A Week at the Shore

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Okay,” Anne argues, “maybe Elizabeth was bi, but Mom was straight. She was with Dad. And,” she looks hard at Margo, “with other men.”

  “He says,” Margo counters.

  “Elizabeth was with Richard,” I point out, trying to defuse the moment. “Being with men is what women did before it was okay to be gay.”

  Anne turns on me. “You think Mom was?”

  “I don’t know, Annie.”

  “And Dad knows?”

  “You tell us,” Margo suggests. “You’re the one who’s closest to him.” It’s a throwaway line. Obviously, if Dad had said something to Anne, she wouldn’t be so shocked.

  “But she was with other men beside Dad,” Anne says.

  “No proof of that,” my older sister warns.

  I may be the proof. But Margo doesn’t know that, and this isn’t the time.

  Anne waves an impatient hand. “Okay, so what’s the point here, Margo? If it’s true, what does it have to do with anything? Is there a scandal about this? Is something about to hit the news? Does Jack know his mother was gay? Did we ever see them together? And what in the hell does this have to do with Dad? Or with Elizabeth’s disappearance? Was Mom in touch with her after she vanished?” Anne asks, her dark green eyes more imploring than incensed. “Or did she just run off so she could be free? And if they loved each other, could we really have missed that?” I think of the photos in the attic, which may show something. But Anne isn’t done. “Mom and Elizabeth hated each other at the end.”

  “Hell hath no fury,” I say, but Anne is staring at Margo.

  “Do I remember wrong about that?”

  “No,” Margo says. “But that was at the end. Before Mom agreed to marry Dad, she made him swear that he and Elizabeth were done. She believed it, until he got involved in Elizabeth’s business.”

  “Involved how?” I ask, edgy now in a different way. None of the options Jack and I had tossed around included Tom’s active involvement.

  “When it started to fail, he helped her save it.”

  “How?” my younger sister challenges in disbelief.

  “By cooking the books.”

  Anne rolls her eyes and, having clearly reached her limit, raises both hands. Her voice is suddenly temperate, as if what we’re discussing is no longer real. “Okay, I have my own business to run. I’m going back inside. If you want to stay at the house, Margo, that’s fine, but if you want to make Dad out to be a criminal, forget it. He’s an old man who is losing his mind. What’s the point?” Foregoing an answer, she opens the screen door and leaves.

  I watch until her mesh form dissolves into the kitchen, then eye Margo. “Do you really believe he committed fraud?”

  “I have an easier time believing that, than believing Mom was gay,” she says. Now that it’s just me, she seems to have exhaled. “He was capable of it. Lots of his clients cooked the books. He would know how it’s done, and if he didn’t, someone else in the firm would. I don’t know the details, Mal. And maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s been gnawing at me for the longest time, but maybe Anne’s right. What’s the point?”

  “The point,” I say, thinking of Jack, “is learning as much as we can about what happened that night. If Dad is the last living witness and he’s losing it fast, this is our last chance.”

  The frustration of it—the sadness—is suddenly overwhelming to me. As I look around searching for comfort somewhere, my eyes land on the picnic table where Jack sat yesterday. Where is he this Sunday morning? He must have friends. His life can’t be just work and books in the house on the bluff. There has to be more.

  * * *

  When Margo goes back inside, I pull out my phone. Where are you? I type into a text box, but the words are too demanding. Deleting them, I try again.

  You’ll never guess what I just learned. Seconds later, I delete these, too. I have no idea what Jack will think of a relationship between his mother and mine. Texting isn’t the way to share it.

  Guess who showed up this morning, I finally type, and this one I send.

  * * *

  Moving farther from the door, I watch for an ellipsis cloud, but none appears. Finally, desperate, I text Chrissie. Her ear would be nearly as welcome as Jack’s. She and I may not go back to childhood together, but we’re just as connected.

  And doesn’t that give me pause. If my mother was gay, am I? Is that why I’ve never found a man I liked enough to commit to?

  But no. I’ve never been sexually attracted to Chrissie. Never been sexually attracted to any woman. To John Sabathian? Yes. But no one else.

