Lisa took the cutlet from Kimmy so she could demonstrate. She lifted her shirt and tucked it beneath her bra.
Kimmy said, “But you don’t need that, Mommy, your breasts are pretty big already.”
For some reason, this made Lisa laugh really hard. “I’m glad you think so,” she said. “But they were even bigger, quite a lot bigger, actually, when you were a baby and breastfeeding.”
Kimmy said, “So, after me and Rae sucked all the milk out of them, they shrank.”
“Exactly,” Lisa said. She patted the cutlet beneath her shirt.
Rae had forgotten about this exchange and the existence of the cutlets entirely until a few weeks before this vacation, when Lisa finally agreed to purchase a few training bras for Rae, who was a late bloomer. Rae was dying to know what it would look like when she grew breasts of her own, and folded-up socks didn’t quite lie right under the training bra, so she decided to give the cutlets a try. She retrieved them from her mother’s drawer and went to the full-length mirror. She tested out a few different poses, not realizing, of course, that Kimmy had been watching all this. God, that little weasel, that sneaky little spying snake. Rae should have known that without locking her bedroom door, she ought to assume that everything she did was under Kimmy’s sneaky spying eyes.
Even so, Rae thought now, still staring at her sister in outraged disbelief, the sun white and terrible in her eyes, Kimmy should have the good and decent sense not to bring this up in front of Ryan. First the thing with the pee in the pool, and now this?
“Kimmy, you’re a liar and an idiot,” Rae said in a tone laced with venom.
Kimmy’s happy laughter ceased immediately, and she looked like she had been slapped.
Ryan started to hum and he walked slowly toward the water, clearly wishing to avoid any further involvement with this conflict.
Kimmy withdrew the jellyfish from her swimsuit and placed them at her feet. There were tears in her eyes when she straightened back up.
“Rae?” she said.
“I can’t even look at you.”
“What did I do?” Kimmy murmured.
Rae said, “You are such an embarrassment.” But even as she said this, she was losing steam. Witnessing Kimmy’s genuine confusion softened her. Kimmy wasn’t a bad girl or a bad sister, she was just a dumb one.
Rae sighed, looking out at the water, then at Ryan, then at her little sister. She said, “You just don’t talk about things like that.”
“Why? I didn’t know.”
“Now you know,” Rae said. “You just don’t.” She forced herself to extend a hand to gently pat Kimmy’s wet head.
On their way back, Kimmy ran ahead once again, darting in and out of the shallows and bending for shells.
Rae was quiet for a long while, mired in indecision over whether or not she should acknowledge the cutlet conversation with Ryan.
Her thoughts were interrupted when her eyes fell on a girl who was walking toward them from the opposite direction. The girl looked about Ryan’s age, maybe a few years older, but regardless, she was fully developed where it mattered. She was very pretty, with a tanned, athletic body and long black curls that tangled around the strings of her white bikini. Rae instantly despised the girl. The confidence with which Rae had walked with Ryan on the way to see the moon jellyfish twenty minutes earlier, the certainty with which she regarded their mutual attraction, had all but faded since the cutlet conversation. And Rae could only imagine what was going through Ryan’s head as this perfect-looking girl approached, this person who definitely did not require cutlets to fill out the cups of her bikini. Rae felt deeply ashamed of her own existence.
Because she was so attuned to the girl’s body and Ryan’s body language, Rae picked up on a subtle but distinct exchange between the two of them. As the girl drew close, she straightened up as her eyes fell on Ryan with something like recognition. Ryan straightened up too. And then Rae detected the smallest cautionary shake of Ryan’s head, as in, Not now, or Not here. The girl tipped her chin up at Ryan to indicate some understanding.
When the girl had passed, Rae was left to grasp at an explanation. Did Ryan know her? Rae wondered. How could he know her? They were so far from his home in Wheeling and had been on the island for only one day and one night. And if for some reason he did know her, why hadn’t the two of them exchanged words? Rae puzzled over this for a few minutes. Failing to come up with a good working theory, and failing to summon the courage to ask Ryan directly if he knew the girl, Rae cycled toward different possibilities. She began to second-guess her perception of the interaction. Maybe she had been wrong about the recognition between them; maybe that was just how hot people regarded one another.
