The Starboard Sea: A Novel (13 page)

We weren’t even out of the parking lot when I spotted Aidan. Still wearing the same clothes she’d slept in, she carried a pair of plump tangerines, one in either hand, her blue fingernails gemlike against the orange skin. She seemed to be headed back down to our Swan. “Aidan,” I heard myself shout. I asked Riegel to stop the car.

I’d never seen Aidan run before. She ran like a girl, jutting out her neck, windmilling her arms, and kicking her legs to the side. In that moment I imagined what she must have looked like as a little girl playing hide-and-seek among her grandfather’s orange trees. I made a note to myself that I would tease her later about her running. Tease her sweetly.

Aidan dropped the tangerines onto my lap and leaned across the passenger’s seat to shake Riegel’s hand. As Aidan stretched over me, her T-shirt dipped, exposing her bra. Though I looked away, I caught my brother darting his eyes over her breasts. I couldn’t blame him. Her breasts were worth lingering over. Aidan must have noticed his glance. Instead of placing a hand over her cleavage, she leaned down even more, challenging Riegel to take a second look.

I had no sense of where Riegel and I were headed, but I wanted to invite Aidan to join us. Riegel was likely to be impressed by her. His attraction might translate into goodwill toward me. Before I had a chance to mention her tagging along, Riegel interrupted, insisting he and I needed to spend some time alone. “We’ve got some family business,” he told Aidan. “Tremendous to meet you.”

The ocean breeze began to shift and I could feel the nor’easter making its way up to our shores. Aidan took a step back from the car and asked, “You still going to Race’s?”

I nodded. Aidan shook her head.

“Find me before you go,” she said. “And eat those tangerines. We don’t want you catching scurvy.”
As we pulled away, I turned and watched Aidan wave good-bye.
Riegel smacked my head. “Cool it, Orpheus. It’s bad luck to look back.”
I faced forward, explaining how I’d wanted to invite her along.
Riegel nodded. He took one of the tangerines from me and bit into the skin, peeling the white pith away with his teeth. “Teenage girls are a total gift. Soft, scared, and eager to please. You’ll never have it this good again.”
With the convertible’s top down and the wind belting our faces, I realized that I hadn’t been off campus since arriving at Bellingham. “Thanks for liberating me,” I said. “Been feeling claustrophobic.” “No problem. We’re family. We look out for each other.”
We drove along the coast past waterfront mansions and fried-fish shacks with plywood boards sheeting the windows. Spray-painted signs warned, closed for the season. I kept watch over the weather, waiting for rain.
“See all those mansions?” Riegel yelled against the wind and waved his arm toward an impressive row of gabled homes each with a railed widow’s walk on the roof. “Those were built with whaling money. There was a time when these little harbor towns were the richest kingdoms in the world. Total Gold Coast.” Riegel’s hair whipped in the breeze.
I rested my Tretorns up on Riegel’s dashboard and he slapped them away.
“Show respect,” he said. “That’s bird’s-eye maple.”
A buzzer went off, a loud warning ring that jolted me from my seat, knocking Aidan’s tangerine from my lap. Riegel steered with one hand while answering the car phone. He barely spoke. Just listened and agreed. Cal’s mother, Caroline, had once made up a deck of vocabulary flashcards, encouraging us to quiz each other in preparation for the SAT. Cal’s favorite word was “abrasive.” He’d misuse it every chance he could, inserting it into sentences where it didn’t belong.
“This ham and cheese sandwich is mighty abrasive.” “That’s some abrasive foot odor.” “I’m going to get abrasive on this ancient history exam.”
My favorite word was “incongruous.” Leaning forward to capture the rolling tangerine, I whispered, “Riegel’s car phone is to incongruous as Riegel’s tuxedo is to ridiculous.” When he secured the phone back in its slot, I said, “That thing’s a tad nouveau riche.”
Riegel shrugged. “It may be flashy, but it’s the future.” He patted the phone box like it was his favorite pet lap dog. “Promised Mom and Dad I’d take you out to lunch.”
“Was that them on the phone?” It hadn’t sounded like our parents.
Riegel ignored my question. “We have a little drive ahead of us down the coast. Before lunch, we need to stop over in Padanaram. Go see the cousins.”
“Did Mom put you up to this?” I asked.
“Come on,” Riegel said. “You love Ginger and Dill.”
We called Ginger and Dill Thatcher “the cousins,” but they weren’t blood relatives. Our mother carried a torch for their dead father, our faux uncle Roland Thatcher. The two had long ago enjoyed a failed courtship, then managed, despite their jealous spouses, to stay friends. Roland was the first to take me out sailing, the first man to show me the ropes. Gliding across Apponagansett Bay, he’d tell me stories about his ancestors fighting the Wampanoags during King Philip’s War. Roland was the real Yankee deal, a descendant of Pilgrims and revolutionaries, still lording victory over the redcoats. I was twelve when Roland dropped dead at the Connaught in Mayfair. My father joked that the British had finally wrested their revenge.
Riegel cleared his throat. “I’m trying to help out the cousins, but they seem dubious. Ginger asked for you specifically. You’re her tiger and all that.”
My brother explained that he’d brought me along to reassure Ginger. “Whatever she asks, just tell her everything will be okay.” I hadn’t seen Ginger in almost two years. Not since she’d dropped out of Brown and skipped off to Morocco with her French tutor. The last I knew of Dill, he’d failed his Series 7 exam for what seemed like the seventh time and finally given up on becoming an investment banker. Without their father to figure things out for them, Ginger and Dill had both stalled out, faltered.
“Plus”—Riegel winked—“Ginger has something she wants to show you.”
“So the cousins are back living with their mom?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Riegel. “That woman’s still ruining their lives.”

