by Ann Leary
“Joan, seriously? What was it—thirty-five dollars?”
“It was thirty-eight dollars and forty-seven cents,” Joan said sadly.
This was too much; I couldn’t wait to tell Sally. Now that Whit was gone, Joan was the cheapest person on earth. It was confirmed.
SIXTEEN
Spin and Laurel were planning to go to the Hamptons on the fifth of July, to spend a few days with Perry’s family. Spin had a lot of things that he had committed to during those two weeks before they left, so we had Laurel to ourselves much of the time. One morning, a few days before the party, Laurel admitted that she was a little surprised by how much he had to do.
“I thought that once school let out for the summer, he’d be on vacation. But he’s still spending so much time at the school. And then all this work for the lake and the town.”
“They don’t really finish all their school stuff till July,” I said. “I think there’s a June session or something, right? Like a summer school? Spin usually teaches some of the courses for that.”
“Well, at least he gets paid for that. I just found out that he doesn’t get paid for any of the work he does for the town.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Spin doesn’t work for the town—why would he get paid?”
“I mean the wetlands inspections, for one. Every time somebody wants to put up a shed or put in a driveway, he has to go inspect the site. Why isn’t he getting paid for that?”
“No, he doesn’t have to inspect every site,” Sally explained. She had been sort of zoned out, as she so often is when she’s writing music, but now she tuned in to what Laurel was saying. “He’s on the board, that’s all. It’s the wetlands commission. There’s a group of them. It’s just a two-year term. It’s just, you know, community service stuff. He’s a volunteer. Whit was always involved with this stuff. Joan, too. She’s on Planning and Zoning.”
“No, I think she’s not on the Planning and Zoning Commission right now, Sal,” I said. “She’s too involved with the soup kitchen and the senior center.”
“Whatever, anyway, he enjoys it,” said Sally. “I think he just had to wrap up a lot of stuff before you guys go to Scary’s.”
“Sally,” I said.
Laurel laughed and said, “Scary’s?”
“I meant Perry’s. Did I say Scary? I meant Perry.”
Sally and I were both trying to keep straight faces, but Laurel noticed and said, “I get the sense that you guys don’t get along so well with Perry.”
“I wouldn’t say that. We just don’t see him and Catherine much anymore,” I said.
“Don’t lie,” said Sally. “We don’t really get along with him. We never have. He’s always had a big fucking chip on his shoulder. He’s always hated us.”
“He doesn’t hate us, Sally,” I said.
“We haven’t seen them much this year, which has been nice,” said Sally.
“After Whit died,” I explained to Laurel, “things got a little bit tense between Perry and Joan. He wanted to have people come in and replace the roof, fix things up. Since the house would someday be his and Spin’s, he wanted to make sure it didn’t depreciate in value. Sally, that’s all it was, and you have always been after Joan to do more maintenance here, so it wasn’t just him.”
“Why didn’t your mom want to do the improvements? Was it the cost?”
“Partially that,” I said. “It’s just that she’s used to things the way they are. She gets anxious when people start moving her stuff around. Plus, Perry and Catherine like the Hamptons—they almost never come here. Joan felt like every time he came here, he was doing an appraisal, trying to figure out how much he’d make the minute she died. Anyway, I think Perry got the hint. He stopped pestering her. That day he was here with Catherine was the first time we’ve seen him in almost a year.”
“Oh, I guess that was when Spin bought him out,” said Laurel. “He did say it was last year sometime.”
“What?” Sally said. “What do you mean?”
“You know, when Spin paid Perry for his share of the house.”
“What house?” I asked.
“Spin bought Perry’s share of this house?” Sally said. “When?”
“Oh no, I … I thought you all knew. Spin’s going to kill me. Please don’t tell him I said anything.”
“But I want to find out if it’s true or not,” Sally said.
“Please,” Laurel said, “I’m sure I’m wrong, I shouldn’t have said anything. Just pretend we never had this conversation. I’m probably mistaken.”
