Villa America

by Liza Klaussmann

  “Yes, Father,” she said.

  “Owen, you’ll stay, won’t you?”

  “I can’t, Mr. Glass. Have to get back to the farm.”

  He looked disappointed. Then he clasped Owen’s arm and for a moment the three of them stood that way, Mr. Glass connecting them, Charlie off to one side.

  “Thank you,” Owen said. He was remembering the man’s hand in his.

  Mr. Glass smiled at Owen, as if to relieve him of the burden of having to say anything else.

  “Well, come on, you two.” He turned to his children, and the three of them moved off towards the small group still hovering near the edge of the field.

  Owen stayed. He ran his hands over the machine, her smooth spruce and sticky fabric, her wiring. He held his palm above the engine, feeling the rising heat hitting his skin. In the distance the crowd was dispersing, some back to their regular lives, their chores, perhaps a swim in the bay, others off to the Glass house for lunch.

  After a while, he too left, heading home to his mother, to his farm, his chores.

  It wasn’t quite dawn and Owen was running, running as fast as he could. Sweat trickled down his temples, his back, in the darkness. Running to outstrip the thoughts in his own head. But they wouldn’t go. Only a week had passed since he’d flown up in the sky, only a week, but everything was different. Everything was ruined. In the tumble of his mind he thought of his mother, of Mr. Glass. He thought of a kiss. And he kept running as it burned down his body.

  Was he ashamed? No, he was not. But he was afraid. And he was sad, sadness like someone had blown a hole in his heart and now there was only wind where his heart should be.

  It had all begun with the picnic, although perhaps it had really started before then, with his winning Mr. Glass’s favor. Perhaps inevitable disaster had been building and growing all these years, like a storm. But he couldn’t help thinking the turning point had been the picnic. They’d come the next Sunday, as they’d said they would, picking him up after church. And he’d gone with them, despite the look on his mother’s face.

  They’d ridden up-island, where the pine and scrub gave way to the lusher oaks and beeches. On the way, they’d eaten raspberries. Charlie had reached into the satchel next to him and pulled out a pouch of wax paper. He’d passed it to Flora, who’d inspected it and picked a berry, and then to Owen.

  The berries were a bit soft and crushed, warm from being in the bag and then in Charlie’s hand. Owen had put one in his mouth and tasted its furry sweetness, then the sting from the acid at the back of his throat.

  When they’d reached the small pond, hidden away from the more popular bathing holes, Flora had laid the picnic out on a white cloth: a loaf of bread, some cheese, hard-boiled eggs, beach-plum jelly, part of a leg of lamb wrapped in muslin, congealed fat dotting its surface, and a small bottle of wine.

  He was hungry, but he waited for Flora to parcel out the lunch. Charlie seemed to have no such qualms, though; he tore off a piece of the lamb with his fingers and ate it slowly.

  Flora had handed them each a glass of wine. He never drank wine at home except on special occasions, Christmas and christenings. But that day he’d put most of it down in one swallow. It had been delicious, more bitter than he remembered.

  “Charlie, a toast? You’re always so clever with them.”

  Charlie had raised his glass and said: “To the babies.”

  “Oh no,” Flora said, laughing. “Something prettier.”

  Her brother laughed too, choking slightly on his lamb.

  Owen watched them. At that moment, they’d seemed lovely and mysterious, and they spoke in tongues. His earlier discomfort with them, the feeling that he was missing something, something vital in their banter, did little to mitigate his pleasure; he enjoyed them the way you could enjoy a magic trick without understanding how it worked.

  “All right,” Charlie said. He held his glass up. “‘All days of glory, joy, and happiness.’”

  Flora held out her glass to Owen. “Yes, yes, that’s good. We should drink to that, shouldn’t we, Owen?” Her eyes were lovely, he realized, heavy lashes.

  “Yes,” he said, touching his glass to hers. “We should drink to that.”

  “Enough mooning,” Charlie said. “Lunch.”

