“What do you like to do, Beatrice?” Caro asked.
“Anything to do with the water. Surf, mostly.”
“Beatrice is saving up for a surf board,” Livia said.
“Very impressive,” Caro said. “I don’t imagine they’re very cheap.”
“They’re not. That’s why my dad is making me buy it with my own money,” Beatrice said. “He has a pool business so he pays me for helping him out.”
“That must keep you busy,” Tommy said.
“Not too bad,” Beatrice said. “I go out with him three mornings a week. The rest of the time, I’m free.”
“Well, Beatrice, anytime you want to visit, please do,” Nina said. “You and Livia might turn out to be great company for each other.”
“Thanks,” Beatrice said. She turned to Livia. “Want to go out and walk around?”
“Sure,” Livia said.
“Come on,” Beatrice said, grabbing Livia’s hand and guiding her through the mill of guests.
Caro stared after the girls, already chatting animatedly. And all of a sudden, she felt sick to her stomach. A friendship between the two of them would severely impinge on her time with Livia. This thought made Caro hate Beatrice. Why didn’t she and her mother stay in Rhode Island?
The truth was, Caro was jealous of their fun, and of the freedom Beatrice had to lightheartedly manhandle her friend. Caro was demonstrative by nature and in normal conversation thought nothing of pressing a wrist or caressing an arm even with people she’d just met.
Moral to the point of being borderline prudish, she was scrupulous, however, about avoiding close physical contact with Livia. Since her husband’s death, she’d never been interested in remarrying or finding a male companion. Discovering his affair, however, had instigated a desire to let go and be bad. She’d learned that keeping her prim behavior intact all her life had only led her to misery.
The fact, however, that Livia was the cause of her sexual stirrings horrified Caro. And yet, she could not deny them. Even now, as she stole looks at Livia she saw a girl on the cusp of young adulthood—still the tomboy, but in a flirty, feminine package—and her moral and ethical reserves weakened. A momentary image of kissing Livia rose to her consciousness. She immediately crushed it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
To raise, to elevate, to endorse with timeless reverence the image of woman, has been my mission––the reason for my work. ~Ruth Bernhard
Sexless. Innocent. Truthful.
Perfect love in its simplest form begins with an attraction to a beautiful object, but then is raised beyond the body, to its highest form—spirit.
This was the dictum Caro recited and meditated on as she continued to smother thoughts and impulses regarding Livia that were even mildly suggestive. The current arrangement between them was proving advantageous for both of them: mad at Abby, and sorry for the love she’d wasted on Zach and Marcie, Caro was happy to bestow her love on Livia.
As for Livia, she reveled in the unconditional affection of a maternal figure, especially one who understood without question the eccentricity of her poetic sensibilities.
Consequently, in the days that followed Phyllis’s party, Caro came to depend on Livia’s presence for her sanity. Her nights were a fragmentary progression of hours between fitful sleep and blurry wakefulness. Marcie and Zach appeared in disquieting reveries.
The rhythm of Caro’s days often got underway before daybreak. Huddled under a comforter, she contentedly watched the lazy strokes of pink and purple filter across the sky. In slowly widening increments, the sea separated itself out, a bullish companion as it heaved itself endlessly forward to the shore. Caro appreciated the forthright action of the swift-moving tides because their movement represented the daily swelling of enthusiasm as the minutes edged toward nine or ten when Livia would appear.
During this early hour Caro recalled from the day before Livia’s sweet smile that Caro could now coax out of her quite easily. It was a smile that produced the hint of dimples on her cheeks. Or she’d hear again Livia reading a poem from a volume they’d chosen on one of their trips to the library. Better yet, the young poet would read one of her own, and Caro would hang on to every word. She’d dissect it not for its literary worth as much as to discern Livia’s moods.
The previous afternoon, Livia had brought a poem she’d written about ants. The title was “Lamentation,” another ode to her absent mother. Livia had read:
sand ants
with
long legs
bent at ninety degree
sharp angles
scurry up and
down endless mounds of sand seemingly going
no where
like my mother
doing the same thing
only at a much slower pace
Afterward, she confessed in a shaky voice that she’d felt sad to think that no matter how fast ants scuttle up and down on the beach, the time it takes them to cover two or three yards is accomplished by adults in a second with one long stride.
Livia continued, “Now multiply the distances humans travel and in the same time the ants haven’t gotten anywhere at all because they keep going around the same miniature sand dunes.”
“But how do you relate that to your life?” Caro had inquired.
“I think of all the miles Mom travels but they don’t get her any closer to me because she keeps going in the same circles, just like the ants.”
“Not having your mother around is a very real thing to lament,” Caro had offered, at the same time wishing Carmen would never return.
Hours with Livia were what Caro lived for and gave all of her concentration to, all the while attentive to the fact that she had no existence other than what she took from her relationship with Livia.
She didn’t plan anything unless the activity was of a kind that could include Livia. She didn’t socialize with anyone except for Nina and Tommy, because on those occasions, Livia was there as well.
