There’s the sound of gravel and sand, Peter’s car pulling in. I brace myself for whatever is coming. Everything? Nothing? Something in between? This powerless moment. Not knowing what to expect. I hear him walking down the path toward me and my stomach does a slight free fall. I turn my back to the screen door, settle my body into a neutral position on the sofa, and pick up my book so he won’t be able to read me, either. It’s all judo. But he heads past the porch and walks down toward the cabins.
“Jack, open up!” He bangs on the cabin door. “Out. Now.”
I turn around and try to read Peter’s face from where I’m sitting. Jack emerges and sits down beside his father on the steps. I can’t hear them, but I see Peter talking emphatically, Jack listening with a sullen glare, then bursting into laughter. My entire body unclenches in relief. My husband and my tall, lanky son get up and walk toward me. They are both smiling.
“Have you calmed down a bit, missus?” Peter reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes, pats down his pockets for a lighter. “I’ve brought you your sheepish son. He understands that he behaved like a little shit and must never, ever speak to his mother that way again. Apologize to your mother.” He ruffles Jack’s hair.
“Sorry, Mom.”
“And . . .” Peter prompts.
“And I will never, ever speak to you like that again,” Jack says.
Peter takes me by both hands and pulls me up off the sofa. “Cheer up, grumpy. See? Your son loves you. Now—beach-ward?” He goes to the porch door and yells to Maddy and Finn. “Oi! Out of the pond. We’re leaving in five minutes.”
They splash each other and duck under the water, ignoring him.
“So, can I take the car?” Jack asks.
“In your dreams, mate.”
“Then can you at least drop me off at Sam’s house?”
Two seconds, and already Jack has reverted to entitled teenager being unfairly denied his rights. It should rile me. But in this moment, when my heart is spinning off its axis, his utter predictability is a life preserver. I turn my cheek toward him. “Kiss, please, you pill.”
He gives me a reluctant peck, but I know he loves me.
Peter looks at his watch. “Crap. We’re incredibly late. Round up your kittens, Elle. I’ll load the car. Jack, call Sam and tell him to pick you up at the end of the road in ten minutes.”
I yell to Finn and Maddy and head down the path to the bathroom. The gummed-up ziplock bag with all our sun block in it has mysteriously vanished. I know I left it in the pantry yesterday. I yank open the wide bottom drawer of the built-in linen closet where my mother shoves anything she finds lying around the house that she deems unsightly. It is there, of course, along with a pair of Maddy’s flip-flops I’ve been looking for and a damp bathing suit of Peter’s that now has that forgotten-in-the-washing-machine-for-three-days stench of mildew. Buried at the bottom of the drawer is a large red-plaid thermos my mother has had since I was younger than Maddy. Once upon a time, it had a chic, beige plastic coffee cup that fit snugly onto the top. I unscrew the stopper and give the thermos a sniff. It has probably been twenty years since my mother used it, yet the faintest smell of stale coffee still lingers in its hard-plastic walls. I rinse it out, fill it from the bathtub tap, take a sip. The water has the slightly metallic taste of pipes. I need ice.
At the end of the path I stop for a moment, watching my lovely husband rounding the corner with three boogie boards on his head, a pile of towels under his arm, the children nipping at his heels. I do not deserve him.
“Peter,” I call out.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“Of course you do, you silly git.”
7
1974. May, New York.
Cherry blossom season. The hill behind the Metropolitan Museum is a sea of pink. I would eat it if I could. I climb up into the low-hanging boughs of a tree and hide myself in a canopy of flowers. Through the blooms I can see the ancient hieroglyphics on Cleopatra’s Needle.
Below me, my mother spreads a checkered cloth on the dappled slope, takes a paper plate from her basket, and dumps out a baggie of peeled hard-boiled eggs. She unfolds a square of tinfoil filled with a mixture of salt and pepper, dips in the pointy end of her egg, and takes a bite.
“Yum,” she says out loud to herself. She fishes her red-plaid thermos from the basket, unscrews the plastic cup from the top, and pours herself some milky coffee.
“Eleanor, come down from there. We don’t have all day.”
