Barefoot Girls (16 page)

Keeley blinked, and then looked at Zooey anew. “Yeah,” she said, nodding. She glanced over at Pam and then said, “Hey, you guys. We’ve got some firecrackers! Want to come shoot them off with us at the Lion’s Den?”

Zooey was suddenly very still. Next there would be laughter. You
believed
us? The Lion’s Den, a clearing in a small wooded area in the very center of the island, was the cool kids’ hangout. Zooey had heard there was a tire swing, a pilfered rotting armchair and a little tree house that consisted of a floor of six nailed-together wooden boards stuck in a tree. 

“Hey!” A voice at her elbow.  “What about me?”

Keeley smiled down at Amy. “Sure, come on! Let’s go!” Keeley and Pam and Amy started running up the dock toward the boardwalk, weaving among the kids and adults that were still standing and talking about Rose.

Keeley stopped, turned and scooped the air at Zooey, a come-here wave. “Zooey? Come on!” she shouted.

Zooey, her legs awkward and not working properly, started after them feeling a blooming of delight in her heart, a feeling as bright and warm and reassuring as she had ever felt.

Chapter 15

Hannah asked, “What happened to Rose after that?”

Aunt Zo laughed a little and said, “Hoo boy! Well, that’s a whole other story. I’d tell you, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got appointments up the wazoo today. Doctors and specialists – don’t rush to get older, Hannah. It’s a bitch. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Hannah said goodbye and hung up the phone feeling better than she had in months, alive and energetic. She made herself a big breakfast of pancakes and bacon and a whole grapefruit and took a long barefoot walk down the boardwalk, grateful for another warm day. She headed up-island first, stopping at the halfway point where the little red firehouse was. Looking down the boardwalk at the line of taller stately homes that took over the island to the north, she thought of Mr. McGrath. Did he and his wife really like being completely alone? Wouldn’t a visitor be a welcome thing? She wondered about the older man and his wife, that expression on his face when her mother’s name was mentioned. Perhaps Hannah had misunderstood it. If he knew her mother, as he clearly did, he had to like her. Everyone did.

Her mother: both her closest friend in the world and a complete enigma. Hannah had seen many pictures of her mother as a little girl, framed and in photo albums, and in all of them Keeley looked like a little blond angel, dear and sweet with big velvety-blue eyes and a perfect dimpled smile. Now she knew that her mother had actually been a hellion, a fire-starting bra-stealing troublemaker. Had that been why Grandma rejected her own daughter, for being a “bad” girl? Questions filled Hannah’s head, buzzing and insistent as flies.

Hannah turned around and headed south to the Barefooter house. As she reached it she realized it was the only house you could actually hear on the island, its wind chimes clanging and pinging in the breeze. Taking the key out of her pocket, she kissed it and then unlocked the front door, which swung open on their little living room. Compared with the loud décor on the exterior of the house, the room was a study in Zen-like simplicity. Everything was how it had been when Hannah was little: clean and spare and white with cool touches of gray and blue.

She stepped onto the gray-painted floor and looked around at the white painted walls, the couch and chairs draped in machine-washable white slipcovers, Aunt Zo’s painting still hanging over the couch that depicted three sandpipers running on a beach, foaming water on the retreat that had left a scattering of bubbles on the sand. Whenever Hannah saw that painting and the others at her aunt’s house, she was always shocked that Zo wasn’t famous, her artwork hanging in museums around the world. She had said as much to Zo, who only laughed and flopped her hand at Hannah, saying, “Honey, you have to die first.”

The only cluttered area of the room was the overstuffed bookshelves, bulging with photo album after photo album, each filled with photographs documenting over thirty years of friendship between the four women. This was their treasure trove, their collective memory-bank. Hannah was amazed that they still kept it all here, risked floods and storms and water rats in order to keep their memories in their only shared space.  The Barefooter House, their sacred place, let no man put asunder.

