Good Harbor

by Anita Diamant

  “I think I need to go back.”

  “Sure,” Joyce said, alarmed at the change in Kathleen’s voice and posture. “It’s way too hot out here.”

  “WILL YOU MISS US?” Rachel asked as Kathleen got up from the table.

  “You’re going to have to let me know about the baby,” Kathleen said.

  “You’re already on the mailing list,” Rachel said, patting her belly, which now pushed against the buttons of her blue smock.

  Buddy reached over for Kathleen’s hand as they crossed the bridge on their way home. “Last Friday,” he said.

  “What?”

  “This is our last Friday. Next week you can start sleeping in.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said, thinking only that next week she wouldn’t have to ride over the damn bridge twice a day.

  At the house, Hal relayed phone messages from Brigid, who was mailing something to Kathleen, and from Michelle, who had told him about the temple library project.

  “I’m planning to go to services tonight, Mom. Want to come?”

  Kathleen said she was too tired. “Next week. I’ll be done with radiation then.”

  Hal looked disappointed but didn’t insist.

  Joyce called a little later and announced that it was too hot for an afternoon walk, but that she was coming over for a visit. She arrived at two with a paper bag from which she produced a dozen limes, a bottle of tequila, and margarita mix. “Take me to your blender,” she said.

  As they sat in the den with the blinds drawn against the heat, Hal regaled them with San Francisco stories. Slightly tipsy, Kathleen put her feet up on the couch and listened as her friend and her son engaged in a spirited conversation about movies she’d never seen and pop music she’d never heard. She beamed at the sight of Joyce being charmed by her charming son, and at Hal, impressed by her wisecracking friend.

  But when Hal asked Joyce about her work, Kathleen heard Joyce’s voice go up a tone and saw her smile turn tight and artificial. I don’t ask enough about what’s going on with Joyce, Kathleen thought. Joyce was taking good care of her, but she wasn’t returning the kindness.

  Kathleen dozed off. Waking up in the darkened room, she realized that she was only a little embarrassed; if she had fallen asleep like that in front of anyone but Joyce, she’d be mortified for life.

  It was past six. Joyce was long gone and Hal had set the dining room table with the Sabbath candlesticks and wine cup.

  Standing by the table, Kathleen realized she was deeply touched by Hal’s new interest in his Jewishness. Not that she could say why. Religion had never been central to her life, not in an obvious way. And yet she was moved at the sight of Hal carrying a challah and wearing a crocheted blue yarmulke. He’d bought the challah at the supermarket, along with a roast chicken and salad. “My brother would shudder,” Hal said, pointing at the ready-made feast.

  “Your grandparents would be tickled,” Kathleen said.

  As she lit the candles, she remembered how she’d done the same thing two months before, when she’d found out that the cancer wasn’t going to kill her. She stared at the flames.

  “Mom?”

  “I’m okay,” she said, wondering whether he would disapprove of her Hebrew pronunciation, now that he’d gotten so religious. But he smiled as she recited the prayer, then hugged her tight. “Shabbat shalom,” he said, hugging Buddy next.

  He said it again on his way out the door later.

  “You, too,” Kathleen said.

  Kathleen was out on the deck, wrapped in a cotton blanket, when Hal got home. It was one in the morning. He stood at the sink and wolfed down a sandwich. He didn’t see her, but Kathleen had a clear view of his face. She watched him rinse his hands and smile. She would have given anything to know what he was thinking.

  Hal turned off the light, and Kathleen leaned back in the chaise lounge to look up at the sky and make wishes. After a little while, she got into bed, pressing her arm against her breast. The scar and the skin around it were numb.

  In the morning, she found Buddy and Hal in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Hal was already dressed, wearing the blue yarmulke again.

  “I thought I’d go to Torah study,” he said as Kathleen kissed the top of his head.

  Buddy raised his eyebrows. “I hope you’re not becoming a religious fanatic.”

  Hal frowned a little and shrugged.

  After he left, Kathleen told Buddy about Hal’s meeting with the rabbi in the restaurant and his late return last night. Buddy pumped her for more details but Kathleen had nothing more to add.

