The Romantics

by Galt Niederhoffer

  “It’s the curse of the Ghost of Northern Gardens,” Pete said in a poltergeist voice.

  And everyone laughed until a final headcount revealed they were short by one.

  SIX

  The first phase of the search for Tom proceeded with incongruously good cheer as though it were a whimsical party game the hosts had dreamed up for the guests’ entertainment. The group tackled the problem with the same chipper aplomb that they had the temperature of the water or the equitable distribution of liquor.

  The possibility that Tom had drowned was never voiced out loud. It was simply pushed to the side of the conversation. The group’s major source of comfort—or denial—was Tom’s exceptional swimming record. It was inconceivable that such a trivial swim could have overwhelmed such a competent athlete. Not only was Tom a championship swimmer—he had boasted, at a time, one of the best butterflies in the Ivy League. And before college, he had whiled away many a summer on the lifeguard chair, honing his survival skills with water and women alike.

  For these reasons alone, the group felt nonchalance was merited, admirable even, and, conversely, that concern was foolish and alarmist. It was, of course, a convenient deduction. They were currently in a realm in which anxiety of any kind was considered tacky and they abided by this rule like tourists attempting to fit into a foreign culture. No, tragedy was far too maudlin and improbable for such a charmed bunch. It was more likely that Augusta’s ghosts had risen from the attic, put off by the ruckus of the wedding guests, than that Tom had drowned in the bay on a swim of a few hundred feet. It was much more in keeping with Tom, the group decided, that he had swum at race pace to beat them to the shore, had hoisted himself to the rocky ledge, sprinted across the lawn mischievously, and now sat, showered and dressed, calmly awaiting their return, eager to lord his superior athletic prowess over them.

  Unfortunately, certain niggling facts competed with this comforting conclusion. First and, perhaps, most disturbingly, Tom had been visibly drunk. Even before the last bottle of wine—one he consumed by himself—his speech had been halting and slurred, his behavior outside the norm. It was clearly intoxication that spurred his scandalous and absurd claim that he had yet to decide whether or not to attend his own wedding. Second, there was, of course, said bizarre claim, which, in light of his disappearance, now seemed like a veiled threat. But the idea that Tom would stage a disappearance or, worse, take his own life so as to avoid his wedding was simply too far-fetched and melodramatic to consider in earnest.

  Third, the approaching storm was impossible to ignore. The water was undeniably rough or, at least, rougher than usual. The time it took the group to swim back to the shore was arguably doubled by the undertow. Everyone had felt it—a constant tug against their strokes. Fourth, it was somewhat unlikely that Tom had surpassed Pete by such a great distance. Pete swam second to Tom every one of their four years on the Yale team, and for every one of those four years, Pete had finished precisely one-half second behind Tom in the butterfly, a quarter second in the crawl. As far as they knew, Pete was the first to emerge from the water, but he had not seen so much as a shadow on the dark lawn. Given their historically similar pace, the apparent distance between them was odd. Fifth, and perhaps most alarming of all: Tom himself was the one who suggested the buddy system to ensure the group’s safe and simultaneous return. Why would the principal organizer diverge so sharply from the plan?

  But as the group assembled on the lawn, they did their best to push these and other disquieting facts from their minds. Instead, they indulged in the cheerful certainty that they were the unlucky and gullible victims of a practical joke, a last puerile prank from Tom before tomorrow’s ceremony closed the door on boyhood. The longer it took to find him, they decided, the heartier Tom would laugh at their expense. They must divide and conquer, scour the property, and locate him before he gained further ground for taunting. Excited by the challenge, they cheerfully wrung out their wet clothes. They attempted a fair distribution of the assorted shawls and jackets they had left on the dock. They suppressed a charge of excitement as they abandoned dress shoes and high heels where they had ditched them on the dock, and prayed for the temperature to return to that of a typical August evening.

