“It’s funny, isn’t it,” Nick said, after some time. “How much you hated being on that ship during the war, and how much you hated having to do all that work on it afterward. And here you are, spending all your afternoons working on a boat, all by yourself.”
Hughes looked at her, but she was staring out at the harbor. He wanted to tell her something, but the language escaped him. As he struggled for the words, she rose and brushed the crumbs off her brown legs.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” She picked up the basket and the cups and, without even a glance backward, walked out, the white soles of her feet flashing against the gray floorboards.
And just like that, Hughes found himself sitting alone again in the boathouse, with nothing to say.
Hughes sweated into his freshly laundered shirt as he dressed for dinner that evening. They had a long-standing date with the Pritchards at the yacht club, and although he had tried to get Nick to break it, she had been adamant.
“Oh, Hughes, we can’t. I know it’s hotter than Hades, but we really do have to go. They have some tiresome houseguest staying with them, and I promised Dolly we’d take some of the burden off her. It was either the yacht club or here.” She was sitting at her dressing table, wearing a yellow dress he had never seen before.
“Well, I suppose at least this way I won’t have to restock the liquor cabinet again,” Hughes said, looking away. “Helena’s bar tab is about all I can manage right now.”
“Don’t be unkind,” Nick said sharply. “There’s nothing wrong with Helena that a good divorce wouldn’t fix.”
“You know it’s not just that.” He was feeling irritable.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Nick said, adjusting her earring. “She’s just tired.”
Hughes didn’t really want to talk about it either. He knew it had gone beyond the whiskey and the heat; several times since he’d arrived, he’d seen Helena slip a pill from a silver box in her purse and swallow it when she thought no one was looking.
Nick picked up a bottle of her perfume, only to put it back on the dresser.
“It’s too hot for perfume,” she said, catching him staring at her in the mirror.
Hughes walked over and brushed his palm across her collarbone, watching her watching him in the reflection. Her skin was soft and slightly humid to touch.
Nick sat completely still, barely breathing, her green eyes like wet grass, before pushing his hand away. “Don’t,” she said.
The yacht club was buzzing with the sound of clinking forks and laughter, a sea of blue blazers and rep ties.
“There they are,” Nick said.
Dolly Pritchard was standing and waving, a look of mock pain on her face.
“Poor Dolly,” Nick said as they headed toward the table at the back of the room, which looked out onto the harbor.
“What’s his name, this guest?”
“Henry? Hank? I can’t remember, he’s someone from Rory’s work.”
“Another scintillating evening discussing the Pritchard family firm.”
Nick laughed, and then quickly covered her mouth with one gloved hand. “Oh, I know. If I hear one word about investments I might have to throw my drink in his face.”
“You throw the drink and run. I’ll hold them off.” Hughes lowered his voice as they approached the table.
“My hero,” Nick whispered into his ear, and the soft heat of her breath made him hard.
Hughes guided her in front of him as they made the introductions, shifting his weight carefully.
“Nick, you look smashing,” Dolly Pritchard said, clasping Nick’s hand. “And Hughes, as dashing as ever.”
“Hello, Dolly,” Hughes said, kissing her cheek.
Dolly Pritchard always reminded him of Eleanor Roosevelt, tall and horsey, with an open manner and straightforward mouth. Admittedly, she was more attractive, but she was one of those keen, no-nonsense types of woman for whom cheerful curiosity was a kind of dogma. Hughes enjoyed her immensely. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Rory, but he lacked his wife’s zest. Rory Pritchard’s father, Rory Sr., had started an investment firm that at first had handled only his family’s money. Rory Jr. had expanded it to include the kind of families that his father would have approved of. He was a smart fellow, there was no doubt about that, but he could also be long-winded when he got on the topic of the business.
“This is Harry Banks,” Dolly said, putting her hand on their guest’s shoulder. “Harry: Nick and Hughes Derringer.”
“Harry’s helping us design our new offices,” Rory said, pulling out his wife’s chair.
“One of architecture’s bright young things,” Dolly said.
Harry Banks looked a little young for an architect, even for a bright young thing.
“You’ll make me blush, Dolly,” he said, smiling at his hostess.
“Tish,” Dolly said. “You don’t fool anybody, Harry. I doubt there’s much that could make you blush.”
Hughes suppressed a smile, but Nick laughed. “Oh dear, is this what you’ve had to put up with all weekend, Mr. Banks?”
“Harry, please.” The architect smiled at Nick, and Hughes noticed the man’s eyes taking in his wife, her yellow, strapless dress, the curve of her breasts rising slightly from the foamy fabric. “And yes, Dolly excels at putting me in my place. It’s a pleasure to watch her work.”
“Smooth, Harry,” Dolly said. “Now, what will everyone have to drink?”
Hughes ordered a gin and tonic for himself and a martini for Nick, thinking of the cold shaker she had brought down to the boathouse. He didn’t know what he was trying to offer, some kind of apology or signal of shared intimacy, and he looked at her face to see if she’d pick up on it. Her lips were parted in a slight smile, the white of her teeth barely showing. But as he watched her, her gaze slid over his shoulder and he saw her face harden.
