Morning Glory

by Sarah Jio

  She hands me a sad-looking yellow chrysanthemum in a terra-cotta pot. “They’re such cheerful flowers, aren’t they?”

  I nod, but I do not tell her that I hate chrysanthemums and that their skunky, peppery scent gives me a headache.

  “Let’s go inside,” I say, setting the plant down by the front door. “I’ll make you a drink while we wait for the others.”

  I watch from the kitchen as Naomi slips out of her sweater, revealing her bare arms. They’re long and beautiful, and I inwardly wish I could wear sleeveless tops with an ounce of the confidence that she does. Dex kisses her cheek, then shakes Gene’s hand. Naomi tugs at her diamond necklace rhythmically as Dex says something funny that I can’t detect over the sound of the cocktail shaker. Everyone laughs. I keep shaking, vigorously. Dex likes a layer of ice across the top of his martinis.

  I select three glasses, pierce a few olives with toothpicks, then fill each to the top with a shaky hand. While entertaining makes me anxious and nervous, Dex is a born host.

  Tom and Lenora arrive as I set the drinks on the tray. They’re closer to Dex’s age than mine. I feel like a schoolgirl, but I remember I am Dex’s wife. Mrs. Dexter Wentworth. I smile at Ellen and Lou March and Joe and Leanne Hofstra. Dex dated Leanne a long time ago, when he first moved to Boat Street. Long before me. Leanne is beautiful and refined, a practicing attorney before she met Joe. I lift the tray in my hand and steady myself, as I overhear snippets of a conversation between Naomi and Leanne. They’re standing in front of the doorway and speaking in hushed voices.

  “The problem with marriages these days is that there are so many men who choose wives who are not on their same intellectual plane,” Naomi says, before taking a long sip of her martini.

  Leanne nods.

  “I call it the Mommy syndrome,” Naomi continues. “Men think they want a mother, but what they need is a woman. A partner, not someone to tuck them in at night with a mug of warm milk.”

  Leanne says something in response, but I can’t make out her words.

  Naomi rolls her eyes. “Exactly,” she says.

  My heart beats faster. I try not to dwell on Naomi’s words. Of course, she wasn’t talking about me. And yet I can’t help but wonder if that’s what she, and everyone else, thinks of Dex’s and my marriage. Why does my left hand feel numb? I take a deep breath and make my way to the living room, where everyone is hovering around Dex. He’s so close, but there may as well be miles between us. I don’t know what he’s saying. It’s all a blur. Just his voice and then roars of laughter. He is a star. I walk ahead, eager to take my place beside him. Mrs. Dexter Wentworth. But my heel catches on the carpet, and I lunge forward. I lose my grasp on the tray, and it slips from my hands. I hear the sounds of women gasping and glass shattering.

  “Darling, are you all right?” Dex croons, leaning over me. His dark eyes are filled with concern. Then Lenora and Tom. Lou and Ellen and Joe. Leanne. Gene, and then Naomi. Her arms are folded as if I’ve spoiled her evening.

  I find Dex’s face again, and I shake my head apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m so clumsy.”

  “You just tripped, dear,” he says. “It’s this damn carpeting. I should have had it replaced a year ago.” I love that Dex can smooth anything over.

  Everyone’s staring at me, and my cheeks feel hot. “I think I’ll go get some air,” I say.

  “Let me sit with you,” Dex says, helping me up.

  I see the look in his eyes, the sadness that hovers behind the animated, happy face our guests see. His sadness has been palpable lately, and just last night, I pretended to be sleeping when I heard him weeping quietly in bed beside me. His body, curled up in a ball, shook with grief. I so desperately wanted to comfort him, but I knew it would just make him feel worse. Lately, my attempts to help were only met with resistance, embarrassment, and more pain. Whatever fog he is wandering through, he’s made it clear that he must find his way on his own. It pains me to know that I can’t offer him my assistance, that I can’t even light a lamp to brighten his path.

  But tonight, I can step back. I can quiet my fears and let him shine. His depression is more important than my anxiety.

