The Geometry of Sisters (8 page)

“Not really,” she said.

He didn't reply. For all she knew, he was the biggest boat-lover in the world. She wanted to amend her comment, to say it wasn't that she didn't like boats, it was that she was scared to her bones of water. But then everyone stopped, and they were staring at what even Beck had to admit was a vessel of rare grace; all polished wood and bronze, belonging to another century.

“Grandmother!” Lucy exclaimed.

“Lucille,” the old woman said with a smile that somehow didn't touch her eyes. Sitting in the shade of a wide blue awning, she had silver hair pulled back in a French twist, white pearls at her throat, and huge diamond rings on her gnarled fingers. She wore a navy blue silk dress, and appeared to have been deep in conversation with a younger man with wavy blond hair, wearing a starched blue-and-white-striped shirt.

“We were at the wharf, and I wanted to show my friends
Sirocco
,” Lucy said.

“Grandmother is very busy,” the woman interjected in a warning singsong.

“I know, we're not going to bother you. We just…”

“Well, you can't just drop in and not come aboard,” she said, sounding suddenly indulgent. Beck stared at the foot-wide space between the dock and deck and suddenly couldn't breathe, terrified at the narrowness of the pier and the closeness of the water. She prayed that Lucy would decline to go on the boat. “Perhaps you'll be so kind as to introduce your friends,” Lucy's grandmother continued. “Say hello to Jonathan Bowles, Lucille.”

“Hello, Jonathan,” Lucy said.

“Lovely to see you, Lucille …”

“Grandmother, you remember Camilla? She visited us this summer?”

The woman regarded Camilla with a mouth like an upside-down horseshoe. Then, recognizing her, or just deciding to make the most of it, she gave a wobbly smile. “Well, yes. Hello. Come now, darling. All of you. Step aboard!”

A white-uniformed crew member set down a small metal ramp that attached to the boat and slanted down to the pier. “Come now, up the gangway,” the grandmother urged, gesturing.

Lucy strode up. Her grandmother nodded with approval, then turned her gaze on Beck, Camilla, and Redmond. Beck could almost feel her assessing their unsuitability and guessed they weren't half as attractive as the old woman would've liked them to be.

Camilla climbed up the gangway; it looked easy, even with her short legs. Redmond followed, glancing behind to see if Beck was coming. But she was rooted like an old oak, feet clamped to the dock, her gaze magnetized to the thin strip between the pier and the boat. Only about a foot wide, and she could see treacherous water moving down below. She felt so dizzy she had to close her eyes.

“Come aboard, dear. Have you not heard me?” Lucy's grandmother asked, and Jonathan Bowles laughed appreciatively in a boyish trill. Beck glared at him. His horrible wavy hair looked dyed, an unnatural shade of yellow, and his skin was leathery and tan, tight as a mask. She hated feeling scared, so she channeled all her fear into stubborn anger and despising Jonathan Bowles.

“Come on, Beck,” Lucy said, offering her a hand. “Please, and meet my grandmother, Mrs. Edith Nicholson.”

“I forgot something,” Beck said, backing away from the slit where she'd seen the water moving, trying to catch her breath. “I have to go….”

“Wait!” Lucy called.

“How very odd!” Mrs. Nicholson said.

Beck went tearing down the dock, her footsteps pounding in her ears. She tried not to look left or right, at the drop-off to the harbor's surface. She slammed through the gate, bending from the waist with relief, holding her stomach and whooping in air as she tried to breathe.

“Hey,” came a voice from behind her.

Wheeling, she saw Redmond running up to her.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I'm very odd, didn't you hear?” she said. “I forgot, I have to get home. My mother…”

“Your mother's the English teacher, right?”

“Got to go,” Beck said, starting to walk.

“I was sitting in front of her at the game,” he said. “I knew it was her, because she was cheering so hard for your brother.”
Cheerin' so hod for your brotha
. “But I also heard her say she had papers to correct. She probably wouldn't mind if you hung out for a while.”

“Listen,” she said. “You don't get it, okay? I have to be home.”

