Cynthia patted his knee again. “Well, yes,” she said. “But we all deserve drinks brought to us from time to time.”
2
In addition to the lingering mobility problems, the doctor had told them not to be concerned with Peter’s sleeping patterns during his convalescence. “He’ll probably sleep a lot more than usual for the next few months,” the doctor said. He looked at Cynthia and Devon carefully, to make sure they understood. “A lot more, and that sleep is not to be disturbed. From a clinical standpoint, his brain has gone through the equivalent of a mild stroke. He needs rest to recover, and he needs isolation. You are not to stay up late talking with him. Or go to parties that last until the wee hours. He will become exhausted more easily, especially after long periods of social interaction. He needs sleep.”
Cynthia and Devon had nodded seriously. There was no misunderstanding.
They cooked a small dinner that night, ate together, and soon afterward Devon and her mother could see him getting tired. He was speaking more slowly, and his eyelids were drooping. So they helped him up the stairs together, Cynthia at his side and Devon behind him, though he insisted, as before, on taking every step on his own. Cynthia helped him into bed, and he was asleep almost as soon as he was under the covers.
Cynthia stayed with him for a few minutes, and then she went back downstairs to join her daughter in the kitchen, far enough away from the bedroom to ensure that he would not be disturbed.
They were sitting on tall stools together at the granite-top island in the middle of the kitchen, eating ice cream from small blue bowls that were Cynthia’s favorite. Devon let her mother collect herself for a few minutes.
There were questions she needed to ask.
“He’s better every day,” Cynthia said suddenly, pausing with a spoonful of ice cream halfway to her mouth. “He’s going to be okay.”
Devon watched her carefully, and she nodded. She knew it was hard for both of them. Her father’s movement seemed especially important; she had been relieved when the doctor told them that strength and coordination would likely return with enough time.
She tried to catch her mother’s eye. “And how are you doing?”
Cynthia nodded slowly. “Same as him,” she said. “A little better every day.” She got up from her stool and went to the freezer for more ice cream. Devon followed her, still waiting for the right moment. When their bowls were full, they both walked out of the kitchen toward the back porch. The lights were off on the porch itself, but the garden and pool lights were on outside. They sat down together on the one large couch there and looked out over the place where Devon had first learned to swim; where her mother had taught her how to plant tulip bulbs and azaleas. Here, in this room, they were as far away from the master bedroom as they could be in the house.
And still Devon spoke in a whisper.
“What about the letter?” she said. She spoke so quietly that she wasn’t sure her mother had heard her. Anything could have been louder: the sound of spoons clinking on bowls; the sound of ice cream being swallowed; the sound of air being breathed.
Cynthia leaned forward and put her bowl on the ground. Then she sat back and looked at Devon. Even in the semi-darkness of the unlit porch, her eyes were as clear and bright as Devon had ever seen them. “Listen closely,” her mother said, whispering as quietly as Devon had. But with more urgency. “There is no letter.”
Devon said nothing at first. She wanted to show her mother that she understood. That while she wanted to help, wanted to listen and share and suffer together with her, she was also willing to try and forget the letter had even existed. Out of a sense of duty. And love. So at last she said, “Okay.”
“And because there is no letter,” Cynthia said, still in that urgent whisper, “you must never mention it to your father.”
Devon was ready to agree to this as well, but then she thought for a moment. “The lawyer said that Dad was the one who set up the non compos mentis delivery in the first place,” she whispered, “so wouldn’t that mean that Dad might already – ”
“You must never mention it to him,” Cynthia said again, a little quaver entering her voice.
Devon nodded. “Okay,” she said softly. “I won’t. It’s going to be okay.”
Cynthia looked at her for another second with that intense, bright-eyed expression, and then she seemed to relax. As though Devon’s assurance had been the last loose end in need of tying off. She put her head down and held Devon by the shoulders, and then she looked up. Devon was surprised to see her smiling. Her mother hugged her then, and Devon supposed that this might be the last time she would ever hear the lawyer’s letter mentioned. Cynthia seemed ready to dispose of the event altogether. Like an awkward conversation. Something to be moved past. Never discussed. Never remembered.
Gone.
She was confident her mother could pull it off, no matter what that letter might have said. Having Peter back home was a big step, and it was true that he was getting better every day. Cynthia seemed to have turned a corner of her own, and they could –
But then Devon could feel something change. She and her mother were still hugging one another, and she could feel her mother’s shoulders shaking. Cynthia Hall was sobbing. Now she was pawing at Devon’s shoulders like a climber trying to find purchase on a cliff-face, trying to hold onto something that was in danger of falling, something that was slipping away.
She cried and cried, and made no sound.
3
There was nothing to do the next morning but try to get back to normal. To resume the routine. They had breakfast in the huge white kitchen, and the sun came through the east windows and lit up the little crystal chandelier over the main table. Cynthia was making pancakes. Peter had his morning New York Times and his coffee and his boiled egg in a cup, and he was dressed in his favorite blue-checked button-down. Everything was as it had been before.
