17
Three days later, Anne’s silver Volvo pulled into the parking lot just as I was closing the office door. It was six o’clock, the end of a busy day and one that represented a breakthrough for me. For two weeks, we’d been interviewing various candidates for the assistant job, and that afternoon Nana had formally offered it to Alice Tolland, a reserved, studiously serious woman in her midtwenties. She’d grown up in Harringdale, moved away to Boston for college and an early marriage, then recently returned to the area when the marriage went sour. She’d be working mainly for Nana, as I had originally done, helping out Heather and Linda, and answering the phones.
“And you’ll be giving Maddie a hand, too,” Nana had told her, as she walked her through the office. “Tomorrow, maybe you can help her set up her new work station next to Linda. This will be your desk, where Maddie used to sit.”
The car stopped in the driveway below me. I hadn’t seen Anne since the afternoon I spotted her talking to Luke, and I was still hurt and upset by the incident. I was trying to decide what I should say to her about it when all the windows came down at once and I saw that she had everybody with her in the car: Rachel in front, Max and Katie in their car seats in the back, Beanie and Lia sitting cross-legged in the rear area, wedged in among grocery bags, folding chairs, and inner tubes. I felt a wave of panic when I saw them. We never let them ride in the car without being firmly strapped into their car seats. It’s not just illegal, it’s dangerous.
“I drove about five miles an hour,” Anne told me, seeing my expression. “We wanted to surprise you! I was shopping in Northridge and stopped in at that incredible new gourmet grocery on Federal Street. They have these fantastic picnic hampers all ready to go. So, we’ve come to kidnap you and whisk you off to the lake for a supper where—finally—you will not have to lift a single finger!”
“Oh, Anne, you shouldn’t have … ,” I began, biting back what I was really tempted to say. She could be so impulsive, so irresponsible! She hadn’t listened to me about Luke. And now she thought nothing of putting my children in danger. Then I looked down at the car full of grinning faces and felt myself relenting a little. I finished locking up and walked down the steps.
“But I wanted to!” she said. “This is my way of thanking you for all the wonderful meals you’ve been making for us. Beanie, Lia, I’m going to pop the back now so you can drive up there with your mom.”
“I think I’ll go with them, too,” Rachel said, releasing her seat belt.
“Okay, fine,” Anne said, turning to her. “Thanks for all your help, Rach.”
The girls scrambled out of Anne’s car. Rachel buckled her sisters into their seats, then climbed in the front beside me. As we pulled out onto River Road behind Anne, I turned to Rachel and said, “I can’t believe you let your sisters ride in the back like that!”
“Honestly, Mom? I didn’t have much of a choice. She came back from wherever—shopping, she said—all excited about making this a big surprise for you! I told her we should call you, that it would be a lot better if you came over and picked up the girls in your car, but she insisted that would ruin things. So you go ahead and tell me what I was supposed to do, okay?”
I glanced over at Rachel. She was staring straight ahead again, her mouth set in an angry line. She was right to be upset; I was blaming her for something Anne had done. At the same time, her attitude was so hostile and unbending, I just couldn’t find it in me to apologize.
The picnic hamper, an enormous woven basket lined with a bright paisley tablecloth and four matching napkins, was packed with delicacies obviously selected with a cultivated adult palate in mind: pâté de foie gras with truffles; gherkins; spicy oil-cured black olives; a thick wheel of triple crème brie; two long, stiff baguettes. Anne had also purchased a bottle of wine, which still had the price tag on it—$49.95!—but had forgotten to pick up anything for the kids to drink. Rachel doled out plastic cups and marched the children up to the bungalow, with its rudimentary unisex bathroom, and they filled up with water from the sink.
