The Summer House (10 page)

She closed her eyes and swallowed a small lump that had grown in her throat.

She supposed that technically, she already was an orphan. Her father had died his own hishy, swishy death three years ago from internal injuries from a Vineyard car crash that had killed her mother on the spot. Within forty-eight hours they were both dead, and Evelyn was left with Grandfather—and he was left with her.

Now he’d be gone soon, too. There would be the traditional funeral for a United States congressman, and Evelyn would be in the spotlight for one lousy day.

She opened her eyes and pushed back her tears.

Maybe Daniel would be allowed to come to the funeral from wherever he was. She’d have to remember to speak to Senator Jameison about that. She’d have to pull a few strings, but it should be easy, easier than being alone.

She looked back to Grandfather and realized that if he died he would never know she had given away his prized pistol, pretending it was from him. Grandfather would never know, so he would never be angry at her. But then
again, maybe he would understand. Maybe he would even approve.

Summer Sundays on the Vineyard were usually filled with the aroma of Mother’s fresh muffins, the intermingling rustle of
The Boston Globe
and
The New York Times
, and the chatter of who was doing what today with whom and at what time.

This morning, however, the air in the kitchen had the pallor of a funeral home and the waxy whispers of the dead, as if Daniel had already left for boot camp, as if he were already on his way. To make matters worse, Evelyn Carter had called at seven o’clock.

“More coffee?” Mother murmured to Father, who responded only with a silent shake of his head, as if he were really concentrating on the op-ed page he held in his hand.

BeBe noticed that Roger, too, was more silent than usual. Roger wasn’t any happier than the rest of them that Daniel was leaving. Roger was—had always been—curiously content with position number two and perhaps even fearful to have the spotlight turned on him.

Lizzie was the only one who unashamedly showed her feelings, crying a little each time Daniel said something meant to make her laugh. At least she seemed to have forgotten about Josh Miller, thank God.

As for Daniel, well, he’d sat and stood so many times now that BeBe wanted to tell him to knock it off, but it didn’t seem appropriate this morning, even for her.

She wondered if all families whose sons and brothers were going off to war were as off-centered as hers, poised in teeter-totter motion, waiting for one another to react.

“What time are you leaving?” she asked.

“On the two-fifteen out of Oak Bluffs.” Daniel stood
up. “Hey, Lizzie, grab the Polaroid. I want to go out on the lawn.”

“Why?” Mother asked.

“Just a little memorabilia.” He kissed Mother on the top of her head and smiled that smile that always helped him get away with everything, the lucky shit. He was, no doubt, wanting to find one last skunk, for the record.

BeBe decided it was a good time to exit, maybe go down to the beach or into town, to be anywhere but here. She knew Daniel would understand. They had already said their good-byes last night.

BeBe didn’t go to the beach. Instead, she decided it wasn’t every day her older brother deserted her, and it wasn’t as if Oak Bluffs was that far away. If the traffic was steady, she shouldn’t have to wait too long.

Standing by the roadside, she stuck out her thumb, glad she’d worn her cutoff jeans this morning and the halter top that Father hated because he said it made her look like a whore.

Liz stood by the window of her upstairs bedroom where the dormer met the eaves, where the tiny-flowered wallpaper went up the walls and across the slanted ceiling—a trick that Mother thought made the room seem larger. It did not seem larger now, but instead felt stuffy and confining.

She held back the ball-fringed white Cape Cod curtain and watched Father steer the Buick from the driveway, onto the dirt road and toward the street, toward the ferry, toward Vietnam.

She had tucked one of the Polaroids inside Daniel’s
duffel bag for good luck: she’d told him that any man strong enough to tangle with Vineyard skunks should have no problem with the North Vietnamese.

Then she had taken Father’s keys and slipped the other photo into the locked drawer of his desk, next to the pistol that Evelyn had given Daniel—where it couldn’t be damaged or lost.

“Be good,” Liz had said into Daniel’s ear at the front door. What she’d really wanted to say was, “Be careful.”

When the Buick was out of sight. Liz pulled her eyes from the driveway and turned, looking around her room. A queer, lonely scent hung in the air, as if the house knew that something, someone, was missing, that Daniel had gone and things would never be the same.

The first to stop had been a decent guy in a pickup who was headed into Vineyard Haven. BeBe had him drop her off at the “Cross Island Parkway” as Daniel had always jokingly called the narrow road that cut across the Vineyard to Edgartown.

Waiting for her next ride, BeBe realized she was already thinking of her brother in the past tense, as if he had already been shot at, blown up, or bombed, and was a statistic on the
NBC Nightly News
.

Body count
, she remembered hearing it called, just as another vehicle stopped—this time a station wagon driven by a small-eyed man who looked in want of something more than a passenger, and might be willing to pay if BeBe were so inclined, if she were that hard up.

She was not. She waved him away and started walking again, wishing she had worn something other than sandals, especially the sandals that laced halfway up her legs and were, like most of her wardrobe, built for style not comfort.

One car passed, then another and another. And then another pickup truck pulled to the side of the road.

“Want a ride, lady?”