  A list of directives was agreed upon without too much dissent. They would break into pairs, and each would canvass a separate area of the grounds. One pair would search the Gettys’, braced for Tom’s leap from a mothballed closet. Another pair would search the Hayses’ house in case Tom had beelined for Lila’s room. A third pair would circle the lawn, attuned to movement at every tree and, after exhausting the area, venture toward the town harbor on the off chance that Tom had wandered down for a solitary drink at a lobsterman’s bar. The last pair would camp out on the shore in the event that Tom had overshot the house and now meandered leisurely back, oblivious to the stir he had caused. Everyone would reconvene on the Gettys’ porch at ten of midnight to share their findings and, in all likelihood, resume drinking with Tom in tow.

  This would give the girls ample time to cross the lawn to the Hayeses’ house and keep their commitment to tuck Lila into bed at midnight. For the time being, they would not alert Lila or anyone in the Hayes family; by the time everyone had been informed, Tom would already be found. Why worry them unnecessarily?

  “You people watch too much TV,” Tom would tease as soon as they reunited.

  And they would quickly surround him, smother him with a group hug, and recount the fears they had secretly harbored since they had seen him last.

  Instinctively, the group paired off into the predictable permutations. Tripler, Weesie, and Annie inched toward their respective partners until they stood in a trio of couples, making Laura and Chip a couple by default.

  “Oh, come on,” Laura said, once she’d realized the consequence of the arrangement. “You people spend plenty of time together. Chip and I need some time apart.”

  Chip responded with an elaborate pantomime of brokenheartedness in which he received an arrow to the heart and fell to the ground in a wounded heap.

  “Poor Chip,” Tripler cooed. “Laura’s so mean to him.”

  Laura flashed Tripler an angry look. It was Tripler’s compulsion to take the opposing side in every dispute. “Why don’t you take him,” she quipped.

  “You know what, Laura’s right,” said Weesie. Just as Tripler sought to amplify tension, Weesie sought to dissipate it. “Let’s mix things up. Girl, boy, girl, boy. Like a dinner party.”

  “You mean a key party,” said Jake.

  The group considered this notion halfheartedly before rejecting it out of hand.

  But Tripler, sensing an opportunity for drama, jumped uncharacteristically to Weesie’s defense. She was drawn to confrontation with the same force by which most people were repelled by it. “Pete and I are sick of each other anyway. Weesie,” she barked, “I want Jake.”

  Now Weesie froze as she sought a plausible excuse.

  Laura offered a commiserative sigh. It was classic Tripler to turn Weesie’s kindness against her.

  The group’s collective romantic history was ingrained in everyone’s mind; they could complete the permutations of the various interrelationships as easily as their basic multiplication tables. Laura and Tom had dated, of course, prior to Lila and Tom. Pete flirted with every female member of the group, and those he didn’t flirt with, he had slept with already. Tripler and Jake had a brief fling before Weesie and Jake started going out. But far more troubling than this brief stint was Tripler’s incurable flirtatiousness, a trait whose intensity seemed to increase as she got older. Worse still, it was obvious that Tripler and Pete’s marriage had hit a rough spot. If this wasn’t clear from their acid exchanges, it was proven by a little-known fact: Six months ago, Tripler had asked Annie for the name of a good couples counselor.

  Still, Weesie did her best to set aside her suspicion. It only degraded her own marriage to acknowledge that Tripler posed any threat.

  “Fine by me,” W
eesie chirped, forcing frivolity into her voice. “Wait,” said Annie, “that’s no fun. Oscar and I are still together.”

  “That’s true!” said Weesie then, too quickly, she offered a new solution. “Annie, why don’t you go with Jake. Oscar and I will be a pair.”

  “No,” snapped Tripler. “I called Jake first.”

  “So?” snapped Annie. “So, I have dibs.”

  Jake smiled sheepishly at the three women, a humble apology for inciting competition.

  “Believe it or not,” Oscar interrupted, “I want to be with my fiancée. Unlike you sad married couples, we’re not sick of each other yet.”

  “Yeah,” Annie nodded. She stepped toward her fiancé and slipped her arm into his.