We spread out the cloth and arranged the expensive picnic items on top of it. Rachel made cheese sandwiches for Beanie and Lia, which they nibbled on politely but soon discarded. Max and Katie, obviously more accustomed to this kind of fare, made periodic raids on the gherkins and olives, and chewed good-naturedly on the tough baguettes. Dessert was usually their main course, anyway, I’d noticed, and in this case they were smart to wait. At the bottom of the hamper was a box of walnut brownies, iced with dark chocolate, a bag of pecan shortbread cookies, and a decorative tin filled with cocoa-dusted truffles.
“Let me have your glass,” Anne said, gaily raising the wine bottle. The children had wandered off to play on the rocks to the right of the swimming area, where Rachel was sitting, intent on something she was writing. I assumed it was a letter to Aaron, who, as a counselor in a wilderness camp, couldn’t get or receive e-mail. In addition to having frequent and extended telephone conversations, the two teenagers had been keeping up a busy correspondence the old-fashioned way.
“It’s still half full,” I told her, holding the plastic cup up so that she could see its contents. I don’t drink very often, and when I do, it’s usually just a shared beer with Paul or a glass of white wine at a party. Anne’s wine was too strong for me, a potent ruby red more appropriate for a rich winter dinner than summer picnic fare. She leaned over and filled my cup to the brim anyway, spilling a few drops on the paisley cloth as she did so.
“Oh, come on, Maddie, let’s celebrate a little!”
“What’s the occasion?” I replied, debating whether to ask her about Luke. Tell her I’d seen them together and wondered what was going on. But she seemed in such a jubilant and forthcoming mood; I didn’t want to be the one to put a damper on it.
“Life. Summer. I don’t know, the mystery of the spheres,” she said, refilling her own glass and leaning the bottle against the side of the hamper. “No, wait. I know: to friendship!” She extended her cup to mine and we touched the rims together.
“I’ll drink to that,” I said.
“It must be kind of wonderful, growing up in a town like this,” she said. “And knowing everybody all your life. My father worked for the military, and we were always moving around.” Anne had never talked about her childhood to me before, and I was intrigued.
“What did he do?”
“Oh, he was a systems analyst,” she said, looking down into her glass. “He still is. Though he’s in Washington now, at the Pentagon. Something very hush-hush and high up. He remarried after my mother died. I don’t really talk to him anymore. Well, to be honest, I never really did talk to him, do you know what I mean? I listened.”
“Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“Hmmm?” She sipped her wine and looked out vaguely over the glassy water. I heard voices across the lake, and I saw that the children had taken the footpath around the perimeter and were directly across from us. Rachel was with them. I waved, and they all waved back.
“Speaking of friends,” she said, “I met our neighbor finally. Luke … Barnett?”
“Oh?” I said. I was relieved now that I hadn’t confronted her about it. She had been planning to tell me herself, of course. It had been silly of me to get so worked up.
“So he and Paul—and you, too—were all friends growing up?”
“He told you that?” I asked, turning to look at her more closely. She was still gazing across the lake, not really focusing on anything; I’m not sure she even realized that the children were over there. What else had Luke said? Though I’d seen the two of them together, I still had a hard time imagining what they’d have to say to each other. They seemed to me to occupy such vastly different realms that it was hard to conceive of them actually existing in the same dimension. And the thought of them talking about Paul, me, and our past made me feel anxious and unsettled all over again. “What else did he say?”
“Not much,” she replied. Something broke what
ever spell had held her, and she looked at me and smiled. “You were right. He is a little eccentric. When I drove up, he came out to meet me carrying a gun.”
“Oh, Lord!”
“It was just a BB gun!” She laughed, sipping her wine. “I know what you said, but I still felt I had to apologize for what happened after our party. Life is too short for bad feelings like that. It was such a stupid misunderstanding, and I hated driving past his place knowing he was sitting there despising us. It seemed like such a waste of energy. Well, I have to say he was hardly what I was expecting. I mean, he’s obviously very intelligent, very much his own person. He really is a sort of free spirit, isn’t he? In a funny way, I think I envy him.”
“I think of you as a free spirit, Anne,” I told her. It was true, of course, though I probably wouldn’t have said anything if the wine hadn’t started to loosen my reserve. I sat back on my elbows, looking up at the canopy of leaves.
