“Maybe you intuited a message from the universe. Don’t laugh,” Dennis said quickly, though Tilda had no intention of laughing. “I’m serious. Or maybe deep down a part of you sensed that Frank was sick. You said you were very close. It could happen, a subconscious knowledge.”
“Yes,” Tilda said, “maybe.” But whatever the cause of that revelation or intuition, it had taught her one big lesson. Nothing good could come of perfection. Nothing good could come of perceived perfection, anyway. If nothing could be better, than everything could be worse.
They continued to stroll through the cemetery. They noted particularly interesting headstones and the occasional grandiose family mausoleum. Her mother was buried in the McQueen family plot in a cemetery in York. Her father was to be buried there someday, too. But what if he married Jennifer? Would that change everything that had been planned?
“Frank was cremated,” Tilda said suddenly. “My kids and I scattered his ashes off the cliff on Marginal Way.”
“But he’s still remembered.” It was not a question, but a statement.
“Oh, yes. On his birthday last year the kids and I had a little party in his honor. You’re told to do that kind of thing, you know. Celebrate the life of the one who’s died. You’re supposed to remember as a way of getting past grief. I baked his favorite cake. Duncan Hines chocolate cake with vanilla icing from a can.”
Dennis smiled ruefully. “I wish I could say that I still celebrate my ex-wife’s birthday. But that’s another way a divorce is different from death. At least, in my case. I don’t hate my ex-wife—I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone—but I certainly have no desire to celebrate her life. Not even at first, when I still actually missed her.”
“She hurt you. Frank didn’t hurt me. It’s not like I could blame him for dying. It’s not like he did it to wound me.”
“Yes,” Dennis said. “I’m sure you were wounded by his passing but it’s not as if he intended that. It’s all about intention.”
Tilda smiled. “Are we intending to get something to eat?”
“Of course! What are you in the mood for? I’m pretty flexible when it comes to feeding time.”
“I would love a crab roll. And some fries.”
“Done and done.” Dennis grinned.
It was a beautiful evening after a perfect summer day. (They deserved as many perfect summer days as they could get, Hannah had remarked. It was compensation for the long and lousy winters Mainers had to endure.) The sky was clear and a few early stars were visible. Hannah and Susan decided to take a drive to Nubble Lighthouse. Sitting on tiny Nubble Island close to the rocky shore of the mainland, the picturesque, red and white lighthouse, built in 1879, was probably the most photographed lighthouse on the coast of New England. Check any gift shop in Maine and you would find its image on postcards, mugs, coasters, even T-shirts.
Craig came out of the library as they were preparing to leave. Hannah thought she had never seen anyone look so obviously lonely. She wasn’t used to Craig looking anything but…fine.
“Where are you guys headed?” he asked.
“The Nubble Lighthouse,” Susan said. “I know, how clichéd, but it’s so beautiful.”
“Why don’t you come with?” Hannah suggested.
“Yeah, do.”
Craig hesitated. “Are you sure I’m not going to be in the way? Three’s a crowd and all.”
“Craig,” Susan said, taking his arm, “we’re an old married couple. We’re not going to make out.”
“We’re not?” Hannah said, feigning huge disappointment.
“Hilarious. Now, come on.”
Craig shrugged. “Sure, thanks.”
The drive to the lighthouse was uneventful; they passed only one car pulled to the side of the road by the police. Hannah parked the car in the gravel lot and the three got out into the night.
They were not the only ones who had decided to visit the Nubble Lighthouse that evening. There was a family of four, two parents and two children. The children were shouting and chasing each other. The parents ignored them or just didn’t care what the kids were up to. Neither looked particularly happy to be there. They stood feet apart from each other, as if strangers. The father’s hands were in his pockets.
To the right of the young parents was an older couple in matching, crazy patterned sweaters. The man was taking pictures of the lighthouse while his wife shouted into her cell phone. “What a nice meal we had!” Hannah heard her say. “You and Ralph really should come with us next year. What? I can’t hear you—”
Hannah smiled ruefully at Craig and Susan. “Well, so much for a peaceful experience.”