  Can you talk? I type and send.

  Seconds later, my phone rings. “Tell me,” she says without preamble.

  As I walk around the square dodging Sunday visitors, then pass under the pergola to stand at the top of the beach, I fill her in, one subject to the next. Having always asked about Elizabeth’s mental state that night on the boat, Chrissie is intrigued by the business failure part, which feeds into the therapist’s concern about suicide. For both of us, though, the issue of my mother’s sexual orientation is new.

  “Margo said that?”

  “She did.”

  “And you believe her?”

  Chrissie does not know Margo. “Why on earth would she make it up?”

  “I don’t know.” I hear bewilderment, then a pause, then recovery. “So, if it’s true, how do you feel about it?”

  “I have no problem. Clearly my mother did. Forty years ago was one thing, but she was on a date with a guy when she died. That was only ten years ago. She could have come out of the closet at that point, but she didn’t.”

  “She was still of a certain generation,” Chrissie says. “And what about you? Are you wondering about yourself?”

  Trust Chrissie to cut to the chase. I sputter a laugh. “Don’t I wish. I salivate over my old lover every time I see him.”

  “Jack?” Chrissie whispers eagerly. “Do you?” The therapist is gone. She’s all girlfriend now.

  “Yeah. Not good. It’s doomed.”

  “But it might be fun.”

  “Fun with a ton of angst afterward,” I say and my phone dings.

  I read, Who showed up?

  Margo! I text back and return to Chrissie. “And then there’s the issue of who my father is. Maybe it’s Dad, maybe it isn’t. I know, I know, a cheek swab. But what excuse do I give for that without upsetting him?”

  “Maybe now that Margo’s back, now that all three of you are there, he’ll open up.”

  Why? texts Jack.

  Because I’m here. Where are you?

  In Providence neutering cats.

  “What do you want the truth to be?” Chrissie asks, and even though I have a gazillion questions for Jack, I steer myself back.

  It isn’t an easy question. My memories are of this family, these parents, this life. And yes, I’d like to know why Tom Aldiss always treated me like I was one step removed from the rest. Still, the familiar is familiar. If my childhood memories prove wrong, where’s my anchor?

  Thinking aloud, I say, “Margo and Anne will always be my sisters. I’ll always be Mom’s daughter—and Dad’s daughter, just like an adopted child is. Do I dream that there’s more? It’s a double-edged sword. I’d love to have a Dad who adores me unconditionally, but if there is one out there, where has he been all my life?”

  “What about siblings?” she asks. “Would you want more of those?”

  “Only if they’re you.”

  * * *

  Is neutering cats on Sundays an alternative to going to church? I text.

  Did I ever go to church?

  No.

  Feral cat colony. Trap Neuter Return. Good deed. What did Tom say to Margo?

  He knew her. Smiled. I think to tell him her news, then think again. When’ll you be back?

  In Westerly? Tonight. I’m going bowling with the police chief.

  Bowling? Seriously?

  His favorite sport. I’ll let him c
rush me, then beg him to leave Tom alone. Is Margo staying?

  She won’t say. She’s troubled.

  About?

  I’ll tell you later.

  When?

  Later.

  When?

  LATER.

  Come on, Mal. Throw me a crumb.

  Text me when you’re home.

  * * *

  We are on our way back to the house, Margo driving Dad in her rental and me following in my own car, when the skies open. That makes it a perfect afternoon to spend in the attic.

  First, though, considering Jack is taking steps with the police, I have my own phone calls to make.

  Chapter 18

  You’ve reached the law offices of Aldiss, Schuster, and Finn. Our regular hours are Monday through Friday …

  I’m not sure who Finn is, likely a big-name lateral who joined from another firm after Dad took the bench. But Paul is my interest here. I follow the prompts until I’m connected. And, finally, there is his voice. It always held kindness, and it warms me now. Naturally, since it’s Sunday, he’s out of the office, which brings another memory. The office was his second home. I remember Mom saying that with a kind of sadness. She wanted a fuller life for him. Perhaps he has it now?

