The North Shore D-Day

by J.M. Thomas

social circle, she loved wearing the blue sundress.

  In that first summer, Margot remembered her card being full almost every night. In living, her friends thought she would somehow escape the memory of Michael and the trauma of watching him wither away in his last three months as the cancer claimed him. Margot agreed with them more than she could express. There were not many laughs, and there were tears; but there was no retreat from the world. It was when she would return home and see his things that her loss, her devastation, would pummel her. She obliterated reminders of him. She annihilated the physical evidence that he ever lived and pushed him to her mind. Her son, Paul, hated it. He wanted the worsted. He wanted the eyeglasses. He wanted the golf clubs. Yet, Paul ran to her side and put off his own mourning for her sake, and for a boy of 15 to do so elevated him for all time above the rank of boy. Paul was Michael’s squire, to be certain, and not her knight. She had to find a way to remember that fact.

  The party at Gavin Molton’s house was held every year, save the year Michael died, in honor of Gavin’s father. The elder Molton landed on Omaha Beach, fought his way through the German defenders, made his way into France, marched with the Third Army, and survived the Battle of the Bulge. It was possible for Margot to have pleasant feelings on June 6th, and being in the company of Wilbur Molton always made her mouth turn up into a smile. At 89 years of age, which he reminded everyone of the previous year when he remarked how only other one member of his squad remained, “and that bastard just won’t kick the bucket,” he still had boundless energy for life. There were moments every day, even with Michael gone for seven years, when she saw something or someone who made her think it unfair Michael would never get any of that, and by extension, neither would she. But Wilbur, his girth wilting away as scotch replaced food in his diet, and his nose turned red to show just how much, was a different case. When she was around him, she knew she stood in the presence of an actual knight—a true, blue combatant for good over evil, someone who shared with her a tie to a date time could never destroy. In the three parties since Michael’s death, Wilbur had taken her as his date for the evening, and she felt it helped.

  The only hope for her evening was to somehow escape her friends’ insistence she make a romantic connection with Byron Jenkins.

  It would be a minor victory for the evening.

  The employment of a valet service determined the type of party in communities on the North Shore. Large gatherings of business associates warranted one. Smaller gatherings of intimates did not. So numerous were the former, the area required two different valet services, and the desire of hosts to keep such costs in check led to the great North Shore Valet Pricing War of 2008.

  Wilbur Molton, and celebration of his participation in the events of a singularly important event in human history, warranted valet as people began requesting invitations to the annual occasion.

  Wilbur Molton held court in the den of his son’s house, standing in front of the fireplace, clad in full Highlander regalia. He liked to tell people he would have worn his kilt onto the beach if the strict uniform regulations would have allowed for it.

  “Wilbur, I have always meant to ask you this, but why doesn’t your friend from your squad come?” Joshua Morrisey, CEO of the second-largest accounting firm between the coasts and board member of the Greene Museum, said.

  It took Wilbur a moment. Margot sat on the leather chair just opposite the fire and wondered what type of smart ass comment the veteran would offer.

  “Bob Colton. Private First Class. A Jawhawker out of Kansas.”

  “’The old bastard won’t kick the bucket,’” Morrisey said.

  Margot saw it, and she thought everyone else saw it, too. In his face she saw pain but also resignation. She knew the sight of resignation. She braced herself for the response.

  “He is in hospice. It doesn’t look like the bucket is too far away.”

  It cast a pall over the room. Over the years, and the D-Day party had entered its second decade, it was understood the party was a party. The landings were to be marked, yes, and celebrated, for the landings were necessary to free the world of evil. Wilbur set the tone, and when a boy who just learned about Normandy in fifth grade social studies tried to solemnly offer his appreciations, Wilbur took the opportunity to pass gas and make everyone in the room, even the most-sober executive, laugh. The boy became a close friend to Wilbur after that and was known to subsequently visit him once a week.

  “To Bob,” Wilbur said.

  Every glass in the room was raised.

  “To Bob.”

