Something To Be Brave For

by Priscilla Bennett

  “Girl, did you even hear what I said?”

  “Yes! And I said I’d think about it.”

  Gillian sighed. “Fine. We’ll discuss it again when you come back. Give Rose a kiss from me and take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch.”

  (After the nursery incident, Claude had apologized by saying, “I want to make love to you as if it were the first time,” and he’d gently held me, his fingers playing with my body, cradling me the way he had in the beginning – except that now I was repelled by his touch. My hair felt like it was being pulled, not stroked, and his hands were tightening around my neck, and I wanted to scream, Don’t touch me! Instead, my fear did the talking. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’m not ready,” and he knelt over me, slathered a little oil between my legs – a special oil he’d brought home from a trip to Paris – and fucked me.)

  Before I left, Claude gave me a paper bag filled with cash that one of his patients had given him to pay for a job – not enough for an escape but a big chunk, and an opportunity to contribute to my Fund. “You can always get a better deal with cash – and we don’t have to bother with receipts,” he’d said. I took his advice and decided I would make my own cash deals, and I promised myself that even if Claude returned to himself, I would keep saving.

  I saw the house in Nantucket as a place of safety – a refuge from the real world and from Claude, giving me time to think. I had named the house Foggy Cottage for it was rare that on any morning the place was free of wisps of a fog that was either burning off or rolling in, and when I drove into the driveway off Eel Point Road above Nantucket Sound, there was a dreamy blurriness to the edges of the house that not only mirrored my confusion – I was in a fog myself – but also bolstered the magical quality of my thinking: maybe I could find the answers, maybe I could transform Claude somehow and return our life to normal. Maybe. The fog, the sound of the sea below and calls of seabirds above, all seemed to reaffirm my hope that our old life – our happy life together – could be restored.

  Being alone the first week with Rose was easy. It was too early in the season for the garden club, and the Kensington Club was not open for tennis, and only year-round inhabitants populated the town. We visited the Whaling Museum and went out to the lighthouse at Brandt’s Point and trudged with the buggy through brown seagrass and scrub bushes dusted with snow. We shopped, and I filled our cupboards with all we’d need to eat. Chilly blustery April winds blew sand across our beachfront as Rose and I collected sea glass, shells and sand crabs, then placed them in rows on the living room coffee table to dry. After dinner, I’d take her out on the deck inhaling the reviving salt air, and we’d look up at the heavens.

  “Pick a star and make a wish, Rosie.”

  We cuddled up in Claude’s and my antique sleigh bed under the thick down comforter surrounded by her books. The wind whistled and seagulls cried out to one another as I tucked her into her own bed. Often I woke in the middle of the night sweating from nightmares of Claude’s hands closing around my throat, and I’d slip out of bed and go out onto the deck and stare up at the moon and cry.

  Claude called often to say how much he missed us, and I’d reply with updates on what I’d crossed off his to-do list.

  “I got the bird feeder you wanted.”

  “That’s great. Can’t wait to see everything when I get back from the conference in Germany – especially you.”

  My bruises had faded, my body felt stronger – and my pain had disappeared along with any desire to be touched by Claude.

  I decided to focus on the outside of the house first and had bought some fertilizer from a nearby farm along with instructions for the plants and the vegetable garden I wanted to grow. The farm sent out a ruddy gray-haired year-rounder to plant the hydrangea bushes around the four sides of house, and I took care of the smaller planting. I had a new interest – digging – and Rose jumped in with both feet (literally). I loved the grittiness of the soil as it crumbled between my fingers and packed my nails; the cool dampness of earth soothed me. Spring flowers in their bright perfumed colors being blown in the salted wind signaled new life. I dug holes along the brick walk in front and Rose and I filled them in with asters, forget-me-nots and sea holly. Bent over the walk, with Rose working or playing beside me, I determined to keep digging until I found some answers. Hadn’t Claude been my best friend and only love? His was the only love I’d known, and now I felt I didn’t even know him. What happened? How could I have made such a mistake? I looked up at the house. He’d given me this. Why?

