The Summer Cottage (5 page)

“Go right ahead,” said Claire, waving them off. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

As soon as they had their tea in plastic tumblers and were walking across the street to the beach, Helen said, “She doesn’t mean it.”

“She most certainly does. She means every damn word of it. God, Helen, and you wonder why I don’t get to Connecticut more often.”

“You’ve got to ignore it. Whenever she says hurtful stuff like that, you’ve got to ignore it.”

“Easy for you to say, cherished one.”

“I get my share of it, too, Pammy. When you spend several hours a day with your aged, ill mother, you get a ration.”

“Not that I’ve ever heard, Saint Helen.”

“It’s so easy for you to say that, to justify your absence and your lack of concern.” They descended the steps to the beach. Pammy walked into the water; Helen followed.

“I
am
concerned, Helen. I’m just not very good at showing it.” Pammy looked over at her sister. “And I know you’re a good caregiver. Because you are, the rest of us can take a holiday.”

“
I
need a holiday.”

Pammy smiled. “You got one, sister. Saturday is the Fourth of July!”

Helen laughed. “Work aside. How are you? How is life in that big, bad city?”

“Big and bad.”

“But you love it.”

“Most of the time, I do,” said Pammy, wading out of the water and onto the sand. “But sometimes I wonder what took me there in the first place.”

“I believe his name was Harold.”

“You have the memory of twin elephants. How did you ever remember Harold?”

“Easy. How can you forget a guy whose mother named him after hearing ‘Hark! The Harold Angels Sing’ piped into the delivery room of the hospital on Christmas Eve?”

“I’d forgotten that.”

“What I forget is who came after Harold—Sam or Anthony?”

“Anthony,” said Pammy, leading Helen back up the stairs, back to the house. “What an ass he was. Remember how you had to call him Anthony? If you called him Tony, he wouldn’t respond.”

“Yes,” Helen said. “I do remember. Charlotte called him Tony the entire Labor Day weekend that year.”

“Charlotte was always so contrary.”

“She still is,” said Helen. “You’ll be able to see that for yourself tomorrow.”

“How about Thomas? Is he coming?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m hopeful. Saturday, I think, if he comes.”

“Only you,” said Pammy. “Only you could get Thomas to come.”

“It’s really Mom who got him to come—if he does come.”

“And if he does come, will Barb and the kids come with him?”

“Yes.”

“She’s a peach, isn’t she?” Pammy opened the back screen door for her sister.

“Absolutely,” said Helen.

“How about Charles and the boys?” Pammy looked at the floor next to the washing machine and dryer for ratty sneakers and wet towels, evidence of her nephews’ presence.

“Fishing. They should be here on Friday.” Helen hesitated, wondering if she should ask about Pammy’s latest companion. Pammy read her mind.

“Mark’s not coming. He’s really busy at work right now and didn’t think he should take the time.”

Seeing the injured look on Pammy’s face, Helen wrapped her arm around her sister’s shoulders. “Then I’ve got you all to myself,” she said. “Let’s check in with Mom on the porch.”

“You go. I’m going to head upstairs to unpack.”

“Put your suit on, so we can sit on the beach.”

“See you in ten.”

Helen walked back onto the porch, where Claire was napping in her chair, positioned so that the afternoon sun would hit and warm her torso. Out of habit more than necessity, Helen covered her mother’s outstretched legs with the ever-ready blue and white blanket and picked up the magazine article she had been reading when Pammy arrived. She had forgotten to tell her mother that Pammy hadn’t gotten the job. Had Helen remembered, she could have explained the situation. And the sharp words Claire had spoken would have been directed at her and not at Pammy. There were a number of things Pammy needed to hear, but commentary on her lack of seniority at work was not one of them. And for that, Helen blamed herself.

