A Hundred Summers

by Beatriz Williams

  “So, Lily.” He kissed my wet neck. “What now?”

  “I’m afraid I’m a little drunk,” I said.

  “So am I. Drunk and not very gentlemanly.”

  I opened my eyes. We kissed again, even longer this time. I slung my arms around his neck. He picked up his scotch and finished it, almost without breaking the kiss, and played with my breasts. His hands felt hard on my skin, hard and smooth-polished by baseballs and bats and lowball glasses. “I think we’d better stop now,” he said.

  “You’re right.”

  “I didn’t bring a rubber with me.”

  “Then we should certainly stop.”

  Graham sighed and started on the second drink. “All right,” he said. He picked up my brassiere from the bench and put it back on, fastening the hooks as if he’d been born to do it, and I raised my dress and pushed my arms through the holes. Graham tilted me around and did up the buttons in the back. My heart was slamming against my chest; my hands were shaking. A cool thread of sobriety began winding through my head, making my face flush with shame.

  “Hey, there.” Graham took my chin. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No regrets, right?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Graham kissed my nose, picked up my hand and kissed that, too. “Tell me something, Lily. When was the last time you kissed a man?”

  “About six and a half years ago.”

  Graham swore. “Is that so?”

  “That’s so.”

  He put his hands on my knees and slid his fingers under the hem of my dress, right up to the edge of my stockings. “Then I’d say it’s about time, wouldn’t you?”

  I didn’t say anything. I thought of Graham’s whiskey kisses, his warm hands on my skin, how different and how much the same as the kisses and hands I’d known before. My insides were a muddle of desire and shame and impatience. Nick’s face flashed before me, guarded and reproachful, a little accusing. I wanted to crawl away, but Graham’s hands held me in place, straddling his lap.

  “The way I see it,” said Graham, “we have two choices here. One, we take this very interesting conversation back, say, to your bedroom, or some other convenient spot. There, properly equipped, in privacy and comfort, we take things to their natural conclusion. Maybe even do it again, for good luck. Maybe even make a habit of it.”

  “Fun all around,” I said. “And what’s the second choice?”

  Graham took another drink. “The second choice is, we start again. No bars, no jazz, no drinks, no kissing below the neck. Just a fellow courting his girl.”

  A drop of rain clunked on my head, and another. From somewhere above came a faint warning rumble. “The rain’s starting up,” I said.

  “What is it?” Graham asked. “None of the above?”

  “I don’t know. What do you mean by courting?”

  “A very good question. What do I mean by courting?” Another drink. “I’ll tell you a little story, Lily. When I called up Budgie, before I drove out to Seaview, she told me you’d be here. She asked me to look in on you, show you a good time.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said sure, why not? Lily’s a pretty girl, a nice girl. So that’s why I came down on the beach last week. To sound you out, get the lay of the land, make sure you hadn’t let yourself go. But the funny thing is, Lily Dane . . .” He checked himself and drank again. “The funny thing is, when I saw you sitting there in the sand, with the sun on your hair and your little girl hugging you like that, I thought . . . well, I thought . . .”

  “What did you think?”

  “I thought . . .” Graham’s eyes had lost their good humor. He looked bleary, earnest, a little lost. He drummed his fingers against my thighs and shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought. Don’t listen to me, been drinking too much. Let’s just forget all this happened, hmm? Start over, you and me.” He withdrew his hands from beneath my dress and gave my bottom a pat, and then picked up his scotch and finished it.

  “All right.” I lifted myself from his lap and adjusted my dress. The rain picked up. I could already hear it shattering against the nearby leaves, the leading edge of the wave. “We’re going to be soaked,” I said.

  “No, we’ll beat it.” Graham rose and grabbed my hand, and we ran around the corner to the entrance, only just making it through the door before the downpour hit in a crash of falling water.

  The fug of jazz and smoke enveloped us. A burly man nudged past, wearing a cheap, loose-fitting brown suit. He glanced at me, looked at Graham. “Say, you’re the relief pitcher for the Yankees, aren’t you? Pendleton, right?”

