The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1

by Douglas Kennedy

  “What did you slip into their wine?”

  “I was simply telling them how much they reminded me of The Magnificent Ambersons.”

  I stifled a laugh.

  “I’m glad to see you still have a sense of the comedic,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I said, sounding unconvinced.

  “And if it’s not fine, you can always run back to me.”

  I clutched his hands in mine. “You’re the best.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “I’m glad you finally figured that out.”

  Eric did have one slight moment of mischief, when George called upon him “to speak for the bride’s family.” Standing up, he raised his glass and said, “The best quote about domicile conjugal came from that very short Frenchman Toulouse-Lautrec, who said that ‘marriage is a dull meal, preceded by dessert.’ I’m certain this will not be the case with George and Sara.”

  Well, I thought it was witty—though most of the other guests coughed nervously after Eric sat down again. Then George and I cut the cake. We posed for a few photographs. The cake was served with coffee. Ten minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. Grey stood up, indicating it was time to draw things to a close. So we said our goodbyes. My father-in-law gave me a fast peck on the forehead, but had no words of luck or farewell for me. Mrs. Grey air-kissed my cheeks, and said, “You did fine, dear. Keep doing fine, and we will get along very well.”

  Then Eric came over, embraced me, and whispered, “Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

  He left. The room emptied out. The reception had started at 5:30 PM. It was now eight o’clock, and it was over. There was nothing left for us to do but retreat upstairs to the “honeymoon suite” which George had booked for us that night.

  So upstairs we went. George disappeared into the bathroom and emerged in his pajamas. I disappeared into the bathroom and undressed, then slipped on a robe. I reentered the room to find George already in bed. I unfastened the robe and slid into bed next to him, naked. He pulled me close to him. He began to kiss my face, my neck, my breasts. He unfastened the fly of his pajamas. He spread my legs and climbed on top of me. A minute later, he emitted a small groan and rolled off me. Then he tucked himself back into his pajama bottom, kissed the back of my neck, and wished me “good night.”

  It took a moment or two for me to realize that he had passed out. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Eight forty. Eight forty on a Saturday night—my damn wedding night—and my husband is already asleep?

  I shut my eyes and tried to join him in early-to-bed unconsciousness. I failed. Opening my eyes again, I got out of bed and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I ran a bath. As the water cascaded out of the tap, I suddenly did something I had been threatening to do for the past few hours: I started to weep.

  Within moments, the weeping became uncontrollable, and so loud that it must have been discernible over the sound of running water. But there was no sudden knock at the bathroom door, followed by a huge reassuring hug from George, telling me everything was going to be all right.

  Because, of course, George was a very deep sleeper. If the loud Niagara of open taps didn’t wake him, then why should he even hear his wife sobbing?

  Eventually, I managed to regain control of myself. I turned off the taps. I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyes were red, my wedding makeup was streaked. I slid into the bath. I took a wash towel, dipped it in the hot water, then draped it over my face. I stared up into its white emptiness. Thinking, I have made the worst mistake of my life.

  Too fast, too fast. Everything happened too fast. He made love too fast. We got engaged too fast. I agreed to this wedding too fast. He fell asleep too fast.

  And now . . .

  Now I was trapped . . . though, of course, it was me who had trapped myself.

  The honeymoon wasn’t a great success either. The hotel which Mrs. Grey had suggested in Provincetown was an elderly inn, run by an elderly couple and catering largely for elderly visitors. It was shabby genteel. Our bed had a sagging mattress. The sheets stank of mildew. The bathroom was down the hall from our room. There were rust stains in the bathtub, and the sink had chipped enamel. As it was the off-season there were few places open in Provincetown for dinner, so we were forced to make do with the food at the inn—all of which was heavily boiled. It rained for three of the five days we were there—but we did manage to get a few walks in on the beach. Otherwise, we sat in the lounge of the inn, reading. George tried to be cheerful. I tried to be cheerful. I also managed to get him to make love to me without his pajamas. It was still over within a minute. I asked him not to roll over and play dead afterward. He apologized. Profusely. Instead he put his arms around me, holding me tight. Within moments, he was fast asleep—and I was trapped in his arms. I did not sleep well that night. Nor, for that matter, did I sleep well any night in Provincetown, thanks to the droopy bed, the bad food, the charmless atmosphere of the inn, and the fact that the true reality of marriage to George was beginning to hit.

