by Jean Stone
A nurse rushed in, followed by a doctor. “Everyone please leave,” he said firmly.
Jill leaned back against the wall. Rita turned rigid, her body like stone, unblinking, unmoving. Charlie cupped his arms around her and whispered, “Come on, Rita,” then guided her past Jill and out the door. Jill followed them into the hall where Ben was standing.
She looked at him. “Is he …”
Ben held out his arms. Jill sunk into them.
And then the doctor came out of the room. He walked to Rita. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Blair,” he said, “please know we did everything we could. It’s better this way. It’s better for your son.”
“I want to see him,” Rita said after a few moments. “Can I see him?”
The doctor nodded. “Of course.”
She took a deep breath and started back toward the room. Then she stopped, turned around, and held out her hand. “Charlie?” she asked. Charlie went to her, and together they went to say good-bye to Kyle.
Jill could barely stand the pain that coursed through her. She leaned against Ben and silently watched Rita and Charlie stand by Kyle’s bedside, silently watched as Rita got down on her knees and folded her hands in prayer. Jill suddenly thought of her mother … her mother, who, too, had watched her son die. Jill’s father—like Charlie—had been there to help her, but he had not known her pain. Perhaps her mother had been too ashamed to let it show; perhaps because they had lived in a different era, a different time, no one had realized how important it was to support the ones left behind.
Jill looked at her watch: it was five-ten. Tomorrow she would be leaving Rita again, going back to Boston, then on to L.A., onward with her life. But tonight Rita needed her. Christopher and Addie and Maurice Fischer could make do without her: there were plenty of nights for dinner that lay ahead for them: there was only one night left that she could spend with Rita. Rita. Her best friend. Her best friend who needed her now.
Jill stood up straight. “I’ll be right back,” she said to Ben, then headed down the hall in search of a pay phone to call Christopher and tell him to come pick up the Range Rover and go ahead without her.
Ben drove through the traffic after leaving the hospital in Oak Bluffs.
Jill tried not to think about Christopher, or the fact that he’d been angry when she called. She’d deal with him later—tomorrow. She looked out the window at the homes that passed by—the gray-shingled Capes, the clean, white colonials. They drove along the beach road, past the dunes, and the beach grass, and the clusters of beach plums—now ripened and ready for another year of picking. Then they moved into Edgartown, her town, and turned down West Tisbury Road, headed toward Rita’s house, the one place that had always seemed like home.
Rita and Charlie were already there, Jill and Ben joined them in the warm, comforting kitchen: Jill made coffee that no one drank, and sandwiches that no one ate. Still, it was good to be together, each sharing their own form of pain, each perhaps feeling their own share of guilt. Rita insisted that Ben tell her the details of what had happened: when Jill heard about Carrie’s part in the plot against Menemsha House, and that she’d set the fire, she recoiled.
“I checked with the police before going back to the hospital,” Ben finished. “They’re in custody now—Carrie and her father. The Saudi Arabian will most likely be deported.”
A small part of Jill was glad that Carrie had been caught, that Carrie and Sam Wilkins would be punished, though no part of her would ever have wanted Kyle to die. Not even after all he had done, Kyle hadn’t deserved to die. Then, she thought about her story on Sam, and wondered how Maurice would react when she told him it could never be aired. She wanted to ask Ben what he thought Carrie meant when she’d said she couldn’t stand any more lies. But now was not the time. And Ben was not the one to ask.
By eight-thirty, Rita was exhausted.
“I think you should try and get some sleep,” Charlie said, then turned to Jill and Ben. “I’ll stay with her tonight. You guys go ahead.”
Jill went to Rita and hugged her tightly: Rita, her brave, brave friend. “I know you’ll be all right,” Jill said, “I know you’ll be all right, in time.”
Rita cried into Jill’s sequins.
“Have you thought about a funeral?” Jill asked.
