“Pres, there’s about a dozen Mrs. Olsons next door, and I spoke to many of them on Friday. That was two days ago. You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”
“Please don’t call me ‘Pres,’” Prescott said in the HAL monotone. “I am speaking about the middle-aged woman. She’s short. Kind of frumpy, I guess. But in a nice way.”
A short, nicely frumpy middle-aged woman? Huh. He couldn’t think who Prescott was talking about. “Keep it coming.”
“Dark, curly hair. She was wearing a blue robe with starfish.”
“Mimi?” Joe asked. Middle-aged? Joe supposed to Prescott she must seem so. But frumpy?
Prescott’s mouth drew together like it had been threaded with a drawstring. “I believe her Christian name is ‘Mignonette.’”
“Mrs. Olson, you said? She didn’t mention a husband.” The way she’d spoken about the older Olson women, Joe had assumed Mimi was a blood relation, not an in-law.
“She’s a widow.”
How would Prescott know that? He never left this place.
“What did she say to you?” At Prescott’s persistence, it occurred to Joe that his son’s interest in a frumpy, albeit “in a nice way,” middle-aged woman was a little unusual.
“I don’t know. Things about the lake. The neighbors. Small talk.”
“Like what?” Prescott asked, determinedly nonchalant. “I saw her point at the house. Was she admiring it? I mean, her and her family? Did she realize it was an exact replica of the Astors’ grandson’s Adirondack hunting lodge?”
“You know, she did,” Joe replied to keep Prescott talking. This was as engaged as he and Prescott had been since his arrival.
A look of consternation appeared on Prescott’s face. “Did you tell her the name of the house?”
The name of the house…the name of the house. Shit. He couldn’t remember the name of Prescott’s house. Bum something? This was probably another one of Prescott’s “daddy tests,” like, “What sport did I win a medal in when I was thirteen?”
“Ah. No.”
Prescott looked disappointed but didn’t pursue it. “What else did she say?”
“Well.” Joe thought quickly, filtering the truth through a kinder lens. “She was impressed. She mentioned the cocoa-bean-hull logs and the environmental considerations you put into building the place.”
“She did?”
“Yes.” What was going on here? Did Prescott have a crush on Mimi? Not that Mimi wasn’t crush-worthy, but in Joe’s experience most men didn’t think of the objects of their lust as “frumpy.” On the other hand, Prescott wasn’t like most men of his acquaintance.
“Anything else?”
“She said you were a genius.”
Prescott smiled, and then as if recalling himself, said, “Of course, she would know all about her neighbors. And care about them. She’s very nurturing. Very tenderhearted and sweet.”
Prescott made her sound like a candidate for sainthood or a well-qualified nanny, neither of which matched the impression Joe had gotten when he’d met her. But Joe wouldn’t have called her frumpy and middle-aged, either. Based on first impressions, he would have called her a grimy lunatic. His second impression, he thought, recalling her amused dark eyes and easy manner and, oddly enough, the delicate arch of her sandy feet with their brightly polished toes, had been much better. He smiled.
“Why are you smiling?” Prescott demanded.
“What? Oh. I was thinking I wouldn’t call her frumpy.”
“Oh, really?” Prescott said, angling his pierced brow derisively.
“Informal, maybe?” Joe squinted, recalling her bare feet, clouds of hair coming out of a rubber band, and ratty beach robe. “Okay, maybe a little frumpy.”
“You only met her once. I see her all the time,” Prescott said, looking irritated. He picked up his book again.
And things had just been starting to go well—though “well” might be stretching the point. “Say, Prescott,” Joe said in his friendliest voice. “Let’s play some Ping-Pong.”
“It’s called table tennis,” Prescott replied coldly.
“Right. How about a game or two?”
“I don’t have a table.”
“Why not? You won a medal in it. It was your sport.”
“But it’s not a ‘real’ sport, remember?” Prescott sneered.
