by ANN HYMES
Rick did not interrupt her as she pulled these concepts together. Theresa leaned forward, elbows on the table, still focused on the water sparkling with morning brightness.
“She died,” she said simply. “My mother died right out there somewhere.”
Rick stiffened in his chair, waiting. He did not speak, and Theresa debated whether she should change the subject or continue.
“She was a sailor who loved the sea, and her passion led her into danger that had no mercy. She disappeared in a storm.”
“Disappeared?”
“She was never found.”
Theresa turned toward Rick, and her eyes were full of tears about to spill. He pulled his chair closer to hers until the white plastic arms nearly locked together. He reached his arm around her, and Theresa leaned into his shoulder.
She sighed as the tears began to drop. “I’m sorry. Being here has been an emotional roller coaster. It’s so beautiful and so sad. Whimsy Towers has touched three generations of women in my family.”
“And it will touch many more.” He gave her a gentle hug of reassurance.
Fresh tears formed at the unintended reminder that she would not have children to inherit this place. Its history would pass into other hands. The slate would be cleaned of tragedy and joy, and new events and people would begin new history.
“No. No, it can’t,” she said slowly. “I lost a baby early in pregnancy.”
Still staring at the water and struggling to regain her composure, she continued, “My husband’s and my blood types have an Rh factor incompatibility. The doctor said I will not likely get pregnant again and could never carry Kevin’s child to full term.”
“And you believed him?”
Theresa turned to this man she hardly knew who had just challenged the dire prediction that had nearly shattered her life.
“Of course I believed him. He’s a doctor; he’s supposed to know these things. What do you mean?”
“I just meant that sometimes the fear of a situation takes over and becomes the reality. Bodies can change as our concept of them changes.”
“Are you a witch doctor, too, Mr. Ph.D.?”
“No, but I have seen the resignation and downward spiral in people who have unquestioningly accepted some devastating medical news. They lose their fight, their purpose. They become victims in a broad sense, and the joy slips from their lives.”
Theresa began to fiddle with the same curl she had twirled while talking to Kevin.
“Am I to ignore medical science?”
“Not ignore, but don’t give in. Don’t limit your prospects for a full life. You’ve just told me how you think of heaven and home. It seems to me that motherhood is also an idea in thought. It cannot be seen with the eyes any more than home can, but it’s evident in life through actions.”
“It’s evident in life through having a baby!” Theresa blurted out. “Having one, not just conceiving one.”
Rick sat silent for a moment. “Not necessarily,” he began softly.
“Well, I already have a dog. I love her enormously, but it’s not quite the same as mothering a child, I imagine.”
“No,” he said. “Of course, not. But mothering doesn’t always mean birthing.”
“Do you mean adoption?”
“Why not?” he replied, with the same softness in his voice. “My sister and I were both adopted. Our birth mother was young, unmarried, and unable to stay off drugs. She abandoned us as babies. We know we had different fathers, but there is no record of who they are, or were.”
Theresa was jerked from wallowing in her own problems and stared at Rick. He was still seated close to her, his handsome, suntanned features darkened further under the shade of the umbrella. He seemed so steady in his life, so balanced. So at ease.
“Doesn’t it make you crazy to want to know who your parents were?”
“It used to, when I was younger. When my sister and I were little, we would dream about running away to find our mother, to convince her to love us, to want us. I suppose we thought we were responsible for her leaving. Children think they are to blame when the bond of love is broken.”
“When were you adopted?”
“Evidently quite soon after our mother signed us over to the state. Our parents, the only people we have known as parents, took us even with some residual problems from the drugs passed to our bodies. They always told us we were a special gift to them. It was how they prepared our young minds for the concept of adoption. Their patient love created a healthy family. That’s why I believe that motherhood, parenthood, is really about unconditional love and caring, not about who gives birth. We filled a void for them and they for us. They were wonderful parents.”
“Did you ever see your birth mother?”
“No. Our parents tried to find her several times. She had traveled west, continuing to seek bad company and a dangerous lifestyle. She died before we were out of grade school. I may even have siblings we’ll never know.”
Theresa tried to grasp the idea of having brothers or sisters that were unknown, perhaps walking down the street or passing in a store. A connection that was no connection. She was an only child because events had dictated it, and her father had chosen to leave it that way. Families were formed intentionally and unintentionally, and the whims of sex did not always seed the best in them. Rick’s family had evolved by desire, Theresa’s by default. Each had flourished over time from the dedication of parental love. Each was solid and good and left the remembrance of belonging.
“Are your parents still living?” Theresa asked suddenly.
“My mother died a few years ago. My father pretty much crumbled up, and he’s now in a nursing home. Mostly TV and crosswords.” Rick paused. “That’s where I picked up my puzzle addiction.” He laughed. “It was something we could do together when I visited him. Now I’m hungry for the harder crosswords, but we still do others together. It’s odd the ways we begin to parent our parents.”
Theresa noted how his eyes had a faraway look of fondness, and his smile seemed linked to distant thoughts. She dared to continue questioning.