  The five nights came to an end. We boarded a bus which took five hours to drive the length of Cape Cod to Boston. We caught a train south. We arrived into Old Greenwich just before midnight. At that hour, there were no cabs at the station, so we had to carry our bags the ten minutes it took to walk up Park Avenue. As we approached our house, all I could think was, I will die here.

  All right, I was being a little melodramatic. But the house seemed so drab, so poky, so damn cheerless. Inside, assorted boxes and suitcases from our respective New York apartments lay piled up in the living room. I looked at them and thought, I could call the movers tomorrow and have all my stuff picked up while George was at work, and be gone before he arrived home that night.

  But where was I going to go?

  In our bedroom, the two single beds were separated by a bedside table. When I first saw the house with George, he said that our first order of business upon moving in was to remove that table and push the beds together. But we were so tired after the twelve-hour journey from Provincetown that we simply slipped into our respective beds and fell asleep instantly. When I woke the next morning, there was a note awaiting me on the table:

  Darling:

  Off to the city to bring in the bacon. And as you were sleeping so peacefully, I decided I could fry the bacon myself. Back on the 6:12.

  Love and kisses . . .

  Off to the city to bring in the bacon. Did this man have no sense of irony whatsoever?

  I spent the day unpacking. I took a walk over to Sound Beach Avenue—Old Greenwich’s Main Street—and did some shopping. Back in ’47, this corner of Connecticut had yet to become a busy dormitory community for Manhattan, so Old Greenwich still retained a small-town atmosphere. As befitting all small towns, all the shopkeepers quickly gauged that I was a newcomer, and turned on the communal charm.

  “Oh, you’re the gal who married Old Man Grey’s son, and is living on Park Avenue,” said the woman in Cuff’s—the local stationery shop, and the only place in town that sold the New York Times.

  “Yes, I’m Sara Grey,” I said, stumbling over my new last name.

  “Nice having you in town. Hope you’ll be real happy here.”

  “Well, it’s certainly a friendly place,” I said, hoping I sounded sincere.

  “Friendly it is. And great for raising kids.” She glanced at my midsection, which had yet to show a telltale bulge. She tried to repress a smirk. “If, of course, you’re planning to have kids so soon after the wedding.”

  “You never know,” I said quietly.

  In every shop on Sound Beach Avenue, I was greeted with the same question: “New in town?” When I explained who I was, a knowing smile would follow, along with a pleasantly pointed comment like: “Heard you had a real nice little wedding.”

  Or: “My, that was a whirlwind romance you and George had.”

  By the end of this first shopping expedition, I felt as if I should wear a sign a
round my neck which read: Just Married and Pregnant. More worryingly, I had a stab of despair as I thought that the eight stores which lined Sound Beach Avenue would be my world.

  George arrived home off the 6:12 from Grand Central Station, bearing flowers. After giving me a kiss on the lips, he noticed that half the boxes and suitcases on the living room floor had been cleared.

  “Been unpacking already?” he asked.

  “Yes—I put most of my things away.”

  “Good work,” he said. “And you can tackle all of my clothes tomorrow. And, honey, if you wouldn’t mind giving the suits a light pressing . . .”

  “Oh, sure, I guess.”

  “Great, great. Listen, I’m going upstairs to change. How about making us a celebratory martini for our first full evening in at our new house.”

  “A martini? Okay.”

  “Not too dry. My sweet tooth is partial to vermouth. And four olives, if we’ve got any.”

  “We don’t, I’m afraid.”

