Barefoot Girls (40 page)

“Bye!” Hannah called and then slowly closed the door. She stood for a moment, staring off and wondering.  Piecing over the conversation, she found holes and ragged patches in it: the mid-island house, her rude husband, the weird nervousness of the woman, and it tempered her burgeoning excitement like small splashes of water on a growing fire, slowing but not stopping its spread.

At two o’clock on the dot the next day, Hannah stood at the McGrath’s front door. The house looked locked up, the front door shut firmly and the windows all closed, not even one cracked open to let in the breeze. She had paused at the dock when she noticed that the McGrath’s boat was nowhere to be seen, the sand of the beach cluttered with tidal droppings of seaweed and shells and a few pieces of garbage. That surprised her. The McGraths seemed like fastidious types, the kind who swept their beach every morning and never allowed garbage or even natural things like seaweed to sully it. She guessed she’d pegged them wrong.

There was only one explanation for the missing boat: Mr. McGrath had taken it to go somewhere and it was going to be just her and Mrs. McGrath. That was fine by Hannah, particularly after that dagger-like look the woman shot her when she’d mentioned her husband. The last thing she needed right now was for some polite remark she might make to him to be misunderstood by his wife as flirting.

When she woke that morning, the free-floating anxieties she’d felt about the woman had formed into a definite heavy wariness, but she still wanted to – was dying to – hear about her mother in her youth. Perhaps have a few mysteries explained. What was her mother like as a little girl? What were her grandparents like when they were on the island? Had they, like their daughter, been at the center of it all? Had Mrs. McGrath known Michael, her father?

Hannah pulled open the front screen door and it squealed loudly on rusty springs. She reached for the clamshell-shaped iron door knocker affixed to the front door when she heard a voice to her left.

“Hello, Hannah!” Mrs. McGrath said, standing in the sandy lot on the side of the house. She was dressed very smartly, overdressed for the island, in a pair of black dress slacks and a red cashmere sweater set, a string of pearls around her neck. Hannah glanced at her shoes. At least they were flats. Shiny and black and far too dressy, but flats.

Mrs. McGrath lifted and scooped her arm at Hannah. “So glad you could come. I’m in the back. Come round this way.”

Hannah climbed off of the elevated wooden walkway that led up to the house onto the packed sandy dirt, followed her around the house, and climbed the short flight of steps to the deck. Here, it looked more lived-in. An American flag waved gently from a flagpole mounted on the railing and a dark blue tablecloth had been placed on the table. A platter of chocolate chip cookies that looked suspiciously like Chips Ahoy and an ornate crystal pitcher filled with lemonade sat on the table along with two pretty gold-edged china plates, folded linen napkins lined up alongside, and two stemmed crystal water glasses half-filled with ice. The elegance ended with the cheap white plastic Kmart-special bucket chairs that were pulled up to the table.

“You didn’t have to do all this, Mrs. McGrath! And I didn’t even dress up. I didn’t know this was-“

Mrs. McGrath waved her hand at Hannah. “Oh, poo. Don’t worry about that. I just felt like dressing up; I was feeling festive. We’ve got
so
much to talk about! Please, sit.”

Hannah pulled out a plastic chair and sat down, glad she’d worn a windbreaker over her thin sweater and jeans. It was cold today, even in the sun. Mrs. McGrath lifted the pitcher and filled Hannah’s glass with lemonade, and then, using silver tongs, picked up two cookies and put them on Hannah’s plate. Hannah nearly laughed. Silver tongs and Chips Ahoy? For that was definitely what these were. She’d seen and eaten them many times. Even set on a gold-rimmed china plate, they still looked like the factory-made cookies they were: uniformly round, tan, and pitted with chocolate chips.

Restraining herself from remarking about them, she focused her attention on her lemonade. She took a sip. Now this was good. Homemade, definitely. “Delicious,” she said and smiled at Mrs. McGrath.

Mrs. McGrath had sat down and was spreading her napkin carefully on her lap. She looked up. “Oh, I’m so glad you like it. It’s my mother’s recipe. You crush the sliced lemons with a potato masher - it gets all the flavor out of the zest.” She raised her glass to Hannah and Hannah picked hers back up. “To finally getting a chance to talk. It’s really long overdue.”