  They ate, Flora delicately, peeling off the eggshells with the tip of her nail. Charlie was not nearly as careful, leaving bits of food dotted around him. Owen ate everything quickly and was finished before the others. Flora offered him her second egg.

  “I couldn’t,” she said. “Really, you have it.”

  It was warm and humid, and afterward, when the food was finished and the wine all gone, they lay in the grass. Owen felt sweat beading his upper lip. He wanted a swim but he was tired and his limbs felt heavy.

  “Shall we play hide-and-seek?” Flora asked.

  “No.” Charlie groaned.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Owen, don’t you think we should?”

  He did not. “It’s a child’s game,” he said.

  “I know that. But it’s fun to play. To pretend. Didn’t you like it when you were younger?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t remember playing it.”

  “Well, then we have to.”

  When neither of them moved, she said: “All right, I’ll hide first. Count to one hundred and then start looking.”

  “That’s not how it’s played,” Charlie said.

  “I know. But I’m giving you each one hundred seconds more to rest.”

  “Mmm. Go on. We’ll rest.”

  Owen, his eyes closed, heard the swish of Flora’s bare feet moving through the grass behind him. He started counting in his head and stopped at thirty. He drifted off, somewhere between sleep and waking. The real world was there, but so were other thoughts that had no place in it.

  He sensed Charlie moving.

  “I think we’re at a hundred,” he said.

  Owen opened his eyes and slowly stood. “More, probably.” He wanted to sleep.

  He looked in the direction Flora had taken and was about to set off when Charlie stayed him, putting his hand on Owen’s arm.

  “Never mind that,” Charlie said. “Let’s swim.”

  Owen smiled but jerked his head, silently indicating Flora.

  “Oh, she’ll come back when she realizes no one is looking for her. She’s fine. It’s too hot to play games, anyway.”

  Owen looked at the pond, cool and green and still. He undid his shirt, fumbling with the small buttons, and removed his undershirt before unbuckling his pants and stripping down fully. They were his Sunday clothes, though somewhat grass-stained now, and his mother wouldn’t like it. He kicked them off to the side.

  He looked over, saw that Charlie was still fully clothed, staring at him.

  “Are you planning on swimming with your clothes on?” For the first time since Owen had known him, he thought Charlie looked ridiculous and felt a small, pleasurable shock of power.

  “No, I…” Charlie was embarrassed and started quickly undressing.

  Without waiting, Owen ran to the water, plunged into its cool depths. It had a silky quality and he felt it gliding off him as he surfaced, washing away the heat and the wine. He laughed.

  Charlie stood at the edge a moment, waiting, before running in too, flailing his arms and hooting.

  “My God, that’s good,” he said, slicking his wet hair back off his face.

  “It is,” Owen said.

  Charlie dove down and came up. “It’s deep here. I can’t touch.”

  “We can dive from there,” Owen said, pointing to a low-slung oak branch off to the side. “It’ll hold.”

  They both swam fast, gasping for air, pushing each other down to get ahead.

  Once they got to the bank, Charlie climbed up on the branch. Owen watched his body, wet and curved like a scythe, slice into the water, showing off.

  He went next, pulling his knees to his chest, dropping like a rock, and landing thunderous
ly close.

  Charlie skittered off to where he could stand, wiping water out of his eyes. “You ass.” But he was laughing.

  Owen was treading water, smirking, and after a bit Charlie joined him. Now they looked at each other, their arms and legs working invisibly underneath the water to keep their heads up. He felt a real joy, sudden and complete, and it overwhelmed him. He wondered if Charlie felt the same, if it was hanging between them, suspended.

  “You look like two seals.” They both glanced up to find Flora standing at the edge. “It seems I turned out to be the one seeking.”

  “Sorry, Flo,” Charlie said. “It was just too hot. And the pond was too cold to resist. Come join us.” He slapped the water.

  “Oh, really,” she said, turning and pretending to busy herself with packing up the picnic.

