Summer House (40 page)

“Well, yes, I suppose I am. I suppose that’s exactly why I chose to tell you this now.”

Worth shook his head. “I admire your inventiveness. This is quite a fabulous story you’ve concocted, and it makes me appreciate even more your own opinions on the matter of this new baby, but it doesn’t make me change my mind.”

“Oh, Worth.” Nona closed her eyes against his disbelief, his stubborn righteousness. What could she do? She had a thought. “Worth, I will take a DNA test. That will prove you are not my son, won’t it?”

At this, Worth sagged in defeat. He ran his hand over his face.

Helen asked, “Did Ilke name her son?”

Nona nodded. “She did, of course. She named her baby Hans.”

“Hans!” This spurred Worth into a kind of helpless action. He rose from his chair and strode around the bedroom, shaking his head like a bull trying to shake off spears. He clenched his fists, needing to hit something, having no available target. Turning suddenly, he shouted at Nona, “How could you love a child named Hans? How could you love a
German?
”

Nona’s reply was simple. “How could I not love
you?
”

Worth wrenched his gaze to Helen. “You know what this means, don’t you? If Nona is telling the truth, it means our children are
German.
”

Helen offered a gentle smile. “Oh, Worth, I don’t think so. I’ve never noticed a proclivity for sauerkraut or beer. They can’t yodel. They don’t—”

“How can you be flippant at a time like this!” Worth thundered. Facing Nona, he demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Nona stretched out a beseeching hand, but Worth would not take it. “Your father and I discussed it often. But then again, not as often as you might think. Our lives were busy. You favor your father in your looks: the strong square jaw, the set of your head on your neck, the angle of your ears, your straight patrician nose. Only your eyes are like your biological mother’s, but of course I have blue eyes, too, as did Herb. We could not think what good would come of telling
you. At first you were too young, and then you were too much
yourself.
Had there ever been a medical exigency, we might have told you, but Worth, think about your life, remember it. When could we have told you? When should we have told you? And why? You are my son. I love you as much as I love Grace. I always have. In fact, I know that Grace believes I favor you. Isn’t that right?”

Worth didn’t reply. Exhaustion was weighing down on Nona’s chest and shoulders. It was as if this secret had filled her life and her body like a second set of lungs, and now it had been excised and she was empty. She was hollow. She wanted to say,
Worth, do you know I am too feeble to carry even baby Zoe across a room? In that same way, I can no longer carry your pride, your anger, your pain, in my heart.
But she only said, “Do you know, my dear ones? I am suddenly very tired.”

Helen asked, “Would you like us to help you back to bed?”

“Thank you, no. I think I would prefer to rest on my chaise. But my shoes—” She looked at her son. “Worth, would you help me, please?”

His jaw was set in a lock Nona knew so well. For a moment he hesitated. Then he asked, coldly, politely, “Would you like me to remove your shoes?”

“Please.”

He bent on one knee to unlace and slip off her shoes, and Nona saw the top of his head, saw the bald spot beginning in the midst of all his silver hair, and she saw as if through layers of time, how his hair had been thick, white blond, slightly wavy, and once, so long ago, how his scalp had been bald, delicate, defenseless, an infant’s bare scalp with its vulnerable fontanel. He had been a sickly baby, relentlessly crying in a thin, high wail, needing constant attention, sleeping only when someone held him.

They had taken turns, Herb and Anne, rocking and walking the infant, for those first few days when Ilke rested, recovering from the sudden birth. Nona could remember the speckled pattern of linoleum on the kitchen floor, the rag rug in the hall, the handsome ivory and green oriental carpet in the parlor. The framed photographs of Ilke Hartman’s parents and sister on the mantel. The curtains,
heavy striped silk. The comfortable chair, upholstered in velvet and stuffed with horsehair, where she had often sat, for the few moments the infant would allow her to rest. Outside the house had been chaos and destruction. Inside the house was warmth and order and new life.