C
HAPTER
6

 

H
elen and Pammy lay on Charlotte’s bed, intently watching her apply pink lipstick to her O-shaped mouth. Nonchalant but dead accurate, Charlotte covered her lips with Pink Blossoms, then blotted them once with a tissue. She fished around her capacious floral makeup bag until she found her Thick ’N Rich mascara and Pretty as a Peacock eye shadow. Helen and Pammy knew all the names of the brands and various shades, since, after Charlotte went out for the night, they made themselves up and pranced around her bedroom like the wild turkeys that lived in the woods behind their Stonefield, Connecticut, house. Next, Charlotte extracted the big rollers from her long cinnamon-colored hair. She brushed out the puffy curls that transformed her straight locks into a thick, wavy mane. She smiled at herself in the mirror, then glanced at her sisters, who were still enchanted by the process. “How do I look?” she asked, well aware of the only possible response.

“Great,” said Pammy. “Where are you going?”

“A bunch of us are meeting at the duck pond. Rick said he’d take us to The Lantern for a drink.”

“How can you get into The Lantern? The sign says you have to be eighteen.”

“You and Helen could probably get into The Lantern,” said Charlotte, putting on her faded jean jacket. “That old man will take anybody’s money.” Charlotte opened the third drawer in the small chest that sat atop her bureau and took out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. She grabbed her blue suede purse from her unmade bed and stuffed the cigarettes into the side pocket. She hesitated, then took the Pink Blossoms lipstick from her makeup bag and dropped it into the pocket next to the Marlboros. She zipped them in. “You two have got to stop using all my stuff,” said Charlotte, looking at her sisters. “Give it up or buy your own.”

Feigning shock, Pammy looked at Helen. “Have we touched Charlotte’s stuff?”

“Never,” Helen said solemnly.

“And I’m a virgin,” said Charlotte, her back to them, reaching for the doorknob. Pammy giggled and Helen blanched, wondering if she had overheard something she wasn’t meant to hear. Charlotte turned and faced them again. “Look. Leave my things alone tonight and tomorrow I’ll take you into town, and we can get you your own stuff. How’s that sound?”

“I have eighty-three cents,” said Pammy. “What will that buy?” Helen, who was saving her fifty cents for the Good Humor truck, said nothing.

“I have some extra money,” said Charlotte. “It will be my treat.” Pammy and Helen looked at each other. Charlotte wasn’t in the habit of treating or buying anything for anyone but herself, even though John Thompson had explained to all of his children that they would feel better about themselves if they were more focused on giving than on receiving. Helen and Pammy convinced themselves that they were too young to understand their dad’s philanthropic philosophy, but they were pretty good at playing along and nodding their heads whenever he gave them their allowance. Thomas played along, too, or maybe he actually subscribed to what their father told them. The only one who didn’t understand or pretend was Charlotte, who told her sisters the only thing she faked was an orgasm. Charlotte was not only impervious to the needs of others, but she also always demanded something in return for her efforts. Never give something for nothing, she had told her sisters more than once, and expect more than you deserve. So what was this treat all about? “No strings attached,” Charlotte said with a smile. She stood next to the door she had just opened and waited for her sisters to recognize the sign that they were no longer welcome in her room.

Pammy and Helen scrambled off their sister’s bed and retreated to their bedroom, where they listened as Charlotte walked down the stairs and onto the porch. They then heard a brief interchange of what they knew were questions asked by their parents about where Charlotte was going and with whom, followed by cursory responses. Within a minute, they heard the screen door open and shut; Charlotte was released into the night. When they knew she was out of the house, they scurried back to her room, and together sat down in front of Charlotte’s mirror. “Do me first,” said Pammy.

“Who do you want to be?”

“Tammy Jennings.”

“You were Tammy last night.”

“And I want to be Tammy again tonight.”

“Then you stuff your own shirt.”

“I did last night, didn’t I?”

“He’s not that great, you know,” said Helen, tentatively.

“Who?” asked Pammy, looking at herself in the mirror.

“Michael Johanson, you dope. If he’s been with Tammy Jennings this long, he’s even dumber than she is.”

“Is that possible?” asked Pammy.

Helen laughed, and then said, “Close your eyes.” Pammy, now facing her younger sister on the chintz-covered piano bench Charlotte used as a vanity stool, closed her eyes and imagined herself walking hand-in-hand with Michael on the beach under a brilliant full moon. Helen’s gentle application of eye shadow made her shiver, just as Michael’s soft caresses would. In her mind, she replayed her favorite fantasy. After their walk, Michael would lead her to a secluded place on the beach. He would sit down beside her on the sand and wrap one of his giant arms around her. He would whisper in her ear that he loved her, always had loved her. Tammy, he would say, was unattractive, and the only reason he dated her was pity. Pammy smiled at this thought, knowing, even in her imagination, how ridiculous it was. “What color lipstick?” asked Helen.

