by R.P. Burnham
Refuge
Kevin Blanchette poked his head out of his office, spied Fiona at her desk tallying up the expenses for a field trip to the beach yesterday, and asked her in a friendly voice that was not at all in his official “Dr. Blanchette” manner, “Fiona, Mary is busy filing reports, so could you bring these papers to city hall for me.” She was happy to oblige. She made arrangements for Sylvia Kroger to sit in on the residents’ lunch and left at 11:30, hoping to see Lucille Durham after she’d done the errand. She’d seen Lucille several times when she came to take Eddie home for the evening or a Saturday, but they had not been able to talk. Two weeks ago, on the Monday after the weekend of her confrontation with Rett Murray, she had made an effort to talk to the only mature and experienced black woman she knew, but Lucille was out in the city somewhere. At that time Fiona was confused and conflicted and so nervous—almost trembling in fact—as she approached the social services office that she’d had to stop to get her racing heart calmed down. She’d been relieved that Lucille wasn’t there. Now, after working through the issues that had derailed her with Lowell’s help, she should be in much better shape to have a conversation. Should be, and was in fact able to ask Lucille’s receptionist if she was in in a calm, self-possessed voice, but when the answer came back that she was, the heavy weight in her stomach, her quickened pulse and a feeling of impending dread came upon her as suddenly as a summer thunderstorm. What she was afraid of she could not clearly say, though she knew she was irrationally afraid that Lucille would disapprove of her loving a white man. Maybe, too, instead of comforting her Lucille would validate the fear she still frequently felt whenever she remembered that night. Thank God for Lowell’s understanding and empathy. Her first instinct was to retreat, to hide away, to give up. Lowell talked her out of these extreme solutions, and she loved him for that and for a thousand other reasons. Still, somehow she knew she had to have Lucille’s approval to feel free and at ease. She also wanted her to say that racist white men were all cowards. Lowell had told her that, but she couldn’t make herself believe it.
Lucille was sitting before a computer screen on one side of her L-shaped desk apparently collating the information on a list on paper and entering the data on her computer. She broke into a broad grin when she saw Fiona. “Just a minute, please, Fiona. I’m glad you stopped by. Have a seat and let me finish updating our records.”
Fiona sat down on a leather chair in front of the desk and looked around the office. On each side of the desk were large gray metal shelves filled with black three-ring folders like the one Lucille had open at her desk. The high ceiling was an old-fashioned tin relief painted an off-white, the same color as the walls. On the wall behind her there was a large map of Portland with pins with flags of different colors stuck into what was probably the street addresses where the social workers had clients. The wall to her right consisted of a bank of three windows all with the venetian blinds drawn to keep the sun out. Fiona noticed that while there was air conditioning in the office, it was inadequate. The room was decidedly warm. The wall on her left had a large color photograph of Dr. Martin Luther King and three rows of black and white photographs of white men who were probably Lucille’s predecessors. On Lucille’s desk she had pictures of Eddie and her two children, a boy of about eight and a girl of five wearing their Sunday best. The girl was grinning broadly and showing gaps between her teeth; the boy, who was much darker than his sister, was also more serious. He stared unsmilingly at the camera. Fiona thought that was because he was uncomfortable with a tie around his neck.
Finally the sound of the laser printer brought Fiona’s attention back to Lucille.
“So how’s Eddie?” Lucille asked as she gathered the papers the printer spat out.
He was doing much better, going on outings and painting serene landscapes again. There had been no repetition of the rebellion that had led Fiona to get to know his sister. The only aftereffect of that day was that he was still angry and standoffish with her, and even that was diminishing. The other day he had showed her a painting of Monument Square he made and had been quite friendly. They discussed these matters for a while, and then Lucille, punching holes into the printed sheets and putting them into another folder, said, “But I’m sure my brother isn’t the reason you’ve come.”
