by Toby Devens
I picked up a letter opener. It made me feel good to heft a sharp object.
“Then don’t believe it. I’m not an idiot, Judith. I figured you were listening in the hall.” When I showed no shame, he said, “You had a right, but I didn’t want to dress Chloe down within your hearing. According to the psychologist I consulted, public humiliation is a very destructive response for both parent and child. For your information, I gave her hell in private. She’s grounded for the rest of her stay. No TV. No computer. No cell. Cut off. And she’ll apologize to you.”
That seemed like a reasonable penalty for an abusively fresh mouth, but there was more.
“Do you have any idea what she was planning for tonight?” he asked.
On tap, literally, was a Saturday night party at the Landing. Students were on their way in from assorted Boston prep schools and colleges. Chloe promised Charlie she’d head them off at the pass.
“Kids,” he said, finishing with a hint of an indulgent chuckle. The chuckle was what set me off.
“Kids, exactly.” I felt my cheeks flush. “A horde of underage and, in case you’ve forgotten your misspent youth, horny kids. In your house. Unchaperoned. Without your knowledge.” I paused to let that sink in, resumed with, “And you’ve laid down what consequences for this betrayal of your trust?”
Charlie had backed away during my tirade. He was literally up against the wall when he stammered, “I haven’t really . . .” He finally found words. “The thing is, honestly, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. A teenage girl. This is entirely out of my area of expertise. Chloe’s basically a good kid. But she’s seventeen with all that implies. Add in the stress of the divorce. Plus her personality, which, with the hormones surging, has become a junior version of my mother’s, and I don’t have to tell you that Kiki Van Tiller Pruitt genes could take out Osama bin Laden genes anytime. I love my daughter more than life, but these days she’s a handful. And I’m on my own here. Lost.” He threw up his hands in surrender and looked at me for mercy. Found none.
He reached over and hit the X on the airline site. “Don’t go, Ju-ju. She’s under house arrest, which I’m definitely going to enforce. I guess we need to hang out here today and tonight to keep an eye on her. But she’ll be on her way back to school tomorrow morning. That leaves us with an afternoon to play. We could bike the island, I’ll show you the sheep farms, or, better yet, they’re promising perfect sailing weather. We’ll take out the My Mayflower.”
He’d named his boat the My Mayflower? Oh, give me a break.
“Have you ever made love on the deck of a sailboat? No, me either, but I have a feeling the rocking motion enhances the experience. And with the sun warm on your bare skin, what could be better?”
Screwing on a sailboat. That was a stretch for Charlie, a stretch and his law-abiding version of a bribe. Also a diversion. Well, it wouldn’t work. The old charm had lost its mojo, at least temporarily.
I pointed with the letter opener. “You haven’t changed. This is history repeating itself. You’re letting your daughter walk all over you the way you let your mother trample your backbone the first time around. But I’m not going through it again.” I placed the letter opener on the desk, Cove Haven Yacht Club insignia facing down. I stood up. I really was ready to walk.
That’s when he got down on one knee. Pleading. Funny, but serious. He clasped his hands in front of him. “Come on, Ju-ju. Give me a chance. You’re right. I’ve been taking the easy way out. She’s been playing me since the divorce. I saw it, but now I’m going to deal with it. I promise.” When I answered him with a skeptically raised eyebrow, he said, “No, really. For her sake as well as mine. Ours.”
“I don’t know . . .” His admission had caught me off guard. This was a new Charlie, and the latest model hadn’t come with operating instructions.
He caught me wavering, grabbed my hand, and crooned overdramatically, “Stay, Ju-ju,” working to suppress a grin. “I beg of you. Please don’t leave me alone with her. Please.”
That made me laugh, and the laugh did me in. For the moment—subject to reversal, I assured myself—judgment for the plaintiff.
• • •
Late afternoon, I returned to the computer to check my e-mail. There was a note from Marti that listed the yes responses to our party invitation, thirty-three so far, and a message from seoulfulgirl sent at eight ten a.m.