Beside her, Ryan knelt to pick up a small shell. He examined it and then passed it to Rae. “Pretty, huh?” he said.
The instant he spoke to Rae, everything was right again. They were together, not apart, and she could agree that the shell was pretty. She held it in her hand as they continued up the beach.
Perhaps, Rae considered, this new idea causing her to brighten and open upward, perhaps it was not caution that Ryan had conveyed to the girl with that small shake of his head, but disinterest. Perhaps the girl’s look had been suggestive, a proposition, a hail fellow hot person look, and Ryan’s had meant not interested, don’t bother, or even can’t you see I’m walking with my girlfriend?
To Rae, that last scenario seemed totally possible. It seemed like a miracle that was actually totally possible.
Back at the family beach setup, John and Alex had woken from their naps and gone into the water to join Kimmy and Ryan.
Poppy was back, freshly sunscreened, with a new magazine from the stack in the recreation room. She was on her third Bud Light since leaving Lisa in the house to intercept Scott on his return. She was guzzling beers because she was a nervous wreck. She was way too keyed-up for a nap, although she probably could have used one. Worst of all, she couldn’t unload this burden on anyone, at least not yet. Nothing agitated Poppy more than having to keep a secret, but John was a wretched liar. There was no way John’s entire demeanor wouldn’t change if she clued him in on what was going on, and how Scott had really spent those lost hours during and after yesterday’s storm.
Poppy startled when she heard someone behind her, and she looked over her shoulder to see Scott approaching in swim trunks and a white shirt, sunglasses concealing his eyes. The sun was bright white across the sand behind him, and he was like a mirage. His posture was low, sagging like wet laundry. He carried a rolled-up towel and a small cooler, as though he intended to stay. Her heart started zooming with adrenaline, and she quickly turned back toward the beach so that she wouldn’t stare.
Was he crying behind those sunglasses? Was he pissed off? Was he wearing his wedding ring?
Scott unfurled his towel on the sand next to Poppy and took a seat there.
She cleared her throat, aiming for a cheery and casual greeting. “Hey,” she said. “How’s it goin’?”
Scott didn’t look at her, nor did he respond right away. He stared out at the ocean, then lowered himself and sat cross-legged on the towel as though about to embark on meditation. His hands were in his lap.
Finally, he murmured, “Fine.” He sounded like he had just fought a war.
Oh God. Poppy felt a jolt of sympathy spike through her. Was it over? Had Lisa announced that she was leaving him? If so, there was no reason to pity Scott, of course; after all, he had spent the past three hours in some other woman’s bed. But, oh God, was it really happening this way, this soon? Poppy rapid-fire swallowed several times to will her voice calm. She noted that he was wearing his wedding ring, but that meant nothing. They were probably going to put on their best face, wedding rings and niceties, at least for the rest of the vacation, for the girls’ sake.
She thought of Lisa, up at the house. She must be an absolute wreck, Poppy thought; she must be completely crushed and inconsolable. She must have sent Scott down here as the a
mbassador so as not to raise suspicions between Rae and Kimmy if both of their parents were absent for too long. Poor Lisa must really be in a state. Poppy wanted to check on her. She also wanted to tell Scott that he wasn’t doing a very good job of pretending things were normal, that if he didn’t buck up, Kimmy would take one look at him and immediately demand to know what was wrong. But she knew it wasn’t her place, and that it would be better if Scott didn’t know what she knew. She suspected that the entire charade could easily fall to pieces and all would be revealed if anything caused Scott’s emotional state to teeter and tip.
Beside her, Scott was removing his shirt. His skin sagged more than Poppy remembered. His nipples looked sunburned. His crucifix bounced against a tangle of black and gray chest hair.
