It would be pointless to fight. She was no match for that girl. Not just the youthfulness and the sex, but her focus, her assurance. So formidable though only nineteen. If she alienated the girl—Gail, get that in your mind—she might lose Jay completely and that she could not bear. So what should she—what could she—do?
***
Clouds were swooping in from the northwest, and the lake’s surface was quivering with the wind. But Katharine had spent every summer at this lake for thirty-two years, when her father had had the cottage built, just before the Crash, and she was used to the squalls that sometimes swept across. She was a strong woman, agile and muscular, and even if the squall hit, she had to get away. She couldn’t bear to be in the cottage with John.
They had come to ready the cottage for summer, when Jay’s school was out and she and Jay would move to the lake and John would come up from Boston for weekends. She turned the kayak toward the uninhabited island a hundred yards away from the dock. She was an expert kayaker and she was soon on the island. The island was little more than a sandy beach and an acre of pine trees, but as a child it had been her refuge from the parties and the quarrels. She glanced back at the cottage. John was standing on the porch, his hands cupping his mouth. His words were lost in the wind. Was he calling Be careful or I hope you drown?
Once she had fixed the rope around a tree, the memory she had held back came rushing at her with such force that she dropped to the ground. While John was in the attic taking out the deck furniture, she had seen the letter. It had not been addressed to her, but she had thought it was from John’s sister. That was unusual since John had just spent the weekend at Carol’s. Perhaps something was wrong. John always shared his news from Carol, and so Katharine had pulled the letter from the envelope. “My darling, the weekend was glorious though much too brief.” An odd way for Carol to start a letter.
Katharine had turned to the second page to check the signature. “Yours forever if you want me, Richard.” Richard? Richard, yes. A good-looking young man she had once met when she came upon him and John at a restaurant. A young associate John was mentoring, he had said. And she had thought How like John. He often had taken on as a protégé one of the firm’s new young men and had helped him to adjust. Helped them? The truth came thundering at her, and she felt that her head would explode. Of course he had helped them, right into his bed. She had rushed from the cottage.
Alone now, on her island, she gave in to the images flooding her mind. There was John, naked, and lying beside him was that young man, Richard. The two of them were kissing, and then John’s hand slid down to the young man’s groin.
She pressed her wrist hard against her mouth. But she could not stop the awful sounds crashing through her body. They pounded against her belly, her chest, her throat. She dropped her hand from her mouth and gave in to the sounds, like an animal in pain.
At last exhausted, she rolled over and buried her head in the pine needles. The pungent odor of pine rose in her nostrils. Before they were married, she and John had often come out to the island in the moonlight and thrown their blanket over a bed of needles and made love to the sound of water lapping the shore. She remembered the delicious look of desire on his face, his moist lips, and his wide wild eyes. Surely that had not been faked. Surely there had been love, passion—for her. Surely their marriage had not been false from the beginning.
But perhaps it had been false and he had never loved her. Then why had he married her? Was it to have a cover, so no one would suspect? But did everyone know anyway? Was that why old Mr. Gore was so kind to her, with his mustache tickling her cheek as he kissed her? She had always thought he had pitied her because she was not beautiful as her mother had been. Now she wondered, had he known about John? Did everyone? John’s partners at the law firm? Her golf friends? When she came upon Marilee and Betty sitting in the women’s locker room, had they been whispering about her? The typical blind wife, the last to know. She had been a fool, refusing to see what was clear to everyone.
She began to cry again but then abruptly stopped. Was her anguish reduced to nothing more than the fear of humiliation? How trivial that was. She gripped her thighs and pressed her fingernails into the flesh. She had never wanted to be poor Katharine. She would not succumb now.
I want never to see you again, she would say to John once she was back in the cabin. Yes, that was the thing to do. Be straight and honest. Not crooked and deceitful as he was. What was worth keeping if you lived lies? Get out, she said to him. She saw his eyes fill, his mouth sag. There would be satisfaction in that, ejecting him from his home so that all the world would know. The world’s opinion meant so much to him. That was why he had married her, a cover for his secret life—oh, yes, she had been a gawky plain girl, grateful to capture the handsome captain in his pinks, just home from the war. And, being grateful, being also a fool. What a fool, how blind she had been.
She stood up and began to unwind the rope from the tree. She felt very strong. She and Jay could get along quite well without him. Jay. What would he say when he was told why his father no longer lived with them? Would he be humiliated before his friends? So your Pop’s a queer, is he? And Jay standing there, the tears springing to his eyes, his full lips trembling with shame. He would be devastated. She had not prepared him for disgrace.
She gazed across the lake. All the lights were blazing, even in the boathouse and the attic, John showing he cared about her and wanted her safe. He had always been thoughtful. Yes, it was true. Flowers on every occasion, special gifts—last year for their anniversary an antique gold pendant watch, with Forever and their entwined initials engraved inside the cover. And, when he was out of town, he called every evening, as he had last weekend. Last weekend, yes, pretending to be at Carol’s. He probably had called her so that she would not call him and find him not where he said he would be.
