The Ocean House

by Mary-Beth Hughes

  When Arthur dialed the big house in daylight, Sally didn’t know what he was talking about.

  Of course she hadn’t taken away the phone! Anyway, she was just about to touch base with Arthur to arrange for a visit from Oona. She was getting her ducks in a row. Then she’d FedEx Oona’s plane ticket. Okay?

  You fucking space odyssey. Oona’s not flying to California on her own. She’s four. Okay? You and your bullshit chitchat, Arthur said, or something along those lines. Then he slammed the phone on his desk.

  Surprisingly, Sally phoned Arthur back. She needed him to hear this directly from her. Going forward, all communications would be between the lawyers. Got it? Maybe the kind of chitchat Arthur could understand. At least the only kind he’d ever get from this family again. Then she made an obscene little buzz deep in her throat. And Arthur felt his own throat dissolve in something deeper than anger or disgust, something obliterating, something maybe permanent.

  Long, long ago, just like Oona’s, William’s parents had been married, too. But only briefly. During the first of William’s many operations, his father had failed to show up at the pediatric surgical wing in a timely way. When he did swing by for a visit he found Rachel’s lawyer in the waiting room with the documents. Everyone on the playground knew this story. Now William lived with his mother on West Tenth Street and on alternate Tuesdays he and his nanny were delivered in the town car for an overnight at his father’s.

  All her life Oona had lived in only one place, on East Eighteenth Street, now with just Arthur. This had been true since last spring, and now it was nearly spring again. Over and over, Oona suggested to her father, to Nathan, to Cece, and even to Angie the babysitter that they should all just go live in California instead. But no one thought this was a good idea. Mommy needed rest, they all said. Then one day, early in March, Nathan brought over a special Chinese dinner. After the first bite, her father had news, and the news was divorce. Just like William’s parents!

  Oona closed her eyes.

  But wait. That meant she could see Mommy now, right? Just like William did?

  Of course, said Nathan.

  Eventually, said her father. He waved around, indicating a mountain of stuff that would need collecting.

  Oona followed the motion of his hand. Mommy’s coming? Here? Now?

  Sweetheart, what does eventually mean?

  Oona, love bug, your mother is wonderful, said Nathan, nodding hard.

  Just like Nathan, Oona’s mother had been a fiction writer, but only momentarily. She’d signed up for Nathan’s workshop at the Ninety-Second Street Y: Put Your Body into Words. All her life, she’d been a dancer. Now she just might find her way to something new. Immediately, Nathan told Arthur she was the most gifted student in the class, which was code for the most beautiful.

  Listen up, said Nathan. Your mother has a rare, deeply intuitive way of knowing.

  And that’s really what we’re talking about here, said Arthur into his Mets cup.

  Exquisite mind, said Nathan. He banged the ketchup bottle bottom hard over his noodles. And Oona started to shiver, always a prelude to disaster.

  Oh! Mommy’s a seeker, all right, said her father, shaking a splattering brown chicken hunk on his chopsticks close up to his eyes, as if something horrible and death dealing was attacking his face. Then he let it attack Oona for a moment before putting it down and pulling her in close. Come on, knucklehead. You’ll see Mommy sooner than you know.

  Oona leaned against her father’s chest but stiffly.

  Come on. Where’s my ferocious beast? Huh? He shook her softly until finally, obligingly, in semibeast mode, Oona clawed the sweet orangey glob on his T-shirt. There she is. There’s my worst nightmare.

  Then Nathan scavenged in the kitchen for other condiments. There was loose talk about strawberry cupcakes hiding in a bag and maybe even a select viewing of The Searchers.

  And what did the play therapist Cece recommend when she heard the news? A date.

  I’m sorry. What? said Arthur.

  She threw up her hands as if to say: What, a date would kill you? I think you’ll find a lot has evolved in the last year. Am I out of line?

  Of course you’re out of line. Arthur shook his head in wonder. He looked to Oona, who wasn’t listening.

  Wait a minute, he said. Wait. Are you saying there’s a reward?

  A reward? No, Arthur. Don’t be ridiculous, Cece laughed.

  But now Arthur was the one not listening.

  Earliest spring and it was completely obvious what a reward, an upgrade might look like. On the nanny’s next day off, Arthur struck up a conversation with William’s mother, Rachel, on the playground.

  Right away Oona could see that Rachel didn’t know the answer to her father’s question. Rachel frowned and turned away and watched the sidewalk until her driver pulled up with the town car, then she placed delicate blue-gloved hands around her pale pink mouth and called out to William in her celebrated voice: Come on, Silly-Billy. Andiamo.

  That was the first time. Two weeks later, when Arthur spoke to Rachel, he began by talking very fast, as if her ears were already closing. She kept a stern, frozen face behind her immense sunglasses—one of her very best expressions. So Arthur hunched over his knees, hands clasped between his shins and whispered to Rachel in tortured, halting phrases, the haiku version of Oona’s mother’s desertion.