He turned fiery red, nodded, and said, “Okay” Beck didn't stick around to hear any more. The crowd on Bannister's Wharf was thick, but they heard her running and parted. The ground was paving stones, solid as could be, but Beck still felt water moving. She hadn't been on a boat since the canoe, and even walking down the dock she'd felt the rocking motion, the tipping back and forth that Carrie and her father must have experienced.

The store sprang up in front of her. She saw the door open, a personal invitation. She made herself slow down so she wouldn't be noticed. The shoppers were from all over. She could tell from their accents and clothes. Hardly anyone in here was dressed like Newport: she might have been in a mall. It felt good.

She walked around the store, looking at everything on the shelves. Little ceramic lighthouses, potholders shaped like lobster claws, a brass door knocker shaped like a scallop shell. She saw boxes of note
cards with pictures of boats, photos of Newport's waterfront. So maritime, completely nautical.

But then she spotted a large glass bowl filled with tiny china pineapples. Pineapples! They were so cute, and had nothing, nothing to do with the sea, with water. What significance could they possibly have to the tourists of Newport?

Without thinking, she reached into the bowl, palmed a baby pine apple no larger than a walnut, and continued her circuit of the store. Her heart rate slowed; her breath came more regularly. She felt the small object, oblong in her hand. Solid and grounding, it seemed to tether her to the earth. The pineapple held her together, a magical yellow orb, a little ceramic sun in the palm of her hand.

Still holding it, she walked past the checkout counter. Every footfall registered in her mind.
I am safe, I am safe, I am safe
, she told herself. The little pineapple was her talisman, and it guided her out the door, and in that instant became the first thing she'd stolen since arriving in Newport. She stepped into the Saturday sunshine of the wharf, and she turned away from the harbor and with the ceramic pineapple in her pocket walked up the big parabolic hill toward school and her mother and the refuge of her math homework.

Maura stood in the kitchen, staring into the cupboards, wondering what to make for dinner, when Beck burst through the screen door.

“Hi, honey,” Maura said. “Where were you?”

Beck launched herself at Maura, crying so hard she couldn't speak. Maura led Beck to a chair, sat her down, crouched, and held her hand while she sobbed.

“What's wrong, Beck? What happened?”

“I hate it here, Mom. Why did we have to come?”

“Oh, Beck… We've talked about this….”

“It's terrible,” Beck said. “There's water everywhere. And no one likes me, Mom.”

“I thought you were making friends,” Maura said.

“I'm just so different from them,” Beck said. “I don't know about yachts, and clubs, and stuff like that. I don't care about any of it! I'll never fit in, I wouldn't even want to. Newport is nothing but mansions. Even this school—it's so big and fancy and gross. Some rich person built it for his spoiled kids, I bet….” Her voice caught. “And I miss dad.”

“I miss him too,” Maura said. She stared at Beck, seeing the shape of Andy's face, the line of his cheek, his ears, his brow. Time made missing him less intense, but didn't take it away.

“He would hate this place,” Beck said, swallowing a sob that exploded as she said, “And so would Carrie!”

Maura heard footsteps, turned around, and saw Travis standing in the door. Maura hated how familiar the look on his face was— shock and fear, steeling himself for a new trauma.

“Beck's having a tough day,” Maura said. “And I've just decided: we're going out to dinner.”

“I thought we were saving money,” Travis said.

“I don't care,” Maura said. “We need a treat.”

They fed the cats, changed into nice clothes, and got into the car. Travis let Beck sit in front; Maura gave him a grateful look in the rearview mirror as she took them on an impromptu tour. They passed the Elms, Chateau-sur-Mer, Rosecliff, where
The Great Gatsby
was filmed, Mrs. Astor's Beechwood, and Rough Point, Doris Duke's mansion, all along Bellevue Avenue.

Ocean Drive hugged the rocky shore, past Bailey's Beach, and Hazard's and Gooseberry beaches, and all the hidden coves and stretches of granite ledge, and big, many-chimneyed houses with sloping lawns. Maura glanced at Beck; safe in the car, she didn't seem to mind the water.