Hannah touched her glass to Mrs. McGrath’s and took another sip, smacking her lips to take in more of the delicate sweet flavor. “Ah, it really is great lemonade. But, you say it’s overdue, us talking. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you at any of the Barefooters’ parties? I should, shouldn’t I?”

Mrs. McGrath winced, shoulders jerking up briefly. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll remember. My family has lived on this island forever.”

“And you knew my mom? When she was little?”

“Oh, yes. She was always hard to miss, your mom.”

“Really? How?”

Mrs. McGrath’s mouth twisted, her red lipstick half-gone, transferred to the edge of her glass. “You really want to know?” She eyed Hannah, flicking her eyes over her before focusing on her cookies. She picked one up off of her plate and bit into it as if it was a delicacy. “Mmmm! Oh, does this taste bring me back. Michael always-“

On hearing his name, Hannah couldn’t resist interrupting. “You knew Michael?”

Mrs. McGrath chewed, smiling, and rolled her eyes. She swallowed and said, “Of course I knew Michael. Michael Ferguson and I were an item back in the day.”

“You? You dated him?” Hannah was thrown. This was new. She thought only her mother had dated him, that the two of them had been the “item”, together through their teenage years.

“Yes, why? Have you heard something else?”

“I, well, my mother and Michael-“

Mrs. McGrath slapped her fingers down on the table hard, her rings making a muffled rapping noise as they hit the fabric-covered plastic table. “Now, Hannah. It’s time. Time to tell truths. No more lies. Your mother isn’t very honest with you about herself.”

Hannah’s hands fell off of the table and into her lap and a zinging feeling swept through her. Suddenly, she didn’t know if she wanted to be here. Part of her wanted to leave, leave immediately, before she heard what this woman had to say. What kept her rooted in her seat was the dark vine of jealousy that had been growing in her heart for years, its spreading tendrils everywhere now, rampant.

“I just want to help you,” Mrs. McGrath continued, nodding with her head tilted slightly, looking thoughtfully at Hannah. “The truth shall set you free, the Bible says. I truly believe that. It’s clear your mother and your mother’s friends are only going to tell you what serves them. But does that serve you? Like this nonsense about Michael and your mother. The truth is that Michael was doing your mother a favor. He was being kind to her when no one else would be, forgiving her wicked ways. He was a saint, that’s what he was.”

“A saint…” Hannah murmured. It was the same word the Barefooters used to describe him. A saint, a sweetheart: that was Michael. Of course, that was the end of the revelation every time; they clammed up if queried further, glancing at each other, at Keeley, and changing the subject. For the first time, right now, she could finally get some answers. She cleared her throat. “What do you mean, he was doing her a favor?”

“Oh,” Mrs. McGrath said, smiling and shaking her head. “Michael felt sorry for Keeley. She was like a…like an orphan. She never went home. Her parents were barely around. She looked like a mess most of the time. She just ran around the island like a wild animal with those friends of hers. She never learned how to behave properly, like a civilized person. Michael took pity on her. Tried to be kind to her. And that was his biggest mistake.”

“Mistake?” Hannah repeated. She tried to imagine this strange wild-animal version of her mother. It was so different from what the Barefooters said and what she knew: that Keeley was popular, that she was athletic, that she was always the good-hearted Pollyanna of the bunch, smoothing things over between the friends and making everyone laugh with jokes and pranks and silliness.

“Yes, because she killed him, you know,” Mrs. McGrath said, her voice wavering and tears popping into her eyes in spite of her plastered-on saccharin smile. “Her whorish ways are what killed him. I’m sorry, Hannah, but it’s the truth. Your mother is a whore. Michael was just trying to help her, but she broke his heart. I’m one hundred percent sure that she told him that night, the night he died, that she was pregnant from rutting with some boy. When he heard that, his heart just tore apart. He couldn’t stand it: how low she was.”

“He was running from her words, her despicable hateful words, when he lost control of the car. Those words, Keeley’s announcement of the existence of her bastard child, were the last thing he heard. He found out about you, it was you she was carrying, and he realized that all his care and kindness couldn’t make the world right. The reality of this sick sad world was too much for him. In a way…” Mrs. McGrath said, trailing off. She had turned away from Hannah, her face going soft and slack as she stared off into the distance.