“No, it’s not,” she said shyly and then explained in a long, rambling monologue how she had met Lowell, who was a white man, had fallen in love with him and how everything was going wonderfully until a Nazi racist confronted them at a Portland Sea Dogs’ baseball game. She told Lucille how Rett Murray had said they had no right to pollute the Aryan race, that mongrelization was evil and how they would be watched. “Ever since I’ve been nervous and uneasy whenever Lowell and I are in public.”
Lucille sat at her desk with her arms folded and listened with as benign and compassionate an expression as the Buddha Fiona had given her mother for her birthday. She seemed to understand that Fiona was looking for some reassurance, for in a very concerned tone she asked, “Why are you scared? What do you expect to happen? Is it your personal safety?”
“I don’t think so. At the same time I feel scared and uneasy, I feel protected by Lowell. He also keeps telling me that racism is a coward’s belief, the majority picking on a vulnerable minority. He says all racists are cowards.”
Lucille nodded as she listened. She considered for a moment and then said, “Yes, I more or less agree with him. They’re dangerous in a mob like the lynch mobs that murdered so many of our brothers and some sisters, but alone they’re less threatening. There is something sneaking and ratlike about racism. Now this Lowell Edgecomb, he doesn’t have any deep prejudices, does he? Stereotypes and that sort of thing? Forgive me for asking. I’m just trying to understand.”
“Not at all. He was born in a hippy commune in northern California and played with a lot of black kids when he was little. From the moment I met him I knew he was only interested in me as a person.”
“Uh huh, I see. Well, then, the uneasiness you feel, is it embarrassment? Is there any sense in which you feel the force of the garbage that racist said? Does the man’s ability to publicly humiliate you make you feel vulnerable?”
Fiona felt herself relaxing. Lucille was a good listener who was drawing things out of her and making her think. This is what she wanted. “What do you mean about me feeling the force of that man’s words?”
“I mean a lot of black people have internalized racism without knowing it. You get the feeling, if not actually being inferior, at least that you don’t deserve happiness or that you have no right to aspire like everyone else. A lot of black people have poor self-images, that’s a fact.”
“I don’t think so. I think I feel like you said—vulnerable. I could be walking down the street and suddenly be the center of attention. I guess it’s like not feeling free to be simply human.” She didn’t explain her shyness, assuming Lucille understood that.
Lucille nodded. “But you do see, don’t you, that he has got inside your head? He’s internalized his racism and hate and made you the one who is uncomfortable and defensive. Every black person has had this happen in some way or other. It’s happened to me. Remember when I was telling you how some white people will expect you got your position or job because of affirmative action? There were times I had to fight that feeling, you know, argue with myself. And you know white people don’t have to put up with this. Most don’t understand. You say Lowell does?”
“Lowell understands everything,” she said proudly. “He was saying the other day that the quickest way to lose your soul is to start identifying with power and wealth. He hates it that Americans tend to blame the victim—poor people for being poor, drug addicts for addiction. Or for another example he once told me it distressed him that most Americans support the Israelis when they bully the Palestinians. He believes to identify with vulnerability and weakness will keep you safe from corruption. He was at the University of Chicago and knew a lot of rich, privileged people. T
hey didn’t impress him.”
Lucille seemed favorably impressed with this account of Lowell’s beliefs and attitudes. She leaned forward, resting on her elbows. “Let me ask another question. Are you afraid he’ll be hurt, or maybe get in trouble because he’ll punch that racist in the mouth? Something like that?”
“Lowell was mad enough to do that, I think. But he’s a nonviolent person, a very gentle man, so that’s only a vague worry. I mean I do worry about it, but I recognize it’s irrational.”
“You do love this man, don’t you?” She smiled benignly even as she took a quick glance at her watch.
Fiona felt herself blushing. It occurred to her that no one had ever asked her that question before because she had never been in love before. But she was in love now and felt pleased and absurdly happy at the same time she felt embarrassed to be showing her feelings of pride and happiness. Words failed her and she could only nod and cast her eyes to the floor.