Joe turned his hands palm up. “I never said it wasn’t a real sport. I said I didn’t know it was a sport. What can I say, Prescott? I don’t watch the Winter Olympics. I apologized. I apologize again because I’ve watched since, and there is really quite a bit of physical coordination and finesse involved at the higher levels.”
“Do not patronize me.”
He wasn’t, but try to convince Prescott of that.
“Just because a sport isn’t based on steroid-pumped mutants lumbering after a ball like in football doesn’t mean it’s not a sport.”
Point for Prescott. “I know.”
Prescott lifted the book. Maybe they could talk about books. Joe tilted his head to try and read the title. Ring-wraithes: My Metaphysical Journey to the Modern Mordor. Nope. Not books.
Joe racked his brain for another topic. Something innocuous. Something guys everywhere talk about. “So, Prescott, do you have a girlfriend?”
Prescott carefully set the book facedown on his lap. “No,” he said. “I’m gay.”
Gay? This was unexpected, Joe thought, but okay. They were getting somewhere. Perhaps Prescott’s animosity stemmed from the fact that Joe hadn’t recognized his gayness. That would be understandable. But why hadn’t he? Far less understandable.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“Do you think I’m lying?” Prescott asked. “Would it be such an embarrassment if your son was gay?”
“Of course not.” He leaned forward in his chair, smiling engagingly. “So, you’re gay. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No,” Prescott said flatly, picking up his book again. “I’m not gay.”
“Then why—” Joe broke off. He already knew why. It had been another test designed for him to fail. The reason why Prescott designed these tests was the only real mystery. What were they supposed to prove? That Joe was an ass? Joe wasn’t an ass. Prescott, now Prescott was an ass. With an effort, Joe tamped down his irritation. Things needed lightening up, badly.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re not gay and you don’t have a girlfriend. What do you do for fun? You like music?”
“Not really.”
“Chess?”
“No.”
“Poker?”
“Hardly.”
The kid had to do something. “Come on, Prescott. You don’t ponce around with a light saber at Star Wars conventions, do you?” He laughed, expecting Prescott to at least smile.
His laughter faded. Prescott wasn’t laughing. Oh, fuck.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he said quickly. “They sound like fun. Really.”
“I haven’t been to a convention in three years!” Prescott shouted, surging to his feet and stomping heavily out of the room.
Joe rose. “Prescott, please. I was trying to make a joke. It was stupid.”
He was talking to dead air. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. This was senseless. He was only torturing them both by staying here. He’d leave tomorrow. Maybe next year things would be different.
He wandered to the bank of windows overlooking the lake. Intermittent glints of starlight peeked out from between the drifts of clouds, flirting with the lake’s surface. Far out, a large, indistinct shape rocked like an anchored ship, shadowy figures moving across its surface. Probably the teenage boys from Chez Ducky.
He hoped none of the young fools decided to go diving. He didn’t know how deep the lake was but conscientiousness goaded him into picking up the binoculars Prescott used for bird-watching. The blurry figures remained dark as they grew larger, their outlines taking on shapes…older female shapes.
Joe
snatched the binoculars from his eyes, then abruptly grinned. The older women from Chez Ducky were skinny-dipping. Just then, on the opposite side of the lake at one of the building sites, a series of floodlights suddenly turned on. Joe blinked at the brilliance, shielding his eyes with his hand as the figures on the raft silently fled, slipping over the side and entering the water without a splash. Within minutes they were gone. No one was left, just an empty pontoon and an empty night. His mood sank.
He turned away, glancing at the doorway through which Prescott had disappeared.
“Prescott,” he said. “I know you can hear me. I’m really sorry about the light saber comment.”
“And I really don’t give a shit.” Prescott’s voice came out of the overhead speakers, flat and unemotional.
Joe heard the distinct click of the system turning off. He took a deep breath. He needed a walk.
