“We are both October babies,” said Odile, piling sand on her toes. “So we gave these to each other.”
They all waved to Arnold and Maude, out on Papa’s boat. Arnold had rowed down from the house in case anyone wanted a ride during the party. Now, at low tide, they all helped him drag it up on the beach.
What had Polly imagined, what had she seen that day with her sharp new eyes, her tortoiseshell glasses? A hundred people, dressed for summer but in all the variety of the period. In a photo from that day, Maude wore a low-cut linen shirt and cigarette pants. She looked like the cover of a John D. MacDonald paperback. Jane wore something turquoise blue, short and sleeveless, and Polly watched her paint her toenails a deep blood-red.
Merle didn’t think the Porters, the owner’s children, were around, and so Polly and Edmund ran up the steps and into the woods toward the larger estate. There was nothing as beautiful as the old stables, painted with moons and stars. If only the horses were still there. When they heard voices, they bolted back down to the lawn, panicked.
“Beware,” said Dee, nodding toward the Porters, who had appeared at the top of the path. “Try the labyrinth.”
Dee knew they loved that word. In the maze, they’d stashed a hamper with food and sodas, towels and comic books, underused suntan lotion, a leaky float ring. Dee gave them an umbrella—a parasol—for the sun, and “the better to hide you.” They set up camp in the farthest corner of the maze, the corner closest to the beach, with a gap in the yews that gave a view of the water. By going back and forth, they knew that no one could see this corner or patch of beach from the party lawn, but they could (with Merle’s binoculars, taken from the glove box of the car) see the path up to the stables. The Porters never came closer than the top step on the hill, but Polly and Edmund used them as an excuse for squirrelly behavior. They took to their camp in the hedge; they took to the water. They ran west to the boat; they made a map of the party grounds with other hiding places and the food locations. The water was warm, and they walked out as far as they could touch and stayed still, waiting for fish, using a single broken scuba mask to watch fry swarm and nibble at their skinny shins. They took turns holding each other upside down to see the bottom, to try to see a scallop’s eyes, to try to see a clam move. A larger shadow would send them shrieking back to shore, which always brought a pissed-off adult down to the beach.
The house and lawn filled up, and the brothers opened Champagne. As the food came out, Edmund and Polly raced around, pilfering shrimp, choosing which people to spy on and taking notes. Tall, stripes, Nazi. Or: Yellow tie and polka dot lady kissed by fountain. People gave speeches, the words drifting across the lawn and through the hedge, marooned of meaning. Halfway through a final car arrived, carrying Rita and her agent and the stocky gallery owner who had been to the wild party, the one when Dee and Papa were in the city. They listened politely to the speeches, and then walked to the drinks table. The gallery owner accepted a glass and held it away from Rita, shaking his head to the bartender; she hopped playfully, and he shook his head again.
Rita stormed away, making for the Sound. She veered around the hedge, dropped her purse and shoes in the sand, and walked straight into the water.
Edmund blasted through the hedge after her and grabbed her hand. Rita swung and hit him in the face, hard, and he fell backward. Merle ran into the water and carried Rita out with his good arm while she kicked at him. He crouched with her on the beach as she calmed down.
Edmund wiped his bloody nose with a beach towel. Polly pulled him up to the party to explain, to have Jane or Dee fix things.
“How on earth did she get here?” asked Dee, who was in a chair with her eyeglasses on, reading Papa’s cards.
“Rita came with that man,” said Polly.
Dee only glanced. “Who is he?” she asked.
“He has a showroom in Paris,” said Jane. “He’s an art dealer. We met him a couple of weeks ago, and Merle took a real dislike to him. But he might get Rita’s work sold. He’s sort of a good-looking man, or maybe he once was.”
“Well, he’s porcine now,” said Dee.
“Leonine,” said Jane. “But pretty eyes.”
“Yes,” said Dee. “He does look like he’d eat his own babies.” Now she was truly looking. “But what was the name, dear?”
“Ivor Dewitt,” said Jane. “How’s that for pompous?”
She wasn’t watching Dee, but Polly and Edmund were, and Dee looked as if she was in pain. Edmund sidled close.
“Honey,” she said, touching his hair. “Can you get Papa for me, please?”