Lucille stood and walked around the desk. “I have an appointment for lunch, Fiona. Let’s walk out together.”
“You know some black brothers and sisters won’t approve too, don’t you?” she said as they walked down the stairs.
Fiona nodded grimly. “I’ve already noticed it a few times. I hope you don’t mind.” She held the door for her older companion and they stepped outside into the bright sunlight.
“Me? I want our race to be free. You do what your heart tells you to do and you’ll be all right.”
That’s what she wanted to hear most of all. Feeling expansive, she murmured a thank you and said she was grateful for her help. They embraced and parted.
Sylvia had an errand to run and was waiting impatiently for her even though lunch had just started. There had been coolness between them ever since Fiona nixed the suggestion they have a drink together. Fiona, preferring a professional relationship, was not bothered by the coolness or surprised at the impatience. There was something morbid and self-centered in her colleague that she didn’t like.
She had lunch with the residents and then talked with Eddie for a while, telling him that she had just had a chat with his sister. Any residual resentment he might have had melted away. He worshipped and loved his sister. She did too, and that sealed the bond.
She had some more paperwork to do; then at 1:30 she went in search of Mary Clarke and Ann Marie Renault. Both had been at Phoenix Landing for over a year; the former was making great progress towards self-sufficiency, but Ann Marie appeared stalled in dependency. The two residents needed their prescriptions for schizophrenia filled. Fiona’s task was to accompany them to the drugstore and stand by while they handled the transaction themselves or to intervene if they couldn’t. Knowing the two, she could predict how the outing would go before they left, though being an eternal optimist she was hoping Ann Marie would surprise her.
Mary, a tall, thin woman with eyes so light a shade of gray it looked as if she didn’t have irises from a distance, and one of whose symptoms was obsessive-compulsive behavior, managed to get herself ready without folding and refolding her clothes countless times before donning them—a small triumph that Fiona could take some credit for since she had been working with Mary for the past six weeks. Ann Marie, however, was upstairs listening to music and had to be persuaded to come. She wanted to finish listening to the CD that was playing on her portable CD player, and when Fiona finally took the earphones from her she took a long time to change. The female pop star she had been listening to featured a bare midriff, and Ann Marie got it into her head that she wanted to achieve the same look. She tied up her blouse under her breasts and pranced around, but she had love handles hanging over her pants that weren’t a very pretty sight, though Fiona knew better than to use that for an objection. “You don’t want to attract that kind of attention, Ann Marie,” she said. “You want to meet a nice boy.” When she wanted to know the difference, Fiona explained that a nice boy would like her for herself, while the kind of boy who stared at exposed navels only had one thing in mind. Then when the question of bare midriffs was settled, Ann Marie still delayed by rejecting all her tops until finally Fiona talked Nancy Wagner into lending her a yellow blouse because Ann Marie had frequently admired it.
Half an hour later than scheduled, the three of them left the halfway house and walked through the steaming streets of a July afternoon. Occasionally Fiona would put a guiding hand on Ann Marie’s shoulder and hold her hand when they crossed a street, but Mary was doing well, though from the way her face was screwed up in concentration, Fiona figured that she was obsessively going over what she was going to say to the pharmacist. A pang of compassion came over her and made her feel sad.