  “I sure hope they’re not just talking about theology,” Buddy said.

  “That might be a good place to start.”

  “As long as it doesn’t end there.”

  Kathleen put a finger up to her lips. “Shhhh.”

  “Oh, I won’t say anything,” Buddy groused. “But I sure am going to cross my fingers.”

  Kathleen crossed hers, too.

  JOYCE WAS CONVINCED Patrick had seen her spying on him that night through the window. She had no proof, of course, and she knew it was irrational. But as she faced the weekend, she grew more and more certain that he wouldn’t call next week, that she’d never see him again.

  Frank called three or four times a day on weekends, to apologize mostly. And weekends were hard, because that’s when Joyce missed Nina most.

  She didn’t want to go too far from the phone, just in case Patrick did call (not that he would), but now she couldn’t stand to be inside the house either. All the rooms were painted, and every surface reproached her. The hallway trim had been finished in the afterglow of her first meeting with Patrick. The kitchen windows were completed after her first day of panting and grunting in Patrick’s bed. She finished the bedroom — hers and Frank’s — while plotting ways to peel off Patrick’s shirt.

  Joyce called Kathleen a few times, but hung up before the machine clicked into gear. She couldn’t read, couldn’t even watch TV.

  She stared out the window at the yard and winced at the mess. The kid they’d hired to mow the lawn had stopped showing up two weeks ago, and he’d never touched the borders and flowerbeds. The space around the untrimmed bushes had turned into a knee-high jungle.

  Joyce knocked on her next-door neighbors’ door and borrowed Ben and Eric’s lawn mower and rake. She pulled Frank’s hand tools out of the garage and trimmed the bushes. Then she got down on her knees and started pulling weeds.

  Gardening had always been Frank’s exclusive domain, to the point that it was a family joke. “Mom was attacked by a dandelion when she was a baby,” Frank had told Nina. “She’s been afraid of plants ever since.” Frank — who had grown up in apartment buildings — had acquired a shelf full of gardening books since they’d moved to Belmont, and a headful of facts about temperature zones, soil pH, and growing seasons. When they’d closed on the Gloucester house, he’d splurged on a fancy new set of shears that came with a suede holster. Frank probably misses this garden more than he misses me, Joyce thought.

  She was surprised at how much she enjoyed yardwork. After paint fumes, the dirt and roots smelled sweet. She caught a tang of mint and chive in one of the overgrown flowerbeds. Did Mary Loquasto grow herbs, or was it someone from long ago? A fisherman’s wife’s kitchen garden? Magnolia’s great-granddaughter, perhaps?

  It was the first time she’d thought of Magnolia for weeks, and she let her mind wander in the direction that Kathleen had suggested that time at Good Harbor. What if Magnolia did end up here, in Gloucester? She’d have to kill Jordan in order to provide her heroine with new romantic tension. Poor Jordan. She smiled as she considered whether to finish him off by scurvy, storm, or pirate attack.

  On Sunday, she filled two more bags with weeds, dead leaves, and bits of paper. Ben and Eric stopped to admire her progress and offered her some orange lilies from their yard. “They’re totally overgrown and we need to divide them,” Eric said. “You’d be doing us a f
avor.”

  Joyce accepted, knowing how Kathleen would get a kick out of her joining the daylily club. She thought a lot about Kathleen as she worked outside: her health, her fears, her sons, her confidences. God bless Kathleen, Joyce thought. It’s strange how effortless friendship seems, especially compared to family. Just showing up qualifies you for a medal. I really need to find something to celebrate the end of her treatment. Maybe I can find a “Duck and Cover” poster somewhere.

  For some reason, as she worked outdoors, Joyce didn’t think about Patrick at all.

  By Sunday afternoon, only one big cleanup project remained. Joyce squared her shoulders and headed for the bed surrounding the statue of Mary. She felt sheepish about leaving this for last. “You are a superstitious nitwit,” she lectured herself as she grabbed the trowel and an empty bag and headed for the “grotto.” Did she think the Madonna was going to come to life and paint a big red A on her chest? Did she believe Mary even cared about her sorry Jewish sins?