  “That’s right,” said Graham. He took his hand from mine and held it out. “Graham Pendleton.”

  “Brother, I’m a Red Sox fan,” the man said, and he hauled back his fist and punched Graham in the jaw like a sledgehammer.

  I CLINKED MY NICKEL against the metal pay phone and looked at the pair of them, Budgie and Graham, sitting on the bench in the manager’s office. Graham held a dripping red New York strip to his jaw, his eyes half closed. Budgie cuddled into his arm, humming, pink-faced and drunk. I couldn’t call the Palmers, that was certain. Aunt Julie, perhaps?

  But then Mother would hear Aunt Julie leaving, starting the car. She’d ask questions.

  I slid the nickel into the slot and dialed up the Greenwald house. It was a Thursday; Nick was still in New York. Mrs. Ridge knew how to drive. Mrs. Ridge could take the other car, the station car, and meet us here. Plenty of room for all of us in the station car, a large Oldsmobile.

  The phone range twice, and a male voice said, “Greenwald.”

  “Nick?” I gasped.

  “Lily?”

  “Oh, God. I thought you were in New York.”

  “I came up early. What’s the matter? Where are you?” Nick’s voice came back urgently.

  I took a deep and shuddering breath and clutched the receiver with both hands. A click came down the line, and another. Phones were going up all along the Neck.

  Think, Lily. Choose your words.

  “Everything’s all right. I’m with Budgie. We were going to dinner in Newport, remember?”

  A little silence, and then: “Yes, of course.”

  “We had a bit of car trouble, I’m afraid. Right outside South Kingstown.”

  Budgie hiccupped loudly.

  “Good God. You’re not by the road, are you?” Nick asked.

  “No, no. We found a . . . I suppose it’s a sort of roadhouse. . . .”

  Nick swore softly. “I’ll be there right away. Where is it?”

  I gave him the address. “It’s a little hard to find, though. Hard to see from the road.”

  “I’ll find you, don’t worry. Just stay put. You’re all right, Lily?”

  “Yes, we’re all right.”

  “Give me half an hour.”

  He clicked off, and I set down the receiver and turned to Budgie and Graham. “Nick says he’ll be here in half an hour.”

  Budgie groaned softly and turned her face into Graham’s broad shoulder. Graham groaned, too, and turned his head and vomited onto the floor.

  Nick arrived thirty-five minutes later, his brown hair dark and damp, his eyes narrowed with worry. He took in the sight of Graham and Budgie on the bench without a murmur. Together we helped them into the Oldsmobile and arranged them on the backseat, groaning and stirring. Budgie’s dress was loose, the top buttons unfastened. Nick lifted the sagging neckline, did the buttons. He pried the steak from Graham’s fingers and tossed it into the woods.

  We drove in silence along the wet highway, back toward Seaview. Nick turned on the radio, where someone was reading the news in a resonant voice. The Oldsmobile had a high roof, but Nick’s head hunched down slightly from habit. His long limbs folded around the steering wheel, the floor pedals. He smelled like damp wool and cigarettes, or maybe the cigarettes were me.

  Halfway back along the coast, Nick spoke: “Ca
n you tell me what happened?”

  I looked down at my hands, which were folded on my lap. “We were going to Newport for dinner. That’s what Budgie said. We ended up stopping at that place on the way.”

  “Her idea, or yours?”

  My voice was raspy with smoke and gin. “Well, hers.”

  “I don’t suppose I needed to ask. And Graham went with you?” He nodded at the backseat.

  “Graham arrived later. He was punched by a Red Sox fan.”

  Without warning, Nick laughed. “You don’t say. Just punched him?”

  I swung my fist. “Just punched him. He dropped like a stone.”

  “Had a few drinks by then, I suppose.”

  “A few.”

  “And Budgie? She’s had a few?”

  I looked back at Budgie, snoring comfortably into Graham’s shoulder, her dark hair mussed her cheek. A light flashed by, illuminating her. Her lipstick smeared about her lips, its bloodred glory long faded to a guilty pink. I had found her, after much searching, in the washroom, flushed and smiling and disheveled. “I do believe I’m a little drunk, Lily,” she’d said, falling into my arms with a dreamy smile. “Imagine that.”

