Creatures of Want and Ruin

by Molly Tanzer

  And really, while Bobbie might be scandalous, she was interesting.

  Given her reputation, Jimmy had resisted the idea of incorporating Bobbie into their set, but soon Bobbie had thoroughly charmed him and everyone else. Good thing, too, for when Bobbie’s husband kicked her out of his house and hired the best lawyer in Philadelphia she’d needed somewhere to stay. The tennis player had quickly gotten cold feet and gone back to his wife.

  Bobbie had made herself at home faster than a stray cat in Fin and Jimmy’s spare bedroom. At first Fin had been pleased to have her there. Jimmy was often led by the opinions of the Freemonts and Edgar—and Bobbie could be counted on to side with Fin when there was disagreement. But as Bobbie became chummier with everyone she began to take their side, and Fin once again felt like the perpetual odd one out.

  Standing on the cool green lawn of their new house, Fin took another long drag on her cigarette as one of the movers dropped an expensive-looking vase on their gravel drive. It shattered with the unmistakable, almost beautiful ring of breaking porcelain. Surprised insects stopped their droning for a moment as the mover looked her way, clearly worried, but Fin, who had never seen that vase before, turned away and headed for the gazebo.

  She could not shake her sense of melancholy, even though she knew it was in her best interest to learn to like this new house, in this new town.

  It was a nice house, and a nice town.

  “There she is! Kid! Hey, kid!”

  Kid was the nickname Jimmy had called her during their courting days. Fin turned; the daring but silly mustache Jimmy had recently grown was the first part of his face she could make out as he jogged up to meet her from the dock, entourage in tow. “Hey! Fin! Come and see!”

  They all seemed so happy; Fin couldn’t imagine what had plastered those smiles all over their slightly sunburned faces.

  “It’s here! Look!” said Jimmy.

  Fin looked where he pointed and saw a boat floating by the private dock. It looked very new and very expensive.

  “Do we have visitors?” she asked.

  “That’s Fin for you, isn’t it?” remarked Edgar. Lily Freemont tittered at this wittiness, tossing her new-penny curls. Jimmy laughed too, for a moment, but after seeing the look on Fin’s face he sobered.

  “No, kid,” he said, now horribly unctuous. “We just bought it! It’s ours!”

  Fin wondered who this “we” was—her and Jimmy, or had everyone chipped in? She suspected the former. Bobbie’s money was all tied up in the divorce, Edgar was always claiming poverty, and the Freemonts seemed to feel Fin and Jimmy ought to pay the lion’s share based on some math that seemed surprisingly Communist given Duke’s opinions of the Bolsheviks.

  Fin didn’t get a chance to ask.

  “Isn’t it just the bee’s knees?” enthused Bobbie. “That’s what we were thinking of calling it. What do you think of that? The Bee’s Knees! Isn’t it swell?”

  Jimmy was still looking at her eagerly.

  “So?” he asked. “What do you think?”

  “When did we buy it?” asked Fin.

  Jimmy’s eagerness turned to mild annoyance. “Yesterday after breakfast we all talked about it, don’t you remember? We were sitting on the patio, and Duke made the point that it just made sense to buy a boat if we already had the dock, and I said that sounded like a real wheeze, and you . . .” He furrowed his brow. “You said . . . well, I can’t recall what you said.”

  Fin often brought a book to the table—a girlhood habit her mother and finishing school had never managed to break. Usually she kept one ear out for the conversation, but she couldn’t remember ever discussing buying a boat.

  As she thought about it, she recalled that she’d left after breakfast to go into town—to the Amityville Free Library, which was supposed to be a local attraction. She had also had business there. While researching Long Island she had come across a volume of poetry called Sea Songs by a local poet, Todd Rockmeteller. The companion to a book called City Songs that was all about New York, the second was concerned with his life on Long Island. Fin had always loved reading about the sea, and she had been captivated by the poet’s simple but evocative descriptions. His obvious love for the area had made her feel better about the move. She’d been eager to see if the library had more of his work.

