“Good,” Rick said. “We’ll hit it Monday night, at closing time when it will be quiet, then drive back here and split up the money.”
“Fifty-fifty?”
“Sixty-forty,” Rick answered. “I’m the brains here.” Helen let out a giggle. “Who the hell is that?” Rick stood.
“I giggled,” said Charlotte. “Or at least I think I did. God, I’m stoned.”
Rick sat back down. “None of you breathe a word of this.”
“I think it’s breathes,” said Charlotte. “I think none takes a singular verb, which in this case would be breathes.”
“What the hell you talking about, woman?” asked Rick.
“My mother was an English teacher—remember? Sometimes she does grammar drills at dinner.”
“Your mother is a psycho,” said Rick.
“You’ve got me there.”
Everyone in the circle was quiet for a moment. Most of them were, like Charlotte, feeling the effects of the joint they had shared. It was this middle high time that Charlotte liked best. Bookended by thinking everything was hilarious and eating a pint of chocolate chip ice cream, the middle high presented time for reflection. Sometimes Charlotte focused on her split ends or a chipped fingernail, but other times her mind flew into the night sky, landing on a bright star or the moon, pondering the cosmos.
Rick stood. “Well,” he said. “I think it’s time to call it a night.” They all knew what this meant. And they all dutifully stood, said their good-byes, and walked up the cement steps to the street. Some of them would linger there, smoking the last cigarette of the evening, while others, bound by curfews, would head home, already looking forward to the bag of chips in the kitchen cupboard or the leftover spare ribs in the fridge. Charlotte and Rick stayed, as they always did.
“Let’s go,” whispered Pammy.
“We’re done?”
“I don’t think you want to see what’s coming next.” Pammy started to crawl along the beach, back whence they came. Helen followed her, but stopped for a moment to look back at her sister, who was allowing Rick to take off her shirt. Once out of eyesight and earshot, Pammy and Helen stood and ran the rest of the way. They rounded the Tetreaus’ seawall, and then jogged along the cement walkway to the road. They slowed their pace, now that Rick and Charlotte had little chance of discovering them, and walked back along the street-lighted road to their cottage. Helen boosted Pammy to the top of the shower wall, where she stepped onto the roof and crept along until she reached the window. When Helen was at the top of the shower wall, a car pulled onto their grassy driveway, its headlights shining on Helen. She froze.
“Well, well, well,” said Thomas as he got out of his Ford Pinto. “What do we have here? Helen Thompson, I do believe you’ve been up to some mischief.”
“Shhhh! Mom and Dad are sleeping.”
“I’ll keep my voice down all right,” said Thomas, smiling at his youngest sister, “just as soon as you tell me what I’ve missed.” He walked to the shower and held up his arms. Helen lowered herself down into them. Pammy, thinking that if Thomas did not talk to her directly she was not caught, scooted through their bedroom window that she had just reopened and then sat on the pine floor, stripping off her shirt and shorts, hoping to get back into bed without further discovery.
Helen never minded getting caught by Thomas; in fact, she liked it because it meant she got to spend time with him. Because he was eight years older than Helen, Thomas was often elsewhere—working mostly—but also hanging around other kids his age. When Helen was able to turn his attention toward her, she instantly turned her full attention to him, reveling in every minute they spent in one another’s company, every bit of advice offered, every burst of laughter. They never fought, Thomas and Helen, like he and Charlotte did. And Helen thought the difference in their ages might have something to do with this, at least that’s what her mother had told her one day. But she also knew that she and Thomas were connected. Other older brothers barely knew their much younger siblings existed. But Thomas had always been a part of Helen’s world—doing puzzles with her when she was in kindergarten; drawing with her when, in second grade, she thought she wanted to be an artist; taking her on biking adventures; and, just this past year, occasionally picking her up at school and driving her to Dairy Queen for a dip cone.
“We were spying on Charlotte and dumb old Rick,” whispered Helen.
Thomas laughed. “Colossal waste of time, right?” He set Helen down on the grass next to him.