Her breath caught and her belly hardened and the tears began again. But then she said, Just stop. Stop stop stop. What’s done is done. Yet what was she to do? What would she do about Jay?
And then it came to her. Nothing. Of course. Do nothing. Nothing had changed except her knowledge. He was still John. Her husband. Jay’s adoring father. A good man. He loved her, she knew that—his kindness, his interest in her life—she had just not known the limitations of that love. Really, she had lost nothing. Nothing that she had ever actually had. If she said nothing and did nothing, nothing would come of it. Oh, she knew she would have dreadful moments when evil images swarmed into her mind. But John need not know and Jay need not suffer.
The sky had darkened and the clouds had begun to roil. Across the lake the porch lights were flashing, on off, on off. Come back, come back. And, when she got home, he would admonish her in his quiet way. Really, Katharine, this is not the weather for water sports. She cupped her hands in the frigid water and washed away the remnants of her tears. Then she unwound the rope from the tree and kicked off from the island. She paddled against the gathering whitecaps, toward John, toward the lies she would live for the rest of her life.
“I hope you weren’t worried,” she would say, perhaps kissing his cheek. “The lake was so beautiful with the storm coming that I couldn’t resist watching it from the island. You know what a fool I am.”
***
Katharine had been forbidden to take the kayak to the island without a life jacket. But the stiff old jacket interfered with her paddling, and it smelled sour. There was no one to see her if she didn’t wear it. Her mother would sleep through the morning, and her father never arrived from the city until late afternoon. She really didn’t need the jacket. Her father had taught her to handle the kayak, and now even he said she was an expert.
She lifted the paddle from the wall and freed the ropes and stepped into the kayak. She loved kayaking, lifting and twisting the paddle, dipping the blade into the water. Pushing off from the boathouse ledge was always the best moment. Floating free of the ropes, free of the boathouse, free of all the troubles.
When it was clear the man had only swallowed water and would be all right, Carl—whom she hated most in all the world—said she had saved the man’s life, and he lifted her onto his shoulders and paraded her around the deck, singing, “See, the conquering hero comes, sound the trumpets, beat the drums.” It had been horrible, humiliating.
Her mother had taken her from Carl. “Can’t you see she doesn’t like that,” her mother said. Her mother leaned down and there was the perfumy smell of gin on her breath. “Come on, I’ll take you up to bed, sweetheart. You don’t need to read that silly old book tonight.” They had gone up to Katharine’s room in the attic and her mother had lain down on the bed with her and had promised she would stay until the sandman arrived. When Katharine was almost asleep, Carl had come to the door and her mother had left and then Katharine had stayed awake for at least an hour, maybe two, and listened to the laughter downstairs.
As the house disappeared beyond the point, Katharine vowed that the next time her mother had a party, she would go straight to her island so she wouldn’t know if someone fell off the dock and was drowning. Even though it was wrong to wish people to die, she wished they would all fall in the lake and would drown, especially Carl.
The sun had just emerged from the stand of pines on the far shore and was slowly burning the mist off the lake. The only sounds were the wind rippling the lake water and the rhythmic splashing of her paddle. It was the best part of the day. Yet her mother and father never saw the lake like this. Why had they built the lake house if her mother just drank and had parties and her father only came out every ten days or so and then stayed so briefly that it seemed he just wanted to check that they were still alive and the house had not blown away. He and Katharine had not gone fishing once all summer.
She pulled the kayak up onto the island’s beach and wound the rope around the trunks of three tiny pines her father had had planted. Last summer she had tied the boat to a single trunk, and when a big wave came along the tree had been almost uprooted. Her father helped her stamp down the roughened dirt around the roots until the tree looked just like the other little twiggy pines.
The island was her special place. There was a lot to do there, if you used your imagination. Once she had made a fortress out of driftwood. Once she had collected pine needles and shaped them into a necklace, though it had split apart before she could get it home. Sometimes she just roamed around pretending she was Robinson Crusoe or Friday, practicing how to survive if she were shipwrecked. She didn’t feel like an adventure today, so she decided she would collect some of the tiny water-smoothed stones and polish them until they were as shiny as jewels and perhaps make a necklace.
By the time she had found enough pretty stones, the sun was halfway toward noon, and her mother would be waking up. She quickly untied the kayak and pushed off from the beach. Then she saw her father standing on the deck in his light seersucker suit and his Panama hat. He would be angry with her for not wearing the life jacket. Though her heart was beating hard, she managed to smile and wave as she coasted into the boathouse.
Once she had tethered the boat, she came up on the deck. “I’m sorry, Poppa,” she said. “But I was extra careful.”