Hughes turned and saw Frank Wilcox crossing the main dining room, steering his wife by the elbow. Etta Wilcox’s mouth was set in a thin, hard line. Her husband, on the other hand, looked like he was doing an impersonation of himself, smiling widely, bestowing jovial glances on no one in particular.
The whole table had gone quiet and everyone was staring at the approaching couple. Everyone except Harry Banks, who had the expression of a man who had missed the joke.
Hughes felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Hello, Hughes, Rory.”
Hughes looked at Frank and tried for a smile. “Frank.”
“Ladies,” Frank Wilcox said, his smile deepening.
Nick just stared at him.
“Hello, Frank, Etta,” Dolly said.
“Hello.” Etta’s voice sounded hoarse, as if it hadn’t been used in a while.
No one bothered to introduce Harry Banks. Frank stood there in the building silence, and finally nodded his head and continued toward his table, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Hughes saw him lean in and whisper something in Etta’s ear, but her face remained unreadable.
Hughes looked down at his menu. “The sole looks good.”
“Well, well …,” Dolly began.
“Dolly, don’t.” Rory cut her off. And then: “I’ve never been that fond of sole, for some reason.”
Harry Banks was looking around the table, a half smile on his face. “I seem to have missed something awfully exciting.”
“You haven’t,” Hughes said.
“You two are so buttoned up,” Dolly said, and then turned to Harry. “Their maid was recently found murdered. It’s caused quite a stir, as you can imagine.”
“Dolly.” Rory’s voice had an edge of warning.
“Oh, well. I suppose it’s not polite dinner conversation. How boring.” Dolly turned her attention to the menu.
Hughes looked at Nick, who had remained silent. He saw she was still looking at the Wilcoxes, now seated a few tables away from them. She pulled a cigarette out of her bag and Hughes leaned in to light it for her. Her hand trembled and he steadie
d it with his own.
Nick pulled her hand away and picked up her menu. “The Chateaubriand is always good,” she said in a cheerful voice that broke his heart.
After dinner, the conversation, predictably, turned to the weather.
“This heat,” Dolly said.
“And no fans,” Rory said.
“I read they’re having a rash of suicides in D.C. from the heat wave,” Harry Banks said, lighting a cigarette. “One man apparently ran all the way from his house to the Key Bridge, screaming about the heat, and then just jumped off. Middle of rush hour.”
“Really?” Dolly said. “My word. You know, I heard somewhere that more people commit suicide on a Monday than any other day of the week.”
“Work,” Rory said. “They don’t want to go back.”
“Maybe it’s just the monotony,” Hughes said. “Every Monday’s the same, so every month, every year’s going to be the same as well.”
He felt Nick’s eyes on him.
“Well, they need a thicker skin if monotony is their biggest problem,” Rory said.
“I think that’s the point,” Hughes said.
“I don’t know,” Dolly said. “I can’t say I relish monotony, but we all have to get on with it. I mean, it’s not all going to be adventure and excitement, is it?” She turned to Rory. “Sorry, darling.”
Rory blew her a kiss.
“Well, it is your life,” Harry Banks said. “You can make it as exciting as you want. Or not.”
“Spoken like a true bachelor,” Rory said.
“For shame, Rory,” Dolly said. “It’s not marriage that makes life … well, tedious. Or, not just, anyway. It’s everything. All the little things one has to do every day.”
“I think it’s about loneliness,” Nick said. “And desire.”
“Indeed,” Dolly said. “Do tell.”
Nick laughed. “No, really. I know everyone thinks that desire is some sort of ridiculous silliness for young people. But who says? I mean, without it … Well, that’s the real reason people throw themselves off bridges.”
“I never realized you were such a romantic, dear,” Dolly said. She turned to her guest. “What do you have to say to that, Harry?”
“I wasn’t talking about marriage, although you’re right, Rory. I don’t know much about it.” Harry Banks smiled at the table. “But when you talk about all those little, tedious things it makes me wonder: Why do it? I mean, why do what everyone expects of you? Who’s watching?”
Hughes laughed out loud.
So did Dolly. “Look around you,” she said, gesturing toward the rest of the room. “Everyone’s watching.”
The dinner wound down. Harry Banks went to get some fresh air, while Rory tried to get the waiter’s attention for the chit. Nick had excused herself to go to the ladies’ room and when she didn’t return, Hughes went to look for her. Outside the club, the air was just as warm, but softer. He saw a couple drinking their wine by the large painted anchor that sat in the middle of the front deck. He walked toward the stringpiece. In the darkness, he made out the shape of two figures, their heads together. He recognized Nick’s body, the way she held herself. She was leaning slightly against the side of the building and Harry Banks was tilted toward her, one hand against the clapboard siding.
Harry was saying something Hughes couldn’t quite make out and Nick was laughing. Harry shifted closer. Nick didn’t move. It pierced him. It wasn’t that he was surprised, exactly. It was the feeling that he was responsible for it, responsible for forcing her to find intimacy with strangers in dark corners, when it should have been so different for her. She was too good for this.
“Nick,” he called softly.
