by JoeAnn Hart
“I don’t want to intrude,” he said, with the confidence of a man who’d been doing just that for years.
Madeline was miffed. There were empty lounges at a more mannerly distance, but she feigned a smile, remarkably like a real smile, and silently opened her palm to the one next to hers. Frank fluffed a magenta towel and laid it down, then spread his ample self on it, sunny-side up. Sweat immediately began to pour off his skin in glistening sheets as the sun rendered it from his body.
“I’m glad for the company.” She inched herself up to a halfway-seated position, keenly aware that Frank was watching her readjust her legs. She’d had looks once, but now she didn’t know what she had, except that lately she was being ogled by the caddies, and now by the likes of Frank. Was she exuding a subliminal message from her pores?
“I just came from the snack bar.” Frank ran his fingers through his black mane of hair. “No meatless burgers on the menu this summer. That must mean your daughter’s not around.”
Madeline nodded and looked away. Phoebe had a “job” with some oddball nonprofit group in Seattle and claimed her work was too important to come home even for a couple of weeks. Although Madeline suspected it was Eric, her boyfriend, who was too important to leave. “It’ll be a quiet summer, just me and Charles.”
“I’ll miss her,” said Frank. “And the Boca burgers. They weren’t half bad with bacon.”
“Phoebe’s in charge of organizing hatchery demonstrations. She says the chickens are abused because they’re forced to lay eggs.” Madeline laughed lightly, pretending to find Phoebe’s radicalism endearing.
“If a vegetarian eats vegetables,” said Frank, “then what does a humanitarian eat?”
Madeline groaned and Frank snorted. He took the edge of his towel and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. “Speaking of eating, did you try Vita’s new salad yet?”
“New?” Madeline didn’t consider the menu in terms of new or old offerings; it just was what it was—food. But for Frank, whose conversations revolved around what he’d eaten at his last meal and what he’d be eating at his next, menus were holy scriptures, open to endless interpretation by the faithful.
“Pale endive, with pomegranate seeds like drops of blood. A very emotional presentation.” He ran his tongue around his mouth, shaped to receive.
“I had the shrimp cocktail the other night,” Madeline murmured. “It was lovely.”
“The shrimp! Grilled, chilled, and served with tomato chutney. Vita makes the chutney herself.” He propped himself up on his elbows, ready to lunge for the kitchen at any moment. He knew that as a chef Vita was not fully ripe, but he sensed she was going to break open soon, about to carve her signature on the food. And he’d be there, all tucked in at the table. “She’s a tease, that woman. Won’t give me the recipe. And she says I’m her favorite.”
Madeline nodded. “It’s a trick mothers say to their children, to keep the peace. I even said it to Phoebe, and she was my only one.” To her surprise, she felt a pang of grief at the sound of her own words. When the time came to start thinking about a second baby, she’d gotten a puppy instead. Ben was just like a member of the family, and yet, when he died a few years ago, she’d decided not to complicate her life with another. Had she been so afraid of complicating her life the first time around?
“Speaking of mothers,” he said, reluctantly putting the subject of food aside. “I hear Ellen Bruner is knocked up.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard.” It was official now, written in the book. At the tea on Sunday, Ellen had listened attentively to Arietta’s customary speech about the necessity of being honest, about how a bit of privacy had to be sacrificed for the greater good. Not to mention for the good of one’s own personal bloodline. Ellen had absolutely agreed. She had seemed a little nervous, but got the job done quickly in the end. “We’re all very happy for her.”
“She’s getting a little long in the tooth for such shenanigans,” Frank said. “I’m surprised old Alex could still crank it up. Notice how she didn’t get pregnant until Viagra came on the market.”
Madeline blushed. “The Bruners have worked hard at their law practice. She’s finally just finding the time.”
“I’m in the wrong specialty. I should have gone into geriatric obstetrics.” When he laughed, sweat sprayed off his body. “But I suppose there’ll never be a shortage of assholes either. Not here, at any rate.”
