I hear what he’s saying in an intellectual way, even vaguely register the concession he’s making to say something kind about Tom Aldiss, but my emotions keep returning to “hon.” I’m sure it just slipped out, like the words of a childhood song. The fact that it doesn’t mean anything strikes me as infinitely sad.
But it is what it is. As Bobby Frost advises, life goes on. So I start walking toward the waves as Guy lopes to Jack with the stick. Seconds later, he’s off following the arc of another throw.
I cross hard sand, then wet sand spotted with odd pieces of kelp and a broken shell or two. When my toes touch water, I watch the play of bubbles over them as another wave ebbs. Jack’s legs materialize in my periphery, close enough for me to say, “What do you know about Lina Aiello?”
His feet are at a ninety-degree angle to mine. He’s clearly watching the dog as he speaks. “That she’s your father’s housekeeper. That she needs the work because she needs money. That I was tempted to pay her to snoop, but didn’t trust that she wouldn’t go right back to your father with it.”
“I mean, what do you know about her? She seems a little odd.”
“Odd how?”
“She kept staring at me.”
“She was probably thinking of her daughter. Both kids live away. The dad’s been dead for years.”
“Who was the dad?” I search what I remember of Danny, but our relationship never really left school.
“Roberto,” Jack says.
I catch a breath and smile. “Omigod. Roberto Aiello.” The key turns, memory opens, and there he is. “He was a gardener. He did our lawn before the Hartleys.”
“He helped build the potting shed. He and your mom worked side by side in the dirt. Your mom adored him.”
I smile fondly, then pause. Something in his tone sucks the fond from my smile. I squint up. “Excuse me?”
“Your mom adored him.”
“What are you saying, Jack?”
If it is what I think, his eyes will be the bald gray of a seal. The sun is over his head, though, highlighting the tangle of his hair but shadowing his eyes. All I know is that he holds my gaze. “Small towns, small minds. There are always people who speculate.”
“About me?” I ask, grabbing at wisps of hair blowing into my mouth.
“About your mother. After the marriage fell apart and you all left, the talk went wild. Tom had an affair with my mother or with his law clerk or with the wife of the guy who fixes his car. Your mother had an affair with Roberto or with the roofer who replaced your slate or with the pharmacist who was getting his own divorce.”
It was one thing for Anne and me to wonder about Mom, knowing that Margo would rebut whatever we said. It was another thing to imagine it on the lips of strangers.
I was alternately offended and alarmed. “You’re saying she was with our gardener?”
Guy has returned. This time, Jack sends the stick skimming lower over the shallows. The dog bounds in and out of the foam. “I’m not saying it,” he argues. “I’m saying his name was mentioned.”
“They really talked about my mother that way?”
“Didn’t you?”
“That was different.” I feel an immense loyalty on my mother’s behalf. “I can wonder all I want—it’s my life, my identity—but they have no right to do it. She was a beautiful person who was stuck in a lousy marriage.”
He grunts. “Yeah, well, seems like everyone is lately.”
“That’s not true. My best friend in New York has a great marriage, in part because her parents had a bad one. She consciously decided that history would not repeat itself.” The thought of Chrissie usually makes me stronger, but I can’t get past a certain vulnerability. In a small voice, I ask, “Roberto Aiello?”
“He was a good-looking guy. Tall, dark hair, tanned.”
“I don’t tan well.” But I do remember his hands. Large and knobby, they were showing my mother how to deadhead the rhododendron. I wince, look at Jack, and whisper, “Do you think it was him?”
A wave thunders in as I say the words, and as soon as they’re out, the breeze whips them off. Which is good. I don’t want them here.
But I do want an opinion, and Jack always has that.
So once the waves quiet, I prompt. “Jack?”
“I don’t know. But it would explain Lina staring at you—you know, if she was looking for something of him in your face.”
Needing to move, I splash my way down the water line.
“But hey,” he calls after me, “she could just be wondering. She could have heard the talk, too.”