“How about that lip gloss. Is there any left?”

“I think Charlotte hid the peach Pot o’ Gloss,” said Helen, rooting through the bag. “But here’s some strawberry.” Charlotte applied gloss to her lips with her pinky, which is how Helen spread it on Pammy’s lower lip. Afterward, Pammy shmushed her lips together, as Charlotte did, to transfer some of the gloss to the top lip. Pammy was pretty good at it. Next, Helen applied bright pink blush. She brushed the powder from the bottom of Pammy’s cheekbone, just above her mouth, up and out, stopping close to the top of Pammy’s ear. This, Charlotte had told them, was the proper way to use blush. Any other method yielded a clown-like, unnatural look. Helen looked at Pammy, her eyes still closed, and saw exactly what she would describe as unnatural. “You’re done, Tammy,” she said.

“Not yet,” said Pammy. “Michael is just about to kiss me.”

“You’re pathetic. Do me.”

“Who do you want to be?” Pammy opened her eyes.

“You,” said Helen, teasing her sister.

“That’s easy.” Pammy put all the makeup back in the bag. “You’re done.”

 

Helen opened her eyes when she heard someone open the back screen door, located just underneath one of her bedroom windows. She flipped over onto her stomach and waited while Charlotte made her way up the stairs in the dark. Charlotte walked slowly down the hallway, bumping into the wall, Helen guessed, somewhere between Thomas’s still vacant room and their parents’ room. Charlotte then opened the door to the linen closet, but closed it quickly, apparently realizing it wasn’t the bathroom, which Helen figured was her destination. Finding it, Charlotte flipped open the toilet lid and sat down. Helen could hear everything through the thin pine-paneled walls. Her sister groaned. A moment later, a loud stream of urine hit the water in the bowl. After she flushed, Charlotte skipped washing her hands and made her way to her bedroom. Helen scooted off the top bunk, tiptoed down the hall and into Charlotte’s bedroom, and shut the door behind her. Leaning against the wall, Charlotte stepped out of her jeans and underwear and then peeled off her shirt, dropping it on the floor. She pulled her bra over her head, balled it up in her hands, and then threw it in the corner. Then in a crouched, animal-like position, she moved toward her bed. Even though, or perhaps because, their mother forbade it, Charlotte slept in the nude. Every Christmas, Claire bought her three daughters flannel nightgowns, and, every Christmas, Charlotte never took hers out of the box. Pammy and Helen had an extensive collection of Charlotte’s castoffs that Pammy wore instead of her own, and Helen used for dressing up since they were too big. “Charlotte,” Helen whispered.

“Shit! Helen, is that you?”

“Yes.”

“You scared the crap out of me.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, you ought to be.”

“Charlotte?”

“What.”

“Are you drunk?”

Charlotte laughed. “Absolutely.”

“You shouldn’t go out with Rick. He’s a jerk,” said Helen, speaking her mind because her sister was drunk and would not remember their conversation in the morning.

“He buys me drinks, and he’s a good lay. What else is there?”

“Love,” Helen said immediately. “I think you should wait until you’re in love.”

“And I think,” said Charlotte, rolling over and facing the wall, “you’ve been spending too much time with Pammy.”

“Because she’s in love?”

“You know as well as I know that she’s in love with Michael Johanson.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“When Tammy Jennings is still around, yeah.”

“What’s so great about Tammy Jennings?”

“Nothing.”

“So why does Michael go out with her?” Helen used the term her sister used for dating someone to show Charlotte that she was terminology savvy. Charlotte, who burped loudly, didn’t appear to care.

“Why do you think, Helen? And please don’t tell me it’s her scintillating conversation.”

“Who’d ever think that?” said Helen, sitting down on the floor.

“She is a bit of a moron, that’s for sure. Some guys like morons. It makes them feel superior.”

“No kidding.”

