Aware of her own silence, she said, “How did that affect your brother?”
“Jack?” Ben repeated with veiled scorn. “It shrunk him. I’d watch my father beat my mother, then turn to Jack—two years older—praying he’d do something. He never did.” Ben stared out at the pond, and Whitney could feel the rage trapped inside him escaping in words her presence had somehow catalyzed. “That’s the reason I won’t go to prison to avoid Vietnam, anymore than I’d run off to Canada. It was prison enough watching Jack placate our father, or tell our mother not to provoke him. Only cowards turn petty tyrants into gods.” He paused, then spoke more deliberately. “When I was fifteen, I realized that it was going to be one of us—my father, or me. So I decided to take control for good.”
The iron in his tone left Whitney caught between dread and curiosity. “How?” she asked.
Still Ben did not look at her. “I studied a book on boxing. Then I hung up a heavy bag in a neighbor’s barn and tore into it everyday after school. Not to let the anger out, but to train, until the stuffing bled through the canvas. A sign from God, I thought.
“That night, at dinner, my father slapped my mother—there was something about the stew he didn’t like. She was cowering in a corner with that same look of incomprehension, a small animal petrified of a big one. I got up from the table and grabbed him by the wrist. ‘You’re a pussy,’ I told him. ‘Good only for beating up women and small boys. You’re just smart enough to know I’ve gotten way too big for that. But way too stupid to know what that means.’”
Whitney felt her stomach clench. “The bastard’s eyes get big,” Ben continued. “Suddenly he takes a swing at me. I duck, like I’ve taught myself, and Jack tries to step between us. ‘Get out of my way,’ I shout at him, ‘or you’ll come next.’” Ben’s speech quickened. “Jack backs up a step. Before my father can move I pivot sideways and hit him in the gut with everything I’ve got. He doubles over, groaning. As he struggles to look up at me, I break his nose with a right cross.” Ben’s voice was thick now. “His blood spurts on the floor. I’m breathing hard, years of hatred welling up. ‘Remember hitting me?’ I manage to say, and send a left to his mouth that knocks out his front teeth.
“My father starts blubbering, and he looks like Halloween. I pull him up by the throat and press my thumbs on his larynx ’til his eyes bulge. ‘I run this house now,’ I told him. ‘You just live here. Hit her again, and I’ll cut your balls off with a butter knife.’”
Whitney felt herself recoil. Suddenly Ben stopped himself, as though sensing her reaction. He breathed once, then turned to her, eyes filled with shame and fierceness, his mouth twisted in a smile of self-contempt. “Listen to me,” he said in a chastened voice, “awash in self-pity masked as heroics. I never talk to anyone like this. God knows why I inflicted myself on you.”
“People talk to me, Ben. They always have. As strange as that may seem to you.”
Ben looked at her intently. “Not so strange,” he said more softly. “Anyhow, I’ve kept you here long enough.”
Whitney did not protest. On the trip home, Ben said almost nothing. He stopped at the foot of her driveway, well short of the house. To her surprise, he got out of the truck as she did.
Once more his tone was expressionless, his face closed. “I’m sorry, Whitney. You didn’t need any of that. I’m not quite right yet, and I’ve spent too much time alone.”
“I didn’t mind listening, really. A lot has happened to you.”
The smile he gave her was more like a grimace. “If you want to, we can try this again in a few days. Without the family portrait.”
“I’d like that,” Whitney told him, unsure of whether she would. As if perceiving this, he turned abruptly, got back in the truck, and drove away.
She watched him go, trying to imagine how it felt to be Benjamin Blaine. Then she heard footsteps on the gravel.
Turning, she saw Peter, freshly arrived on the Vineyard, still wearing a suit from work. “Who was that?” he asked.
“Just a guy I met—the caretaker next door. He’s teaching me how to sail.”
Peter’s usually guileless eyes were questioning. “Looked to me like you were pretty caught up in him.”