Devon put in the effort. “So,” she said brightly, “I was going to ask the two of you, before we were so rudely interrupted – ”
“Interrupted?” her mother said. “By what?”
“By dad jumping over a wall.”
Peter glanced up from his paper, looking amused. “My fault.”
“I was going to ask the two of you,” Devon said again, “what kind of party you want for your 25th wedding anniversary next month.”
Peter and Cynthia glanced at each other, then back at Devon.
“That’s very kind,” Peter said with a smile, “but I don’t think – ”
“Stop,” Devon said. “We’re having a party, end of story. The only question is how you want it done. Big, little? Here, at a restaurant in town? Lots of people, or lots and lots of people?”
Peter looked at his wife for help, but she just looked back at him. “I like the idea,” she said pointedly, as though daring him to disagree.
“Absolutely,” he said quickly. “I’m just worried I won’t quite have my dance steps back in shape before then.”
“That’s no excuse,” Cynthia said with a laugh, and she walked to the table to deliver another pancake to Devon’s plate. “A party’s a party even if you’re not making everyone else look bad.”
Peter frowned at this, as though making everyone else look bad was the only thing that made a party a party, and he returned his attention to Devon. “Let me ask you this,” he said, cracking open his boiled egg with a practiced hand.
“Yes?” Devon could tell he was stalling, looking for another way to change the subject. Suddenly he seemed to think of something.
“What are you doing for the talent show?”
Devon shook her head. “Dad. You know I haven’t been in the talent show since I was thirteen. None of us has.”
“Florin is in it every year.”
“Florin’s dog is in it,” Devon said, “and that’s only because Florin will jump at any excuse to show off her precious Jasper.”
“Well, fine. But you should still be there to support her.”
“And I will. But going to watch Florin put Jasper’s tricks on display doesn’t make me unable to plan an anniversary party.”
Peter nodded thoughtfully at this. “I suppose that’s true,” he said, and he smiled again.
Agawam
1
Devon had left out nearly every detail when describing her night at the carnival to her mother and father, but she told herself that this was to be expected. Her parents didn’t really need to know most of that stuff. The thing about Duane, for instance. Especially the part about her taking Austin on rides until he threw up behind a game stand. That would be her little secret. She had a feeling her mother might get quite angry at her for such a blatant violation of the basic rules of hospitality.
Thou shalt not cause one’s guest to vomit.
In any case, there was one detail she realized she would need to mention to her parents before long. Within the next few hours, actually.
“He’s going to take me out again tonight,” she said to them, as she cleared her plate and left the breakfast table, moving slightly faster than normal.
They made protesting sounds at her as she walked out of the kitchen.
“What?”
“Who?”
“Shocking.”
“Out of the question.”
Devon sighed loudly and resisted the temptation to rise to the bait, knowing they were only trying to get her worked up. Which wasn’t necessary, since she was already nervous enough. Not nervous for herself, necessarily, but for Austin. She was worried he would try to do too much. That he would try to knock her over with the perfect first dinner at some outrageously expensive, tarted-up place with too many foreign words on the menu and not enough dishes that came with coleslaw.
Then again, she thought, he can’t do much worse than sugar-covered fried dough, cotton candy, and soda. So maybe he won’t try too hard.
He called at noon to say he would be picking her up early. She was ready by six in a blue cotton summer dress and sandals and her hair pulled up in a clip, and he called again, to say he would be there in a minute. She went to her parents in the living room before going outside, and she asked if she looked okay.
They stared at her for a minute. Neither seemed able to answer. Her father put his head down, then picked it up again. He was smiling broadly.
“What?” Devon said, suddenly nervous.
“You look beautiful,” her mother said gently. And then, with a smile on her face to match her husband’s: “We’re just worried for him.”
“For Dad?”
“For him,” her father interjected, with a wave out the window. He shrugged, as if to say that neither he nor his wife could be expected to offer any real assistance to Austin in this matter.
That kid is on his own.
“Anyway, where are you going in such a hurry?” Peter asked. “Aren’t you going to let him come in when he gets here? Don’t we get to say hi to him?”
“No,” Devon said quickly. “I still barely know him myself. You don’t get to size him up until later.”
“And when, exactly, is later?”
“Much later.”
“Okay, but maybe you could – ”
“I’ll be home early,” she said, though she was not sure she meant it, and she walked out the door before they could pester her any longer. She looked along the curving driveway to the gap in the hedges leading to the street, and she was relieved to see Austin there already. He was walking toward her in a good pair of stone-white khakis and a light blue oxford.
Perfect, she thought. Not too fancy.
She could feel her breath coming slightly faster all of a sudden, and she was aware of a strong, unreasonably giddy feeling in her chest at the sight of him. She tried to fight this feeling down with more concrete observations on what he was wearing, but there wasn’t much more to see. Comfortable sandals, good belt, and that was it. Just a regular, tall, good-looking, supremely calm and athletic boy who had saved her father’s life, thrown a tennis match to talk to her, and chased off a couple of thugs who were bothering her, right before going on a ride that made everyone sick, simply because it meant he got to sit next to her for a few minutes. Which he could have done anyway just by asking.