  “No,” I say. “You stay inside. I’ll be fine.” I know how much this party means to him. I know how he craves it, and I don’t want to put a damper on his evening. “I could use some air. I’ll just be a moment.”

  I step out to the deck, sink into the Adirondack chair, and stare at the lake. The party resumes in my absence. I hear a cocktail shaker. Someone flips on the record player. They’re probably dancing. A heavy feeling grips my chest. I cannot go back inside. I stand up and walk to the front of the deck, where I left the canoe. I’ll go paddling. No one will miss me.

  I reach for the oar, then hear a voice behind me. “I hope I’m not too late.”

  It’s Collin. He looks different, maybe because he’s changed out of his work clothes and shaved. He’s wearing jeans and a freshly pressed pin-striped shirt with the top two buttons open. In his right hand is a bottle of wine; in his left are two tumblers.

  I don’t say anything.

  “I saw you sitting out here all by yourself,” he says, uncorking the bottle and pouring red wine into a glass. He hands it to me and I take it. “I figured you could use some company.”

  I take a sip. The wine feels warm and comforting, medicinal somehow, as I swallow. Collin sits down on the dock and leans against the side of the houseboat, and I decide to do the same. I spread the skirt of my gingham dress over my legs.

  “Why didn’t you bring me muffins the other day?” he asks. Upon seeing my confused expression, he immediately explains. “I could smell them baking, and I got my hopes up.” He shrugs. “Were they good?”

  “They were,” I say.

  “You do know that there’s a wind current that blows directly from your kitchen to my deck,” he continues.

  I smile. “I didn’t know. But now that you mention it, I ought to bake brownies more.”

  He places his hand on his forehead in a dramatic fashion. “That would be sensory torture.”

  I grin mischievously.

  “So what is it about baking? Is it your thing?”

  Before answering, I stop to think about the way I feel when I’m kneading bread or baking a cake, and it warms me. “I guess it takes my mind off everything else.”

  Collin nods. “That’s how I feel when I’m working on a boat. Nothing in the world matters but the plank of wood in my hands.” He takes a sip of wine. “Can I ask you something?”

  I nod.

  “Do you like it here, in Seattle?”

  “Why, yes,” I say honestly. “Well, I mostly do. And you?”

  He shrugs. “It’s all right. But I’m not going to be here forever.”

  “Oh?”

  He looks away, as if his eyes might give away his past, or maybe his future. “After I finish my current project, I’m moving on.”

  I indicate the little boat in progress. “So you’ll sail somewhere?”

  “Not in that,” he says. “That boat’s special. It’s a customer’s.” He looks at my houseboat briefly, and I wonder if the client is one of Dex’s patrons, a wealthy family in Seattle, perhaps.

  I nod. I feel a little sad to think that a stranger will one day own this beautiful creation, and I wonder if it’ll be hard for Collin to give it up. “When it’s done, what next?”

  Collin shrugs. “I’ll get my payment and then it’s on to the next adventure.”

  I fold my hands in my lap once, then twice. “I’d like to sail somewhere, someday,” I finally say shyly.

  “Why don’t you?” Collin says. I like his casual way of speaking, as if at any moment one might pick up and leave. If only it were that easy.

  “Because my husband doesn’t like sailing,” I say. “He gets seasick.”

  “And he lives on a houseboat?”

  “Protected water doesn’t bother him, but the big swells out on the open sea do.”

&nb
sp; Collin nods. “Well, let’s just say you could take a trip, that you could sail anywhere you wanted. Where would you go?”

  I think for a moment, then smile. “Catalina Island.”

  Collin appears amused at my choice. “Why?”

  I take my last sip of wine and he refills the glass. “Because it sounds romantic. There’s a song about it, you know.”

  “‘Twenty-six Miles Across the Sea,’ right?”

  “That’s right,” I reply with a grin. “Anyway, I wanted to go there on my honeymoon, but Dex preferred Mexico.”

  “Well, Mexico’s pretty great too,” Collin says. “I’ve seen most of the Pacific Coast. I’d like to sail the Baja.”

