“Hey!” Ruby gave him a jolly punch to the arm. “That was uncalled-for.”
“The truth hurts, eh?”
“And I especially didn’t relish you snapping a picture of my failure.”
“No one would believe it otherwise,” he joked. “Come on, a foursome is approaching. We don’t want them complaining about a girl on the course.”
“I know those old toads and could beat any of them on my worst day.”
“So, today then?”
Ruby growled at him.
“The man with the pipe has a fifteen handicap,” she said, “but likes to think it’s five.”
Topper chortled and hoisted his golf bag onto his right shoulder. Then he swung it behind him, holding on with both arms. He looked like the exact kind of person Hattie Rutter should end up with. Thanks to the war, people were getting married brashly these days. Why couldn’t those two join the trend?
“Her birthday’s coming up,” Ruby said as they approached the eleventh hole. “Hattie’s.”
“I think she mentioned something along those lines.”
Topper held a hand over his eyes and scanned the fairway.
“I was thinking we could throw her a party. Next Friday night is free. Wouldn’t that be a gas?”
“Sure, why not? I’m always game for a fiesta.”
“I expected a tick more enthusiasm.”
“I’m not sure what you’re searching for, Red,” he said, squinting at her, “but you should do it, if you want.”
“But I…” Ruby started, though she had no real way to finish. She sighed. “Okay, maybe I will. You’d better show up.”
“Of course I’ll show up.”
Topper removed a ball from his bag and spun it a few times before placing it on the tee.
“There’s a chance, though?” Ruby said as he set up for the shot. “I mean, one day. If you keep dating and everything continues on this path?”
“A chance for what, exactly?”
“That you could propose.”
“Geez-aloo, what a question.”
Topper closed his eyes and waited a big thick while before finally looking at Ruby again.
“I hate to tell ya, Red. I know you have your sights set on this. But as to whether there’s a chance we’ll get married … I’m sorry, I just don’t think there is.”
* * *
Hattie seemed embarrassed by the fuss. As Ruby had never seen the gal rattled by a darn thing, it was a disconcerting situation.
“Do you not want a birthday party?” Ruby asked, tentatively, a few days prior. She was scared of the question, and the answer, as the wheels were already in motion. “You’re twenty-five. A real milestone!”
“Lord, don’t rub it in,” Hattie responded and took a deep suck of her cig. She then inspected Ruby for a minute, sizing her up and a little bit down. “You know what, Rubes? Let’s do it. A party sounds keen. You’re fab. Absolute aces.”
So there they were, on a Friday night, the orchestra playing, guests scattered across the lawn. They’d invited the Grey Ladies, as well as Hattie’s friends from town. The Hulbert Avenue girls were surprised to find such grandiosity all the way in Sconset. Forget the artists and fishermen, on its cliffs stood a bona fide estate, albeit an estate built mostly with “new money,” so it almost didn’t count.
The party took off in a flash. The guests danced and drank champagne and told stories from college and finishing school. At one juncture a gaggle of those rabble-rouser Kennedys showed up and incited a mêlée with some of Topper’s friends. Hattie managed to break the whole thing up with a slap or three. During her time in London, Hattie had known some of the boys, and one girl or another, though there was little difference between the genders in that family.
Around midnight, the evening began to wind down, though plenty of good-time gals were still jitterbugging on the patio. Couples held hands near the cliff’s edge, whispering promises as they stared out across the forever. Ruby was plumb exhausted and had decided to pack it in herself when she realized Hattie was AWOL.
“Huh,” she said, inspecting the grounds. “Is that her?”
She craned her neck to make out the identities of two girls roller-skating on the tennis court. Upon closer inspection, neither had the curves to suggest the birthday girl.
“Looking for someone?” Sam asked, and slipped in behind her.
“Yes. Hattie seems to be missing,” Ruby said with a frown.
“She probably turned in.” Sam gave her a hug. “You put on one hell of a shindig, baby. Everyone had a snazzy time.”
“Oh … thanks.… Don’t you think she should’ve stuck around? Until the last guest left? It is her party after all.”
