by Jean Stone
The teacher in charge stepped forward on the stage. Ben recognized her: Melanie Galloway, daughter of Dick Bradley, who owned the Mayfield House in Vineyard Haven. Like Ben, Bradley was a transplant from the mainland. Like Ben—hell, like most of them on the island—he’d had his share of struggles. Ben had not heard that being accused of child molestation had been one of them.
He quickly glanced around and wondered if the Galloways, the Bradleys, or anyone in the audience had heard what Mindy Ashenbach had done. If any of the parents, or any of the kids …
The collar of his corduroy shirt suddenly felt too tight. He opened the top two buttons and rubbed his throat.
Melanie Galloway introduced the first scene, the Indians alone without the Pilgrims, before the Mayflower arrived. A group of kids were crouched, sorting sheaves of corn. A small boy in a long feathered headdress marched onto the stage. One of the Indians looked up at him. “Chief Running Rain!” he exclaimed. “Look at the bountiful harvest we have this year!” Bountiful sounded a lot like bound-full, but Ben got the idea.
Chief Running Rain—Ben smiled as he realized it was John, Jr.—nodded. “It’s enough for a big feast,” the chief proclaimed, turning to the audience and waving his arms with overdrama. “Let’s invite everyone we know to come and watch the football games.” His too-large headdress slipped a little.
The audience laughed, including Ben.
“We don’t have television yet,” the minor Indian replied.
“We don’t have football, either,” the chief responded. More chuckles from the audience. “Oh, well, we’ll have to eat a lot instead.”
Ben smiled at the way they did things differently today, at how education was always challenged to hold kids’ interest while teaching them … anything. It was why he’d wanted a hands-on museum, where they could participate, where they could feel like a part of history. As he thought about Menemsha, his depression washed over him again, this time like the running rain of John, Jr.’s Indian name.
The ache in his gut was not painful now but dull and worn down by the days and nights behind him and the anticipation of the days and nights ahead. Sitting in the auditorium, he no longer heard the words coming from the stage; his senses were as deadened as his pain, his hearing and his sight so numb that he nearly missed it when one figure—a little girl—moved down the aisle and went out the door by his chair.
He nearly missed it, but he did not.
He shot up from his chair. Without using any of the brains that he’d once had, he quietly slipped from the room and went out into the hall.
The little girl was at the water fountain. Ben adjusted his Red Sox cap and said a fast prayer, asking that he’d do this right.
“Mindy,” he said as he approached her, not too quickly, not too close.
She stopped drinking. Her head froze in place, bent down, hair hanging.
“Mindy,” he repeated, “are you all right?” Maybe this was his chance. Maybe once she saw him, she’d admit that she had lied.
Rather than admitting anything, she pushed the hair out of her face. Then she stood up straight and looked at him. He noticed right away that she seemed as pale as he, except for the dark shadows that curved beneath her young eyes.
“I can scream, you know,” she said.
Sweat formed on his brow. He did not wipe it off. “I know you can,” he said. “But there’s really no reason to, is there?”
She moved her eyes away and pretended to look at the construction-paper turkeys as if they were fine art.
“Mindy,” he repeated, not going closer than a dozen or so feet but standing stationary, trying to let her know that she was safe, had always been safe with him. His thoughts raced as he tried to figure out what he should say. “I guess all I can do is ask you why.”
She turned her head from the turkeys. Twelve feet was too far away to see if tears were in her eyes.
“Go away,” she said.
“I can’t,” Ben replied. “I have nowhere to go. I cannot work. I can barely face my family. I am afraid to walk down the street or go into a store. My life is ruined, Mindy. Can you understand that?”
“Go away,” she repeated, “or I’ll have to scream.”
He did not move.
She tipped her head back.
Then she screamed.
He made it to his car before the full fury of commotion blasted from the auditorium, before scurrying adults and running, excited children in various stages of costumes and street attire threw open the doors and charged into the parking lot.
He slumped behind the wheel of his ’47 Buick, his heart pounding like even if there was a tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter, he’d be dead.
He knew he should start the car and drive away, but he could not, his movements were impossible, his body had grown to lead.
Which was why he was so surprised that he trembled when a knock came on his window.
He looked outside. Hugh Talbot was there.
Ben unrolled the window.
“How you doin’ tonight, Ben?”
He nodded because he could not speak.
“Had a little ruckus inside. Mindy Ashenbach let out a scream and damn near scared half the people on the island. Pilgrims and Indians included.”
Ben nodded once again. Hugh tucked his hands into his pockets.
“Mindy says she saw a stranger carrying a gun.”
Ben frowned.
“See anyone like that out here?” the sheriff asked.
He shook his head. “No. No, I didn’t.”
Hugh nodded and gave a quick slap to the Buick. “Well, you take care now, hear? And watch out for strangers.”
Ben breathed a moment, waiting for things to quiet down, both inside and out. When the last of the people had dispersed, he turned over the ignition and began to drive away. That was when he noticed his son-in-law standing at the auditorium doors, hands on hips, eyes fixed on the old Buick and on the man inside.
