April & Oliver (28 page)

“He must have had to go halfway back to the city to find a fax machine,” Bernadette says as Oliver pulls into the driveway.

April watches him, her hands yanking back a stubborn hull. He slips on his sunglasses and gets out.

“Did you find a fax?” Bernadette asks.

He nods. “Where are the others?”

“Sitting out back,” Bernadette says, brushing silken threads from her hands. “We’re done here. Let’s join them.”

Out on the beach Al tries to light a cigarette, cupping the flame against the breeze. April kicks off her sandals and follows
Oliver and Bernadette across the damp sand.

“We thought you’d gotten lost,” Nana says.

“I did,” Oliver says distractedly.

April touches Nana’s cheek with the back of her hand. “You’re getting too much sun. How about some lotion?”

“Take me to the water, Bede,” Nana says. “I want to get my feet wet.”

Hal caresses her hand. “It’s Hal, Mom,” he says gently. “Sure, let’s go for a walk.” He helps her to stand.

April takes Nana’s other arm, and the three of them walk down to the surf. The breeze is steady.

“Hold up your dress,” April says as they step in. April watches Nana’s face as she closes her eyes and inhales. She imagines
her soaring back across the decades, wading gingerly into the sapphire waters of her youth.

Nana licks her lips, touching her neck to kiss the absent cross. April tries to think of how she might give it back.

“You’re looking a lot better,” Hal says to April.

“I am better.”

“Are the stitches out?”

“For a few weeks now.”

“I’m glad he’s gone, sweetheart. I’m glad you’re through with that.”

April looks into the water.
Through,
she thinks. But there had been no body, no funeral. And even if there had been, who would have gone? If there was no one
on earth to pray for T.J. except herself, what hope did he have?

“You know, don’t you, that no one’s to blame for Buddy’s death.”

April looks at him.

“For whatever reasons, it was his time.”

“I wish I felt that way, Uncle Hal, but it wasn’t his time. Not by sixty years or so.”

“It happened.”

“You think it was God? I think it was brake pads.”

He sighs. “We still have you, April. We haven’t forgotten that.”

She looks down at the water. Nana has let go of her dress, the hem swaying in the froth. April wonders how much of the conversation
she heard.

“Enough,” Nana says, opening her eyes. “Do you want me to catch my death of cold?”

April and Hal smile at each other. Together they help Nana turn around and start up the beach.

After dinner, April circles the table, setting a bowl of fruit before each person. The doors are propped open, the fan on,
but the house will not cool. Al has his shirt off, his skin sunburned and salty. He starts eating the berries before everyone
is served, scooping spoonfuls into his mouth. April slaps his shoulder, his skin hot to the touch.

“Ouch,” he says.

“She’s right.” Hal smiles, giving April a wink. “Who brought you up, anyway?”

April places a serving in front of Bernadette, who fans herself vigorously, adjusting the bowl.

Oliver is talking to Bernadette, complimenting her on the roast, refilling her wineglass and then his. April reaches over
his shoulder, setting down a bowl of fruit just as he reaches for his glass. Their arms brush and the wine teeters. “Sorry,”
she says.

Without looking up, Oliver raises his hand dismissively.

“Bernadette and I have an announcement to make,” he says. April moves toward the kitchen door.

“We’ve changed the wedding date,” Bernadette says. “To October.”

April stops in the doorway and turns to face the table. Oliver stares directly at her, and then averts his eyes.

“So soon?” Hal says.

“We just decided this morning,” Bernadette says. “Crazy, isn’t it? But the reception hall had a cancellation, and since they
knew we wanted October originally, they called us first. I checked with the church this morning, and it looks good.”

April turns and pushes through the swinging door to the kitchen. She drags a raspberry through the cream sauce and puts it
in her mouth. Then a blueberry. She can hear bits of conversation through the door. “What’s the date?” Nana asks.

“The fifteenth,” Bernadette says. “The feast of Saint Teresa of Avila, in honor of Oliver’s mother.”

October fifteenth. Buddy was buried on the twelfth. Why should that matter? April eats another raspberry and hears the kitchen
door open. Al places his empty bowl in the sink. “Seconds?” he asks.

