by Jean Stone
She wanted to tell him about Rita. She wanted to tell him her best friend had snubbed her only moments ago. But picturing Christopher standing in the studio, watching the giant clock on the wall, Jill realized it was foolish to waste his time on mother stories and schoolgirl hurts. “No,” she answered, “I guess not. I miss you. I can’t wait until next week. Even though the place will be crawling with people, at least we’ll be together.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” he said, “there’s been a slight change in plans. Addie will be there Tuesday, but I won’t fly in until Wednesday morning.”
“Maurice Fischer again?”
“I’m having dinner with him.”
Jill didn’t respond.
“Does that bother you?”
“That you’re meeting him again—without me? Of course it bothers me.” And it bothers me that I have a brother and that I’ve lost my best friend.
“I told you not to worry. RueCom is still in the preliminary talk stage. I’ve got to go now. I’m being paged.”
“Christopher?” Jill asked quickly before he hung up.
“What?” His voice was edgy now, impatient.
“Don’t tell him about Sam Wilkins yet, okay? Until I’m sure I can get the story.”
Christopher sighed. “Okay. I won’t.”
She said good-bye and stared at the ceiling, wondering if being here—in this house, on this island—was, indeed, making her crazy.
Then she thought about her father. George Randall had been tall and lean like Jill, and, she suspected, smart. Very smart. He was handsome enough with his closely cropped mustache and beard, and full head of thick, gray-then-white hair. He had warm blue eyes—eyes like Christopher’s—and an outgoing personality that was the antithesis of her mother’s. George was well liked at the tavern, well liked on the island.
A thought struck her. Her eyes flashed open. If George Randall was such a great guy, what the hell had he been doing with her mother? Her mother—a woman who barely spoke unless to criticize, a woman who had a son of whom no one ever spoke.
Suddenly Jill had an idea: How would she handle this if it were a story? Where would she begin?
She would, she knew, begin at the beginning. She would distance herself, she would be objective, divest herself of any emotional connection. The way any good reporter would.
And there was only one place to begin.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It’s just another story, she told herself. Another story, waiting to be told.
And she could do it.
She could do it.
Before she could change her mind, Jill jumped from the bed and rushed into the hall, dizzy from the quick movement. She ripped open the door to the widow’s walk as Jeff stuck his head from his room.
“Mom? Aren’t you going to pick up Amy?”
“Not now,” Jill barked as she flew up the winding stairs, two at a time, in search of the answers, in search of the truth.
Sun. Aug. 24, 1947
Robbie took his first steps today! He wobbled at first, then his chubby little legs moved forward, one, two, three steps! Then he fell—kerplunk!—on his well-padded bottom. Oh, how I love this child. I wish my mother would come to visit. I wish she could have been here to see Robbie’s first steps. I wonder if she had been as excited when she saw me take mine. And if so, when all that had changed. I guess it was when I married George. She once said she didn’t know what to tell her friends about him. I guess she decided it’s easier not to tell them anything than to tell them his background, to tell them he works on the piers.
If only she wouldn’t be that way. If only she could see George as the loving, wonderful husband he is. If only she could have seen Robbie—her grandson—take his first steps.
The air in the room grew still. Up here in the widow’s walk, higher than the sounds of the workmen, above the world of reality, Jill saw a tear drop onto the page. She blotted it slowly, then felt a small ache when she saw the ink smear. She turned the page.
Thurs. Sept. 30, 1948
It is so hard for George to live in the city. He hates the crowds and the noise and the “hideous traffic” he always calls it. I know he stays here only for me, but why do I want to stay? My mother and sister barely speak to me. Mother didn’t even come for Robbie’s birthday. I suppose she would have if Robbie were Myrna’s boy, if he belonged to the daughter who did everything right, like marry a Charlton and live on Park Avenue, three blocks down from her. I suppose it’s not fair to make George stay here. After all, he has parents who love him, and a home where he’s welcome. Where we’re both welcome. Robbie, too.