“And when did your first wife pass on?”
Rick bolted upright in his chair. “First wife? I’ve had only one wife, Theresa.”
She wanted to shrink down in her confusion and meddling.
“I thought … Your ring.” She looked at his hands, and he began to turn the ring with his right fingers and thumb.
He replied slowly, looking at the still-shiny wedding band. “I guess it’s part nostalgia and part insecurity. I can’t quite let go of her, and I feel safe behind the appearance of commitment.”
“Safe from what?”
“Safe from having to go on emotionally, romantically, I suppose. Safe from starting all over in building a relationship.”
“Do you mean safe from feeling guilty if you meet someone else?” asked Theresa a little too quickly. She blushed at her impertinence. “I’m sorry. That was not my business.”
“No, that’s all right. It’s a fair question. The initial emptiness after Carol’s death has gradually begun to fill with other opportunities to share and be useful. I keep busy with teaching and helping my sister with the business. Remember when I told you that life does move on? I, too, have had to accept that—or prove it. Tragedy can harden us or toughen us; they’re not the same.”
Theresa repeated the name Carol to herself. “How did she die?”
Rick took a deep breath and did not immediately exhale. She could tell he was rehearsing painful events in his head and deciding whether he wanted to let them out. They each had a past that was a graveyard of memories, some good and some not; and he was clearly unable to bury the one of his marriage.
“She was hit by a drunk driver on Christmas Day.”
Theresa could not speak. She longed to throw her arms around him an
d shield him from this hurt. He continued talking, without waiting for a response.
“We were walking to my parents’ house, our arms filled with gifts, when a car veered off the road and hit us, dragging her along the sidewalk for half a block. In an instant, my life was carried away in a zigzag trail of ribbons and flying packages. Lying on the ground, I heard screeching and screaming, horrible sounds mixed with the crashing of mailboxes and fences. Everything was turned upside down, a swirl of gasoline and pain and flashing lights. It was over in a minute. When I regained consciousness, they told me she was gone.”
Rick leaned back in his chair, taking deep breaths of air as if to fill his soul with new energy. The sun had reached its midday high and cast even shadows on the grass around the umbrella. Huddled together out of the light, they sat in heavy silence.
“I’m so sorry,” began Theresa. “How long were you married?” she continued, hoping he’d find comfort in the remembering.
“Just ten months. It was our first Christmas together. We had grown up here on the Cape; our families were neighbors. Carol kissed me when we were seven years old, and that was it. She chased me down the beach until she caught my bathing suit and pushed me down and kissed me.” Rick paused and began to laugh. “Pretty aggressive little thing, I guess. I’ve never even kissed another woman in my life.” His eyes danced with the amusement of fond memories, and then he added, “Kissing on the beach in later years became more interesting.”
Theresa blushed at the suggestion of intimacy and also because she was wondering what it would be like to kiss him right then and there. She tingled as her daydream of rolling in the sand with him played across her mind. Unconsciously she shook her head, feeling the curls bounce around her ears, and she brushed imaginary sand from her arm.
“Seems like you waited a long time to get married.”
“Yes, I had this notion that I should finish my degree before taking on the responsibility of marriage. Carol finished law school, and I finished my dissertation. We needed time apart to focus, and then we got married and decided to take a year off just to spend time together. It was really wonderful. Like two teenagers in love. We had great jobs lined up in Boston for the first of the year, but …” His voice trailed off. “Without Carol, I decided to stay right here on the Cape. My degree, however, is wasted for any teaching here, and I often feel those school years were wasted, too, since I didn’t get other ones to spend with her. But we didn’t know. We just couldn’t know. And my roots are here.”
“I guess that’s the answer to my earlier question about how you ended up here. You started here.”
“Yes, my reason to leave is what left. My heart is at home in Chatham. My father and sister and her family are close by. It’s a great place to live.” Then he added, “You should try it.”
She searched his face for clues that might add meaning to those four simple words, but she saw only the sincerity of a man content in his surroundings. He was happy, and her heart ached.
“I … I don’t know what lies ahead.”
“Theresa, we’ve covered that ground. Tomorrow is not yours. Only today. What are we each doing with today?”
Rick began to pack up the empty bags from his lunch and took the last sip of his canned lemonade.
“I do know I’d better get back to work today, or my tomorrow will be jammed.” He smiled at Theresa as he got up.
“Thanks for coming, Rick. I like talking with you.”
“I like it, too, and I didn’t mean to unload a lot of old stuff on you. We each have some baggage we’re carrying around.”
“Yes, we do,” said Theresa, smiling back.
They walked together toward the old pickup. Its ram head glistened in the sun, pointing to the ocean. Silent seagulls rode gentle blue crests, pecking at the water and occasionally flapping their wings for balance. The air was still. A persistent ringing of the telephone from inside the house met only deafness.
