by Susan Wilson
The morning sun betrayed no vestige of the night's storm except the resolutely blank face of my electric clock. I was grateful for the gas stove and brought my morning mug out to the porch to start work. My laptop's battery ran out within half an hour and I wished I had someone else to blame for not recharging it when I should have.
I pushed myself away from the table and flopped down on the old porch glider, making it swing with a slightly on-the-water sensation. Unexpectedly without the focus of my solitude, I felt truly alone. If this had happened at home I would almost without thinking have pulled on my shoes and headed over to Alice's for a cup of tea. Or I might have piled the kids in the car and headed to Roger Williams Park Zoo for the afternoon. I would have taken advantage of the situation. Here I was, where I boldly proclaimed I needed to be, yet, without my raison d'être, I was at a loss, and lonely. There seemed nothing left to do but go for a swim.
I paddled around for a little while close to shore, enjoying the smooth, silky feeling of the brownish water, yet feeling less buoyant than when I swam in salt water. We usually spent a week at Narragansett in July, Sean and the kids and I along with one or another of the other McCarthy families. We rented the same place annually, a cottage not too far from Watch Hill. The beach there brilliant white in the hot July sunshine, the waves sometimes aggressive, and the salt water tangy against my skin.
Narragansett. Despite the eight years since it happened, despite wonderful family vacations, the name still had the power to raise the memory of Sean's betrayal. The time we never spoke about aloud, somehow leaving responsibility for keeping the peace on my shoulders because I told him I forgave him. But I never went there without him again. Not until now, coming to Cameo Lake, had I left the door open so wide. By leaving him home, I implied a trust I was uncertain I felt. I dived under the surface of the still water and, rising, made for the raft. With every stroke I told myself, of course I trust him. He was younger then, he's a different man now. He is not his father.
Ben was already on the raft when I got there. “You're early.”
I hauled myself up onto the deck. “I'm neglectful, no juice in the battery.”
“Well, I'm just being lazy today. I had a couple of late phone calls and somehow all my juice ran out.”
I looked at him, sitting with long legs dangling over the side, aware of a note in his voice which clanged a little against his flip words. “Is everything all right?”
Ben looked at me with a little glance of surprise at my blunt question. “Yeah, fine.”
I could see the psychological hand held up, holding my natural concern at bay. Don't intrude, I told myself.
“But thank you for asking.”
So, I thought, there was something going on. He was a little like Tim. When Tim had his feelings hurt, he clammed up. A little tight quahog which needed, wanted, a little steam to open.
“You just sounded a little sad.”
“You have a very good ear.”
I let it drop then, as I would with Tim. In his own time, I thought, and then wondered why I had such curiosity. I really didn't know him well enough to be so invested in caring. Except that every night I could hear his music, not the jingle stuff, real music, float toward me across the expanse of the lake. Music so evocative it made me think I knew him.
We lay down, not talking, just enjoying the subtle rock of the ten-by-ten raft in the slightly choppy lake.
“Cleo, assuming the electricity stays out for a long time, would you like to take a hike?”
“Are you telling me to take a hike, mister?”
Ben rolled over and propped his head on his hand, “No, a hike up that hill,” and he pointed north. I would probably call what he pointed to a mountain, but I know that in New Hampshire they have different standards than we Rhode Islanders do about elevation.
“Love to.”
“It's a good day's hike.”
“It's a good day for it.”
It was only about nine-thirty when we met on the raft, so we planned to meet at the boat ramp at ten. I put together a knapsack of clean socks, bottled water, and Band-Aids. We'd agreed to buy sandwiches on the drive there, so the trip began to look like a picnic. I was unaccountably excited. I thought maybe because it felt kind of like a snow day. But there was a different tang to the excitement than just that. I was excited about being friends with Ben. Pals. Sean and I had a lot of couple friends, and I was blessed with terrific girlfriends in my sisters-in-law. And Grace, queen of best friends. But I'd seldom been friends with boys. Girls' schools, a girl-filled neighborhood, no cousins. I guess that Sean was my first boy friend, and, soon after, boyfriend. I remembered so clearly that first flush of excitement at making that friend, of hanging out together and the slow evolution to love. Of course, that wasn't what was happening now. With Benson Turner I'd just have the first part of that journey. The fun part.