Madeline’s face stiffened with the effort of pretending she hadn’t heard what he’d said, and she gazed purposefully at the horizon.
“Pet, you’re too young to have such tightly pursed lips. If I told you what they looked like right now, you’d never make that face again.”
“Ellen will make a wise mother.” She turned to look at him, smiling excessively. “Age has its advantages. It wouldn’t have hurt me to wait.” A comment that came out of nowhere, which she immediately regretted. Frank certainly had a way of opening people up.
It was his turn to smile. “No, you were the wise one. Motherhood’s a young woman’s sport. Now you can enjoy yourself, let go a little, instead of limping around with a cane, both you and your kid wearing diapers.”
“Ellen will get help. She’s got to get back to work, after all. Law offices don’t run themselves.”
“You know what’s brown and black and looks good on a lawyer?”
Madeline shook her head, afraid to hear the answer.
“A Rottweiler.”
“Frank, that’s terrible.” Although, deep inside, Madeline had to admit that Ellen’s profession seemed to strip her of any appeal as a human being. Madeline had made no effort to get to know her since she’d joined the Club, and even at the tea, no intimacy was gained when their business was over.
With a great effort, Frank rolled over on his stomach and looked up at her with his black eyes, his chins resting on his knuckles. “How is Charles doing?”
“Fine.” She closed her eyes, pretending to doze.
“Good. I was a little worried. I heard he missed his game Saturday morning. His partners were so desperate they even called me.” Frank laughed through his nose. “There was a time I thought I might take up golf. It’s like bowling, one of the few sports where you can eat and drink while doing it. But then I found I could do all those things without leaving the table. Besides, I don’t wake up that early unless it’s to urinate.”
“I’m sure they found someone,” said Madeline, yawning. “Charles had an emergency at work.”
“Yes, one of those bond emergencies I’ve heard so much about.” Frank sounded serious, which made Madeline open one eye to look at him. He smirked. “That first Saturday tee is a hereditary position, from what I can make out,” he continued. “Neddy Fenwick told me a long-winded saga about how in 1983, when the Club finally succumbed to the women’s demands to play on weekend mornings, Charles had successfully fought to keep his place in line. But, as Neddy said, you’ve got to use it or lose it.”
“Charles is not losing anything.” Madeline tightened her mouth. The truth was, he hadn’t gone to work Saturday morning; he’d been in bed, smothering himself with blankets and refusing her offer of a back rub. Refusing her, period.
Frank let a pointed silence build before he spoke again. “If you don’t mind my saying so, pet, he’s been looking like the last man out lately.”
Madeline stared straight ahead. It was Frank’s usual proctological prying, always wanting to get inside of things. She returned the minimum. “Thank you for your concern,” she said, with as much ice as she could deliver. She’d heard those words a few times herself when she first arrived at the Club. It was time for Frank to learn what the limits were.
He smiled. “You’re right,” he said. “Talking about our personal problems is such a bore. Let’s talk about other members instead. Did you see the paper Tuesday?” The hair on his shoulders bristled in glee. “Clendenning sounded like a complete ass.”
The Boston Globe had reported, in detail, about a multicar pileup near the Club’s se
rvice gate. The wind had blown the inflated eyeballs across the back nine, where they bounced off trees like giant pinballs until a couple rolled out onto the frontage road and into the traffic. The reporter made great sport of the incident: CLUB ROLLS EYES AT REST OF WORLD. The opening paragraph contained a comment that was even more damning: “?‘It certainly does matter whether it’s a Mercedes or a Mercury,’ said Mr. Humphrey Clendenning, president of the Eden Rock Country Club.”
“He was quoted out of context,” said Madeline, happy to be on another subject, and happier still to have inside information. “Brenda says that the reporter called him at his office, and it was the first he’d heard about it. He only wanted to know what kind of cars had been involved, thinking of the Club’s level of liability.”
“Madeline, open your eyes,” said Frank. “It was a cold, elitist statement, and he deserves the flack.”