“Hope so. Mom always taught me to look at whoever was speaking to me.” Before he could answer, she kissed him, pressing her body against his. “Only two days, and I’ve missed you already.”
Mollified, Peter took her hand. “Not as much as I’ve missed you. Why don’t we get a gin and tonic? Pretending to be a grown-up is hard work.”
The next morning, Whitney drove to Dogfish Bar alone. Instead of swimming first, she opened her journal, wanting to write but unsure of where to start. Finally, she began.
I’ve never met anyone like him. Maybe this is melodramatic, but somehow I think he’ll end up famous—or dead. There’s something brilliant about him, and something terribly damaged. If I truly believed in prayer, he’s someone who I’d pray for.
She stopped, thinking about his family, feeling lucky in her own. Then honesty caught up with her, and she picked up the pen again.
I’ve done nothing about Janine.
Nine
Sitting beside Whitney on a beach towel, Clarice languidly spread suntan oil on her slender, perfect legs. The sky was clear; the air, cut by a fitful breeze, was temperate and dry. On the transistor radio beside them Grace Slick was belting out “White Rabbit.” Casually, Clarice said, “Sorry if I barged in on you yesterday.”
Lying back, Whitney put on her sunglasses. “It’s your boat, after all. Anyhow, I thought you and Ben really hit it off.”
“If he’s not careful,” Clarice responded with a laugh, “that chip on his shoulder will turn him into a hunchback. But I’ll admit to being intrigued. Especially since your dad called mine to ask about him.”
Surprised, Whitney turned on her elbow. “Did your dad say why?”
“Obviously, your parents are curious about who you’re spending time with. I just thought you should know.”
Angered, Whitney wondered if Charles had also spoken with Peter. “That’s pretty irritating—it’s like I’m two years old. What did your father tell him?”
“I guess Dad allowed that Ben was a pretty good sailor. He did ask me what I knew about him. ‘Next to nothing,’ I told him, and decided to see for myself.”
Whitney felt on edge. “Please tell me that you’re not reporting back to your dad. Who’s reporting back to mine.”
“Of course not,” Clarice protested. “I love both our dads, but you’re my best friend. Besides, a certain level of obliviousness is good for parents. Sometimes cluelessness really is bliss.”
“I guess I’ll bite, then,” Whitney found herself saying. “What did you think of Ben?”
Gazing up at a skittering cirrus cloud, Clarice considered her answer. “He’s sex on a sailboat—and knows it. But there’s something dangerous about him. You can almost feel it on your skin.”
As usual, Whitney thought, Clarice was able to put her own instincts into words. “And here I thought it was poison ivy.”
“You know what I mean. He seems like a guy who knows what he wants and how to get it.” A quizzical look crossed Clarice’s face, as though she had just surprised herself. “In a funny way, he reminds me of your dad.”
Whitney turned on her elbow. “What drugs are you taking? I can’t even imagine them in the same room.”
“You’re talking about politics, Whit, or maybe class. This is about who they are. Your dad’s the best, but would you want to cross him?”
“How do you mean?”
Clarice gave her a shrewd look. “He’s your father, I know, and for you he’s charm incarnate. But if you back up and watch, you can sense a very cool brain at work, constantly alert to whatever might affect his interests.” Her tone became mollifying. “I’m not comparing them as people—Ben’s got an edge that is all his own. I’m just saying that he looks like someone hell-bent on having his way in the world.
”
Whitney eyed her friend. “You seem to have gotten a lot from those five magical minutes.”
“I did, actually,” Clarice responded with serene assurance. “I hope it doesn’t irritate you to talk about Ben Blaine.”
“It doesn’t. I just wonder why it’s worth our time. It’s not like I’m going to sleep with him.”
Clarice pushed her sunglasses down her nose, scrutinizing Whitney over the rim. “That’s a funny thing to say. Especially for someone who’s getting married.”