I was actually surprised to see the number of cars in the trailhead parking lot, somehow it had seemed like a unique idea to spend a June Wednesday climbing a hill. We got out of my car and shouldered our packs, my schoolgirlish Eastpak a poor cousin to the big L.L. Bean on Ben's back. “I thought this was a day trip, Ben.”
“My scoutmaster instilled the rules of ‘be prepared’ in me a long time ago.” I caught the little glint of mischief in the corners of his mouth.
“Somehow I think you're telling me the truth.”
“Always truthful. After you, ma'am.”
“That would be the ‘courteous’ rule, right?”
“No, the self-protective rule. There's bears up there, lady. You go first.”
The banter was so easy, so comfortable and natural, it seemed as though we knew each other from long association. I kept getting the feeling that we were like passengers on a commuter bus, habitually sharing a seat, sharing a little banter, but knowing very little about each other. I couldn't express what that bus was or where it was going, but I latched on to the sensation and gave over to it. I'd find out where we were going soon enough, and whether we had more than a bus seat in common.
Initially, the trek was pretty easy, a slow graduation in elevation, easy on the thighs, comfortable on calves. We chatted along the way, our pace fast enough to pass other hikers taking more leisurely walks. I don't think our quick pace was intentional, more a result of Ben's long stride and my natural tendency to move quickly. We winded ourselves pretty soon, just as the trail narrowed and we were forced to climb up a series of natural steps created out of roots and rocks. The mosquitoes and the deer flies began to torment us as we began to sweat.
“Hold up for a minute, Cleo. Reach into my pack and find the bug spray.”
He squatted a little so that I could reach deep into the outside pocket of the blue knapsack, a curiously intimate act. My hand found the can of repellent. I handed the can to him, but instead of spraying himself, he started on me, spraying my neck and the back of my legs, then handed the can to me to finish the job. I did the same for him, and when we were both done, I replaced the can.
“You need a hat, there's an extra in the main section of the knapsack, reach down deep.”
I fished around until I pulled up a worn baseball cap. “The Yankees? Really, Ben?”
“I'm from New Jersey.”
“I'm not sure I can wear this, I'm a loyal Red Sox fan.”
“Sure you can, it was my wife's and she was from Boston.”
Just by the way he said it, I knew that the past tense was not due to ordinary circumstances like divorce or separation. That simple declarative sentence creaked with old aches. I put the hat on and wondered why he had brought it with him, or had it simply remained in his knapsack from some long-ago hike. But it fit pretty well and I was glad of the protection, even if it was a Yankees cap.
Our conversation petered out as the elevation steepened. I tried to pay attention to the magnificent forest on either side of the path, but the various hazards along the way and my increasing tiredness made me keep my eyes on the trail.
Ben led, holding overhanging branches out of my way, calling out a warning at a particularly slippery spot. The storm-cleared sky was obscured by the pines and birches above our heads. I heard the loud call of a warbler but couldn't find the bird with my eyes. Just as I thought I was going to have to give in and beg for a rest, Ben held up a pausing hand and pointed toward a small clearing where a three-sided lean-to had been erected and the remnants of campfires indicated an authorized rest stop. With great relief, I shrugged off the knapsack, which by this time was cutting into my bare shoulders, and flopped down on the bench inside the lean-to.
Ben off-loaded his own knapsack and sat on the floor. “We can't sit long, or we'll stiffen up.”
“Okay, Kommandant, but can we eat?”
“Jawohl.”