“You do?” she said with a laugh. “Well, I’ll tell you—this summer, finally, I feel like I’m getting my priorities straight. I know this will probably sound a little trite, but, after years and years of letting petty things get in the way, I believe I’m beginning to see my life clearly. I guess it’s because I’ve finally given myself the time and space to get a little perspective. It’s wonderful,” she said, pouring herself some more wine. “It’s also kind of scary.”
“Why scary?” I asked. I wasn’t totally sure what she was saying, but I thought I understood in a general kind of way. I, too, had been feeling that I was getting a better sense of who I was that summer. Who I could be.
“Because,” she said, “I’m finally able to accept that my marriage is a disaster.”
“Oh, Anne,” I said, sitting up. I felt light-headed from the wine. The afternoon suddenly seemed hyper-real, the tree line across the lake razor-sharp, the rippling reflection of sky and clouds on the water like the simplified masses of a paint-by-number canvas. I felt angry with myself for getting muzzy, just when Anne was opening up to me. My only real confidant in life is Paul. Conversations with my woman friends, including my sisters-in-law, rarely touch on anything too intimate. Perhaps it’s the reclusiveness of rural living, but we tend to keep our deepest thoughts and feelings to ourselves. Though I wish it could be otherwise. I find myself longing to get behind all that superficial neighborly goodwill—like Kathy’s forced sunniness—but it’s actually as impenetrable as stone.
“Don’t look so upset! It’s okay, really. It’s actually something that I’ve been avoiding facing for a long, long time. Here, let’s empty this.”
“I’m already a little woozy … ,” I began, but she refilled my cup, and then hers.
“The thing is,” she said, leaning on her right elbow and hip and turning toward me, “Richard is totally controlling. He always has been. That’s actually what attracted me to him in the first place. When we met, I was having some problems, and I found that quality comforting. This big, strong man wanted to take care of me, do you know what I mean? I could finally let go of some of my worries, all this baggage I was carrying around, and have him shoulder some of it. And that’s been our dynamic. Richard is the great, all-powerful Oz; and I’m Dorothy, the meek and humble. Plus, he’ll never let me forget that I used to be … that I had some emotional problems.”
“What kind of—”
“In fact, I’m really beginning to think that he wants me to stay troubled. It lets him remain in control, do you know what I mean? But, moving up here has been such a liberating experience for me, Maddie! I feel so much better. Clearer. Stronger. I knew I was doing the right thing when I took that sabbatical. In the back of my mind, I think I knew perfectly well what I was doing. You know what it is? This summer—it’s really a kind of trial separation from Richard. I’m breaking away.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I was raised to think of a failed marriage as a tragedy. At the same time, I wasn’t surprised—more relieved, in fact—to hear Anne’s complaints about her husband. Early on, I’d pegged Richard as overbearing and domineering. A bully, really. I’ve seen the way he watches Anne, following her movements with a calculating gaze. When he speaks to her, I’ve never found anything loving or supportive in his words. And I’ve also sensed that he doesn’t much approve of me. I think he hopes Anne would choose friends from their own social milieu. I also think that he doesn’t particularly like the fact that his children are spending a lot of time with mine. I’m sure some of my dislike is due to these suspicions; but I also think that Anne deserves better. She’s really such a positive person, so full of enthusiasms and spirit. I think Richard holds her back, purposely puts her down, forces her to remain earthbound.
“And in bed?” Anne went on. “It’s getting harder and harder to fake it. Sometimes when his tongue is in my mouth—God, I want to just gag—do you know what I mean?” Anne looked at me. She laughed. “Oh, Maddie, I’m sorry, I’ve upset you!”
“No,” I lied. I never talk to anybody about sex, except Paul. I never have. I don’t think I’m puritanical exactly, it’s just not something I’m used to discussing casually. But I was flattered that Anne confided in me. I felt that she’d cleared the way for a new level of intimacy between us. I believed that she really needed me as a friend she could really talk to and trust. I knew things about her now that even her own husband didn’t.