  I consider leaving a message but hold off.

  His home number is on the list by the kitchen phone. That list has been there for twenty years—no, longer, since it’s in Mom’s handwriting. Anne has crossed out some numbers and added others, but Paul’s is still there near the top. It leads me to voicemail as well, which leaves his cell. Twenty years ago, he wouldn’t have had one, and there’s no other Paul number on the list. If I ask Dad or Anne, they’ll come back with more questions than I want. Even leaving a message is a risk, lest Paul ask Dad or Anne why I’ve called. But what’s my alternative?

  “Hi Paul,” I say brightly, “it’s Mallory Aldiss. I’m in Bay Bluff—yup, back after all this time visiting with Dad and Anne—and a ton of memories. You were always part of our life here. I’d love to touch base.” I give him my cell number, add what I hope is nonchalant encouragement, and disconnect.

  Next up is Shelly Markham. She isn’t on the list by the phone, so I open the drawer where Mom always kept the town directory. Unfortunately, the one here is for the current year, and there’s no Shelly Markham in it … because she’s in Florida.

  I Google her name on my phone, but nothing comes up.

  I can ask around for contact information, at the very least the town in Florida where she lives.

  But no. I can’t. Not without stirring up dust.

  I’m trying to come up with a plausible excuse for asking someone in town about her, when my cell rings. Seeing a Rhode Island area code, I answer with care. “Hello?”

  “Mallory? It’s Paul. What a treat to hear your voice. Visiting in Bay Bluff, are you?”

  My caution vanishes. His voice is as warm as my memories of him. “I am. It’s overdue, I’m afraid. But I hadn’t seen Dad in a while.”

  “Is he all right? I mean, other than the usual?”

  “Yes, he’s fine, other than that.”

  “Are you here with your daughter?”

  “You know about her?”

  “Of course. I see your father often, and what he doesn’t tell me, Anne does. It’s Joy.”

  “Yes, and true to her name. She’s been wanting to spend time with Dad. I figured we should do it before he gets much worse.” My voice thickens with concern. “Can we talk in person, Paul?”

  “Not today. I’m sorry. I’m not in Bay Bluff. I bought a place in Lenox a few years back. The Berkshires are different from the shore, and then there’s all the music here.”

  Another memory returns, making me smile. “You love music. Longhair Paul. We used to tease you. I’m sorry for that. I love classical music now. So does my daughter.”

  “Both of you? That’s good to hear. And yes, I’d like to talk in person. I’m driving home tonight. Maybe tomorrow?”

  We agree to meet Monday for a late lunch in downtown Westerly. By that time, I reason, Mike Hartley will be close to finishing the bluff plantings, Joy will be with Jack or Anne or Margo, and Lina will be with Dad—all of which leaves me free for a clandestine meeting.

  * * *

  When I return to the living room, Margo is on the sofa, exactly where I left her. Her legs are crossed at the knee, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on Dad as he does his puzzle. He is so intent on it, that I wonder if the focus is a concerted effort to keep his mind sharp. He doesn’t look up when Margo leaves the sofa and joins me at the door.

  “Not a great conversationalist,” she whispers as we move into the hall.

  “What else is new?” I hitch my head toward the stairs. “There are boxes of photos in the attic. Look at them with me?”

  I’m halfway up when I realize she is lower, slower, studying the family shots on the turret wall. “Funny,” she says when I join her, “you take one family picture, and it’s a novelty. The next year, you add a second and see how the kids have grown. By the next year, there are three pictures, and it’s become a routine. By the time you get four or five, you have a tradition. Family pictures are heirlooms, way more valuable than anything money can buy.”

  “You have them.” I’d seen them myself, there on her living room mantel.

  “Mine are candids, even selfies now. I hated these posed ones. Elizabeth took them.” She frowns at me. “Why was Elizabeth always the one who suggested it?”

  “Was she?”

  “Dad couldn’t have cared less. Mom liked them. Maybe she did it for Mom?” Margo climbs to another photo. “Annie smiles in every one. Was she that clueless?”

