Cameo Lake

by Susan Wilson

  He climbed onto the raft quietly, as if he thought I was asleep up there. I felt him lie down next to me, my eyes closed against seeing him. I opened them at his touch, the slight grazing of his fingertips against my bare arm. “Cleo.”

  “Ben.” Unaccountably, tears threatened. I hoped he thought the moisture lake water and not from the tenderness I felt at the sight of him. Tenderness he had no right to, tenderness I had no right to feel. I sat up quickly, deliberately giving the moment short shrift. “You've finished the allegro movement?”

  Now it was his turn to look not at me but stare with pleased eyes at the view beyond. “Yes. It's the last bit before I really have to get down to work and write the flute melody. But . . . how did you like it?”

  “It was wonderful.” I touched him then, saying without thinking, “Talia would be so pleased.”

  “I hope so. I think that it just needed a little happiness to move it from garbage to music.”

  I knew that he meant he'd needed a little happiness. That in some way I'd given him a little by sharing his secret with him. The weight of this emotional responsibility kept me from looking at him.

  I was perfectly aware that somehow Ben had slipped into my erotic world, the physical presence of him reminded me of that. But it was more than that which made me glad he was opening up to me, and yet equally afraid of his candor, afraid of the entanglements such revelations bring.

  We had so much more to say to one another, but Ben clamped down on the moment with a complete change of subject. “Hey, do you still want to give me a ride to Boston on Wednesday? Promise me that you'll do it only if it's convenient. Otherwise I'm going to rent a car. Really. Not a problem.”

  “Ben, I want to go. The camp-out is Wednesday this week and I'll have all the time in the world. Besides, like I said, I need a day in the city. Recharge my batteries. Buy new batteries. Go to Tower Records and get some new running music. “

  “Okay. But if you change your mind—”

  “Just shut up, Turner. I keep my promises.”

  “Cleo?” Ben was on his feet.

  “What?”

  “I really am glad you came with me Friday.” He stood on the coaming of the raft, not looking back at me. “I'll see you later.” His splash threw a fine spray of water over me and I shivered.

  Twenty-two

  “M om, is Daddy coming back on Friday?” Lily paused with her cereal spoon in mid-flight.

  “He hopes so. Why?”

  “Do you think he could bring me my Barbies?”

  I kept my smile under control. Lily was in that peculiar limbo of almost too old for dolls, yet occasionally falling back under their spell. She had been very deliberate in not bringing them with her. I cleared my throat and promised to call Sean and ask him about the Barbies.

  I tried our home number first, it being just before eight and I knew that often Sean liked to stay home and do paperwork before going to the office, where the phone could be a nonstop interruption. The phone rang and the erratic answering machine kicked in, but the outgoing message was missing and I knew that it wouldn't record. “We've got to get a new answering machine one of these days.” I pulled out onto the main road. No sense trying him at the office until after eight-thirty. Providence traffic was horrible and I knew there was no chance Sean would be in just yet.

  “I really want them, Mom.” Lily was just a thread shy of whiny. “Clarissa and I want to play with them this weekend. She's got a bunch of clothes her grandmother just sent.” Clarissa being her new best friend from camp. Clarissa lived nearby on the East Side of the lake.

  “Okay, you push the number for Daddy's work.”

  Tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth, Lily pressed the digits for McCarthy and Lenihan Insurance Group.

  The familiar voice of Audrey, the firm's longtime receptionist, came over the reedy speakerphone. “Hey, Aud, it's Cleo McCarthy. Sean in yet?”

  “No, he's traveling, Cleo. Pittsburgh, I think.”

  “Shoot, I forgot. Apparently I'm losing my grasp on time up here. Tell you what, transfer me to Eleanor. She can give him a message when he calls in.”

  “Eleanor's out sick. I'll be relaying messages today.”

  “It's real important.”

  Audrey chuckled when I gave her the message about the Barbies. “Got it. I'll make sure it's the first one in the pile.”