  “Wait,” said Laura. “That doesn’t help me.” She surveyed her friends’ new pairings and their insufferable smirks.

  “Oh, come on,” said Chip. He transposed his expression from injured to coy. “You know you want me.”

  Laura said nothing in response. She just stared blankly at Chip, studying his manufactured emotion and his disturbing lips. The Hayes lip was a dominant trait, a fact proven by its recurrence in all three siblings. But the full, curling lip was far more suited to a female face, serving Lila and Minnow, but cursing William and Chip.

  Disgusted, Laura turned to appeal to her friends’ kindness, but she found them apathetic. The new pairs mingled, enjoying the kitschy novelty of the switch with more giddy abandon than a group of seventies suburbanites. She could have burst into a loud coughing fit, frantically signaled the choking sign, and still failed to attract their attention. Giving up on her friends once again, she turned and headed down the grass toward the water.

  The group noticed her departure sooner than she expected.

  “Wait,” said Tripler. “Where are you going?”

  Laura kept her pace, said nothing.

  “You can’t leave until everyone’s clear on their specific mission.”

  Laura slowed her pace but only slightly, as Tripler repeated the plan. She took an immense and almost endearing amount of pleasure in the task, much like a playwright finally given the chance to direct. As Laura listened, she made no effort to suppress her disdain for her friend. It was so like Tripler to co-opt an emergency. And this was an emergency in Laura’s mind, if no one else’s.

  “Jake and I will search the main house,’” said Tripler.

  “Pete and I will search the Gettys’,” said Weesie.

  “Oscar and I will look outside,” said Annie. “We’ll do the lawn, the grounds.” She trailed off. “And, if necessary, the graveyard.”

  The comment was met with the inevitable sound effect, a chorus of ghoulish moaning.

  “Which leaves the beach for Laura and Chip,” said Tripler, staying on message.

  “What’s the point of that,” Laura snapped. “We were just there, and he wasn’t.”

  “Just in case,” said Tripler. “In case what,” said Laura.

  “In case he emerges from the deep, covered with seaweed and blood,” Chip volunteered. He repeated the graveyard sound effect, infusing his voice with a spooky tremble.

  “Whatever,” said Laura. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. At the top of the breath, she felt a slight sting in her chest, the same cold prickle one feels at the beginning of the flu. It was impressive, she decided, how potent emotions could be in the physical realm. They always seemed to produce an apt physical sensation.

  Deciding that a fight would only expend her dwindling energy, she turned back toward the water and regained her pace, determined to put some distance between her and Chip. The wind helped her cause, blowing emphatically in the same direction, forcing her to take larger, grander steps than she otherwise would have on the sloping hill. As she walked, she took comfort in one thing: Her friends were most likely watching her walk away, mired in wretched guilt.

  The group was watching, but they felt no guilt as Laura walked away. They were too busy evaluating the new threat to their evening. It was such a downer when intra-group arguments bubbled among the former rooming block, and even worse when these arguments exploded into fights. As close as the five girls were—Lila, Laura, Tripler, Weesie, and Annie—their friendships were combustible. And they fought with the same intensity that they loved one another. Determined to protect the quality of their already-challenged evening, they quickly dismissed Laura’s dissatisfaction and returned to the task at hand.

  Chip, at least, experienced some version of empathy. As he watched Laura head toward the beach, he felt the same condescending compassion he had when shooting bunnies with BBs as a child, the same inexplicable pity he felt at the first glimpse of his target. Unnerved, he roused himself from a comfortable trance, then turned and sprinted down the lawn after Laura, yelling incomprehensibly.

  Weesie and Annie stared for a moment. “Maybe we should take her with us,” said Weesie. Annie winced. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “She’ll be fine,” said Tripler, and she corralled her friends with a decisive flick of the wrist.

  As he ran, Chip waved his arms up and down like an enraged warrior attempting to intimidate his opponent with the appearance of insanity.