  Father Sherry had called and left a few apologetic messages. His mother was ill and had taken several turns for the worse. Someone from the rectory had called yesterday to say the priest was still in Detroit.

  Oh, well, at least no one has left any wreaths lately, thought Joyce, as she got down on her knees and reached for the tall grass that had grown past the statue’s knees. A moment later she was back on her heels. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  The overgrowth was a blind, hiding a heap of trinkets and coins. Joyce picked them up, one by one: six religious medallions (four Marys and two St. Christophers), a tarnished silver thimble, a collection of tricolor ribbons from St. Peter’s festival. She found a miniature china teacup and saucer, and a pile of nickels and dimes.

  The soil under the coins had been turned over. With one turn of the shovel, Joyce unearthed a diamond engagement ring and a pair of pearl earrings. Oh, no, she thought. That poor woman is really crazy.

  She wrapped the “offerings” in a kitchen towel and called Kathleen, who agreed to meet for a walk. “I feel a little like I robbed a grave or something,” Joyce said as they set out under a dramatic, cloud-filled sky. “But I couldn’t just leave it all there, could I?”

  “You did the right thing,” Kathleen said. “It sounds like Theresa is now way past reverence for the Virgin. She’s got to be eighty. She lives just around the corner from you, with her daughter, Lena. Maybe you should call Lena.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  They walked on quietly for a few moments. A steady wind pushed the high cumulus clouds, blocking the sun and then revealing it. Huge shadows fell on the sand, so that Joyce and Kathleen walked through disappearing walls of warmth and light.

  “Joyce, what’s going on with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You seemed sort of edgy when Hal asked about your writing.”

  “Oh, that.” Joyce brushed the question away with her hand.

  Kathleen waited for an answer.

  “I haven’t written anything all summer. Sometimes I think I’ll never write anything again.”

  “You’re just becalmed.”

  “That’s a nice word,” Joyce said wistfully.

  “You’ll catch a breeze. You won’t stay becalmed. Or maybe you could think of it as lying fallow.”

  “That’s a less attractive image.”

  “Not really. You’ve only just started digging around in your garden, but after a year you’ll get to see how flowers thrive in places that have been uncultivated. Those will be the most beautiful parts.”

  “Actually, I had a thought about Magnolia while I was rooting around out there. I imagined one of her descendants living up here, planting a kitchen garden.”

  “So Magnolia becomes a mother, does she?”

  “I suppose she does, eventually.”

  “Then you can plumb your own mother-daughter issues.”

  “Oh, great,” Joyce said, shaking her head. “Part of me can’t wait for Nina to come home and another part of me is dreading the fray. Sometimes, I fantasize that she comes back as ten-year-old Nina who wants to play Monopoly with me. Sometimes, I imagine that she’ll be totally mature and my best friend. But then reality strikes and I remember that we’re only just starting the whole adolescent thing.”

  “You know,” Kathleen said, “I sometimes wonder if people who see us walking on the beach think we’re mother and daughter. I don’t think of you as my daughter, not at all, though you’re young enough to be.”

  “I sure don’t think of you as my mom. Mothers and daughters, huh? It’s never easy.”

  “Mothers and sons are complicated, too. Hal seems angry with me these days.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. I used to think we were close, but now I’m wondering whether the reason he moved to California was to get away from me. I suspected that he was gay,” she said, turning toward Joyce. “Did I ever tell you that? For years, I assumed that’s why he lived in San Francisco with Josh. But I was wrong. And now I feel like I don’t know him at all, and that it’s my fault.

  “I knew him so well when he was a little boy, and even in high school . . . I thought I did.” Kathleen stopped. “How did I get all of this so wrong? Was I just not paying attention?”

  “I have no wisdom or comfort to offer here,” Joyce said. “I feel like a total washout in the intergenerational family communication department.”

  “I’m hoping to get another chance with Hal, now that he’ll be closer to home. And I suppose motherhood is a work in progress. Oh, dear. That sounds like a sampler, doesn’t it?”