At the drugstore she gave them their prescriptions, some money and the government chits that covered most of the cost of the medication, and then they made their way to the back of the store to the pharmacy counter. They had to wait for an elderly lady to get her arthritis medicine, during which time Fiona had to hold Ann Marie’s arm to keep her from wandering off. Mary kept muttering to herself the words she was supposed to say. She was starting to become nervous, and so was Fiona. She didn’t want a scene. But the elderly lady was soon gone. Fiona nudged Mary to approach the counter. “I need my prescription filled,” she began promisingly but handed the government chit to the pharmacist instead of the prescription. “The other paper,” Fiona whispered, then whispered even lower to Ann Marie to watch closely. Except for that minor glitch, Mary’s efforts went fairly smoothly, but Ann Marie refused to speak when it was her turn to step up to the counter. “She needs the same medication,” Fiona said to the pharmacist, who was starting to show signs of impatience. “Hand him the smaller paper, Ann Marie.” When she remained silent, Fiona had to take it from her and hand it over. After a few more attempts to prod Ann Marie into action, she had to get the prescription filled for her. At some point during this little drama she became aware that someone’s eyes were boring into the back of her head, but not until the pharmacist went into the back room to get the pills did she turn to see Marilyn Prence watching her with a bemused expression.
“Marilyn!”
“Hi, Fifi. At work I see.”
Fiona introduced her two charges. Marilyn was dressed, not provocatively, but by simply wearing tight shorts and jersey appeared to be. The two residents, especially Ann Marie, stared at her wide-eyed and intrigued. “She’s pretty!” Ann Marie whispered.
Marilyn wanted to talk, so as soon as the prescriptions were collected and paid for, they walked over to the cosmetic section where Fiona let her two charges browse while keeping a careful eye on them. Ann Marie was known to shoplift when she had a chance.
“How are you getting to Portland now?” Marilyn wanted to know. “Are you taking the bus?”
“No, Lowell bought a pickup truck so he could haul stuff to the cottage he’s building. I’m using his old car.”
Marilyn’s face brightened. “That’s another thing I wanted to ask you. So you and Lowell are all right? I heard about those Nazis.”
Fiona looked over to make sure Ann Marie wasn’t listening. “Yeah, everything is fine.”
“I’d love to show you my new place. Can you stop by after work? Please,” she added when Fiona’s reluctance showed on her face, “now that we don’t drive to work together I miss you.”
She wanted to get to the lake as soon as possible and be with Lowell, but it was impossible to resist Marilyn’s imploring tone. “Okay, I’d like to see your place, but I’ll only be able to stay for a few minutes. You’ll be home about five?”
After she left Ann Marie had much to say about Marilyn and the way she dressed. She wanted to know if Marilyn had nice boys for boyfriends, but Fiona said she didn’t know and that Ann Marie shouldn’t blame a woman for being overdeveloped. Mary asked who she was, and when Fiona answered that she was her cousin, she said, “But she’s a white woman.” “Well, I’m half white, you see.” Ann Marie said she could tell they were cousins because she too had a big bust. That m
ade her laugh and forget about Rett Murray, who had come to mind when she told the two that she was half white. “I’m not in my cousin’s league, that’s for sure.” They were having this conversation as they walked back to Phoenix Landing, but halfway there Fiona saw a flash of gold in Ann Marie’s hand and discovered that she had pinched some lipstick. She managed to do it despite Fiona’s never taking her eyes off her. They returned to the drugstore and without telling the manager put the lipstick back surreptitiously. A career as a magician might be waiting for Ann Marie, for even knowing she was putting the lipstick back Fiona could not actually see the transfer. Back at the halfway house she showed the two young women a video on self-sufficiency, and then after the daily meeting of the staff left as soon as her replacement came.
He had come early, and as Fiona drove down a very congested Congress Street she thought about what she would say if Bill Paine was mentioned. She started to feel nervous and uneasy and hoped that the subject could be avoided. If Marilyn, who loved to talk about her amours, did bring it up, she decided she would explicitly and emphatically say that the topic made her uncomfortable. Despite the traffic she arrived at Marilyn’s new apartment at a little after five o’clock where, after declining an offered drink, she was given a tour. The apartment was airy and pleasant. Marilyn had painted the walls of the combined living room and dining room a golden color with white trim, aggressive like her personality but quite effective, Fiona thought. Some prints of French Impressionist paintings and two large posters of the Courtney Academy championship softball team and her college softball team comprised the wall decorations. In the group picture of their team Fiona was the only one not looking at the camera; instead she was squinting and gazing to the left. She remembered a dog had caught her attention and caused her to look foolish. It was running right towards her, and she had momentarily panicked. She had a copy of the same poster, but because of the distraction of the dog she kept it rolled up and hidden away in a closet.