Having a different father has always been my greatest fear. It’s the only thing that explains Tom Aldiss’s manner toward me. I’m not the first child of a troubled marriage who has wondered this. But seeing an actual face? Doing the math and realizing the timing works?
Jack splashes alongside. “It wouldn’t be a terrible thing.”
“It would. All those times he was at our house? Did he know? Did he look at me funny? Did he teach me how to deadhead the rhodies?” I look up at Jack. “Am I related to Danny? Did I even know his sister?”
“She was younger.”
“I don’t remember a thing. Did I deliberately not? Like, a defense mechanism?” I had an awful thought. “And what about the roofer? Did my mother adore him, too?”
“Mal—”
“Or the pharmacist? Mr. Hennessey? Omigod!”
Jack takes my arms in a soothing way. “Don’t believe gossip. Idle tongues wag.”
“But you know I’ve always wondered. You know I had doubts. Did you bring this up out of spite?”
His hands tighten. “No. Trust me. No.”
“So is the pharmacist still around? Or the roofer? Do I look like either of them?”
“You look like your mother, and Hennessey is around, but the roofer’s long gone.”
“And Lina Aiello is a widow, meaning Robert is dead. What do I do now?”
“You could ask your father.”
Shrugging off his hold, I raise both arms and cross them over my ball cap. It’s sheer self-protection, followed immediately by the idea that I should return to New York and forget I’d ever come. But there’s no comfort in that option. I won’t be able to forget. There’s no going back. The cat’s out of the bag.
“Ask your father,” Jack says.
I look at him then. And oh, yes, his eyes are seal gray, which means kingly, which means imperative. I take one breath, then another, and fold my arms, putting my hands where his had been moments before. When I feel sufficiently calmed, I say, “I suggested that to him. Not about whether he’s my father. But whether I could write things down for him so he doesn’t forget. I figured I could slip in personal questions and he wouldn’t notice the difference. He looked like he was considering it, then he just walked away. I didn’t want to push.”
“Maybe you should.”
“And if that makes him shut down completely? Then I’ll be nowhere.” I see the look on his face and know exactly what he’s thinking. “Okay. Yup. You’re right. We’re nowhere now. But there’s a way to do this, and there’s a way to do this—and do not,” I warn softly, “tell me I need to take a stand. This isn’t indecision, Jack. It’s diplomacy. It’s a strategic plan. If I push too hard, my father will know exactly why I’m pushing. Believe me, I’ll keep at him, especially now that I know he knows and he knows I know, or he did for a few minutes there—and especially since I now have three names permanently embedded in my mind, thank you, John Sabathian.” In my distress, I stumble on a different thought. “He said he hasn’t told Anne what he has. Should I?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because we’ve argued about it before. I say Alzheimer’s, she says old age. We’ve gone back and forth ad infinitum. If I say Dad confirms it, she’ll say I’m lying.”
“Anne?” he asks in disbelief. “Sunny Side Up Anne? She thinks me the liar, not you.”
“She’s changed. When we were kids, she
was cheery about everything. Then came that night—not even that night, but the years since. She still has sunny moods. But other times not so much, at least when it comes to Margo and Mom and me. She’s still naïve. But she’s also defensive. I thought she’d be happy that I was coming back to help. Only she doesn’t see it as help. She sees it as interference. So if Dad won’t see a doctor or consider medication, maybe there’s no point in telling her.” My mind races on. “But then when he gets worse, which we know he will, she may blame me for not saying something. And what about his breathing? The guy’s in lousy shape. He was totally winded walking up the hill.” I grimace at Jack. “Think something’s wrong?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You’re a doctor.”
“I’m a vet. Animals are different from people. Maybe he’s out of shape because he doesn’t get enough exercise?”
“Mom!”
I look back at the stairs to see Joy waving excitedly, then leaping from the second stair to the sand and running toward us with increasing speed as the sand hardens.
At the same time, Guy has broken from Jack and, with a growl that is separate and distinct from the rumble of the surf, races to meet her.