  “Hey, no problem. Just add them to your shopping list tomorrow. And hey—forgot to ask . . . what’s for dinner?”

  “Uh, I bought some lamb chops and broccoli . . .”

  “Oh heck, meant to tell you—I really hate broccoli . . .”

  “Uh, sorry . . .”

  “Hey, how were you to know? Meat and potatoes—that’s my style. You know how to make a meat loaf?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, it’s a cinch. I’ll have Bea—Mom’s cook—give you a call tomorrow, and tell you her top-secret meat loaf recipe. And hon . . .”

  “Yes?” I said, my voice now muffled.

  “If I eat after seven at night, I just don’t sleep real good. So if you could aim to have dinner on the table no later than six forty-five, well that would be great.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “A guy can’t ask for anything more than that.”

  He went upstairs to change. I retreated to the kitchen and assumed my new role as housewife. I put the lamb chops in the oven to broil. I peeled the potatoes and plunged them into a pot of boiling water. I found a glass pitcher, a bottle of Gilbey’s Gin, and one of vermouth. I mixed a large pitcher of martinis. I suddenly felt the need for strong alcohol.

  George complimented me on my cocktails, gently reminding me again to “get those olives” in the morning. He liked the lamb chops, but hinted they could be a little more well done (“I really like my meat scorched”). My mashed potatoes, however, didn’t pass muster (“A little lumpy, don’t you think, hon? Anyway, I’m really a roasted-potato guy”). I hadn’t done anything for dessert, which disappointed him . . . “but, hey, it’s the first time you’ve cooked for me as man and wife, so gosh, why should I expect you to know my likes and dislikes. It’s a learning curve, right?”

  I smiled. Tightly. Just like George’s mother.

  “Get a chance to look around Old Greenwich?” he asked.

  “Yes. It’s very . . . quaint.”

  “Quaint,” he said, rolling the word around his tongue. “That’s the perfect word, all right. I told you you’d like it up here.”

  “Everyone in town seemed to know who I was.”

  “Well, it is a small place. Word travels fast.”

  “Evidently—as everyone also seemed to know that I was pregnant.”

  “Oh,” he said, worried.

  “Now I wonder how that little titbit of news got around the community.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “What are you implying?”

  “I’m implying nothing. I’m just wondering . . .”

  “I’ll tell you what probably happened. People heard about us getting married so quickly, so they just put two and two together.”

  “Unless, of course, somebody let slip with our little secret.”

  “Who would do that?”

  “Your mother.”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  “It’s just a speculation . . .”

  “Why on earth would she be so vindictive?”

  “It’s her style . . . not to mention her way of putting me in my place. In fact, if I had the money, I’d put a thousand dollars on the fact that she tipped someone in town off about my pregnancy, knowing full well that it would spread like cancer . . .”

  “Why are you doing this?” he said, his tone now sharp.

  “Like I said before, I’m just speculating . . .”

  “Well, stop speculating now. I won’t allow it.”

  I stared at him, wide-eyed. “You won’t what?”

  He took a deep breath, and tried diplomacy. “All I’m saying here is this: Mother may have her difficult side, but she is not hateful. Anyway, she loves you . . .”

  “Now that’s funny.”

  “I didn’t know I was marrying a cynic.”

  “And I didn’t know I was marrying a momma’s boy.”

  He turned away, as if slapped.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “That’s okay,” he said.

  But we both knew it really wasn’t.

  When I woke the next morning at nine, there was a note on my pillow:

  Hey, sleepy head!

  Am I going to be cooking bacon every morning?

  Bea will be calling this morning with that recipe for meat loaf. Really look forward to sampling yours tonight. Hugs and kisses . . .

  Yes, you are going to be frying your own bacon every morning. Because there’s no way I’m getting up early just to be your very own short-order cook.

