The Summer of Good Intentions

by Wendy Francis

  There was a pause. “What?”

  “I just can’t, Larry. The timing is bad. My dad isn’t doing well, he almost burned the house down yesterday, and well, I think we need to get him checked out or something.” She couldn’t help it. The run of sentences that had been playing in her mind spilled out. “I need some more time. Vacation time. I’m sorry to have to ask. If I need to take it in personal days, that’s fine.”

  She waited, her heart racing. “Geez. I’m sorry to hear that. Okay. Yeah, sure. Take whatever you need. Let us know when you’re coming back.” He clicked off as soon as Virgie thanked him. When she set the phone down, she realized she’d been digging her fingernails into her palm, little pink half-moons popping up on her skin. She’d expected resistance from Larry, possibly a veiled threat of losing her job. That he hadn’t offered any made her wonder if she could breathe easily or if, to the contrary, she should worry more. She’d just passed on a potentially huge story, one that she would have leapt on a month ago. Maybe she was the one who needed to get checked out.

  When she got back downstairs, both sisters were absorbed in their magazines. “Honestly, do you guys read anything other than Good Housekeeping?” she asked. “Whatever happened to Vogue or Redbook  ?” Jess volleyed her a look, her forehead pulled into little furrows.

  “When you’re a mom, you’ll understand,” she said.

  “I sincerely hope you’re mistaken.” Virgie wandered through the living room, picking up stray toys and abandoned flip-flops. She felt anxious after her talk with Larry. She wondered whom he’d pass the story to. Probably Thomas. Well, she honestly didn’t care. For the first time in her life, she didn’t care.

  She sank into the couch, a mystery novel in hand. What was the matter with her?

  Arthur

  Arthur was working on his manuscript, urging Inspector Larson to make a discovery, but nothing was coming to him. Why did he think he could write another book? He’d nearly burned down the house the other night, had probably emotionally scarred his grandchildren for life, and now here he was on Sunday morning pretending to care about a fictional world that perhaps only a few other people would ever care to read about.

  He got up to pour himself another cup of coffee, his eyes fluttering to the undisturbed trap beyond the kitchen window. Roger must have had a quiet night. Maybe he’d found another family to harass. Even the house was blessedly hushed, everyone else still asleep upstairs. The kids had slept in the tent again last night. He walked over to the bookcase in the living room and skimmed the titles. All his books were there, his life’s work. Funny how slim and insignificant so many paperbacks could look on a shelf.

  When he saw The Things They Carried, he pulled it out and blew the dust from the top. It was one of his all-time favorites. Arthur thought it the most astonishing depiction of war ever written. The weight, the heft, the burden of those soldiers’ packs brought so vividly to life. He could almost feel the pack on his own back. The weight of worry. The burden of his own stuff that he carried around with him day after day. Missing Gloria. Worrying about the girls. The stress of trying to meet another deadline. He was getting too old to cart around so much.

  He thumbed through the yellowed pages. Someday he’d like to have a talk with Tim O’Brien, ask him if he thought Lieutenant Jimmy Cross’s emotional load got any lighter, or did he truly spend all that time missing Martha and feeling bad about Ted Lavender’s death? He and O’Brien could share a whiskey, maybe even a laugh or two, over the things a man was meant to carry during a lifetime. He could ask O’Brien what he thought of Gloria’s ending their marriage of forty-six years. He bet O’Brien would have some choice words to offer.

  He put the book back on the shelf and checked the clock. Only 6:30, a tad early for his morning walk, but so what? He went to fetch his trash gator, tucked in behind the couch, and the trash bag that he’d been gathering his things in. He’d nearly had to rip it out of Maggie’s hands the other day when she’d been in the midst of one of her cleaning frenzies. “That’s mine,” he yelled, feeling like a stubborn child.

  “But it’s trash, Dad.” Maggie gave him a bewildered look.

  “What’s one woman’s trash is another man’s treasure,” he explained and snatched it from her. She shook her head, not understanding. And how could she? He didn’t expect her to covet the things he’d been gathering on the beach over vacation, a hodgepodge of intricate shells, recyclable cans, a child’s lost sneaker, some loose change.