Although Hannah’s grandfather had bought the house for Keeley when the four girls were in their early twenties, later, when they were older and had jobs, they went in together to own it jointly. Each of the Barefooters had contributed exactly one quarter of the original cost, giving it to Keeley, who – struggling financially at the time – gladly took the funds. Once Hannah had asked about it, wondering why it wasn’t enough for Keeley to own it and share it. Her mother had said, “Because it’s our house, always was. Dad just got it for me so it wouldn’t completely fall down. It was a wreck back then. But it’s all of ours, and that’s the only way it will ever be.”

The house smelled musty, so Hannah left the front door standing open and went around the tiny two-room cottage opening windows. In the kitchen, Hannah was surprised to find it had changed dramatically. It had been plain and simple when Hannah was here last with a white painted wooden table against one wall, the gray-painted sink with its water pump against the other, and the little white stove and oven in the corner, the undressed windows letting in clean white squares of light. Now it was a cheery yellow with white lace handkerchief curtains on the windows and much more clutter than ever before, including a cute egg timer in the shape of chicken, an earthenware pitcher filled with wooden spoons and a whisk, and a colorful rag-rug on the floor.

Although she loved how it looked, it was too different. She was glad the living room hadn’t changed. She quickly opened the windows, went back into the living room, and stood in the middle of the room looking around.

Ah, this was better. She could practically hear their voices, their laughter, their songs. The wind chimes tinkled and clanged outside and small waves thumped and swished against the pilings the house rested on. These were the sounds of Hannah’s childhood. The smells were the mustiness of all of the houses on the island that came from age and being locked up half the year, the pungent smell of sea wrack, the sweet scent of freshly squeezed limes for the Barefooters’ Mean Greens, the mouthwatering smell of frying soft-shell crabs in the morning.

Every August of her childhood, Hannah had four mothers. It had been heaven.

Aunt Zo practically took over, carrying Hannah around everywhere with her, waiting on her like a little princess, telling her stories and making up magical games to play. Pam became the disciplinarian, administering the rare punishment when needed, as well as the nurturer who cooked all the meals for the gang and kept their world spotlessly clean. Amy was the protector and the champion, chasing off little boys who picked on Hannah, pulling splinters out of Hannah’s feet with tweezers and tender care, remembering to bring blankets and sweaters along when they went on a trip to keep Hannah warm if it grew cold.

Her mother, relieved of sole responsibility, relaxed and suddenly embraced being a parent. Always affectionate, her mother became mushy, hugging and kissing Hannah constantly. She became indulgent, too. Usually strict about her rules, they were always bent in August. Of course Hannah could stay up past her bedtime. Of course she could have that ice cream cone. Whatever her baby-darling wanted.

God, how Hannah missed those long-ago Augusts. She sighed and walked over to the bookshelves. A bright red leather photo album shouted out to her. Dog Days! She pulled it out, clutched it to her chest, and then walked over to the couch and sat down with it. The album was fat and overstuffed with photos. There were more photos than the album allowed, so some were just piled in the front, loose. She opened the album with a smile and the colorful photos jumped out at her.

Here was one with the four Barefooters at the last celebration, all clinging to each other and grinning for the photographer, their smiles wide and unself-conscious. Hannah gazed at the four of them jealously. The next photo showed two men who lived down-island, Jeff and Kevin, wearing their usual costume for Dog Days: the clueless loser. The costume consisted of Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts, black socks and sandals, white zinc-oxide slathered on their noses and cheap sunglasses. They were grinning and holding up their Mean Greens in a toast to the photographer. Here was another, this one of Amy’s husband, Uncle Gus, holding up the sailboat race’s trophy that he had won last year, his face red with embarrassment, looking down and laughing – probably due to something one of the Barefooters had shouted out to him. Uncle Gus was shy and boyish. Hannah loved him to death and sometimes liked to pretend he was her father.