On the beach, Caro was usually in sight of Livia’s brown legs skipping through the breakers or her head bobbing in the waves; she gazed upon Livia sunbathing, the girl’s skin iridescent with tanning oil.
As a voyeur––a poet––Caro was skilled at enjoying long, sidelong glances from her elevated position on the dune or from inside her portable cabana. Caro knew every line and plane of her protégé’s body, whether in motion, or in stillness, and from her vantage points the magnificence of the sun and sea and sky were but mere background for Livia’s graceful progress in the world.
Caro didn’t see a problem with her life until now, when she realized that the structure of her days was a claustrophobic repeat of when Zach and Marcie were alive. Except that instead of concentrating her attention and energy on her poetry, she focused on Livia.
Abby had been right to say that Caro didn’t see what was going on between her husband and best friend. How could she when she lived most of her time in the limited world of her study?
There were some small intimacies that she hadn’t missed, just not readily acknowledged until reviewing them in retrospect. Once, on a rare evening when Caro had joined them to watch a talk show, the TV host had joked to his guest.
“Let me get this straight,” the host had said. “Rather than put your socks on both feet, followed by your shoes, you do one foot completely and then do the other.”
“Even to tying up the laces,” the guest had said.
Caro had opened her mouth to comment.
Marcie had been quicker. “That’s so weird, Zach. Could be you he’s talking about.”
“Don’t I wish I was a rich celebrity,” Zach had quipped.
Not until the next day did the question register in Caro’s mind: how would Marcie know in what order her husband put on his socks and shoes?
When Caro confronted Marcie, she’d said, “Every time he goes to the gym.”
Marcie’s explanation was satisfactory enough. Caro made Zach keep his sneakers in the laundry room so he
was in full view of anyone who happened to be in the kitchen when he put them on. Still, Caro experienced an uneasiness in the brief bluntness of Marcie’s reply.
***
“I have a favor to ask,” Nina was saying to Caro. They were sitting on Caro’s deck. “Tommy and I were wondering if you’d mind having Livia sleep over Saturday night. Some friends invited us to stay on their boat, and there’s a slight chance we might not get back until Monday.”
“Of course,” Caro said.
“Thanks. Also,” Nina said, her expression leveling, “I need to talk to you.”
“Okay.”
“The editor from Art World contacted me.”
Caro sat up straighter. “And?”
“At first I was disappointed because he began by declining to publish the photos—”
“Oh, no,” Caro began…
“—because his magazine is covering an upcoming exhibition at the National Center for Photography called “Changing Faces of Youth.” Although most of the artists have been slotted, he wants to push to have my photos of Livia included.”
“Wow! How amazing for you!”
“It is a huge deal. And then, there’s Tommy,” Nina said glumly. “I know I come off like a bitch sometimes, but I do love him. We try to make believe that we’re not angry at each other for me wanting to publish the photos of Livia, but we both know we are. So we’re politely distant. And now, this.”
“But, Nina, it’s not like you weren’t aware of how Tommy felt before you submitted the photos. In all honesty, you had to figure you had a shot at Art World liking your work otherwise you wouldn’t have sent them.”
Nina pouted. “You’re always against me.”
“There’s an expression that my father used to use—either shit or get off the pot.”
Nina jumped up in a huff.
“Oh, sit down,” Caro said. “It’s decision time, Nina. The way I see your situation is to either commit one hundred percent to your art, which means moving forward with Art World, or forget about the exhibition and go back to your life pre-Livia photos, and make Tommy happy.”
“Thanks much for the options,” Nina said.
“I’ll accept your slight hostility because I understand how you struggle with this,” Caro said.
Nina looked at Caro in earnest. “If you had to do your marriage over again, would you do it the same? I mean, do you think that’s why your husband cheated on you—because he was unhappy, second-fiddle to your career?”
“I would be more like you,” Caro said.
Nina raised her eyebrows. “Me?”
Caro nodded. “You’re aware of the pitfalls; you ponder long and hard how your choices might affect your marriage. I never did that. I steamrolled my way through a teaching and a writing career without much forethought. That’s why I believe once you make up your mind, whatever happens you’ll be fine.”
“And if Tommy goes the route that Zach did and finds someone else…”
“Like I said, if you can walk away from the exhibition, and be okay with that decision, so be it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
May we agree that private life is irrelevant? Multiple, mixed, ambiguous at best––out of it we try to fashion the crystal clear, the singular... ~May Sarton
Caro put freshly cut flowers in the guest room. She’d already talked to Nina about snack foods that Livia preferred and had rented two of Livia’s favorite movies, Fried Green Tomatoes and Benny & Joon. Caro was thinking about the sleepover when Nina appeared on the deck, rapping on the glass.
“There’s been a change in plans,” Nina said.
Caro slid open the doors and stepped outside. “What?”
“The friends with the boat invited Beatrice’s mother and boyfriend along. So, either you get both girls or, if you don’t want to––which is totally fine––Beatrice’s older sister will take them.”