“It’s fine, don’t worry,” I said. “We won’t say anything to Spin.”
* * *
We were dying to get Joan alone, but when she came home that afternoon, she and Laurel were suddenly inseparable. They raked the weeds and stones from the beach for the barbecue. They hung up strings of paper lanterns that Laurel and Spin had bought. Because Sally and I were following them around, trying to get Joan’s attention, we kept getting shanghaied into helping. We had to bring up the folding chairs and tables from the boathouse and hose off all the cobwebs.
“Lottie, where’s the extension cord we use for the outdoor Christmas lights? Can you run and find it? And Sally, those lights are going to attract mosquitoes. Where did Whit keep the torches? Can you look for them? And I guess we’ll need to get some citronella oil.”
In the midst of all this, Washington Fuentes had wandered over. Washington was now our friend. At least Joan and I considered him our friend. There hadn’t been any more break-ins, but he still stopped by. Washington’s a big runner, like Joan, and she told him he could park at our house whenever he wanted to do the lake run. It’s seven miles; people like to run it so they know their exact mileage. He always stopped to say hello when he was finished. Joan and I usually invited him to have a drink with us on the porch.
The day we were getting ready for the Fourth of July party, Washington told us that he was heading into the city to spend the holiday with family.
“Oh no,” Joan said. “Stay until Saturday. You have to come to our party.” We had invited him multiple times, but I think he hadn’t really taken us seriously.
“No, it’s a family thing, I don’t want to intrude,” Washington said, his eyes on Sally. She was standing on a nearby chair, wearing cutoff jeans and a tank top, trying to hang a strand of lights from a tree branch.
Men love Sally, they always have. Even beautiful Laurel seemed invisible to men when Sally was around. I had noticed it with all the guys who had been working on the property. I’m almost ashamed to admit how much satisfaction I took in this. I had always thought the reason guys tended not to notice me was because I’m on the shy side and not as pretty as Sally. But Laurel is outgoing and very beautiful, and even she seemed to disappear when Sally was around. Everett is the only guy I’ve ever known who doesn’t seem sexually attracted to Sally. He’s always treated her more like a sister.
Sally has a lot of sex—she always has—but she never really has a steady boyfriend. The dynamic that was developing with Washington was typical, and I wanted to help him. I wanted to tell him to ignore her. Sally isn’t attracted to men who pursue her; she likes to be the pursuer. When she notices their stares, she’s turned off. It was too late for Washington Fuentes. She didn’t like him. She didn’t like his profession. And now she didn’t like that he liked her.
“No, please come,” Laurel said to Washington. I think she was flummoxed by the way he ignored her. She clearly wasn’t accustomed to it. She took his hand in both of hers and made a sweet, pleading face. “I won’t know anybody, either. We can hang out together.”
Washington laughed, but he pulled his hand away. Laurel then sort of leaned her shoulder against his and looked up at Sally, who was having a hard time getting the light strand to stay on the branch. Sally was swearing like a pirate and swatting at bugs. She paused for a moment when she saw that we were all grinning up at her.
“WHAT?” she demanded. “I’m being
eaten alive up here. A little help?”
Washington stepped over.
“Get down. Let me hang it, I’m taller,” he said.
“No, I can do it. Just hold the rest of the lights.”
“Get down. I’ll hang it. You’ll fall,” Washington said, playfully grabbing her ankle and pretending he was going to make her fall.
“I’ve got this. Let—GO!” she said. She was kicking at him now, and laughing despite herself. They ended up in a little bit of a tussle, until she almost tumbled off the chair.
“Okay, careful. I’ll hold the lights,” Washington said. He turned and gave us a sheepish smile. I felt bad for him. It was hopeless.
“Sure, I guess I can come on the Fourth. What time?” he asked.
An hour later, we finally had Joan to ourselves. Laurel liked taking Whit’s old car and driving around, exploring the area, so she had volunteered to go to the hardware store for the citronella oil. She had just pulled out of the driveway when we cornered Joan in the kitchen.