The furniture was a mixture of aggressive and subdued colors. A rattan couch and matching chair had cushions of bright lavender and shiny black, and the table cloth on the dining room table was checkered bright yellow and red, but a lazy boy recliner was leather, the coffee table had a dark maple finish, and a low bookcase containing her stereo equipment, a collection of CD’s and movie videos (but only a few books) was black. On the wide windowsill were three or four new plants to give the apartment a touch of green. They passed the small kitchen with just a cursory glance before moving into the spare bedroom. It contained a great many cardboard boxes indicating that Marilyn was still in the process of moving in and to Fiona’s surprise an exercise machine. Remembering Marilyn’s reputation as one who didn’t need to exercise to maintain her strength, she looked at her cousin quizzically. She explained that she had just bought it after she weighed herself last week and discovered she had put on four pounds. “It’s not for strength, see? It’s to keep my figure.”
Returning to the living room, they passed the bedroom with its door closed. Fiona, thinking they were going to see it now, paused before the door, but with a laugh Marilyn shook her head. “That’s my love den. It’s not open to the public.”
Fiona, feeling embarrassed, nodded. Was it filled with sexual toys? Were the walls lined with pornography? She was glad Marilyn changed the subject and made her forget these disturbing questions.
“As I said earlier, now that I live in Portland and we don’t drive to work together, I’ve missed you. I talked to Tammy on the phone the other day and told her about you and Lowell. Then I wasn’t sure of your status because of the Nazi business, but Tammy was hopeful as usual and was very glad for you.”
“How is Tammy?” Fiona asked in an attempt to deflect the conversation from any probing of her personal life.
“Busy is the word.” She sat down on the rattan couch and with a wave of her hand invited Fiona to sit in the recliner. “She’s taking two difficult courses in the summer to get them out of the way and is studying all the time. She remembered how you two always studied together in high school. She says she misses you.”
“I miss her,” Fiona said. She was already impatient to get home to Lowell and stole a glance at her watch.
Marilyn noticed it. “Tell me, Fiona, are you and Lowell getting it on?”
She frowned and then blushed. She disliked the term Marilyn used, but resented the probing into her private life even more. They were making love—and that was the term for it, the proper term—but it seemed profane to tell her cousin about it when she used such a vulgar expression to describe what she felt was almost sacred. But the blush told Marilyn all she needed to know.
“So you are. Good. I think that’s wonderful.”
Fiona glanced out the window. “You have to park on the street, I see. That’ll be a problem in the winter.”
Marilyn shrugged and pursed her lips. “That’s when I’ll worry about it. But speaking of cars, are you going to Waska or the lake?”
“The lake,” she said guardedly.
“So that’s why you’re in such a hurry. You want to get to your man. Is the cottage completed?”
“Oh no, far from it. Lowell’s getting the outside done so that if fall and winter come early the insides will be snug. The roof is done, and plywood covers all the framing. The doors and windows are in, but the inside is hardly touched. Right now we’re putting the shingles up. I’m helping Lowell,” she added proudly.
“What? You’ve become a carpenter now?” She seemed to find the idea very amusing.
“Oh no. I’m Lowell’s gofer. I get the shingles and nails when he needs them. Sometimes I hold the ladder. I’m certainly no carpenter, but it is fun helping to build it. It means so much to Lowell to be putting down roots in Maine.”
“Okay, so you’re a carpenter’s helper. I bet you find it fun because afterwards…” She paused and a glint came into her eyes. “That cottage is your love nest, isn’t it?”
Again Fiona’s blush gave Marilyn her answer. They were in fact sleeping together at the cottage and had done so for the last ten days. She was so nervous the first time and several times after that that she didn’t enjoy herself. But the blushes that came now in waves, making her face feel hot, were for all the times after those first awkward attempts.