Will he bite me? Joy asked yesterday.
If you pick up a stick and come at him, he might.
There was no stick, but in the dog’s eye, she is coming at him.
“No!” I cry, racing after the dog. “Joy! Stop!”
Jack is that much farther ahead, shouting orders to the dog, and when that does nothing, shouting them to Joy. As the distance between them shortens, I envision the dog leaping at my daughter’s throat with open jaws.
Either she heard us. Or she, too, remembers what Jack said yesterday. She stops short, her eyes on the dog, and holds her arms out at the sides. I’m guessing she is terrified. Or maybe it’s just me who is terrified.
Whatever, there is enough of a break in the action for Jack to reach Guy. One hand wraps around the dog’s collar, the other arm around his chest. I’m passing them to reach Joy if only to put myself between her and the dog, when Jack snags my waist.
“I have this,” he murmurs and pulls me behind him.
I’m not stupid. He is the pit bull expert, not me. That doesn’t keep me from shaking.
Jack’s voice is calm but firm. “Good Guy. Atta boy. Good Guy. She won’t hurt you. She’s excited, is all.” He lifts his voice to Joy. It is gentle, but holds the same quiet command. “Come closer.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. I’m holding him. He won’t hurt you.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I just had such a good time working at Anne’s and got to the house and Mom wasn’t there and then here you all are at the beach, and I just forgot—” She stopped short. Her large eyes are on Guy.
“Come closer, Joy,” Jack repeats quietly. “It’s important for Guy.”
The dog should be panting from the run, but instead stands still as stone. He is deadeye focused on Joy, who, despite the baby steps she takes, is nearly as still.
Not me, though. My pulse is racing, hands fisted against my throat. As I watch, all I can think, absurdly, is that we need a dog treat, why doesn’t Jack have a dog treat, where are the dog treats—and when none appear from the pockets of Jack’s shorts, I think of the gun that he claims my father has. If I had a gun in my hand, I wouldn’t feel so helpless.
“That’s right,” Jack coaxes as Joy nears. “Good Guy,” he murmurs at the dog’s ear. “See, she’s more frightened than you are.”
“He’s frightened?” Joy asks.
“Absolutely. Where he came from, someone rushing at him was not a good thing. He was trained to attack if he wanted to live. So now we have to retrain him. It’s about trust. He’s learning, but he has setbacks.”
“I’m sooo sorry,” Joy whispers, this time to the dog.
“Hold out your hand,” Jack says. “He’ll recognize you.”
Her hand is remarkably steady. I hold my breath until the dog has sniffed, identified, and pushed his head under her hand. With the wag of his tail, the moment is over, the tension gone.
I’m slower to relax than Joy. Vaguely, I’m aware of a discussion between Jack and her, but I’m having a mother moment in which the world is filled with danger that can at any time take away my child. I want to shout No! when Joy kneels on the sand. I want to restrain the dog myself when Jack lets go and steps back. And when Guy sidles close to Joy, his blonde body wagging, I wait.
“They’re fine.” Jack is standing beside me now. “No need to panic.”
“Of course, there’s need,” I argue, but I’m still weak in the knees. “Dogs kill children.”
“That wouldn’t have happened. I’m right here.”
“Like you’d have been able to stop it?”
“I would have. Can’t you trust me on this?”
I feel his eyes on me, but my own don’t leave Joy. “I could see the headlines, Jack. Girl mauled to death on Rhode Island beach.”
“That would not have happened. My dog is not a danger if common sense is applied. Look at him, Mallory. Look at him.”
I take my eyes from Joy to find the dog’s woeful ones on me. I could swear he is apologizing.
“Joy knows she shouldn’t have charged him.”
“She didn’t charge him. She was running toward us.”
“Same difference in his eyes. Now he’s learned that she won’t hurt him. So he’s come another step in his training.”
“This is about your dog being trained?” I ask in disbelief, and give a dry laugh. “Sorry, but that doesn’t work for me. The world is full of things I can’t control. This is one I can. You have no right to use my child that way.”
