The Summer Cottage

by Susan Kietzman

  That night, after Charlotte dressed in her black-and-white waitress uniform and left for the dining room of Ye Olde Tavern, Helen and Pammy sat on her piano bench and made each other up with their sister’s makeup. The pretty cases Charlotte purchased that afternoon sat undisturbed in the slim, brown paper bag from the pharmacy. What Helen and Pammy didn’t know before they left for town that day was that the makeup was not important. It was surprising, therefore, that in a matter of hours, it seemed to lose most of its initial appeal. What they secretly loved most about painting each other’s faces, they now knew, was digging through Charlotte’s bag and its familiar contents and making themselves look a little bit more like her.

  CHAPTER 7

  2003

  Pammy, who had changed into red linen shorts and a dry-cleaned, white cotton blouse, walked quietly down the stairs and out onto the porch where Helen was sitting, waiting. “Still asleep?”

  “Yes,” said Helen in a lowered voice. She stood and stretched her arms over her head. “Let’s go sit on the beach.”

  “Will she worry if she wakes up and we’re not here?” Pammy twisted her shoulder-length hair into a bun and clipped it into place. She slipped out of her leather sandals and into the rubber flip flops she brought along for the walk to the beach. As she was applying lip balm, she looked at her mother, dozing in her favorite chair, head back, eyelids closed but fluttering.

  Helen followed her sister’s gaze. “Her eyelids always do that,” she said. “It’s a little odd, I know, but it doesn’t mean she’s waking up. She can sleep for hours in the afternoon. I’ll leave her a note.” Helen walked into the living room and took a pad of paper and a pen from the desk. She brought them back to the porch and then jotted down their destination in big letters. She ripped the page from the pad and set it down on the table next to her mother’s chair, beside Claire’s reading glasses and half glass of water. Helen knew that her mother didn’t mind being by herself. She just wanted to know when she was.

  Crossing the street, Pammy said, “She’s gone downhill quickly. She seemed so much more alive at Thanksgiving.”

  “She loves holidays and the activity they generate, so she was definitely on her game at Thanksgiving. Remember how excited she used to get at Christmastime? She spent days in the kitchen—baking mini sweet bread loaves and Christmas stollen. . . .”

  “And how about all the cookies? Sugar cookies with frosting, chocolate dipsy doos, shortbread, real gingerbread men . . .”

  “And when she was done with that, she made chili and Sunday night casserole and hummus.”

  “She was way ahead of the game on hummus,” said Pammy, as they traversed the right-of-way. “It’s everywhere now.”

  “Chickpeas were a part of her training diet, weren’t they?”

  “Legumes of all varieties, if I remember correctly,” said Pammy. “She was a protein hound.”

  “She still is—although she sometimes needs to be reminded.” They descended the cement steps and grabbed two of the six beach chairs Helen had brought down from the garage the day before and stacked against the seawall. “She just doesn’t have any appetite.”

  “I’d like to have that problem.”

  Helen sat down in her chair. “Were we talking about you?”

  Pammy laughed, but Helen was serious. This is how it always was when she and her sister got together, either when Helen, missing her sister, drove into New York for dinner or whenever Pammy made it home. Or when they talked on the phone. Helen would try to have a conversation about their mother’s condition, about what the oncologist said, about medication and care choices, but this information about their mother was often met with silence or simply dismissed in favor of another topic. Typically that topic was something about what was going on with Pammy. Living the busy life mandated by corporate Manhattan, Pammy rarely seemed to think about Claire, as evidenced by how much she asked Helen about their mother. Except when Pammy was in Claire’s company, she was numb to her mother, Helen thought. Claire’s disappointment in Pammy as a child—she had not been athletic or scholarly—and her dissatisfaction with Pammy’s adult choices had made a permanent mark. I don’t care if you have children or not, Claire had said to Pammy at Thanksgiving. But since it’s obvious now that you’re not going to have a family, you should damn well be running that agency in New York by now. Helen acknowledged to herself and to Pammy that Claire shouldn’t have said what she said. But Pammy also had to learn to let Claire’s comments go. Taking the harsh words of an aged, ill, has-been superstar swimmer to heart was not only damaging but also foolish. Because Pammy had never been in a relationship for longer than a couple years, she had never developed the thick skin needed to deflect unpleasantness. When she was home, she reverted back to her childhood, when, in Pammy’s memory, she had done little to impress her mother or quiet her criticism. Pammy didn’t dwell on missed promotions or other disappointments except when she was quizzed about them by Claire. When Pammy was away from her mother, removed from her judgment, she considered herself successful.