Chapter Thirteen
Mimi trod water next to the raft. Around her, the other skinny-dippers had begun trading stories passed down through the generations. Like when Great-Great-Grandfather Sven had taken his soon-to-be bride, Ita, out in a canoe on the lake to propose, only to drop the ring in the lake. Ita, a frugal woman if ever there was one, had dived right in after it and kept diving until she finally came back up with it. Or the time Great-Aunt Ruth had been driving a bunch of kids back from town in the Model T when the brakes had failed at the top of the hill. The car had careered down the hill straight toward the big drop-off and sank in a stew of bubbles. The Model T, legend had it, was still down there, mired in the muck ten feet below the surface.
Usually Mimi loved these stories, but tonight she heard them not as anecdotes but as a eulogy. Her mood plummeted.
A generator on the other side of the lake hummed to life and a blaze of floodlights erupted on the far shore. With girlish giggles, the women vacated the raft. Mimi followed more slowly. Not giggling.
By the time she got to shore, the others had already dressed and gone up to the Big House. Mimi wrung the water out of her hair, then donned an oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants. She was three-quarters of the way up to the Big House when she heard Birgie and Vida speaking. They sounded like they were at the back door.
“Of course she’s unhappy,” Vida was saying. “Mimi loves this place.”
Mimi halted, shamelessly eavesdropping.
“If this place is so important to her, she’d say something,” Birgie said.
“No, she wouldn’t,” Vida insisted.
No, she wouldn’t, Mimi silently echoed. Then, Good old Vida. Who’d have guessed she’d champion not only Chez Ducky but me? Mimi was touched.
“She’s not the proactive type,” Vida continued, “but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel things deeply, profoundly.”
Let’s not get carried away, Vida.
“Let’s not get carried away, there, Vida,” Birgie said.
“I’m not,” Vida insisted. “What does Mimi have besides this place? Nothing. Nada. Zilch.”
Mimi frowned. “Zilch” seemed an unnecessarily severe way of stating matters.
“The only family life Mimi knows is here, and then only during the summer.”
“She does have a mother,” Birgie pointed out.
Vida made a derisive sound but let it stand. “From what I’ve heard, Solange Charbonneau Olson Werner doesn’t have a family as much as a corporation with herself as CEO. Poor Mimi doesn’t have a boyfriend. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t even have any close friends. Has she ever brought someone up to Chez Ducky with her? All the rest of us have. Frequently.”
Mimi was a little taken aback. Just because she didn’t overly invest in other people’s lives didn’t mean she was friendless. She was simply content with her own company.
“Mimi doesn’t own a house, a car, or a pet,” Vida went on. “For all I know she doesn’t even have a houseplant.”
So?
“She doesn’t have anything else in her life that she owns. And she only owns a part of this.”
Okay, Vida, you’ve made your point, Mimi thought, feeling somewhat less friendly toward her favorite cousin’s wife.
“I blame her dad,” Birgie muttered.
Her dad? Mimi’s attention snapped back into sharp focus.
“Damn John, anyway,” Birgie went on, “wandering off like some old hound to die. Least he coulda done if he was going to die when she was so young was leave a body to bury. Him disappearing like that stunted her.”
Mimi’s mouth dropped open, first and foremost because she was not stunted. She was a whole lot more mentally healthy than almost any one or combination of Olsons or Olson-esques. No trouble sleeping (until recently), no problems getting up in the morning (when she had to get up, which was infrequently), no temper tantrums, no mood swings. She moved through life on the most even of keels. She was fine, thank you very much.
Second, she was amazed that after all this time anyone still insisted on making unfounded assumptions. There was no certainty that her dad wasn’t still using his body, which would make burying it something of an inconvenience. Who knew her father better than she did? No one. He could have been hit on the head and have amnesia. He could be in a prison in the gulag somewhere. Or shipwrecked. He could still simply not be ready to come home. Wherever he was, he wasn’t here. In any form. Which meant that he was out there somewhere.
Mimi had heard enough of Vida’s championing her. She started to slip back toward the beach when she heard a new voice: Debbie’s. She stopped, listening warily. She hadn’t realized Debbie was with them.