  “She was innocent.”

  “Did she not see that our parents were unhappy together?”

  “Eventually. Obviously.” I lower my voice—not that there’s anyone around—but still. “Margo, did Mom say anything else the night she was drunk?”

  “Not drunk,” Margo replies, rising another step to study the next picture, “just tipsy. If she’d been full-out drunk, I wouldn’t give as much credence to what she said.”

  “Tipsy then. Was there anything else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like … well, maybe about why she and Dad weren’t happy.”

  “No. She was confessing, not analyzing. That’s your friend Chrissie asking.”

  It isn’t. It’s me. But the instant passes. Continuing up the stairs, I head for the guest bedroom. I’ve barely unfolded the attic ladder when the warm air tumbles down.

  “Whew,” says Margo from close behind. “Stuffy.”

  “Yeah. But filled with goodies,” I sing as a lure and head up. The rain is steady on the roof, relegating the ocean to a distant roll. The smell of it blends well with the faint mustiness here. I don’t mind either today. They’re comforting in the sense of shelter.

  Going straight to the box labeled Mallory’s Photographs, I open the flaps and lift as many prints as I can safely hold, then settle on the edge of Anne’s School Papers.

  “It’s exactly the same,” Margo says from the top of the hatch. Having left her stacked sandals at the base of the ladder, she makes little sound as she crosses the space. “Barely dusty.”

  “Lina must clean here.”

  “Lina?”

  I explain. It would have been a perfect lead-in to asking what Margo remembers about Roberto Aiello, only she is suddenly lost to all that’s here. After running a finger across the span of legal diaries, she skims her palm over the shoulders of Dad’s suits, then, gasping, weaves toward the “things” corner and rummages through board games.

  It looks for all the world as if she’s pleased to be here. And there’s another question to ask. Why did you come? To rescue me? I don’t think so. Once, she swore never to return. Maybe, having found that I was here, she came to tell us about Mom. But Mom’s been dead for ten years, and we three have been together at least half a dozen times since, and she hasn’t said a
word. I wonder if there’s something else on her mind.

  “Is everything okay at home?” I ask.

  “Of course.” She shoots me a where-did-that-come-from look. “Why?”

  “No reason.” Trying to make a joke, I ask, “Think Mom was hiding anything else?”

  “Nah.” She tosses it off with such carelessness that I believe her. Then she squeezes in beside me on my makeshift bench to look at the prints in my lap.

  The photos on top are nature shots, black-and-whites that I processed myself, and while she admires them, I’m more interested in the people ones beneath. Mainly in color, they’re not as artistic as a jellyfish or an arcing wave, but they bring back more memories.

  Margo is quickly into these, too. We laugh at one where she is white-nosed under zinc oxide, and one where she and Anne blurred jumping the waves, and one of Anne with her hands raised in despair when her sandcastle is wrecked by a rogue wave.

  “Memorial Day?” Margo asks, lifting another.

  “Must be. That’s the town clambake. There’d have been twice as many people if it’d been Fourth of July or Labor Day.”

  “I liked Memorial Day,” she says as if only now realizing it.

  “Me, too. The town was still ours then.” Forearms on thighs, I look closely as she holds the print. “There’s Jack and his dad. Do you see Elizabeth?”

  “Nope.” She points. “Mom, Dad, the Mahoneys—remember the Mahoneys from down the street? Total geeks.” Her finger moves. “Who am I talking to?” She sucks in a breath. “Omigod. Michael Hartley.”

  “Yup. You’ll see him tomorrow. He’s coming to put plants in on the bluff.”

  “He was hot. If I’d stayed here, I might’ve been into him.”

  “Are you sorry you didn’t—stay here? I mean, if things had been different?”

  “No,” she says. “I like my life.”

  The next few prints are from the same event. I hand her several and study others.

  “Are we looking for something special?” she asks.

  “Mom and Elizabeth together,” I offer, though there’s so much else here to potentially see. “Mom and Dad together. Dad and Elizabeth together.”