“It’s summer,” Craig said. “You can’t expect a private experience in July.”
“And not everyone appreciates a beautiful night sky,” Susan added.
A beautiful night sky…“Remember when Dad got that telescope for Mom?” Hannah asked suddenly. “It was huge. I don’t think she ever used it. I wonder what made him buy it in the first place. I don’t remember Mom ever having an interest in astronomy. Astrology, yes, but not astronomy.”
Craig frowned. “I know exactly why he bought her that telescope. Because Carol Whitehouse had gotten one, some super fancy setup, and Mom just happened to mention it to Dad, who, of course, ran right out and bought an even more super fancy setup for Mom. It was all about one-upping her friend.”
“How do you know about that?” Susan asked.
“I heard Mom and Dad talking one night. And no, I wasn’t purposely spying. But once I heard Mom whining about how Carol thought she was so special, blah, blah, blah, well, I just had to stay and listen. For the sheer entertainment value of it all, of course.”
“Poor Dad,” Hannah said. She doubted he had really understood his wife’s motives. “What ever happened to that telescope anyway?”
“Adam made off with it.”
“Why?” Susan asked. “He has no hobbies. If it’s not related to his job he doesn’t care about it. I bet he hasn’t read a novel since college.”
Craig shrugged. “It’s worth a lot of money. Maybe he sold it.”
They were silent for some time and then Craig spoke again. “Adam might not have hobbies,” he said, “but he’s perfect. Tilda, too. They’re the perfect children, I mean, at least as far as Mom was concerned. They’re both professionals, they both got married, and they both had two children, a boy and a girl. Okay, Adam got divorced but nobody considers that much of a big deal anymore. In some circles it’s almost de rigueur. I doubt Mom would have cared.”
“And then look at us!” Hannah said with a laugh. “We’re the oddballs, the outcasts. I’m gay and—”
“Married,” Susan interrupted.
“Gay trumps married, I’m sorry to say. And Craig’s a wandering minstrel, as it were.”
“Dad doesn’t care that you’re gay,” Craig said to his sister. “You’re golden in his eyes. I’m the embarrassment in this family. I’m the one who makes people lower their voices when my name is mentioned. Oh, Craig McQueen,” he said in an exaggerated whisper, his eyes wide. “He’s the troubled one. We don’t know what went wrong with that boy.”
Susan swiped his arm. “You two have an inferiority complex. Craig, I’m sure nobody thinks you’re an embarrassment. We certainly don’t.”
“Thanks, Susan. I appreciate your vote of confidence. But I’m not asking for pity. I’ve made all the choices that have gotten me here—forty years old and virtually homeless. I must have wanted what I got.”
“But now?” Hannah asked. She looked carefully at her brother. She couldn’t read his face; the night was too dark. She couldn’t tell if he was really mocking himself or just playing a game.
Craig shrugged. “Now nothing.”
Susan opened the cooler at her feet. “I think it’s time for some champagne.”
“You guys really know how to live!” Craig said. Hannah thought he sounded relieved to be off the topic of his unusual life.
Susa
n popped the cork and poured them each a glass.
Hannah raised her plastic cup. “To us.”
“To family,” Susan said.
“Must we?” Craig asked.
Hannah said, “Yeah. Do we have to?”
“Yes.” Susan looked from her wife to her brother-in-law with that formidable look she reserved for the most stubborn of her family services clients.
Craig sighed. “I know when I’m beaten.”
He and Hannah said, “To family.”
25
Monday, July 23
The beach seemed more than usually crowded that morning. Families were already beginning to settle in for the day. A group of about ten gay men had set up blankets and chairs and lounges in a large semicircle facing the water and had erected a flag that read “Happy Birthday, Eric!” Tilda spotted Tessa Vickes on her own morning constitutional and waved but Tessa didn’t see her. Wade Wilder was there, too, chatting with someone Tilda didn’t recognize, maybe a summer visitor. Wade would chat with anyone who cared to chat back.
