The Summer Cottage

by Susan Kietzman

  “Hey,” Thomas said that night as they descended the beach steps, “what are the chances we see Charlotte down here making out with one of her bozo boyfriends?”

  “Not very good,” Helen replied. “She’s already in bed.”

  “Don’t tell me she’s dumped Steve Johanson already.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Helen, hanging the beach towel she had retrieved from the clothesline over the stairway’s steel railing. “She’s getting her friend.”

  “Her what?”

  “You know.”

  “Her period, Helen? Is she getting her period?”

  “I hate that word.”

  “Don’t you hate calling it a friend more?”

  “Good point,” said Helen, jumping down onto the cool sand. “From what Charlotte’s told me, that name makes no sense anyway.”

  “Agreed.”

  They walked down to the water’s edge and waded in up to their ankle bones. “It’s cold,” said Helen, hugging her torso.

  “It’s delightful,” said Thomas, as he strode out into the water until it encircled his waist. He leaped out of the water like a porpoise and then disappeared under the surface. Helen followed him much like a dog obeys a master, without protest, without thought. The dark, dense water surrounded and held her, cooling her instantly. She swam to Thomas, who was treading water several yards away. “You,” he said as she drew nearer, “are Secret Agent Ten.” Thomas always made up a game on the way to the raft. “And I am Secret Agent Twenty. Our mission tonight is to swim swiftly and silently to our island base camp, which has been infiltrated by Russian scuba divers. We will bomb them using heavy artillery, trying our best to avoid our own structures, until they surrender. We will destroy their encampment.”

  A good swimmer, like all the Thompsons, Thomas led with his flawless crawl stroke. Arm over arm and face in the water, he moved efficiently and consistently like a machine. Swimming in his wake, Helen chose the breaststroke. Occasionally she dipped her mouth and nose below the surface, but her eyes, alert and ever vigilant, remained above water. Creatures in the murkiness below could strike without warning. If she stayed close to Thomas, she felt safe. She was so busy looking around that she didn’t notice Thomas had stopped and ran right into him.

  “Hey!” Thomas said. “Watch it, Agent Ten. Do you want to blow our cover?”

  “Sorry,” said Helen, breathless.

  He grinned at her. “You are a little chicken, Helen Thompson.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Am . . .”

  “Shhh! Listen. Did you hear something?”

  “No,” Helen said, looking around them.

  “I could have sworn I heard a kind of whooshing sound, kind of like a shark fin cutting through the water.”

  “Drop dead, Thomas,” said Helen, trying to sound nonchalant even though her heart was pounding.

  “Or maybe it was one of those huge eels racing through the grass below. Helen help! He’s got my toe! I’m going under!”

  “Some spy you make,” said Helen, breathing heavily from fear. “The Russians have already seen us and are breaking up camp.”

  “No, they aren’t,” said Thomas, backing off. “That’s just the night guards ending their shift. This is our only opportunity. Silence, Agent Ten, is the key to our success.”

  Helen followed him the rest of the way to the raft, another twenty-five yards or so, where she treaded water while he climbed the ladder. On the third rung, he leaned down and whispered. “What are we?”

  “Swift and lethal,” Helen dutifully replied.

  Thomas jumped up onto the raft’s surface and launched into an elaborate exercise of karate kicks and punches. “Hi yah!” he yelled. “Eat eel grass, peasant!”

  Emulating her brother’s actions, Helen threw her feet and hands into the air, striking imaginary adversaries with gusto. Within minutes, all the Russians were dead or close enough. Helen and Thomas met in the middle of the raft and solemnly shook hands before moving on to the bombing phase of their mission. She stepped onto the diving board and walked out to the end over the water. She jumped once, then twice, testing the spring before returning to the raft. A moment later, Helen turned and jogged four steps along the board. Jumping up, she forced all her weight onto the very end of the plank, which sent her flying through the thick air. She pulled her knees up to her chest and held them there. One, two, three, four, five—her body hit the water with a violent boom, sending water up and out in all directions. “The cannonball,” said Thomas, already clapping when she rose to the surface, “by Helen Thompson.”