“I’m sure you were, but it’s dangerous and the rules still apply.’’ He paused. “At least the rules as far as you’re concerned. But never mind that for now.” He held out his arms and she came into them. “How’s Poppa’s girl?”
“I’m fine,” she said. She knew she had to say something else—it was rude to answer in monosyllables. “I’m going to polish these rocks and make a necklace.” She pulled a handful of the rocks from her pocket.
“I’m glad to hear you have projects and aren’t just idling away the time here.”
“No, Poppa, I’m not idling.”
“And have you continued with Oliver Twist?”
“Yes, Poppa. I’m nearly at page eighty.”
“I’m pleased with that, Katharine.” He sighed heavily. “I imagine you’re rather tired from the party, aren’t you? When the dreaded cat is away.” He shook his head. “Your mother doesn’t seem to realize we’re in a depression and money’s scarce.”
“Oh, yes she does.” Her mother was standing in the doorway in her nightgown and robe, her tangled hair hanging every which way. “This may be the tail end of the whoopee days, but I intend to enjoy them as long as I can, and I won’t let Mr. Gloom ruin that.”
Poppa put his hand on Katherine’s head. “Why don’t you go to your room, Katharine, and start on that necklace. Or, better, go work on Oliver Twist.”
“First a good morning kiss,” said her mother. She leaned over and kissed Katharine on her forehead and ruffled her hair. “My sweet girl. Did you sleep all right?”
“How could she have?” her father said in a harsh voice.
As she climbed the steps and went into her room in the attic, Katharine heard their voices rising and falling and rising again, though she couldn’t make out the words. She picked up Oliver Twist and carefully removed the little clip her father had given her to mark her place in a book. It was silver and it had a large K at the top.
She opened the book and ran her eyes over the first line and then the second and the third. Though she knew each word, putting them together didn’t make sense. She began again at the top of the page and read word by word, slowly. Her mother thought the book was too old for her, but that wasn’t it. She was a very good reader and had read books much harder than this one. But these words were just marks on the page.
Why had they married? Had they liked each other then? She thought of the picture in their bedroom in Boston, her mother so pretty in a white lace gown that came to her ankles and her father handsome in his striped long-tailed coat and funny shoes with the covers over them, both grinning and so happy. If she hadn’t been born, would they still be happy? If she went away, if she lived on her island, would they be happy again? She went to the window. They were sitting in the lounge chairs, facing the lake. They were no longer shouting, and though that was good, she wanted to hear what they were saying. She lay down on the floor beneath the window so that if they looked up they wouldn’t catch her eavesdropping. But she couldn’t really hear them no matter how hard she strained. She closed her eyes.
“All right, little one, wake up. The floor is hardly a place for a nap.”
She quickly pulled Oliver Twist from under her shoulder. “I’m awake, Poppa,” she said.
“Now you are.” He reached for her hand and pulled her up. “Perhaps Dickens is a little too much for you.” He took the book from her and straightened the bent pages.
“No, Poppa, I like it.”
“Good. I thought you would.”
“I’m glad you came early,” she said. “Can we go fishing?”
“Not this time. I’m going right back to the city, but I want to have a little talk with you. You’re a strong girl, Katharine. Off kayaking and hunting rocks by yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Poppa, I won’t go without the life jacket again.”
He flicked his fingers, dismissing that. “No, no, that’s not what I’m talking about.” He sat down on her bed and motioned her toward him. “This will be very difficult for you,” he said, once she was standing at his knees and he was holding her hands, “but I want you to be very grown up and strong. Promise?” He waited until she nodded
and then said, “Sometimes people make mistakes, and the proper action is to rectify them as soon as possible. Your mother and I agree on that if little else.“ He pulled her toward him and held her head against his chest. “Do you understand what I’m telling you, little one?”
“Yes,” she said. “I understand.” She clenched her hands and held her elbows tight against her ribs. “Can I go over to the island now if I wear the life jacket?”
***
She listened as Jackie revved the car’s motor and roared up the gravel driveway to the road. And then there was only the sound of the water sloshing against the piling. Every summer since she was a child she had come up to the lake. Once a drunken man had broken through the railing and fallen into the water, and she had somehow saved his life. She looked out at the island and the pines her father had planted, now grown so tall. She had made love on the sandy beach. She had collected pinecones and stones, and she had often hidden there.
Should she sell all this so that Jackie could have the money? It might be the making of him, and if not perhaps she wouldn’t know.
Charade
When she heard the motorcycle skittering to a halt on the gravel driveway, Helen quickly dropped the trowel and stood up from the flowerbed. She was wearing shorts, and she didn’t want whoever to see her with her rump in the air. The driver cut the engine and jerked the motorcycle onto its stand. A stranger.
“This Number Four Opossum Road?” the man asked. When Helen nodded the man started toward her. “I saw the ad for a handyman down the road at that Jake guy’s deli,” he said. “Job still open?”
Old Ladies Page 4
