Charles, forever the family phantom, has appeared in the room. He stands close to the counter, watching my anger at Claire. Preternaturally unruffled, he walks to where I stand with Claire writhing in my grasp. With those surgeon’s shoulders that lead to those surgeon’s arms, he lifts her from me and takes her out of the room. She puts her green face against his ear and plasters it with icing. Mrs. Higgins has not stopped wailing, “My cake, my cake!”
The rest of us are watching the tidal wave with a perverse fascination. I swear I hear the water crashing in my ears. Claire pounds Charles’s back ferociously as they disappear up the stairs toward the bedrooms. Claire is yelping and crying, “Daddy, the cake! Daddy, the white flower!”
“I’ll go to Claire, Mom.” Matilde speaks in an undertone. “I’ll try to talk to her.”
“Matilde, Dad is with her. We should wait.”
The crushing sound of Claire crying ends and soon after Charles is back in the kitchen. His twitching jawline reminds me of the first time we were at the beach together. It was Labor Day weekend and we had been dating since the spring before. I had brought him to meet my parents at the marina and I wanted to be at the beach. The lifeguards were flying their red warning flags and the wind was kicking up from the east. Charles had boasted whenever I spoke of Cape May that he too loved the ocean. I persuaded him that in spite of a storm, we should dive in. I ran to the water’s edge and the waves were already rough, frothy and high enough for the surfers to be challenged. “C’mon, c’mon! Let’s do it!” He took these measured steps, the same kind of steps he is taking tonight. He came near enough that I waited for him. Then he was at a standstill and I knew that he would swim no farther. I dove into the tumbling waves on my own.
“Lainie? Let’s go to our bedroom. Let’s talk there.” Charles breaks into my thoughts.
“Claire is alone,” I say. “I’ll go to her.”
“She’s quieted down, Lainie.”
Matilde is in a hurry. “I’ll go to her.”
Charles is about to turn her down, then I raise my hand like I’m a crossing guard. “Go ahead, Matilde.”
Charles watches me and the look in his face converts to failed mother, ruined cake.
“We have to talk.”
“Okay.” I hate my life.
I lead. Charles’s steps behind me are tranquil, almost eerie. I open the door and he closes it.
“What the hell is the matter with you, Lainie?” he hisses. “What were you doing that you missed Claire destroying a homemade cake—an important cake?”
“I was on the phone with the Arts Council. I was in the den.… I’d just left the kitchen—the call had come in. It was an important call.” I don’t turn around to face him. As opposed to an important cake.
“Fuck the Arts Council! What kind of mother are you, Lainie? Why did you allow what happened to happen?” His voice gets loud. “What the fuck, Lainie?”
“What kind of mother, Charles? The kind who doesn’t want princess parties for her daughters and protects them as best she’s able. Someone who is fallible but…” I start to cry sloppily, shabbily. Mostly because I have no recollection of once loving Charles, not because I’m defending Claire or the cake. The cake that tells the story.
Our bedroom becomes lonely and cold; it’s frightening.
“You aren’t normal. Why can’t you be normal? Why can’t you be a normal mother?” The fury in his eyes.
I don’t answer.
“Normal! Normal! You’ve heard of it, right?” He keeps screaming. I’m sure the children hear, both from the kitchen and from Claire’s room.
“Normal? What’s so fetching about normal, you asshole? What is normal?” I ask. Then I open the door and point at the unlit hallway.
“Get out, Charles, get out, please.”
Before he opens the door to leave, there is a fleeting question that registers on his face. We both look at the king-size bed, where he and I made love, so recently, so long ago.
“Please, go. Please. Now.”
Once there is proof that he is moving away from me, I gather myself into a crouched position on the floor and weep, wondering how it can be that trust turns to scorn.