  “I’d put it up in my kitchen.” Joyce laughed and put her arm around Kathleen’s shoulder.

  “Failure, success. It’s moment by moment.” Kathleen looked at the sky. “This is a beautiful moment. I feel like we’re walking right through the clouds in these shadows.”

  Joyce turned to admire Kathleen’s profile. “My turn to ask you something,” she said softly. “What will you do on August eighth?”

  “Oh.” Kathleen took a quick breath at the turn in the conversation. “Nothing, really. We go to the cemetery and light the anniversary candle on the fourteenth.”

  “Do you think that Hal’s anger has something to do with Danny?”

  Kathleen stopped and turned to Joyce.

  “I’m sorry,” Joyce said. “It was just a thought.”

  “But you’re right,” Kathleen said, a little breathless. “That’s it. And of course, he has every right to be.”

  “What? Oh, for heaven’s sake, Kathleen. What are you blaming yourself for?”

  “I wasn’t there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was in the house when it happened, when the car . . . The phone rang, and I went in the house to get it. That’s when it happened.

  “People used to say to me, ‘How horrible to see your child struck by a car.’ And I never corrected them. But Hal knew that I didn’t see it at all. Only Hal saw it.”

  “And you think he’s angry at you because of that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Kathleen said, suddenly unsure of that theory. “I really don’t.”

  “Couldn’t you ask him?”

  “I could. I mean, it’s possible to ask. I just don’t know if I have the nerve. We never talk about Danny.”

  “Never? In all these years?”

  “It was too painful. Too painful to bring it up.”

  “For whom?”

  “For Buddy. He couldn’t even bear to hear Danny’s name, so I didn’t . . .”

  “And with Hal?”

  Kathleen shook her head.

  Joyce took Kathleen’s arm and they walked quietly back to the footbridge. Turning for a last look at the beach, Kathleen said, “Look at that,” pointing at the sky. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such perfect clouds.”

  Joyce turned to Kathleen. “You’re healthy, Kathleen, aren’t you?” she half-asked, half-challenged. “You don’t have cancer an
ymore, right?”

  “I suppose so. I mean, there’s no medical evidence that there’s any left, and the radiation is supposed to make sure of that. But, it’s still with me. When I go to sleep at night and when I get up in the morning. I try to tell myself how lucky I am, that it was only DCIS, that it didn’t spread. But it’s always there.”

  “Oh, Kathleen,” Joyce said, her voice full of frustration and good wishes. “I want to be able to make it all better for you.

  “I love you, you know.”

  “I love you, too,” said Kathleen. “And that helps.”

  IT WAS THEIR LAST trip home from the radiation clinic. Kathleen was finished. She should have been smiling and sharing a sigh of relief with Buddy. But instead, Kathleen wept quietly into her hands, unable to explain why.

  Rachel and Terry had bantered with Kathleen as she moved into position. Over the intercom, Kathleen heard them count to three and suddenly break into song: “Is Miz Levine all set?” to the tune of “I Could Have Danced All Night.” Kathleen laughed so hard, Rachel had to come out and make sure she hadn’t moved off the mark.

  Afterward, they escorted Kathleen to the staff coffee room for cake and a card signed by everyone. The girls kissed her. Marcy hugged her and didn’t say anything about support groups, which Kathleen took as a parting gift. Dr. Singh dropped by and ended the celebration with a kind of benediction: “Whenever this time comes to mind, may you recall the kindness of these faces.”

  As they neared home, Buddy said, “I wish I could say something, Kath. I wish I could do something.”

  She blew her nose. “There’s nothing you can do. I’m just, well, it’s just an emotional day.”

  “What’s this?” Buddy exclaimed as they pulled in behind a Ryder van parked in their driveway.

  “What’s going on?” Kathleen asked.

  “Beats me.”

  Jack opened the front door as they got out of the car.

  “What’s with the truck?” Buddy called.

  “Hello to you, too,” Jack said, reaching out to hug Kathleen. “Congratulations on being done, Mom.”