Helen thought about telling her brother about Rick’s plan to rob the store, but decided to hold on to the secret rather than release it. She guessed it would never happen. “Yes. Unless you count cigarette smoking as exciting.”
“Which I don’t,” said Thomas.
“Me neither,” said Helen. “And it sure makes Mom crazy.”
“Ah, well, I suspect that’s the real reason Charlotte does it.”
“Really?”
“Really,” said Thomas, putting his arm around Helen’s shoulder. “Let’s go in. I’m dying for some ice cream, and I need someone to help me eat it. Know anyone who’s interested?” Helen raised her hand. “I knew I could count on you.”
CHAPTER 11
2003
Helen woke early and pulled on the shorts and shirt she had neatly draped over their bedroom chair the night before, all the while looking at Pammy, as if watching her sleep would guarantee its continuance. Once in the hallway, Helen gently shut the bedroom door behind her and then quietly descended the stairs to the kitchen. She drank a small glass of orange juice and then made a half pot of coffee before walking out the back door onto the dewy grass. She crossed the street and walked down the right-of-way to the beach, misty and deserted. She sat on the top cement step, instinctively pulling her knees toward her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs. Resting her head on her knees, she stared out at the calm, flat, inviting water. A minute later, she descended the steps, crossed the sand, and stood at the shoreline, allowing the Sound to touch her naked toes. It was cold, as it always was in the morning in early July; the water was typically chilly until mid-August. This had never stopped the shoreline residents from diving in as soon as the school year ended. Because they all agreed that when they were in the water, moving through it, the Sound was always what they all called refreshing. Before summer officially started, before Helen was at the cottage for two full months, she swam three mornings a week at the Stonefield Community Center. And even though the water was sometimes eighty degrees, it was always shocking diving in. By the end of her second lap however, Helen was completely adjusted, no longer feeling the chill, no longer feeling anything but the movement of the water as she pushed it alongside her body.
Claire had insisted all her children be what she called capable in the water by their fifth birthday. In fact, she had given them what she deemed proper swimming lessons until they went off to school. Then, Helen and her siblings were driven by their mother to organized swimming lessons at the same community center where Helen now swam. And Claire enrolled them in additional lessons every summer at the beach. By the time they were ten years old, the Thompson children were proficient enough for membership on regional swim teams. Helen was the only one of the four who lasted more than a couple years. But, unlike her mother, Helen had grown tired of daily workouts at the pool in her teenage years. She wanted to try other things, the drama club, field hockey. And even though Claire had fought her, telling her she would regret not excelling at something, Helen, with the help of her father, was able to convince her mother that perhaps one Olympic-grade swimmer in the family was enough.
John Thompson allowed his wife to make the decisions affecting the household, but he was always involved in decisions that pertained to the children. He deferred to Claire ninety percent of the time—she was with them much more than he was; she knew them more intimately—but had no trouble telling his wife, gently always, when she was out of line. Because he was usually right, Claire coul
d rarely raise an effective argument against his point of view. And when Helen landed a plum supporting role in the high school’s rendition of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, Claire told Helen that she could give up swimming, if she wished, and pursue acting. Helen was, Claire told her husband after they had seen the musical several times, far and away, the best actor on the stage.
Gazing down and seeing a perfectly sized flat rock near her left foot, Helen folded herself in half to pick it up. Holding it just so in her right hand, she flicked it and then watched it skip, five, six, seven times before sinking for good. After skipping a few more stones, Helen looked up at the horizon and could see that the islands had started to take shape out of the mist. She turned and walked back through the sand, up the steps, and through the grass. She rinsed the sand and grass blades from her feet with the hose attached to the side of the cottage and then dried them with a hand towel that hung for this purpose over the shower curtain rod. Back in the house, she grabbed her socks, tennis sneakers, and one of Charles’s old sweatshirts Helen wore at the cottage from the chair in the kitchen, and put them on to fight the morning dampness. She then retrieved her yellow and blue porcelain mug out of the dishwasher and filled it with hot coffee. She sat on the porch and read her book for an hour before Pammy, stretching and yawning, appeared at the bottom of the stairs in her pajamas, bathrobe, and slippers. “Good morning,” said Helen, looking up from her book.