“No kidding.”

Helen told Charlotte she would never intentionally hang around with an idiot. “Sometimes you can’t help it,” said Charlotte. “But whenever I have a choice, I’d certainly rather be with an interesting person, someone with something to say.”

“So you don’t like hanging around with dopes?” Helen was hoping her sister might acknowledge, in her inebriated condition, that her boyfriend, Rick, was a dope, which would either make her think about breaking up with him or prompt her to explain to Helen further why she continued to spend time with him, drinks and sex aside.

Charlotte didn’t answer. It was only when Helen repeated the question that she realized her sister had fallen asleep.

 

The next morning, Charlotte slept late. Helen had caught fifteen crabs and was feeding stale hotdog rolls to the ducks when Pammy biked up to her, breathless. “She’s up,” she said. “She said she’ll take us.” Helen immediately hurled the last roll as far as she could, and then briefly watched as three ducks swam to and then fought over it. “Helen!”

Helen started to run while Pammy pedaled, slowly at first and then gaining momentum and speed. The only chance Pammy had of beating Helen on foot was to be on her bike. And still, often, Helen won. Claire regularly told the neighbors that her youngest daughter would surely be a track star someday because she was as fast as greased lightning. When they got back to the house, Charlotte was standing next to her ten-year-old Chevy Impala, with her keys in her hand. “First stop is Cumberland Farms,” Charlotte said, as she started the car. “That idiot Thomas drank the last Coke.”

Helen, actually, was the idiot who drank the last Coke, but she decided to keep quiet. Coke was not her favorite soda, but she knew consuming it was the only way to get Charlotte to town. Charlotte’s intentions the night before seemed good, but Helen knew the follow-through could be iffy.

After downing the Coke and smoking two cigarettes outside the convenience store, Charlotte drove Helen and Pammy to Seaside Pharmacy. She walked down the magazine aisle, where she picked up the latest copy of
Seventeen
magazine, to the makeup section in the back. “Maybelline is what we want,” Charlotte said with authority. “All the top models wear it.”

Helen and Pammy ran their fingers over the diminutive plastic cases. Colorful, shimmering rectangles with names like Iris, Plum, and Sea Foam lay in neat rows, promising to transform the most ordinary maiden into a goddess. Old Fart Higgins, the pharmacist, who was preparing prescriptions behind the tall white counter in the back, peered over his bifocals at them. Secretly fearing him, Helen quickly put her hands in the pockets of her shorts. Charlotte, insouciant as always, pulled several cases off the shelf and held them up to her sisters’ faces. Picking two, Charlotte laid the others on the shelf and continued down the aisle. Helen picked up the rejected items and put them back in their proper places, then caught up with Charlotte and Pammy, who were looking at lipsticks. Peach, Passion Fruit, Mango, Cherry, Strawberry—Helen longed to unscrew the lids of each Pot o’ Gloss and inhale its intoxicating scent. Keenly aware of Mr. Higgins, who had walked the length of his counter to keep an eye on them, Helen quickly selected Cherry and handed it to Charlotte. Pammy, who loved Pot o’ Gloss but thought the stick colors were more grown-up, chose Soft Summer Pink, the lipstick shade featured for July.

They crossed the aisle to consider mascaras. Charlotte told Pammy and Helen she would buy just one tube for them to share. “Helen, you’re really too young for this anyway,” said Charlotte. “And Pammy, you’ve got lashes to die for, so you don’t need much.” Pammy batted her eyelashes at Helen.

After much deliberation, Charlotte chose Lazy Hazelnut, for “that soft, unstudied look,” according to the package. Charlotte put all the cosmetics into her basket and walked to the front of the store. She chose three Snickers bars from the rack next to the cash register, and then placed the basket on the counter, signaling the end of the shopping trip. Pammy and Helen looked at each other and smiled. “I’ve just got to have a cheeseburger,” Charlotte said, as soon as they were outside. “Rick says that’s the best cure for a hangover.”

“What else does Rick say?” Helen asked, wondering what other axioms ruled Rick’s simple life. She wanted to say, “Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker,” but she kept mum. Charlotte despised sarcasm coming from others, and she had, after all, just bought the makeup.