Guests of August

by Gloria Goldreich

  ‘I want a tree,’ he says suddenly. ‘And a bench.’

  They look at him in surprise.

  ‘A small tree,’ he amends.

  ‘Actually a deciduous conifer is a good idea,’ the nursery owner agrees. ‘The needles provide some sort of ground cover that would shelter the bulbs.’

  He points to a small pine tree, its branches darkly green.

  ‘All right.’ Andrea and Wendy speak in unison, relieved to have reached an agreement of sorts.

  ‘And a bench?’ Donny is newly insistent. ‘A little one. Like the one down at the lake, you know. The one you sat on when you drew the swans.’

  ‘That wooden bench?’ Wendy asks.

  ‘Most of those small benches at the cemetery are stone,’ Andrea interjects, although the idea of a bench pleases her. Properly placed, it will dignify Adam’s grave and Andrea has always chased after dignity.

  ‘Actually, I know a carpenter who makes wooden benches for grave sites,’ the nursery owner says. ‘They are very graceful. People admire them.’

  Wendy restrains her desire to laugh at the absurdity of mourners trekking through a graveyard and pausing to cast admiring glances at benches and monuments, but Mark responds with grateful quiescence.

  ‘That sounds good,’ he says. ‘Yes. Let’s have a well-crafted wooden bench.’

  He wants this whole business of selecting plants to be over and done with. He is tired of playing referee to the emotional duel between his wife and his son’s widow. The nursery owner is pleased. The carpenter is his friend and will be grateful for the commission. He has a catalog of his work which he shows them. A shape is selected. Briefly they discuss the kind of wood that will be used.

  ‘A dark wood,’ Donny insists. ‘Like the bench near the lake.’

  They nod in agreement, soothed by the compromise. Wendy selects her bulbs. Andrea chooses the dwarf rosebush as well as a forsythia plant. They will collect their purchases in a few days’ time. Adam’s birthday. It has become their grim custom to attend to the landscaping of his grave on that day.

  As they drive back to the inn, Andrea attempts a reconciliation of a kind with Wendy.

  ‘I never walk down to the lake,’ she says, ‘so I’m unfamiliar with the bench Donny seems to like so much. And I haven’t seen the swans. But I did admire your drawings. Have you been studying Audubon’s work?’

  Wendy looks at her sharply. ‘When did you see my drawings?’ she asks.

  ‘I went into your room last night. I thought I heard Donny cry out. And your sketchpad was open on the desk.’

  ‘I see.’

  Wendy thinks to say that she makes a habit never to leave her sketchpad open, but she remains silent. The words unsaid linger heavily in the air, now grown uncomfortably warm as she drives slowly, much too slowly, back to the inn.

  The antique shop is dimly lit and Helene and Greg, Michael and Liane speak very softly as they enter as though unwilling to disturb whatever ghosts might lurk in the shadows. They tiptoe past the large ancient golden oak desk awkwardly situated in the middle of the floor and cast bemused glances at the scrub board placed in a copper cauldron which, mysteriously, has been burnished to a high shine.

  The proprietress, a wizened elderly woman, her sparse gray hair loosely knotted in a bun, her black dress rusted with age, looks up from the ledger on the counter, her face alight with pleasure, her blue eyes startlingly bright.

  ‘Mr Ames. Mrs Ames. How nice to see you. I thought perhaps you’d skipped your New Hampshire visit this year. Did you enjoy the head vases you bought last year?’

  She is a woman who prides herself on remembering the names of her itinerant customers as well as their purchases. Helene and Greg have visited her shop often, always buying small whimsical items. There was the ancient xylophone which Greg repaired with great care, coaxing a pleasant sound from its metallic keys, and a wooden paint box that Helene varnished and filled with tubes of oil paint and brushes, carrying it with her on their weekend rambles. The large ceramic bowl that sits on their dining room table; the small crystal based lamp beside Greg’s bed; the battered metal measuring cups on their kitchen counter – all were purchased here and, of course, only last year they had carried home the head vases, unsmiling Victoriana relics that they had filled each week with colorful assortments of flowers.