“Mmmmm,” Pammy said. “Any coffee?”
“Lots. I just made a fresh pot.”
“Can I get you some?”
“You sit,” said Helen, getting up from her chair. “I’ll get the coffee. You’re dangerous with a mug of hot liquid this early in the morning.”
Pammy smiled at her sister and sat down on the couch. Shivering, she grabbed the white cotton blanket that was draped over the back and covered herself from her shoulders to her toes. Helen reappeared and handed her the other blue and yellow mug, which Pammy held tightly in both hands for warmth. “Why is it so cold?” she asked. “It’s July.”
“There is something about mist in the morning that gets under your skin.”
Pammy sipped her coffee. “That sounds like an old wives’ tale.” “Some old wives are pretty savvy.”
“What time is it?” Pammy asked.
“Almost nine,” said Helen, looking at her watch.
“Have you been up long?”
“A while.”
“What time does Charlotte arrive?”
“Whenever she wants to,” said Helen. “You know Charlotte.”
“Is she bringing him?” asked Pammy.
“I don’t know.”
“How old is he again?”
“You and I both know he’s twenty-eight.”
Pammy looked through the screen to the empty street. The fog was keeping the children at home. Maybe their mothers were making them pancakes. If Pammy had children, she would routinely make them wonderful breakfasts, as a means to start the day pleasantly and as a sign of her affection. She would be a good mother. “What do you do with someone who’s twenty years younger than you?”
“What don’t you do,” said Helen, smiling.
“Maybe that’s my problem,” said Pammy. “I shouldn’t be looking in the business district or in the bars for a boyfriend. I should be down at NYU, sniffing around the student union. What sensible twenty-something wouldn’t take me out?”
“She takes him out,” said Helen. “From what I can tell over the phone, she pays for everything. He really is a student.”
“When’s the last time you talked to her? She never calls me.”
“She never calls me, either, Pammy. I call her, which I did on Memorial Day weekend and miraculously got through.”
“Maybe they’ve broken up.”
“Tell me you’re not jealous,” said Helen.
“Not really.”
“You could have a twenty-eight-year-old boyfriend, too, you know.” Helen drained the lukewarm coffee from her mug
“Honestly, I wouldn’t even entertain the thought,” said Pammy. “And I guess that’s what bugs me. That dating a child is fully within her grasp. Our sister cannot be without a man, or boy for that matter, for five minutes.”
“She’s always been like that,” said Helen. “You could be like that, too.”
“But I’m not.”
“That’s why you haven’t been through two divorces and are not dating a Generation Xer.”
“Well, sometimes I wish I were like that. Sometimes I wish I didn’t give a crap about what everyone else thinks and could focus on nothing but what and who makes me happy.” Helen said nothing. Pammy was focused so much on her own happiness that it made her unhappy. “After all,” Pammy continued, “how can we be happy if we’re not intentional about it?”
“I don’t know how happy Charlotte is,” said Helen.
“At least she’s getting laid.”
“Anybody can get laid.”
“So says the married woman.” Pammy raised her mug to Helen.
“Married nothing. If all you’re looking for is sex, you can find that on the beach today. That’s not what you’re after.”
“What am I after, Helen?”
“Companionship. Affirmation. Stuff we all want.” Helen stood. “And if Charlotte is finding that with her twenty-eight-year-old plaything, then why not?”
“When am I going to find my plaything?”
Helen shrugged and took two steps toward the kitchen, toward more coffee. “When you quit looking?” She looked back at her sister.
“Boy, you really are a chip off the old block.”
“Maybe she’s right.”