“That means you’re certainly over your trauma because of that racist pig. I’m very glad for you, Fiona.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled. “I am better now.”
“I know how it is, how your troubles disappear. Making love is the best thing this world has to offer. I’m seeing someone now, you know.”
“I know,” Fiona said before she could censor herself. She felt herself panicking and stopped in confusion.
“You do?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You do?!”
“Well, I heard something, that’s all. Really we don’t have to discuss it.”
Marilyn looked surprised but as always hid it almost instantly. Fiona had often noticed that she liked to be in control and didn’t like surprises. Nonchalantly she scratched her neck and then busied herself removing a piece of lint from her jersey. “Then you know it’s Bill Paine. I imagine if you know, Lowell does too. I suppose you both disapprove?”
“It’s really none of my business.” She wasn’t successful in sounding airily neutral; her distaste came through, and she saw that it was duly noted.
“Love is everyone’s business, but the love between a man and a woman is mainly their business alone. If you feel uncomfortable we won’t discuss it, but you realize I’m not going to apologize. If a man is attracted to me and I find him attractive, anything that develops is strictly between us alone. You’ll be glad to know, though, that there’s a better than fifty-fifty chance this won’t work out.”
As she spoke her voice starting rising. She was prepared to be hostile. But Fiona had heard enough. She was intimidated and resented it, but this time she managed to hide her feelings. “You’re right, we better not discuss it. There
is something else we should discuss anyways. The softball game rematch.”
And so her visit to her cousin’s new apartment ended in a friendly discussion of the game that had already been postponed twice because of vacations and now was scheduled for the following weekend.
She thought about Marilyn’s potential hostility and the softball game as she drove out of the city. She wasn’t looking forward to that game because everyone would be on edge about Marilyn and Bill. It reminded her of the time in high school when the team lost four games under similar circumstances. Now it would be complicated by hypocrisy, with everyone pretending there was nothing going on.
After the city streets she passed through an industrial zone with factories and warehouses, followed by an urban sprawl zone of middle-class houses for a few more miles, and then it was open country with dairy farms bounded by thick pine forest and rolling hills. When she got to the open country she stopped brooding, and the excitement and joy she felt every night as she made her way to Lowell and home possessed her. The car could not, however, speed as quickly as her thoughts towards home, for even the lake district had suburbanite elements now and the traffic was moderately heavy. She passed through a few small towns that consisted of a church, a service station with a convenience store and sandwich shop and one of those ubiquitous movie rental places. Lowell joked that he thought the people upcountry spent the entire winter watching videos. Many of the cars in front of these places had Massachusetts, Connecticut and New York plates, though, so the tourists and summer people also used their services.
When she arrived at the lot Lowell was just finishing a course of shingles. Two sides of the cottage were now completed and a third side close to being done. Lowell, wearing only cutoff dungarees with a tool pouch at his hip and sneakers without socks, walked up to the car smiling broadly.
“Good timing,” he said. “”I’m just finishing for the day.”
They kissed and hand in hand walked down to the cottage to inspect his work.
She loved it here, positively loved it. Already it felt like home to her, home and a quiet and safe refuge from the world. Even on a bad day at work she instantly put her frustrations aside the moment she could smell the pine trees and see the shining lake serene and peaceful. Of course it was because she was with the one she loved, but she loved the cottage too, even if it wasn’t very pretty yet. Inside it was just studding, and the floors were underlayment. The stairs leading up to the loft where their bed was a mattress on the floor were slabs of pine and the banister temporarily constructed of more studding. There was hardly any room because the wallboard, lumber, interior doors, insulation and all the rest of the building material was piled up everywhere. The toilet was installed and operational, but the shower wasn’t. Lowell had bought a small refrigerator to keep milk, beer and perishables. That, a hot plate and a coffee maker were their only kitchen appliances; mostly they cooked on the outdoor grill or ate out. There was water both hot and cold in the kitchen sink for washing up, but their baths were taken in the lake with biodegradable soap in the early morning or after dark at night when they could be hidden from neighbors and passing boats. Though the water was generally warm enough, Fiona was a mass of goose bumps when the air struck her naked flesh. Even that was fun, however. She had caught Lowell’s enthusiasm for the place almost instantly. Already she was thinking of how much fun it was going to be to decorate the place and choose the furnishings.