“I sure as hell do. This is my beach. She was running toward my dog on my beach against my orders.”
“She’s my daughter!” I cry. How else to explain my feelings?
But suddenly Jack is facing me, blocking my view of Joy and Guy. His voice is deep and low, as menacing as Guy’s growl minutes before. “Yeah, well, she should have been mine. Do you really think I’d have let anything hurt her?”
Chapter 13
Jack is right. Joy should have been his. When I was picking a father for her, the qualities I’d looked for in a donor were the ones I had loved in him. Had it not been for our parents, she would have been his.
But your parents weren’t the only ones at fault, Chrissie said in the gentle way of a therapist pointing out the obvious to a friend. We were at lunch last week. I was still debating whether to come home, and was trying to explain to her how intense it might be.
She was right, of course. We can blame the Aldiss-MacKay thing all we want. But Jack and I were the ones who had argued. We were the ones who had let our emotions build a wall. We were the ones who had turned our backs on each other at the worst possible time in our lives.
* * *
It is mid-afternoon now. Joy and I are back on the beach, slathered in sunscreen and lying on our stomachs reading, when Jack and his dog appear at his end and head for the dock. My daughter turns over, sits up, and adjusts her wide-brim hat to watch them, but neither the shadow of the brim nor her sunglasses can keep her thoughts from me.
“No,” I say preemptively, barely looking up.
“Why not? I’d love to go for a boat ride, and that boat is so cool. I’ll bet Jack’s a really good boater.”
He is. Absolutely. But Joy is not going on his boat without me, and right now I need a little distance. Jack Sabathian doesn’t prevaricate. Discussions with him touch on core truths, and that last remark he made before stalking off this morning is only one. I’m still grappling with thoughts of the gardener, the roofer, and the pharmacist. I need a break.
Even though I don’t look at the boat, I easily imagine Jack watching us as he readies to leave. “We’ll get Anne to take us on Papa’s boat,” I tell Joy. “It’s cool, too.”
“But she’s not here, and he’s going out now, and ju
st think of how neat it would be to have bonding time with Guy?”
“We weren’t invited, sweetie. I think Jack wants to be alone.”
“Really? You think that? How do you know?”
“Because the clinic lost an animal this morning. He needs time to process.”
She is quiet for only a minute. “Well, I could help. I could untie ropes or raise a sail—”
“No sail, honey. It’s gas all the way.”
“Okay, so I could hold the wheel while he fixes the engine. I could wipe splashes off the deck. I could make sure Guy doesn’t fall overboard.”
I glance back. “Look at the horizon. See those clouds?”
“They’re not here.”
“They could be soon. Check out the weather on the Vineyard.”
Of course, her phone is with her. It always is, just like LipSmackers were when I was her age—and isn’t that a memory, come to me here, where Nilla Mint Frost was my go-to. Oh boy, did Dad hate the sight of those tubes. He called them hotbeds of germs, though, compared to an iPhone, they were totally benign. If she isn’t checking Snapchat, she’s scrolling through Instagram or checking House Party, waiting for an invite. Since we arrived, she hasn’t texted anyone but me, meaning none of her friends have texted back. Good to give her something practical to do with the phone.
Raising it, she searches Dark Sky for Martha’s Vineyard, which lies due east, in the direction of those clouds. “Rain? How?”
“The ocean is like that. Storms rise out of nowhere.”
“He would turn around before it rains. Please, Mom?”
“No.” Next to my book, in the shadow of my own wide-brim hat, my phone lights. She should have been.
No doubt what Jack means.
But she isn’t, I type and send.
Joy is fixated on the boat. “I thought we came here to do different things.”
It’s not too late, he texts.
“We came here to spend time with your grandfather.”
“Who is taking a nap,” she replies with disdain.
“Which is why we’re at the beach. If you’re bored, we can head back to the city tomorrow.”
A Week at the Shore Page 16