  “Good?” Helen asked.

  “Stupendous,” Thomas answered. “The entire Russian infantry has retreated. Come, feast on potatoes and vodka!”

  Helen climbed up the ladder and sat opposite her brother. The moon shone down upon them, lighting the surface of the raft as if it were a small stage. Thomas, using the exaggerated motions of a mime actor, handed her imaginary food and beverage, followed by treasure chests of Russian coin, currency, and valuable artifacts. They counted their booty, which amounted to three billion American dollars, stuffed it into their suits, then dove into the water for the swim back to headquarters on the mainland. Again Thomas led and Helen swam close to him. Bravely putting her face down, she rotated her arms in a crawl stroke and pulled herself gracefully through the water. On the way back to the beach, she was not as fearful of the marine life below. The sharks and eels and giant squid, she reasoned, had fallen back to sleep.

  When she could touch the bottom, Helen stopped swimming and walked to the beach. Thomas, wrapped in his blue and green-striped towel, handed Helen hers. She bundled up, and stood, shivering, next to her brother. “You cold?” he asked.

  “Not really,” Helen said, through chattering teeth.

  “Let’s go up,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders and giving her a side hug. “We’ll run a warm shower for just a minute. Nice work, Agent Ten.”

  CHAPTER 15

  2003

  “Mom!”

  “Hey, Mom!

  “Helen, we’re home!”

  Helen bolted out of her chair on the porch and jogged to the kitchen, where she found Todd carrying two large bass, Ned carrying three medium-sized bass, and Charles holding a can of Diet Coke. “Hi, guys!” she said, hugging all of them one after the other. “How was everything?”

  “Great! We caught a ton of fish. Lots of small ones we had to throw back, but look at these,” said Ned, lifting high the fish in his hands.

  “Ned, I’m thoroughly impressed.” She kissed him on the check. “And look at those, Todd. You didn’t catch them, did you?” Todd beamed. “They’re beautiful,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. She kissed her husband on the lips. “And you must have been fishing in the cooler.” She took the soda can from his hand and took a sip. “Put the fish on the butcher block, and we’ll see what we can do about getting them ready for dinner.”

  “I did have a good one on the line,” said Charles. “But he got away.”

  “He almost pulled Dad out of the boat,” said Ned. “He was huge!”

  “What happened?” asked Helen.

  “He broke the line,” said Todd, laying his catch on the counter. “It was quite extraordinary.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Helen reached out and tousled Todd’s hair. He was just her height now, but Helen guessed he would be six feet in no time.

  “Where is everyone?” asked Charles.

  “Mom, Charlotte, and Daniel are still at the beach, and Pammy’s upstairs showering. That leaves the outside shower for you three,” said Helen, holding her nose.

  “Are we that bad?” asked Charles, smelling the sleeve of his shirt.

  “You’re about on par with your catch.” Helen smiled at her husband.

  “Okay, men,” said Charles. “Let’s hit the showers.”

  Minutes later, Pammy walked into the kitchen. “Just look at these fish,” Hel
en said. “They’re resplendent.”

  Pammy looked over her sister’s shoulder. “They look pretty ugly to me,” she said. “You’re not going to clean them, are you?”

  “How else are we going to eat them?” said Helen.

  “Let the boys do it.”

  “They’re complete wimps when it comes to this stuff.”

  “How about Charles?”

  “King wimp.”

  “I’ll ask Daniel. I’ll bet he’d do it.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He’s good at everything,” said Pammy, reaching into the cupboard for a drinking glass. “I’m sure that includes cleaning fish.”

  “Really?” said Helen. “I don’t know anybody who’s good at everything. Have you surmised this yourself, or has Daniel been telling you tales?”

  “We had a nice chat on the raft,” said Pammy, blushing in spite of her efforts not to as she filled her glass at the sink.

  “And this is when he told you he could do everything?” Helen chose the sharpest knife from the butcher block on the counter.

  “He kissed me, Helen.”

  Helen dropped the knife and turned to look at her sister. “What do you mean he kissed you?”