  Now when he picked it up, the bag emitted a faint pungent odor. Maggie wouldn’t approve. He’d have to start hiding it outside, maybe under the deck. He let himself out the sliding doors and jumped to see two turtles, each no bigger than a dinner plate, scratching about in a plastic pool. He’d forgotten about the turtles. Yesterday, the boys had discovered them in the marsh grasses and lugged the swimming pool out from the shed, filling it with water and rocks and a handful of cape plums. It was a moving gesture, trying to make the pool a more hospitable place for the tortoises. What had the kids named them again? Something silly, like Mister and Thomas.

  “Good morning, fellas,” he said as he stepped around the pool. “Pretty crappy way to start the day, huh?” He watched while one, perhaps Mister, scrambled up the side, then slid back down again. Arthur imagined the poor thing up all night hatching his escape plan. The other turtle had climbed onto a small rock in the middle of the pool where he sunned himself. When the kids searched through the yellowed guide to Cape wildlife last night, they’d determined that these were boxers, their yellow blotches being the identifying marks. Arthur was tempted to set the creatures free, but then thought better of it. Luke and Teddy would be spitting mad if he did.

  Down on the beach, gator in hand, he could see that it was shaping up to be a beautiful day. The weekend had been trying. All he wanted was for it to be over, for the kitchen to be fixed, for the girls to stop looking at him from under hooded eyes. He knew there’d been some discussion about him that he hadn’t been privy to. He could see it on their faces all day yesterday. What were they going to do with him? he wondered. Did they think they’d just put him in one of those homes, where old people who couldn’t remember what day it was wandered around with their walkers? Where the halls always smelled sour no matter how much disinfectant they used? Where bland, glutinous vegetables were served in the hopes that they would eventually be eaten? Where he was supposed to get excited about placing fall leaves in a wreath with a glue gun?

  Being in a place like that would kill him just as surely as a bullet to the head.

  He didn’t know how many times he could apologize to Maggie and Jess, but he suspected it would never feel like enough. He’d been watching their children, his grandchildren, and he’d dropped the ball. Hell, he’d kicked the ball right into the ocean. He told himself that anyone could forget about a kettle. He’d been absorbed by the Monopoly game. But what he hadn’t told anyone was that he was on his second glass of scotch and had decided that a stiff cup of tea would be just the thing to help him concentrate on the miniature boardwalk. All those tiny plastic houses started to look so alike! He wasn’t drunk. He’d never get drunk when he was in charge. But he’d had a few drinks, just to ease the way into the evening hours, like he always did. Regardless of the scotch, he would have forgotten the kettle. He knew this, felt sure of it in his old, rickety bones.

  But he couldn’t imagine confiding this fact to his daughters, ever. Especially Maggie. Then, there would be absolutely no hope of forgiveness. As it was, he didn’t know if his daughters would ever exonerate him. The one saving grace was that everyone was fine. And the kitchen could be fixed without huge expense. He’d offered to pay for it all, insisting the girls pick out a fancy new stove with lots of bells and whistles. It was the least he could do.

  But Arthur was worried. He’d always promised himself that if ever he felt his mind going, he would end it, take his leave of this world before anyone was forced to help him or, worse, pity him. And he’d
gotten confused about the teakettle yesterday, thinking he’d left it on again, until Virgie (poor Virginia!) had reassured him that it wasn’t possible. He’d done it the day before. How could he have mixed that up?

  Maybe he really was losing it. He couldn’t stand the thought of one day looking into a daughter’s face and not remembering her name. Couldn’t bear the thought of forgetting that he had grandchildren or that he had shared forty-six wonderful years with his wife. Losing his mind, his faculties, was akin to a life sentence behind bars. Perhaps he would schedule an appointment when he got back to Maine. Check in with the doc to make sure all the pistons were firing.