Anne had not slept with Herb those two weeks. He remained on the sofa and left for work every morning and returned every evening, bringing whatever food supplies he had scrounged from army supplies or bought on the black market. Anne never went to work at Stangarone’s. She was too busy keeping house, making stews; women today had no idea how much time the preparation of meals used to take. And how everything had to be saved. She could make one chicken last the three of them for four days. First, the luxury of roasted chicken. Then, a casserole made with back meat and noodles. Then, a stew from the bones and flour dumplings. Finally, a soup, with whatever vegetables could be found to add.

The lion’s share of the food went to Ilke, who was nursing the baby, or trying to, not very successfully. Anne lost a great deal of weight while she was in Germany, but so did everyone, and the good news was that Ilke’s parents had a wine cellar, so every night she and Herb allowed themselves a glass or two, and that luxury settled their nerves. She did not touch Herb. He did not touch her. When they spoke, it was only about the baby, or the outside world; the news from America, the docking of more ships, the arrival of more displaced persons.

The second week, when Ilke rose from bed and declared herself fit and put on a maternity dress that hung off her, displaying her newly slender figure, that week Anne had not been jealous, but she had been, perhaps, on guard. Ilke washed her hair, and what had been matted with sweat and tangled from her writhing in labor now lay in shining pale gold silk, framing her beautiful pale face. Ilke did not seek out Herb. She seldom spoke to him, and when she did, it was in English, her broken, faltering English, and Anne appreciated this, because she knew that Herb understood some German, and Herb and Ilke could have conversed in a language Anne did not comprehend. But Ilke’s love and energies were all directed toward the infant.
She walked him, she nursed him, or tried to, and she wept with frustration when her milk was not ample.

Nona suddenly recalled another kindness of Ilke’s. Whenever she handed the baby over to Herb, she said the same thing she said when she handed the baby to Anne:
Here, little one, go to your friend.
Or,
Now your friend rocks you, my love.
She never called Herb “Papa.” Perhaps it was not really a kindness so much as a matter of self-defense. Perhaps she did not believe that Herb would claim and support the child throughout his entire life, or perhaps she didn’t, in her secret heart, even hope for that. Perhaps she hoped Herb would return to America, forget the child, and she would marry a German who could claim the baby as his own.

For Anne, it had been a through-the-looking-glass experience. Nothing seemed quite real. Each day was isolated from every other, each moment devoted to the necessities of the present, with no time to plan for the future.

Nona remembered piercingly how pleased she had been when she lifted the baby from Herb’s or Ilke’s arms, and the baby had grown calm as she gently jiggled him, walking her path through the house. The baby had responded to Anne as if he understood that she was keeping him safe. Herb was not always so successful, although he tried. Perhaps his uniform was too stiff against the infant’s cheek, perhaps his male voice was too brusque or deep or loud, perhaps, like many men, he did not feel comfortable and capable with an infant, and the baby sensed this. But in a way, Anne felt chosen by the infant. She loved him. She purely loved him.

She did not feel sexually attracted to Herb. She was always busy, and she was always very hungry, and she felt occupied and capable and
alive.
When Ilke’s nipples became cracked from the baby’s demanding and unsatisfied suckling, it was Anne Ilke came to, not Herb. In those days men did not share such experiences. Anne remembered a friend who had used A & D ointment, and Ilke had some in the house and used it sparingly and found relief. How proud Anne had been of herself! She had been so pleased that, when Herb came home, she told him about Ilke’s cracked nipples and her own advice—and Herb had blushed scarlet and left the room, grumbling
under his breath. She had remembered then that Ilke’s breasts, Ilke’s nipples, had once been objects not of milky sustenance but of sexual pleasure. Had Herb lain next to Ilke, suckling her, fondling her? Of course he had. Jealousy had twisted through her then. She had gone to her bedroom and wept, stuffing the pillow in her mouth to hide her sobs. Oh, she had not been without jealousy and bitterness. But then she slept. And then the baby cried, and Ilke asked her to walk him so she could sleep, and Herb was already asleep in his room, exhausted from his day’s work. And Anne had taken the baby in her arms, and looked down into his face, and everything but a profound and amazed love had disappeared.

Now her son, her sixty-year-old son Worth, finished removing her shoes. He rose. His face was stiff and closed. It would take time for him to heal.