  “We were squirting water out of our mouths at each other. I had my eyes closed, and he put his mouth over mine.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I swallowed my mouthful of salt water and kissed him back.”

  “Shit, Pammy!”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “How about asking him if the name Charlotte rings any bells, for starters.” Helen bent down to pick the knife up off the floor. She wiped the blade on her shorts.

  “It was all very innocent,” said Pammy.

  “Then why are you blushing?”

  “It must be the sun.” Pammy put her hands to her cheeks.

  “Don’t make trouble,” Helen warned. “Charlotte will tear you apart. You know that.” Pammy shot a quick smile at her sister and then walked out of the room, pushing the swinging door closed behind her. Helen watched her sister go. Then, she raised the knife in her hand and whacked off a fish head.

  Charles, looking trim in khaki shorts and a navy blue golf shirt, stacked the charcoal in the grill and doused it with lighter fluid. As soon as he tossed in a match, the mountain of coals exploded into a yellow fireball, forcing a mass of thick, black smoke skyward. He stood back for a moment, took a sip from his scotch and water, and then settled into a webbed lawn chair a few feet from the grill. From there, he could see through the large window into the kitchen, where Helen and Pammy were preparing the salad and the garlic bread. If he turned his head, he could see the lot next to the cottage, where his sons were playing Frisbee with Daniel. Charlotte walked through the kitchen, breezing past her laboring sisters, and came outside, letting the screen door bang behind her. She was dressed in tight white shorts too short for a woman her age and a blue and white-striped shirt that accented her new breasts. What wouldn’t accent them? thought Charles, as he pried his eyes from her chest to her face. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. He half hoped she was looking for Daniel and would walk by to find him.

  “Hi there,” she said, sitting on the picnic table under the apple tree.

  “Hi,” said Charles, raising his drink in a salute to his sister-in-law.

  “You guys caught some mean-looking fish.”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  Charlotte laughed. She tossed her head back and ran her fingers through her hair. When her head lowered itself back into place, Charles could tell she’d had a drink or two before the one she currently held in her hand. She could walk without tripping and talk without slurring, but he guessed she was on her way to doing both. Charlotte was mercurial enough when she was sober. But when she was drunk, whatever loosely defined barriers that periodically reined in her behavior disappeared altogether. The drink on the table beside her was half full. “So, what do you think of my young man?” she asked, raising the drink to her lips.

  “He seems nice, Charlotte. He’s awfully good with the boys.”

  “Yes, I think he’d make a great father. Do you think I’d be a good mother, Charles?”

  “Sure, Charlotte,” said Charles, rising from his chair. “Hey, listen. I’m going to see how Helen’s doing with that fish. Get an update on the Frisbee game for me.” Charles walked into the kitchen, where Helen was shredding Parmesan cheese and Pammy was mincing fresh garlic. “She’s gone,” he said to Helen, who handed him the fish on a platter.

  “What was your first clue?” asked Pammy. “Has she told you she’s had three scotches, or did she reluctantly confess that she finds you tremendously attractive?”

  Charles laughed. “Neither,” he said. “She asked me if I thought she’d make a good mother.”

  Pammy and Helen both stopped what they were doing and looked at him. “You don’t think she’s pregnant, do you?” Helen asked.

  “Would she be on her third scotch if she were?” asked Charles. “And isn’t she too old for that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Pammy.

  “Really? I thought women talked about their periods whenever they got a chance.”

  “Maybe they’re thinking about adopting,” Helen suggested, ignoring her husband’s remark.

  “I don’t think so,” said Pammy. “I don’t think Daniel’s committed to the relationship.”

  Helen gave her sister a look, and then pushed Charles toward the door. “Find out what she’s talking about.”

  Hoping Charlotte had wandered closer to the Frisbee game, Charles took the fish outside. Charlotte was still sitting on the table. Her drink was gone. “Where were we?” Charles asked, wincing the minute the words escaped his lips.

  “We were talking,” said Charlotte, “about children. About having children. Did I make a mistake not having children?”

  “I don’t know, Charlotte. Not having children has afforded you a lot of freedom.”