  “Thanks. Give my best to the family.”

  Lily punched the off button and sat back in the big seat. Her little mouth was moued like a disappointed movie star.

  “Hey, Audrey's good. She'll make sure he gets the message.”

  “Yeah, but he won't remember by Friday.”

  “We'll try later in the week. It's only Tuesday.”

  Kids deposited, I headed back. Halfway back, the car phone bleated. Assuming Audrey was as good as her word, I picked it up, expecting Sean calling from the road. But it was Ben.

  “I thought I might catch you in the car at this hour.”

  “Ben, hello. Yeah, just dropped the kids off.”

  “I wanted to let you know what time tomorrow. Is it okay if we leave right after you drop the kids off? I have an eleven-thirty flight, so I thought I might go with you to the camp.”

  “Fine. Perfect.”

  “I'll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “No raft today?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Visiting a friend?” We were both aware of the insecurity of cell-phone transmissions.

  “Exactly.”

  “Give her my best.” I don't know why I said that, but it seemed exactly right.

  The next morning, Ben helped the kids lug their sleeping bags out of the back of the big car and then tousled their hair in affectionate farewell. He climbed back in and we headed back to the main highway.

  “You're too nice to my kids.”

  “They're good kids. “

  “Yeah, they pretty much are.” I wanted to ask him why he didn't have kids of his own, fumbled around for a phrase which wouldn't be intrusive or cruel or more than just idle curiosity. “Did you . . . had you . . . ?”

  “Wanted kids? Oh, yes, I certainly did. We talked about it once or twice before it became clear that Talia's career was our child.” Ben kept his eyes on the road ahead of us as if he were driving. “That sounds bitter. I'm not. So, the short answer is, no, we never had kids.”

  I reached out to him, just a little consoling touch on the arm.

  He did look at me then, a quick charming smile. “Stop at Dunkin' Donuts. I'll buy you breakfast.”

  We didn't have scads of time so we hit the drive-thru. Ben formulated my coffee to the exact specifications I like and then sugared his own. We spoke of neutral things, favorite doughnut flavors and whether Dunkin' Donuts or Bess Eaton doughnuts are better. Pulled up personal memories of when things tasted better, of our first MacDonald's fries or clam cakes at Rocky Point (me), first pretzel with mustard on it (Ben). We kept our conversation light until we got almost to the border between New Hampshire and Massachusetts. By then I needed to stop.

  There seemed to be an inordinate number of women waiting to use the facilities at the State Liquor rest stop. I glanced at my watch and hoped that Ben wasn't glancing at his and thinking he was in danger of missing his plane. We still had two hours, but who knew how the traffic might be further south. If it had been Sean waiting for me in the car he would have been huffing by now.

  When I did finally get back to it, Ben was casually leaning against the car, drinking bottled water and thumbing through some tourist pamphlets he'd picked up in the information area. “Hey, we ought to bag New York and head over to the Flume Gorge Park. It sounds wonderful. Cascading water and all that.”

  “Ben. We've all been to the Flume. And the Old Man in the Mountain, and all the rest of it. You have to go to the city. You have work to do.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “Slacker.”

  We were pretty close to Boston yet the traffic, by this time
, was thin, even in the Callahan Tunnel, and I reached Logan easily, with half an hour to spare. Ben's flight was on USAir, and it was relatively easy to find the terminal. I followed the signs into the cool, shadowed under-building of the drop-off area, pulling alongside the curb behind several other cars dropping off passengers. I waited in line, just like dropping the kids off at school, then pulled ahead after a car pulled away from the curb, leaving me space behind a silver Toyota with Rhode Island plates. As people do, I noted the plate framed by the logo of the dealership in Cranston where we'd bought one of our cars years ago. It was a vanity plate,ELNR 2 and I sounded it out phonetically.