They had already developed a routine for her nightly return. First a swim and then a beer on the lawn chairs before supper. As she was taking her clothes off and putting on her bathing suit (Lowell’s cutoff dungarees would serve as his swimming trunks), she started telling him about her visit with Marilyn.
“She called the bedroom her love nest and wouldn’t let me see it. I don’t know what’s in there—pornographic pictures or sex toys or what. It was embarrassing and weird. I’ve never been to a friend’s house where the bedroom was off-limits.”
“And you say she admitted seeing Bill?”
“Yes.”
Lowell was sitting on the pile of wallboard and watching her as they talked. It amazed her that she wasn’t self-conscious, but she wasn’t and hadn’t been right from the start. “So she knows we know. That means Bill will too. How did it come up?”
“She told me she had a new love interest and I blushed and stammered and gave it away.” She turned around and he fastened her bikini top. “She can read me like a book,” she continued as they walked out of the cottage. “I told her I didn’t want to talk about it, but actually for a minute there she was starting to get hostile. ‘I suppose both of you disapprove,’ she said, then said that it was no one’s business except hers and Bill’s. She wasn’t about to apologize.”
Barefooted, they picked their way carefully over the ground liberally strewn with rocks, which Lowell called the gift of the Ice Age.
“It seems pretty obvious that Bill is now cheating on Becky. I never would have believed it two months ago.”
She nodded grimly. They were on the dock now and both ran the sixteen feet of its length and dived in. After the sticky heat of Portland’s streets the coolness of the water was wonderful. She swam underwater until her breath gave out and surfaced ten to twelve feet from Lowell. He swam towards her.
“Last week when I was at his house helping him move a refrigerator, every time I looked at Becky and the kids I felt almost ill.”
“I know. I understand. My cousin can be incredibly selfish.”
They began swimming out from the shore, but hearing a speedboat coming their way, they both turned and swam back to shallower water, where they swam a hundred yards parallel to the shore and then returned to the dock. “Are you ready for a beer?” Lowell asked.
On shore he got the beers and some tahini and crackers for hors d’ouevres. They sat down. It was so warm that neither of them toweled off.
“The worst thing is that we’re already estranged. He was going to be my gofer up here, yet he’s only been here once since the first week. He’s probably ashamed of himself. He should be. Of course, I have a better gofer now.” He leaned over and kissed her. “But it’s still disturbing.”
She smiled, feeling happy and contented, and then guilty because he wasn’t and Becky wasn’t going to be when she found out. “The softball game is on for next week—I forgot to tell you.”
Lowell frowned, and they were quiet for a while.
Fiona sipped at her beer, a microbrewery brand she had successfully helped Lowell develop a taste for. He got up and turned on the portable CD player. It repeated a CD of a Scottish folk singer they were listening to last night in bed. Before she met him she only listened to rock music and some hip-hop, though the misogynist lyrics of many of the songs disgusted her. Now Lowell, returning the favor, had got her to enjoy folk music.
“It’s going to be ridiculous,” she said, breaking the silence.
“What?”
“The softball game. Everyone will know and yet I bet they’ll all pretend not to know. Is that hypocrisy or conspiracy?”
“Worse,” he said after considering for a moment. He reached for a cracker and dipped it into the tahini. “Bill and Marilyn will know that we know. Ridiculous is the word.”
She reached over and touched the corner of his mouth with her napkin. “A bit of tahini,” she said.