April stands facing the counter, not looking at him. He leans on the Formica next to her. “Hey, Rose,” he says, trying to
catch her eye. “You’ve always got me.” He pops a strawberry in his mouth.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You knew he’d get married someday, didn’t you?”

“You think this upsets me? I’m not upset. Why should I be upset?”

Al smiles and eats another berry.

“What about you? When will you get married?” she asks, running a finger through the cream.

“Never,” Al says. “I’d make a hell of a husband.”

“You’d do okay.”

He shakes his head. “There’s not a woman alive who deserves me.”

She laughs just as Oliver walks into the kitchen. “Hey,” she says. “Congratulations.” She licks the cream from her finger.

“They want coffee,” Oliver says.

“It’s on,” she says. “Two minutes.”

He walks out of the room.

Al rolls his eyes. “Does that look like a man headed for marital bliss?”

“He’s just having a bad day,” April says.

C
ROSS-LEGGED ON THE PORCH SWING
, April listens to the chant of crickets. It is late. She likes being the only one awake in a house of sleepers. She hears
a tattering in the breeze and looks out at her car, Buddy’s car, white under the stars. Someone touches her from behind and
she gasps.

“Come on,” Oliver says. “We have to talk.”

April’s heart quickens. She thought he had gone to bed hours ago. She stands and follows him. He takes long, uneven steps,
his gait strangely loose. She wonders if she should let him drive, then lets the thought go.

The car smells of Bernadette’s coconut sun lotion. Oliver coasts down the gravel drive in neutral, without lights, before
turning the engine over some distance from the house. He takes a hard right and accelerates down the narrow road leading to
the cove.

“How long have you known?” he asks without looking at her.

“If you’re talking about your mother’s diary, I haven’t read it.”

“But you knew about the affair.”

“Excuse me?”

He puffs up his cheeks and lets out a long, slow breath, flexing then clenching his hands on the wheel. There is heat in his
face, his chin set. April’s stomach feels volatile. He turns off the road and stops the car abruptly near a deserted beach.
The rim of an inky cloud glows faintly, cloaking the moon. Whitecaps froth luminously on the water’s surface. Oliver cuts
the engine.

“You could have told me,” he says. “It would have changed things.”

“Told you what?”

“I don’t know how to think of her anymore. Or you, for that matter.”

“Me?”

“We should have talked,” he says. “Something happened, and we pretended it didn’t.”

“Let’s go back. We’ll talk when you’re sober.”

“Come on, April. With all the conversations we had when you were half-cocked, you owe me this one.”

She folds her arms in front of her.

“And don’t try to tell me you’re on the wagon. How else would you hook up with the men you do? Or maybe you just like the
scary ones.”

Her jaw tightens. “I was never in love with T.J., but I cared for him. Maybe that’s worth more.”

“Sure. Why let a little skull fracture get in the way of friendship?”

“What’s it to you, Oliver? You’ve got your life.”

“I did.”

She looks at him hard. “If you’ve got news, you’d better share it.”

“Your father, my mother, that’s the news, baby.”

Confusion sears through her, then indignation.

“Oh, but it’s true,” he says. “And what’s more, she liked it.” From the glove compartment he pulls a flask, which April recognizes
as her father’s.

“Where did you get that?”

“My dad’s got a box of your father’s things in the attic. Stuff you didn’t want, I guess. I thought it would make an interesting
keepsake; you know, a reminder of the good old days.” He takes a swallow and squints; it’s painful to get down. “I know this
isn’t my usual style, but I’ve been thinking, April, if your father and my mother could screw in the back room of the bar
while we were home in our high chairs, what’s the big deal about you and me getting it out of the way?”

April bolts out of the car.

He goes after her and takes her arm. “Come on,” he says, pulling her toward the dunes. “Let’s take the scenic route back.”
He has the flask with him. He takes another swig, gagging, and offers it to her. “I filled it with something from Al’s cabinet.
I have no idea what it is, but I’m sure you do. Come on, April. Have a drink with me. In all these years, that’s something
we’ve never done.”

