“He is,” her mother answered, holding Tess. “I’ve put Tess in with you in your room.”
The house, built in the twenties, was rambling and irregular, with odd angles and unexpected gables. Emma led Peter down the upstairs hall to a small square room. Twin beds, covered with old blue cotton bedspreads, stood side by side. Under a mirror was a white painted bureau, with a frayed linen runner, an ironstone pitcher and basin. Low shelves, lined haphazardly with faded books, met the sloping eaves. The floor was painted dark blue; there was a ragged woven rug before the bureau.
The air was hot and unused. Emma heaved up the swollen, reluctant window; at once the sea’s salt presence filled the room. A night breeze touched the limp white curtains, and outside, beyond the dunes, invisible waves rolled smoothly up the flat beach and sank, hissing quietly, into the porous sand.
Emma turned back inside. Peter, the suitcases beside him, stood in the middle of the room. He looked out of place, too big for this awkward space with its cramped ceiling, its narrow beds.
“Don’t worry,” she said.
“I’m forty years old,” said Peter. “I’m not worried about your parents.” He put his arms around her.
“Good,” said Emma. “My mother will love you,” she promised hopefully, into his chest.
“And your father?”
“How could he help himself?” asked Emma.
“I can imagine it,” said Peter.
They had dinner in the kitchen. The worn pine table, with its warped leaves, was surrounded by a battered assortment of wooden chairs, which had, once, all been painted blue. The table stood in the bay window, looking out toward the ocean.
Emma’s parents always ate in the kitchen, now there was no cook in it. Their last cook, Alice Sullivan, had been a local woman from South Yarmouth. She was a widow, lean and composed, with short springy gray hair. She wore metal-rimmed glasses and a blue denim apron. She had one child, a teenage son. One night when she was cooking for a dinner party, she made an announcement to the Kirklands and their guests. As she handed around the silver tray of cheese puffs, she told them that her son had received a scholarship to Exeter. She didn’t say this to them, but it was the first time anyone in her family had gone to a private school. All of the Kirklands’ guests knew Exeter, of course; all of them had gone to private boarding schools, and their children as well. Everyone congratulated Alice, as they took cheese puffs from the tray. When they went back to their conversations with each other, Alice took the silver tray back to the kitchen. She set it down on the counter. The lamb was finished roasting, and the plates were in the warming oven. The vegetables were simmering on top of the stove. Alice took off her apron, hung it in the closet, and walked out the back door.
After that there were no more full-time cooks; people didn’t want that kind of job anymore. Most of the summer families did without, eating in the kitchen and cooking for themselves. For dinner parties they called a caterer: each season an energetic young divorced mother set herself up as a live-out cook. She lasted a few seasons, then retired, and a new one set up shop. It was not perfect, but it was perfectly all right.
Mrs. Kirkland, who was not interested in food, didn’t care whether she had a cook or not. Like her mother, she had grown up with a cook in the kitchen, and had never learned the skill herself. She took little pleasure in either cooking or eating, and saw meals as mild ordeals to be gotten through somehow. Mr. Kirkland, too, was indifferent to food: at lunchtime, here, he grabbed two slices of bread and smeared a clot of tuna fish between them. He carried this sad creation off with him, taking ragged bites on his way down to the dock. Asked later if he had eaten lunch, he would not remember.
Dinner that night was canned tomato soup, made with water, not milk, and salad of brown-edged iceberg lettuce. A chipped white plate held a cold block of pale cheddar cheese, surrounded by broken Wheat Thins. The untouched slab and the scattered shards of crackers looked like a model of an archaeological site.
As they sat down, Emma’s mother said vaguely, “I thought we could have those crackers.”
“But we can,” said Tess, baffled. “We can have the crackers, Gonny.” She looked intently from mother to mother. “Why did Gonny say that she thought that we could?” But Emma only smiled at her, she did not answer.
At her parents’ house Emma fell into a mild trance. To do anything differently from the way it had always been done, to challenge her parents’ ways, to alter her own, or at times to do anything at all, seemed impossible. She was taken over by the powerful silent current of her parents’ wishes; she fell back, helpless, into childhood. She felt this way even though she was thirty-two, with a job and a daughter, right in the foaming middle of her own choppy life, in riotous currents that were entirely her own creation.