He smiled sheepishly. “I’m a slob, let’s face it.”
“No, you’re not. Look how neat your work on the house is.”
That small act and the smile it gave rise to seemed to shake them out of their funk. By mutual implicit agreement they put Marilyn and Bill out of their minds as the inhabitants of the world that had nothing to do with their life here. Fiona scooped some tahini onto a cracker and ate it. Sipping some beer, she said as she put the bottle down, “Someone was talking about a movie at work today. I forget the title, but would you like to go? She said it was good.”
It was the first time she had suggested they go to
Portland together since the confronta-tion with Rett Murray. Last weekend Tara and Meg came for a picnic and swim, and the weekend before that together they visited both their mothers.
Lowell’s eyes brightened. “Sure. We need more milk, butter, beer and bread, so when we drive up to the store we can pick up a paper and check out the times.”
“What about supper? I’d just as soon eat out—my treat.” She was thinking of an upcountry restaurant they frequented a couple times a week whenever they were too tired to cook or simply in the mood for an outing. It was one of their evening diversions, along with taking walks or having another swim on some nights; other nights they would sit outside until the mosquitoes drove them inside to listen to music or talk. Occasionally they would try to watch television, but not having cable that was always an iffy proposition. A couple of times they worked on the house for a few hours when Lowell hadn’t had time to finish something. At least once a week they would drive to a nearby town to have an ice-cream cone at a shop they had discovered. Always, however, they retired with the birds and other diurnal creatures as soon as it was dark, made love, and slept the night in each other’s arms.
She had offered to treat on the supper because lately Lowell’s stock had nosedived. He’d sold half the stock shortly after he came to Maine, so he still had a large amount of money in the bank, but still he wasn’t as independent as he once thought he was. Not that he worried. Lately he had been talking about using his building skills by working with Habitat for Humanity in building houses for poor people. He said her example of working with troubled and mentally ill young people had inspired this idea. She had been pleased and proud of him when he told her this, but, then, everything about him made her pleased and proud.
Lowell liked the idea of eating out. He said he was tired after a long day of work.
“Yes, you’ve been working too hard, if you ask me.”
He shrugged. “Gotta get things done before it gets cold.”
“What will you do after the shingling?”
He turned and looked at the front of the cottage. It was the only side still untouched. He seemed to be calculating the time it would take to complete it, for after musing for a few moments he said, “It shouldn’t take as long as the other three sides. It’s only one story. There’s the picture window and the sliding doors and the regular window. I should finish the shingling in less than two days. Then it’s insulating and wallboarding all the outer walls and the ceilings. The place is going to be snug come winter.”
The idea of the cottage in winter appealed to Fiona. His adjective “snug” triggered a vision of them snowbound here for several days while outside the snowstorm howled. They would be warm from the woodstove Lowell had already ordered, and with plenty of food and drink stockpiled they would need nothing and no one but themselves. They would be a world unto themselves, he Adam, she Eve. It would be heavenly, a long continuation of her favorite part of the day, the time she felt most truly happy and safe: in bed with Lowell. But she knew why Lowell had been so pleased when she suggested the movie. She tried to hide from him the fear and vulnerability she felt when they were exposed to the hate and chaos of the world, but he saw it. She realized now that what she really wanted from Lucille was the courage to face the world again, to walk freely in public places with the man she loved. And now love had made her brave enough to do it. Hadn’t she told Lucille that she felt protected by Lowell? It was time to prove it. She wanted to feel safe, but the world offered no safety, only love did, and then only when it was nurtured and allowed to grow. They could have their refuge at the end of the day and share a sweet, delicious and secret life just for themselves only if she was not a coward and was worthy of his love.
All these thoughts raced through her mind in words and images. She must have given herself away, because suddenly she became aware that he was regarding her with a bemused expression on his face. “What are you thinking about, Liebchen?”
“Us,” she said. “It’s what I always think about.”