Hannah sat perched on the edge of her chair, her muscles clenched. This was the truth? But it couldn’t be! No, she couldn’t be a product of some one-night stand. Her mother wasn’t like that, was she? Of course, Keeley loved attention, but she wasn’t promiscuous. Or had she been back then?

“She didn’t want you,” Mrs. McGrath said in a faint voice, still staring off into the distance. “She was going to have an abortion. One of her friends must have talked her out of it. The whole thing is so sad. It’s all a tragedy, a terrible terrible tragedy. Oh, Michael-” Mrs. McGrath moaned, covered her face with her hands and started crying, her sobs raw-sounding, agonized.

Hannah stared at Mrs. McGrath feeling a numb weight drop within her. Her mother hadn’t wanted her: the product of some fling. That was it. It explained everything. The wall of silence about the past, her mother’s distance at times, the way she caught Keeley staring at her as if she was thinking about something, considering. Keeley might have loved Michael, but their “relationship” was made up, a way of legitimizing what Keeley had done, making her baby a product of love rather than one of lust and poor impulse control.

Mrs. McGrath’s crying became louder, like the crying at a funeral, beseeching God, needing to be heard. Her hands dropped from her face and she turned it up to the sky and wailed, black mascara coloring the tears that coated her wound-striped cheeks.

Hannah couldn’t stand it. She stood, the chair tipping back from the suddenness of her movement and falling back on its side with a clattering crash.

Jerking at the sound, Mrs. McGrath looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, her wail gulped back. She stared at Hannah. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice squeaking. She glanced around the deck. “Where’s Michael? He was just…Mrs. Ferguson?” she called toward the back screen door as if she knew someone was just inside, nearby. She looked up quizzically at Hannah, “I’m sorry, did he invite you, too? But this is our time.”

Hannah looked at the woman, who was talking in a high-pitched girlish voice, with dawning dread.  “I’ve got to go.” She backed up a few steps.

“Yes. Go. I’ll tell him you had to leave. This is my time with Michael. My time,” Mrs. McGrath said the last with a pout, her breath still hitching.

Hannah turned and left, walking at first and then running down the boardwalk toward Pam’s, the woman’s words repeating over and over in her head.

Chapter 35

Amy closed Hannah’s novel and placed it on the bedside table. Beside her in bed Gus was a snoring hump under the covers, having fallen asleep only moments after kissing her on the cheek and turning over to face away from the glare of Amy’s small reading lamp. She envied her husband’s ability to do that, the way he easily shut on and shut off, when she had to wind down slowly, watching a silly sitcom or sitting outside to look at the stars until she was calm enough to fall asleep. Otherwise, lying down, her brain went into overdrive: spitting out ideas and lists and reviewing every problem in her life, searching for solutions.

Like now. And this time, she couldn’t let it spin on in her head. She had to do something. Because something was very wrong, and she hadn’t let herself see it before tonight.

She eased out of bed, slid her feet into her slippers and shrugged on a robe over her pj’s. Who knew how long this would take? Would she sleep at all tonight? She reached for the light switch on the reading lamp and flicked it off, plunging the room into darkness. She knew her way and she didn’t want to risk forgetting it was on, Gus waking to its shine on the crumpled but empty sheets beside him. She reached for Hannah’s book and, feeling its still-warm silky cover, grabbed it.

She padded quietly through the bedroom, pulled open the door to the hall just wide enough, and slipped out. The hallway was bathed in the soft rosy light of a small shell-shaped nightlight plugged in halfway down the hall. Sam was still openly afraid of monsters in his closet and under his bed, so there were nightlights in his room, in the hallway, and in the bathroom. Elliot, at six, was young enough to still believe in them, but worshipped his year-older brother, Ryan, who adamantly declared that there were no such things as monsters. Only babies believed in monsters. So, no monsters! Amy hoped that Ryan would continue being so innocently skeptical. She remembered when she was young and also vocally and with great conviction “knew” there weren’t any monsters. Until she met one or two, that is. The only thing was that monsters didn’t live under the bed, or lurk in dark closets. They walked right up to you in the bright light of day looking like everyone else.