Local Knowledge

by Liza Gyllenhaal

  “And Rachel? How did they get on?”

  “When we first got there and he gave her a hug, she began to cry. It made me realize how much Luke has always meant to her, to all of them. He’s like this lost symbol of their childhood—like a teddy bear or something—only real and really loving. It was amazing to me, but he got her to tell him things that were total news to me. Like this boy she’s been seeing? You know she’s planning a trip up to Maine at the end of August to visit him? Did you know that?”

  “No,” I said, though I wasn’t surprised. Nor was I surprised that Rachel would so willingly confide in Luke. I knew she respected him. Perhaps even idolized him a little. From the kitchen window I could see my daughters playing badminton in the backyard with a high school girlfriend of Rachel’s who lives down the road. I could tell they were in high spirits, no doubt buoyed by seeing Luke again and bringing home the sunflower.

  “He took us down to his shop in the basement and showed us what he was working on. I told him that he really had to start clearing some of the stuff out down there. The place is a firetrap, and you know he’s using these welding torches. Sparks flying all over the place. The department would come down on him like a ton of bricks if they saw the place. How did it go with you two?” Paul asked, opening up the refrigerator and squatting down to see what we had in the way of soft drinks.

  “Not so great. I think he kind of blames me for the Zeller thing. I can see why, though, of course. I’m pretty much in the line of fire. What did he say when you brought it up?”

  Paul stood up again and closed the door without taking anything. He turned around to face me, frowning. He’d put on a little weight over the last couple of months. His stomach strained against his T-shirt and his strong jawline sagged a little with what might someday become jowls. But I loved him more than I ever had; more than I ever imagined I could love anything or anyone. And I longed to be able to give him what he wanted. To share what he felt for Luke; what he believed our daughters felt for him. But Luke has been a long-running argument between the two of us, and though we’d managed to put it behind us for a year or so, I knew now that none of that had changed. Paul shifted his weight and crossed his arms on his chest, as if he knew what I was thinking about his appearance, about everything.

  “We’d hoisted the sculpture into the pickup. We were facing up the hill, toward the Zellers’ place. I just said he shouldn’t let people like that get to him. He turned and stared at me. He said, ‘So that’s what this is all about.’ He was sweet saying good-bye to the girls, but all the fun was gone, you know? I felt bad about it. I should have known he’d see right through me.”

  “No, he thought it was my idea. And, who knows? Maybe it did some good. Maybe, after he lets things sink in a little, he’ll see that you’re right. Was he happy at least that you bought something?”

  “Yeah, but that was before. Damn. I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t have hauled everybody over there. I did it for Rachel, really. No, who am I kidding? I did it for myself. I’m just a big sloppy sentimental idiot, aren’t I? I’m just a sap.”

  “Yes, you are. I’ve always thought it was one of your finer qualities.”

  16

  Every year, on the third Saturday in July, the entire Alden family gathers at the farm for a cookout. These get-togethers have been taking place for as long as I’ve known Paul, and from what I understand, for several generations before any of us were born. It’s one of those traditions that’s etched in stone, planned for months in advance, and is automatically on the calendar, like Christmas or Easter. If you’re an Alden, or married to one, and are more or less alive, you come. Nelwyn, Dennis, and their teenage boy fly in from Indiana; Ethan, Barb, and the kids drive over from Boston. Louise, her husband, Mike, and their three young kids, who live a few miles south of Northridge, usually pick up Clara Alden at the retirement home on their way.

  Though Paul, Beanie, and Lia had gone over to the farm earlier in the day to help Bob set up the grills, Rachel and I didn’t get there until the picnic was well under way. I’d had two showings that morning and Rachel was doing something for Anne. It wasn’t until I pulled into the Zellers’ turnaround to pick her up that I discovered what it was. Rachel and Anne came down the front path toward me with their arms full of what looked like a closet’s worth of clothes, most still swathed in plastic dry-cleaning bags. Rachel, who’d left the house that morning dressed in white cutoffs and a T-shirt, was now wearing a silky, low-cut dress, printed in a red-and-black geometric pattern. The bright colors didn’t really flatter her and the dress looked far too tight, clinging to her youthful hips and riding up her thighs. She still had on her flip-flops, which made her overall appearance look a little dumpy and definitely top-heavy.