Madeline readjusted herself on the lounge, unable to get comfortable. “That’s not fair, Frank. Humpy’s not like that at all. He supports all sorts of charities. Brenda sits on the Scholarship Committee at Nobles. They’re nice people.”
Frank pushed a loose strand of dark hair from his face and smiled. “Did you know that the Latin base of nice means ignorant?”
Madeline looked away, hoping that if she didn’t engage in the conversation the man might go away and leave her alone. But no, he went on, unabated.
“Besides,” he said, “it’s Gerard Wilton whose ass is in a sling right now. I guess the balls had been his idea and he’d been told to remove them by that clawed wonder Linzee Gibbons. But he didn’t, and the balls became a li-a-bility.”
Madeline adjusted her sunglasses. Was he making fun of her? And for what? Liability was a serious issue, but before she could respond to his attack, she was rescued by her cell phone.
She peeked in her tote to see who was calling. “That’s funny, it’s from home.” What was Charles doing home so early? That couldn’t be good. She clicked on the phone, expecting the worst.
“Hello? Phoebe?”
It was her daughter, come home to roost after all. After first jumping down Madeline’s throat about the ham in the refrigerator (“How can you eat an animal that’s smarter than a dog?”), she launched into a teary recital of her breakup with Eric. “Can I, you know, hole up here for a while, Mom?”
“Of course,” said Madeline, with a slight tremor in her voice. Of course she wanted her daughter home. Hadn’t she just been wistful about her being gone? She sensed Frank pulling himself up with interest. “I’ll be right there, honey. Don’t worry.” She kissed the air, then clicked the phone shut. “I’ve got to run.”
Frank struggled onto his back again, and his belly swayed slightly before settling, like a waterbed. “Rub some lotion on me before you go?”
“Some other time, perhaps.” She stood up and shook out her towel. Frank pointed to the copy of Martha Stewart Living under her lounge. “Don’t forget that. Way under there.”
Madeline contemplated her situation. The issue had an article on flower arranging she wanted to save. But now that Phoebe was back, would she put an end to the brutal cutting of flowers? Be that as it may, to retrieve the magazine would mean bending over and giving Frank quite a show. To walk around the lounge to retrieve it would look prissy. Doing nothing seemed the only way out.
“I’m finished with it,” she lied. “It’s all yours.”
She waved two fingers, heaved her bag to her shoulder, and left, bracing herself to face her daughter, who, even while heartbroken, was probably already tossing out everything in their cabinets, trying to change their life.
Frank chuckled to himself as he warmly caressed his stomach with oil.
Chapter Seven
In the Deep Rough
CHARLES, wake up,” said Gregg. “Choose your club already.”
Charles smiled weakly. He’d been staring down Hoodoo, the sixth fairway—a chute to oblivion, ready to suck him in. He could hear the crows impatiently flapping their wings in the trees. A mere hour on the course and he was exhausted, mentally and physically—tired of hacking his way from one black hole to the next—rattled from the stress of being in the game at all, what with its unpredictable turns of fortune pressing down on him from all sides. He was unable to control his emotions, and because of that, he, who used to be a hitter of the long ball, could now barely get it up.
It was the first time he’d been out on the course in two weeks—since “the day of the goose.” He’d been telling the guys that he couldn’t play because of work, but the truth was, he didn’t know what the truth was.
“Sorry,” he said, with a wan smile. “I was up late talking to Phoebe last night.”
He wished he could talk to her now. They could go back to the museum. It had been the most amazing thing—yesterday she’d come to the office to drag him out, saying he looked terrible, and asked, “How long has this been going on?”
“What? How long has what been going on?”