TWENTY-FIVE
The night long it is impossible to sleep. I tiptoe from one child’s bedroom to the next, putting my hand on each of their backs or their stomachs, depending on their sleep position. I do this in birth order, starting with Tom. He lies on his back on top of the covers with the earbuds from his iPhone in his ears. I imagine he is listening to David Bowie or Lou Reed, musicians whom his father has encouraged. I close the door. Next I visit Matilde, who dreams deeply, the covers over her shoulders, her hair in tangles, seaweed on the pillowcase. At the bottom of her double bed are Claire and Jack, wound together. Two puppies in a litter. Claire is beyond angelic, the monster qualities of the day erased in her sleep.
Their steady breathing is a type of elixir. That I could capture my sleeping children’s perfection the way a painting captures the perfection of a moment—a memory caught for eternity. A foolish thought; these children when awake are water through my fingers—flowing, cherished, gone.
At dawn I come downstairs to write a note to Mrs. Higgins, part apology for last evening, part a request for her to wake the children if I am a few minutes late. I crave a long, fast swim, one that adds to my Raritan River miles. When I’m about to leave, I hear footsteps. A sickly dread comes over me that it is Charles who has awakened an hour early and that I haven’t gotten out of the house first. Instead Mrs. Higgins comes in through the back kitchen door. She begins to tie an apron on. The message is that we are picking up a conversation where we left off.
“You go, Mrs. Morris. I’m sure you need to get to that pool before the sun comes up and anybody notices.” Her face has no lines today and her arms seem less flabby.
“I was leaving you a note. I want to apologize.…”
Mrs. Higgins pushes my apology away with her hand, dismissing me. “Go on. I’m about to bake a fresh cake before it gets too hectic. Redo and hand deliver.”
There is the urge to fall into her arms, to be enveloped in her understanding and acceptance. “Go now. While the moon is up, Mrs. Morris.”
I am beside the French doors that face the meadow behind the house. A meadow in dire need of water; a brook running through it would do. The moon is a crescent, hopeful and romantic for those who are believers. I feel homesick for everything that is not in Elliot, starting with Cape May and moving north to Red Hook.
I fish around in my purse for the car keys. “Okay, Mrs. Higgins. Thank you.”
“Psshaw.” Mrs. Higgins is already filling a bowl with all-purpose flour. She opens the pantry cabinet and lifts a few small bottles of green food dye.
“Do you have enough of the ingredients? Do you want me to go to the store later in the morning and…”
Mrs. Higgins waves her hand again. “There’s a small window before it shuts tight. You should go.”
As if underwater, I press the automatic button on the garage wall, praying the electric door that creaks and heaves open won’t wake anyone. I back my Jeep out onto the soundless street.
PART TEN
Jess
TWENTY-SIX
I cannot avoid rustling around at Liza’s party tonight. Upstairs in the conservatory, the popular parents whom I’ve asked to stay are settling into my inner sanctum for a night of tony tattle. Downstairs in the family room are the ten-year-old girls, sophisticated and self-conscious as they come, with as callow a group of ten-year-old boys as I’ve ever seen. To add to the mixture are a few family friends’ older children, including Matilde and Tom Morris.
Charles is here without Lainie; his eyes are glued to me as I do my best version of the social butterfly routine of wife, mother, friend. My form is impeccable, propelled by Charles’s attendance. Why not—the plan has evolved in an organic way. Lainie offered Mrs. Higgins’s services several nights ago when I called to ask the favor. “We have to do f
or each other, Jess,” she said. “By all means, Mrs. Higgins must come to you on Saturday night.” In reality, what would suit Lainie better than an evening in her studio with the twins asleep and the rest of the family with me? Mrs. Higgins not only arrived to pitch in, she brought her signature hors d’oeuvres, strawberry bruschetta for the adults and salt-and-pepper oven fries for everyone. I’m passing out the bruschetta when Matilde appears. She immediately spots Tom among us, holding a highball glass in his hand.
“Relax, Matilde, it’s ginger ale. Dad’s putting me in practice mode. He told me that,” I hear Tom say.