It was the best party anyone could ever hope to go to, Dog Days, and the Barefooters threw it every year, inviting all their friends as well as everyone on the island. Dog Days’ roots must have come from those long-ago Fourth of July parties at the McCallister’s house, except now the party was held the first Saturday of August at Keeley and Ben’s huge new house, a kick-off to the Barefooter month. There were all of the contests Aunt Zo had mentioned in her description of that Fourth of July party: the greased watermelon rolling contest for the babies, the diving contests for the children, the sailboat races for the grownups. There were also tons of other games and races including the raw-egg passing contest, where opposite-sex adults passed a raw egg to each other using only their necks. If you dropped it, you were pulled out of the game. The last standing couple won a bottle of champagne, which they usually started drinking immediately.

There were also balloon races for the teenagers. Manning small sailboats, two-person teams had to collect blown-up colorful balloons that had been placed in the water along the marshy shore of the island. This had to be done from the sailboat, without an engine and keeping at least one foot in the boat at all times. The pretzel-like contortions the kids effected to get the balloons were hilarious. In spite of the pains they had to go through to collect the most balloons, the kids of the island were more than willing. After all, the prize was always the newest hottest piece of technology on the market. Last year it was a Wii.

The Barefooters had been throwing Dog Days as long as Hannah could remember and the party got bigger and more elaborate every year. Now that Keeley had married Ben, who worshipped her and gave her everything her heart desired, the sky was the limit. They still had the clambake, but now they also had caterers brought in who passed appetizers and tended a fully-stocked bar, a live band playing all of the Barefooter’s favorite songs, and a professional fireworks display at midnight.

It was a wonderful and exciting party every year. Hannah loved Dog Days. Yet she had missed it this year, the first year ever. She missed all the fun and craziness because she wanted the answer to a reasonable question. An honest, complete, and satisfying answer.

All her life, when Hannah asked about her father, her mother and all the Barefooters would say things like, “Your father was a sweetheart,” or “You’re so much like your father,” without elaborating. Keeley would often sigh and say, “Your father was the true love of my life,” and get a sad distant look, her eyes unfocused and watery.  But this was as far as it went.

If she pressed further, her mother would grab her and hug her, saying “Aren’t I enough, huh? Huh? Aren’t I?” and tickle Hannah, which Hannah hated, having her questions tickled away. She wished she wasn’t ticklish, didn’t cringe and laugh in spasms. Her Barefooter aunts would never directly answer the question either; they’d just reiterate their boring affirmations of her father’s kindness or attractiveness. Hannah wanted details!

All she knew was that his family had once lived in a house on Captain’s, too, that her father and Keeley had dated as teenagers, and that her father had died in a car accident when he was only eighteen. Hannah had been born the following spring, a “gift from God". Keeley often said that Hannah was what kept her alive in the end, after losing her one true love.

When Hannah pressed with questions about her father, no one really answered them. She asked what his name was. Why didn’t she know her grandparents from that side? Could they visit his grave? But the answers would dry up, and it would be “Don’t worry about that” and “Hey, what do you want for lunch?” Her mother and the Barefooters were deliberate in their vagueness and evasion, their laughter studied, glances exchanged.

In June, Father’s Day came once again. Hannah always found herself yearning after the happy families that seemed to be everywhere on this holiday, feeling a loneliness she felt occasionally the rest of the year much more strongly on Father’s Day.  This year was worse. Maybe it was being recently engaged and feeling so deeply loved by Daniel. It had been a beautiful June day, picture-perfect. Hannah had decided to go to the beach and bring a picnic. She hadn’t thought about the cavorting families, the fathers carrying toddlers on their shoulders, the enthusiastic Frisbee games. “Dad! Dad! Watch me!”

She felt her turkey sandwich stick in her throat looking around. The beach was swarmed with families. Of course; it was a remarkably beautiful June day. Even spying families with grumpy fathers who were complaining about all
stuff
they had to bring to the beach made her sick with jealousy. Sure she had a mother, but she needed a father, too! Why couldn’t she at least know something about him, some details, a few stories?