“Hmm. Perhaps. Though I’m not up on the latest etiquette and anyway this island has its own rules.”
“Yes it does,” Ruby said. “Nonetheless, I’m going to find her.”
She was at once chafed and fighting the creeping suspicion that the party was destined for ruin, though it was mostly over. Forget decorum, the only people left would be lucky to remember their shoes.
“Are you coming?” Ruby called over her shoulder.
Sam opened his mouth as if to speak and Ruby’s heart wrapped right around the sight of him. His hair was mussed and starting to curl from the briny air. He hadn’t shaved since morning and so his stubble was thick and dark. Ruby smiled at her husband. Sam was too dang handsome, calamitously so.
“I love you so much,” Ruby said, blurted really, as the feeling nipped at her very soul. “I’m so lucky to be your wife.”
“Ah, Rubes, I’m the lucky one.”
She smiled and listened as the waves broke on the shore below. Maybe this was why Hattie wasn’t notably enthused by Topper. Ruby’s baby brother was handsome as the sun was bright but he had nothing on Sam.
“I’m going to find her,” Ruby said again. “Hattie. Make her send the remaining guests off fittingly. Care to join me?”
“Well, actually”—he blushed—“I’d planned to meet P.J. and Topper for some poker at the casino. Would you mind terribly?”
“Absolutely not,” Ruby said. “But make sure you come to bed at a decent hour. And…” She gave him an exaggerated wink. “Please wake me when you do.”
* * *
After three sweeps of the house, and a look-see from the captain’s walk, Ruby couldn’t rustle up even the slightest hint of Hattie. Had she gone home? Hattie stayed the night at Cliff House after most parties. Eight miles back to town was a haul after a few gin fizzes and some swings around the dance floor.
As Ruby plonked down the stairs for the fourth time, she rounded the banister toward the kitchen—called a “porch” by any Sconseter worth her salt—and stopped dead in her tracks when she heard a squeal.
“Hattie?” she called tentatively as she stepped into the kitchen.
Another muffled sound: yes, it was her friend’s voice.
Ruby walked farther into the room. The noise seemed to be coming from the kitchen, but the place was flat deserted save for a dozen emptied champagne bottles and countless plates of abandoned chocolate cake. Hattie yelled something again. Her friend was in the butler’s pantry.
Hattie sounded hurt, or upset, and Ruby aimed to find out why. As she pushed the door open a crack, Ruby glimpsed a flash of red. She recoiled and the door sprung back. When she pressed on it a second time, Ruby saw her pal, her newest yet dearest chum, sprawled across the carving table.
“Hattie,” Ruby gasped, though the guest of honor did not hear.
Hattie was on the wood table, topless, splayed out on her back. Her knees were bent; her skirt was hiked up and crumpled around her waist. She looked like a biology frog, not a woman. Even her boobs had disappeared somewhere into her chest. With her was Topper, pants around his ankles, rutting with force.
Topper grunted as he jammed into her. With each thrust, Hattie’s head smacked against a block of knives. She was grunting, too, when not bellowing out instructions u
sing language that would make a sailor weep. Sick splashed up the back of Ruby’s throat. What she was watching was animal, primal. Both were willing, but neither seemed to be enjoying it at all.
“Harder!” Hattie cried. “Fuck me harder!”
Another gasp escaped Ruby. Meanwhile, Topper bore down, ramming Hattie with ferocity. He pounded her ever more vigorously, bracing himself against her breasts as they sank farther into her chest. Ruby cringed for the pain as Hattie bucked her hips with escalating might.
God, Ruby thought, maybe she and Sam had been doing it wrong. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t pregnant. Nothing in their marital bed looked remotely like this.
With a sudden and staggering grunt, Topper pulled out from inside Hattie. Ruby reeled at the sight of his member, slick and erect and grotesquely large. She made a gagging sound as Topper spun Hattie over onto her stomach and took her from behind.
As if the door were suddenly hot, Ruby let go. It swooshed several times before finally coming to a stop. She backed up, shaking her head as if that could make the scene evaporate. When she reached the hallway, she turned and scrabbled upstairs as quickly as her feet would take her.