  ‘We love the head vases, Maria,’ Helene says and Greg smiles in agreement, pleased that Helene has returned the compliment and remembered the proprietress’s name. But then Helene always memorizes the names of her students, getting them right at the end of the very first week of school.

  Maria beams, pleased to hear her own name spoken so pleasantly. It is, Greg thinks, not something that happens very often during the long days the elderly woman spends in this shop so crowded with abandoned treasures and orphaned memorabilia. He smiles at his wife and strides across the room to a corner where a zither rests atop a leather steamer trunk.

  ‘These are our friends, the Currans,’ Helene tells Maria. Liane and Michael smile shyly, uncertain as to how to respond to the introduction.

  ‘They’re also guests at Mount Haven Inn,’ Helene continues. ‘This is their first shot at antiquing.’

  ‘Let me help you then,’ Maria offers. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’

  ‘A bookshelf,’ Liane says at once. ‘For our son’s room. He loves to read.’ She smiles proudly and Michael looks at her in surprise.

  From the earliest days of their marriage, she had always insisted on new furnishings. Quality had not been as important as the fact that everything they brought into their home was brand new.

  ‘I had enough of living with other people’s shit,’ Liane had told him. ‘My aunt’s ratty sofa. An armchair our neighbors were giving away. Even my bed, my goddamn bed with its skinny mattress, was a hand-me-down from my cousin.’

  He had struggled to understand this need of hers, as he had always struggled to understand this pretty woman who had so miraculously consented to be his wife. And he had struggled to please her in this as he struggled to please her in all things. He lived in fear of her discontent. He understood the terms of their marriage. He had promised her so much and had delivered so little. Their house is small, their vacations modest, their evenings out few and far between. But all their furniture is new, paid for in instalments. Cary’s room is furnished with a desk, a bureau, a bed, all discounted floor models bought on sale, crafted of plasterboard stained the color of stressed golden oak.

  But now Liane adds to the surprises she has heaped upon him during this very strange vacation. She is contemplating the purchase of a used bookcase.

  ‘There’s a little bookcase in that corner,’ Maria says, pointing across the room.

  They make their way to where the bookcase stands. Although long neglected, it has three finely beveled shelves and the golden wood has a dull glow.

  ‘I like this bookcase. I really do,’ Liane insists. ‘Is the price marked?’

  Maria, who has been watching, glides over to stand beside them. In the end they settle on twenty-five dollars – the lowest price Maria will accept.

  Liane is elated. Michael takes out his wallet and counts out the bills. Maria shakes hands with both of them. She too is pleased.

  ‘I hope Mr and Mrs Ames find something,’ she says to Liane. ‘But I’m sure they will. Mrs Ames has a very good eye.’

  ‘Do you know what they’re looking for?’ Liane asks.

  ‘Oh, I imagine that they’ll know when they find it.’

  Greg and Helene move slowly through the second floor where Maria keeps larger items of furniture. Smaller pieces, which she has despaired of selling, are shrouded in protective covering. They have already set aside a very small faux Tiffany lamp and a set of onyx bookends.

  ‘These will be pricey,’ Helene objects, replacing the bookends.

  ‘But if you like them.’

  ‘Not really what I’m looking for.’ Her head down, she walks to the cluttered f
ar end of the room.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Greg is growing impatient. He wants to claim his zither and see what he will have to do to repair the strings which he knows to be damaged. The thought of the instrument excites him. He imagines bringing it to class, showing it to his students, building a lesson about ancient instruments. He loves his work. In the beginning teaching had been a compromise, an acknowledgment that he could not support himself as a musician, that his and Helene’s wandering days were over. But teaching delights and energizes him. One of life’s surprises – but then life continues to surprise him. He thinks of the previous night and smiles at the memory of how Helene surprised him. He coaxes a chord from the zither, pleased at the gentleness of the sound.

  ‘Did you find it, whatever it is?’ he calls again.

  Helene does not answer him. She is on her knees, burrowing through objects shrouded in dust cloths, spider webs clinging to her hair, but when she does reply, her voice resonates with triumph.