Emma’s father ate slowly, leaning slightly forward, and slipping his spoon sideways into the watery soup. “We’ve been having pretty good sailing weather,” he said, not looking at anyone. He set his spoon down and looked at the table in front of Peter. He folded his hands, falsely docile. “Don’t know if you’re a sailor,” he said deprecatingly.
“A bit of one,” said Peter easily.
There was a silence. Mr. Kirkland looked at him appraisingly, then picked up his spoon again.
“Is that so?” he asked finally. “Where do you sail?”
“I don’t, now, but I grew up sailing, in the summers anyway,” said Peter.
“And where was that?” pursued Mr. Kirkland.
“Maine,” said Peter. “A place called Sorrento.”
Mr. Kirkland frowned. “Sorrento,” he repeated.
“East of Bar Harbor, on the mainland.”
Peter needn’t have said anything after “Maine,” Emma thought. Maine, with its cold terrifying fogs, its ferocious tides, its threatening granite shores, was the grand master of sailing teachers. It was not possible to be dismissive of a sailor from Maine, not even for her father, who was the grand master of dismissiveness.
“Sorrento,” said Mrs. Kirkland. “Isn’t that where the Pattersons go? Evelyn and Roger Patterson?”
“Their house is near my parents’,” Peter said.
Mrs. Kirkland smiled. “Remember, Everett? We saw them up there, one summer, when we went up with the Yacht Club cruise.”
Mr. Kirkland, who did not want to talk about the Pattersons, addressed himself to his soup, and made an indeterminate noise.
“I went to school with Evelyn,” Mrs. Kirkland persevered. “At Smith. She was such fun.”
“She’s a good friend of my mother’s,” Peter said.
“And who is your mother?” asked Mrs. Kirkland brightly. She took a piece of shattered cracker and began taking small bites.
“Polly Morris, she was in college,” said Peter.
Mrs. Kirkland shook her head regretfully, disclaiming acquaintanceship.
“She went to Miss Hall’s and then Smith.” He turned to Mr. Kirkland. “My father went to Harvard, but Emma told me you were at Yale.”
Mr. Kirkland nodded slowly. “Class of ’Forty-one,” he said.
“My father was ’Thirty-eight,” said Peter.
“’Thirty-eight. I wonder if your father knew my cousin, Carter Lawson,” said Mr. Kirkland thoughtfully. “I think he was ’Thirty-eight.”
“They rowed together. Carter Lawson was cox.”
Mrs. Kirkland smiled at Peter.
Emma, watching the faces, thought triumphantly that they would have to like him. Not only was Peter a sailor, not only had his father rowed with Carter Lawson, but on top of everything else, Peter was nice, and it showed.
“There’s more soup for everyone,” Emma’s mother said. She looked around the table. “Or are we ready for salad?” She touched the salad bowl.
“I don’t want any more soup, Gonny,” Tess said firmly. She took another piece of shattered cracker. “And I don’t want any salad.” She pointed at the bowl. “Because I hate that kind of salad, Gonny.”
“Don’t b
e rude,” said Emma, but her mother smiled serenely. It was impossible to offend her about food.
“It is kind of awful, isn’t it?” Mrs. Kirkland said, peering with interest at the browning lettuce.
“No more crackers, Tess,” Emma added automatically but realized as she spoke that, besides the watery soup, there was little else for Tess to eat. Emma stood up, taking the plate with the lonely slab of cheese. “What if I make some grilled cheese sandwiches? Would anyone like one?”
“Oh, what a good idea,” said Mrs. Kirkland, marveling.
Everyone wanted one.
“Francie’s been here, hasn’t she?” Emma asked, forcing the knife through the cheese.
“She was here for a week,” her mother answered. “With the girls. And, you know. That man.”
“And how was it?” asked Emma. Her parents answered at the same time.
“Fine,” said her mother.
“Pretty bad,” said her father.
“Is that my Francie?” Tess asked Gonny.