  He sped down the lawn with a traditional schoolyard battle cry, a hand-over-mouth imitation of an Indian chief. Making wide figure eights, he wove down the lawn at a hearty gallop, as though he was trying to damage the greatest surface area of grass. He completed the performance by tumbling onto his stomach just as the lawn hit its steepest grade. He ended the journey at a roll, a feat of physics that caused him to accelerate just as he reached the end of the lawn. He tumbled over the rocky ledge that was, depending on the time of day, between three and six feet from the sandy beach.

  The remaining six stood on the lawn, relieved by Chip’s disappearance. They stood in silence for several moments, absorbing the echo of his recital and debating their responsibility for whatever strange whim he obeyed next. In some way, they were reluctant to begin the next phase of the evening.

  “Where do you guys think he is?” Weesie asked. It was the first time anyone had posed the question, and it struck the group with the force and distaste of an unpleasant smell.

  “He’s probably hiding out in the attic, having a really good laugh at our expense,” said Pete. “You know he can see us from there.” He nodded toward the Hayeses’ fourth-floor window and waved both arms. “We see you up there, Tom.”

  “More likely he’s passed out somewhere on the lawn,” said Jake. “He was loaded back there on the raft.”

  “Oh God,” said Weesie. She was the only one to acknowledge the implicit peril in this statement.

  The others shrugged her off. It was their knee-jerk response to pessimism and, in some ways, to everything Weesie said.

  “But why would he bolt without saying good-bye?” Annie asked. Once in a while, the girls maintained a minimum level of loyalty, furthering one another’s assertions even if they didn’t support them outright.

  “Did it occur to anybody that he ran away,” Tripler asked. But it was more a declaration than a question.

  “Why the hell would he run away,” snapped Pete.

  “Because he’s having second thoughts,” said Tripler. She punctuated her thesis with an arched eyebrow that functioned like an ellipsis.

  “Second thoughts about what? Marrying this?” He gestured at the surrounding property with an expansive flick of the wrist.

  Tripler sent her husband a disapproving look, as though he had finally crossed the line between decorum and poor taste, a line that she alone had managed to straddle.

  “About what?” Jake asked, taking Tripler’s bait.

  “About the trade-off,” Tripler replied. She manufactured a frown designed to display her reluctance to continue.

  “Between what and what?” Pete demanded. Unsubstantiated assertions just like this caused most of the fights in their household, and he was happy for the opportunity to try his wife in the court of public opinion.


  “Love and money?” Oscar volunteered. He was, after Tripler, the least guarded—and the most confrontational. But he was a more skilled conversationalist; he shared Tripler’s thirst for controversy but not her need to be at its center.

  “Between Laura and Lila,” Tripler corrected.

  “Oh come on, you don’t honestly think—” Annie snapped. “What has it been? Ten years?”

  “He said it himself,” Tripler snapped back. “I’m not making this shit up.” She scanned the group proudly as though she had just proposed a solution for world hunger. “That whole thing about not showing up to his own wedding. I mean, come on! What more do you want, people?”

  Finally, Weesie lost her battle for composure. She meant to reply firmly but found herself yelling instead. “What you’re saying is that the imminent wedding of our best friends, Tom and Lila, has been threatened by the home-wrecking of—”

  “Mansion-wrecking,” Jake interrupted.

  “Whatever,” sniffed Weesie. “Of our other best friend, Laura.”

  Tripler seemed to consider Weesie’s rejoinder in earnest. “Well, yeah,” she said finally. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “That’s really inappropriate,” Weesie snapped. She turned away, disgusted. It was disgraceful for Tripler to let her need for attention taint something as sacred as a wedding.

  “Weez, don’t let her get to you,” Pete said. “I just tune her out. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Pete punctuated this question with an exaggerated pucker, a request for a kiss that Tripler summarily rejected.

  Weesie nodded, noting the unmistakable sting of Tripler and Pete’s teasing. Now, she felt even more confused. Despite her anger at Tripler, she was too benign to derive any pleasure from Pete’s disloyalty.

  “This is outrageous,” Annie piped in. “What are we even discussing? They went out in college, for Christ’s sake. I barely remember the names of my college boyfriends.”