Ruby was no authority, the sum total of her lovers exactly one, but what she saw did not check out. She couldn’t explain why, but it wasn’t supposed to be that way. It wasn’t supposed to look like that. Not even if you grew up in France.
* * *
Ruby sat on the edge of her bed, knees tucked up into her chin, teeth chattering.
She was disgusted by what she had seen, and what she had heard. Even this very room repulsed her, with its pastel colors, the alternating walls of coral and slate blue, not to mention the pale pink wardrobe lodged in the corner. Tennis trophies, horse show ribbons, and notices of scholastic achievement surrounded her. And, God, that cutesy collection of themed salt-and-pepper shakers. The place suddenly appeared so juvenile, the room of a girl who’d never grown up. She and Sam had pushed the twin beds together, but that was the only change in ten years.
Eyes stinging in hot repugnance, Ruby stood and crept down the hallway toward the bathroom, though no amount of scouring could chase away the bitterness in her mouth.
In the bathroom, Ruby turned the faucet. As she ran her brush beneath the water, her hands shook violently.
“Hiya Rubes!”
Ruby jumped. The toothbrush flew upward, leaving a splatter of water on the mirror.
“Cripes, Hattie,” she said, struggling for breath. “You scared the devil out of me. What are you doing?”
“I’m brushing the twags, same as you.”
When Ruby caught her friend’s face in the mirror, she saw that Hattie looked mostly the same. The hair was coiffed, falling in soft waves against her face. Her clothes were still expertly draped, hugging her body with grace, only a few new wrinkles to be found. Even Hattie’s makeup was decent for that time of night. There was nothing to indicate she’d just been pillaged. Where were the marks? Where was the shame?
“Scooch over,” Hattie said. She jammed her hand into her purse and extracted a toothbrush. “Move it, girl.”
Hattie gave Ruby a friendly pat on the backside. Ruby jumped again, this time nearly falling through the shower curtain.
“Whatsa matter, kid?” Hattie asked around the toothbrush lodged between her molars. “You seem jumpy. Literally jumpy.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t seem jumpy at all, which is strange.”
“Huh?” Hattie jacked up one brow. “You kill me, Rubes. You’re one cutup of a dame.”
She spit into the sink.
Hattie slept at Cliff House multiple times per week. If they attended a party or dinner, Hattie was almost always too pooped for the trek back to Points North. Because she stayed in Walter’s old room, the two girls often met like this, in the little white bathroom halfway down the hall. How many times had Hattie come to her immediately after being ransacked by Topper?
Because that’s what it was.
A ransacking. A plundering. A battering. A pounding. There were a hundred words running through Ruby’s brain, not a one of them anything close to love. Topper hammered into Hattie while she bucked to meet him, angrily, determined, like waves crashing in a storm.
“So,” Ruby said, and slapped a palmful of Pond’s onto her face. “Did you and Topper have a nice evening? You disappeared.”
“Yeah. Sure. He’s a swell chap, your brother.”
“‘A swell chap’?” Ruby scoffed. “Is that all you want to say for yourself?”
“Why do I get the impression I’ve committed some undocumented, heretofore unknown Cliff House crime?”
“I don’t know,” Ruby said. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“Geez, Rubes, are you cheesed at me or something? If so, spill it. No use making me guess. I’ll get it wrong. I promise.”
“Do you like him?” she asked. “My brother? Topper.”
“Of course you meant Topper. Wouldn’t be P.J. now, would it? Never mind he’s already married to the matte and muted Mary.”
“Just answer the question, Hattie.”
“Topper’s keen as can be. What gives, hon? You’re angry as a cat.”
“Is this a relationship?”
Ruby pictured Topper flipping Hattie over, jamming himself into the small space between her round and lifted cheeks. The girls at school discussed all manner of tips and tricks to prevent pregnancy or the loss of virginity, but no one had ever mentioned anything like that.
“Are you in it for real?” Ruby asked, trying desperately not to cry. “Or is it merely some big game for you? The girl from the Continent humoring the local Yank?”