  Pammy sometimes talked to Helen about what she called the troubled mother-daughter thing, but she also sometimes pretended it didn’t exist. She covered her resentment and anger well, by sending birthday cards and gifts, and with her banter and her armfuls of food and other goodies whenever she came to the house or the cottage. She was not particularly interested in conversation about family or about topics that didn’t directly relate to her, her job, or her current boyfriend. On rare occasions, she would ask Helen personal questions, but mostly, with Helen anyway, she talked about herself. Pammy was guilty of misreading Helen’s good listening skills as an avid interest in Pammy’s work and social life. And Helen, not wanting to emulate Claire, to make the same mistakes, didn’t correct her sister.

  Nonetheless, Helen did want Pammy to show more interest in her life and in Claire’s life. Helen lived ten minutes from the house she and her siblings had all grown up in, and she saw her mother every day. She shopped and cooked for her mother. She did her laundry. She took her to appointments. She kept her company—all of which took several hours out of every twenty-four. And it was okay, this arrangement, because Helen was well-suited to the task. She was generally more concerned with the health and happiness of her family and those around her than she was for her own mental and spiritual fulfillment. This unselfishness, which her husband said came naturally to Helen, was rarely rewarded or praised by her siblings—and that was the problem. Helen didn’t mind caring for her mother; she wanted Pammy and Charlotte and Thomas to acknowledge it, thank her for it, and pitch in once in a while.

  Pammy dug her bare toes into the sand. “I love it here,” she said. “I love the cottage. I love this beach. This is the only place I can relax.”

  “You say that every year.”

  “And I mean it, more every year. I never have a minute to myself in the city. And at Mom’s house, the memories muddy my head. I can’t think clearly there. Here, it’s different. Yeah, there’s stuff to do, but it’s never more complicated or arduous than shucking a dozen ears of corn, often with a drink in my hand. You’re so lucky to spend the whole summer here, Helen. I wish I had more time here. You take this place for granted.”

  “I don’t think so, Pammy.” Helen, oversensitive to her sister’s remark, had often told Pammy that she, too, could be at the cottage for an extended holiday. But no matter what Pammy said—and she talked about loving her time at the cottage every time she was there—Pammy never blocked out more than four or five days. “How’s Mark?” asked Helen, suspecting he was less than wonderful or he would be sitting on the beach with them, choosing the topic for its potential sting.

  “He’s okay. He’s got a lot of work to do this weekend.”

  “On the Fourth of July.”

  “Yes,” said Pammy. “We don’t live in a Monday through Friday world anymore, Helen. Mark often works from home, especially on the weekends.”

  “Seems like he always has a lot of work.
”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Immediately defensive, Pammy turned in her chair to face Helen.

  “What part don’t you understand?” said Helen, ready to bring their conversation to a boil.

  “No, you don’t understand, Helen.”

  “I think I do.”

  “No, you don’t. You sit back with your husband and two children, your Tudor house and garden club, and throw judgments at the rest of us. Life doesn’t come in neat little packages for everyone.”

  “What does it come in?”

  “Huge boxes,” answered Pammy, “with stiff, unyielding sides and dark corners. And as soon as I pick myself up from the last knock on the head, someone shakes the box again, pitching me against another wall or into another worthless relationship.”

  “Is it worthless?”