I liked Martha’s Vineyard all right when we visited there last month. But live there? With no theater or nice restaurants? Of course, it’s not like we can afford to go anywhere in the city right now. But, still, maybe someday we will. I wish George would let me get a job. As much as I’d hate to be away from Robbie, the money would help. I wonder what I could do.
Tues. Dec. 28, 1948
George thinks I saved up the money from his pay envelope to buy the Christmas presents—the tool set for him, the red wagon for Robbie. If only he knew I’m a working girl! Mondays and Wednesdays, from nine a.m. until two p.m., I’m actually a seamstress on Seventh Avenue! Of course, it’s only temporary, until the spring line is ready. It’s strange to be there in the back room, where everyone shouts and where the hum of sewing machines is so loud you can’t hear yourself think. I remember going to the showings with my mother and Myrna, wearing my hat and my gloves and my shoulder-padded suits. We’d preview the collection and watch Mother make notes on her small yellow pad. Then the chauffeur would drive us to the Plaza for tea.
Ah! The back room of fashion is a long way from the Plaza … a long way from the audience I used to be a part of out front. I wonder if Mother and Myrna will come this spring. I wonder what they would do if they knew I was back here, stitching and sewing, making the dresses that Mother might mark on her pad.
I have a nice baby-sitter for Robbie. Mrs. Donnelly. She lives around the corner from the shop. It’s easy for Robbie and I to leave after George has gone to work, then catch the crosstown bus. Robbie loves the big bus, but I told him it’s our little secret. I hope he doesn’t spill the beans to George. It would hurt his pride too much, finding out I have a job. And I could never, ever hurt George. I love him so much.
Jill rubbed her eyes. She didn’t know how much more she could take. The inside of her mouth was dry, her lower lip sore from biting. Still, she could not stop. She could not stop long enough to digest the words—and their meaning. She could not stop, for she feared if she did, she would never pick up the diary again.
Mon. April 4, 1949
They want to keep me! “Your work is extraordinary,” JD, my boss, said today. I wish I could share this with George! Maybe soon I will have the courage. I’d better hurry, though, because Robbie is talking more and more these days, and I’m so afraid he’s going to let on about the bus and about Mrs. Donnelly. Oh! I might as well tell George. What will he do? Will he be angry? Will he forbid me to work? Oh, I hope not. It’s such fun to think I’ve come such a long way from making Red Cross bandages. Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop on the way home and buy a nice leg of lamb with my pay. Lamb in the middle of the week! That ought to put him in a good mood!
The next page of the diary was blank. Then, writing appeared again.
March 21, 1951
Jill rubbed her eyes again and stared at the date. 1951? She turned back and realized that two years had passed. She studied the writing. It looked different, somehow. Fainter, less structured, as though it had been penned by a different hand.
March 21, 1951
I never thought I’d write in this book again. But then, for a long, long time, I never thought I’d think again, feel again, breathe again.
Mother Randall is being so nice to me, I can’t imagine why. I don’t even mind living on the island now. It doesn’t matter where I live, the pain doesn
’t seem to stop. And George is happier here, so I guess that’s good.
As nice as they are, sometimes I think I can hear them whispering. I cannot hear their words, but I know what they must be saying: If it weren’t for me, Robbie would not be dead.
A shadow passed over the widow’s walk; the air grew thick with silence. Jill held her hand to her throat and forced herself to read on.
There. I said it. Robbie is dead. My son. My life. It’s been almost two years since the accident. Since we were leaving Mrs. Donnelly’s, since he got so excited about the “big bus” that he broke from my hand and ran into the street, since that battered yellow taxicab sped around the corner …
George says it wasn’t my fault. He says he still loves me. But I know he must hate me. Hate me for taking that job he knew nothing about, hate me for thinking I had to make money because his job wasn’t good enough, hate me for being the reason his son is dead.
Oh, God, will this pain never stop?
He wants to have another child. I cannot bear the thought. No child could ever be as wonderful as my Robbie.