“Is he my steady? Is that it?” Hattie asked, an amused smile playing at her lips. “Oh, sugar, we’re nothing like that and, believe me, it suits your brother just fine. It’s all in good fun.”
“Fun?” Ruby snorted. “Yeah, looks like a real blast.”
With that, she chucked her toothbrush into the sink.
“Well, Hattie, I’m gonna hit the percales. Have a good night. Sweet dreams. And don’t forget to shut off the lights.”
29
Wednesday Evening
Bess tells Evan about the pregnancy—every sordid detail.
It all happened so fast, she explains. One minute Bess was, if not happily married, at least unobjectionably attached. The next minute she was finding out about hookers and approximately ninety seconds after that, moving into a hastily secured rental in an undesirable part of town. By the time Bess realized her missed periods were a result of a baby and not stress, her life had already changed. She did tell her ex. A bad decision, in the end.
No, Bess hasn’t been all that nauseated, just a touch “off” from time to time, no more irritable or sick to her stomach than might be expected given the prostitutes and divorce and rancid smell outside her new apartment.
And what, exactly, does Bess plan to do about the unexpected twist? Well, she missed an appointment this afternoon. If not for the Cissy problem, Bess would be in San Francisco and, as of this very moment, not pregnant anymore. So time is getting short, for Cliff House and for Bess.
“You seem completely unfazed by this revelation,” Bess says after unspooling it all.
Is she glad for Evan’s blank expression? Or is she concerned?
“I shouldn’t have led with the whores,” she adds.
Evan shrugs. “Admit it, you like saying the word ‘whore.’” He cracks open a fresh beer. “Let me ask you something. If you planned to end the pregnancy, why’d you tell Brandon? I can only assume he was a total shit about it.”
“Yes,” Bess says with a salty sort of chuckle. “‘A total shit’ is one way to put it.”
“So, why then?” Evan presses. “Why’d you tell him?”
“Oh. Well. It felt like the right thing.”
So Bess hasn’t really told Evan “every sordid detail.”
Because while she plans to end the pregnancy now, she didn’t necessarily have the sa
me designs before. Not that Bess wants to be a mother under such circumstances, and she’d pity any kid forced to have Brandon for a dad. But at first Bess simply didn’t know what to think. In telling Brandon she was looking for something: a sign, a hint, an outright directive. Be careful what you wish for and all that. He gave her one hell of a “sign.”
“I’m pregnant,” Bess had said, simple as that.
Because, while the situation was and is complex, this particular problem is quite basic. An unexpected pregnancy, the great equalizer. It’s happened in every country, in every tax bracket, in every year since the dawn of time. Pretty straightforward, at least until you realize it’s a total fucking disaster.
“You dirty slut” had been Brandon’s reaction.
“Um, excuse me?” Bess choked out.
It was a low blow, yet also quite Brandon. He had such an aggressive, full-metal-jacket way of talking to people, followed by a heavy dose of manufactured charm. It’s amazing what handsome, upwardly mobile guys can get away with. To think, Bess once considered him refreshingly direct.
“You can’t talk to me like that,” she’d said.
“Fuck yeah, I can. You’re a complete piece of shit.”
“Hey! Our marriage is ending, but I deserve to be treated like a human.”
Brandon shouted something else, jumped to his feet, and then lunged toward Bess—lunged!—before remembering where and who he was. Brandon was a tech executive, a man with stature, if only in his own mind. They were sitting in a Starbucks on Sand Hill Road, only five minutes from his office. Someone might be watching.
“You dirty fucking slut,” he said again, to be sure she heard.
He pulled back, then clenched his hands together.
“Jesus, Brandon, calm down,” Bess answered, trembling. “The baby is yours. I haven’t slept with anyone else in seven years, so you can stop with the ‘slut’ claptrap.”
“Nice try, bitch,” he said. “If you think you’re going to trap me…”
“Trap you? No, I very much want the divorce. More than ever.”
“‘More than ever,’” he said, mocking her in a girl’s voice. “Ugh, you disgust me. So you want money. Is that it? You’re trying to shake me down for cash?”
The Book of Summer Page 15