  Bea called later that morning . . . right after I had finished putting away the last of George’s clothes. She sounded like a woman in her fifties—with a heavy Southern accent and the sort of deferential manners that put me in mind of Hattie McDaniel in Gone With the Wind. She called me “Miz Grey.” She referred to my husband as “Mistah George.” She told me that she’d been “cookin” for Mistah George ever since he was a li’l child,” and how he had “the biggest darn sweet tooth” she’d ever seen. She also informed me that as long as I kept that sweet tooth of his happy, I’d keep Mistah George real happy. I promised her I’d try my best.

  Then she gave me her meat loaf recipe. It was long and involved. It necessitated the use of several cans of Campbell’s Condensed Tomato Soup, and at least two pounds of ground beef. I’d always hated meat loaf. I now knew I would grow to loathe it.

  After taking down the recipe, I walked into the village and dropped all of George’s suits at the local cleaners—because there was no way I was also going to be his valet. Then I bought all the necessary ingredients for the meat loaf, not to mention a jar of olives, and a seven-layer cake at the local bakery. Walking back to the house, I passed a garage which was also selling bicycles. There was a used ladies’ Schwinn—painted black with high handlebars. There was a pair of wicker panniers on either side of the back wheel—making it the perfect bike for shopping. It was in good shape—and though twenty dollars wasn’t a cheap price for a used bike, I still felt I was getting a reasonable deal, especially as the garage owner assured me he would service the bike himself. So I handed him the money, loaded my groceries into both panniers, and cycled off down Sound Beach Avenue.

  Instead of heading for home, I biked to the end of the main street—past the local high school, the local small hospital, and several substantial houses—then turned left and pushed on for over a mile until I came to a set of gates which announced my arrival at Todd’s Point Beach: Residents Only.

  As it was late April, the guard at the gate wasn’t on duty, so I cycled right on, past a parking lot, and then turned left. Instantly I braked. Instantly I felt the first smile cross my lips in days. Because there, in front of me, was a long smooth strip of white sand, and the deep blue waters of Long Island Sound.

  I parked the bike against a wooden fence, pulled off my shoes, and felt the sand creep between my toes. It was a mild day, the sun was at full altitude, the
sky was clear. I took in several deep lungfuls of sea air, then began to hike down the beach. It was about a mile long. I meandered slowly, emptying my brain, enjoying the first moments of calm I’d felt ever since the discovery that I was pregnant. At the far end of the beach, I sat down in the sand and spent around a half hour doing nothing but staring out at the tidal waters of the Sound—the metronomic ebb and flow of the surf lulling me into a temporary state of placidity. Thinking:

  This beach will be my safety valve, my escape hatch. This beach will be the way I survive George, his family, Old Greenwich, meat loaf.

  I returned to the house and followed Bea’s recipe to the letter: take two pounds of ground beef, mix it by hand with one minced onion, salt, pepper, and finely crushed cornflakes (yes: cornflakes), and one-third of a can of Campbell’s Condensed Tomato Soup. Shape it into a loaf. Place it inside a baking pan. Use the remaining two-thirds of a can of soup to coat it completely. Then bake in an oven for thirty-five minutes.

  Knowing that George would be arriving home on the 6:12, I put the meatloaf in the oven at 6:05 . . . which would give me ample time to meet my husband’s “Dinner before Seven” deadline. He walked in through the door at 6:20. He was carrying flowers. He gave me a peck on the cheek.

  “Something smells good,” he said. “Bea must have called.”

  “She did,” I said, handing him a martini.

  “You got the olives!” he said, his voice fulsome—as if I’d done something extraordinary, like splitting the atom.

  “Your wish is my command,” I said lightly.

  He looked at me carefully. “That’s a joke, right?”

  “Yes, George—that’s a joke.”

  “Just making sure. You’re a gal full of surprises.”

  “Oh really?” I said. “What kind of surprises?”

  He took a sip of his martini, then said, “Like the new bicycle out front.”

  “It’s not new, George. It’s secondhand.”

  “It’s new to me, because I haven’t seen it before.”