  “She had a few. We both did. Martinis and cigarettes, very shameful.”

  “My wife is leading you down the path of debauchery, it seems.” He made a tiny inflection on the word wife.

  “I haven’t had such fun in ages,” I said.

  “Haven’t you?”

  “Not in six and a half years. Not once.”

  A sign shone ahead against the headlamps, at the turnoff to Seaview. Nick braked carefully, mindful of the bodies piled in the seat behind us.

  “It was different for you, of course,” I went on. “Or so I heard. Paris, women, money, isn’t that right? Speaking of debauchery, I mean.”

  He didn’t say anything. The crossing was clear of any other cars, and Nick released the clutch, shifting gears with one enormous hand, steering with the other. There were no streetlights on Seaview Neck, and the moon and stars hung invisible behind the clouds. I couldn’t see much more than the outline of Nick’s face, the shadows of his arms and legs as they directed the car through the darkness.

  We pulled up before the Greenwalds’ house. “Pendleton can sleep it off here,” said Nick. “I don’t want to wake the Palmers.”

  “All right.”

  Nick got out of the car and pried Budgie away from Graham. She made a sound of protest, and then settled against her husband. “You take her,” said Nick. “I’ll give Pendleton a hand. Here we go, brother. Up and at ’em.”

  I slung Budgie’s arm over my shoulder.

  “Oh, Lily, darling. There you are,” she said, right next to my face, and the gin fumes nearly brought me to my knees. How many more bathwater-warm martinis had she drunk, while I was outside with Graham?

  We stumbled together up the steps. Nick had taken the precaution of turning off the porch light before he left. I found the knob, swung the door open, and hauled Budgie through. Nick and Graham were right behind us, thumping and groaning onto the porch.

  “Right up the stairs,” said Nick. “Second door on the left.”

  “Come on, Budgie,” I said. “I can’t carry you up by myself.”

  “What a shame.” She sank down onto the first step, put her head between her knees, and vomited.

  “Christ,” muttered Nick. “Hold on. I’ll get Pendleton upstairs and come back down for her.”

  He dragged Graham up the staircase. I went into the kitchen and found a cloth. I soaked it with water from the faucet and went back and cleaned up Budgie as best I could, then mopped up the vomit from the wooden floorboards. The last vestige effects of my own pair of martinis had left me now, and my mind was cold and clear and weary.

  Nick came back down the stairs. “You didn’t need to do that.” He took the cloth and went to the kitchen. I heard the clatter of a pail, the hiss of a faucet.

  I sank down next to Budgie and took her hands. “Wake up, honey,” I said.

  She looked up with half-lidded eyes. “I’m a wreck, aren’t I? Poor old Nick. He should have . . . he should . . .” Her head rolled down again.

  “Out cold, is she?” said Nick. He smelled strongly of soap.

  I stood aside while he slung her into his arms and carried her up the stairs. For an instant I hesitated, watching Nick’s body climb to the bedrooms above, watching Budgie’s legs and head flop on either side of him, and then I followed. He may need help, I told myself, if she vomits again.

  Their bedroom was in the back. I followed Nick into the room. There were two twin beds, neatly made, with crisp white bedspreads. I tried not to stare at them. Nick placed Budgie’s limp body atop one, the one near the window. “Her clothes are still wet,” he said. “Could you find a pair of pajamas? Top drawer, on the left.”

  I went to the chest of drawers next to the wall. A mirror sat atop it, surrounded by cosmetics with lids removed, by crumpled tissue and cotton wool and perfume bottles and priceless jewelry. My face reflected back, lit faintly from the light in the hallway, wide-eyed and drawn, lipstick faded, hair springing in impossible curls. I opened the top drawer and found a small stack of silk pajamas, perfectly folded.