“Kyle wouldn’t have wanted that. He would have wanted to be cremated. To have his ashes scattered across the sea.”
A true islander, Jill thought, and hugged her friend more tightly.
Then Rita pulled back and, with a long red fingernail, brushed away Jill’s tears. “You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Jill nodded but could not speak.
“Will you ever come back?”
“Yes, Rita. Of course.” Even as she said the words, Jill knew they were probably untrue. She knew her life would take up where it had left off; she knew she would be soon far from the Vineyard, far, even, from Boston. But she could not tell that to Rita now. She combed Rita’s curls through her fingers and smiled. “There’s no reason you can’t come to see me, either,” she said, and had a brief, magical picture of Rita in L.A., living it up. Then Jill looked back into Rita’s wet eyes and wondered if Rita would ever laugh again, would ever find pleasure and release from her pain. She leaned down and kissed Rita’s cheek. “I’ll phone you,” she said quietly. “That’s a promise.”
“I’ll drive you home, Jill,” Ben said.
She pulled away from Rita and shook her head. “No, thanks, Ben. I’d like to walk.”
She said good-bye to Charlie and went out the door, with Ben close behind. “It’s a nice night for a walk,” he said. “Do you feel like company?”
They walked without speaking, Jill’s black satin heels clicking against the brick sidewalk, Ben’s good arm steadying her as they sidestepped the window-shopping tourists, who still crowded the streets, though the stores had long since closed for their short Sunday hours, and the sky had grown purple now, nearly dark.
When they reached her parents’ house, Jill noticed the lights were off. She didn’t know why that surprised her; she supposed she had hoped Christopher had stayed behind, or canceled the dinner, postponing the celebration until they could all be together. Then she remembered that Addie would have driven down from Boston. Still, it would have been nice.
“It’s been quite a day,” Ben said as they walked to her front door.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done,” she said, retrieving her key from her purse. “For me. For Rita.”
Ben nodded, and as Jill looked into his gray eyes, she realized this may be the last time she’d ever see him, then realized the thought made her sad.
“I’ll call you from Boston. You know,” she stammered, “to make sure things go all right with Mrs. Sherman.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll be fine. If anyone can get a good price for you, the Shermans can.”
She bit her lip and looked into the dark window, then up at the small glass inlaid whale over the door. “I like that,” she said, pointing up. “I don’t think I ever told you how much I like the whale. It’s your trademark.” She bent her head and toyed with the key. “I still think doing a story on you was a great idea.”
Ben laughed. “I’m not sure your expanded audience would have agreed.”
She smiled into his eyes. “They would have been wrong.”
Silence fell between them. The peepers began to sing.
“Peepers,” Ben said as he put his cap on his head. “They’re getting louder. It’s almost fall.”
“Yes,” Jill answered. “Almost.”
He looked around the front of the house. “Will you be okay?”
Jill shrugged. “Sure. I’ll be fine.”
The peepers sang again.
“Well,” she said, inserting the key in the lock, “I guess I’ll say good night.”
“Yes,” Ben answered. “And good-bye.”
“Yes,” she replied. She turned the key and pushed the door open, then turned back to face
him. “Will you check in on Rita from time to time?”
“Absolutely.”
Jill nodded again. “Good. She’ll need her friends now.”
Ben reached up and touched her cheek. “We all need friends, Jill.” Then he leaned forward and gently, softly, touched his lips to hers.
She closed her eyes and raised her hands to his shoulders. His kiss was so tender, so filled with caring. She parted her mouth a little. She kissed him back, surprised at the warmth that flowed through her, surprised at the peace that enveloped her every pore, her every nerve, her very soul.
“Good-bye, Jill,” Ben said as he broke away.
“Good-bye, Ben,” she answered quietly, then let herself into the dark house and closed the door behind her before she could tell him not to go.