  One morning as Rose and I were making shallow holes for our nasturtium seeds along the rim of the hedge, a police car drove up and a big-bellied officer climbed out.

  “Morning, ma’am. Are you Mrs. Giraud?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Frank Williams, chief of police. I was just passing by and thought I’d stop in and introduce myself.”

  “I’m glad you did – it’s nice to meet you.”

  “Looks like you’re doing some spring planting.” He smiled as Rose blew seeds off her small hand.

  “Yep – nasturtiums. Rose likes the orange ones,” I said, wondering what this courtesy visit was about. Had I broken a law?

  “Mrs. Giraud, I got a call from your husband, and,” – he put a hand up – “everything’s fine. But he’s concerned that maybe you’re too isolated out here, and, well, not safe.” He shrugged. “That’s what he said.”

  “Oh?”

  “I told him he had nothing to worry about, but he seemed so concerned, I told him I’d come out and check on you myself. Is everything all right?”

  “We’re fine – we actually like being here early without the crowds.” I gathered Rose to my side.

  “I know just what you mean. It sure gets overcrowded in the summer. But I guess that’s the way it’s always gonna be… Well, I didn’t mean to interrupt you – just doing my job.”

  “Not at all – stop by anytime.”

  “He asked me to keep an eye on you. Kinda sweet, I thought.” As if to make his point clear, he let his eyes drift down from my face to my breasts.

  “Oh, yes. He thinks of everything,” I said.

  “I’ll tell him not to worry,” Williams said. “And I want to say, Mrs. Giraud, we sure appreciate you and your husband’s generosity to the fund.”

  “I’m sorry – the fund?”

  “Our Police Benevolent Fund.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Right.”

  It was the first I’d heard of a donation.

  “That money’s available to help kids, and that’ll include my little granddaughter, who has leukemia – just three years old.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, looking at Rose – health personified.

  “Well, it sure is awful, a thing like that. But I can’t say enough how I really appreciate it when people make a difference, so, many thanks to you, Mrs. Giraud.” He started back toward his car. “Call me anytime.”

  I wondered why I’d need to call him. A few days ago I’d seen a police car cruising on Eel Pond Road, and then at the supermarket in town. But did that prove anything? I wondered if the phone was tapped. I’d noticed it clicking when I spoke to Gillian; I could hardly hear her, and we’d had to hang up without saying much.

  Claude surprised us one afternoon in a shiny new Mercedes sedan – he hadn’t called to say he’d changed plans or traded cars. Rose and I had just walked up from the beach. I was so startled to see him, I stepped into a tray of pansies I’d set out that morning for planting. He jumped out of the car.

  “Daddy, Daddy!” Rose cried and ran to his arms.

  “Rosie, my Rosie, I’ve missed you so. Katie, darling, the place looks beautiful! I see you’ve been working hard, and it’s paid off. I love it.”

  “Oh, Claude, I didn’t think you were coming until tomorrow. I’m such a mess.”

  “Nonsense, darling,” he said. He turned back to the car, then came back and handed me a huge bouquet o
f pink roses, kissed me gently on the cheek and then swept Rose up in his arms, and we went inside. “You’ve done such marvelous things to the house. I love the blue wooden whale above the entranceway.”

  “Rose picked that out.”

  “For you, Daddy,” Rose said.

  “I got a great deal on it, too,” I said.

  “How much?”

  “Five seventy-five – but it’s antique and in mint condition.” But I’d actually paid two fifty-five, and the rest was going into the Fund.

  “Good for you!”

  Later, after a shower, I fixed my hair and drew my lip gloss across my lips, thinking, He’s so nice right now. Rose is so happy. Maybe I overreacted? I tried to remember his choking me in the nursery, but the memory was vague. It had happened, but it wasn’t happening now. It was in the past.