Tilda walked at the water’s edge—the tide was coming in—enjoying its coolness. Jon and Jane would be joining the rest of the family soon at Larchmere. She was looking forward to their arrival, but one little thing was nagging at her. Just before she had left South Portland the other day, both of them, separately, very casually, had mentioned the possibility of her dating. Too casually, Tilda thought. She wondered if they were cooking up some scheme to force her into the dating world. Would they secretly sign her up on a dating Web site? Or, horror of horrors, bring home someone they had scouted out on their own?
She wondered if her children would have been so eager for her to date if their father had died suddenly. Maybe not. But Frank had been sick for a long time and Jon and Jane had witnessed the difficulties Tilda had endured. Taking on most of Frank’s chores around the house. Driving him to and from the hospital. Caring for him in the awful days after a round of chemotherapy. Tempting him with all of his favorite foods, only to have him turn his head, barely able to hold down water.
She kicked a bit at the water rolling in and remembered a New York Times Magazine article she had read the year before. Deborah Solomon had interviewed Joyce Carol Oates. Ms. Oates had described widowhood as “physically arduous.” Tilda understood that. While Frank was sick, she was already in a way widowed. She had had to assume so many of Frank’s responsibilities, as well as shoulder the burden of care for him. And then, when Frank was gone, well, the burdens became all too real and permanent.
Anyway, Tilda thought, she was pretty sure both Jon and Jane believed that their father would want their mother to be happy, and if that meant remarrying, then so be it. In life, Frank was nothing if not generous, affable, and kind spirited. Why should he be any different in death?
And there was also the fact that both Jon and Jane would soon be setting out on the adventures that would be their own lives. Tilda suspected they would be a lot happier if Mom was being looked after by a husband and not by them! The truth was she was meeting no resistance from her children regarding dating. She almost wished they did object, and strongly; it would give her an excuse not to move on. Excuses not to act were underrated. Because what if you acted—what if you tried—and you simply didn’t get what you wanted? What if, in spite of her best efforts, she never again achieved a real, settled kind of love like the love she had had with Frank? It took time to develop that kind of love, a love in which two people were completely comfortable with each other. Maybe it was too much to ask for.
She stopped. She looked up to the sky, turned from left to right, and then she looked behind her. Except for the wheeling gulls and one lone pigeon, the sky was empty.
Ruth was in the library, dusting shelves and the spines of the books on them. Percy was asleep in a corner of the brown leather couch.
“Ruth?”
She swung around to find Adam’s fiancée standing just inside the door. She wore a cap-sleeved, very fitted, hot pink T-shirt and an above-the-knee wraparound denim skirt. Ruth wondered if she owned anything with long-sleeves—a blouse, a sweatshirt, something! Certainly in the winter she must cover up?
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Kat said.
“Of course not,” Ruth replied. She put the duster on the desk. For an awful moment Ruth wondered if this young woman was going to ask her opinion of Adam. What if she asked for advice about marrying him? What in the world could Ruth say?
Kat took a few steps into the room. “I was wondering, why are there corks all along the wall in the sunroom? I mean, obviously someone put them there but—why?”
Ruth looked at her nephew’s fiancée keenly. “You’re not a craftsperson, are you?”
“No,” she admitted. “I mean, I took a pottery class once but I was awful at it. But what I mean is, how is lining up corks—how is lining up anything, shells or rocks or whatever—how is lining up stuff along a shelf a craft? I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound critical. I just don’t understand.”
Ruth shrugged. “There’s not much to understand. You see, every time I finish a bottle of red wine I put the cork on a shelf, right next to the cork from the last bottle of wine I finished.”
Kat’s face betrayed confusion. Ruth assumed she was debating whether to laugh or to wonder if alcoholism ran in her fiancé’s family. “Oh,” she said.