  He removed his shoes and stepped onto the sand. He hated to admit it, but the vacation that he’d been anticipating for so long was not shaping up as he’d hoped. Seeing his daughters and grandchildren was supposed to reinvigorate him; the slower, expansive time on the Cape would allow him to write without interruption. Secretly, he’d dreamed, too, that Gloria would see the error of her ways and return to him. Of course, nothing had gone according to plan. His grandchildren didn’t trust him, might even be scared of him now. His novel was in shambles. And Gloria, who at first had been invitingly flirtatious, had basically betrothed herself to Gio. What the hell was he doing here anyway? Arthur wondered. He had another week left, but he’d just as soon head back to Maine now. It would be best for everyone.

  His eye landed on a piece of metal, glinting in the sun, and he retrieved it with the gator. A chewing gum wrapper. He tossed it in the bag anyway. It was shiny; Roger might be tempted by it. He thought back to a wonderful interview he’d watched on television the other day. Who was it again? Oh, yes, Delia Ephron, the writer. The sister of Nora. Arthur had always liked Nora Ephron’s comedies, even if they had a romantic bent to them. Perhaps because they had a romantic twist. Over the years, he and Gloria had watched When Harry Met Sally about twenty times. The montages of the old couples who recounted how they met and fell in love made him tear up each time. But Delia had said something that struck him as fabulously, ineffably true in that interview. She spoke about how close she and Nora were and then went on to characterize their relationship as “a collaboration on life.” Arthur thought it one of the most beautiful sentiments he’d ever heard. A collaboration on life. And as soon as she said it, his mind fastened on Gloria. That’s what they’d had.

  That was exactly it.

  Since she’d left, he’d been without his collaborator. No wonder he was getting nowhere on his novel, in his life. Gloria had given him some of his best material. Helping him on plot twists, inventing red herrings, pointing out where his logic was flawed or where Inspector Larson was being dense. She’d been his best reader. Without her, he was lost. Perhaps these were the words she needed to hear to come back to him. I’m lost without you. It occurred to him that he’d never told her these exact words. How dense could he be! He couldn’t expect her to read his mind, to know how he still rolled over in bed to lay an arm across her and was jolted to discover only empty space where her warm body used to lay.

  As the sky began to brighten, Arthur resolved to tell Gloria this very thing. Today. Gio wasn’t her collaborator in life. Arthur was. Perhaps, he thought, shaking his head, she’d only been waiting for him to say these very words before returning to him. Could it be that simple? He started to laugh out loud at how preposterous the whole thing sounded. He was lost without Gloria and she was lost without him. But, true to form, she’d been waiting for him to admit it first. Once he did, her face would reveal her relief and she’d say something like, “I was wondering how long it would take you to realize it. Now, come on, let’s go home.”

  Sometimes life was so simple, and here he’d been making it unnecessarily complicated. The whole kitchen incident had derailed him, but now he saw it was the very thing to shake him awake. To reunite him with Gloria. And he wanted that so very, very much. He wanted back their walks together along the Maine coast, dinners sitting across from each other discussing the latest book they’d read, a wife who would replace the cap on the toothpaste tube for him, who would lovingly turn the glasses in the cupboard rim down, instead of leaving them haphazardly up as he always did. Someone who would switch the radio to a favorite song and offer her upturned hand, waiting to be led across the living room floor, the fire flickering in the background and music playing, perhaps “Let It Be Me” by the Everly Brothers. He could hear it, even taste it, the sweet flavor of Gloria’s companionship folded back into his life.

  A yawning stretch of dark blue, the ocean beckoned to him. Arthur set down his shoes, gator, and bag and pulled off his shirt, suddenly feeling like a younger man. He rubbed his hands together briskly, thinking of Gloria. Always of Gloria. Yes, a dip would be just the thing to mark a fresh start, his resolve to embrace life anew. After a few recent scares, it was dawning on him that his life as he knew it might be flying by faster than he’d bargained for. He was going to make the most of his time left. With Gloria back in his days, the rest would fall into place. His girls would visit more often with the grandkids, his writing would flow, his bed would no longer be empty.