“Looks like there was some action at the school last night,” Amy said as she sat in Jill’s studio, reading the newspaper, waiting for dubs to finish taping. Her mother taught her how to do it, so she could help earn “financial assistance” now that the tavern was locked up for the season and she was out of a job until spring.
Jill had also wanted Amy there so she could tell her she was doing Good Night, USA after all, though she couldn’t say the reason because even her husband didn’t know.
“I thought you were looking at the want ads,” Jill replied, not turning from the spreadsheet on her computer screen, pretending that Amy’s comment had not just sent an emotional dagger through her heart. When Ben came home last night, he’d said there’d been a problem. With Mindy. Jill had simply asked if anyone found out, and he said he didn’t think so but did not know for sure. With that she’d gone to bed in Jeff’s old room, where she’d been spending her nights after she’d returned from Sturbridge. In Jeff’s room she did not have to expose herself to such things as intimacy, like sleeping in the same bed, never mind sex.
Of course, last night she had not slept.
“It’s the day before Thanksgiving,” Amy replied. “Who’s going to hire me on the day before Thanksgiving?”
Jill supposed not everyone wanted to ignore the holiday the way she did. She did not intend to celebrate: she was too tired to cook, and Ben hardly ate anyway. “So what happened at the school?” she asked, because she did not feel like answering Amy’s question.
“Some girl screamed at the Thanksgiving play. Said she thought she saw a stranger with a gun, then decided it wasn’t a gun, but a bunch of flowers someone had brought for the drama coach.”
As Jill stared at the computer screen, relief seeped into her. Not the weight-of-the-world-has-been-lifted relief, but an easement of sorts, for the moment. “Who was the girl?”
“They don’t give her name. She must have scared everyone to death.”
Jill nodded, her eyes fixed on the numbers on the screen, the production es
timates for the next quarter. She needed to resolve them before next week, when she’d be off to New York. The numbers would tell her if they’d survive until the Good Night, USA compensation started rolling in.
In the meantime, she had to tell Amy.
“Honey,” Jill said, “put the paper down a second, will you?” She turned from the computer.
Amy lowered the Gazette and peered over the top.
“I need to tell you something, and I hope you understand. I’ve decided to do Good Night, USA in February.”
Her daughter blinked. “Why?”
She couldn’t tell her that they needed a good lawyer, that Ben was being foolish, and that she’d had to take control. “For my career, honey. I’m hoping it will reopen lots of doors.”
“What about Addie?” She set the paper fully down. Her clear, smooth skin became pink, her eyes opened wide. She twirled the beaded bracelet around her wrist. “God, Mom, have you forgotten that she screwed you out of so much money? Besides, I thought we were more important than your career now. Ben, me, the Vineyard. I thought you were tired of that money crap.”
“Of course you’re more important. It’s just that sometimes …”
“Sometimes what? Sometimes your work is more important?” She stood up and crossed the room. She played with the levels on the audio track. “Is it going to be just like before? When you were so busy or so tired from working to support Jeff and me that we were the ones who suffered?”
The truth came at Jill like a big water balloon, bursting on her, splashing its unwanted message in a way she couldn’t simply brush away. “Honey—” she began.
“Like what about Thanksgiving, Mom? You know, that time of year when everyone stuffs turkeys and themselves? That ‘over the river and through the woods’ time of year when families eat cranberry sauce and creamed onions and, God help them, celery? Are you going to ignore it because you’re too busy?”
Jill closed her eyes. She had not expected such hostility. And yes, she had planned to say she was too busy.
Amy turned from the controls. “And God, Mom, what about Ben? Isn’t he jealous that you’ll be with Christopher again?”
Jill turned back to her computer. “I’m not going to be with Christopher, Amy. I’m going to work with him. And no, Ben’s not jealous. He knows me better than that.” She opened the file that listed prices for raw stock. Somehow she’d have to guesstimate how much Vineyard Productions would use from January through March. If she was still in business, if Ben’s secret did not come out and ruin their lives, not least for the way that they’d hidden it, even from family. Especially from family.
Amy circled the computer and sat down facing Jill. “Is he okay, Mom? I mean, Ben’s not sick or anything, is he?”
She shook her head but could not look at her daughter. “He has a lot on his mind right now with Sea Grove. And Menemsha House. But no, he’s not sick.”
“Isn’t he upset that Carol Ann is going to Maine for Thanksgiving?”
“Things change, Amy. Even holidays.”
Leaning back, Amy put her feet up on the desk. “Well, no one asked me what I wanted,” she said. “I’m too young to give up holidays.”
If Jill did two features a month, not counting February, she could get away with a case of tapes for shooting, a couple more for dubs.
She entered a few arbitrary numbers, then moved them into columns. “What are your friends doing?”
“It’s a family day, Mom. I can’t exactly call someone up and invite myself.”
She entered the numbers, then a few more.
“What about Rita and Hazel?” Amy asked. “Are they having Thanksgiving alone?”
“I haven’t talked to Rita since the Halloween party.”
“Geez, Mom. She’s left about a thousand messages here. Probably at home, too.”
“Excuse me, but I thought Charlie’s apartment was now your home.”
