“You worked so hard to put this together. You deserve this trip after everything you’ve been through. . . . Why can’t you just relax and be happy?”
I think about the figures in the sculpture Maria Josephina told me about. The ones climbing up the ladder to the unknown. Why is Peter asking me why I’m not happy, what I need, as if I were alone in the pursuit? As if I were the only one on that ladder?
“Why are you angry?” I ask.
“I’m not angry.”
“You seem angry. You seem angry that I dare to point out that your friend Solly isn’t the shiny idol at whose feet you worship. He’s risking everything for a stupid affair and on top of it all he works you to the bone, treating you like an employee when you’re supposed to be a partner. He uses you, Peter.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That’s what you always say.”
Peter glares at me. “Let’s go back.”
“Peter.”
“I’m done,” he says. “I’m going back.”
He begins the long swim toward the shore.
I stay where I am treading water. I think about how different things might be if Peter hadn’t quit his job at the perfume company. If we hadn’t decided, together, to take the risk of starting the business with Solly, Peter wouldn’t have needed an assistant. And he wouldn’t have hired Gavriella Abramov. And Solly would never have met her, and never given into whims, like a teenager. Never fed his hunger, his impulse to take, take, take. I wouldn’t be out here treading water worried about our financial future and I would be back to envying Ingrid rather than feeling sorry for her.
Every choice we make has far-reaching, entirely unknowable consequences.
How many chances do we get in our lives to start over? To do something entirely new? Peter is fifty. Boychick Bagels is very likely his last chance to start fresh. To begin again.
I worry he squandered that chance and I wonder how our lives would look different if he had held on and waited for something better, something to come along he didn’t have to share with Solly, because sharing with Solly always means taking the smaller half, even if you have to pretend, like with a slice of cake divided for competing children, that both halves look the same.
* * *
• • •
“I CAN’T STAY HERE ANYMORE if there’s no network and no wi-fi,” Clem is telling Peter.
“Really. So where are you planning on staying instead?” he asks.
“I just can’t, Dad. Okay? There’s no way. This isn’t working for me.” She’s crimson. Breathing heavily. Teetering on the verge of a full-blown temper tantrum.
When Clementine was a baby, her skin was so pale, so transparent, that at the first whimper, the first sign of discomfort, her entire body, from her little toes to the top of her crusty blond scalp, would turn scarlet in seconds. This earned her the nickname “Big Red.” Though we no longer see it happen to the whole of her, her face gives her away. She is morphing into Big Red before our eyes.
Peter is having none of it. “I’m sorry that this expensive international beachfront vacation isn’t working for you, Clementine. That’s really a shame.”
“Dad. God. You don’t understand. I can’t be without wi-fi.”
“You’re right. I don’t understand. I don’t understand how I could have raised such an entitled child.”
I have walked into this battle, merely a spectator. They are standing in the hallway between our two rooms. Clem is still in the T-shirt and tiny shorts from the wee hours of this morning. She hasn’t brushed her hair and I’m pretty sure she hasn’t brushed her teeth either.
“Mom. Help me. You get it. You understand how important this is. I know you do.”
They both turn to me, eyes filled with rage. I’m still wrapped in my towel. My feet are wet from rinsing off the sand. I swam slowly back to the beach trying to listen for sirens in the distance but hearing nothing.
I’d like to hold on to this moment for a little longer. To live in this space where Peter is angry at his daughter rather than at me. Where my daughter thinks I understand her, that I understand teenagers, that her father is the clueless one. It’s an upside-down world.
“If you need to make a phone call—” I start.
“No,” Peter interrupts. “The network is down, too. I’m not getting any service either. This is contributing to our daughter’s crisis.”
I turn to Clem. “Let me talk to Roberto. See if we can find out what’s happening with the wi-fi. If he can do something to get it fixed.”
“Thanks, Mommy.” She gives me a squeeze and retreats into her room.
Peter stares at me. “That’s how we handle this? By trying to meet her unreasonable demands?”
“She’s sixteen. Cutting off all connection is like cutting off her oxygen. I’m not saying I approve, I’m just saying it’s the reality of being sixteen.”
“I guess you’d know since you’re the expert. But I’ll remind you there’s a fucking breakdown of civilization happening outside. Not sure the breakdown of network connectivity in our villa ranks high on Roberto’s to-do list, but go ahead and see if he can help.”
Peter turns and goes into our bedroom, closing the door behind him. I’m left standing alone in the hallway, in nothing but a towel and a wet bathing suit.
I stare at the two closed doors, debating for a minute behind which one I’m more likely to find refuge. I choose door number two.
I knock and then let myself into Clem’s room.
“Can I borrow your bathrobe?”
She’s lying on her bed with a tear-streaked face. More soft pink than Big Red.
I don’t wait for her response. I take her robe off the back of her chair and put it on. Then I attempt the Houdini-like feat of getting myself out of my wet tankini without exposing myself to my daughter. I may not be an expert on teenagers, but one thing I know for sure is that they have no interest in seeing their parents naked.
“Are you okay, honey?”
“Yes,” she sniffles.
“Why don’t you get dressed? Or maybe go for a swim. The water is lovely.”