She hates the sight of her father’s flask, but takes it. The more she can down, the less for him.

“Ah,” Oliver says, grabbing it back. “The family poison.”

“So you want to fuck me, Oliver?” she says, wiping her mouth. “You’ve decided you hate me enough for that?”

He looks at her, letting his eyes roam freely.

A spark of terror skips down her spine. She keeps walking. On her right, the ocean pounds beyond the dunes. On the left, the
lights of distant houses glow above the cliff. Oliver’s steps quicken behind her. He grabs the back of her belt and she whirls
around to face him. “I’ll need more than just brandy for this,” she says.

“No excuses,” he says, handing her the flask. “This is all we’ve got.”

She takes another swallow. “These are the rules,” she says. “I can touch you, but you can’t . . .”

“No rules.”

“No rules, no game.”

“Fine. I’m all yours.”

“And keep your mouth to yourself.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he says. “But kissing wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“Go to hell.” She yanks the hem of his T-shirt out of his shorts, her head light and aching like she just came in from the
cold, whirling on a water flume, careering down, the momentum hair raising and unstoppable. She is more despicable than even
she thought possible; more like her father than her father himself.

Oliver raises his hand to pull his shirt off and she ducks, shielding her face, the reflex instantaneous.

“Whoa,” he says.

She backs away.

“Did you think I was going to hit you?”

“Why don’t you? Wouldn’t that be more satisfying?”

“For you, maybe.”

“Piss off.”

She starts walking again, the sand cool and dry. She shivers.

He takes her arm and pulls her toward him. He has left his shirt in the sand.

“You don’t want this, Oliver. You think you do, but you don’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Think of tomorrow. Think of Bernadette.”

“Now,” he says. “I’m thinking now.”

“The rules,” she says.

“Fuck the rules.” He moves his hand around the back of her neck, beneath her hair. It’s the gentleness that shocks her. Even
in his anger, he cannot keep it out of his touch. He moves his face to hers.

She knees him in the groin. He yells out, falling to his knees. April runs. She sprints fast and hard through the dunes and
down a slope and over a rise until her heart drums and she is winded. She looks back. There is no sign of him. Her pulse races.
She has no idea where she is, if she has overshot the beach house or has a mile to go. She looks up at the cottages on the
ridge, trying to identify them. Hands on her knees, she catches her breath. The surf charges up the beach and recedes. Suddenly
she hits the ground hard, sand in her mouth. Oliver pins her down, hands on her wrists, knees on her thighs. “What you need
is a dick,” he says. “So you can know how that felt.”

“I warned you no kissing.”

“Fine. Let’s dispense with formalities.” He holds her wrists with one hand. “You don’t think I’m capable of this, do you.”

“You are,” she says. “But you won’t.”

“You underestimate me.”

He eases down, letting her feel his weight, his eyes fixed on hers; he doesn’t know any other way to do this. It’s his gaze
that’s killing her, contemptuous but steady, gauging her response. She gathers sand in her fist, meaning to throw it, but
she can’t get her hand free. “I hate you,” she says.

“Well,” he says. “Something we finally agree on.”

Through their clothing, she feels his groin press against hers. She wants to die.

“April,” he breathes. There’s an ache in his voice, a softness she cannot bear. “April, I—”

“Stop.” She winces, turning her face away. She can almost remember that brief time in her infancy when the world was calm
and she rested in her father’s arms while her mother stood at the stove, warming a stew.
I love you, April.
Funny, but she can’t remember anyone saying that to her. Or had her father whispered it in her ear in that ancient time when
the world was calm? Whispered it with his honeyed, mellifluous voice.
I love you, April. Now put down the goddamn phone before I—

“Get it over with,” she says.

He lets go of her wrists. “What’s that?” He runs his fingers along her temple, around the curve of her ear, down to her neck,
his touch so light she experiences it as pain. “You’re bleeding,” he says in his normal voice. “You’ve got blood in your hair.”

She touches her forehead, and her fingers come away wet.

“You must have hit a shell.”

“It’s nothing.”

“We’d better get you home.” He gets to his feet.

“I’ll rinse it off.”

“In the ocean?”

“Where else?”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”