Chapter Eleven
SHARP BARKING startled Theresa awake, and she bolted out of bed, trying to focus and figure out the cause of Gypsy’s commotion. The dog was moving from window to window, tail wagging and then stopping, lifting herself to the level of each sill but unable to be satisfied with what she saw or couldn’t see.
Suddenly the sound of a small engine or motor filled the morning air, bursting in on the grogginess of sleep and confusion. Something was definitely going on outside, and it was close to the house. Gypsy became more agitated, barking louder to challenge the sound below.
Theresa hurried to the closest window, still without curtains, and leaned out. As she stretched further to see around the corner, leaning as far as her tiptoes would allow, she steadied herself with outstretched arms, and her nightgown slipped loosely off her shoulder. Gypsy nuzzled her, as if asking to be told what was happening. Theresa looked down at the dog and then back to the yard as a riding mower came into view, with Rick at the wheel.
This time he didn’t look away when he caught her by surprise. She pulled back, clutching at her gown, not completely covering her body and not caring. She noticed how brown her skin looked in contrast to the pale pink fabric. Theresa felt desire, mixed with remembering. Rick waved sheepishly and headed the mower in a straight line toward the water, away from the house.
“It’s okay, Gypsy; it’s Rick.”
She pulled on a sun top and wrapped a bright floral skirt around her, tying a knot at the waist. Hurrying barefoot down the stairs, she fluffed her hair with her hands. “He’s come to tame the jungle grasses.” She laughed reassuringly to both the dog and herself. But she knew she felt like a hungry native girl in the jungle, anxious for the work of the day to be over and the pleasure of the night to begin. She wanted to be close to this man, and she didn’t care about the rules of the game.
As she pushed open the screen door and started down the steps, a folded piece of paper caught her eye. It was stuck in the first lilac bush, close to the ground. In bold printed letters, it said simply, “Feed Bobby O.K.?” No signature, no addressee. The list of names, men’s names, associated in some way with Whimsy Towers was growing longer: Claude, Stormy, Bobby. Was there any connection between them? And why was permission needed to feed Bobby? Or was Theresa being asked to feed the mysterious Bobby?
The momentary distraction of the note was forgotten as she saw the riding mower swing a broad turn and head in her direction. Rick was smiling and waving, and she ran to meet him.
He throttled down the powerful mower. “Good morning! Thought I’d get an early start before we have to call in some goats to get this grass down.”
Theresa heard the words, but she just stared at him and watched his eyes meet hers, hoping for what she felt when he saw her in the open window.
“I guess we still never got to the business of your taking care of things here.”
“No, I guess not, not officially. I just came on the assumption that we’d work it out. I pretty much know what needs doing, unless the lady of the manor has other ideas.”
He smiled that broad grin that found its way to her heart and caused her common sense to disconnect from reason. Theresa couldn’t tell whether his comment was searching for cues from her or was an honest request for gardening input. She walked slowly around the humming mower, watching him watching her. Like a calculating feline assesses her prey, she circled him with anticipation. He was too good and too kind to approach a married woman, even a vulnerable one. It was she who chose to attack.
“How about a ride on your chariot?” she asked, putting a bare foot next to his leg and beginning to climb up.
“These things aren’t exactly made for two,” he said, offering no resistance.
She sat awkwardly on his lap, with one arm around his neck, and he enclosed her with both his arms on the wheel.
“Ready? Hold on.” The mower jerked forward, and Theresa settled more firmly against the worn sof
tness of Rick’s blue jeans and flannel shirt. Her face was close to his, and the earthy smell of cut grass began to mix with the scent of her night lotion and bath powder. His arms were strong and firm around her, occasionally holding her a little tighter than the jostling of the mower seemed to require.
They cut a dozen or so rows before Theresa let her face touch his, her hair tickling his neck. She lightly kissed his cheek and felt him lessen the pressure on the gas pedal. He turned to her, his eyes full of questions, and they kissed with the ease of two people who knew they should.
The mower veered off to the side, destroying the established pattern, but the kiss lingered, and the previously charted course was changed.
“Theresa, I don’t know that this is a good idea,” Rick whispered, but held her tighter. “I … I don’t think we should be doing this.”
The mower was carrying them along like a runaway stallion, and Theresa was not getting off. She felt his body contradicting his words, and she turned around to straddle him face on. The mower came to an abrupt stop. Her legs wrapped around him in the seat, knees pointing to the playful clouds above, and they kissed again, and again, without objection. Rick pulled her toward him, his hands reaching under the wraparound skirt, and he soon found she wore nothing under it. Her skin was smooth and warm. He struggled to reach the zipper on his jeans, and she lifted herself up and helped him unzip the path of no return.
They had not heard the blackbirds in the tall oak near the house. The birds were screaming with alarm and anger, but no warning was loud enough to slow the racing speed of passion. As if on signal, dozens of birds flapped noisily out of the tree, leaving the branches bare and quiet. But stillness couldn’t mask the face of regret.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” said Theresa breathlessly, not caring that the steering wheel was pushing into her back. “And it was wonderful.”