“Is it true?” Sally demanded. “Perry sold his share of the house to Spin?”
“Yes.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Spin told me that he was tired of being in the middle of everybody. He loves this house. He knew that Perry would just want to sell it when the time came, so he bought Perry’s share in it.”
“I’m just so surprised,” Sally said. “I don’t think that was very smart of Perry. You’re probably going to live another thirty years. By that time, who knows what the value of this house will be? Probably triple what it’s worth now. And I don’t understand how he could sell his interest in something that neither of them owns yet. The house is part of the marital trust—they don’t get any of it until you die, right?”
“Actually, no, that’s not right,” said Joan. “The house is separate from the trust. The boys own it. Or owned it. They inherited it when Whit died. Now Spin owns it.”
Whit had died two years before. I couldn’t believe we were just hearing this now.
“What are you telling us, Joan?” Sally was concerned. I was, too.
“Whit had an understanding with the boys that I should be allowed to live here as long as I like. But he wanted to make sure it stayed in the Whitman family, so it was kept separate from the part of the trust that allocates my expenses. There were some tax considerations, too. I don’t know. Anyway, Perry was hinting that he’d evict me if I didn’t consent to having the whole place renovated, and I was just in a state.”
“Evict you?” Sally said.
“When was this, Joan? Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked.
“I didn’t want to worry you. Also, I thought Perry was just being a bully. Fortunately, Spin stepped in and offered to buy Perry’s share. They had the place assessed, and Spin gave Perry his half. I don’t know what they finally settled on. A few million for the half share, I think. That’s what Perry used to build that house on the beach in Southampton. So it worked out great for everybody.”
“So now Spin owns Lakeside?” Sally asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you pay him anything? Any rent or anything?”
“Of course not. No. Spin doesn’t want to live here now. He loves it at Holden. It’s boring for him here. The campus faculty have such a great time. When I was growing up, my parents and the other faculty had dinner parties or barbecues three or four nights a week. Spin and his group do that now. He loves it. Plus, he spent most of his money buying Perry’s share. If he were to assume ownership—I’m confused, but there’s a legal term—he’d have to pay all the expenses. But as long as I’m living here, the expenses for the house come out of the trust. If I were to move, or if I became his tenant and started paying him rent, the expenses would have to come out of his own money. I don’t think he makes enough to pay the taxes and the insurance, to be perfectly frank. It’s fine. It worked out best for everybody.”
“Joan, this is very generous of Spin. He has all his money tied up in a house that he doesn’t live in. And you were begrudging him the thirty-five dollars at the gas station?” I said.
“What thirty-five dollars?” Sally asked.
“It was thirty-eight dollars and forty-seven cents,” Joan said, sadly.
SEVENTEEN
I had a problem: LoneStarLiza. I had managed to dissuade Liza and the others from holding an online auction to raise money for Wyatt, but they wanted to do something. Not just Liza but also Bigboots, Satansplushy, Martinimama, and a few others. They were all SAHMs, like me—Stay At Home Moms. But many of them used to be Work Hard in Office Moms (WHOMs, I called them), and they liked a project. They loved a cause.
The moms had decided to raise money in honor of Wyatt and to donate it to the hospital where he’s being treated. Because the privacy of our children is so important to Topher and me, I explained that I couldn’t reveal the name of our hospital. But, I offered, Boston Children’s Hospital has arguably the foremost research team working on disorders related to myelomeningocele, which is what Wyatt has. It’s a rare form of spina bifida. Very rare. I suggested that if they wanted to raise money, they could give it to Boston Children’s. Within hours of my posting this, the week before, a GoFundMe account had been set up. The account was called “Team Wyatt.” They explained about Wyatt and supplied a link to my blog. By the following day, there was a #TeamWyatt Facebook page and a Twitter account. It drove up my blog traffic, but it was worrying me. People were donating their hard-earned money for a child who is just my blog child. What if somebody found this out?
