“You’re not from here, then.”
“No.” He smiled. “I just came, and then answered an ad. Never even been before.” There was a carelessness in the way he spoke, Caroline thought. Yet something about him did not match the reckless image of a rolling stone with nowhere he cared to be and no clear place he wished to go.
“Why the Vineyard?” she asked. “Seemed like a place to sort things out.” He checked his watch. “I’m supposed to call the Rubins now. Give them a report.” He smiled again. “The rich are different, you know. They expect one to be on time.” Abruptly, he left her there—her curiosity a little piqued.
That night, a windstorm rose suddenly. It battered the house, rattling the doors and the glass in the windows. Awakening, Caroline thought of the sailboat, imagined it slamming against the dock or drifting out to sea. She had not tied the knot herself. Restless, she put on blue jeans and a down-filled jacket and went out to check the boat. The howling wind almost knocked Caroline off balance. But the night was brilliant, the stars bright and close in a black endless sky. The world seemed magical and awesome. The mast of the catboat spiked above the dock. As Caroline walked toward it, reassured, she saw a still, silent figure at the dock’s end. He was gazing out to sea, his hands in his pockets. The wind seemed not to affect him. Her footsteps were muffled by the wind sweeping toward her. She stopped by the catboat, about twenty feet from him. Though whitecaps thudded against the boat, someone had used a second line to lash it tight to the dock. It hardly moved at all. “It’s safe enough,” he said. He had turned to her; Caroline felt that he had sensed her presence for some moments. “Did you secure it?” she asked. “Yup. I heard the wind and wondered about damage.” It was a sailor’s concern, delivered in the impersonal tone of someone who cared more about boats than their owners. The thought dampened Caroline’s gratitude. “Thanks,” she said. “Oh, sure.”
His face was in shadow, and he came no closer. To Caroline, who owned the dock, it was as if she had invaded his private space. But some courtesy seemed required. “Can I make you a cup of coffee?” she asked. “Seeing how we’re up?” From the stillness of the shadows, he seemed to watch her for a moment. “No,” he said. “But thanks yourself.” He began to walk, less toward her than past her. Then he stopped, facing her, and Caroline saw again how beautiful he was. “The boat’ll be fine,” he said quietly. “Have a good night, okay?” Once more, he left her there.
CHAPTER TWO
For several days, she did not see him. The weather was poor for sailing, rainy or windless. When a fine morning came—bright and crisp and breezy—Caroline packed a cooler and eagerly left the house. He sat on the beach near the foot of the dock, a mug of steaming coffee cupped in both hands. It was as if, Caroline thought, he knew she would go sailing. But he did not turn to her. She stopped beside him. “Hi,” she said. He looked up at her, a hint of humor in the gray-blue eyes. “You’re a stone fanatic for sailing, aren’t you?” Caroline heard a certain admiration, or, at least, an understanding. She was not used to this—Jackson, with whom she shared so many things, had no great love of sailing. So that she asked without thinking, “Want to go out?” His eyes became hooded, as if torn between disinterest in her company and the desire to sail. When, once more, he looked directly up at her, there was a smile at one corner of his mouth. “Think I can take the helm a little?” Suddenly Caroline thought of her lost solitude, spent making conversation with a stranger. But now it was too late. “Just remember Joshua Slocum,” she said.
He seemed to learn the boat quickly, noting its quirks with interest. He sailed with such skill and confidence that not even a certain modesty, in speech and in movement, could conceal how routine this was for him.
TO Caroline, it seemed that she was invisible. For minutes, he would run before the wind, wordless in the bright exhilaration of the day. The sense of his enjoyment gave Caroline silent pleasure. Just when she thought he had forgotten her altogether, Scott turned to her. “Thanks,” he said with a smile. “It’s been a while.” Caroline took the helm. “Where did you learn to sail like that?”
“On Lake Erie.” Scott’s smile broadened. “You’ve heard about the Great Lakes, right? They noticed those at Radcliffe?” Caroline felt her annoyance sweep politenesse aside. “Oh, come off it,” she responded. “This middle-class boy meets Daisy Buchanan thing.” She softened her voice a little. “It’s like bad Fitzgerald. And Fitzgerald was bad enough.” Scott did not answer. But she felt his level, reflective gaze, turning toward the water, as a silent acknowledgment. He never tried it again.