Then he rose without a word, scooping himself up off the sand, and looked around for a moment before locating the largest shovel the kids had brought, its red plastic blade the size of a dinner plate. Scott took the shovel a few yards out, midway between Poppy and the water, and started to dig.
He dug like a professional, both arms, a good anchor at his core, pitching sand over his shoulder. As he dug deeper, the sand became darker. Soon his whole body was slick with sweat, his face deep red; he was baking out there in the direct sun. He paused from his digging only once, to stand back and assess his progress, then he used his shovel to scrape a perimeter into the surface, marking off the intended size and shape of the hole. Poppy was transfixed. Scott dug and dug, stepping into the now three-foot-deep hole to work it from a different angle, then stepping back out, up onto the beach, to expand it.
Poppy couldn’t look away. Scott’s red face had become purple. Sweat now poured from him.
On and on he went. Surely he must be exhausted, she thought, but his movements were still tight and practiced. Digging and digging, like he had been born for this and this alone.
Suddenly concerned that he was driving himself toward cardiac arrest, Poppy got up to intervene.
“Hey, dude,” she called as she approached. Part of her was afraid that if she startled him, he’d let out a primal scream, bludgeon her on the head with the plastic shovel, and drag her out to sea.
Scott did not directly acknowledge her, but he stepped back from his hole and stared into it as she joined him at his side. He was panting, his skin was deep red-brown and crinkled like beef jerky, and he smelled sharply of raw onion and booze.
“Jesus,” said Poppy, disturbed by the hole now that she was looking at it full-on. “Nice grave you’ve got yourself there.” It was the perfect size and shape to hold a coffin.
“Guess so,” Scott said, humorless.
“You know,” Poppy said, “just last week a lady at some beach in Florida died in a big hole some nincompoop had dug for shits and giggles.”
“Huh,” Scott grunted.
“Heard about it on the news,” Poppy said. “She was out for a walk at nighttime, the tide was on its way in, she slipped into some big hole right along the beach, just like this, water came up and over her, hole caved in, and she was swallowed up by sand.”
Scott said, “She had to’ve been drunk.”
“Maybe,” Poppy said. “What compels you to dig something like this, anyhow?”
Now that he had paused from his mission, the heat and fatigue seemed to be setting in, and Scott looked drawn and unwell, unsteady on his legs.
He tossed the shovel to the ground next to the hole.
Poppy said, “Why don’t you go for a swim, cool off a bit?”
Scott spun like a robot following commands. Poppy watched just long enough to make sure he didn’t die of heat stroke before reaching the ocean.
As soon as he had entered the water, Poppy hightailed it to the house.
She found Lisa seated on a barstool in the kitchen, sipping a glass of white wine and paging through an old copy of Redbook.
Poppy said, “Hey,” in a gentle voice, went to Lisa, and wrapped her arms around her.
Lisa patted Poppy’s forearm but did not exactly reciprocate the hug. Her eyes were dry, her expression cold.
Poppy said, “How’d it go?”
Lisa sipped her wine and turned the page of the magazine. “Did you talk to him just now?”
“Yeah. Very weird. He spent the last who-knows-how-long digging a hole on the beach. Grave-sized, perfect to bury a person.”
Lisa chuckled through her nose.
“He seemed wrecked,” Poppy said. “Like he just got his gut punched. I figured that the two of you had it out”—Poppy blew air out the side of her mouth—“and that it did not go so well. He was looking rough.”
Lisa closed the magazine before her and looked at Poppy. “I know,” she said. “That’s how he was acting from the moment he stepped in the door.”
Poppy gazed at her. “What do you mean?”
“I was all charged up to confront him,” Lisa said, “but then he walked in like that, all mopey-dopey, like some mean kid stole his lunch money. I was so taken aback. I didn’t know what to make of it.”
Poppy said, “What could . . .”
“That’s what I keep trying to figure out. I’m like . . . Did things go south with the other woman? Did she leave him? Did he find out that she’s cheating on him? Did he find out that I knew? Was he suddenly struck with some crisis of conscience?”
Poppy chewed her bottom lip.