“That’s your aunt Francie,” said her grandmother, “and your cousins Rainie and Mallow.”
“Are they all going to be here now? When I am here?” asked Tess.
“Not this time, Tess,” said Emma. “Why was it pretty bad?” she asked her father.
Her father sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “She’s with that terrible man,” he said, lifting his chin.
“Oh, now, Everett, he’s not so bad,” Mrs. Kirkland protested gaily. She smiled at her water glass.
Emma’s father put his spoon down. “Aline, you cannot say that and mean it,” he said. “You cannot say that and mean it.”
Mrs. Kirkland said nothing, and Mr. Kirkland turned to Emma. “The man is a complete fool. He has no education, and no intention, or hope either, of getting one.”
“Well,” offered Emma, “that’s not the absolute worst—”
“Let me finish, please,” said her father loudly. “This man has no education whatever, and he has no intention of getting one. He has no job, either. He keeps talking about wanting to do something outside ‘the system.’” Emma’s father said this phrase as though he were saying “the sewer.” “Finally I asked him just what he thought ‘the system’ was.” He shook his head. “He had no coherent answer, of course. I said to him, ‘If you want to know, “the system” is the means by which salaries are earned, and by which goods and moneys are transferred from one person to another.’” Emma’s father looked triumphantly around the table. “Now, how are you going to get a job outside ‘the system’? You tell me that.”
There was a pause.
“And what did Francie say?” Emma asked.
Her father gave a short unfriendly cough of laughter. “Your sister went up in smoke, naturally,” he said. “She claimed I was ‘attacking’ him. She left in a huff and told your mother she wouldn’t come here anymore.”
“I think her feelings were hurt,” Mrs. Kirkland told her water glass.
“Well, they needn’t have been,” Mr. Kirkland said loudly. He leaned back and wiped his mouth, hard, with his napkin. “I didn’t say anything to hurt her feelings.”
“Well, Daddy,” Emma said, placatingly, “it doesn’t sound as though you were very nice to Francie’s boyfriend.”
“It would be impossible to be very nice to her boyfriend, let me assure you,” said Mr. Kirkland. “Impossible,” he repeated, folding his arms magisterially.
Tess looked up at him. “But you are very nice to my mommy’s boyfriend, Peter, aren’t you, Grandfather? You are? Isn’t Peter very nice, do you think?” She nodded urgently at her grandfather, coaxing him to nod back.
Mr. Kirkland stared at her crossly for a moment. “I hope I am nice to everyone, Tess,” he said.
“But you don’t seem as though you are Peter’s friend,” Tess said.
Mr. Kirkland frowned. “We have just met, Peter and I,” he said, raising his chin. “We are still acquaintances. Friendship takes time to develop, Tess.”
Before Tess could answer, Emma’s mother bent toward her.
“Tessie, do you want Gonny to put you to bed tonight?” she asked.
Distracted and indignant, Tess said, “Not now! It’s not time for my bedtime.”
“Now, Tess,” Emma began the nightly ritual of commands and compromise.
After doing the dishes, Emma and Peter were alone; the Kirklands had gone to bed. In the living room a bank of mullioned windows looked out toward the water. Beneath the windows stood a mildly battered sofa, covered in worn flowered chintz. Most of the furniture was battered; fraying threads hung along the bottoms of the slipcovers, and grayish holes spread across the chair arms.
Emma sat down next to Peter. “Why am I so tired? It’s not late, and I’ve done nothing.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Peter put his arm around her, and, her eyes still shut, Emma put her hand flat on his chest. Peter covered her hand with his.
“It’s being with your parents,” Peter said.
Without opening her eyes Emma asked, “Are they all exhausting? Are you exhausted by yours?”
“Differently from the way you are. But my parents are sort of the reverse of yours. My father’s absentminded and cheerful. He makes puns. My mother’s the austere one.”
Emma turned to look at him. “Is my father austere?”
“What do you think?”
“I can’t tell. I think of him as the way a father is. Fatherly.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call him fatherly,” said Peter. “I’d call him austere.”
“I’d call yours charming,” said Emma.