  “Oh?” I ask, intrigued. “How did you end up traveling the coast?”

  Collin’s smile fades, and I worry I’ve stumbled into forbidden territory, but then he shrugs and simply says, “I don’t like to stay in one place too long.”

  I want to ask him more about his past, but my attention is pulled back to the houseboat when I hear a round of uproarious laughter.

  “Sounds like they’re having a good time in there,” he says, indicating the back deck.

  I nod. “Will you sail your boat? I mean, when it’s finished, before your customer picks it up.” I feel my cheeks getting warm, and my speech hastens, the way it always does when I’m nervous. “You see, I’ve always dreamed of sailing the world, leaving from here and going from port to port, letting my skin get dark from the sun.”

  Collin searches my eyes for a moment. The sun has set, and the light is dim now, so I can’t make out his expression exactly, just his eyes, and they’re bright and big, and maybe somewhat entertained. “Are you asking me to take you sailing?”

  I’m embarrassed. I wasn’t making an obvious hint, but if I’m honest with myself, it might have been a tiny one. I’d love nothing more than to step onto that beautiful craft and feel the wind in my hair beneath its puffy sails. “Well, no. I just—”

  “I’m only teasing,” Collin says. “I’d love to take you sailing.”

  I smile and turn away, concerned that I’m blushing.

  “You’re rare, you know,” he says.

  I worry he’s just trying to flatter me, so I shake my head. “Go on.”

  “No, really,” he says. “Not many women would dream of a life on the seas the way you just described.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  He shakes his head. “No, so many women want the safe, comfortable life.”

  I think of my life with Dexter. Safe. Comfortable. I suppose that describes me to a T.

  Before I can say anything else, Collin speaks again. “I’ve lived and died by a quote I read when I was a boy. It goes something like this: ‘Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.’”

  “That’s . . . beautiful,” I say, a little breathless. “It makes me want to set sail.”

  Collin grins, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ticket stub. I can see that it’s from a movie theater ticket to An Affair to Remember. I wanted to see the film last month, but Dex complained of a headache, so we stayed in.

  “I don’t understand,” I say.

  “Your ticket. For the maiden voyage.”

  “Right,” I say, unable to contain my smile.

  I look up when I notice Dex walking toward us. “There you are!” he says.

  I stand up quickly, and tuck the ticket into the small pocket of my dress. “Hi, honey,” I say.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yes, much.”

  Dex smiles at Collin, and extends his hand. “I’m glad you could come. I’m Dexter Wentworth. And I see you’ve met my wife, Penny. Come, have a drink with us. They’ve just started dancing.”

  Collin nods and follows Dex and me back to the house. Naomi is drunk. I can tell by the way she’s standing, a little off-kilter, and smiling, like a Cheshire cat. I wonder where Jimmy is tonight. I imagine him home by himself, lonely, reading comic books or watching the television set. Gene stands up and collects Naomi’s martini glass, and she stumbles toward us. “Oh, look, it’s the handsome boatman,” she says.

  The smoky sound of Stan Getz’s saxophone wafts through the speakers. “Oh, goody,” Naomi says in a childlike voice. “Someone’s finally put on some decent dancing music.” She takes Collin’s hand and clumsily attaches it to my waist. “You two are the youngest people here; you must dance.”

  Collin flashes me an apologetic smile. “It’s a party,” I whisper. “Let’s dance.”

  He pulls me a little closer, as if my words have put him at ease. I feel everyone’s eyes on me. Leanne smiles at me, but I look away quickly. I search the room. I don’t see Dex. Or Naomi or Gene. Collin dances well. I hardly have to think about my feet, so I don’t. I don’t think about anything. And when his eyes catch mine, they lock for a moment, and I feel a flicker inside me that I cannot ignore.

  Chapter 8

  ADA

  I’m having coffee on the deck when Jim peers around the corner. “Sorry, am I disturbing you?” He’s a friendly man, but there’s something a little off about him. Sad, maybe. He’s one of those people whose smiles can’t hide everything beneath the surface. Maybe that’s why I like him so much.

  “No,” I say. “Of course not.”