They sailed across the Vineyard Sound to the inlet of Lake Tashmoo, mooring in its sheltered waters. Caroline shared her sandwich and a beer. “Do you ever go into town?” she asked. “Places like the Black Dog or the Square Rigger?”
“Hanging out with college kids, you mean? Drink beer and listen to music?” Smiling, he shook his head. “Already done that, I’m afraid. For four long years.” Caroline studied him. “You didn’t just get out, did you?”
“Oh, no.” The smile grew smaller, and the hooded look returned. “No, it’s been a while since college.” Something in his tone and manner did not welcome further inquiry. But Caroline found that she did not care. “So what have you been doing?” she asked. He gave her a sudden look of such directness that Caroline felt she had crossed some invisible line. Softly, he said, “Not much of anything. At least anything that’s useful.” She was, Caroline realized, determined not to be buffaloed . She met his gaze, raising her eyebrows in silent inquiry. After a moment, he seemed to sigh, as though she had cornered him. “I may not look it,” he said finally, “but I’m a casualty of our nation’s foreign policy. I sacrificed so that others might die.” Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “You went to Vietnam?” Scott smiled slightly. “That’s just it. I didn’t go to Vietnam. Staying out took all I had to give.” Caroline heard a certain irony, directed at himself. “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re psychotic, in love with a wonderful guy, and suffering from hay fever.”
“Hadn’t thought of the last one.” Scott slowly shook his head, no longer smiling. “It’s such a waste, really. Although all I had to waste was time.”
“How so?” Scott seemed to collect his thoughts. “I was sliding through Ohio Presbyterian, secure in the knowledge that the worst form of conscription in my sheltered life was compulsory chapel. Cause I could always go to graduate school in something … “But 1968 was a magical year. King and Bobby Kennedy got shot, the Russians invaded Czechoslovakia, and, with his last political breath, LBJ took away our grad school deferments. Enabling the class of 68 to occupy a unique wrinkle in time—the first class to lose their deferments, the last class before the lottery. Which has since saved so many lives that it’s put new flesh on the old saying Life is a lottery.”” Caroline thought of Jackson. “I know,” she said. “My closest friend got number 301.” He gave her a brief, sharp look. “Well,” he said, “your friend’s a lucky man. One roommate of mine was killed. Another friend went to jail for draft resistance and had a nervous breakdown. As for me, I was forced to discover my passion for teaching.” His voice became ironic. “Kindergarten, in an inner-city school. A meeting of minds.”
Caroline shrugged; there was something in his flippancy she did not find attractive. “I guess it got you a deferment.”
“Only for a year. My predecessor preempted me by miscarrying. The next September, she was back. “I briefly considered pregnancy myself. But there was no one I really wanted to make pregnant, and I couldn’t act alone. So I fell back on more traditional disabilities.” He gazed out at the ocean, wind ruffling his hair. Caroline’s sense of him kept changing; beneath the cynicism, she suspected, lurked some deeper feeling. Abruptly, Scott shrugged. “Anyhow, it worked. After two years of trying, I was saved by a hiatal hernia. Fortunately, it doesn’t affect my sailing.”
“Then that’s good, isn’t it?” Scott slowly shook his head, seemingly less in disagreement than in bemusement. �
��It was—it is. But I no longer had a purpose. I’d been trying to beat the draft so long I no longer knew who I was. Or what I wanted.” He fell silent. A cool wind kicked up; a seagull passed overhead, circling above them. Hands on hips, Scott stared at the gull with a small smile of puzzlement. Watching him, Caroline wondered about what she had heard. People, she reflected, are seldom immobilized unless they want to be, and the reasons they give for not doing something are so often illusory. This one, Caroline sensed, was much smarter than he pretended. And then she made her first judgment of Scott Johnson—no ambition. Caroline hugged herself. “I’m getting cold,” she told him. He gave her a sideways look, somewhere between amusement and understanding. “Let’s go back,” he said.
They docked the boat, Caroline tossing him the line. “Have time for a beer?” he asked. “You’re buying.” There was one beer left in the cooler. With the same underhand motion, Caroline tossed him the cool brown bottle. He caught it in one hand. They sat on the dock together, legs dangling over the side, passing the beer back and forth. Caroline felt ready to go in. “So what are you going to do,” he asked, “now that you’re out of school? Marry number 301?” Caroline gave him a sharp look; she had mentioned Jackson only as a “friend.”