Caro didn’t mean to show how miffed she was, but her disappointment was so instantaneous at having to share Livia that she crossed her arms over her chest and threw out her bottom lip.
“Okay, okay, the girls will go to Beatrice’s sister,” Nina said. “I only asked.”
“It’s not that,” Caro said.
“Then what?”
“I really was looking forward to spending the evening with Livia alone.”
“Whatever for? I thought you’d be relived that she’d have company,” Nina said.
“Livia’s company for me. Besides the poetry…I like having her around. She’s sweet. Why do I have to explain?”
“You don’t. You’re the one making a thing about this,” Nina said in frustration. “Okay, let’s start all over again. Do you want them here or not?”
“Yes,” Caro said.
***
After Caro and the girls had changed into their pajamas, they went outside onto the deck. Caro lazed on the lounge, half-dozing with a glass of Riesling, and the girls were tucked together on the swinging bench, twin soda cans next to them on the floor.
They gazed up at the sky, blue-black with a white full moon so vivid they could make out the fine etching of its craters. Beatrice had spotted a shooting star earlier—the reason for their vigil—and now they waited for another. Every so often they told a corny joke in between chatter about who they’d spotted on the beach that day.
Notwithstanding Caro’s jealousy at having to share Livia, she had to admit that the two of them were a good match in spite of their differences. In a bittersweet way they reminded Caro of how it had been with Marcie.
She was thankful that she hadn’t learned about the affair with Zach until after Marcie had died. She had no barometer with which to gauge how she would’ve handled the situation. If she had to give her daughter advice for a similar situation, she would encourage her to cut her losses and move on. There would be no more accurate way of saying it, and no safer way to keep her heart from getting broken a second time.
Her only regret that evening was that she was not swinging next to Livia, maybe even with her arm in casual repose along the back of the bench, barely skimming Livia’s soft shoulders.
The chains from which the swing hung came to a grating halt and the girls sprang from their seats in unison.
“We’re going to take a walk,” Livia said.
Caro also stood up and did a quick survey up and down the beach. The firelight from a few marshmallow roasts still burned; other than those, and the infrequent burst of laughter from one or another resident enjoying late night drinks on their decks, the beach was empty.
“We’ll be fine,” offered Beatrice.
“I’ll go in and set up the movie. Which one do you want first?”
After a brief conference with Beatrice, Livia sang out, “Johnny Depp,” as she kicked off her flip-flops and headed over the dune with Beatrice in close pursuit.
***
It had been almost a month since Caro had dedicated herself body and soul to Livia—and about two weeks since Beatrice began joining them on a regular basis. That afternoon Caro had driven the girls to Sag Harbor, an old whaling village.
They were sitting outside an ice cream shop overlooking the marina, eating sundaes in spite of the changing weather. Clouds had begun to gather during their hour ride from home and now a light wind had kicked up, causing a slight chill.
“Truth-telling is essential to poetry,” Caro explained.
Beatrice said, “I don’t know about poetry, but sometimes I think I’m being honest with myself about something, and then I figure out later I wasn’t. Like Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye, he never gets it.”
“It’s truthfulness as you know it. It’s rare—and I think most always impossible—to identify. Sometimes people tell lies just out of habit.”
Caro offered Beatrice a supportive smile of her opinion, and then slid her tongue along her spoon, catching up strawberry syrup with a slurp. The girls looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
Their screwed-up faces reminded Caro o
f Abby at their age, and she wondered if her daughter still made that kind of face. The thought spun itself into a fragment for a poem—so far the journey that creates lapses in the mind’s eye. The words, of one once loved, came to mind. Her love for Abby wasn’t in the past. Even what Zach and Marcie had done didn’t eradicate the love that Caro had so freely, if not carelessly, given. And yet the words had risen to bite her.
“What are you staring at?” Livia asked Caro.
Caro pointed toward the horizon. “My daughter, Abby, lives on the other side of the Atlantic in London. All we’d have to do is fly in a straight line from here to there and you could meet her. She would think you were wonderfully, brilliant young women. She’d be so impressed she’d take you around to all the famous places—Oxford, Buckingham, Westminster…”
“That’s not true. You’re making fun of us,” Beatrice complained.
Livia punched her friend in the arm. “No, she’s not. She’s constantly telling us we’re all those things.”
“It’s true. No fooling,” Caro confirmed.
“Wow,” Beatrice puffed up her chest.
“Surprise, everyone!”
Caro spun around to see Nina jogging toward them. At the sound of her aunt’s voice, Livia grimaced.
Nina set her camera and shopping bags on the seat next to her niece. “Hey, you.”
“I thought you were in New York City with Tommy,” Caro said.
“When Beatrice’s mom said you’d come here I had the best idea so I sent him alone.” Nina took matching Westhampton Beach T-shirts out of a shopping bag and said to the girls, “Aren’t these fun? I thought since you don’t have any keepsake photos of each other, we can take some on the water wearing these. What do you think, Beatrice?”
The Yellow Braid Page 9