I make my way carefully. I’m wearing my new leotard and tights under my jumper and I don’t want to snag them. We are going straight from the park to my first ballet lesson.
“Here.” My mother hands me a brown paper bag and a little box of milk. “There’s peanut butter and butter, or liverwurst.”
It’s Saturday, and the park is crowded, but no one else bothers to climb up over the rocks and down into this hidden grove. I find a dry spot in the grass, lay my cardigan on it, and sit beside Mum. She’s deep in a novel, so we eat our lunch in silence. Above us, the sky is the crispest blue. I hear the distant crack of a baseball, a sudden happy cheering. The rocks smell sweet and clean. It’s the first real day of spring, and they are airing themselves in the sun after a long winter hibernating under banks of snow and dog shit.
“I brought Pecan Sandies,” Mum says. “Do you want the last hard-boiled egg?”
“I need to pee.”
“Well, go behind that rock.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t be prissy, Eleanor. You’re seven years old. Who on earth will care?”
“I’m wearing my leotard and tights.”
“Well then, you’ll just have to hold it until you get there.” She dog-ears her page, shoves the book in her bag, and starts packing away our picnic. “Help me pack this up.”
The ballet lessons were a present from my father—one I do not want. I wanted gymnastics, like every girl in my grade. Front handsprings and bridges. Anna says I’m way too big-boned for ballet. Worst of all, I missed the first lesson, so all the other girls will be ahead of me.
Mum looks at her watch. “It’s 2:45. We need to race or we’ll be late.”
By the time we get to Madame Rechkina’s studio, the other girls are already lined up in front of the mirrored wall, their perfect little buns in black nets. I’m out of breath, my tights covered with smudges of dirt.
“Mum, we’re too late.”
“Nonsense.”
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
“You’ll be fine.” She opens the studio door and gives me a little shove. “See you in an hour.”
Madame Rechkina gives me a tight-lipped smile and gestures for the girls to make a space for me in the center of the room. I take my place. Put my feet in first position. The pianist begins a minuet.
“Plié, mesdemoiselles.” Madame walks through the room, making corrections.
“Plié encore! Graceful arms, please!”
I watch the girl in front of me and try to copy her.
“À la seconde,” Madame calls out.
I place my feet wider apart and bend my knees. And then it happens. A large puddle forms on the glossy wooden floor beneath me, spreads out quickly, soaking the edges of my pink ballet slippers. Behind me, I hear a shriek. The music stops. I run from the room in tears, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the pristine floor, and lock myself in the bathroom.
“Miss Josephine!” I hear Madame call out to her assistant, “A mop, s’il vous plaît. Vite, vite!”
The next weekend, my mother makes me go back. “Eleanor,” she says sternly, “we are not a family of cowards. You have to face your fears head on. Otherwise you’ve lost the battle before it’s begun.”
I plead with her to let me stay home with Anna, but she waves me off.
“Don’t be
ridiculous. You think those little girls have never peed before?”
“Not on the floor,” Anna says, laughing so hard that she has to hold her stomach.
12:30 P.M.
The beach parking lot is broiling. I climb out of the car onto the sandy blacktop and let out a yelp.
“Jesus fuckery.” I leap back into the Saab. “I think I scalded the skin off the bottom of my feet.” I feel around the floorboards in front of me for my flip-flops, find them wedged under the passenger seat.
“Both of you should put on socks. The sand will be scorching.” I hand Finn a pair of white sweat socks from my bag. “Maddy?”
“I’m fine. I’m wearing sandals,” she says.
“The sides of your feet will get burned.”
“Mom.” Maddy gives me a pained look. “I’m not going to wear socks and sandals. Gross.”
“What’s wrong with socks and sandals?” Peter gets out and starts unloading gear from the trunk. “It’s the Englishman’s uniform abroad.”
I wait until everyone is out of the car before pulling down the visor to check my face in the mirror. I run my fingers through my hair, pinch my cheeks, re-tie my sarong lower around my hips. I can see Jonas’s beat-up truck parked farther up ahead.
Peter opens my car door. “Here.” He takes my hand and pulls me up and out.
I grab a pile of towels and the thermos of ice water from the backseat.
“And be nice to Gina when she points out that we’re an hour late. No bitchy Eleanor. Just nice Eleanor.”