I walk to where they stand. “Matilde, you’re probably bored with the kid stuff. You know that Rory Giffs is having a party tonight and I’ve called over there. That’s the party that you and Tom should be at. I’ve spoken with Rory and her mother and they’d be delighted if you and Tom could join them.”
“Dee-lighted.” Tom rolls his eyes at me. “Jess, I’m not sure this is such a good idea. Matilde and I both know how middle-school parties go.”
Charles joins us. He smiles. “Matilde, what a lucky break. Jess has just told me that Rory is one of the most popular girls at your school. This could be an opportunity for you!”
Tom becomes suspicious.
“Tom? You’ll go too, you’ll be your sister’s protector,” Charles says.
Matilde and Tom exchange glances in what I interpret to be a rare moment of solidarity.
“You’ll see, Matilde. These girls are nice,” I push.
There is a moment’s silence. “Matilde?” Charles says.
“Thanks, Jess,” she says. “I’d love to go.” She sounds punctured.
Yet I believe that she does want to go, but is intimidated. I sense her upset, her yearning to explore my medicine cabinets again—how else will she endure the night? It’s an irony that only adults have access to Klonopin for such occasions.
“We’ll drive you,” Charles says.
“We?” Tom is raising an eyebrow.
“Tom, your father would be lost for longer than it takes to get there. The roads are dark in Elliot at night and the GPS doesn’t always find these estates.…”
At the front hall closet, Tom gets on board. He politely holds open my coat.
I insist that Matilde sit in front with me while Charles is pretzeled in the back of my Mercedes next to Tom. Charles is counting the minutes to the ride home, until we are alone.
“Rory and her crowd are awfully fun once you get to know them, Matilde. I suppose it’s only natural to be wary of newcomers—anyplace that anyone goes. As you become friends, you’ll have entrée everywhere,” I say cheerily.
“Fantastic, Matilde,” Charles says. “I hope that you’ve thanked Jess.”
“I did, Dad. You were right there. Didn’t you hear me?”
“What about me, do I need an ‘entrée’?” Tom laughs.
“No, Tom, you don’t. You’re two grades ahead and you’re a boy,” Charles says. “The party belongs to you.”
Matilde traces her finger across the window where the moisture is dissolving. The tall birches and oak trees clutter the moonlight. In my rearview mirror Tom’s mouth slips into a tight line. I only hope that he doesn’t abandon his sister.
* * *
Three hours later Charles and I are back at the Giffs’. “Plenty of fathers will be inside, Charles. Very few mothers come out for a late pickup unless they are divorced with no husbands to do the job,” I say.
“Just how did we manage to have the night—out in the open, Jess? Free of innuendo?” he asks.
“We’re fortunate that our spouses don’t care and that no one dares to talk about me. And that newcomers never find the Giffs’ house on their own.”
Charles closes the passenger door and heads inside. As I feared, Tom long ago bailed, according to a text sent to Charles. He had hardly gotten there when he left with two brothers who live next door and three girls. Although these certainly aren’t my children, I wonder what he said to his younger sister as he walked out of the Giffs’—that he too is in search of a life in Elliot, one that precludes thinking of Matilde first? While I’m the pusher of the evening, Tom’s decision has churned up my anxiety about Matilde’s welfare. For good reason, it turns out, since as soon as she climbs into the backseat, her stress level hits the ozone.
“Is Mom asleep?” she asks Charles, not glancing in my direction.
“She isn’t. She is awake. For you,” Charles says.
“Okay.” Matilde looks out the window. The rain has begun, falling into icicles. I take the road carefully, slowly.
“Have a good time, Matilde? I know that Tom did. He texted me about ten minutes ago, to say he’s staying at his friend’s house. Baker something or other. Do you know him?” Charles asks.
“No.”
Were she my daughter I would insist that she speak in full sentences. I would say, “Please show some respect.” Lainie believes that being polite counts—that I know. Yet when I look in my rearview mirror at Matilde, I read in her face that there’s been an incident—her father’s and my secret tryst is less a concern than what occurred at the Giffs’.
I ramp up my windshield wipers.