  Margot felt the need to get up, get out of the room, and find something else to experience. She needed to find some other thought than knowing a tremendous chance this would be the last of the parties for Wilbur with the honoree in attendance, and it made her think of Michael. Her husband loved the social scene, but he felt uncomfortable listening to stories about the war. It always unsettled him.

  She left the den, entered the formal living room, and, across the room, saw Powell Campbell standing in the corner.

  Powell and Margot’s son, Paul, were close friends. They were a year or two different in age, but they always found each other on the playground, were assigned to the same little league and hockey teams, had play dates that led to sleepovers that led to trips to each other’s institution of higher learning. Margot knew Powell well, and she always felt at ease in his company. He sat alone in a chair in the corner, looking perhaps miserable having been dragged to the party rather than being at one of the three bars in River Grove.

  “Mrs. Wallace,” said Powell.

  He jumped out of the chair, stood upright, and planted a kiss on her cheek. It was impossible, she knew, but she had the feeling Powell had added an inch in height in the previous six months since she saw him last.

  He smelled of body wash and Maker’s Mark.

  “Powell. P-Dog.” To Paul, Powell was P-Dog, and to Powell, Paul was Paulie, and the only person allowed to refer to him as such.

  “Shouldn’t you be in New York starting the new job?”

  “The new job?”

  “On the Exchange?”

  Why was he playing coy, she wondered. His cheeks went red, and she knew it to be from embarrassment and not the cocktail in his hand. Margot did not want to press the issue, but Powell seemed anxious to say what happened.

  “Failed the drug test.”

  She could not prevent the silence that followed. Why had his parents not said anything to her? Why had Paul not said anything to her? Why did Powell tell her?

  Then she saw Martin Brooks enter the room. Powell saw that she saw it, and they both saw Chaz Perkins look around. She was looking for Margot, and Margot knew it.

  Powell must have sensed it as well.

  “It's getting crowded in here,” he said.

  They found a way out of the room without being spotted by Chaz or Margot’s would-be suitor.

  The Molton backyard was enormous. At least the length of a football field, a crew of three would spend an entire morning grooming it, and the duration of the labor would extend to an entire day if the work required them to tend to the prairie in the southwest corner. Margot knew the Molton grandchildren, two of whom were boys who enjoyed playing baseball on the spacious lawn, would need to be corrected if the ball went into the prairie and they chased after it without care. The trampling of the clumps of New Jersey Tea was not tolerated well.

  Remnants of the brutal winter remained as June 6th felt more like a day in fall than early summer. With the sun disappearing behind the wall of pines behind the stockade fence, the night became brisk. The revelers all stayed indoors, leaving Margot and Powell alone on the patio at a wrought iron table under a great oak tree.

  Powell had given Margot his jacket. Her sundress provided little relief from the cold, and as he had been for as long as she knew him, he proved to be a gentleman.

  Their drinks were empty, but they made no move to refill them.

  “I am sorry to hear
that. Paul didn’t tell me about it,” Margot said.

  “I asked him to keep it quiet on orders from my father.”

  “Orders?”

  Powell shifted his weight. Was it the question or that we’ve been out here for half an hour causing him discomfort?

  “Dad feels it would be best if it were kept quiet.”

  “That I can understand. When too many people know too much about your private life, things can be uneasy,” Margot said. “I am so sorry to hear about this.”

  “It’s a good lesson in accountability. I think I needed it.”

  He is more mature than I believed, she thought. She knew Powell to be prone to dirty, childish jokes; there were times when she would overhear them being told to Paul, but those jokes didn’t fit with the man sitting next to her.

  He is a man now.

  “Dad isn’t going to get over it since he put me in contact with Jim LaSage to get the job. I don’t know. There is a lot Dad might need to get over, and not getting over it isn’t helping anyone.”

  Do not think those thoughts, Margot.

  “What is next for you, Powell?”

  He shifted again. Should I retract the question?

  “A summer here. It might not be a bad thing, unless Dad continues to pound on me for it. Then I might need to camp out at your house if Paulie is around.”

  What if Paulie isn’t around . . . would that be bad? Wrong? What does his look mean? Is he thinking the same thing?

  “Only if Paulie