  Charlie swam to her and walked calmly, naked, out of the water in a display of comfort with his sister that he hadn’t shown with Owen. Owen wondered whose benefit it was for. His own clothes were lying in a pile next to Flora, trapping him in the pond.

  “Come on,” Charlie said to him, his pretty mouth smiling.

  Owen snorted and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, don’t be so shy.”

  “Charlie,” Flora said. “Bring Owen his clothes.” Her voice had lost its kind, teasing tone; its flintiness surprised Owen.

  Brother and sister looked at each other and then Charlie shrugged and picked up Owen’s pants and undershirt, brought them over to the oak branch, and placed them behind the tree. He waited while Owen climbed out.

  “Charlie, come help me wash the glasses.”

  Only later, when they were on their way home, did Owen notice the small raspberry stain blooming on Flora’s skirt, like a kiss.

  That’s what he remembered now, running through the darkness. A kiss. But first there’d been a note, in a small elegant hand, telling him to come to the barn, a secret meeting in the night. And he’d gone. And in the darkness, they’d found each other, breath hot. Then: The softness of the thigh, softer than Lettuce’s flank. The small, low gasp as their lips parted. As his tongue pushed in. That desire he never knew existed. All of it instantly extinguished by the sudden lantern, Mr. Glass’s face twisted in front of them; first surprise, then rage, then disgust.

  When he’d seen Mr. Glass in the light, heard him say calmly, “I’ll kill you,” Owen had tensed for a fight. He’d had no intention of running then; at least, he didn’t think he did. He did think of letting Mr. Glass kill him, that was true. It seemed fair, somehow. But then next to him, he’d heard “Go. Go now” whispered in his ear and he’d obeyed. As simple as that. Like hearing a starter’s gun. And he’d run, as he was running now.

  His feet hadn’t taken him home, though, but to Mr. Cushing’s house. Why he chose the old schoolmaster, he couldn’t say. Perhaps he thought that, with all his learning, he might understand, or maybe it was because he was a friend of Mr. Glass’s, like Owen had been, and he would be able to offer some absolution. All Owen knew was that when he saw Mr. Cushing’s house, he’d gone there and woken him.

  They’d sat at the kitchen table and Owen thought, momentarily, of how sad that room was. A bachelor’s room, with no woman to tend it; it seemed too neat, too tidy, like a place a monk would live.

  He tried his best to explain, but the words wouldn’t come out right. He told Mr. Cushing about the note, about the kiss, about Mr. Glass’s face. About how he had run, like a coward.

  “Yes, Owen. I think I see,” Mr. Cushing had finally said, his face showing neither disgust nor compassion. “But why did you go there? Lord in heaven, what were you thinking?”

  “I only went because she asked. I thought it would be all right. I didn’t know it would be…But then it happened, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want it to stop.”

  Mr. Cushing didn’t say anything for a while. Then: “You’re going to have to go. Tonight. There’s nothing else for it. You can’t stay now.”

  Owen nodded. Of course he was right. He understood the implications of what he had done, of being caught; even if Mr. Glass didn’t carry out his threat to kill Owen, he could most certainly destroy him, their small farm, and, ultimately, his mother. He would be branded a sexual villain, a deviant, a rapist.

  They all knew the stories of poor boys who crossed rich men, of what happened to them. This was his penance. Penance for the betrayal of Mr. Glass and everything he’d given Owen.

  “Come on,” Mr. Cushing had said, shaking him. “It has to be done now. I’ll take you to your mother to say your good-byes.”

  Owen had sat in the cart watching Mr. Cushing, his tall frame stooped and tired, as he spoke words to his mother that Owen couldn’t hear. After listening to the old schoolmaster awhile, she’d touched his arm, as if to stay him, and walked inside the house.

  Thinking of it now, Owen could feel tears making tracks down his skin, dropping into his collar, cooling, and then drying as he ran.

  When his mother reemerged, she was carrying the satchel that was now strapped to his back. In it were some of their savings, a loaf of bread, a sweater, and his winter coat. She’d brought it over to the cart and put it beside him. She looked into his face, put her hand up to his cheek. It was warm. That was all; no words.