  And they did—a book-length poem called The Ginger-Eaters and something even better than that: a flyer stating that the poet himself was soon going to do a reading from his latest unpublished collection, right there in Amityville. She’d opened an account at the branch, signed up for the event, and come home substantially more chipper.

  She was just about to say this when Bobbie piped up.

  “I think you said that you didn’t know a lot about boats, so you’d trust Jimmy and the rest of us to take care of it all.”

  Fin stared at her friend. She didn’t know whether to be shocked by this falsehood or concerned for her own sanity. Mostly, she just felt lonely—incredibly, crushingly so.

  Bobbie seemed so completely certain that Fin looked to the Freemonts to see what they had to say about all of this, but they were softly bickering over some other matter. As for Edgar, he wasn’t paying attention either. His eyes were on his cigarette; Fin had never seen anyone so bored in her life. Either that, or he had been wrongly denied many a role in favor of lesser actors.

  It was beyond Fin why Bobbie would lie or why Jimmy would go along with it, but before she could object, he’d moved on.

  “It’ll be a gas,” he said. “We’ll have fun!”

  Not wanting to cause a scene, Fin nodded. “So who will be our captain?”

  Jimmy looked to Duke. “The man who sold it to me said it was easy enough to learn. Just don’t flood the motor.”

  “Hard cheese, it’s already sitting in the water then,” she said, making a bit of a joke.

  “Flood it with gasoline,” said Duke.

  “Please come and see it, Fin,” Jimmy urged her. He awkwardly offered her his arm, but she could take no pleasure in his touch or the gesture. He hadn’t been oblivious to the seething tensions underlying that conversation; he’d merely been pretending to be for some reason Fin could not yet perceive. Regardless, she accepted his invitation, and managed a smile in spite of feeling about as unhappy as she could ever remember.

  For perhaps half an hour Fin looked at the runabout she now owned, admiring whatever she was asked to, from the stitching on the leather seats to something her husband called its “lines.” When she asked what those were, Jimmy didn’t seem to know; he said it was the straightness of the planks of the deck and Duke the ropes that tethered it to the dock, until an exasperated Bobbie informed them that it was the shape of the hull.

  “Let’s take her out,” suggested Lily. “The movers are still hurling the furniture around everywhere; they don’t need us standing around, getting in their way.”

  Fin didn’t reply; instead, she watched one of the hired men approach from the rear as Lily spoke. When he cleared his throat Lily almost jumped out of her pale green dress. Fin couldn’t help but smile, though she hid it by pretending to cough.

  “Yes, what is it?” asked Lily, annoyed.

  “We need you to tell us where a few more things should go,” said the lad. He was clearly a local, with that accent and that abrupt, efficient, almost rude brusqueness.

  “What a drag!” said Bobbie.

  “You know, what we really need is a butler,” said Duke.

  Fin wasn’t sure she wanted to go out on a boat when it seemed that no one knew how to pilot it, anyway.

  “You go,” she urged them. “I’ll handle it.”

  “You sure?” Jimmy seemed surprised. “It’ll be a lot on your shoulders, kid.”

  “It’s not all that much to do,” said Edgar.

  Fin hadn’t expected any gratitude, so she said, “Edgar’s right. It won’t be any trouble.”

  The truth was she had no intention of supervising these movers any more helpfully than she
already had. It was just a reason not to go out with all of them, where there could be no escape but hurling herself into the bay.

  If she was going to feel lonely, she’d rather it be because she was actually alone.

  “All right then. We’ll see you in a bit. We won’t be out long, okay?”

  Fin walked off with the boy, who led her around the side of the house, toward the front door. The moment they turned the corner, she stopped him.

  “All right, listen to me,” she said, the sound of the runabout’s engine firing up a distant rumble. “I really don’t give a damn where you put anything in this house. Pile it up in the foyer for all I care.” The boy’s mouth hung open stupidly as she continued. “There’s cash for you all in an envelope on the kitchen counter when you’re done. I don’t wish to be asked any more questions.”