“Why? Is that what I’m supposed to do?” The corner of his mouth turned up, as if this trace of annoyance amused him. “Only if you want to.” “What I want’ is to have a career in law.” He tilted his head, interested now. “Why law?” No one, Caroline realized, had ever asked her that. She was suddenly not quite sure if she had ever asked herself. “My father’s a judge,” she finally answered. “I’ve grown up with it.” The answer sounded shallow, inadequate. But Scott, who seemed to have a certain edge, surprised her by not showing this. “What kind of law will you do?” he asked. Caroline hesitated; she could not yet summon a clear picture. “I’ll probably start as a prosecutor. Just for the experience.” Scott turned back to the water. “Well,” he answered, “it’s nice to know what you want.” This time it was Caroline who left.
CHAPTER THREE
“Did you see the thing about Eagleton?” Larry asked at dinner. Caroline poured herself more claret. “What thing?”
“He’s admitted to undergoing shock therapy.” Larry pulled a wry face. “Nothing major—just a little jolt whenever he got depressed.”
“Are you serious?”
“He is,” Betty put in. “But it was only two or three times, in the sixties. The press is making a big deal out of it.” Caroline stared at them both. “McGovern’s screwed,” she said finally. “All the Nixon campaign will have to say is that McGovern wants to put this guy one heartbeat away from the atomic button, and people will wonder what happens the next time Eagleton gets his synapses rewired. I mean, does he wake up all optimistic and decide that Tuesday’s a terrific day to nuke the Ukraine? And if McGovern dumps his vice-presidential choice, he looks incompetent.” She shook her head. “Politics has gotten so depressing. At least to me.” Larry sat back, wineglass cupped in both hands. “What are Jackson’s politics, anyhow? I’ve never gotten a handle on that.”
“That’s because Jackson’s not big on what he calls extremes.” Caroline paused. “When someone works his way through schooL, politics seems like a luxury. He hasn’t had a lot of time for sit-ins.”
Larry nodded. “I was just curious, that’s all. He and Channing seem to get on so well.” Betty, Caroline noticed, had begun watching Larry closely. “Why shouldn’t Father like Jackson?” she inquired. “No reason,” Larry answered, still looking at Caroline. “I like Jackson. Best of all, Caroline likes Jackson.”
“Well,” Betty said finally, “that makes it unanimous. At least in our family.” Betty’s remark was meant to be warm, Caroline knew, perhaps defensive of Caroline herself. But something in the conversation made her edgy; perhaps, she reflected, it was simply the sense that she was a surrogate in some buried argument between Larry and Betty. “Well,” she said dryly, “I’ll let you know before I marry Jackson. So we can put it up for a vote.” Larry gave her a keen look. As if in diversion, he said, “I wonder what would have happened if Betty had put me up for a vote.”
“Simple,” Caroline answered with mock imperiousness. I’ d have vetoed you before Father even got his chance. You’re far too impoverished to be so obnoxious.” Larry grinned, raising his glass. “To all the little people,” he intoned, and then glanced at Betty. “Present and future.” Smiling, Caroline touched her glass to both of theirs. Her sister’s smile seemed a little forced. “What was that about?” Caroline asked Larry afterward. They were alone in the kitchen, washing dishes. Through the window they could see Betty begin one of her solitary walks on the beach. With dusk descending, she was a lone figure framed against tawny sand, darkening water. Absently drying a wineglass, Larry watched her. “What was what about?”
“The undercurrent at the dinner table. And I’m not referring to our discussion of Eagleton.” Larry smiled. “Or Jackson?”
“That, either.” Larry was quiet for a time. “Your father has floated a trial balloon,” he said at last. “To Betty, if not to me. Help
in finding me a teaching job somewhere near him. There’s a college or three nearby, and some prep schools.” Caroline turned to him. “How do you feel about that.”?” I’ m really not sure. Betty and I’ve done pretty well with our families at a certain distance.” He shrugged. “In fairness to Channing, he’s only trying to help. As he put it to Betty, his influence pretty much ends at the state line.”
“So what do you think you’ll do.”?”
“Oh, it’s way premature.” His voice came to life again. “My TA job at Syracuse is going pretty well, I think, and my thesis too. Maybe I can hang on at Syracuse or even find something better.” It was an aspect of Larry that Caroline liked—his optimism, a certain generosity of spirit that seemed to encompass others as well as himself. “I can guess,” she ventured, “what Betty is thinking. That you could support a baby.” Slowly, Larry looked away. “Just before we left, Caro, Betty and I went in for a battery of tests. They were pretty thorough—I even got to jerk off in a jar. Which I’m sure was better for the jar than it was for me.” He paused. “It took them a while, but they got back to us this morning. Looks like there may be a problem.” Caroline put down her dish. “What, exactly?”