  “Well, what have we here?” I said, lowering the window.

  “Can you believe it?” Rachel said with an eager smile. “Mrs. Zeller is giving all these things away! To me, Mom! What do you think? This is like an original Diane von Furstenberg.” She spun around in front of the car, obviously delighted with her new acquisition.

  “We can’t possibly accept all this,” I said to Anne, as I climbed out of the car. The clothes appeared to be mostly silk or linen: elegant, striking, urban designs. “It’s an entire wardrobe! Why in the world are you getting rid of all these beautiful things? They must be worth a small fortune.”

  “Oh, come on, of course you can take them,” Anne said, opening the back car door and tossing the clothes into the backseat as though they were so many bags of groceries. “I brought them up from the city to sort through and give away. They’re mostly just business clothes that I’m tired of. You can’t get away with wearing the same outfit at work for more than a year or two, do you know what I mean? And, honestly, a lot of these things really belong in a museum. But Rachel seemed to want them.”

  “Really, Rachel, I don’t think—” I began, but Rachel just walked around the front of the car to the passenger side, opened the back door, and laid her clothes down on top of the ones Anne had tossed in. She slammed the door and turned to stare at me across the roof of the car.

  “Mrs. Zeller isn’t actually giving them away, Mom,” Rachel said. “It’s payment for extra things I’ve been doing for her.”

  “That’s right,” Anne said, nudging me with her elbow the way she does when she’s trying to get me to see her point of view. “They’re hardly freebies! Rachel has been a total godsend to me this summer. Without her, we’d all still be living out of boxes. And what’s the point of dropping this stuff off at the Goodwill or somewhere? Besides, don’t you think she looks fabulous?”

  That’s where I knew better than to argue. Rachel could be so touchy about her looks—and, in fact, her appearance can still change pretty radically from day to day. Overnight, acne will break out across her chin or cheeks, temporarily marring her round-faced prettiness. For a day or two before her period, she often looks bloated. Then, without warning, her natural loveliness will shine through again and I’ll find myself staring down men who eye her hungrily on the street. But I know she’s still far from confident about her looks, so I try to keep my criticisms about her choices of clothes and hairstyles to a minimum.

  “She always looks fabulous to me,” I said, hoping to at least win a smile from my oldest daughter, but she climbed into the front passenger seat and folded her arms across her exposed cleavage without another word.

  “Thanks, Anne,” I said as I slid back into the car. “You’ve really been more than generous.”

  Rachel and I drove down the driveway in a strained silence.

  “What is it?” I asked finally as I made the turn onto River Road. “You’re like a little gloom cloud sitting there.”

  “You don’t like my dress.”

  “That’s not true. It’s very stylish. But it’s also, well, very adult-looking. Sophisticated. I’m not sure it’s right for you—I mean, at least not at this point in your life. And I guess that I don’t think it’s particularly appropriate
for the Alden family picnic.”

  “And who gets to say what is appropriate, Mom? You? What’s wrong with trying out a new look? With wanting to be different?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with it, Rach. But I think it’s important to pick the right moment. That’s the kind of dress you’d want to wear out on a fancy date with Aaron, do you know what I mean? It’s just not suitable for running around and playing with your cousins at a cookout.”

  “We don’t exactly run around anymore, in case you haven’t noticed,” Rachel said with a sigh. “God, it’s like you still think of me as some stupid little kid! Like I don’t know what’s going on in the world. You don’t think twice about giving me all these responsibilities. But the moment I try to do anything new and even slightly radical, you just go ballistic!”

  “I really don’t think that’s fair,” I told her. “But I’m not going to argue with you about this any longer. Wear what you want.”