“Bitte danke, Herr Turner.” I pulled my sandwich and bottle of water out of my bag and commenced to eat. The air around us was cool, much cooler than at the base of the mountain. I shivered a little and wished that I had brought another shirt. The sweat on my tank top was drying, adding to a general feeling of discomfort. Ben wordlessly reached into his bag and, like some kind of magician or den mother, hauled out a flannel shirt and handed it to me.
“Thanks. You really are prepared, aren't you?”
“I do this a lot.” He amended himself quickly. “I did this a lot.”
“You and your wife?”
“Yeah.” He turned his attention to his sandwich, not looking at me but out toward the amazing vista open before the clearing. “It was one of the few things besides music we both loved equally. I haven't done it in a long time.”
“Can I ask how long she's been gone?”
“Almost a year.” Abruptly Ben stood up and swung his pack onto his shoulders. “We'd better head back, down is almost as tough as up.” With that he squelched any further questions I might naturally have asked.
The day before my family arrived it rained nonstop, making it easy to stay put and work. After lunch I tidied up, running a dust mop across the ceiling boards to knock down the worst of the spiderwebs. Lily wouldn't come inside if she thought there was any danger of being touched by a spider.
At seven-thirty I dashed to the car, already late for our nightly call. I wanted to talk about my hike up the mountain, but the kids were full of their own story. “We went to the zoo!” They were in the kitchen with the speakerphone and the echo chamber effect made me nervous but at least we could all talk like a family.
“And how's Alice the elephant today?”
“She's fine.” Tim's voice conjured his little map-of-Ireland face in my mind. “Eleanor didn't know she was named Alice.”
“Who?”
“Eleanor . . . Daddy's, you know . . .” Lily was looking for the noun which would describe Eleanor's role in Sean's life.
“Secretary.” I offered.
“Administer.” Lily countered
“Administrative Assistant.” Her predecessors were all secretaries but the term had fallen out of favor recently. A secretary by any other name.
“What-everrr,” this in Valley Girl dialect. “She and Daddy surprised us.”
Tim launched into every detail of their trip to the Roger Williams Park Zoo, including the ice cream before lunch and the penguin key chains Eleanor bought for them at the gift shop. It was easy to make the appropriate exclamations without concentrating on their every word.
Finally I saw an opening in the litany, “Is Daddy there?”
“No. He's making up lost time.”
Sean's expression. Whenever we co-opted any of his work time he'd say, “Cleo, I've got to make up the lost time.” As if it weren't his own business. If I pulled him away for a school conference or a long weekend, it was the same. It was as if he felt that a moment's inattention would bring down the business his father had built. Francis McCarthy had never taken a day off, either, until his first heart attack.
Sometimes I pointed that fact out to Sean, but he'd just tell me he wasn't his father. He wasn't a hard drinker, or a smoker, and he kept his cholesterol down. He knew that in one colossal way he did resemble his father, but we did not speak of it. However, a trip to Roger Williams Park Zoo with his secretary was a red flag to me that Francis's DNA was acting up in the son.
“Well, when is he coming home?”
“Dunno.” Lily was chewing something and her voice was thick, “Gramma's here.”
Alice immediately took me off speaker. “Seannie's been crazed trying to get ready to take his vacation.” Alice offered this even before I commented on yet another late night.
“Well, he's awfully lucky to have you to fall back on.”
“I enjoy it. You know that, Cleo.”
“I do. I'm lucky, too.”
“So tell me about this trip to the zoo.”
“They went, that's all I know.”
“Alice . . . Ma, should I come home?”
“Don't be silly, it was a trip to the zoo with the kids.”
After I hung up I sat for a long time gripping the steering wheel as if guiding the parked car. Although I trusted Alice's judgment, I decided I would call Eleanor tomorrow and thank her personally for giving up her afternoon for my family. Emphasis on the my. Then I laughed out loud. If this were a first-draft novel, I'd be embarrassed at the absolute banality. This was life and life can be stale, but I wouldn't let my professionally overactive imagination stereotype me. Yet I would have a word with Sean when he arrived. A delicately balanced word. It was critical I avoid any hint of mistrust—the other thing he inherited from his father was his anger.