  (I didn’t actually use that word, of course, he told Nathan later.)

  Then he mentioned The Searchers, just to open up a little common ground, and Rachel laughed. One loud, helpless bark. She called out to William in a completely different voice, Billy Boy? Angel love. Time’s up.

  Angel love? The magnolia trees with their squirrel-fur buds still clung to the building for warmth. But if nothing else was willing to bloom, a fresh intelligence began to emerge on the playground: Arthur showed up. Anger issues? Sure. Needy? Without question. But there he was, day after day, and everyone began to acknowledge that. And he felt it. He believed his shift in status had seeped all the way out to the town car. That’s what Rachel’s new voice said to him. Angel. Love. Loud and clear, Arthur reported to Nathan. Recognition. Respect. Definitely respect.

  Maybe you need a new venue? said Nathan.

  What’s a venue? said Oona.

  The first week of April, when William visited his father, his nanny, as always, slept in the cubby-like room off the kitchen. And William, as always, crept out of his own bed, put on his boots, and crawled under the nanny’s foldaway cot and slept there instead.

  The next afternoon, wintry cold, Oona huddled next to William’s nanny on the railroad tie bench and ate mango slices. William dozed in the stroller.

  Little boy up half the night, no wonder he sleep in school, said the nanny. She shook her head, her thick big turban. Oona put out a hand to touch it. Not with those sticky mitts, said the nanny and found a wipe in William’s backpack. It was getting close to five and most of the mothers were preparing to go home. But Arthur hadn’t arrived yet.

  Your daddy probably has a business problem, said the nanny. We’ll give him a little longer, then ask Miss Sarah for advice. The nanny laughed at this and woke William. Right away William started to cry.

  Our William is hungry, said the nanny, and she pulled a smile shape of mango out of the plastic bag. No need for tears.

  But William only pushed the mango away and cried harder. Oona covered her face the way her father sometimes did. In this disguise she bent down and kissed William’s hand. Seriously, thoughtfully.

  There you are, Oona, kissing away the little cloud to make my sunshine appear.

  William ignored this but stopped crying. He breathed rapidly, watching Oona with his sad uncovered eye.

  You’re a good girl, Oona. I’ll say that. Now, where’s your daddy got to today. He’s usually right on time.

  Miss Sarah came
out and began to lock the school door behind her. Miss Sarah had a long gray braid as thick as a horse’s tail. To match her face, Daddy said and then made Oona promise to never repeat that. Miss Sarah wrapped her horsey face tight in a thin red scarf and walked straight over to the nanny.

  Arthur just called to say he’s been held up at the office. And I have a dentist appointment, said Miss Sarah. He wondered, and I wonder— Could you possibly?

  I understand, Miss Sarah, said the nanny as if she were talking to William. I understand. She nodded her head up and down to coax Miss Sarah into the right answer. She knew it, if she’d just think a little.

  Miss Sarah finally said, Okay. I’ll try to reach Miss Peg.

  Thank you, said the nanny. Just for today, William, let’s wear these pretty boots home.

  Straight to voice mail, said Miss Sarah, sighing. And I really can’t stay. She put her hand around her jaw.

  Oona, come home! said William. And when his nanny frowned, he added: Please!

  Shall I call Rachel for permission?

  The nanny shook her head but said, Yes, Miss Sarah, please do that. And then she patted Oona’s hand so she wouldn’t get the wrong idea. Wouldn’t think she wasn’t welcome. Where are your gloves, Oona? I know your daddy didn’t send you to school with no gloves.

  It was nearly dark by the time they reached West Tenth Street, and William and Oona were very tired, but they didn’t cry. When they climbed up the stoop to the front door, the nanny used her key to get inside. The house was dim, and there was a note from the housekeeper on the front hall table. The nanny’s forehead wrinkled when she read it, then she said, Coats! Let’s march! And Oona and William were soldiers all the way to the closet. Oona’s parka got a special wooden hanger rounded on both ends. To the mess hall, said the nanny. March!

  William led the way down to the kitchen, where Oona and William sat together on the banquette while the nanny heated the soup and buttered the crackers. Oona’s legs pointed straight out on the polka-dot cushion, but William sat on the very edge and teetered.

  I’ve never seen such sleepy soldiers, said the nanny, and she put the warm soup in blue-and-white bowls on the table. She gave them each a Chinese spoon, which was bigger than Oona’s mouth. Pretend it’s a cup, William said. The crackers were crumbly. The soup was milky. The dark kitchen had a smell like dry cleaning, sour and small. No wonder William slept so much. He was dozing off again now and the nanny was busy grinding spices with a rock and Oona was a little bit sad. So she told the nanny the soup was good. I like it! But the spoon was too strange for her, so she picked up the bowl, which was slippery.