  Ben had just turned to thank me for the ride when the passenger got out ofELNR 2. Almost simultaneously, the trunk lid popped open and a young woman climbed out of the driver's side. She reached into the trunk to grasp a garment bag, a distinctive cranberry color with a broad blue paint stain across the shoulder, the result of a careless moment when I was painting the woodwork in the kitchen and Sean came through the door.

  “Cleo?” Ben's voice carried the exact timbre one uses to settle an angry animal. “Cleo, what is it?”

  We both stared out the windshield at the scene before us. The young woman, short and sort of plump bordering on voluptuous, handed my husband his bag. That was all right. I could leap out of this borrowed car and call to them. “Hi! what a coincidence . . .” But then, and I was aware of Ben's hand on my shoulder, gripping it, then this big-haired girl, thisELNR, wrapped her arms around Sean's neck and kissed him with the unmistakable passion of a lover.

  Oblivious to the tan SUV with Rhode Island plates parked right behind them, unobservant as ever, Sean broke away from her only long enough to catch his breath and then dipped his head for more. His hand playfully cupped her rather round bottom crammed into stretch-fabric hip-huggers. I could hear their voices through Ben's half-open window.

  “I'll call you tonight.”

  “I'll be lying there.”

  I felt physically sick, completely incapable of moving. My hands were still gripping the steering wheel and every emotion I had experienced eight years ago in finding the condom wrapper increased exponentially by this visual confirmation of my husband's great lies. I heard the passenger door of Grace's car open and shut. I kept staring at the spot they had occupied, even after Sean disappeared into the building and the silver Toyota pulled away from the curb with a jaunty acceleration.

  “Cleo, move over.” Ben pushed me gently into the passenger's seat. I did what he said, fumbling a little with the button on the seat belt until he reached across and opened it for me. I was fighting the same kind of nausea you get when you hit some vulnerable place, half sick, half faint.

  Ben climbed in and drove away from the terminal. Coming out from under the building, the sunlight hurt my eyes, making them water. I fumbled for my sunglasses while Ben paid the toll at the tunnel, then took them off and held them in my lap. Ben had us back onto the interstate, heading north.

  “Ben, what are you doing?” I finally seemed to wake up to the realization that he was not only driving, but going back to the lake. “You should be on a plane.”

  “No. I can go another time. No big deal. I'm not going to leave you now.” He gestured toward the phone and I nodded. He punched in a number and smiled at me. “Harry? Ben. Look, something's come up and I'll have to postpone till next week. No. I'm fine. Really. No, Harry, that's not it. Not this time. Trust me, I'll be there on Monday. Absolutely.”

  He pressed the off button and signaled to pass a truck.

  The sick feeling had subsided, but I could feel a kind of internal vibration as if I was shaking on the inside. I looked at my hands, but they were steady. “I feel as though I'm in a familiar place, unpleasant but familiar, like I've been here before.”

  “You have been, Cleo. You never forget even if you do forgive.” We were almost back to the state line. “Ben, I can't let you put your life on hold for me. You need to get to New York. Please, let's rebook your flight.”

  I reached for the phone but Ben simply shook his head and covered the keypad with his hand. “Look, Cleo, I know I've presented a pretty whitewashed view of my life with Talia, but I can tell you that I've been in this cruel place too.”

  “What do you mean? Talia cheated on you?”

  “Yes.”

  We were holding hands, gripping each other as if trying to save our own lives.

  Twenty-three

  “I suppose they spent the night in Boston.” I broke the quiet in the car by voicing the skirling thoughts in my head. I was trying to make sense of Sean being at Logan, when he was supposed to be in Pittsburgh. I was trying to make sense of being in a borrowed car behind him at the exact moment he is kissing his lover. “If I hadn't been so long in the ladies room, we wouldn't have been there to see it. I wouldn't know anything. I would still be in my lovely deluded world.”

  “Cleo, don't do this to yourself,” Ben warned gently, then signaled to get off the highway and into a rest area. He pulled into a parking space and shut the car off. Unbuckling his seatbelt and then mine, he pulled me over to him and just held me. I didn't struggle against his comfort, only let the first volley of weeping commence until I was embarrassed that I'd wet his shirt with tears.