A Frisbee landed at Whitney’s feet. Waiting for a lanky guy and his terrier to retrieve it, Whitney composed her response. “What I’m trying to suggest, Clarice, is that it should be unremarkable for men and women to spend time together. The way we were brought up is antiquated: guys are the people you marry, and women the ones you get for friends—segregation by function. All because our genitals are different.”
“But they are different,” Clarice responded with the patience of a teacher whose student is a bit dull-witted. “And we’re different. Since time began we’ve played different roles in the world.”
Whitney scanned the crowded beach—men and women and families clustered together, some under bright umbrellas, one mother reading as her husband built a sand castle with a small girl and smaller boy. “Maybe that made sense when we lived in caves—I’m pretty sure Peter would eclipse me in killing saber-toothed tigers. But my dad uses his brain, and there’s no inherent reason I couldn’t work with him just as well as Peter does.”
Clarice gave her a thin smile. “Start expressing these uncomfortable truths aloud, Whitney, and people will think you’re a feminist.” To ward off Whitney’s retort, Clarice hastily continued, “I’m not trying to put you down—honestly. But men are competitive and less nurturing. They start wars; we have babies. They get erections from looking at pictures of naked women. We don’t look at pictures of naked guys with erections. Just be glad that most of them don’t get erections looking at pictures of other guys with erections. Imagine the implications of that.” As Whitney began laughing, Clarice concluded with mock profundity, “You and I wouldn’t exist, and the world as we know it would end. Which is why Playboy is part of God’s plan.”
This explication of the world according to Clarice piqued Whitney’s curiosity. “Is there a God, Professor Barkley?”
“Seriously? We won’t know until we die, will we—the ones who die before us don’t give exit interviews. So it’s just easier for people to say they do know.” Pausing, Clarice asked pointedly, “Aren’t you and Peter having an Episcopalian priest perform the wedding ceremony?”
“Of course.”
“Then expect to hear more about God than you and Peter. And nobody there will ask if God exists, or why He isn’t a woman. I certainly won’t—some things aren’t worth the trouble of upsetting anyone. In our circles, at least, most people don’t like thinking about things they’ve already decided are decided. If that makes sense.”
Once again, Whitney was impressed by the cynical wisdom concealed by her friend’s sunny façade. “It does, actually.”
Encouraged, Clarice went breezily on. “Once the honeymoon starts, God will return to His proper place, and you’ll be back in the world of men. One man, particularly, who’ll want you to go down on him every so often. In that way, Venice will look a lot like Dartmouth. Assuming Peter likes that, though I never met a man who didn’t. Sometimes my vagina just can’t compete . . .”
Amused and appalled, Whitney interjected, “Good God, Clarice . . .”
“God has nothing to do with that one,” Clarice persisted blithely. “Funny how that’s when they gasp the loudest.”
Covering her face in mock horror, Whitney remembered her mother’s one remark on oral sex: “Thank God your father never insisted on it, let alone the other thing. When I think of homosexuals, it’s hard to imagine an entire relationship based on that.” Between her fingers, she murmured, “This conversation would simply horrify my mom.”
“What a surprise. Mine would sooner turn communist than utter the words ‘blow job.’ But moms aren’t exactly our target audience.”
“Put it this way,” Whitney acknowledged, “I don’t think Peter minds a lot.”
“You’re a truly keen observer, Whitney.” Lying back, Clarice stretched out her body to take full advantage of the sun, reminding Whitney of a cat lying beneath the window. “Speaking of which, do you think young Mr. Blaine is sexy?”
“At the risk of disappointing you, I’ve never thought about it.”
“Come off it, Whit—it’s just how people are. I’m sure he’s thought about it, not to suggest that he’s obsessed with you. I bet he even wondered about me—he’d probably wonder about your mother, if he ever met her. According to a highly scientific survey I read in Cosmopolitan, if you only think about sex every fifteen minutes, you’re probably dead.”
“I think part of him is dead,” Whitney retorted. “Or at least in a coma.”
Turning her head, Clarice looked at her with renewed curiosity. “What do you mean by that?”