  She left him with his mouth hanging open, but she was no longer interested in the gazebo and its cool, relaxing pleasures. Threading her way among the movers, Fin made her way up to the master bedroom.

  Fin had learned archery at school. What had started as an elective had become a passion for her, and she’d kept up with it since leaving behind her beloved school’s ivied walls and manicured lawns for the ivied walls and manicured lawns of less enjoyable places.

  She hadn’t liked the idea of packing her gear into a crate; instead, she’d taken it all with her in the car on the drive, inconvenience be damned. She was glad she had. Her light Mongolian bow and the quiver that held her birch arrows had poked her during the whole way up from Philadelphia, but now they were right there in her closet, waiting for her when she needed them.

  She changed out of the gauzy white gown she’d selected that day to thwart the oppressive humid heat and into a rust-colored sport dress and low-heeled brogues before retrieving all her gear, including the leather-and-horn thumb ring that her archery instructress had given her as a parting gift. Her target she would have to do without; she had packed that into a crate, and goodness knew where it was at this moment. That was all right; she solved that problem by nipping down to the servants’ quarters and grabbing a bag of rags. She slung that over her other shoulder, and after requisitioning some rope from the garage she went off to find a place to shoot.

  The house’s grounds were actually very nice. The backyard was wide and flat, perfect for croquet or lawn parties, but Fin was more interested in the small wilderness on the western side of the property, beyond the gazebo. It was a well-maintained wood; someone came through here fairly regularly with clippers and axe, given how the old trees still grew tall but between them sunlight fell on the forest floor in golden puddles.

  When she found a likely spot Fin rigged a target, tying the ragbag between two oaks with the rope. It wasn’t ideal—if she missed, she risked burying a few arrows in the surrounding trees, but she’d make the best of it. Soon enough she’d have her target unpacked and she could really practice.

  She twisted her left leg through the bow and strung it. That felt good, as did slipping her shooting ring onto her thumb and clearing her mind as she got into her shooting stance.

  Fin’s archery instructress had taught her that shooting well wasn’t about being a body full of muscles, but rather about being a mind empty of thoughts. She had to learn to be only the feel of the string, the tension of the draw, her breathing, her stance. She’d practiced all that as much as she’d practiced her shooting, and it had served her well—the peace that came to her had been a welcome feeling over the years; a relief from her concerns, whatever they might have been at the time.

  Pressing her shoulders down and away from her ears forced those muscles to stretch and lengthen; she hadn’t realized just how tense she was. She wriggled a bit to loosen up further before drawing with her thumb, the special Mongolian way her teacher had taught her. She breathed, and released, her shoulder and arm cocking back as if she were tossing a flower behind her.

  The arrow sank into the bag with a satisfying thump.

  Fin might not know what she’d do with herself here on Long Island, or what was going on with her marriage these days, but she knew her bow and what she could do with it. Feeling good and warm, Fin gave herself over to her archery practice. She even did a little combat archery, practicing the quicker style of holding arrows in her hand instead of drawing them from her quiver, all while dipping in and around the trees.

  She worked up a fine sheen of sweat and was glad to have thought to grab a cold bottle of lemonade before heading out—some sort of locally bottled brand. It had warmed in the sun, but was still delicious.

  Only when the shadows were too long for her to see did she pack it in. It was time. Not only was she ravenous, her arms were weary and her shoulders ached—her feet and legs, too.

  She’d figured the others would have come back while she trained, but she was surprised to find the house ablaze with light. Beyond the gauzy fabric of the curtains people were milling about. Lots of people. They were having a party!

  Fin left the ragbag and the rope outside. Even so, with her bow and her quiver and her sweaty athletic togs it was impossible for her to wander invisibly through the crowd, who were all in a mix of casual and eveningwear. They laughed, ate, and drank together. Fin couldn’t remember having bought food or procured spirits or even hiring enough staff to serve them, but somehow they’d managed it.