“And someday,” Ruth went on, “when the wall is filled with corks, when I can’t squeeze one more cork onto a shelf, that’s when I’ll be ready to die. Not before, mind you.”
Kat put her hand up against her heart. “What do you mean,” she said, her voice a bit squeaky, “that you’ll be ready to die? You’re not planning—anything, are you? I mean you’re not…”
Ruth smiled blandly. “What you’re trying to say is that I am in complete control over the placing of the corks. You’re trying to say that I can quite easily calculate the number of corks it will take to fill those final shelves and that I can drink bottles of red wine as fast or as slow as I please, knowing that when I fill that final shelf I’ll be ready to die. You’re trying to say that my statement sounded…poetic, but that in reality I am planning—drawing out or hurrying toward—my own demise.”
There was a moment of silence. “Uh,” Kat said finally, already turning toward the door of the library, “I think I’d better be getting back to Adam.”
Ruth smiled to herself. Poor kid, she thought. So easily rattled. Spooked by the crazy old spinster aunt. She supposed she should have been nicer to her a moment ago. She was going to be a member of the family—unless she smartened up and dumped her jackass of a fiancé. Ruth knew she shouldn’t talk about a family member, her own nephew, in such negative terms, but blood didn’t make one blind. At least, in her case it hadn’t.
Hannah appeared in the library then, mumbled something about a book she had been reading having gone missing, and then noticed her aunt’s expression. “You look thoughtful,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Kat was just here. She’s very young, you know. Emotionally. Adam is going to destroy her within a month of the wedding. Poor thing. She’s clearly incapable of saving herself. But I don’t know how I can be of any help. You know how I don’t like to interfere. It seems…immoral somehow. Or maybe unethical is the more appropriate term. Something one isn’t supposed to do.”
Hannah shook her head. “How could it be unethical to advise someone against a danger she might not see, a danger that you see quite clearly? How could that be wrong? It would be wrong not to say anything.”
“Yes,” Ruth agreed, “it would be wrong, in most cases. If I see a car barreling down on a pedestrian, I’m under every moral or ethical obligation there is to shout out a warning. But in Kat’s case…It’s difficult to warn someone about a danger you sense, a danger that’s intangible, even though, in your own opinion, it’s real. Like Adam’s voracious ego.”
“Yes. I suppose you’re right. Though I do wish there was something we could say to her. But a
ny word of warning against a marriage to Adam would be suspect, coming from his own family, wouldn’t it? Kat might very well think we just don’t want her to be a McQueen because of something wrong with her.”
Ruth sighed. “We are in an untenable position. Besides, in the long run it probably is in Kat’s best interest to make up her own mind about a future with Adam. Everyone’s got to grow up sometime, don’t they?”
“Tell that to Craig.”
“Now that’s unfair,” Ruth said forcefully. “Your brother isn’t entirely immature, you know that.”
“Maybe not,” Hannah admitted. “I’m in a charitable mood. But I don’t know why he can’t accept responsibility for anything. I mean, I don’t think he’s ever paid rent on a place to live.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course he’s paid rent. In some form or another, maybe not in cash but certainly in services.”
“I know for a fact he doesn’t have a checking account.”
Ruth laughed. “That hardly makes him a criminal. At least he’s not the sort to pass bad checks.”
“That’s true.” Hannah didn’t say that only the night before, at the Nubble Lighthouse, her brother had seemed on the verge of expressing discontent with his wayward lifestyle. But maybe that was something she had imagined.
“Well,” Ruth said, “I don’t want to go on defending your brother to you. You’ll feel about him what you feel, no matter what I say.”
“Probably. By the way, what made you say that about Kat’s being emotionally young?”
“Oh, nothing. Just that I explained about the corks.”
“Ruth, you didn’t!”
“I did,” Ruth said. “She didn’t seem to understand.”
“You’re incorrigible.” Hannah was unable to restrain a smile.
The Family Beach House Page 17