But, then again, what if they did? Myelomeningocele is real. It’s a terrible disorder, a crippling birth defect. The money that my followers were raising would help real children who suffered from this dreadful affliction. They weren’t giving it to me. I couldn’t really see how this would be a problem, even for the donors, if they were to learn the truth. And, well, how would they ever find out?
While I was considering all this, I got an e-mail from Matt in Australia.
“Any more signs of Mr. Clean?” he asked.
“No, he seems to be taking a break,” I told him.
“You might be wrong. He might have been in and out of a few places. Some people don’t notice a little tidying up. Anyway, that’s not why I’m e-mailing. I’m worried about your blog.”
I had never told Matt about my blog.
“What blog?” I replied.
“This LoneStarLiza person is a fraud. She’s trying to get you in trouble.”
My fingers were shaking as I typed the words, “Are you a hacker or something?”
“Something,” he replied.
“Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?” I asked him.
“No, it’s my job. I work for the government.”
“Oh.” I sat for a moment and then typed, “Is it the CIA?”
“I don’t work for your government,” Matt said. “Everything isn’t about the United States, you know.”
“What government do you work for?”
“Never mind about what I do. You should be worried about this new person commenting on your blog: LoneStarLiza.”
“She’s not new, she’s been commenting for years.”
“Check the spelling of the name. Gotta run.”
I went back through the comments on the blog. Matt was right. I had a longtime commenter who was LoneStarLisa. LoneStarLiza with a z had just started commenting in the past few weeks. Why was she so anxious to raise money for Wyatt? Then it occurred to me that for all I knew, Matt was LoneStarLiza. He likes invading people’s spaces. He probably liked messing up my blog and was annoyed that I hadn’t figured out it was him. I logged out.
After lunch, I helped the others prepare for the party.
Everett had been more attentive toward me than usual, ever since that night I had gone off with Fuentes. Laurel noticed it, too. We were carrying some collapsible tables up from the boathouse and she said, “He can’t take his eyes off you.”
Everett wa
s washing out an old livestock watering trough that we fill with ice, beer, and wine at parties. Whit had found the thing years ago at a yard sale.
“He’s been watching you all day,” she said.
“That’s only because I went over there last night,” I replied. “He’s always all cow-eyed the next day. It only lasts until he decides he’s bored and wants to be with, you know—her.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think he’s different since the other night, when you went off with Fuentes.”
“Really?” I looked over at Everett. He had finished hosing the trough and had turned it upside down to dry. He was folding the end of the hose in his hand so that the water would stop, which was when he saw that we were looking at him.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Nothing? I’ll give you nothing,” he said, and he ran at us with the hose.
“NO, EVERETT,” I screamed, dropping my end of the table and starting to run. But it was too late. He had unfolded the end of the hose and turned the spray on me and then Laurel.
I was laughing. He had gotten me a little wet. Laurel, however, was entirely soaked. And she wasn’t amused.
“What the fuck?” she said angrily. She was holding her arms out and looking down at her soaked jeans and T-shirt.
Everett turned off the hose and said, “Oh, sorry. I guess you shoulda—”
“What?”
“Run?” Everett said. He was trying not to laugh, and I saw that this was further infuriating Laurel. She stomped up the steps and into the house.
Everett came over and said, “What the hell? It’s just water.”
“Shhh,” I said, giggling. “She’ll hear you.” He started kissing me.
“You’re so wet,” he said.
“Because you just sprayed me with the hose,” I replied, laughing.
“Let’s go.” He pulled me toward his house and said loudly, for anyone to hear, “Let’s put your stuff in my dryer.”
“Okay,” I replied equally loudly. “You’re so kind.”
Sometimes, Everett and I had wild sex. Sometimes we had sad sex. We had a lot of sweet, sad sex after Whit died, but lately we had been having fun sex. That day, we had a blast. I pulled off my wet clothes before we even got into the bedroom, and he started doing a Wicked Witch of the West impersonation.