And so Edmund ran off while Polly watched Merle, soaking wet, lead Rita back up to the man. They spoke and the man finished his Champagne and put his arm around Rita’s waist. Papa was next to Dee now, bending down, listening to her whisper. She pointed, and he looked for a long moment. Then he walked across the lawn.
“Have you met?” asked Merle.
“We have,” said Papa. “Let’s take a walk, Mr. Dewitt. Let’s talk on the beach.”
They headed down, bending around the maze, trailed by Rita. Polly ran after them, dodging through the maze. She knew Papa hated the man. Wrath—that part of Papa, the half-understood part, sliding out in the way he walked. They talked, Papa pacing around, before Dewitt walked back to the party. Papa spoke to Jane and Merle and Arnold, and they all smoked a cigarette; Papa put his arm around Jane and walked off with her in the other direction.
The episode was over, but Edmund returned to say Maude was taking Dee home. They could hear nothing but music from the party, voices, waves. Croquet on the lawn, a bonfire in a bronze bowl on the terrace. The lights that were strung in the trees on the perimeter of the lawn were turned on, making the rest of the grounds, the beach and maze, seem darker than they were. They ran up to the lawn for cake and played croquet and they were watching Jane dance—Jane was drinking too much wine—when Polly found her way between chairs blocked by Dewitt, who said, “Hello, little girl. Little Schuster girl.”
Polly said nothing. The man was drunk. Everyone was, but he grabbed her arm with one hand and her face with the other. He tilted it, bending close and studying her.
“Let go of her,” said Edmund.
The hand hurt her face. The man blinked his strange eyes and looked amused, but now Papa was walking toward them.
“Mr. Dewitt,” he said. “Let’s have another talk.”
Dewitt let Polly go, and Edmund pulled her into the maze. At the far end, at the corner, they heard: “It will clear our heads,” said Papa. “Unless yours is too muzzy.”
“My head is clear,” said Dewitt. “But I’m happy to row you, old man.”
The men pushed the boat out, even though it was almost dark, while Lemon barked from the beach. People were still dancing, and Edmund and Polly could see Rita’s hair flash in the light of the bonfire. Lemon, guard dog, finally stopped running and lay down at the entrance to the maze. Polly and Edmund tried cards, playing with Dee’s fancy deck and a flashlight. All the faces were wild-eyed in the beam: They held up opposing jacks, growled, and giggled. Eventually they gave up on the dying flashlight and realized they could still see everything but color. They looked ghostly to each other and they curled up together in the blanket next to Lemon, trying to forget Jane’s scary stories.
They were down to arguing about stars, tired and beginning to be cold, when they heard splashing. The sound terrified Polly, but Edmund jumped up and pushed through the hedge and they watched Papa drag himself out of the waves and stand dripping, shiny against the dark water in the half-moon light.
Old god, almost-dead god. He walked toward them. “I’m so cold. Give me that blanket, sweethearts.”
“Where is that man?” asked Polly.
“Who?” asked Papa. He seemed surprised; maybe he was as drunk as everyone else.
“The man you don’t like,” said Polly. “Mr. Dewitt.”
Papa snorted and followed Edmund and Polly through the hedge. He wrapped hi
mself up and looked around their squalid camp.
“Did he throw you out of the boat?” asked Polly.
“No one throws me out of a boat,” said Papa. “I’ll admit I didn’t like him, and he was drunk, and so I left him alone.”
“What about the boat?” Edmund looked stricken.
“He’ll return it. I showed him where to tie up. There’s plenty of light out there. Don’t tell anyone. Dee wouldn’t be happy that I took a swim during my own party. Where is she?”
“Maude took Dee and the aunties home,” said Polly.
“I’ll take you to them, then,” said Papa. “It’s late, and now I’ve gotten your blanket wet. Gather your things.” He took the palm of his massive hand and covered the top of Polly’s head, swiveling gently so that he messed up her hair, pushing down so that she giggled and fell to her knees, batting at his legs. He did the same thing to Edmund, who shrieked as he dropped.