  We stayed like that for a few minutes, then I pulled away and buckled myself in. “I'm okay. Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” He started the car. “Would it be insensitive of me to suggest getting some lunch?”

  We found a little diner along an old New Hampshire state road. I ordered something I knew I wouldn't eat, and then did. Ben didn't try to distract me with small talk, just kept sliding things from his own plate onto mine, his pickles and his chips. All the time we spent in silence, my thoughts tumbled over themselves with roisterous uncontrol. I was afraid to let them out, to give voice to the rage I was dealing out to myself, one moment convinced I had been a party to Sean's duplicity. I'd not only given him the opportunity, I'd not paid attention to the dim and distant alarm when I should have. Because of my selfish need to be alone to write, I'd turned my back on a charging bull. At the same instant I wanted Sean to be responsible for his own weakness.

  We got back on the road, keeping off the highway and on the long secondary route toward Cameo Lake. We passed silently through small towns and past farms and Pick-Ur-Own-Blueberries (or -Corn or -Apples) stands along the way. It was almost as if we were out for an old-fashioned Sunday drive. I saw the brown state park sign indicating the Flume at the same time Ben signaled for the turn into the parking lot.

  “I think we need to go back to our original plan.”

  “Our what?”

  “Instead of going to New York, let's go see the Flume.” Ben had the car parked and was half out of the car before I could say no.

  For some reason, it seemed exactly the right thing to be doing. I was too jangled to go home and wait for tomorrow afternoon, when I could pick up my kids from camp. I was too angry to sit still, and it was once again too hot to run for as long as it would take to outrun this familiar trauma. Ben had sacrificed his work to keep me from being alone. Besides, he seemed really keen on doing it.

  I went to the ladies room while Ben bought tickets. The large room was empty except for a dainty older woman dabbing a wet handkerchief on a stain on her blouse. Her eyes met mine in the mirror as I fingered the waves of my brown hair into some semblance of neatness. “Have you been up yet?” she asked.

  “No. We're just about to go.”

  “You and your husband?”

  “No. I don't have a husband.”

  Oblivious of my lie, she gathered her handbag and pushed open the door of the ladies room.

  I felt a little remorseful, having said that to this innocent old lady, but at the moment, it seemed pretty true. I certainly didn't have the husband I thought I'd had.

  Ben was waiting by the photo display of the hanging rock, now no longer hanging. “All set?”

  “Yeah. Let's go.”

>   As we walked by her, side by side but not hand in hand, the old lady chanced to look at me and winked. I was so taken aback, I pretended not to notice. It was as if she had unaccountably given me the thumbs-up.

  A whole mass of Japanese businessmen were ahead of us, waiting for the jitney, so we hung back until they had boarded it and waited for the next. They looked uniformly out of context for the breathy, deep New Hampshire woods, in their black suits and conservative ties.

  The next jitney came along without too much delay, and this one was ours alone. I began to feel a sense of the surreal as we climbed up the mountain road. I was so very far away from where I imagined myself on this morning. I had meant to be shopping. I had meant to look up some geographic details at the BPL. I had meant to treat myself to a big book store, to surreptitiously check to see if my titles were still in stock. Instead, here I was, a tourist on a noisy bus, beside a man I new both intimately and not at all. My interior shaking began again, chilled from the inside. I must have shivered in the drier, cooler air because Ben slipped an arm around my shoulders.

  The Japanese businessmen massed at the trailhead, listening with solemn concentration to the young Japanese woman describing the natural phenomena of the gorge. We slipped ahead of them easily and began the ascent up the wooden stairs to the platform promontory which overlooks the cascading water. The voice of the guide faded behind us and the only sounds were the natural rushing of the water and the insistent birdsong around us. At some point Ben had taken my hand and now he pulled me along and up the steps to a cavelike outcropping where the water pooled. We found a fairly comfortable rock in the shade and sat down.