A historic landmark plaque posted on the front gate of the Thatchers’ seaside estate explained how on this site Roland’s long-ago descendants had tortured some Tories and helped create America. The enormous shingle-style mansion hovered above the water like a silvery luna moth readying for its final landing. The house boasted not one but two turrets—a large round tower with a screened-in sleeping porch and a smaller, narrower turret with a spiral staircase that led to an observation deck. From up there you could see the terraced lawns, all emerald turf, slope down and abruptly alter into ocher marsh grass, then salt-and-pepper sand. Instead of gargoyles, the gutters were decorated with sea monsters. Their large spouting mouths had terrified me when I was little.

The house had survived in my happy memory through the joy of sliding down its mahogany banisters, skimming in stocking feet across its marble floors, and the dark thrill of coasting between the cellar and attic inside the vestigial dumbwaiter. During one summer visit, Dill had lured, then trapped, me inside that dark tunnel. He was disappointed when I didn’t seem to mind.

Though the Thatchers could still claim a postcard view of the harbor, I saw the house now for what it was: a crude maze of additions, rambling uneven hallways, low-ceilinged rooms, patched and peeling wallpaper. I could hear the ancient plumbing whistle and drip. In the entryway, Riegel picked up a giant broken tooth of plaster that had decayed from the collapsing ceiling.

Ginger popped her head out from behind a hidden door. The house was filled with false walls and secret staircases. “You’re here to rescue me from the impending deluge.” My fake cousin waltzed into the foyer in a canary yellow evening gown, her face puffy, her domed belly straining against the satin bodice. Ginger was pregnant. I felt a sudden rush of love and sympathy. She ignored Riegel and greeted me with a wet kiss smacked straight on the lips.

Ginger had long scarlet hair but no freckles. I slung my arms around her bare burnished shoulders, her pregnant belly firm between us. I half adored Ginger. She was the closest thing I’d ever had to a sister. In truth, she sailed as well as I did, though I’d never heard her receive credit for this talent or for any talent beyond her ability to maintain a glowing year-round tan. Ginger liked to claim that she was probably part Native American. She’d whisper and wink, “One of my ancestors was held captive by a brutal, sexy tribe.”