They took Arnold’s convertible and Polly ran her finger on the goose bumps on Papa’s skin while he made dramatic sounds of suffering about the cold. Edmund waved his arms around to stay warm and Lemon barked. At the house, Maude and the aunts were drinking around the table. None of them seemed surprised to see Papa wet.
Maude said, “Don’t bother saying anything.”
Polly and Edmund were whipped up to their small pallets, the cushions on either side of Jane and Merle’s bed. They were asleep within minutes.
But in the morning, thoughts of the lost boat tortured Edmund. He cleared his throat and coughed until Polly woke. Merle was snoring and Jane’s head was hidden by pillows. From Polly’s side cushions, she watched Edmund’s hand, disembodied on the far side, theatrically point to the door.
They crept down the stairs. The counters were covered with half-finished cases of wine and food. They picked up handfuls—grapes, ham, cheesy Italian bread—and jammed them in their mouths. Edmund’s eye was black from Rita’s blow, and both of them were sunburnt. Even Lemon was tired and they prodded her up. She trotted along with them on the path like a dog that knew how to heel.
The tide was just beginning to go out, and the wind of the night before had died to nothing, and the Sound was flat and mirrored. They walked far down the beach, Polly humoring Edmund, who would not stop fretting about the rowboat, and when they came around the point they saw it immediately, dragging its anchor and twenty feet out in shallow water. Edmund gave a howl and splashed out to grab it, moving faster than Polly, who saw the thing on the beach. Edmund didn’t notice the body until he was towing the boat back in, almost to the shore, and when he stopped the boat bumped into him, and some loose metal trim on the side cut his leg.
A man lay facedown on the wet sand. They should have felt dread, but Polly wouldn’t remember it that way. They were so tired, and the world, strange for a long time, had lately been especially unreliable. They walked slowly to the body and around it, as if they were circling a museum exhibit. Ivor Dewitt’s one visible eye was open and half-filled with sand; no detail had ever been deader. Pretty violet-tinted jellyfish were marooned on his twisted white shirt, on his gray back, making him look like an iridescent sponge. A tangle of brown seaweed bound his legs together.
Blood from the cut in Edmund’s leg ran into the sand. Two hermit crabs scuttled from the body toward the pooling blood and he kicked them away. He told Polly later he was sure the crabs and jellyfish would attach to him and burrow in, change the way his body was made.
Part
Three
15
Saturday, July 6, 2002
These strange long nights. How long could she keep this up? These were memories, not dreams.
After Maude’s party, moments from Papa’s party played on a brutal loop. The cold black air, the smell of the hedge, a splash and a sigh. Polly saw the women waiting around the kitchen table, the mess on the counters still not cleared. The wet old man, Maude tragic and angry, with smeared mascara and a lit cigarette, Odile surrounding Polly and Edmund as if she were a blanket. Smoke and the curtains gusting, everyone bleary and afraid, everyone sad all over again. Papa saying, Say nothing. Or had he? Polly could feel him behind them on the stairs, softly closing the bedroom door to be alone with Dee.
Polly could see so many things: the rowboat with two men bobbing into the water, the tall ancient figure staggering out, the dead man on the beach in the morning light. But she could not see the order of all of it together, the meaning of the men in the boat and the death.
The state lab was theoretically closed on Saturday, but the medical examiner called Cy anyway and confirmed damage to both Ariel’s hands and her right wrist, consistent with someone trying to hang on to a nylon rope by wrapping it around a wrist. They confirmed that a cut and bruise on her cheekbone occurred far enough in advance of death to bruise. There were other injuries that didn’t fit well with river damage: bruising and cuts on Ariel’s back that might also be antemortem, a contusion on her bicep that didn’t quite align with a sweeper branch, along with a slicing cut on the right side of her head. She had vaginal abrasions, and a tampon was found pressed against her cervix. Her blood alcohol level was minuscule—perhaps a beer—and toxicology hadn’t come back for other substances. There was water in her lungs. Ariel had drowned, though another head injury—this one entirely consistent with river rock, fresh-cracked during winter or high water—would have rendered her unconscious and might ultimately have killed her on dry land.
Nothing, Harry explained, was conclusive. Ariel might have fallen and cut her face; she might have chosen to have rough sex on sharp gravel, without mentioning a tampon. She might have chosen not to wear her life preserver. The blow to her arm and the narrow blow to the side of her head could have been Graham’s branch, though both made no sense.
