already receding—shallow and disappointing. But he would make himself hold on a little longer. Effie had really found something; for the first time she let out a little cry: “Oh.” She sat up higher, to bring her weight down on it, eyeing him over her shoulder, as if to warn him not to give in now—so he leaned back on his hands, pressing his pelvis up so he wouldn’t slip out, and held on until, finally, to his relief, she gave up with a sigh, pulled away from him, and fell over onto the wet grass.

  For a long time they lay there, angled apart, and looked up at the moon and the fast-moving clouds. Henry sat up. Effie was embedded in the grass. She was spent, he thought; beyond rescue. He helped her up. They found their empty glasses and went inside through the unlocked front door.

  They went to bed naked and woke late. The attic room was hot and bright.

  “We were foolish last night,” she said from her pillow.

  “Are you ashamed?” he asked.

  She smiled, and shook her head, and reached for him under the covers.

  Five

  They spent the early afternoon after breakfast by Clara’s pool, drinking Champagne and orange juice. Clouds drifted overhead and the light swelled and faded and swelled again. They lay out on deck chairs in their bathing suits, but the pool was too dirty to swim in. Leaves softly clattered over the patio and into the water.

  “We’re lovers, you know,” Clara said, after Max had shown them his backflip off the diving board and gone upstairs to wash the grime off. “I’m a little tipsy already, so forgive me if I’m being shocking.”

  Effie laughed. “It’s none of my business.” But Henry had perked up, wanting to hear more.

  “We always had this kind of open thing with each other, whoever else we were with. You’re such decent people, maybe it sounds bad to you.” She was smiling at Henry, who smiled back, and shook his head.

  “Honestly, Clara,” Effie began, but Clara went on:

  “It’s not so unusual. Richard and I, we have an arrangement. I don’t mean we actually talk about it, you know, but—but of course you don’t know, you’re so sweet and young. There are different kinds of marriages. Happy families are not all alike. I’m a comfort to him. And he’s a dear, sweet man.”

  “So long as you’re happy,” Effie said.

  “Oh, I’m happy,” Clara said. “Oh
, I really am.” She sighed and tilted her face up to the sun, stretching her legs out.

  * * *

  When Alma came down at last, squinting, wearing the same dress she’d been wearing the night before, they roused themselves and went out for a walk.

  The town seemed to have emptied again after the weekend. They wandered the deserted streets, no longer alone. If a place was open, they drifted inside. A malt shop. A curio shop, full of crafts made of seashells and driftwood and sea glass. Effie was happy and lively. As they walked she shared facts about the place. It had been the first beach resort in the country. In 1878 a fire—arson, most likely—had destroyed most of it, and most of the Victorian architecture dated from the rebuilding. “Our own little docent,” Clara said. There had been great floods, of course. Some years ago, in the winter, the sea had surged as far as New Hampshire Avenue, and Clara said she remembered it well: how they’d found the house in ruin, shattered glass, stains on the walls, a mildewy smell everywhere. They were coming back along the promenade now in the early evening. The sea softly roared to their right. Henry imagined a wall of water rising up, curling a hundred feet overhead, consuming the promenade, smashing into the hotels beyond, rushing up the avenues. At any time, he thought, it could happen again. The danger was exhilarating.

  “Some kind of monster washed up on the shore here this summer,” Alma said. She’d been trailing behind, and now they stopped and turned to her. She pulled her cardigan close. “No one knows what it was. Some species of squid, maybe. It had tentacles, but it had rows of teeth too, like a shark. It was big. One of the Coast Guard boys told me about it. He said the smell was all over town.”