She shook her head and tried to regain focus.
Where’s his car?
There, that was good. Objective. Critical. Everyone in Southampton was supposed to have a car. A nice car, right from the very beginning. You got your license, and the next day you got your car.
She forced herself to let him come all the way to the door, rather than sprinting out to meet him like a cooped-up collie. She liked the sight of him moving. And she forgot almost immediately to be critical.
As before, when he had been coming toward her along the side of the pool, she felt hypnotized by his walk. Each foot seemed to come down with distinct purpose, as though every step he took was something he thought about and enjoyed. He was looking at her with that steady, easy look of his, and there was a smile in his eyes.
He came to the entrance, and then they stood and faced each other silently. She gave him a moment, but he didn’t seem to need to say anything. “We’re actually going somewhere, right?” Devon said finally.
“Yup.”
But he still didn’t move.
“Where’s your car?”
“What makes you think I have a car?”
“You said you were going to pick me up.”
“That’s what I’m doing. You ready?”
Devon finally broke eye-contact, and she looked around as though checking for mooring lines that might prevent her from leaving the house. “Ready,” she said.
He glanced down at her sandals. “Those are comfortable enough to walk in?”
“Definitely.”
“We’re going to head down past Agawam first.”
“Okay.”
“And then dinner at 41 Main.”
“Good.”
“You’re unbelievably beautiful.”
She tried to keep a straight face, and failed. She was dimly aware that she would have agreed to almost anything he had said at that moment. We’re going to fly down to Louisiana, kill, roast, and eat a wild pig, sell the leftover meat to the locals, and then fly right back here for dessert at Sip’n’Soda. Hope that works for you. She would have nodded and said “works for me,” in a sing-song voice. And now the urge to kiss him was very, very strong, so that she could barely remember what she should say, or what they were doing, or how they had gotten here, standing in front of each other, in the first place. So to relieve the pressure that was building up in her chest and legs and head she rose up onto her toes and leaned forward and put a hand on one of his shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek.
Which almost made her feel better.
Except that he smelled of clean skin and cotton oxford and, way underneath the warmth drifting up slowly from beneath his collar, the faint tang of scrubbed-off sun lotion. The combination did not help her concentrate.
“Thank you,” he said, and smiled at her.
This calmed her slightly.
Please just say okay let’s go so that we can walk and I can breathe and I don’t act like a fool.
“All right,” he said, and turned and took her by the hand. “Here we go.”
They walked down the driveway, through the gap in the hedge, and turned left on First Neck Lane. Toward Ox Pasture, and Agawam.
2
She gave herself a minute to let her head clear. When her breath was coming in a more regular rhythm and her heart seemed to be functioning normally, she asked about his car again. Simply because she was curious. They had all gone to the carnival two nights ago in James’s family Lincoln Navigator, but she had somehow failed to notice that Austin had arrived at James’s house without adding a car to the Dunn driveway.
“Your family has a car, I assume.”
She hated herself as soon as the words had come out of her mouth. What a stupid, presumptuous, stuck-u
p thing to say. What if they didn’t have a car? What if they were taking buses and trains everywhere?
He’s going to think this is all I care about.
But if Austin was offended, he didn’t show it. “Sure we do,” he said. “But it’s my dad’s, and sometimes he needs to head into the city without much notice.”
“I have one,” Devon pointed out, trying to keep her voice light. To show him that having a car was like having a spare tennis racquet. Didn’t matter either way; it was just a nice thing to have lying around. “We could use it. I could drive.”
Austin nodded. “That would be fine. Transportation’s on you next time. But it’s been quite a few years since I’ve been to Southampton, and I wanted to walk to town along Pond Lane. Past the lake.”
Devon smiled. No more explanation necessary. Southampton had countless picturesque roads and places, but the road leading down to the north end of Lake Agawam was on par with the best of them.
They were still on First Neck Lane now, walking on the left. On both sides of the road were tall, thick hedges, dark green and fastidiously trimmed. The hedges were ten or twelve feet high in most places, and they created the feeling of an unbroken wall of privacy between the road and the houses behind them; it was difficult to see where one property ended and another began. The effect was that of an immense, unbroken gated community stretching from the town center all the way to the beach. If you were walking or biking or driving down this or any other road in Southampton, you could enjoy the pristine beauty of the place, but you were not truly part of it. You didn’t know what went on behind those hedges. And as you came to each driveway you would be treated to a small, one-car-width break in the wall of green, through which you could see a huge house up on a rise in the distance; or a vast field with a flagpole and a little colonial to one side; or what looked like nothing more than a cottage, but with a garden at the entrance that seemed to have been prepared by Queen Elizabeth’s groundskeepers. Each break in the hedge was a glimpse into an entire world that you would never know. You would never see the people who lived there, never hear their dogs barking. You might possibly see their BMW or Mercedes or Ferrari come pulling in or out of the driveway, but that would be it.
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