  ‘Yes. Here it is! I found it. This is what I’ve been looking for. Remember? We saw it here last year. I’m so glad she didn’t sell it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  He strides over to her, kneels beside her, sees the smile on her face, sees her fingers sliding their way tenderly across the pale birch wood of the antique cradle which rocks gently at her touch. He does remember that cradle, remembers that they had looked at it the previous year and swiftly averted their eyes. But now he passes his hand over the mattress stuffed with corn husks and indented by the pressure of vanished infant bodies. He imagines a child of his own (of their own; swiftly he amends the thought) safely asleep upon it, deepening that indentation, a smiling and cooing baby with Helene’s deep gray eyes and her dimpled chin. It will happen. He has no doubt now that it will happen, and that it will happen sooner, rather than later.

  He helps his wife to her feet, lifts the cradle and carefully carries it down the stairwell. There is no need to discuss it, no need to bargain with Maria. They will buy it.

  And they do.

  Annette and Paul paddle across the lake. Matt and Cary are impatient passengers.

  ‘You can try it on the way back,’ Paul promises. ‘If you’ll be very careful.’

  ‘You only get to almost drown once on a vacation,’ Annette teases her brother.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he protests. ‘I didn’t know about the current. There’s no current here.’

  That much is true. The lake is as smooth as silk, rhomboids of light dancing across the dark waters. The swans, still in residence, glide away from their fragile craft, hissing angrily at the invasion of their aquatic kingdom.

  ‘There are wild blackberry bushes over there,’ Paul says. ‘My dad told me that he and Daniel Goldner used to paddle over and pick them. Do you want to try it?’

  ‘Sure. We love blackberries, don’t we, Matt?’

  Cary is enthusiastic. He would agree to any suggestion made by Paul Epstein, who always takes time out to explain the complexities of the Harry Potter plots, and to help the younger boys create their forts. He has even taught them how to win extra games on the pinball machine, a skillful maneuver that outwits the ‘tilt’ button.

  ‘I guess,’ Matt says.

  He doesn’t want his sister to tease him. Annette can be mean sometimes, but he has to admit that she is being really nice today.

  ‘But what’ll we put them in? We don’t have any bags.’

  ‘Our hats,’ Paul says and waves his own baseball cap.

  ‘Sure. Why not?’ Annette removes her denim cap, releasing her hair which falls in thick sheaves to her shoulders.

  Paul’s heart stops. He wonders whether a single strand of her sun-tinged curls would burn his fingers. He smiles at the foolishness of the thought. But she is beautiful, so beautiful. His heart pounds.

  ‘OK then.’

  They paddle the canoe to shore, jump out and tether it to a large rock. They see the berry bushes at once, the thick black fruit dragging down the branches.

  ‘You guys pick over here,’ Paul says. ‘My dad told me that there are more bushes further in. That’s where Annette and I will go.’

  ‘OK.’

  Matt and Cary are already stuffing the sweet fruit into their mouths.

  Annette and Paul follow a rough trail until they are no longer in sight of the boys. There is a profusion of bushes here but the fruit is sparser. They separate and concentrate on searching out laden branches, their heads bent, the sun sweeping warmly across their backs, the earth friable beneath their feet. Grackles quarrel noisily in a tangle of wild vines and fly away, soaring through the cloudless sky.

  Annette and Paul move closer to each other, their hands touching as they both reach out to pluck berries from the same branch. They laugh, pick the fruit, reach up again, touch again. This time their fingers link. This time they smile. Their lips are stained black, a leaf is entwined in her bright hair. He reaches out, leans toward her, brushes it away and his fingers do not burn. His lips meet hers; their eyes are closed.

  Reluctantly they open their eyes and, wordlessly, balancing their berry-laden hats, they make their way back to the small boys who are tossing unripened fruit at each other and laughing wildly.

  True to his promise, Paul allows the boys to paddle back to the dock. He and Annette sit at opposite ends of the canoe, their faces lifted to the sun, their hands trailing through the cool, dark water. Now and again their eyes meet, and they smile shyly and swiftly avert their gaze.