  Nick was unwrapping Budgie’s dress, sliding it off over her head. She wasn’t wearing a brassiere, only a girdle and stockings. Her small breasts stretched nearly flat across her chest, the nipples soft and brown. Nick unfastened the stockings, unhooked the girdle. He took the pajama top and slipped it over her head, pushed her arms through the holes. I handed him the bottoms, and he put those on, too, lifting each leg, tying the drawstring at the top. They were curiously conservative pajamas, I thought, not at all how I imagined Budgie’s nightwear. I hadn’t really imagined it at all, in fact; I had always pictured her sleeping naked, her limbs entwined with Nick’s, ivory and gold.

  Nick pulled back the covers and swung Budgie’s body underneath them. She moaned and turned her head into the pillow, hair spreading dark against the spotless white.

  “Will she be all right?” I asked.

  “She’ll be fine. She’ll feel like hell in the morning, of course, poor thing.” Nick gave the covers a final tuck and turned toward me. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be off, then.” I turned to the door.

  The floorboards creaked behind me. “I’ll drive you.”

  “No need. It’s just a short walk.”

  “It’s pitch black outside.”

  “I know the way.”

  Nick followed me down the stairs anyway, held open the door, walked down the steps to the lane.

  “Nick, it’s all right,” I said, turning to face him.

  He said, “Just walk with me, please? You don’t need to say anything.”

  We walked down Neck Lane, past the porch lights, the Atlantic roaring softly at our left. The rain seemed to have passed; a shadow of a cloud scudded past, made ghostlike by a nearby moon. I inhaled the sea, dark and briny, the smell of summer.

  “You were right about Paris,” said Nick. “I drank and spent money. I chased women, I slept with women. As many as I could, at first.”

  “How lovely for you. I hope you enjoyed them.”

  “I was trying to forget you. Each time, I tried to forget, and each time you were right there, staring at me, watching me as I sinned, laughing at me.”

  “How lovely for me.”

  He didn’t answer.

  I said: “And Budgie? I suppose you married Budgie to forget me?”

  “I did, in fact. To forget you, and to punish you, too, I suppose.”

  “Punish me for what?”

  “For forgetting me.”

  Our feet crunched along the gravel. “I never forgot you,” I whispered. “Not for a day, not for an hour. How could I? You were Nick. There was nobody else in the world.”

  “I made a mess of things. I know that now. I was young and stupid, I wasn’t thinking clearly, I assumed that you . . .” He caught himself. “That’
s why I came back, to tell you, to explain at least, even if it’s too late to . . .”

  I stopped and turned to him. We stood in the gap between the last house and mine, outside the circle of porch lights, the air black between us. I could feel Nick’s breath on my face. “And what was the point of that, exactly? It is too late. You’re already married. What good does it do? Do you know how it tortures me, seeing you together? Do you? Is this all part of my punishment? Are you trying to drive the knife further, twist it harder?”

  “Don’t say that. Listen, Lily, there’s something else, something you must know . . .”

  “I kissed Graham tonight,” I said. “We went outside, behind the building, and I kissed him, and I let him undress me, all the way to the waist, right there in the open. I let him touch me. I sat on his lap.”

  Nick breathed silently into the air. “Anything else?”

  “No. He stopped us. He told me he wants to court me instead.”

  A pause. “Did you say yes?”

  “Why shouldn’t I say yes? Maybe I want to get married, too. Maybe I want to be kissed and held and made love to, and have a family of my own, with a husband beside me. Maybe I want someone to undress me and put on my pajamas and tuck me into bed, when I’ve had too much to drink.”

  Nick turned and continued down the lane. From his outline against the darkness, I could see that he had shoved his hands in his pockets, that his head was bent toward the path.

  I caught up with him.

  “I deserved that, of course,” he said.

  “That and more.”

  He stopped at the path leading up to the porch. “Do you want to marry Graham?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll find out.”

  Nick stood there, looking at me. Our porch light was on, and in the outer glow his face looked hard and distant. He muttered something under his breath.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “I said, if he hurts you, I’ll kill him.”

  A wave, unexpectedly large, exploded onto the rocky outcropping at the end of my swimming cove. Over Nick’s shoulder, I could see the shape of the battery, right at the very end, squat and silver-tipped in the moonlight.