  He wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  He walked to the water’s edge, letting the icy waves lap at his toes. He braced himself for the cold, walking in knee-deep, then waist-deep. When he glanced down, he realized he’d forgotten to remove his belt. Too bad. He would swim until his arms started to tire, then return revitalized. His heart was hammering with excitement, and at last his impatience for it all to begin—the rest of his life—shot through him. He dove into the water, ducking his head underneath, and began to swim.

  The cold, bracing at first, eventually enveloped him in its soothing embrace. Then, the water lifted him up, buoying his body along, a silver streak in the wide-open sea.

  Maggie

  When the police car pulled into the driveway, Maggie already knew. Three days had passed, too long for a seventy-two-year-old man to survive on the open beach against the elements. It was unlikely there was any good news behind the stiff wrap of knuckles on the door, which came on Wednesday morning at 11:20. Maggie was fixing herself a glass of iced tea when Luke yelled out, “Mommy, policeman’s here!”

  On Sunday morning, when Arthur had been gone for a few hours, she grew curious. “Has anyone seen Dad?” she asked a silent house. She went out on the deck with binoculars and searched the beach, but only a few families were scattered about so early in the day. Maybe Arthur had set off for a morning walk into town, she theorized, and decided to grab breakfast at the Blueberry Bagel. She sent Mac off to check and, after that, to the library, to Sal’s, anyplace that might be open on a Sunday.

  But Mac returned shaking his head. Sophie was the first to notice that Grandpa’s trash gator was missing from its usual spot behind the couch. “Then he must have gone for a walk along the beach!” Maggie felt herself flooding with relief: Arthur had gotten preoccupied with his search for rubbish and was taking a longer-than-normal stroll along the ocean.

  They all rushed down to the beach, including Gloria and Gio, who’d arrived shortly after Maggie called to see if they’d heard from Arthur that morning. About a half mile from the house, Luke, who had run ahead, called out that he’d found Grandpa’s shirt, his boat shoes, and the trash gator and bag. They gathered around the small heap of items, then circled the area, expecting to find Arthur bent over investigating a crab or a crane’s nest in the sea grasses. Mac snatched the binoculars and cast his eyes out over the ocean, while Jess wondered aloud if Arthur might have fallen along the rocks closer to land. They separated into smaller groups and searched the shoreline. But when, after a few hours, there was still no sign of him, Maggie began to worry in earnest. She could read the look on Mac’s face; he was beginning to think something wasn’t right, too.

  He pulled out his cell and dialed the local precinct. “Hi, it’s Officer McNeil here from the house at Forty-two Pilgrim Lane.” He paused. “That’s right. The one with the fire. Listen, I realize it’
s early to file a missing person report, but my father-in-law has been missing since early this morning. It’s not like him and we’re starting to worry.” There was a pause. “We just found his shirt and shoes about a half mile from our house down on the beach.” Another question. “He’s seventy-two. Uh-huh, good swimmer.” He paused. “Well, I guess you could say he’s been having some memory issues.” He leveled his eyes at Jess, who nodded, and Maggie felt her stomach pull into knots. This is serious was all she could think. “Thank you, I’d appreciate it,” Mac said. “We’ll do that in the meantime.”

  “They’re on their way,” Mac confirmed. “They want someone to stay at the house in case Arthur comes home. Everyone keep your cell phones on. Why don’t Maggie and I head back to the house? You guys want to keep looking out here?” Jess and Tim nodded and pulled the kids closer.

  “I’ll stay here, too,” Virgie confirmed.

  “Us, too,” announced Gloria, taking Gio’s hand.

  But by the time evening fell, there was still no word of Arthur. They’d gone knocking door to door along the beach with a picture, but no one had seen him. Any plans anyone in the family might have had to head back to Boston were scratched. They turned in for the day and left the porch and deck lights burning into the night.

  “It’s like he disappeared into thin air,” Maggie whispered as she crawled into bed.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find him,” Mac said softly, and they fell into a restless sleep.

  The next day, Monday, was gray and stormy, and the officers returned to the house with more questions. “Is there any chance he might have gone into the water?” one asked.

  Maggie shook her head. They’d already been through this yesterday. “Sure, there’s a chance, but my dad’s a good swimmer. He wouldn’t do anything stupid.”