  The boys dash across the lawn, popping berries into their mouths. Annette and Paul follow them, walking slowly, their faces aglow, their eyes bright.

  Nessa looks at her son. Susan closes her book and stares at her daughter. The two mothers nod to each other, silently acknowledging that their children have wandered beyond the borders of childhood.

  THIRTEEN

  The brightness of the morning lasts through the afternoon and the guests of August rush to exploit it. They gather at the lake and splash their way into the cool water, launch the canoes and rowboats and spread brightly patterned beach towels across the narrow shingle beach. They are seized with a new urgency to enjoy the last lingering hours of summer warmth.

  Wendy and Andrea, however, seek out a shaded spot on the lawn and Daniel, carrying an oversized mailer that contains the corrected proof of his novel, strides toward them.

  ‘I’m off to mail this monster to my editor,’ he says. ‘Want to ride into town with me?’

  He smiles at both women but clearly his invitation is meant for Wendy.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ she says at once. ‘You’ll be all right on your own, Andrea?’ she asks her mother-in-law.

  Her words are more a statement than a question. She knows, and she is certain Andrea knows, that she doesn’t give a damn about whether or not Adam’s mother will be all right.

  ‘I’m quite used to being on my own,’ Andrea replies coldly. ‘And of course Mark is right here.’

  She points to the redwood table where Mark sits in conference with Michael and Simon. Once again the three men finger their smart phones and study the spreadsheets that have absorbed them since their arrival. Michael looks anxious. He bites his lip. Simon, in professorial mode, refills his pipe and flashes him a reassuring glance. Mark turns page after page of the proposal, his expression impassive, a seasoned poker player unwilling to reveal his hand.

  ‘All right then,’ Wendy tells Andrea. ‘Donny is with the other boys and Paul Epstein and Annette Edwards volunteered to sort of be in charge.’

  ‘I’m delighted that you are so concerned about your son,’ Andrea remarks, her tone acidic, her gaze accusatory.

  ‘Most mothers are concerned about their sons. Not all, but most,’ Wendy says evenly and walks swiftly away as Andrea purses her lips and struggles to contain her anger.

  Perched on the rear seat of Daniel’s motorbike, the heavy helmet hugging her head, the light breeze brushing her face, she is relieved to be l
eaving the inn, to be free of Adam’s parents, their judgments and expectations. She knows that her insinuating words have wounded Andrea but she does not regret them. She feels that she has been released from the intricate August dance of grief and memory that Adam’s parents choreographed. Her arms are tight about Daniel’s waist as he speeds down the mountain road toward the village.

  At the small parking area just beyond the café they dismount and remove their helmets. Wendy’s dark hair tumbles to her shoulders and she runs her fingers through the cascading curls in an effort to tame them. Daniel watches her, moved by the beauty of her slender hands. He wonders how those tapering fingers would feel if they were to move gently across his body.

  It is a tenderness of gesture he has always craved, and which Laura, sensual Laura, proud of her well-trained body’s strength and passion, had dismissed as foolish.

  It was sensuality that ruled her and it was that very sensuality that had seduced him. He banishes the thought. He has grown skillful at avoiding thoughts and memories tainted with pain. He removes the parcel that contains his corrected manuscript from the pannier.

  ‘You go ahead and get us a table. I’ll go over to the post office and mail this monster,’ he tells Wendy.

  She nods and goes into the café which is strangely crowded.

  ‘Wendy, it’s great to see you,’ calls Ellen, the proprietress, as she rushes up to her. ‘I thought I’d be seeing a lot more of you during your stay at Mount Haven.’

  ‘Well, things tend to get sort of complicated,’ Wendy explains. ‘But it doesn’t look as though you’ve been short of customers.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve been busy today. A bus load of international students from the university who were on some sort of organized trip. Hungry and thirsty but unfortunately short of dollars. We’re doing a land office business in iced tea and lemonade. But of course I can always find a table for you.’