Unless Ginger invited questioning, I didn’t feel that I could ask about the baby inside her or the man who’d put it there.
“Where’s Dill?” Riegel asked.
“Despairing in the east parlor.” Ginger motioned for us to follow her. “Dilly’s bidding farewell to the Renoir.”
The east parlor was nothing more than a medium-size sitting room with a view through the French doors of the Padanaram Harbor Club. Outside, a coterie of groundskeepers were strapping crosses of duct tape against the windows to keep the glass from blowing out from the storm’s winds. Like Riegel, Dill wore a tuxedo, his tie stiff around his neck. He sat spread-legged on a faded blue velvet sofa studying a large painting of an impressionistic seascape showcased in an ornate gilt frame. Staring at the painting through bloodshot eyes, Dill seemed determined to dive into the canvas.
Though I was stunned to find Ginger pregnant, somehow I was even more surprised that Dill had grown a beard. He looked like a sea captain, like the ghost of his father.
“Jason, darling, how do you like Dilly’s beard?” Ginger spun around in her evening gown, flashing a swirling layer of ruffles under her skirt. “The Thatcher men all have weak chins. Not like the Prosper boys. I told Dill the beard would make him scratchy but distinguished. What do you think?”
“Yes, Jason,” Dill said, “what do you think? You’ve been brought here for your opinions.” Dill leaned the Renoir against the sofa’s rolled arms. In the painting, the sky and the ocean were the same palette of blue and gray, and it was only the power of the brushstrokes that defined the horizon and distinguished air from water.
Riegel slapped my back. “Jason has always been a voice of reason.”
“I’m a little hurt,” I said. “You pretend to want my opinion but you three Cinderellas didn’t even invite me to last night’s ball.”
“Oh, it was decadent.” Ginger clasped my hands. “Riegel knows how to stalk his prey. But we missed you. I insisted Riegel play fetch. Told him we wouldn’t do anything without your approval. You’re my tiger. Remember? Tiger, tiger burning bright.”
“Ignore her, Jason.” Dill left the sofa, striding over to the French doors. He motioned to one of the workers outside to reenforce the duct tape. “Ginger’s hunting for a husband. Still hoping to make a good marriage.”
Ginger picked up the painting, propping the frame atop her pregnancy. Her mountainous belly seemed to fill the entire room. “I could be Jason’s bride,” she said.
“No,” said Dill. “You’re not cut out to be a wife. You’ve no manners. You didn’t even offer our guests a glass of water or a place to sit.”
Ginger handed the frame to Riegel, the cresting waves in the painting matching the sea outside. “Here’s some water,” she said to my brother. She perched on the sofa, fanning out her dress’s yellow skirt. “Jason, come sit on my lap.”
Once he had the painting in hand, Riegel turned to Dill and said, “Let’s get this wrapped up, shall we?” Riegel nodded for me to sit with Ginger, then quick-stepped it out of the parlor. Dill followed.
I sat down beside Ginger. She smelled oddly of cigarettes and talcum powder. “How is your mother?” I asked.
“She’s very fit. Every morning she goes to the beach. Swims a mile out and a mile back. Dilly keeps hoping she’ll catch a riptide and wind up in the Bermuda Triangle.”
“And how are you? All of you.”
“There is more of me, isn’t there?” she said. “I’m like a Russian nesting doll. Want to see something?”
Before I had a chance to answer, Ginger lifted her dress, pulling the soft layers of silk and the crinkly tulle back to reveal the full hemisphere of her ripeness. The belly skin pulled tight, a dark purple line bisecting the middle of her stomach. She had on flesh-colored panties and I could see the bristle of red pubic hair through the nylon. The whole display, the enormous mound of life, struck me as obscene and I was about to tell Ginger to lower her dress, to hide herself, when I saw the outline, first of tiny toes, then of the entire sole of a miniature foot kicking up from inside of her. I flinched.
“There’s a baby in there,” I said. “For real.”
“I’m telling you, Jason”—she pointed to where the foot had been— “I’ve never felt more alive.”

We sat like that for some time before Riegel stomped back in, impatient, jangling his car keys. “We’re going to be late,” he said, as though we had some pressing appointment.

Dill had disappeared and Ginger escorted us out to the porch, begging me to stay. “We can watch the waves swallow the veranda.”
Miriam Thatcher, Roland’s widow, appeared on the porch, three groundskeepers trailing behind her like courtiers. When she spoke, her voice carried the sound of a velvet rope being lifted.
“Well, our little mausoleum should be safe enough. The shutters are all latched, the French doors secured, and we sandbagged around the foundation.” Miriam removed an impeccably clean pair of suede gauntlets, passed them back to one of the men, then ordered the others to move the rattan deck furniture inside.
The old matriarch was painfully thin, her clavicles jutting out from her pink-and-green paisley dress. My mother always made fun of Miriam’s taste in clothing, “She looks like Lilly Pulitzer just threw up on her.” Miriam wore her gray-blond hair in a girlish bob. She’d been overseeing the lawn work in handmade Belgian loafers, gold anchors embroidered on the tops of the shoes. Though the mansion was falling down around her, she’d done an impressive job of preserving herself. My mother would have been jealous.
Riegel and I gave perfunctory pecks on cheeks and apologized for having to leave so quickly.
“No,” said Miriam. “You’re smart to go.”
“The house looks great,” I said. “Just as I remember it.”
“It’s been some time since we’ve seen you boys. The funeral, I imagine. I was so sorry to hear about your parents.” Miriam smiled at me. “Please give your mother our best.”
I looked at Riegel for some sort of explanation—what was there to hear about our parents? But my brother just skipped down the steps and warmed up the car. I promised Miriam that I would convey her respects to my mother, my tone painfully formal.
Miriam held on to the balustrade, a widow staring out at her harbor. “I imagine your mother’s still pining after Roland. But you know”— she turned and looked at me—“those two were never right for each other.”
Roland and my mom used to drink rum punch and smoke cigars while I sailed the three of us around Buzzards Bay, the briny sea air mixing with the almond smoke from their Cohibas. Mom called Roland “Bear” and he called her “Goldie.” I liked how relaxed Mom was around Roland. How she forgot to fuss over me.
I looked at Miriam and wondered what she missed most about her husband. Just then Dill shot out of the house. I said good-bye to Miriam and walked with Dill over to the Jaguar, the white gravel rough and unsteady beneath our shoes. I noticed the Renoir, wrapped in plastic, tucked behind the front seat.
“Why can’t you put it in the trunk?” Dill asked.
“It won’t fit,” Riegel reassured him.
“At least raise the top.” Dill leaned against the Jag and said to Riegel, “Promise me I’m doing the right thing.”
Riegel said, “If I’m wrong, you and Ginger can have my scalp.”