She leaned against the door, stared up into the black staircase, and tried to catch her breath. Her vision blurred, her eyes grew wet. Ben Niles, she thought, is like no man I’ve ever known. She closed her eyes and, for a moment, tried to let herself feel the touch of his lips on hers again. The warm, wonderful touch of a sensitive, caring man. She brought a finger to her lips and gently touched them. They tingled. They parted. They wanted more. She frowned, the creases of her brow deepening, the yearning inside her rising.
Just then there was a knock on the door. Her heart fluttered. Quickly Jill turned and opened it.
Ben stood there, a small grin on his face.
“Come in,” Jill said without hesitation.
Once inside he pulled her to him without words. The strength of his arms enveloped her as he kissed her face, her eyes, her neck. Never had Jill felt so wanted, so needed, so loved.
They climbed the stairs. When they reached the top, Jill did not go to her parents’ bedroom, to the bed she shared with Christopher. She needed this to be special, so very special. She took Ben by the hand and led him up to the widow’s walk.
Over the floor, she spread the quilt of her ancestor’s. She looked up at Ben. He stood watching, surrounded by moonlight that flooded in the windows from north and south, from east and west. He took off his cap and dropped it onto the trunk—the trunk that held the diary.
Slowly, Jill removed her sequined jacket, then slipped from her black sheath. She unclasped her bra, let it fall to the floor, all the while watching his eyes watch her. She slid down her panty hose and her black silk panties. Then she stood motionless, naked, in the moonlight.
He stepped forward and gently cupped her breasts, his soft gray eyes locked in her gaze. Then he bent his head and lightly flicked his tongue across her aching nipple.
She cried out.
He raised his face to hers and kissed her once again. Slowly, tenderly.
Her hands reached for his jeans. She unsnapped the top, the zipper glided down. And then, she felt him in her hand.
“This may be difficult with only one arm,” he whispered.
Jill studied his face, his warm, wonderful face. “I don’t think we have to worry.” She sat down on the quilt, then pulled him gently down beside her. “Lie back,” she said, “and let me do all the work.”
He smiled, his soft gray eyes filled with longing, his dimple deep with joy. “You are the most magnificent creature I have ever seen,” he said, lying back.
Jill smiled back and raised up, then lowered herself onto him.
And in the glow of the moon’s light, amid the depths of her past, Jill made love to a man—and was made love to by a man—with more love than she had ever known. Warm, tender love, a blending of life, a merging of souls.
They stayed in their embrace for what seemed like only moments, yet must have been hours. Then, Ben spoke. “I’d better leave. Your family will be home soon.”
Jill did not want to respond, but knew she must. “Yes,” she answered.
She wrapped the quilt around herself and slowly they descended the staircase. She tried to pretend that she was not filled with sorrow, that she did not ache inside with an ache that she knew would never go away.
At the front door, Ben kissed her again. And then he left.
Jill went into the dining room, and through the window she watched as he walked down the sidewalk, and out of her life.
Chapter 27
October 7, 1992
I was cleaning out some things today and came across this diary in that dusty old trunk. It’s been more than a dozen years since I’ve written in it—there are few blank sheets left to fill. Perhaps I can. Perhaps I will today. I feel I must.
Much has happened in the last fourteen years. George has been gone now several years, and yet I still miss him terribly, I miss the way he made everything whole, I miss the way he held my hand at the most wonderful times right up until the end, right up until his death. Looking back over my life I see that he was, indeed, my rock—always there for me, always by my side, never doubting his love for me or mine for him.
Unlike me, who had been so sure that he had gotten Jill’s friend pregnant. If Hazel Blair herself had not come to me before she left for Florida and thanked me for George’s generosity, I never have would known the truth. I guess I’d been too afraid to ask George himself.
It was strange, that day when Hazel came to my door. I don’t think she’d ever been in my house before: I don’t think I ever would have let her in. Judgmental, I guess I was. I feared her reputation would somehow taint my house, somehow taint my life. Yet when she came, I saw such a different person from the one I’d imagined, from the image of a woman I’d heard so much talk about over the years.