  We sat at the dining room table and ate the chowder I’d prepared along with a dandelion chicory salad. Rose showed her dad everything she’d been saving up to show him, and then some, and he talked a bit about the business; we gossiped and finished off a bottle wine between us. After Claude bathed her and put her to bed, he came up to me and whispered, “The chowder tasted of the sea – like you.” And then he took me into the big bed and I let my body give way. I’ll just pretend I’m one of his other women. I turned off my mind, opened my legs, and let it happen. And deep down I realized the truth: I gave in to avoid refusing him. I hadn’t had to say no. And did he even have other women? I didn’t care; and at any rate, if he did, I was just another one of them.

  Claude seemed to be back to his old self and memories of our early days, and the intense happiness I’d felt then, crowded out the recent upheavals – even if I had to strain to keep this mental charade going. The weekends were packed with luncheons, dinner parties, and time spent with Rose putting him in a good mood until Sunday when he left.

  Maybe this was what being a family meant – and wasn’t this all that I’d wanted? Being together on the weekends and alone with Rose during the week worked out really well. As April gave way to May, lots of other women here had the same set-up. Claude probably had a mistress in Boston, and I didn’t mind as long as he kept busy doing what he wanted and left me alone to do what I wanted. So maybe I had made the right choice after all, and now I needed to adjust to new realities.

  *

  Claude had suggested I take tennis lessons to improve my mediocre game to something better for doubles with Anne and Bob Marshall, so as soon as the Kensington Club opened, I called and spoke to the athletics coordinator.

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Giraud, we can set that up for you right away. Let’s see… Nathaniel is free twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays at ten a.m., if that works.”

  We made all the arrangements, and the following Tuesday morning I hired a local girl to babysit and then kissed Rose goodbye in the backyard and headed out to the Club with my Prince racquet in my bag.

  On the court, I saw a tall young man bounding toward me – rail-skinny and tanned, with a full head of coppery hair.

  “Mrs. Giraud? I’m Nathaniel Baskin, your tennis instructor. Nate.” He looked to be about my age.

  What a beautiful smile.

  “So, you want to improve your game? Don’t we all?” He laughed. “Well, it’s totally doable. Let’s get started.”

  “I’m all yours,” I said – and felt my face redden.

  We volleyed for a while so that he could get an idea of where to begin with me. “Good forehand, Mrs. Giraud,” he called. “Let’s see that backhand.”

  “Needs work,” I called.

  Thwock!

  “Ah – a woman who has her own style,” he said, laughing, as the ball arched high overhead before re-entering earth’s orbit.

  The next time we met, after we’d volleyed for twenty minutes, he came up to me and said, “Mrs. Giraud, I’ve got a strategy to help you with that backhand. It’s your grip, I think. Here, let me show you.” He stood behind me and took my hands in his and arranged them around the handle of the racquet. “Regular backhand grip, right? But as you get set, shift your grip forward – that’s right, let it move a few inches over the handle. Then when you swing, the racquet rolls naturally – you don’t have to twist it. The roll is built in, and you just swing right through it. Here.” I felt his bare legs close to mine and the firm but gentle touch of his body and his hands. Our arms and hands moved together, over and back, over and back. Warmth shot through me, and I began to tremble, my eyes filling with tears. Nate moved aside.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Giraud? You want to take a break?”

  “If you don’t mind. Suddenly I feel exhausted.”

  We sat in the shade sipping lemonade from tall glasses. Nate wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel draped around his neck. Sitting with him felt good – peaceful – and I breathed deeply. It seemed odd that I didn’t feel embarrassed that he’d seen my tears.

  “Feeling better, Mrs. Giraud?”

  “Yes, much – and call me Katie, please.”

  “Okay.”

  “But my tennis is just terrible. I think I’m going to be escorted out of the Club by security one of these days.”

  “And what will the charge be?” he asked in a merry voice.

  “An assault on other members’ athletic sensibilities.”

  “Nah – a few more lessons and your backhand will be in top form.”

  “Promise?” I looked over at him, at ease in his whites, his face open and eager.