Lisa scooted the bottle of white wine across the counter and retrieved a clean glass from the dishwasher. She poured Poppy two inches of wine and sat back down on her barstool.
Poppy said, “You’re right, that’s definitely not the way you’d expect a guy to be acting if he was running around with some other woman, everything hunky-dory.”
“Exactly.”
Poppy sipped her wine. “So you didn’t confront him?”
Lisa shook her head. “I just asked him how golf was. He said, ‘Fine.’ I had already picked up on the mood, and I was like, ‘Doesn’t sound like it was fine,’ and he started undressing and mumbled something like he hadn’t played a very good game.”
“He undressed in front of you?” Poppy said.
Lisa nodded. “I thought that was funny too. Like, if he had spent the past four hours in bed with another woman, he might be nervous about stripping down in front of me, worried what I might see or smell, but he didn’t seem to have a second thought about it.”
Poppy frowned. “That is odd. He was either totally sure that he had covered all his tracks, or he wasn’t actually . . .”
Lisa was nodding. “I followed him around the bedroom while he was undressing, and I pointed to his glove in the corner of the room. I was still fired up and hoping to catch him in a lie. I was like, ‘You forget something?’ ”
“Yeah, and?”
“And he was like, ‘Forgot my damn glove, got a blister,’ and he held out his thumb to show me.” Lisa demonstrated. “I didn’t examine it up close, but it looked legit, and he was so casual about the whole thing, not a moment’s hesitation or nerves. I got no sense whatsoever that I was catching him in a lie.”
“Strange.”
“After he went down to the beach just now,” Lisa said, “I stuck around and did a little snooping. Pockets of his golf shorts. Wallet.”
“What’d you find?”
“Nothing.”
Poppy drank more wine. “Are you thinking . . .” She hesitated. “What are you thinking?”
Lisa sighed. “His behavior was so . . . so dark, right? I’m thinking maybe I was wrong about another woman. Is that crazy? Maybe he really did just forget the glove, and the pass. Maybe one of the other guys lent him their pass.”
“Why the mood, though?”
“He said he played a bad game,” Lisa said again, with a shrug.
Poppy said, “I don’t think my eleven-year-old kid would get that bent out of shape about a bad game.”
“Mine either,” Lisa conceded. “But Scott really hates to lose, he’s always been that way. Well, and anyway, he can b
e sensitive.”
“Sensitive?”
“I’ve told you before, I think he might be going through some midlife thing. Do men go through menopause? He’s been sort of in and out of a funk the past few years. So moody. On cloud nine one minute, then totally morose, like you just saw, the next. It’s weird. Since we stopped having sex, I’ve been assuming it was another woman that has him so manic, but maybe I’ve been wrong.” Lisa grew quiet. She said, “I don’t think I know him at all anymore.” A deep exhale came out jerkily and she rubbed her eyes. “I called my mom,” she said, in a surprising shift.
“How’s she doing?”
“She misses you.” Lisa chuckled, then her face darkened. “Pop, do you think she’s going to make it?”
Poppy nodded assuredly.
“What if she doesn’t?” Lisa posed this so innocently that for a moment Poppy saw her face as it was when they were children.
What would happen if Carol didn’t make it? Well, Poppy thought, the things that always happen. A funeral. A burial. Casseroles. The emptying of a house and sorting of the things within it. That’s what would happen. What didn’t seem clear was what sort of unspoken wounds Lisa might sustain. There was love between Lisa and Carol, of course, but there was something else too, which Poppy had sensed long before Carol’s diagnosis. It was in the way they talked about each other, always loving in their words, never, ever a harsh word, and yet . . . There was a stiffness there, a formality one might use when describing a stranger. This wasn’t not love, but it wasn’t a kind that announced itself readily.
Lisa wiped her eyes. “Well. Jeez.” She laughed softly. “I thought this was going to be a relaxing vacation. I swear I didn’t bring you along to be my therapist. But let me tell you something. You are my favorite person in the world, and that’s including the person I married and the people I gave birth to.”
The House on Fripp Island Page 14