“Low sperm count. Not impossibly low, but definitely substandard.” He smiled without humor. “When you made that joke about being overdrawn at the bank,’ you got it right. I may have fucked myself into a negative balance.” All at once, Caroline felt the pressures bearing down on Larry. “But don’t you think that’s part of it’?.” she asked. “If people treated getting pregnant like it was some sort of lab experiment, no one would ever have babies. You and Betty have become this pair of hamsters.”
“That’s kind of what the doctor said. So my new marching orders are to save myself for prime time.” He smiled again. “Betty and I should be free for Scrabble tonight, if you’re up for it.” Caroline laughed. “Anything to help. As long as it’s all in the family.”
“Thanks a million.” Larry shook out his towel, wiped other dish. “Anyhow, I figure my count will skyrocket once I get a real job. It’s all a question of how many sperm you can afford.” He paused, as if at another thought. “This guy next door, Caroline. What’s his story?” Caroline felt her eyes narrow. “How would I know?”
“Well, you did take him sailing the other day. So I thought you two also might have conversed.” Caroline handed him the final dish. “He’s late-sixties fallout, that’s all. Nowhere to go and nothing to do.” Larry gave the dish a few perfunctory wipes. “Seems like kind of a loner. Nice-looking kid, though.”
“He’s not a kid, Larry—he’s only a couple of years younger than you. It’s just that he lacks your driving sense of purpose.” .Larry considered her a moment, a smile at one corner of his mouth. “So you did find out something about him.” Caroline gave him a long, cool look. “I don’t know what’s on you
r mind. But I know what’s on mine—nothing. I was just being charitable.” She began drying her hands. “Think you can concentrate on Scrabble now? Because I’m absolutely going to kick your ass.” Larry’s smile broadened. “Caro,” he said, “you’re so beautiful when you’re annoyed.”
CHAPTER FOUR
It was several days before she saw Scott Johnson again, and then only because she refused to let Larry tease her out of every casual impulse. She had returned from sailing, determinedly alone, dismissing any idea of asking him to join her. The sail had been so good that the memory of his enjoyment made her feel a little selfish. Docking the boat, she paused and then went to find him before she gave this more thought than it was worth. He lived in the boathouse at the end of the Rubins’ narrow pier. From the outside, it was a one-floor layout with a deck that faced the ocean. Beneath her, water slapped at its sturdy cement pilings. Caroline knocked on the door. She waited for a moment, restless: perhaps she only imagined soft footfalls inside the boathouse. She had begun looking back toward the Rubins’ place when the door opened behind her. She turned to face him. “Hi,” she said. He peered at her through the half-opened door. Caroline realized that she had prepared herself for his reaction—wariness, or indifference, or even amusement. But what she saw was pure surprise. “I thought I’d give you one last chance,” Caroline went on, “to drink beer with college kids.” The door opened a fraction wider. His expression seemed to go through several changes—hesitancy, puzzlement, distress at being caught off guard. But the last look he gave Caroline told her how alone he was. “Where?” he asked.
The Square Rigger was on the outskirts of Edgartown—a dark, smoky room with a wooden bar and walls, and tables jammed with college students working on the island. Scott seemed to have regained the persona she had seen most often—amused, somehow apart. He took in the ambience and people with a single sweeping glance. “The future leaders of America,” he said, “getting plastered on Budweiser. Somewhere among us may be our forty-third President.” His voice was half sardonic, half bemused. “I don’t mind that he’s plastered on Bud,” Caroline retorted. “I just mind that he’s a man.” Scott smiled. “Now that you’re here, maybe the odds have evened out a little. Shall we find a table?” They seized one in the corner, just as the live entertainment came on—two guys and a long-haired blond woman, who appeared, like Scott, to be in their mid twenties. Both men had twelve-string guitars; the woman stepped front and center on a low wooden platform and began to belt out “If I Had a Hammer” in a throaty voice almost as good as it was loud. “Holy shit,” Scott whispered to Caroline. “It’s Peter, Paul, and Mary.” With a fractional smile, Caroline braced herself for an evening of sarcasm, beginning to regret that she had roused him from his self-imposed exile. And then she saw the brightness in his eyes. “Drinks are on me,” he said. “What can I get you?”
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