“I’m always nice.” I give him a kick in the butt as he walks past me, but he manages to dodge it.
As we crest the dune, a hundred umbrellas come into sight. Solids. Stripes. Red, white, and blue. The water is clear turquoise, an even break. No red tide, no mung. A perfect beach day. A Jaws day. Kids playing Frisbee, making castles and digging deep moats around them that fill with water from a wellspring underneath the sand. Gorgeous young things strut self-consciously in bikinis, pretending not to know they’re being watched. I scan for Jonas. He always walks to the left.
Peter sees them first. They’ve set up a yellow-and-white-striped beach tent. It looks like a circus pavilion, enclosed on three sides but open to the sea. Gina stands next to it waving a fuchsia towel, signaling us. Maddy and Finn race down the dune toward her, Peter following behind. I hang back, girding myself for whatever happens. What if Peter senses something different between me and Jonas? What if Gina noticed we were both gone? I try to visualize the room just before I went out the back door. Jonas at the table, leaning back in his chair, outside the fall of the candlelight. Peter lying on the sofa, Gina laughing at some comment Dixon had made, my mother pouring grappa into espresso cups, clearing plates, washing glasses in the sink. I’m pretty sure Gina’s back was to me. Jonas is sitting on the sand, staring out to sea. I take a deep breath. We are not a family of cowards.
1976. July, the Back Woods.
I am floating on a blue rubber raft. My eyes are closed, face to the sun. Black motes dance around under my eyelids in the opaque red. I drift, listen to the sound of my breath going in and out, let the salt wind carry me to the middle of the pond. There is nothing but me. No one here but me. A perfect moment. I dangle my arm over the edge of the raft, open my fingers, feel the resistance of the water as it passes through them. I imagine I’m a duck. Any moment now a snapping turtle will swim up from the cold bottom and grab my sharp yellow feet, drag me to the deep. In the distance, I hear the clatter of wooden paddles being dumped in the bottom of a canoe. Anna and her friend Peggy have paddled over to the far side of the pond. It’s only a short walk to the beach from there. When I open my eyes, I can just make out the tiny flames of their bright orange life vests as they pull the boat up onto shore and disappear into the tree line.
Mum and her boyfriend Leo have gone into town to collect his kids from the Greyhound bus stop. They are coming to stay with us for ten days. Leo is a jazz musician from Louisiana. Saxophone. He has a thick black beard and laughs a lot. He believes exercise is for the weak. His favorite food is shrimp. Anna isn’t sure about him, but I think he’s nice.
Leo’s kids, Rosemary and Conrad, live with their mother in Memphis. They have heavy southern accents and say y’all. Rosemary is seven. Mousy. “Irrelevant,” Anna says. “And she smells weird.” Conrad is eleven, one year older than me. He is short and squat, with Coke-bottle glasses and bulging eyes. He stands too close. We’ve only met them once before, at a luncheonette, when they came to New York to visit their father. Rosemary ordered a rare steak and talked about original sin.
“His ex-wife wants him dead,” my mother says to a friend over the kitchen phone. “If it were up to her, Leo would never see his children again.” She lowers her voice. “Frankly, I’m with her, but don’t you dare repeat that. They aren’t very likable children. Though I suppose very few people actually like other people’s children. Leo says the boy hates to get in the water, so being on the pond with him in this infernal heat is bound to be an absolute nightmare. Let’s just hope he bathes.”
She has told us to be on our best behavior.
In the center of the pond where the water is deepest, forests of bladderwort grow up from the bottom. The fish like to hide here. I flip onto my stomach and peer over the edge of the raft. The patch of shade I cast creates a lens that allows me to see everything beneath me in focus. A school of minnows moves through lily pad stems and rotting grasses with swift, jerky motions. A painted turtle swims slowly through the dull green toward the surface. Far below it, a sunfish guards its nest with a vigilant, lazy waft. I lean forward and put my face into the water, open my eyes. The world becomes a soft blur. I lie like this for as long as my lungs can take it, listening to the sounds of the air. If I could breathe underwater, I would stay here forever.
Across the pond, I hear the slam of a car door, Leo’s booming laughter. They are here.