“Why do I think that you and Paul don’t have any problems in bed?”
“Problems?” I hesitated. I knew what she was asking, and I also understood the impulse behind it. When I was a little girl, Dorie Nelson and I became “blood sisters.” We’d pricked our fingers, squeezed out a droplet of blood, and then touched our fingertips together. Anne had made her move; it was my turn now. And this was what I wanted, wasn’t it? This level of trust and sharing—knowing and being known? But it was harder than I thought, though all she was asking for was a confirmation, a nod. I started to pick up the empty plates and cups. I folded a napkin. I felt sleepy from the wine, my limbs heavy, as though I was moving underwater. I heard our children approaching, their voices echoing across the still surface of the lake. The light was diffused, opalescent, suspended between afternoon and evening. Finally, with a vague feeling of betrayal, I said:
“Well, yes, you’re right. We really make the bed rock.”
“Here it is!” Max cried. He’d run over to where they all had been playing before and was waving a piece of paper in his hand.
“Really?” Rachel said, following the other kids as they raced over to join Max. “Let me see. Yes, I think you’re right. Look at this. I’m sure you’re right. Now, what we need to do is sit down and figure this out. Letter by letter. Who has the note?”
“What are you doing?” Anne asked.
“Mom, you’ve got to see this!” Max cried, running back to us. “We found a note from the fairies on the other side of the lake! Look, see, it’s written in fairy language! And—and—and—” He was literally breathless with excitement.
“I told him where the fairies keep their secret alphabet book,” Rachel said. “I mean, I thought everybody knew that they always hide their most precious things in really mossy places, right?”
“And the mossiest place is by that rock!” Max said. “And that’s where I found this! Look at this!”
“My goodness,” Anne said, smiling. “It’s a very strange but beautiful alphabet.” I looked over her shoulder and recognized Rachel’s elegant, slightly slanting script.
“Do you really think it’s real?” Beanie asked.
“I think the only way to find out,” Rachel told her rapt audience, “is to see if this note makes sense when we translate it. So let’s sit down and …”
Anne and I finished putting away the picnic things and packed up the cars while the younger children sat in a tight circle around Rachel, helping her translate the twelve-word note. By the time we were done, Rachel had written it out. The message read: “Build us a fairy garden under the trellis and see what happens.”
“No, it’s the fairies!” Lia protested.
“You wrote it, didn’t you?” Beanie said. “It’s like a joke. Or a game.”
“It’s whatever you want it to be, Bean,” Rachel said. Night fell quickly as we came down the mountain. A car came toward us, and, as it passed, I looked over at my eldest daughter. For an instant her face, illuminated by the headlights, seemed almost incandescent. I suppose every succeeding generation is a mystery to the one that comes before it. We give our children life, we teach them everything we know. Then, all at once, they seem to understand so much more than we ever did or ever will. And, somehow, without our help at all, they grow taller and stronger and kinder, blossoming into creatures from some other, wiser planet. With an alphabet all their own.
“You’ve been drinking,” Paul said when he got home around nine thirty. I’d just finished walking the girls out to the tent and, seeing his headlights on the drive, had come around the garage and met him as he got out of his truck.
“How can you tell?” I asked him, standing on tiptoe to be kissed again.
“Your breath,” he said, pulling me to him. “Wine? Red wine?” He smelled of sweat, fresh paint, and some deep-seated, waxy, essentially masculine aroma that was his alone. I could feel him against me. I ran my hands over his biceps, along his neck, and down the top of his back, massaging the muscles just above his shoulder blades that are always tense after the long commute. He’d been working too hard, putting in twelve-hour days at the Covington site, pushing everyone—himself most of all—to complete major construction by the beginning of September. The owners were planning to host a huge family wedding there on Labor Day weekend and promised the crew bonuses if they met the deadline.
Local Knowledge Page 19