She simply looked at him, before turning back to Harry.
Hughes watched for a moment longer, and then went back inside the club and waited for his wife to return.
He didn’t touch Nick on the way home, although she walked easily at his side. She was so close that he could smell her soap, something floral, mixed with sweat. Her heels scraped along the road. He dug his hands in his pockets. She stopped on Simpson’s Lane to pick a rose that was blooming over one of the picket fences.
As they rounded the corner onto North Summer Street, Hughes saw that the moon was hanging red and low in the sky. It was the heat that caused it to turn that color, something about the atmosphere, he couldn’t remember exactly, but he thought of the old saying “Red sky at night, sailors’ delight; red sky in morning, sailors take warning.”
When they got to the back drive, Nick stumbled, her heel catching as she stepped off the curb, and fell into him slightly. Automatically, his hand went out to catch her, and he felt her body against him, her breast crushed against his open palm.
“Nick,” he said.
“Sorry, darling. I think the martinis have made me a little clumsy.”
“I don’t care about the martinis,” he said.
“Oh?” She kept walking, trying to pull out of his grasp.
“Stop,” he said.
“What is it?”
“I want … I want to talk to you.” He was still holding her.
“Let go of me,” she said. “You’ll make me lose my balance.”
Hughes pulled her around to face him.
“Hughes.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Look at me.”
“Don’t.” She raised her hand to push him away. He caught it, and felt the rose she was still holding breaking damply under the pressure of his grip.
“Nick.”
“Whatever it is you have to say …”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know what I’m talking about. I’m sorry. For everything.”
“I don’t care.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“It is.”
They looked at each other and Hughes was certain she was about to break down, to let him in. He could feel her on the edge. He waited, but she remained silent.
Then he couldn’t stand it any longer. “Enough,” he said, and pressed his mouth against hers. Her mouth opened beneath his. “Enough, now,” he whispered into the darkness.
But as suddenly as she had surrendered, she freed herself, and ran down the path, slipping from his grasp like water.
1959: JULY
IV
Hughes woke up the next morning with a headache, but also full of determination. Though it was still early, Nick had already risen. He stripped off his pajama bottoms, put on his bathrobe and made his way outside, down toward the outdoor shower.
He slipped a little on the dew. The air was slightly cooler. The heat wave hadn’t broken, but the heaviness had lifted a bit.
Hughes hung his robe over the wooden frame and turned on the water, letting it run over his head and shoulders until it swirled like a small tidal pool at his feet. He tipped his head back, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and looked up at the sky above him, a light blue that the morning sun was beginning to deepen. He could smell the wet grass and the damp bricks underfoot. He felt good. He also felt sad.
He thought about Nick running across the road in her red bathing suit, and wondered what was so much better about a bathrobe. They all acted like the strip of sidewalk between their house and the lawn across the road was private, belonged to them, when in fact you could run into any Tom, Dick or Harry trotting between the two in your skivvies. At least Nick had the good sense to know it might be slightly shocking, even if she didn’t really care.
Back at the house he found her in the kitchen. He had already planned what he was going to say, but when Nick saw him, she spoke before he could open his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I had too much to drink last night.”
Hughes found himself momentarily confused; not only was an apology from his wife a rare thing, her words were also the kind that closed down the conversation. She was sorry, it had been the alcohol, ever
yone knows what that’s like.
“I should be the one apologizing,” he said. “I was boorish. I’m just … I don’t know what’s come over me lately. Everything feels so, I don’t know, different.”
Nick didn’t say anything.
“Look,” he said, walking toward her. “I don’t care about that. I don’t want to talk about that. I want you to come on the boat with me today. She’s ready to go now.”
“All right,” she said, slowly. “Daisy has her lesson until noon.”
“No, just you. I’m inviting you.”
Nick looked down at her feet and nodded. He could have sworn she was blushing slightly.
“You pack the picnic and I’ll sort the boat out. Meet me down at the dock in an hour.”
Then, before she could change her mind, Hughes walked quickly out of the kitchen. He met Daisy coming down the stairs. Her round, blue eyes were full of sleep and her hair was mashed up in the back.
Hughes swooped her off the last step, up into his arms, and she let out a screech.
“Daddy, put me down.”
“Sorry, sweetheart.” Nick was right, she was turning into a sensitive little thing. “I was overwhelmed by this sleeping beauty on the stairs.”
Daisy pretended to be offended, but he could tell she was secretly pleased.
Hughes headed upstairs to change. As he was passing Helena’s room, she peeked her head out, but when she saw him she quickly withdrew it, like a turtle, and closed the door with a snap.
Down at the boathouse, he ran his hand over Star’s hull, checking to make sure it was bone-dry. Satisfied, he pulled the dinghy down the lawn to the small strip of beach, where he began rigging her.
He stepped the mast, running the breast hook line and cleating it off. He slid in the boom and bent the sail. When he was finished tying and fastening, Hughes pulled out the oars, gleaming with varnish, and locked them in. He fetched the cushions and two towels from the boathouse and laid them on the dock in the sun to get rid of the faint clinging odor of mildew.
Tigers in Red Weather Page 25