  Snagging a canapé to take the edge off her hunger, Fin scoured the crowd for her husband. When she found him, he was standing side by side with Bobbie, talking to a man and a woman Fin had never seen before. Bobbie had clearly washed and changed and put on fresh makeup after her nautical jaunt; she looked absolutely gorgeous, her dark curls setting off the paleness of her skin. Fin felt ashamed to walk up to them with her damp hair plastered against her sunburned cheeks and half-moons of sweat evident under her armpits; she was just turning away to go make herself presentable when Jimmy noticed her.

  “Hey, look who it is!” he cried. “Where’ve you been, kid?”

  Fin’s eyes slid to her bow, but she decided to answer the question anyway.

  “Exploring the grounds. I did a bit of shooting, too.”

  “Oh yeah? Great! Well, while you were gone, some of our new neighbors came by to say hi, and they introduced us to some more neighbors, and someone brought over some hors d’oeuvres, and somebody else had some champagne! Pretty swell little get-together, don’t you think?”

  “Very nice,” she said, and turned to smile at the strangers to be introduced to them.

  “Oh, oh, right—Fin, this is Frank and Myrtle. They live up the way. Frank’s got some business interests he’s been telling us about.”

  “Delphine Coulthead,” said Fin, shaking Myrtle’s hand, then Frank’s, “but you can call me Fin. You know, like at the end of a French film. How do you do?”

  “Jimmy didn’t say he had a sister,” said Frank. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m his wife,” said Fin.

  This revelation cast an awkward pall over the gathering. Frank and Myrtle looked surprised, Jimmy had the decency to look abashed, and Bobbie . . . Bobbie just looked completely calm, as if nothing strange was going on.

  “Get you a drink?” asked Jimmy, after a moment.

  “Sounds like just the thing. Here, why don’t you show me where the hooch is?” said Fin.

  As they made their way through the crush, Fin squeezed Jimmy’s hand. Hard. She could accept the boat—she could even accept his inattention to whether she was present or absent—but she could not accept this casual public humiliation.

  “I’m amazed at you, James Coulthead.”

  Jimmy took his hand back from her grasp, shaking it out a little and looking wounded. “What’s wrong?”

  Fin tried to compose herself, but her mortification had turned to anger.

  “That man thought I was your sister.”

  “Who, Frank? Well, he knows now, doesn’t he?”

  “I had to tell him,” she said. This was amazingly dense behavior, even for
Jimmy. “You received our first visitors in this house without me, and then I had to tell them I was your wife.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  Bobbie had appeared behind Jimmy, her affect cool and cheerful and unforced. No outside observer would suspect or detect any malice in here at all, and Fin momentarily doubted herself for ascribing any to her friend.

  “I mean, you’re being funny, aren’t you?” continued Bobbie. What is this, some sort of Jane Austen novel? You received our first visitors without me. Surely you can’t be serious? Who cares who ‘receives’ whom? We’re all renting this house together, aren’t we? And anyway it’s just a party.”

  Again, Jimmy said nothing to this. Fin wondered what he must be thinking, but then she remembered the confused looks on Frank and Myrtle’s faces, and decided she didn’t care.

  “Jane Austen novels are indeed chock-full of scenes where characters are revealed by their manners at a party,” said Fin, looking evenly at Bobbie. She didn’t appreciate her friend butting into a private conversation, and she didn’t like being treated as if her feelings were inconsequential. “She was a keen observer of human nature. After all”—Fin’s eyes slid over to the silent Jimmy, who was watching this discussion with a confused furrow upon his manly brow—“it seems she was right, that fair or not fair, there will be ‘unbecoming conjunctions, which reason will patronize in vain.’”

  “Who’s being patronizing?” said Jimmy.

  “Enjoy your party,” said Fin, and left them to go upstairs. Edgar waved at her as she passed through a room where he was holding court among a lot of smartly dressed, arty-looking young men, but she did not do more than wave back. She didn’t want any more conversation; she wanted a bath.