“Fine,” Debbie said in exasperated tones. “I get it. And I agree. Mimi’s life is pathetic.”
Pathetic? No one had used the word “pathetic.” Mimi waited for someone to refute this. No one did. Is that how they saw her? As lonely, pathetic…she stopped herself from piling on more unpleasant words.
“But whose fault is that?” Debbie went on. “Not mine. Not either of yours. Not your kids, Vida. Do you want to explain to them that they can’t go to a good college without you or them going into debt because you felt sorry for some cousin so many times removed that you would need a calculator to figure it out?”
Mimi’s mouth tightened. Only enormous self-restraint kept her from shouting, “Third cousin twice removed, asshole!”
But then her anger disappeared. From Vida’s perspective, selling Chez Ducky made good sense. From a lot of Olsons’ perspectives it made good sense. Just think of all the things they could give one another and their kids with a financial windfall. Mimi, as it had so recently been pointed out, didn’t have anyone to give anything to. There was no one depending on her for an education, a new car, a wedding, retirement or…or anything.
She didn’t have the right to tell the rest of her family what they should or should not do. If the majority wanted to sell Chez Ducky, then that’s what ought to happen. And if the thought made her feel as though she’d spun around blindfolded and was groping toward an abyss, she’d get over it. She headed back toward the beach, all thought of joining the others gone. Tomorrow, when she’d found her footing again, when things had begun to slide into whatever pattern the future held, she’d be fine. But tonight Chez Ducky, always unchangeable, felt like it was disappearing. And her along with it.
She wandered along the beach, her footprints in the sand dissolving in the lick of water. Crickets and night peepers serenaded her passing, and a glamour of fireflies threaded themselves amongst the brush like fairy lights.
It should have made her happy. She should have been able to enjoy the moment for whatever it was, cut it out of its timeline and live it. She should have been able to look around in pleasure and smile. It was beautiful. Instead, she folded up like an accordion, dropped down on the sand, and bawled.
“Ahem.”
She ignored whatever guy was clearing his throat. She didn’t want to answer any of Gerry’s or Charlie’s questions.
“Ahem.”
She wiped her nose on her forearm and lift
ed bleary eyes. “What—”
Joe Tierney stood a few feet in front of her, his hands stuck in the pockets of his perfectly pressed slacks. He was still gleaming. Only now he was gleaming in moonlight. And she was once more coated with sand and soaking wet. Plus her nose was running and she was hiccuping.
She wrapped her arms tightly around her legs and waited for him to remark on her appearance, but he only sighed, a deep, heartfelt echo of her own feelings.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
Her lower lip began to tremble. “They…they…” She gulped and tried again. “They’re going to sell Chez Ducky.”
He nodded sadly. He didn’t tell her it would be all right. He didn’t suggest she could be wrong. He didn’t console her. For all these things, she was grateful. He simply lowered himself down onto the sand beside her and stared out over the lake.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
Without looking at her, he said, “My son’s a dick.”
She nodded. For a long while they sat beside each other in silent and companionable misery. She didn’t want to talk about Chez Ducky and she suspected Joe wasn’t eager to discuss Prescott. They were both, she intuited, private people, uncomfortable with sharing things. But it would be nice to feel someone was close, to share a little warmth, to touch and be touched. Unlikely, she thought, looking down at her wet shirt and sand-splattered legs and arms.
“I’m not always covered with dirt and sand, you know,” she murmured.
He turned his head to look at her. “No? I thought it might be some sort of Northern fashion.”
She smiled wanly. “It is, but sometimes I go metro. A slick little urban alley look.”
He laughed.
“And you,” she countered. “Are you always so Calvin Klein? All polished and polo looking? And”—she sniffed—“is that aftershave you’re wearing?”
“Would that be bad?” he asked, looking amused.
“Well, at least it’s not pine scented.”
“Too obvious. And no, it’s just soap.”
“Really expensive soap.”
“But manly?” he asked.
Skinny Dipping Page 10