Father out with Geff today. High in sky. He say very safe. Hope you like Maine.
Love Yu
Hang gliding? No way. Maybe driving over the Bay Bridge. Whatever they did, they survived, because a breezy three sentences from Geoff flew into cyberspace at four forty-six: “Watch how he handles the pizzicatos in the middle movement. Hair-raisingly brave. Let’s work on this,” with a hotlink to Yo-Yo Ma performing the Debussy Sonata for Cello and Piano.
I was halfway through the YouTube clip when I caught a rustle behind me. Chloe was standing at the open doorway. Face bare of makeup, blond hair pulled into pigtails, she looked like a little girl, a sulky little girl, for about ten seconds. Then my gaze slipped to read her T-shirt: “I Could Be a Bitch if I Was Nicer.” The grammar was off, but the sentiment was spot-on.
“My father thinks I was out of line before. So, uhm, sor-ree.” As if the grudging attitude might not adequately convey her real feelings, she rolled her eyes to let me know just how sorry she was.
There was no way I was going to accept that bogus apology, so I just nodded “received and acknowledged” and thought the moment was over. But no. Chloe had another grenade up her short shorts. She stood there brazenly, hand on her hip, and announced, “I spoke to my grandmother a few minutes ago.” On what? Her confiscated cell phone? “When I described you, she knew exactly who you were. She said she never liked you.” She watched me for a reaction. I’m proud to say I gave her not even a twitch, not a sign she’d drawn blood. “It’s funny. Everyone thinks Grammy’s lost it due to strokes or whatever. She hasn’t. She’s sharp as ever.” She tossed her head like an unbroken colt before trotting off, calling behind her, “I just thought you’d like to know.”
• • •
Charlie and I never did wind up making love on the deck of the My Mayflower—on Sunday, the bay was crowded with beer-swilling three-day-weekend sailors who might have hooted. Besides, within twenty minutes of casting off, the sky turned gray, the water began to churn, and I got a touch of mal de mer. Blame it on my landlocked childhood. The closest beach to Bed-Stuy was Coney Island, where the only objects that sailed were used condoms and Nathan’s hot dog wrappers. Still, despite the queasiness, I held my own on the boat, winching and tying and being seaworthy. So much so that I earned the kind of respect that translates into passion for men who equate sheeting the mainsail with foreplay.
Back at the empty house, we raced each other to the master bedroom. I was ready to dive onto the bed, but he made me wait, folded back the spread, arranged the pillows, and only then drew me to him. He kissed me deep, nipped my bottom lip in farewell, then moved on to my right palm, flicking his tongue against flesh. I heard an animal growl. Surprise—it was coming from me.
He moved on to suck my middle finger rhythmically, sending the message he’d like some of the same at a different location. “Yes,” he moaned when I complied. I made him gasp again and again, finally with a plea to stop. “No more. I’m too close. Not this way.”
As I came up for air, I licked his thighs tasting of salt, his shoulders sweet with coconut sunscreen. “You,” he murmured, “taste of . . .” Something I didn’t hear because I was already too far gone.
This time there was no sign of the Australian intruder. The only distraction was a nagging phone, probably the Cove Haven crowd hunting us down. Forced to guard Chloe, we’d missed the Saturday night gathering—thank you, Buddha. Charlie, for once, passed on the calls and stuck with me, inside me, until he had me whimpering with pleasure. T
wice.
It was a nice memory to take back with me to Baltimore. Charlie had never worked well for me as a memory. Now he had a second chance.
Chapter 28
Straight from the airport, I drove to Blumen House to make up with my mother. Those long, boring hours passively guarding Charlie’s daughter from hell had given me time to think about my own parent-child relationship. My conclusion was that whatever Gracie had done, whatever decisions she’d made, be they good or bad in hindsight, they had been motivated by the best intentions. I had always—would always—come first with her.
One Father’s Day in my early adolescence, I’d had the bright idea of giving her a card: “To a Wonderful Dad.” Above my signature I’d written, “Because you are a father and mother to me, Mommy. And I love you.”