“Look at that,” Charles says. “The first snow of winter. Matilde, you always love the first snow.”
“In the city.” Matilde begins to cry. Not attractive, feminine tears but the tears of those who suffer and their faces are distorted by despondence. Matilde gulps for air, trying to recover from the ugly cloud that hangs over her and exhausts her.
“Tom left right away.” She keeps crying. I hand her my monogrammed handkerchief and she tries to hand it back to me.
“No, take it, Matilde, I haven’t got any tissues in the car.”
“Tom left, Dad.”
“We know,” Charles says. “I tried to text you when I heard and you didn’t text back. I thought you were having a good time.”
Matilde cries louder. “The party was in a … back room with a back room. A dungeon.”
I steer the car toward the house. “Matilde, why don’t you come inside for a few minutes before you and your father go home. We’ll see if Liza is still up. I know she’d love to tell you about the rest of her party night.”
Matilde stares out the window. “No, thank you, Jess. It’s late and my dad says that my mom is waiting up.”
“Matilde, come with me now.” I’m about to yank her arm when I calm myself.
Charles gives me a perplexed look, surprised by my tone. Either he trusts me or he doesn’t. He pauses. “Let’s go in, Matilde; I’ll text Mom to tell her we’ll be there soon.”
We walk in the through the garage. William comes out of the kitchen as if he’s been watching the clock. “Charles, my man, a long night indeed. Let’s go and scrounge up some leftovers.” He ignores me and Matilde.
I lead Matilde to my small office adjacent to the den and close the door. The scent of young sex, body parts, sweat, and semen emanate from her.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says.
“All right, here’s what we’ll do. We’ll sit in my office until you figure out the advantage of talking to me.”
“Nothing happened, Jess.”
“Not only do I not believe you, I bet you that I know what happened.”
“If that’s true then you are disgusting, Jess.”
“Should I go first?” I won’t let her have the better of me, regardless of how much damage has been done. Charles and Lainie weigh heavily upon me. Damage control is the only solution. “If you were my daughter, we’d be sitting here with the same situation, Matilde. Believe me, I have more clout than your parents; I’ve lived here for years and I’ve done a few things of my own.…”
We sit for a five full minutes while she seems to reflect on the horror at hand and decides that I might be helpful.
“The cutest boy was staring at me and said I was hot. He called me ‘new girl,’ ‘babe in the woods.’ We were in
the back room—there was music and smoke and joints being passed. I couldn’t really see the girls—some were lying on couches and others on their knees in front of the boys who were lined up.
“Then I heard a few girls talking about me, saying that I’d be so pretty if I took my hair down. One of them said she bet I didn’t know anything and that I was a prude. Two other girls from ninth grade were saying, ‘down on me,’ ‘come in my mouth,’ ‘cock tease.’”
I’m sickened by her story, repulsed by what has happened, and afraid for both of us. “Matilde, I’m sorry that you—”
“You’re sorry? Jess. It was your idea.”
“Matilde…” I shudder that the crafty schemes of Elliot social life for tweens exists and will continue to exist. “Listen, if we…”
“Not one girl would be my friend. It was like this boy was the only one who stuck up for me. And then he pushed me onto the couch and unzipped his fly.” Matilde begins to cry hysterically. “He stuck it in my mouth.…”
It’s awkward the way that I reach out to her, try to give her a hug. She jerks her body away.
“The way he held my arms down, I thought he’d tear them off my body. People were watching.…” She’s sobbing.
“Matilde,” I say, “I will get you through this.”
“Like I was drowning … If my mother finds out…”
“Listen to me.” I speak in a terse voice. My body is taut. “Your mother won’t know. Nor will your father. I’m going to call you tomorrow morning. We’ll make a plan then. Do you understand?”
Matilde stares at me. I take her hands in mine and then press my thumbs against her wrists.
“Do you understand?”
She nods slightly.
“By the way, the cute popular boy who took you to the back room? Reese. His name is Reese,” I say.
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