“No, Mother. I don’t want to swim. I don’t care if the water is lovely. I just need to get on wi-fi. I need to text Sean. He’s gonna be worried. You said you’d fix it.”
“That’s not what I said. What I said is that I’d go talk to Roberto.”
“Well?”
“Well . . . I will. But I also think you should get up. It’s after five. You can’t stay in your room all day and all night.”
“Watch me.”
“Clem. Come on. What’s going on?”
“Nothing is going on, Mother. I just don’t feel like being social, okay? I don’t want to sit down to another long, boring meal and play nice with your friends.”
“This is about Malcolm, isn’t it? I told you that you shouldn’t feel embarrassed.”
“God.” She flips over and buries her face in her pillow. “Please just leave me alone.”
“Honey—”
“Please. Just go. Stop trying to force some kind of meaningful talk with me. Just go fix the wi-fi.”
Back out in the hallway I reach for door number one. I made the wrong choice. Why did I think I’d find solace with Clementine? My daughter who burns hot and then runs cold without warning? Who creaks her door open only to slam it shut again? Someone who, like Peter said, can’t control her whims?
I knock. I wait for him to invite me inside.
He’s in the bathroom, checking his face in the mirror, razor in one hand, shaving cream in the other.
“No,” I say. “Don’t. That’s your vacation beard. You can’t shave it yet. We’re still on vacation.”
“I don’t know. . . . I think it makes me look old.”
“I think it makes you look handsome,” I sa
y.
He turns around and cocks his head at me. “Really? You think I’m handsome?”
“Of course I do.”
“Sometimes I’m not so sure.”
“Peter.” I reach for his cheek. “Of course I think you’re handsome. I adore you.”
“It’s nice to hear that every once in a while.”
“Do I not tell you that I love you enough? Or fawn over your obvious good looks? Is that why you’re sulking?”
“I’m not sulking. You don’t need to belittle me.”
“I’m not belittling you. I’m just trying to figure out what I’ve done wrong.”
He sighs. He puts his razor and the shaving cream down on the counter. “You can never just say you’re sorry.”
“Your bracelet,” I say to him. “You’re not wearing it.”
He looks at his naked wrist, the one without the watch. “I guess I lost it in the ocean. Please don’t try and read something into it.”
“Okay. I won’t. I’m sorry. See? I can say it. I’m sorry.” I fold my arms across my chest, but inside I don’t feel defiant. I feel genuine remorse. I feel like I’m failing everywhere. As a writer, as a mother, as a wife, as a planner and executor of the perfect vacation.
“I’m sorry if I’m punishing you for Solly’s actions, okay? And I’m sorry if sometimes I’m too stressed out or bogged down in my own shit or whatever it is to give you the right kind of attention . . . or to just let go and—”
While I’ve been speaking, in his own Houdini-like feat he’s been untying the knot in my bathrobe with one hand. With the other he pushes the robe off my shoulders. It falls to the floor. I am totally naked. He looks me up and down. I stand feeling both heat and ice from his gaze. Then he pushes me.
I take a step backward.
He pushes me again.
I take another step.
He gives me another push until I step into the bedroom, where I fall back onto the bed, Peter landing heavily on top of me.
I open my mouth to say something, but he covers it with his hand. We don’t speak, not even a whisper.
My hair, too short for a ponytail, can still be grabbed by the fistful.
His beard, though soft now, can still burn.
He isn’t gentle with me. I’m not careful with him.
We are still on vacation.
This is what you are supposed to do on vacation.
* * *
• • •
IN THE KITCHEN, Roberto and Luisa listen to the radio. Someone with a deep, authoritative voice is interviewing two people, one man, one woman—both slightly hysterical, breathless and, by the sound of it, not in agreement.
Roberto reaches to shut it off, but I gesture for him to leave it on.
I stand at the counter and listen. Luisa is shaking her head. She speaks to Roberto over the reporter. He shushes her. She slams down the knife with which she’d been chopping garlic on the counter. She doesn’t appreciate being shushed.
The story breaks for a commercial and Roberto turns down the dial. He knows I’ve got questions, so he avoids eye contact with me. This is fine because I’m certain that anybody looking at me right now can tell what I’ve been doing behind door number one for the last half hour. I smooth down my hair. I rub my cheek where it’s red.
“The wi-fi isn’t working. We can’t get online,” I say to Roberto. “Is there any way to fix this?”
“No,” he says. “I am sorry.”
“No?”
With his look I know Peter is right. This is not high on Roberto’s list of priorities in light of what the people were just shouting about on the radio.
“It is a problem everywhere. Not just here. It is Telmex.”
“Oh,” I say. “I see.”
“But we still make for you the dinner.”
This feels like a non sequitur until I realize it’s his way of asking me to leave them alone in the kitchen. Or maybe it’s his way of saying Shut the fuck up and be grateful that we’re still going to feed you.
I start for the door but then I stop and pivot to face him again. “Is there anything we should be doing?”
“I do not understand.”
“I mean, you know, about what’s going on. Are there steps we should be taking for our safety? Should we be thinking about trying to get out tomorrow?”