Amy swung her legs off the desk. “Well, I guess it might as well be.”
That said, Amy stalked out the door.
Jill sighed. Her chin dropped, her head dropped, as if its weight had become too great a stress on her neck. Amy didn’t deserve her anger, or her evasiveness. Jill feared that someday, unexpectedly, she was going to tell her what was really going on.
It was the same with Rita. The more often they were together, the greater the possibility became that Jill would unload the truth, dump out her pain. She’d been avoiding Rita and circumventing Amy simply because it could happen.
It mustn’t happen. Not until they had a real lawyer and she knew that there was hope.
In the meantime, maybe there was something she could do to salvage what was left of her relationship with her daughter.
“Rita?” Jill’s voice came on the line. “Remember me?”
“Hmm,” Rita said, “give me a hint. Tourist or native?” For most of their lives, Jill had been the hot-and-cold enigma, here one day, gone the next. Once Rita had believed that it was her fault—that she was not good enough for Jill, her rich, glamorous, brilliant best friend. It had taken her years to realize that all along, she’d been the stable one, Jill the emotional mess. It didn’t make Jill’s on-and-off predictability any less distressing, but at least she understood it wasn’t about her.
“Oh, I’m a native all right. And I’m on the hunt for some turkey. What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.”
“I love you, Rita. You’re always so clever.”
The edge to Jill’s tone said she was trying to be humorous. Rita knew that edge, and that it was actually a thin wall of protection that was preventing her from crying. Rita frowned. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, really. Time for something different. Carol Ann and John are away. Jeff’s gone. You know. Things change.”
Was that enough to cry about? Unlike Kyle, Carol Ann and Jeff would return someday. But Rita didn’t say it and would never say it. Especially when Jill sounded so glum; even though she hadn’t called in almost four freaking weeks. “Well, I’d love to say I’m clever enough to cook a fat turkey,” Rita said, “but the truth is, I’m too tired. And too sick to be bothered.”
Her friend paused. “Oh, God, Rita, I’m sorry. I haven’t been in touch. How are you feeling? Do you have morning sickness?”
“I feel like crap, and I don’t have morning sickness—I have all-day sickness. The only time I feel good is when I’m asleep, and I guess that doesn’t count because I can’t remember it.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yeah, well, this dear is counting the days until April.”
There was silence a second, then Jill cleared her throat. “Are you going to eat tomorrow? What about your mother?”
“Well, yes, we are going to eat. Actually we’re going to serve, then eat. The church puts on the dinner every year for those who are alone. Hazel and I are going to help out.”
“Oh,” Jill said again. “You did that last year, didn’t you?”
“I’ve done it every year for the past forty or so.” Perhaps Jill had been too absorbed in her own traditions, her own family, to realize that sometimes, some people were left alone.
“Do you think they need more help? Now that I’m an islander again, maybe I should get involved.”
Rita shrugged. “Whatever. I’m sure they can always use an extra pair of hands. Or two, if Ben’s coming along.”
There was that pause again, that pause of distress. “Actually, there will be two pairs of hands, but it will be Amy and me. Ben has some kind of a flu bug, so he’ll probably stay home in bed.”
If she hadn’t sounded so matter-of-fact, Rita might have believed her. But the flu? Ben? Well, hopefully, that’s all it was and not something worse, like, hell, cancer. She shook her head and wondered why these things seemed to come to mind more often once one passed forty. Or fifty, in Ben’s case. “Well, give him my best, and in the meantime, be at the church by nine o’clock. There’s a lot to do before the birds
come out of the ovens.”
Rita hung up the phone and looked across the living room at her mother, who was sitting in the chair, making the third pair of booties for the baby yet to be born. “Don’t ask me how I know what I know, but something’s wrong with Jill. And it’s something big, or she’d tell me what.”
Mindy had no idea why she’d done it, why she’d screamed.
“I don’t know,” she said to Dr. Laura when the woman arrived with an apple pie to go with Thanksgiving dinner as if they would have one.
“Were you afraid he would touch you again?”
She looked at the pie that sat on the counter. It was all puffed up and golden and must have been baked at the Black Dog Bakery or at the Mayfield House, where Dr. Reynolds was living. She wanted to ask if Laura was spending Thanksgiving with her boyfriend if she had one, or if she, too, would be alone. Instead she said, “I was surprised he was there.”
“And afraid?” the doctor asked again.
Mindy shrugged, because although she supposed yes would have been the right answer, it no longer felt good to say bad things about Ben. He’d looked so sad last night. And she knew that it was her fault.
Ben slept until ten, because sleeping late had become easier than getting up to do nothing. He opened his eyes and listened to the hollowness of the house.
Lying on the huge four-poster bed that had belonged to Jill’s grandparents, he stared up at the canopy, the “lace ceiling,” he called it, with silliness that always made Jill laugh, back when she still cared, back when she had been there on her side of the bed.
The hollowness seemed worse because it was Thanksgiving, because this wonderful old house should be filled with the aromas of turkey and pumpkin pie and laughter today, not only with air breathed in and out by a solitary man.