  The next few lessons were focused on improving my game generally – and getting to know Nate. He had played tennis at Harvard until he graduated two years earlier. Although he’d been an English major with law on his mind, he’d decided to postpone his professional plans for a while and support himself by teaching tennis. There were indoor courts in the winter in Boston, and he had the Club in the summer.

  “I have the rest of my life to be a lawyer, if that’s what I want to be,” he said. We’d taken a break and sat in the shade. “I’m sort of in a relationship right now, and we’re trying to figure things out.” He made a wry face.

  “She’s lucky.”

  “But… Well, honestly, I’m not at all sure what she feels about me. We are taking it slowly, so slowly I feel that I might die of old age before I see where this relationship goes.” He smiled, and his look of hopeful happiness, mixed with uncertainty, was unmistakable – sweet.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Adrienne. We went to Harvard together. She’s going to architecture school in the fall. I don’t know if our relationship can survive the commute. And can it survive the difference in our so-called stations in life? I have no idea of whether I really want to go into the law. If I had my way…”

  “What?”

  “I’d be a tennis instructor as long as I could – forever!” he exclaimed. “I’m happiest out on the court, not having to compete. Competition’s fine, too, I can do that. But showing other people how to play better, seeing how it makes them feel, that’s the real fun.” He looked down, smiling. “I must sound foolish sitting here talking about spending my life having fun.”

  We both laughed.

  I said, “Not at all! Teaching is a noble profession, isn’t it? And you’re a great teacher. A natural.”

  “Well, I think you’re just a naturally great student.”

  We smiled and looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. And then another. And then I looked away.

  “So… Are you ready to get back out there?” he asked.

  “Okay,” I said. “But Nate…”

  I wanted to say something to him, but I didn’t know what it was. I really just wanted to talk to him, or listen to him, or just be with him. My heart was going a little crazy.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh – nothing. I’m sure you’ll figure it all out.”

  “You seem to have done that,” he said. “I mean, married and with a child and all.”

  “Me? I don’t think so! If you only knew.”

>   “What? What should I know?” He was smiling, and his eyes were looking right into mine, no shyness now, and I thought, I can have him. Do I want him?

  “Oh… I don’t know.” And I hated the words my mind had formed and that were about to come out of my mouth, and then I spoke them.

  “It’s complicated.” I looked at him. “You know?”

  Nate nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  As we walked out onto the court he said, “Think I’ll meet your husband soon? I think he’ll be really impressed when he sees how far you’ve come, and how hard you try.”

  My throat tightened with tears that wanted to come and I thought, “What the hell is going on with me?

  “You’re so sweet. As a matter of fact, we did talk about it. He wants to come this Friday,” I said hoarsely. “So you better get me in shape.”

  On Friday morning, Claude, Rose and I piled into the car and headed for the Club. As I unzipped my racquet case, Nate loped over from the clubhouse.

  “You must be Dr. Giraud,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Nathaniel.”

  “I’m happy to finally meet you, and this is our daughter, Rose.”

  “I have a niece about your age,” he said to Rose, taking her hand gently. “Great to meet you, Rose. Please, Dr. Giraud, make yourself comfortable.” He pointed to a wrought iron table and chairs on the sidelines in the shade. “Ready, Katie?”

  I couldn’t help notice, as the two men stood next to each other, how squat and unfit Claude appeared next to Nathaniel’s young muscular body. For someone who had constantly criticized his wife about her appearance, Claude seemed to no longer care about how he himself appeared. My husband, I observed critically, looked rich – full of himself and satisfied with his life.

  We played, and I demonstrated my newly improved skills to Claude and Rose who cheered for Mommy as the demonstration game went on, and I didn’t disgrace myself. Slam. Nathaniel shot the ball to me. Slam. I shot it back, and my thoughts began to punctuate our volley: Does he ever think about me – like I think about him – in bed or on the beach – or somewhere, anywhere – the sun pouring down – moving together – I know he does – I want him to – I can’t get him – out of my mind.