He and Luisa exchange a few words back and forth. I think it’s about the food and not my question because she’s holding an unidentifiable squashlike vegetable in her hand and she’s pointing to it.
“You just enjoy vacation. It is like rainy day. You spend time indoors. There are games. And books. And it is okay to go by the pool and beach in front is okay, too. But do not go anywhere else. We will cook for you the food. You will leave Saturday. That is the schedule. By then the airport will be open.”
“The airport is closed?”
He sighs. He says something to Luisa, and this time I know it isn’t about the mystery vegetable. She shakes her head and shrugs.
“Yes. It is closed now. But it will open soon. Police will get control. They are bringing more officers. Everything will be okay. You go now. Soon I bring margaritas.”
As I turn again to leave, admittedly a little stung by Roberto’s dismissal, I hear a sound I haven’t heard all week. It’s the sound of a telephone ringing. It’s been longer than a week since I’ve heard this particular sound; it’s been years. Maybe even a decade. It’s an old-fashioned phone with an old-fashioned ring, not a cell, not a cordless, but a rotary telephone, the kind you never see anymore. I hadn’t noticed it attached to the kitchen wall.
Roberto picks it up. “Hola.” It’s mustard yellow. Richard Nixon probably used this phone.
I stand and watch him. So does Luisa.
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, is okay. Yes. Is fine. Yes, we are here.”
He sees me staring at him and he puts his hand over the bottom half of the receiver.
“It is owners,” he whispers. “You go now. I bring you margarita soon.”
* * *
• • •
I HEAD DOWNSTAIRS to collect the sandals I left next to the faucet when I returned from my swim with Peter. I find Malcolm, alone, hitting a Ping-Pong ball against the wall.
“Are you feeling better?” I ask him.
He catches the ball in his hand and turns to face me. “Yeah. I guess I just needed some rest.”
I’ve never been able to raise one eyebrow, despite a fair amount of practicing in a mirror when I was a child, so instead I shoot him my best skeptical look, eyebrows stitched together, mouth tight, pulled to one side.
“What?” he asks.
“You weren’t sick, Malcolm.”
He turns back to the wall and starts hitting the ball again. I watch him. He’s shirtless. His back is smooth and hairless, unlike his father’s. As he moves between forehand, backhand, forehand, his skin ripples over the young, expert machinery of his musculature. I go over to the other side of the table and pick up a racket. He assumes the position across from me.
He sends a ball over to my side of the net. I lob it back. We continue like this, gently, silently, except for the sound of the hollow thwack of the ball.
“I know what happened,” I say. “Clementine told me.”
He still doesn’t speak. Thwack . . . Thwack . . . Thwack . . . He’s probably trying to figure out if I’m calling his bluff. Setting a trap. If I’ve arrived at this Ping-Pong table like a pool shark sidles into a saloon.
“I know this is weird,” I continue. “But I want to thank you. For not taking advantage of her.” I concentrate on the game, avoiding his eyes. Still, I swing and I miss. The ball rolls to a stop at the door to Roberto’s secret bedroom. I grab it and return to the table.
“You’re right,” Malcolm says finally. “This is weird.”
I try for an easy, relaxed laugh. “Probably better not to talk about it.”
Of course it’s better not to talk about it. What on earth am I thinking?
“Probably,” he says. I put a spin on the ball, the only trick I know, and he expertly returns the shot.
Right now, at this moment, I miss Maureen. I miss the hours we spent dissecting the challenges of raising our children: How to get them out of diapers and how much television to let them watch, but also the thornier questions, such as how to raise good people and how to maintain our own identities amid the crushing tedium of motherhood. Maybe Ingrid is right; maybe Maureen wasn’t always wholly attentive, maybe she was spiteful, maybe some of Malcolm’s mistakes are because of her shortcomings as a mother, but she did it. She raised him. Diapers, television, tedium and all. Soon Malcolm will finish high school, even if it’s at a special program for rich kids in trouble. And as his night with Clementine proved, he’s a good kid who still makes some good choices among the very bad ones.
“I wanna play.” It’s Ivan. He has his little hand out and I can see that his thumb is slick with saliva. “Gimme.” He wants my racket.
“You can have it when we’re done.”
“I want it now. I want to play.”
“Here,” Malcolm says, approaching him. “You can have my racket.” Of course that is the right thing to do, to offer the five-year-old a chance to play this child’s game.
“But I want to play with you. Not with her.” He points at me. I surrender my racket and he snatches it from my hand. “Ding dong.”
Malcolm pretends to wind up for a killer serve and then softly hits the ball right to Ivan’s forehand. “Where are the parental units?”
“They’re upstairs. In our room. Mommy is mad. She’s mad at Daddy. She told me to go find the others so I came here and now we’re playing Ping-Pong.”
“Well,” Malcolm says. “I’m glad you found me.”
“Are you one of the others?” Ivan takes a hard swing and misses the ball.
Malcolm shrugs. “I guess I am.”
I’m praying Malcolm will ask his brother what Solly and Ingrid are fighting about. Is there an appropriate way for me to ask what they are fighting about?
Tomorrow There Will Be Sun Page 19