Jill grasped the edge of the brittle page. A small piece crumbled in her fingertips. She turned to the beginning of the book, to the small lock of golden hair that lay tucked between the pages. She held it up, felt its silkiness. “Oh, God,” she said. “Oh, God.”
She dropped the hair back in its place; the book slid to the floor. Slowly Jill rose, her eyes fixed on the book. “Oh, God,” she said again, then turned toward the doorway and fled down the stairs, down to the second floor, down to the first, and out the front door—the front door of Florence and George Randall’s house, where Jill had never been wanted.
She walked. Tears stained her cheeks; she clutched her stomach, held her heart, as though her insides were going to fracture, as though her soul were going to break apart and spill onto the sidewalk.
She moved past shoppers, languid tourists wearing smiles and leather sandals. She kept moving, kept walking, not caring if anyone recognized her, for she didn’t recognize herself.
By the time she reached the end of Water Street, Jill realized where she had come. The lighthouse stood before her. The lighthouse where she’d spent so many hours, months, years, with Rita, thinking, dreaming, hoping.
She climbed down the dunes and found the path that led to their special place. Perhaps she’d find an answer here, perhaps she’d find some understanding as to what she had just read.
On the rocks, under the pier, what she found, instead, was Rita.
Jill stared at the back of the curly red hair. On the ground beside Rita stood a half-empty bottle of scotch. The ache in Jill’s heart began to quiet, soothed by the comforting presence of her best friend—her once, a long time ago, best friend. She brushed her tears away and took another step.
“Care to share that bottle with an old friend?” she asked.
Rita’s head didn’t turn toward Jill. Instead, she remained rigid, motionless, her face kept fixed toward the sea. “Did you follow me here?”
“No.” The crunch of footsteps on shells made Jill look around. A group of tourists wandered near the lighthouse. She stepped closer to where Rita sat. “May I join you?”
Rita shrugged. “Last time I checked, it was still a free country.”
Jill hesitated a moment. She didn’t need Rita’s caustic coldness right now. What she needed was a friend. She looked off across the harbor, at the small white sails that floated against the sky, at the soothing tide that gently licked the shore. Low tide, Jill thought. Low tide. Best time for quahogs.
She looked down at Rita. “Remember quahogging?” she asked. “You always got the best ones. I don’t know how you did it.”
“Survival,” Rita answered. “They were dinner.”
A pang of guilt resonated through Jill; guilt that she had always had so much more than Rita, guilt that she had been the lucky one. Or so it had seemed.
She hesitated a moment, then stooped beside her friend. “I thought maybe you’d be glad to see me.”
Rita laughed. “Sorry. I was just too darned busy to roll out the red carpet.”
Jill settled against a rock and faced Rita, noticing that her eyes were still bright and unlined, though Rita had always deplored sunglasses, unless, of course, they were used as a disguise. As if anything could hide that wild red hair.
“Are you still angry at me for leaving the island?” Jill asked.
Rita stared off toward Chappy. “If I remember correctly, I left before you did.”
Summer memories returned. Jill thought about the loss of her friend, remembered the unanswered questions. Suddenly Jill’s mother—and Robbie—seemed less important. They were gone. Rita was here. And Jill needed Rita more than ever.
“Where did you go, Rita? Why did you leave?”
Picking up the bottle of scotch, Rita took a swig. She held it a moment, then passed it to Jill without making eye contact, without changing the guarded expression on her face. “Why did it surprise you that I left? You were the one who always said what a shithole this place was. You were the one who couldn’t wait to get out of here.”
Jill looked down the long neck of the bottle, then raised it to her lips. The scotch burned her throat, cauterizing her pain. “But you were the one who wanted to stay.”
Rita shrugged again. “Shit happens.”
She handed the bottle back to Rita. “I’ve missed you.”
A look of doubt bounced from Rita to Jill. “How long has it been? Twenty-five years?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Yeah, well, you missed me so much I never even got a Christmas card.”
“My mother never told me you’d come back.”