“So crazy, Judith. What this mean?” she’d said, making a cuckoo sign, finger twirling at her ear. But she knew. She was all I had. And I was all she had. Back then.
Even now, when we both had more, I couldn’t bear to lose her.
I found her in the garden. Tended by the residents, it was the brainchild of the facility’s occupational therapist, who contended that all the planting and weeding would strengthen muscles, improve balance, and, most important, connect old folks to the earth and the cycles of life.
Miriam Botansky’s response had been, “I’ll be close to the earth soon enough when my life cycle is over. Don’t rush me.” But my mother loved to get her hands in dirt.
When she squinted me into focus, she cried out, “I can’t believe. Look who’s back from Maine. Ay, so surprise.” And she broke out her best smile.
Gracie made her way toward my outstretched arms. I’d passed her height when I was twelve, but she was thicker boned than I and heavier. Fully grown, I still thought of her as bigger. But now she seemed—with the weight loss and under the large-brimmed straw hat—tiny, more fragile. Inches away from my hug, she nearly lost her balance and my heart jolted as my hand shot out to steady her.
“I’m fine,” she reassured me, peeling my fingers from her elbow. “Wrong. I lie. Not fine. I miss you. Not just in Maine. Since we fight.”
“I missed you too.” Realizing how much, I removed her hat and pulled her into a hug.
“You not still mad with me?” Her whisper carried the scent of mint. My mother liked to chew the herbs she planted.
“Did I ever say I was mad at you?” I backed her away so she could see the reassurance in my eyes.
“Don’t have to say. Show. Beside, I know in my bones. You hate me over Daddy. Now and before. You think mean mother like in fairy tale.”
“I could never hate you and you’re a wonderful mother.”
“So all I told you that day, you forgive?”
I patted her layered hair. “Nothing to forgive, Uhm-mah.” Not exactly true, but the love and the need were strong enough to overcome the disappointment.
She exhaled a relieved breath and smacked her chest, unseating Grandma Roz’s diamond pendant. “Ahh, feel better. Friends again. Very happy, Judith. Come, we sit. I need to catch breath. Hot out here, but the porch have shade.”
There were no rocking chairs on the verandah—too symbolic—but we settled on a cushioned bench and ordered lemonade—“good for digestion”—and cookies.
“So now we can talk like old times. I want to hear what happened on weekend. You and Charlie hot item, yes? Tell me everything.” Her dark eyes glittered.
Did I mention my mother liked to play in dirt?
• • •
I gave her the censored version of my weekend. But enquiring minds wanted to know more. She interrupted my description of the lobster dinner at the Cove Haven club. “Who care about lobster? How romance go?” Her eyebrow hitched salaciously. “You sleep in same room?”
Totally inappropriate, but close questioning went way back with my mother and me. In fact, interrogations had comprised most of our conversations during my childhood.
Talk about sex? That was another story. When it came time for the Big Reveal, Mrs. Beckersham had taken over. It was she, not my mother, who bought me my first box of sanitary pads. She who handed down her own copy of the Kotex puberty bible, “As One Girl to Another,” a slim booklet written in the slightly stilted language of the forties.
No, Grace had claimed no part of that discussion when it really counted. Now, though, she was a fountain of sexual advice.
“It all right you sleep together,” she assured me. “You big girl now and this twenty-one century, Judith. Sex not much shame. Nothing much shame anymore.” Then she came up with something that was either a plug for her eighty-year-old boy toy . . . ugh . . . or more tabloid philosophy. “Sex no big deal, though best if you love him.”
“I appreciate your stamp of approval, Uhm-mah. But I don’t know if I love him.”
She shook her head impatiently. “Make love all right anyway.”
Would she understand that this thing with Charlie wasn’t all about sex? It wasn’t even about love the way the poets wrote it. What rhymed with do-over? (Except screw over, but why go there?) My best bet was that it had something to do with closing circles, righting wrongs, seizing opportunities. The universe, having pulled the rug out from under me twenty-five years before, had shown up at my door with a once-in-a-lifetime deal on wall-to-wall carpeting. I ask you, do you turn the universe down when it decides it might have shortchanged you? Or do you hang around to see what it has in store this time? You hang. One way or another.