  It seemed to me that Rachel and I were having more and more of these blowups; they’d come roaring out of nowhere and we’d be on each other without warning. Sometimes we argue about real things—like Anne’s clothes—but more often than not I’m uncertain what we’re actually fighting about. It usually feels deeper and more complicated than whatever issue sets us off. And though we’re both pretty quick to patch things up and move on, nothing ever seems to get resolved.

  By the time we arrived at the farm, everyone was already gathered around the long picnic tables that had been pushed together and covered in red-checked plastic. Paul was down at the far end, deep in conversation with Ethan and Bob; he barely glanced over at Rachel and me as we filled our plates at the serving table. Rachel took a seat with the group of cousins who were her own age, and I slid in next to Barb, Ethan’s wife, whom I’ve always liked.

  “Rachel’s gotten so pretty and grown-up,” Barb told me, glancing over at the older cousins and perhaps comparing Rachel to her own gawky, dark-haired daughter, who, at fourteen, still shows little sign of sexual development.

  “It seemed to happen overnight,” I said, lying a little to be kind.

  “Maybe it’s that dress, but she suddenly looks so mature!”

  “Well, please don’t tell her you approve, okay? We had a knock-down, drag-out fight on our way over here. It’s a hand-me-down from the woman she’s working for this summer.”

  “So, she’s not helping Kathy out this year?” Barb asked.

  “She did for a while, then she got this great job as a nanny. I sold the house to the family that hired her. The Zellers. It was my first really big sale.” Unlike the other women in the family, Barb was encouraging and helpful when I first decided to go to work and is always interested in how I’m progressing. An assistant principal of the largest public high school in Brookline, she loves her own demanding professional life. And I think she looks down a bit on Kathy, Louise, and Nelwyn, who, except for some assistant teaching and volunteer work, really don’t do much of anything outside their homes.

  “Good for you. And what a great time to get into real estate. I can’t believe all the building around here. Makes me wonder if Bob’s ever going to throw in the towel. Think what he could get for this place!”

  “They’d have to carry Bob out feetfirst,” I told her.

  “Yeah.” Barb shook her head and kept her voice down. “He told us all about the goat-cheese plans. Showed us the shed and the little herd and all. I know there’s a big surge in organic farming and these kinds of specialty products. I just wish I had a little more confidence in his business abilities. Maybe I’m being, I don’t know, my usual negative self when it comes to this place. But doesn’t it seem even more ramshackle than usual? The toilet in the downstairs bathroom has been running since we got here.”

  You stop noticing the details when you see a place every day, but I hadn’t been out to the farm for over a month and I, too, thought it had started to look … worse than ramshackle—more or less given-up-on. Bob still hadn’t gotten around to taking the winter plastic and weather stripping off the upper windows. A whole section of the front porch railing had apparently come loose and was propped up into position with cinder blocks. The constant traffic of kids in and out of the house had left a smeary buildup of scuff marks and fingerprints on the doorframes and woodwork. Now, with so many mismatched chairs out on the lawn and cars parked up the drive, it looked more like an unpromising tag sale than a family celebration.

  The light started to soften. Louise and Kathy took their babies inside for a nap. The older cousins led the younger ones away on a treasure hunt, something Rachel had started a few summers ago and which had evolved into another part of the tradition. Clara was helped up to the porch and into one of the more comfortable wicker rockers, and the adults gathered in a group at Paul’s end of the table. Most of us were working on cups of decaf. Ethan and Bob had topped off their beers. Dennis lit a cigarette.

  “Noticed driving in that the Barnett place is getting all chopped up and developed,” Ethan said.

  “Yep,” Paul said. “I’m sure I told you about that. I did a lot of the work on it.”

  “You’re doing okay now, aren’t you, boy?” Ethan replied. It was like something Dandridge would have said, only with humor and appreciation rather than envy. Ethan had failed early in the eyes of his father, and retreated quickly from that particular battlefield. If he remains affable but utterly without ambition, I think it’s largely because those first scars never fully healed.

  “It’s Polanski who’s really doing okay,” Paul said. “But we’re not complaining. Especially Maddie. Her job is going just great.”