“He’d call you charming,” said Peter.
“Did he think Caroline was charming?”
“Well, my father loves women, period,” said Peter diplomatically.
So he had loved Caroline, thought Emma. At once she disapproved of Peter’s father: his mindless chat, his silly puns.
“But they didn’t really get along,” Peter went on. “My parents aren’t grand enough for Caroline. Their house isn’t big enough. Their friends aren’t fancy enough. Caroline kept hoping we’d be asked for drinks somewhere glittery.”
“Really?” Emma asked, pleased. How contemptible Caroline was, she thought. She felt a surge of loyalty to Peter’s father, his delightful sense of humor, his sympathy for women.
“But tell me about your sister, and her paragon of a boyfriend.”
“Francie always has a boyfriend,” said Emma critically, as though this were a flaw.
“Why shouldn’t she?” said Peter.
“She has too many,” said Emma. “They’re always awful, and she never marries them.”
“She married one.”
“One she shouldn’t have.”
“And your father doesn’t like any of them,” said Peter.
“They’re always like this one, Rex,” said Emma. “They’re all terrible flakes. How can he like them?”
“What do Rex and Francie live on?” Peter asked.
“Schemes. And my father gives her an allowance, and then he complains. Now it’s self-awareness seminars.”
“Ah, yes, the self-awareness seminars.” Peter shook his head. “How do you happen to be so normal?”
“You only think I’m normal because I’m like you. I’m sure Rex thinks Francie is the only normal person in the family.”
“Well, I’m glad I met you and not Francie,” Peter said.
Emma put her head against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry they grilled you about your parents,” she said. “I hate it when they do that.”
“I don’t mind,” said Peter. “Why shouldn’t they want to know who I am?”
“I hate it,” Emma repeated. She lay back, her head against the sofa. “Tomorrow he’ll ask you to go sailing.”
“Will you come?”
“No,” said Emma.
“Why not?”
“The last time I went sailing with Daddy I was thirteen. That was the year he decid
ed I was old enough to crew for him in the races. I did it all that summer, even though I hated racing. Out on the water the wind was too hard, the sails were too heavy. The spray was freezing, I was always cold. My fingers would get numb, and I couldn’t hold the lines or undo the knots. I’d fumble, and my father would yell at me, and then I’d fumble worse.
“The last time I sailed with him was the last race of the series. Daddy’d done really well that season, and we went into the last race in a three-way tie for first place. He was really excited, he’d never done that well before. We had a good wind, and we got off to a great start. We took the lead, and we held it for nearly the whole race, until right near the end, when another boat in the tie, the Sea Witch, started to close in on us. We were nearly at the finish line, and we could see the people on the Committee Boat watching. The Sea Witch got nearer, and Daddy decided to tack. As we were coming about, the jib sheet got caught on something up on the foredeck, and the jib stuck halfway round. Daddy shouted at me to go up and free the line. We were heeled way over, and I went sliding up on my knees, with the mainsail flapping over my head and the jib slamming around like a trapped lion. I crawled up onto the foredeck and found the sheet had gotten tangled up on a cleat. My wet fingers were numb with the cold, and I was trying to free it and I could see the Sea Witch getting nearer. I could hear my father shouting at me to hurry up. He was frantic. I was frantic. I tugged on the lines to get them loose, and right in front of the Committee Boat I uncleated the wrong line and I brought the jib down. The whole sail came crashing onto my head. The boat ploughed to a dead stop, I nearly went overboard, the Sea Witch won the series, and my father never asked me to go sailing again.”
“What did he say about it afterwards?”
“He never mentioned it again. We never discussed it. It was too terrible.”
Peter put his arm around her. “Well, I love you,” he said.
Emma closed her eyes, comforted. “Thank you.”
The living room was almost dark; only the standing lamp by the sofa was lit. Its shade had deepened with age to a dark ocher, and the light it shed was subdued. The rest of the room was in shadow, dusk spread across the big faded chairs. Behind Peter and Emma, through the window, beyond the dunes, the ocean whispered. Inside the house it was quiet.
This Is My Daughter Page 15