“That’s no surprise. You should have guessed, though. You always thought I was destined to rot in this place.”
Reaching out, Jill touched Rita’s arm. Rita pulled away.
Jill took back her hand and rested it in her lap. “I was trying to make a new life for myself.”
“And a fine job you did. So what is it now, Jill? Are you going to be another of the island’s famous celebrities who graces us with your presence once a year?”
“No. I’m selling the house.”
Rita laughed. “See what I mean? You don’t care about it here. You don’t care about any of us. You never did.”
A small wave lapped the shore. “Is that what you think?”
“You always thought I’d wind up like my mother. Well, in a lot of ways I guess I did. That should make you happy.”
“Rita … I never meant …”
Rita’s voice was slow, deliberate. “Yes you did. You were smarter than me, Jill. Prettier. More ambitious. I guess that’s not a crime.”
“It is if I hurt you that badly.”
“You didn’t hurt me, Jill. Pissed me off, maybe. But, no, you didn’t hurt me.”
Jill remembered Rita’s laughter, Rita’s toughness, and that Rita had always used these defenses to hide her insecurities, to hide her feelings that she wasn’t as good as the kids who lived in the houses with mothers and fathers, the kids with dinner waiting on the table and clean, pressed clothes in their closets.
The heat of the sun warmed her face. “Life doesn’t always go the way we want,” she said. “No matter how hard we try.”
Rita pulled her knees to her chest. “No shit.”
The sound of a motorboat approached. They both turned to watch as it shot through the water, white foam splashing, leaving a deep “V” of a wake.
“I can’t believe you still come here,” Jill said.
“Not many other places to think around here,” Rita answered. “Especially in August.” She hugged her knees and looked at Jill. “I was real sorry about your parents. Your dad. Your mother.”
“Thanks.”
“I went to the service. For your mother.”
Jill flicked her gaze back to the lighthouse, to the tourists. “I was in Russia,” she said, aware that her words sounded weak, because Rita wo
uld know the real reason Jill hadn’t returned had nothing to do with Russia. “Is your mother still …”
“Hazel?” Rita laughed. “Nothing’s going to kill her. Found herself a man a few years ago. They live in Sarasota now.”
Jill nodded. “That’s nice. She’s such a great person.”
Rita plucked the bottle again and took another drink. “Yeah, well, she’s different.”
Closing her eyes, Jill let the sun soothe her skin, let herself find comfort in the sound of Rita’s voice, in the way her words danced with a spirit all their own—a familiar, safe dance that Jill had missed for so long. “I’ve never had another best friend, Rita,” she said, her eyes still closed to the sun, her heart opening to her friend.
Rita didn’t reply.
Jill sat up and checked her watch. “I’d love to have you meet my kids,” she said. “In fact, I have to pick up my daughter now.” She hesitated a moment, then heard herself add, “Would you like to come?”
Rita paused for a heartbeat, or maybe it was two. “What time is it?”
“Five-thirty.”
“I’ve got to start work at six. I tried to quit, but Charlie wouldn’t let me. I’m a waitress there. At the tavern. Like my mother was.”
“Tell Charlie he can live without you for one night,” Jill said. “Come with me, Rita. Please.”
Rita seemed to think about it. “What the hell,” she finally said. “Why not.”
The sun seemed to smile; the world seemed to come back into focus. “Great,” Jill said as she rose to her feet. “We’ve got so much to catch up on. First, though, we have to go back to my house and get the car. Amy’s out at Gay Head.”
“The car?” Rita asked.
Jill brushed off her shorts. “Hopefully, the workmen or any of their friends haven’t boxed me in. I’m having some work done on the house and it’s a power-saw nightmare.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Rita said as she screwed the cap on the bottle. “You get the car. I’ll wait here.”
Jill didn’t understand why Rita didn’t want to come to the house, but, then, Rita was Rita, and she always was independent. “Don’t go away,” she said as she waved good-bye and headed toward the road, realizing then that she hadn’t asked Rita if she had ever married, or if she had any kids.