She’d given him a strange look, and they drove off to the Isabella Stewart Gardner—he went reluctantly, thinking of museums only as a social duty. He had not visited there since he was showing Madeline his city, before they got married, but those visits had been a means and not an end, and the art was new to him, as if he’d never been. Unfortunately, he and Phoebe had started bickering about what to see, and he was sorry to get off on the wrong foot with her after being home only a day—but really, their tastes were very different. Or so he thought. He lingered too long in front of European landscapes, dotted with ruins and sheep, and she yanked him away, telling him enough of pretty views, then sat them both on the bench in front of Sargent’s Spanish dancers. Phoebe sat cross-legged, playing with her knotted blond hair as she explained that the title, El Jaleo, meant the spontaneous cheering that comes like an olé at the apex of a performance. Then she refused all conversation and would not look at him until, finally, he turned his attention to the painting to placate her—and then he could not extricate himself from its grasp.
He was stunned. How had he not seen before the wildness, the animality—but also the humanity—of the dancers? He thought of the back-bending image of the one woman with her arm up and heart open, and it cleared his mind. He hadn’t had such focus and concentration in months—that must be what Phoebe meant. How long had he looked so lost and bewildered? The time at the museum made his spirit buoyant; when he got back to the office, glowing with vitality, he’d had to bear the golf jokes of his colleagues. He let them think it—for, unlike art, golf was good for business. A quick nine holes could win a brokerage deal or bring in a new institutional client. If they knew he’d spent half the day at a museum, there would be talk. It seemed—sensitive. It smacked of—vulnerability. That was not the Charles Lambert they knew, a solid family man, a tough but fair executive in the office not afraid to put in the extra hours, a competent and well-respected bond analyst in the industry. He had always played ball—let them think he still was.
For now, he would simply have to make the best of being out on the course. He pawed through his clubs of titanium and graphite, searching—and still didn’t find what he wanted. What club could remove the despair from his shots? He could tell by the silence behind him that his partners were giving one another the eye. Gregg had pulled him over after the third hole, where he had completely butchered his shot, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Better book some time with the pro, Charles. You’re just pecking at the ball out there. He’ll straighten you and your drive right out.” Then he patted him on the back and winked kindly. If Gregg was getting that intimate with him, he must really be in trouble.
Then, there it was. He grasped the Hawk Eye 3-iron he’d last held when the goose died at his hands. When he pulled off the cover, the sun glinted off the silver head, blinding him.
“Charles,” snapped Andrew with rigid irritation. “It’s under twenty feet. Use your seven-iron.”
Charles looked around in wonder. He spotte
d one of the white-suited groundskeepers, poking around with a sprayer under the pine trees, and thought that maybe if he’d lived a simple life, not cluttered with the weight of possessions and responsibilities but communing with nature, like that man over there, then maybe he’d be feeling more fulfilled with life at that moment instead of drained by it. He heard honking in the heavens above and felt the vibration of it in his sternum. His heart was bursting.
“Fucking birds,” muttered Neddy.
The geese had become a matter of much concern to the entire Club after the Boston Globe article. The members felt they’d been pulled into some tawdry affair over the whole thing—not to mention the liability. The geese splatted down in their awkward postures only a short distance from the men.
“Or try your putter, Charles,” said Gregg, wiping his lumpy face, looking behind them at Windy, the short fifth. “There’s Thornton’s group waiting for us to get on with it.”
“Thornton wants to talk to me about a new realty investment trust of his,” said Neddy, scraping grit and grass out of his club’s grooves with the tip of a tee. “What do you think, Gregg?”
Gregg waved at Thornton Clay to let him know they were moving soon. “Humpy’s been pretty satisfied with the one he bought into.”
“A-hm,” Andrew said. “While you two have been buying real estate, we have lost Charles.”
Sure enough, Charles, Hawk Eye under his arm, had wandered over to a water hazard no bigger than a puddle, where the geese strutted and plucked. He sat on a granite outcropping, hugging the club and settling in to watch the birds go about their day. He wasn’t completely oblivious to the fact that his partners were now irritated with him. Things did not seem particularly well between him and Madeline either. His people skills were falling apart—but maybe he could get on better with the beasts. Phoebe had often said that animals could remember things that human beings had forgotten. Maybe they accepted him because they remembered a common ancient history, before a random division of cells sent protohumans out on one limb and protobirds on another.