“Until a month ago he was traveling with Bobby Kennedy. It sounds like Ben knew him pretty well—for sure he believed in him enough to drop out of Yale. The assassination has made him really bitter.”
Clarice took this in, her expression changing from surprised to sympathetic. “I’m sure it must have,” she allowed. “Look how it upset you, and even me. But people outlive grief, and so will he.”
“Maybe so. But Ben had a pretty rough time before that. Bad family, no money. All his life he’s been pretty much on his own.”
“You seem to know a lot about him.”
“He talks, I listen. Right now he needs that, and maybe it’s better with someone he’s not close to.”
A skeptical look surfaced in Clarice’s cornflower-blue eyes. “So maybe you’re his therapist. But while he’s pouring out his heart, he’s still thinking about sex. If you’re human, there’s no escaping human nature.”
It was time, Whitney decided, to divert the conversation from herself. “So what did you think when you were looking at Ben?”
Clarice emitted a theatrical sigh. “I always have to be the brave one, don’t I? Okay, Whit. Ben’s no boy. If he ever got around to it, a girl would know. You wouldn’t have to teach him anything.” She regarded Whitney seriously. “He has a certain fascination, I’ll admit—danger always does. But you see a brooding, lonely guy. I see a hungry and ambitious guy with trouble written all over him, who’s had more women than I’ve got fingers and toes.”
“I’ll be sure to ask him about that,” Whitney replied sarcastically, and decided to change the subject altogether. Ben meant little to her; she wasn’t even sure she wanted to see him. But talking about him like this felt invasive and uncomfortable, just like her father’s questions. For reasons Whitney could not name, she sensed no good would come of it.
Ten
Half-teasing, half-curious, Whitney said, “Just between us, Clarice, how many guys have you slept with?”
“More than you have,” Clarice answered briskly, “which wouldn’t be hard. But please don’t play the innocent, Whitney. Both of us broke sexual barriers.”
“Me? How did I manage that?”
“By sleeping with Peter. We’ve already rejected this ridiculous notion of being virgins until we marry, turning our honeymoon into the Amateur Hour. Because of the Pill, we can have the freedom men do. The difference being we still have to pretend we’re different.”
“I thought you just said we are different.”
“Women have more self-control, for sure—we’ve had to. But for the longest time I thought we were another species, because that’s what our mothers said. They raised us in the cult of virginity, to be sacrificed on the altar of marriage in exchange for eternal love. What nonsense.”
Whitney smiled in recognition. “After we were engaged, my mom said, ‘Peter will be gentle, I’m sure. But if it hurts, tell him.’ I couldn’t
figure out whether she really believed I was still a virgin, or just wanted to preserve the myth.”
“Such a trap,” Clarice said ruefully. “Sleeping with my first guy was really a big deal. So I tried to believe I loved him. Then I realized I didn’t have to marry him just because I’d opened up my legs. And if that made no sense, neither had saving it for marriage.”
“And you didn’t regret it?”
Clarice shook her head. “I was free to do what I wanted. Don’t you ever want to have sex just because you feel like it?”
“Sure,” Whitney conceded. “That’s when I remember my suitemate’s paper on masturbation. Required reading among our friends.”
“Sometimes you have to be your own best friend,” Clarice concurred with a smile. “But the Pill has given us choices—no pregnancy, no risky abortions, and all we have to worry about is getting some disease. We can sleep with whomever.”
Whitney paused to scan the beach: in the warm mid-afternoon sun, kids scampered in the surf, and a few fishermen with fly rods had begun casting into the waters. Pensive, Clarice pulled out a pack of Chesterfield filters and lit one, another small act of rebellion indulged out of her parents’ sight. In her friend’s contemplative silence, Whitney reflected on how Clarice’s commentary echoed in her own life—anxieties about missed periods, the silence between girls and their mothers. Though it occasionally unnerved her, Whitney valued Clarice’s candor.
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