  “What would you call it, Helen? He never has time for me. He lies about what he’s doing. When he does want to see me, it’s for one thing. And that’s about once a week now, since he sees Nancy Fucking Greenberg three times a week. I’ve become the sympathy lay.”

  “You have not,” said Helen, backing down.

  “Don’t patronize me, Helen. You know better.”

  “So why stay?”

  “Because once a week is better than nothing.”

  “No, it’s not. Tell him you’ve met someone else. Better yet, don’t tell him anything. Don’t call him. Tell him you’re busy if he does call.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “It sounds easy,” said Helen.

  “You’re so naïve.”

  “Maybe.”

  Pammy looked at the horizon, blinking back tears. She knew she cried too often and hated the implied weakness. “Why does this always happen to me? Where is my prince? Why didn’t I see him?”

  “New York is a big city,” said Helen. “Try another subway.”

  In spite of her sadness, of her frustration with Helen’s seemingly perfect life, Pammy smiled. “You are impossible,” she said.

  “Hey, you’re the one who likes impossible challenges.”

  “Is that why I’m still with Mark? Because I think I can win him over?”

  “That would, indeed, be a challenge.”

  “I don’t know how to give him up,” said Pammy. “New York can be such a lonely place.”

  “Sometimes, you can be lonelier in a relationship than out of one, Pammy. You don’t need him.”

  “I need someone,” said Pammy. “I’m no good at being alone.”

  “Come see me when you feel lonely,” said Helen. “Come see Mom.”

  Pammy closed one eye. “How about I just come to see you?”

  “If that’s what it takes to get you out to the country more often, we can do that. I’ll hide you away in my guest bedroom.”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  Helen patted her sister on the back. “I don’t need to be careful,” she said. “The stuff I wish for never happens.”

  CHAPTER 8

  1973

  As soon as the dishes were done, Thomas washing, Helen and Pammy drying, and Charlotte doing what Thomas called fake drying, the Thompson children, as per instructions given the previous evening at the dinner table, walked out the kitchen screen door and into the yard. Claire, who had gone outside as soon as she’d finished her last bite of barbequed chicken, was sitting on the picnic table, legs crossed, one foot marking time. She had already put the plastic orange bases in their places. She had pumped air into the red rubber ball that they would soon be kicking into the air and throwing at one another. Family kickball was mandatory in the Thompson household, even if Claire could insist that Thomas take a night off from work and Charlotte stay around until dark only two or three times a summer. Thomas didn’t mind all that much because he worked too many hours each week already. But Charlotte had become increasingly petulant about board or outdoor games of any kind and inured to her mother’s pleas for family unity or passive-aggressive attempts at making Charlotte feel guilty about wanting to opt out. John emerged from the garage, where he had been in the process of gluing a lamp that Helen had knocked over the day before in her exuberance in answering the telephone. It didn’t ring often, so when it did, chances were good that the news and the caller were important.

  “Everyone ready?” asked Claire, expecting head nods or verbal assent.

  Helen was the only one who responded. “You bet!” she said, using one of her father’s phrases. If Charlotte had said the same words, the tone and implied meaning would have earned her a reprimand. There was no danger of these mood-dampening utterances occurring, however, since Charlotte was, momentarily, staging a silent protest.

  “Who wants to be a captain?” Claire was now up off the table, rubbing her hands together as she sometimes did when she was excited. No one responded, not even John, whom Claire could usually count on to step up if no one else did. “This is uncanny,” she said, hands on hips. “I can’t believe no one wants to be a captain. In my experience, being captain is a position of honor.”

  “There is nothing honorable about family kickball,” said Charlotte, switching to a verbal protest.

  “Let’s see you bring some honor to the game, then, by being a captain. Thomas, how about you? Will you be the other captain?”

  “Only if I can choose the name of my team.” Thomas was smiling, a common practice for him. His white teeth, which he brushed three times a day, were a stunning complement to dark hair worn longer than Claire liked and his tanned skin. Claire, who had to be more and more careful in the sun as she aged, insisted that Thomas looked exactly like her grandfather, a lanky man whose college education was not wasted because he made his living outdoors. John liked to think that Thomas looked a bit like him. But he and Claire were agreed that Thomas, whoever he looked like, was as unassumingly handsome as he was most-of-the-time good.