Charlotte drove her black BMW rental onto the grass driveway at four thirty that afternoon. Daniel Bammer, who didn’t turn twenty-eight until October, sat in the passenger seat. As soon as Charlotte turned off the ignition, he hopped out of the car and opened the trunk. Extracting with alacrity suitcases and fancy paper bags with handles and smart-looking logos, Daniel emptied the spacious trunk within seconds. He set everything down on the lawn to wait for Charlotte’s dispatch and then walked back to the car and leaned in the driver’s side window, where Charlotte was reapplying pink lipstick. He kissed her on the cheek. She turned to him and kissed his mouth, sliding her tongue along his top teeth. It was at this exact moment, mid-French kiss, that Helen and Pammy walked outside to greet them. “Hey!” Helen said as soon as she saw what was happening, hoping to alert them, maybe to stop them, more for Pammy’s sake than for theirs or her own.
Daniel’s head flew out of the window so fast he bumped the back of it on the top of the door. Charlotte, cool as ever, wiped the smeared lipstick from her face with her fingers and expertly reapplied it, finishing just as Helen and Pammy reached the car.
“Well, look who’s here,” said Pammy, as Charlotte stepped out of the driver’s seat.
“Look indeed,” said Charlotte, giving both her sisters a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She stepped back, holding both of them at arm’s length, and Helen could immediately see it was more so they could get a look at her than she at them. She had already undergone an eye lift, lip augmentation, reconstructive nose surgery, as well as the dye and perms jobs on her tresses on a regular basis. Breast enhancement was the next logical step. “What do you think?” she asked, unabashed. “Daniel loves them.”
Helen, Pammy, and Charlotte looked at Daniel, who was blushing as he stood next to the car, a foot soldier awaiting orders from his queen. “Hi,” he said.
“Pammy, Helen, this is Daniel,” said Charlotte, her arm out like a tour guide directing attention to her man.
“We’re glad you could come,” said Helen, falling into her hostess role.
“Yes,” said Pammy, who, struck with Daniel’s athletic physique and handsome face, was not aware she had spoken.
“Why don’t you go inside, honey,” said Charlotte, dismissing him like the child he was. “We’re staying in the hideous yellow r
oom with the creaky double bed. You can put our things there.” Charlotte was still annoyed by the fact that her mother had rolled yellow paint over the lavender walls of her bedroom when Charlotte no longer spent her summers at the cottage. It was an insult, she told Claire when she found out; it was disrespectful. Claire told her it was no such thing, that the room simply needed painting and lavender was not her favorite color. They had a discussion about it just about every time they spoke, which wasn’t often. Charlotte watched Daniel grab half the bags from the lawn and then disappear into the house. She turned her attention back to her sisters. “So,” she said, this time joining Pammy and Helen in checking out her chest. “What do you think?”
“They’re big.” Helen was at a loss for more descriptive words. “You must have bought a new wardrobe.”
“Oh no,” said Charlotte. “I’m still wearing a size six up top. You’d be amazed how easily these babies tuck into a blouse.”
“Yes,” said Pammy. “They certainly look nicely tucked in now.”
“And they are fabulous in bed. I can’t tell you what a difference they make in my attitude about sex. I can’t get enough. Most forty-seven-year-old women I know can barely hold on to their husbands, much less a twenty-seven-year-old stud.” Charlotte grinned at her sisters and then, spotting a piece of hair on Pammy’s shirt, she removed it with her manicured pink nails. “They make me feel young and sexy.”
“I thought he was twenty-eight,” said Pammy, still focused on Daniel.
“Not yet, dear.”
“Okay,” said Helen, feeling Pammy’s draining confidence, an immediate reaction to Charlotte’s mere presence. “Let’s head inside, so you can see Mom. I’ve made some iced tea.”
“Iced tea nothing,” said Charlotte, striding toward the back door. “It’s five o’clock, isn’t it?”
Helen and Pammy followed her into the house, where Charlotte continued to walk through the kitchen, the dining room, and halfway across the living room before calling Daniel’s name. Immediately, as if he had been waiting at the top of the stairs, he appeared on the landing. “I need a scotch and water, baby. And get my sisters something innocuous. They look like Chardonnay drinkers to me,” she said, as Helen and Pammy walked into the room.
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