They turned inland, and the landscape gave way to rolling hills and thickets of beach roses, gorse, bayberry and laurel. The farther they got from the sea, the more the neighborhood started to feel like home.

Maura watched Beck notice the Fifth Ward's smaller houses, the tidy yards, the basketball hoops in the driveways. She drove north on Spring Street, silently glancing down the side street that led toward Blackstone's Alley, then past St. Mary's, the big Catholic Church where Jacqueline Bouvier had married John F. Kennedy.

They crossed Memorial Boulevard, passed the Franklin Spa— the lunch counter where she and Katharine used to meet—then Trinity Church, the white church with the tall steeple and quiet churchyard; she pointed out the two-family red house across the street from the small cemetery where she and Katharine had had their apartment. Ten minutes later, they wound up in the Point section on Narragansett Bay, just south of the Newport Bridge.

The eighteenth-century houses here were lovely, well kept, neatly painted clapboard with center chimneys, much more modest than the marble and limestone palaces of Bellevue Avenue. These colonial-era houses had been built by sea captains, fishermen, merchants, tradespeople, and shipbuilders. She saw Beck relax a little more, feeling not so overwhelmed by size and status.

“See?” Maura said. “Not every house in Newport is a mansion.”

“I like this neighborhood,” Beck said. “Who lives here?”

“Regular people,” Maura said.

“You mean people who don't go to Newport Academy,” Beck said.

“You might be surprised,” Maura said.

“What do you mean?”

“Newport Academy was founded by a man who lived in this neighborhood,” she said, thinking of J.D.'s grandfather. “He came from Ireland with nothing. He worked hard building ships, and made a lot of money. But no matter how much he made, he felt his
family could never get ahead enough to be accepted by Newport society.”

“I told you, they're horrible!” Beck said.

“He decided his children needed a good education. They couldn't get into the other private schools, so he built one for them.”

“Newport Academy?” Travis asked.

“Yes,” Maura said.

“A man from this neighborhood built that fancy mansion?” Beck asked.

“He did,” Maura said. “He wanted to attract children from all walks of life, and he knew the robber barons wouldn't send their kids unless the school had everything the other schools had.”

“What was his name?” Beck asked.

“James Desmond Blackstone.”

“How do you know all this?” Travis asked.

Maura hesitated, gazing out at the water. The Newport Bridge was close by, and its white lights were starting to twinkle in the violet twilight. “I knew his great-grandson a long time ago,” she said. “He told me.”

“What's
that?”
Beck asked suddenly, sounding shocked as she pointed at the carved pineapple above the doorway of the Georgian colonial Hunter House.

“Fruit, Beck,” Travis said. “Try not to freak out.”

“The pineapple is a symbol of Newport,” Maura said. “It means welcome…. When sea captains would return from their voyages, they'd bring pineapples from the South Seas, and their families would place them over the door to invite people to visit.”

For some reason that tale made Beck slouch down in her seat and grow quiet again, so Maura kept driving through the narrow streets. She thought of James Desmond Blackstone and the night J.D. had told her about the origins of Newport Academy; they had been sitting on a cement wall by one of the public driftways to the water,
within sight of his great-grandfather's house. The bridge lights had sparkled overhead that night too.

“This is where you came from?” Maura had asked him.

“It's where my great-grandfather first lived when he came to America,” he'd said. “So yes, because of him, I come from right here.”

“Will you show me the house you grew up in?” she'd asked.

“I'll show you everything,” he'd said. He'd looked into her eyes as if he couldn't believe she'd appeared in his life, as if he was afraid this wouldn't last. His arm felt tight and strong, and she'd leaned into him, fascinated and swept away by a man she barely knew. Thinking of that now, she pushed the memory down and concentrated on her children.

But once he'd entered her mind, it wasn't easy. Being back in Newport brought so much flooding in, images and feelings she'd spent her life since then trying to escape. Driving along, she scanned every face. It was her habit, watching for Carrie. But here she was looking for J.D. too.