“One question,” Worth said. “Are you going to share this news with anyone else? I’m sure Grace will be thrilled. But what about Oliver, and Charlotte, and Teddy? Will you tell them?”

“I won’t tell anyone else,” Nona assured him. “It is my duty, I believe, to give you this information, and Helen, as your wife and the mother of your children, should know as well. It’s up to you, the two of you, to decide whether or not to tell your children.”

Worth snorted angrily. “Teddy’s going to laugh his ass off.”

“Worth,” Helen remonstrated softly.

“Teddy loves you,” Nona assured her son. “He idolizes you. He believes he can never live up to your standards.”

Worth shook his head. “Well, Nona, it seems that
I
don’t even live up to my standards.”

“Then perhaps,” Nona suggested, “the standards need to change.”

Worth scrubbed his face with his hands. He looked angry and anguished, and Helen rose and went to him. “Worth. We can—”

Abruptly, he threw her hand off him. “I can’t deal with this. I’m going back to Boston.”

Helen started to object and then nodded. “Yes. Perhaps you should.”

Twenty-five

D
uring the intense heat
of the late Sunday afternoon, Charlotte strode along a furrow, furiously hoeing the weeds out of the beds of kale and eggplant and chard.

“No, too hot, too hot!” Jorge had called, rushing up to her. “I hoe. I hoe!”

“Not today,” Charlotte told him. “I need to hoe today. You can go work on the beans.”

Catching her look—she was clearly not in the mood for argument—Jorge had hurried off to another part of the garden.

During the ride from the hospital after seeing the newborn baby, her parents hadn’t spoken, but anger oozed from their pores until Charlotte thought she could actually see the air turning a bilious green. Clearly they did not want to talk in front of Charlotte. But she knew what the argument was about. Her father did not want to accept Suzette’s baby as his grandchild. Deep in her heart, Charlotte was glad her mother was standing up to him.

But when she had been lacing up her work boots in the mudroom,
her parents did talk, and Charlotte had overheard them. Her mother had actually threatened divorce—and the words had been like a hard kick in Charlotte’s stomach. They took her breath away. Would her mother actually leave her father? It couldn’t happen. A frantic energy filled her, but she didn’t know how to use it. Her mother had stormed up the stairs, and her father had followed, and she knew this was a battle they had to fight out by themselves.

Well, the garden always,
always
needed weeding, and today she was grateful for the work. Charlotte took down the
CLOSED
sign at the farm stand, put out some lettuces and vegetables so they wouldn’t go to waste, then stomped into the garden with a hoe.

A taxi came slowly up the lane toward Nona’s house. Charlotte stared. It had no passengers, so no one was arriving. Anyone who would be leaving would be driven by Grace or Helen, so this was a little odd.

She continued to work but stopped again when, a few minutes later, the taxi came back down the lane toward the main road.

Her father was sitting in the back, alone.

“Dad!” she called, waving her hands.

He didn’t seem to hear. The cab bore him away.

She set back to work, hoeing with maniacal energy.

Sometimes Charlotte allowed herself to wonder about her family, about its genetic makeup. Why were she and her brothers such fuck-ups? Perhaps that was too strong a word. Or imprecise. Oliver, for example, was a great success, both in his loving long-term relationship and in his work, but he had clearly abandoned his family and any part he might have in it, choosing to live as far as possible from the East Coast. Had he been drawn there simply by career opportunities or did he just not want to deal with the whole Wheelwright business? Someday, Charlotte would ask him.

Perhaps
rebel
was a better word than
fuckup.
She’d grown up watching Mellie, Mandy, and Mee following their parents like mindless but very cute fluffy little ducklings, paddling politely through the pond of life without making a ripple, and there her family was, Charlotte, Teddy, and Oliver, splashing and dunking one another and trying to fly, clowning around, dashing in different directions,
and disappearing for months at a time. Charlotte wondered whether there was a genetic kink passed on by their mother—for clearly their mother was the outsider—that caused the three of them to rebel. She knew she would not have done the terrible thing she did if she hadn’t been trying so hard to live within the cold hard lines of her father’s rules and feeling so imprisoned, so caged.