  Rachel entered the front door on West Tenth Street peacefully. A white noise machine she’d had fitted into the wall of the foyer like a minispeaker said Wave, said Sand, but not like in New Jersey or god forbid California, more Bali on the unspoiled side of the island. Slim, slow-moving transparent waves, sand-tickling waves. It was a lovely feeling and the sound brought the blue and green colors of the foyer into order. Rachel took a deep breath and smelled the awful chicken soup coming up from the lower level. The architects had tried and tried, but there was no masking the traveling scents in an old house, so she’d fired them.

  Moving to the closet, she saw a small pink ratty down jacket. Strange. Then she remembered the message relayed from Miss Sarah and right on schedule pain split her head, pulsing like a heartbeat: pain, pain, pain. As if at the end of a stupendously stupid day she could possibly be okay. As if she could spend precious hours of her life taped into a fur bikini (yes, she got the reference) teaching her mortal enemies yoga and then chopping off their heads once they were relaxed. The story made no sense. This little pulsing fragment of her brain was all she had left, and it was crying uncle.

  She made her way down the back stair toward the chicken soup smell—the cloves, the coriander, the cinnamon—for yet another word with the nanny. William couldn’t sleep as it was. The spices, come on. She was figuring out how to phrase this tactfully when she caught sight of the messy little girl from school.

  And then—so quickly!—Rachel was on the floor. Ow, she said.

  Missus Rachel, said the nanny. Are you all right?

  She had that implacable expression that Rachel loathed on anyone really but especially in her own home.

  It’s all fine, now, said the nanny, nodding. Isn’t that so.

  And Rachel didn’t know what she was talking about. She was sitting in soup. The floor, the cushions, William. The soup was everywhere. And the stink! She’d never get it out. What was fine?

  She took a brief eyes-only glance around, as she did when a film set had gone berserk. It seemed like someone had half thrown her there. This happened on set, too. Improvisations, followed by lawsuits. She used the table—slimy—as a ballet barre and did a deep plié off the floor, moving as if she still wore the fur bikini and none of the tape to preserve her privacy could be relied on. She was standing, good. She began to speak, but then, no. Oh, no. That would happen later. Instead, she was nodding. And she was exiting.

  Rachel made it all the way up into the master suite and stripped right down to the skin. She had itchy gray tape gum on her inner thighs. Her shins were oily orange with soup spice. Obviously, the nanny had to go. First thing tomorrow. Right now, these foul sopping stinking clothes could be kicked straight out the bedroom door—there. Done. Finito.

  Downstairs, the doorbell jangled just like the notes of Oona’s brass triangle. The nanny stepped carefully around the spilled soup and went to the kitchen door. She unlocked the gate and called up to the sidewalk: Hello? May I help you? She strained to see who was standing above on the stoop.

  Hey! It’s me! Looking for Oona? Arthur leaned over the iron railing. He wore his best leather jacket, his cleanest T-shirt, his darkest jeans. He had the stroller with him. Here to join the party?

  The nanny smiled, so as not to discourage the bit of brightness he’d brought with him. Not today, Daddy, she said, still smiling. Please wait while I bring Oona to you.

  The nanny closed and bolted the kitchen door. But before turning the lock she looked up at Arthur once more in a friendly way, a kind way that said I appreciate you’ve taken the time to come find your daughter. Because that’s what any decent person does: they say hello to goodness, no matter how small, how tangled. Then someday the goodness will roar like a lion and shine like the sun. Just say hello. Hello! Hello! That’s all there is to it, said the nanny to William and Oona.

  In the foyer, she zipped Oona’s jacket and smoothed the lumps of caught down. Tucked deep in a side pocket she found a hand-knit strawberry cap, maybe something from Oona’s toddler life.

  Who made this pretty thing? Tiny, perfect, the nanny folded it carefully and put it back where it belonged. Oona watched the cap come and go. She kept her head down low and didn’t cry.

  Say goodbye to your friend, now, William.

  But William couldn’t say goodbye after all that stuff about hello.

  Come, William, said the nanny. A nod will do. No? All right then. How about we open up this door for your daddy? What do we say to that, Oona?

  A question with an answer she knew by heart. Oona twisted the knob and there he was. Hi, Daddy! Hi! Right there. Hi! Right there. Right there.

  For L.S.B. with love

  Acknowledgments

  This book of stories began its editorial and design and production paces in the first half of 2020. The creative dedication of Grove Atlantic has been and remains steadfast and awe-inspiring. I am indebted to the careful, illuminating work of Yvonne Cha, Paula Cooper Hughes, and Julia Berner-Tobin. My editor Elisabeth Schmitz—my enormous-hearted, beautiful, genius editor—has all my love and thanks.

  I’m grateful for the innovative generosity of Civitella Ranieri, MacDowell, and Yaddo.

  I am ever thankful for the brilliant candor of Melanie Jackson.

  Big cheers for
the Writers and Loved Ones, Hampton Fancher III, the fellows and teachers at the Writers Institute, and for the lovely intrepid community of A Public Space.