12:35 P.M.
Jonas is leaning back on his elbows, his black hair slicked like an oily duck. A thin white cotton shirt clings to his shoulders. A spark of sunlight glints off his wedding ring. He doesn’t turn as we approach. I wonder if it’s because he can’t face me now, face what we have done. Or maybe wanting me all those years was the point, and now I’m just someone he fucked and has to deal with. Or maybe he, too, wants to avoid this moment of acknowledgment—keep his old life alive for one moment longer, before everything changes. Because, either way, it will.
Peter sits down right next to him, points to something on the horizon. Jonas leans in to answer. Dizzying ripples of heat rise off the sand.
“Hey!” Gina shouts, eyes narrowed, and starts coming at me across the sand. I stare at her pierced belly button as it comes in and out of sight beneath her tankini top. Finn and Maddy have spread out their towels nearby and are spraying each other with sun block.
Jonas hasn’t turned, but I think I see his forearms tense ever so slightly.
I glance over at the kids; a rising dread.
“Seriously, Elle?” Gina says, squaring off with me.
“Mom,” Finn calls out, “I need you to tighten my goggles.”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Whatever you have to say, I think, please say it quietly.
“We’ve been waiting for you for over an hour. The sandwiches are gonna be totally soggy.”
I will my voice to keep its cool, stay level, sure my face is betraying me. Under the pile of towels I’m carrying, my hands are shaking. “I’m so sorry. We should have called. I had a stupid fight with Jack this morning and it spiraled. Let me just put these towels down. I’ll run to the market and get fresh sandwiches.”
Gina looks at me as though I’ve gone nuts. “Um, earth to Elle? I’m kidding! I can’t believe you honestly thought I’d be pissed off about the sandwiches.” She laughs, but for a millisecond a strange expression flashes across her face,
and I wonder if she has felt my intestines unfurling.
“Of course not.” I force a laugh. “I’m losing it. It’s either the Ambien or perimenopause.”
Gina puts her arm through mine, drags me over to the others. “I’m just glad you got here. Jonas is refusing to come into the water. Is this the most beauteous day, or what?”
“It’s too hot.”
“I swear to Christ, I will never understand you Back Woods people. You have the perfect life in the most gorgeous place on the planet and all you can say is ‘It’s too hot.’ Jonas was like pulling teeth this morning. Swim time,” Gina calls out to Finn and Maddy. “Last one in, cutie pies. It’s time to boogie.” She gives a little booty shake. Maddy looks over at me with an expression of pure horror, but they follow her down to the water, racing to dive in headfirst.
“Hey, missus,” Peter calls over to me. “Toss me that water jug, will you? I’m dying of thirst over here.”
I take aim and throw the thermos at him. It slaloms through the air and lands perfectly upright at his feet.
“Nice,” Peter says.
Jonas turns then. Looks directly at me. He stands up and brushes the sand off his palms, walks toward me, arms outstretched, grabs the stack of towels I’m carrying, leans in to kiss me on the cheek. “I missed you,” he whispers in my ear.
“Hi,” I say softly. I can’t bear it. It is too much to bear. “I missed you, too.”
He runs the tip of his finger down my arm and I shudder.
“Who’s going in?” Peter calls over to us. “It’s bloody broiling.”
1977. February, New York.
Fifth grade. A snow day. Anna and I are staying with her godfather Dixon for the week. Dad and Joanne are living in London—he has been transferred for work—and Mum and Leo have gone to Detroit for a gig. They are getting married in May. Dixon is Mum’s “cool” friend. Everyone loves Dixon. He has long dirty-blond hair in a ponytail and drives a pickup truck. He knows Carly Simon. Mum says he doesn’t need to work. They’ve been best friends since they were two years old; otherwise I don’t think he would even speak to her. They went to preschool together and spent summers together in the Back Woods, skinny-dipping and digging for quahogs and littlenecks in the muck when the tide was out. “Even though I hated shellfish,” Mum says. “But Dixon has a way of making you do things.” A long time ago, Anna asked Mum why she hadn’t married Dixon. “Because he’s a rake,” Mum had said. And I thought of leaves.
The Paper Palace Page 7