  “Go ahead,” said Claire.

  “The Poopheads!” he said. “The name of my team is the Poopheads. Now, who wants to be a poop?” Helen shot her arm into the arm.

  “Honestly, Thomas.”

  “I’m honest and serious,” said Thomas. “Helen, get over here.”

  “Hey, who says you get to choose first?” asked Charlotte.

  “You haven’t even named your team yet.”

  “Okay,” said Charlotte. “My team is the Tampons.” Claire closed her eyes and shook her head. “Look,” said Charlotte, “if you’re going to force us to play kickball like a bunch of grammar school kids, the least I can do is try to elevate the game to the high school level.” Charlotte looked at her dad, who winked at her. “I choose Dad.”

  “Well then, I choose Mom,” said Thomas. “And, just in case you were wondering, we are going to officially kick your butts.”

  Pammy was standing by herself while the others chatted. It was obvious, of course, that she was going to be a Tampon, but she was uncertain if she could join the team until she was actually summoned. For a good two minutes, while the houses rules were reviewed and debated, no one acknowledged her. It wasn’t until they were all about to take the field that Thomas turned around and called, “Let’s go, Miss Pammy. You, Charlotte, and Dad are up first.”

  The lot they played on was between their cottage and the Hendersons’ cottage next door. Jean and Frank Henderson had eight kids, many of whom were out and about every night after dinner. Often, three or four of the younger ones would wander over if they saw the Thompsons in the yard. Charlotte liked it when they joined in, mostly because her mother was less outwardly competitive when outsiders were part of the group. When it was just the Thompson family playing, Claire was relentless in her pursuit of any kind of triumph, whether it be kicking the ball over her husband’s head or earning a run. Winning was the best, but it was even better if, in Claire’s words, she buried the other team. However, fair play was above everything else, which somewhat tempered Claire’s zest for victory. The Hendersons were noticeably absent on this night. Charlotte guessed they had p
iled into the two family station wagons and headed for the Dairy Queen in town. Or maybe they were on their way to the drive-in theater. Charlotte and her boyfriend, Rick, had gone to see American Graffiti the other night, but they had made out through most of it.

  “Shall I pitch?” It was a rhetorical question. Claire, ball in hand, was standing where the pitcher would stand.

  “Oh heck, why don’t you go ahead, Mom,” said Thomas. He was standing midway between second and third base. Helen was on pop-fly duty in the outfield. She stood on the Thompson side of the road, as anything that was kicked beyond the road was considered out of bounds and an automatic out. This was one of the rules that Thomas had brought up for review earlier. He thought that a physical specimen such as himself should be able to boot the ball into the stratosphere. Claire disagreed, to which Thomas said he never thought he’d hear her admit that women were weaker, that they couldn’t kick the ball past the road. Claire had replied that the rule was in place so that the outfielders wouldn’t spend the entire night chasing balls—and dodging dog poop—in the Walshes’ yard. Thomas had very reluctantly agreed.

  “Who’s up?” Claire asked.

  “I am,” said Pammy, who backed up several feet behind home base, so she could take a run at the ball.

  “I wish all you Tampons the best of luck!” shouted Thomas from the field.

  Claire rolled the ball toward Pammy, who, still giggling from Thomas’s remark, missed it completely with her right foot.

  “How many strikes in kickball, Mom?” It was Thomas again.

  “None,” said Claire. “But we’ll give Pammy another go. Pammy, you’ve got to focus, honey. If you’re not focused, you don’t have a chance.”

  Pammy backed up behind home base again. Thomas and Helen moved in. When Pammy did make contact with the side of the ball, it spun toward third base. Thomas had the ball in his hand before Pammy was halfway to first. He took two steps toward his sister and then fired the ball at her moving legs, striking them just before she crossed the base. “You’re out!” he shouted.