When Cy brought Graham in, Graham spoke of wild sex, of no complaints from Ariel, no mention of her period. He would never have slept with a woman having her period, and it was disgusting that she hadn’t told him.
We did it twice, he said. Then we cuddled. We climbed back in and the branch happened. I lost my paddle and barely stayed on the kayak, and when I saw her I threw the rope. She caught it, and I started to pull, and I saw her head hit the rock. Her face went blank and she let go and I watched the rope unwind from her wrist. I jumped in to find her, and almost drowned myself.
Harry said that you could pull apart Graham’s versions of the story—he’d been swept out with her in the beginning; he’d been able to stay in the kayak and tried and failed to save her—but there was no way to know what really happened, or at least what Harry and Cy believed happened: Graham tried, and when she turned him down, he’d thrown the preserver in a thicket and beaten and raped her. At some point, together again in the kayak, he struck her arm and her head with his paddle, knocking her into the water. The wounds on Ariel’s arm and head were consistent with the edge of a paddle. Their futile search for a branch on the east side of the river—there had been no branch. There had been Graham, losing his temper a second time after whatever had happened on the island, or perhaps Graham, thinking about how Ariel would accuse him of rape. Or maybe she only failed to feed some fantasy with a loving, postcoital look.
“He kept her on that island for a long time,” said Harry. “He said he waited to be rescued, but really it was Ariel who waited.”
A girl says no, I don’t want to. Or: No, I don’t want you. I don’t love you. Or the final shot: I love someone else.
Polly saw the paddle slicing through the air.
Cy let Graham go without charging him, though he would bring him in for questioning every day for a week. There was nothing to charge him with. Cy talked to prosecutors in Park and other counties, to a lawyer for the statewide battered women’s network, and to the FBI, but no one knew of a successful prosecution on such grounds, not for manslaughter or rape or murder. They could question Graham again and again, but it was hard to see how it would change. The evidence just wasn’t there.
There’s always a true sto
ry, whether or not anyone knows it. Ariel would have tried to be nice about it with Graham, thought Polly. She might have said that it wasn’t about him, just that she loved someone else. He must have tried—asked?—as soon as they’d gotten to the island, before she took the preserver off. She said no and he hit her, took her down, and a few minutes later she would have been trying to think her way out of the situation, with a bleeding face, a bruised back and vulva. She could get into the kayak with him, or he would do more. She must have thought there was a chance of surviving if she climbed into the kayak in front of him; she must have believed she would at least get home. She had no good choice, but she chose wrong.
Polly thought about older things, too, other moments that ended in the river, other men who thought the world would and should go their way, men who struck and regretted or who were only made angrier by their own guilt, who would rather have someone die than let the world know they’d done the wrong thing. Throw in a little shock, a little cowardice: A girl was better off dead.
There shouldn’t have been anything wrong with Ariel climbing into that kayak, Polly thought, on a beautiful river with friends. You can’t go through life expecting someone like Graham.
Don’t think, Polly said to Ned and to herself. Leave all of it twisting on the ground until you know where to put it. The other people in the house, not having heard Ned on the phone, were floating with relief. The party was over, and the detritus was in no rush. The yard was littered with bits of wrapping paper and ribbon, spiral cake candles looking like bright worms in the grass—Polly thought they were squirming for a moment—napkins and drink cups. The tablecloths were akimbo or against the fence; there was an east wind, and they would have to postpone Maude’s float down the river.
Polly took Sam to soccer practice, the first session before the fall rec season, and it was a relief to sit on the grass alone. No one approached her—she was older than the other mothers and tainted by Ariel and grief—and for an hour she thought of nothing but the awkwardness of boys, the jumble of sticklike shins and knobby knees. Half the kids picked their nose during every huddle with the coach, but Sam was uncoiling, running and kicking, becoming more of a physical being, though he would never be a jock. He still read obsessively, and he was openhearted, with no obvious chips and a rich, perverse sense of humor. In the midst of the weirdness that spring and summer, he and Helen reached a kind of balance. They sized things up together, we two against the world.
The Center of Everything Page 22