  “And a lot of loneliness.” Charlotte tossed the remnants of her ice cubes onto the grass.

  “Children can’t cure loneliness.”

  “Sure they can. Look at Daniel. He’s a child, and I’m sure as hell not lonely when he’s around.” Charlotte laughed, throwing her head back again. Charles reached over to steady her, but she seemed unaware of his efforts. She stared into her glass, as if newly aware that it was empty. She set it down beside her on the table. “I think Daniel wants children.”

  “That’s natural, don’t you think?”

  “But I’m too old to give them to him.”

  Thank God, thought Charles. “Do you really want children, Charlotte? Or do you want to have them for him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Somehow,” said Charles, spreading out the graying charcoal briquettes with tongs, thinking they needed another few minutes before they were ready to cook the fish, “I think if you wanted children, you would have had them by now.”

  “Is that what you think, Charles?” asked Charlotte, lifting herself off the picnic table and swaying in front of him. “Maybe after four miscarriages I just gave up.”

  Charles closed his eyes. When he opened them, Charlotte was removing her shoes. He remained silent when she made eye contact with him and then turned away. She zigged and then zagged her way across the lawn to the far end of the lot. His body tingled with this news, and, for another minute, Charles was immobilized. He wondered for just a moment if he already knew about Charlotte’s miscarriages, if Helen had told him one night when they whispered to each other in the dark before bed. But he was quickly certain that he and Helen had not discussed this. He was positive, in fact, that Helen hadn’t told him, and that perhaps no one but him knew. The next thought that came to his mind was what an ass he had been. He had assumed that Charlotte had chosen not to have children with either of her husbands because she was consumed with herself and her happiness. He and Helen had discussed this very topic a number of times
, both speculating that Charlotte’s childless condition was voluntary—and selfish.

  It was easy to assume that childless couples were selfish. After all, childless couples could do whatever they wanted to do, outside work and other obligations. And they had a lot more money to do those things, since they weren’t paying for their children’s food, healthcare, clothing, extracurricular activities, cars, insurance, and whatever other expenses surfaced over the years, including the biggest one of all, college. Charles had agreed with Helen that Charlotte had chosen not to have children because she was too busy pleasing herself. But there was something about this theory that bothered Charles. It was almost as if parents wanted other adults to have children so they, too, could experience the associated constraints on their time and finances.

  Charles had recently learned that one of the agents in his insurance agency, who had been married for fifteen years and did not have children, had been through artificial insemination and miscarriage half a dozen times in as many years. The agent, Lori Kennedy, had not volunteered this information. Instead, it had come to light through an insurance claim that Charles had to handle because his administrative assistant was away from the office on vacation. It was then that Charles told himself—and Helen when he got home that night—that childless couples were not always what they seemed to be. And that even if they were, even if they chose to be childless, that this was an absolutely legitimate choice. Helen had agreed. Being around Charlotte could challenge anyone’s feelings of good will and nonpartisanship, but Charles now, after a two-minute conversation, felt differently about her.

  “Oh no, that’s not possible,” said Claire, returning her napkin to her lap. “She’s left-handed!” Everybody roared with laughter, and Claire sat back in her chair, completely satisfied. As a younger woman, she had always known the latest jokes, political or otherwise, and enjoyed making people laugh. But she had been very selective about sharing her sense of humor with her children. Her husband John had a more easy-going relationship with the children, even though he was the disciplinarian. Claire saw herself as the teacher and the coach, education and athletics being directly linked to quality of life. Where would she be now, she wondered more and more as she aged, without her Smith College education, without her athletic training, her personal goals? Her accomplishments, in the classroom as well as in the pool, earned her the adulation and respect of her peers, her elders, of everyone she met. In the 1940s and 1950s, she was a standout. In an era when women were second-class citizens, when men made the important decisions, Claire Gaines followed her own set of rules. She spoke with confidence. Her actions were not second-guessed. She was completely free from the typical conventions placed on young women at the time; she was entirely capable of choosing her life path. And she worked hard at making sure her children would have the same privileges, which meant they had to work hard, too. Life, she was fond of saying, does not reward a loafer.