  He hadn’t been able to look back as they pulled away from the house and the farm.

  “I can take you as far as the next turning, but you’ve got to get to Cottage City on your own from there. The ferry leaves at dawn; you’ll have to hurry to make it.”

  Owen nodded and when they reached the turn, he climbed down and took the bag off the seat. He would’ve shaken Mr. Cushing’s hand but thought the man might not want to. So he’d just looked at him and said: “Thank you.” Then he’d strapped the satchel to his back and started running.

  Cottage City was already busy and the sun hadn’t even fully risen. Owen boarded the ferry and stood looking at his island as it pulled away. He thought about all the things he belonged to and how much he’d wanted to get above them, to get away, and how he’d give anything now to have them back. He thought about how it was no use thinking this way, but then, what else could he think about? Not the future, not the mainland or what he’d do for work or food, not what would happen to him. He wondered if he’d ever be able to come back. He thought about the kiss, like lightning smiting the ground, incinerating his past and changing everything.

  1915

  Sara saw him first, weaving between the other passengers, his eyes scanning the platform. She touched his arm and he turned, that lovely straight profile framed against the gray stone and hoary steam of the station. She smiled at him and knew he knew why she was smiling. His golfing attire—a dove-colored, single-breasted jacket, knickerbockers, argyle socks, and tweed flat cap—all very serious and appropriate.

  “Lovely outfit.” She laughed.

  “Isn’t it, though.” Gerald colored slightly.

  Their hands brushed, but there was nothing else, no other contact between them as they boarded the train from Penn Station to East Hampton and sat primly next to each other. She glanced at his face from underneath her straw hat and could see he was still smiling too.

  She’d been back from India only six months, six months and everything was different. When she’d set out on the journey, she’d had no idea what was waiting for her; her future had seemed like a flat road, one she could see all the way down. Then Gerald’s voice had reached her, his words had happened to her. Those letters; her astonishment at being perfectly understood by another person. Not only understood, but delighted in. Of finally being seen.

  Her life was only now beginning in earnest, in color. And she was terrified that something would happen to snatch it from her grasp.

  They’d agreed to keep their engagement a secret until they could come up with a plan of attack. So much about it was problematic that at times she felt it might be hopeless. There was the Catholic question, not to mention his small income from his job
at Mark Cross and his father’s feeling that he would come to nothing. And then, of course, her mother’s vocal opposition to marriage as a general rule.

  But today she didn’t want to think about that; she wanted to think about the pressure of his thigh against hers. To all appearances, they were a young couple out for a healthy round of early-spring golf—although in fact, they were heading for the Dunes. The house would be closed up this time of year and the prospect of spending some time alone with him, away from the bounds of friends, family, servants, made her chest tight. She peered over the backs of their seats and at the gentleman across from them.

  “There’s no one,” she whispered. No one we know was what she meant, of course. Then she carefully unbuttoned and slipped off her glove and pressed her naked hand to his face.

  He looked at her. That was all. Nothing more was needed. It was simple: He loved her and she loved him. She loved him in a way she hadn’t thought possible, in a way that surprised her and made her glad to be alive. Her own capacity for it amazed her. She had previously thought that kind of love was something found in novels and sonnets. Or worse: an insidious lie to make one discontented with one’s real lot in life. But she was drunk with it, and now she believed. That you could be in someone else’s head, really and truly. That it was impossible to be wrong with that person because everything about you was what he wanted.

  The last time she’d seen him had been two weeks ago, that February evening at her parents’ club when everything had been settled between them. They had managed to steal time before she left for Montreal with Adeline and Hoytie and Olga, and he for Westchester with his parents. She had been sitting on the settee in front of the fire in the club’s small library, her head back, eyes partially closed, as if resting, but inside, her heart had been tapping a hard rhythm against her chest. She’d wanted him to touch her; she wanted to feel his lips against hers.