Five
After backing up all the work I had done onto a floppy disk, I packed my laptop away. A couple of weeks away from Karen and Jay wouldn't be a bad thing. I kept my notebook handy to jot those thoughts and brilliant bits of dialogue which would come to me during the weeks off, so as not to lose them. I spent an hour grocery shopping at the Big G, raising the eyebrow of my usual gum-chewing clerk at the profligate array of snack foods and quantities so at variance with my usual habits. “Family's coming today,” I felt compelled to explain as if embarrassed at my wanton spending. As if the kid cared.
Just saying it aloud tweaked my excitement at seeing my kids again. It had been less than ten days, but I felt that I hadn't seen them since forever. At the same time, I knew that the solitude had been productive and necessary. Still, I couldn't wait to see my babies, imagining that they had somehow grown up in my absence.
After unloading the groceries from the car I skipped lunch and changed into my running gear. The thunderstorm on Tuesday night had cleared the unnaturally hot weather but had left behind true summer. Each morning a light mist hovered over the warming water, ethereal and reminiscent of Arthurian legend. I couldn't see Ben's cabin until the mist dissipated, but the fog amplified simple sounds, a cough, bird song, the repeated measures of a new motif Ben was working on early in the day. As the mist lifted, the sounds weakened and we were again separated by the flat, shiny expanse of water.
Running along the wooded path, I saw signs of arrival in several of the lake cottages; cushions left out in the sun to air, a dinghy pulled down to the water's edge which wasn't there yesterday, voices calling instructions to spouses and kids. I saw evidence of children and imagined my two chumming with others, exploring the lake and having the experiences which they would carry into adulthood as “When we went to the lake . . . do you remember? . . .” Sometimes I felt as though I wasn't giving my children enough memories. Sean and his sisters had hours of stories from their childhood, everyday moments turned, by some McCarthy magic, into spun gold. “Remember when we had that rabbit and convinced Colleen that it talked?” “Remember the time Dad took us all to Rocky Point and we all put on English accents, pretending not to know what clam cakes were? . . . Remember finding shapes in the clam cakes like clouds?”
For the life of me I couldn't raise memories like that. I remembered asking for a pet, and the dismissal of the idea out of hand by my mother. “Pets are a nui
sance, Cleo. A nuisance.” My parents traveled. At least early in my life I know they traveled to New York and Boston. I have a vague memory of going to some city with them, but not of where, or why I was there. Only a shadow of memory of a hotel lobby and the odd little cap the bellboy wore.
Certainly there would be childish memories of Narragansett, of spending time with the cousins and making sandcastles at Watch Hill, of riding the ancient carousel there. Certainly Sean and I had given them those memories to treasure. They would never know about that one terrible summer, and so the place would remain precious to them.
I grimaced against the sudden stitch in my side as I made the turn for home. I was running faster than I should, my pace evidence of how anxious I was to see my kids and watch them record memories for themselves. Running faster, as if to make the time move. Still breathing hard, I peeled off my shorts and top, revealing my tank suit, pulled my running shoes off while still in motion and plunged into the lake. Conditioning and thermal warming had lessened the shock but I still gasped aloud.
Ben was already on the raft. He had been on the raft long enough for his skin to dry. Only a slight gleam in his gray-threaded dark hair and the dampness of his baggy swim trunks remained of his swim. “Is your family here yet?”
I had told him of their imminent arrival, partially as a head's up, his raft solitude would be under attack, and partially because I was excited. “Not yet. Sean's leaving this evening after work. He doesn't want to lose an extra day.” I rolled over to sun my back, resting my cheek against my arm. “I liked what I heard this morning.”
Ben blushed a little under his tan, a tiny pleased reddening on his sharp cheekbones. “Thanks.” He, too, rolled over to rest his cheek on his arm.
“I'm beginning to recognize it so I guess you've been working on it for a while.”