Yes, she wore too much jewelry, and it was cheap at that, glittery costume things that should have turned her wrists and fingers green, and perhaps they did. And, yes, her sweater was too tight, her hair far too long for a woman of her age, her lipstick much too bright. Yet somehow God intervened and told me to let her in.
We had tea (perhaps she would have preferred whiskey!) and we talked, like two women, friend-to-friend. She told me what joy my daughter had brought into her life: how she missed Jill’s laughter, how she missed being a part of the silly things the girls did in their early, growing-up years. Then, tears made her dark mascara drip down her rouged cheeks. I never thought a woman like Hazel Blair would take the time to cry, or have the feelings to cry. I felt so guilty then, and wished we had been friends. I realize now what I have missed, by shutting out so many people in my life, by being so afraid of life.
When Hazel told me that Rita’s son was fathered by Charlie Rollins, I nearly spilled my tea. She had no reason to tell me: as far as she knew I didn’t even know that her daughter had been pregnant before she left the island so many years ago. As far as she knew, I believed the story that she had married some boy who was killed in Vietnam. Lord knows George never would have told me the real story—he would have wanted to protect me from knowing the scandal.
Anyway, Hazel begged me not to tell anyone, to keep their secret, so that Rita and her boy would be able to hold their heads up high. She said she didn’t want for Rita the kind of life she’d had, with all the gossip and all the accusing looks. To this day I have not told a soul. I never even told my dear George. Or my daughter, fill.
Yes, so much has happened in these years. I have seen Jill only once—she came for George’s funeral. I wish she had brought her children—my grandchildren—such beautiful children I can tell by the photographs. I wish that George had known them. I wish that Jill would let me know them now. But some things, I guess, are not meant to be. Jill did not want to come back to the Vineyard: she did not want to run the tavern, or save it for her son. I found that upsetting, yet, I cannot blame her. In truth, I know my daughter feels no ties to me, and that has been difficult to live with these past years. But she has her own life now—a good life, she says, though I worry about her, a divorced woman, struggling to make a career, trying to raise two children on her own. I pray for her. It is all that I can do now. I cannot change the past.
It’s hard to see the page now—the light is dimming, my eyes have go
tten worse. I just reread what I’ve written here and realized that I know the reason I came up here today and dug this diary from the ancient trunk.
Mother died last week. The letter came from Myrna today. I was surprised: I had no idea my sister knew where I lived, or even if I was still alive. There has never been a note from her—not even a Christmas card in all these years. We are both old women now; we have each chosen our separate lives. Mother was an old woman, too—she must have been ninety-six or seven, it’s difficult to remember dates. I wonder if she thought of me before she died. I wonder if she regretted all the things she did to me, all the pain she caused.
I know that I am sorry I never had the chance to say good-bye.
I suppose I, too, will die soon. I hope I do not have to live another twenty-some-odd years the way my mother did. I would be so lonely without George.
Perhaps if I had been a better daughter things might have been different for me. Perhaps if I had been a better mother myself my life would not be as lonely now, as empty.
This is the last page of my diary, the last blank sheet to fill with memories of my life. It is perhaps the best place to capture the most important thing that I have learned in life: the importance of forgiveness.
It is sad to think it has taken so many, many years to learn this. But now I know that I must forgive my mother for the way that she was—for being so controlling, for shutting me out. After all, I do not know what caused her to do—or not do—the things she did. I do not know what kind of pain that she, herself, endured. I must forgive her now, though she will never know. And I must pray that my daughter, Jill, can at last forgive me, too, for all the things I did not do, for all the things I did.
Most of all, I think it’s time I learned to forgive someone else, too. Myself. I now know that no one’s life is easy—not mine, not George’s, not Hazel Blair’s. Yet I suppose we all just try and do things right. And I think we can only hope that others will forgive us if we are not perfect in their eyes.