  He hands me a card that looks like it’s been printed on an inkjet printer. The edges run with blue ink. “Mother insists on doing these invitations every year,” he says.

  I look it over:

  SAVE THE DATE

  The Annual Boat Street Bach on the Dock Party

  July 30th at 6 p.m.

  BYOB

  “‘Bach on the Dock’? That’s cute.”

  Jim shrugs. “It’s been going on as long as I can remember. We used to have a full quartet. But one by one, they died or moved away. Dad’s the only musician left. He plays the violin.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I thought I heard violin music the other day. It must have been your father.”

  “Yeah,” Jim continues. “I’m so thankful that he has his music. His eyesight has deteriorated, so he doesn’t have his books anymore. Of course, he can’t see the sheet music anymore either. But he’s stored it all up.” He points to his head. “He plays from memory.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say.

  “Dementia’s an awful disease. He seems fine one moment, and the next he’s addressing me as if I’m a colleague from the English department. It’s hard on Mother. He’s brought up things she’d just as well forget.” He shrugs. “His mind is completely unpredictable.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “It must be so hard for all of you.”

  He shrugs again. “Anyway, Mother wanted to be sure you knew you were invited.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, smiling. “Have you found her?”

  He gives me a confused look.

  “Henrietta,” I remind him.

  “Oh, no. She hasn’t come home yet.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How’s Haines?”

  “Terrible,” he replies. “He won’t eat.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for her,” I say, turning to my back door. “Well, please thank your mother for the invitation.”

  Jim smiles as if struck with sudden inspiration. “Why don’t you come over and meet her? It will do her a world of good. Dad’s having a bad day, and, well, when he’s having a bad day, she’s having a bad day.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “I haven’t showered. I’m not exactly—”

  “Mom has cataracts,” he says. “To her you’ll look like Angelina Jolie.”

  I smile and follow him up the dock. I notice a green vine that has wrapped itself around the edge of the dock, its white flowers craning up toward the morning sun. “That vine,” I say, turning to Jim. “What is it? I’ve never seen anything like it in New York.”


  “Morning glory,” he replies. “Kind of pretty, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I say, kneeling down to touch one of its delicate white flowers.

  “Mother doesn’t think so. In the old days she’d never let the morning glory grow like this. She’d be out here pulling them out by the root. It was her thing.”

  I think for a moment about why people pick a person, place, or thing to have a vendetta against. For my dad it was gas stations. He always said they were cheating him. He’d eye the pump suspiciously, sure that the meter was lying to him. Joanie has a thing about baristas. She was convinced that a college kid behind the counter on Tuesday mornings was spiking her venti nonfat latte with decaf and whole milk just to spite her, which made her suspicious of all baristas and is ultimately the reason why I refuse to visit cafés with her. I stifle a laugh as I remember the time we had a tense exchange with a manager at a Midtown Manhattan Starbucks. Oh, Joanie.

  But why? Why does the human psyche seek out things to become bitter about? What has the morning glory ever done to Jim Clyde’s mother other than be beautiful?

  We stop in front of the home with the beautiful potted plants. “Here we are,” Jim says. He opens the door, and I follow him inside. The avocado green walls and brown shag carpeting make me feel as if I’ve stepped into a day in the life of 1963, and perhaps I have. I recall that this is where Jim grew up. “Mom, are you decent?”

  An old man appears in the hallway. He’s tall and thin and hunches over in a way that makes me wonder if he has osteoporosis. His trousers look three sizes too big, and his white cotton shirt is wrinkled and inside out. “Hi, Dad,” Jim says.

  “Son?” He has a kind face.

  “Yes, it’s me, Dad,” he says. “I’d like you to meet someone. This is Ada, our new neighbor.”

  “Who?”

  “Ada,” he says again.

  He extends his hand automatically, but his face still looks very confused. “Gene Clyde. Pleased to meet you.”

  “C’mon, Pop, let’s sit down,” Jim says.

  In the living room, Gene asks me what novels I’m reading, and I tell him that I’ve picked up something at the airport, but can’t remember the title.