  “Kathy was telling me about how you’ve become this real estate hot-shot,” Nelwyn said. She’s almost ten years older than me, and, perhaps because we see each other only once or twice a year, we’ve never managed to become that close. She inherited Clara’s judgmental ways and is not afraid of sharing her opinions with those she thinks might benefit from them.

  “It’s been terrific,” I said, mimicking Nana’s upbeat tone, the way I often do when I’m feeling insecure on the job. “I get to meet all the new people moving into the area before anybody else does. It’s a great way to make friends.”

  “You really need new friends at this point in your life?” Nelwyn replied. I was stung by her tone, but I was also pretty sure what was behind it: Kathy must have been complaining to her about me.

  “Honey?” Dennis asked, exhaling. He’s a truck driver, and he makes an excellent living doing long hauls, but he has a mouth on him that makes most of us jumpy when he’s around the children. “You got something up your ass?”

  “I was just saying,” Nelwyn went on, “that it’s easy to forget who your real friends are when you’re so busy making new ones.”

  Later, as I was getting ready for bed, I heard Paul laugh out loud to himself in the bathroom. He’s always in a good mood after being with his family. He just rolled his eyes when I told him about Anne’s largesse and shook his head as he watched Rachel carrying her loads of loot in from my car. Maybe it was because he’d had a few beers, but he didn’t seem to register what she was wearing.

  “What is it?” I called in to him.

  “What Dennis said to Nelwyn. You got to love the guy! She’s always been so damned good at minding other people’s business.”

  “You don’t think she’s right?” I asked. “I mean, that I’m too busy working to keep up with everyone the way I should?”

  “Listen, you do the best you can,” Paul said, walking into the bedroom in his jockey shorts. “I know the hours you’re putting in. And I’m proud of you. Frankly, I think maybe the others are a little jealous.”

  Of course, I told myself, Paul was right: Nelwyn was just envious. And Kathy? If she had a problem with me, shouldn’t she come right out and tell me herself rather than let someone else do her dirty work for her? Nelwyn’s nastiness rankled for a day or two, but it was soon overtaken by the demands of my twelve-hour workdays, as well as my ongoi
ng worries about Rachel. She’d started wearing Anne’s clothes on a daily basis. She’d pair a navy blue blazer of Anne’s, which was too snug across her back and chest, with her own cutoff jeans and sandals; or one of Anne’s tailored skirts, cut on the bias and straining across her broader beam, with a peasant blouse or halter top. Usually so sensitive and cautious about her appearance, Rachel seemed oblivious to the fact that she now often looked awkward or just downright odd.

  It was Anne’s influence, of course. Don’t you think she looks fabulous? Anne had asked me the afternoon she gave Rachel her castoffs. But if I knew better, I was pretty sure Anne did as well. I suspected she sensed how much my daughter coveted all those expensive designer things—so much so, in fact, that Rachel couldn’t see how wearing them actually undermined her own fresh-faced beauty. I understood Rachel’s impulse to want to be someone different. Anne made me feel that way, too. I was learning how to handle it, I told myself. I could manage the sometimes powerful sway she exerted over me. I believed I finally had Anne in a pretty good perspective. My concern was for Rachel.

  Then, a week or so after the Alden picnic, I was driving down River Road to a client showing in Northridge and I saw Anne talking to Luke in his driveway. She’d gotten out of her car and was leaning back against the hood of her silver Volvo wagon, hands on her hips, nodding her head in response to whatever Luke was saying. He was less than a foot away, arms folded across his chest, head tilted in that speculative gaze I knew so well. Even from that distance, I could tell he was smiling.

  I was so shocked I almost braked. I’d warned Anne away from Luke—how many times that summer? That she would so blatantly disregard my advice seemed like a kind of betrayal. It was a double betrayal, really. Because I could only imagine what Luke might be saying to Anne about me! I felt like I’d been punched in the gut, breathless and sick to my stomach. But I didn’t stop. I kept driving. I knew I didn’t have to worry about them seeing me pass by; they were too wrapped up in each other to notice.