Sitting on the verandah as an errant breeze ruffled the leaves of a nearby birch tree, I was ambushed by a hot flash. My lemonade floated ice cubes. I rolled the chill glass over my forehead.
“So have good time, but don’t marry him. That daughter, nasty girl, ruin your life. Fresh mouth. Don’t care age. Need smack on tookass.”
“You never smacked me on my touchas or anywhere else. Not once—and I’d remember.”
“You good girl. No need. She spoil brat. You want such rude stepdaughter? And her father let her insult you? Watch out. Charlie is wimp, like with Kiki.”
That was close to what Marti had shouted into my cell phone when I’d phoned her from the airport. “Why, that little shit! I would have spun Miss Chloe’s ass around and kicked it into the next county.”
“Charlie said it was the shock of her finding me there. That’s why she was so rude, but that we’d grow to like each other, given time.”
“Right, I’d give it time. How about till hell freezes over?”
“You never know. He promised to get the two of them into counseling as soon as he can find a shrink who’ll fit his schedule.”
Going back into therapy had been my suggestion, but he’d bought into it. Maybe. This breathless transaction had been made during foreplay, so I wasn’t sure the deal would stick.
Marti wasn’t buying it. “Oh, honeybunch, you’re falling for someone who has more baggage than Lady Gaga on tour. Lace up your Nikes and run for your life.”
Now my mother held out the plate of Mint Milanos, her version of Xanax. “More cookie? Or maybe stay for dinner? Tonight lamb chop on menu. You like lamb chop.”
“Oh my God—I’m glad you reminded me. I brought you something from my trip.”
Charlie and I had toured one of Cove Haven’s sheep farms, where the gift shop sold sweaters knit from their wool. I’d bought my mother a heather purple V-neck, very stylish. It was in the car’s trunk with my suitcase.
“You think of Mommy all way up there.” She stroked my cheek. “Very nice. Come on, I want to see what you get me.”
Presents had been rare in Grace’s impoverished childhood. As an adult, she greeted them with childlike wonder and delight. She walked with me to the car and stood watching as I popped the trunk.
“Ay, aigoo.” In her eagerness, she edged me aside, poked her head into its recesses, and shifted its con
tents. “Your car so messy, Judith.” She clucked with disgust. “You always so neat. Now so slob. What happen to you? Oh no, this still here?” She’d caught a brash flash of silver wrapping paper and snapped around to look at me, eyes wide. “Gift from your father? You not open yet?”
I hadn’t. I’d forgotten it was there and hadn’t missed it. Or I’d buried it in my brain, camouflaged and shoved as far back as I’d stashed it in the trunk.
I blinked against the insistent silver.
“Very rude, Judith. Your father give you special gift. You must open.”
“Later, at home,” I promised.
“No, I don’t trust. We open now.”
She reached in and snagged the box. And so we marched— with me first, Grace behind me carrying both boxes, to prevent me from bolting, I suppose. Back on the verandah, we took new seats, away from the parking lot and the potential of prying eyes.
Still in command, she tore through the metallic paper, opened the box, and removed a large leatherette book with ALBUM stamped in gold on its cover. She placed it on my lap. I reared back as if it were an infant—something live and demanding.
“Read note.” She plucked an envelope from the box and handed it over. What was the use? The damage had been done. My father was brilliant at insinuating himself where he wasn’t wanted. An intrusion maven. Even if I stopped the process now, he’d already gotten to me.
I read. Aloud, because I refused to go through the pain on my own and Grace had pushed me into it. Irwin’s handwriting was fluid and elegant for an old man with a limited education.
Dear Judith~
Been collecting these pix and articles for a while. Here they are along with some pix of your mom and I. Now that I’ve seen you and her, I don’t need them as much to remind me. I kept a few doubles, so this album is all yours.
I know you don’t think so, but