BeBe turned and looked directly at Tuna. “I’m not sure,” she replied. “How far are you going?”

He smiled. “Not as far as I used to. But hop in.”

She climbed into the old truck where they had made love lots of times, back when Tuna still lived up island with his folks and they had nowhere else to go. Two years ago he had bought the cottage and, well, they’d no longer needed the truck. BeBe looked at the worn cloth seat and inhaled its officious sea-scent. “Nice wheels,” she commented.

He put the truck into gear and spun from the gravel back onto the road. “Thanks for not giving anything away last night,” he said.

“Yeah. Well, I kind of figured your wife had assumed you were a virgin when you married her.”

“BeBe …”

She shrugged. “No problem, Tuna. Hey, we were summer friends, now it’s different. It’s okay. Honest.”

He settled back on the seat. “You here until Labor Day?” he asked. As if she would be anything but.

Suddenly, however, BeBe wasn’t certain. “I don’t know yet,” she replied. “I might go to summer school.” With Daniel gone, and with Tuna up and married, what was the point of staying here?

“Would you like to come for dinner sometime?” he asked.

She looked out the cloudy window at the scrub oaks and the clear sky. She wondered how it was that men seemed to be able to do that—fuck you one day, then have you interact with their family the next, as if you were just pals, as if the fucking meant nothing, nothing at all. She thought of Michael Barton and was glad he had left.

“I think I’ll pass on dinner,” she said. “But thanks for the invitation.” He nodded, and whether or not he understood, she didn’t much care.

“I’m going into Edgartown,” he said. “You?”

“Oak Bluffs. Would you mind dropping me at the turnoff?”

“Hell, no, I’m not going to do that. A little detour won’t kill me.”

BeBe nodded.

“Where in the Bluffs?” he asked.

“The ferry,” she replied. “I want to make it in time to see the two-fifteen leave.”

They made it in plenty of time. Tuna dropped her off across from the pier, waved, and acted as if he’d really see her later as he said.

BeBe shook off an impending depression by reminding herself why she was here.
Daniel
, she said to herself.
My big brother Daniel
. For one last look—just a look, no more good-byes.

After crossing the street, she stepped inside the Steamship office and checked the clock: one forty-eight. For once, for this one thing, BeBe was not late. And no one would ever even know.

She stared outside at the stream of cars that jockeyed for position on the long, wobbly pier, cautiously moving forward as if they were race cars waiting for the green flag. They jockeyed, then stopped, parked where they would stay until they were herded into the great steel cavity that would safely transport them across Vineyard Sound: as safely, she hoped, as one of those big cargo planes would take Daniel halfway around the world … and back again.

Then she saw them: Daniel and Father, crossing the street. There was an ache between her breasts as she studied
her brother. He was wearing a khaki uniform she’d not seen him wear before and had on a small khaki hat and polished black shoes. He was no longer a carefree Vineyard boy. He was a soldier. And this was about war.

Father was walking close to Daniel, as if there were a big crowd—which there was not. As the men moved toward the boat, Father reached out and almost touched Daniel’s arm—a hesitant hand that stopped somewhere in midair then returned stoically to his side. Even here, even now, Father couldn’t express his feelings with Daniel, who was his pride and his joy.

She had a twinge of … what was it? Compassion? For Father? For the fact that despite all his power, he had not been able to stop his son from going to Vietnam?

In the distance now, close to the gangplank, Father and Daniel stopped. Father no longer hesitated, as if now it was okay: he put his arm on Daniel’s shoulder. And then, Daniel hugged him. Father held tight. Tighter, longer, it seemed, than necessary. The knot in BeBe’s chest grew.

The men broke apart and Daniel disappeared onto the ferry. Father stood waiting until the vehicles drove into the boat. Minutes later, the steel mass blew its long, foreboding whistle, then chugged slowly from the pier. Father still waited until the ferry eased its way across the water, growing smaller and smaller with each moment that passed.

Finally Father lumbered back toward land, his head bent, his hand passing over his face as if wiping away … tears?

For nineteen years, BeBe had wanted to despise this controlling, intimidating man who was her father. Now here he looked … lonely. And vulnerable. Feelings BeBe understood well. He looked almost human.

She lingered in the ticket office until she saw him cross the street, until it was safe to leave and try and hitch a
ride. Then an odd thought came over her:
Father
. Should she ask Father to take her home?

She went outside and saw the top of his graying head as it moved toward the parking lot. She headed quickly across the street.

Just as she was about to catch up with him at the Buick, a woman appeared next to him. She was dressed all in white from her tank top to her capris to her high-heeled sandals, even to the chiffon scarf that tied back her long, blond hair. BeBe had no idea who she was. She did not look much older than BeBe herself.

And then the woman … 
Holy shit
, BeBe thought.

The woman wiped the tears from Father’s cheeks and kissed him, full on the lips.

Her first thought was to run. BeBe bolted as if she’d been shot in the head and the heart at the same time. She darted around the cars in the lot, bumping into side-view mirrors and stumbling over her sandals, her damn lace-up sandals that typified her “free-spirited soul,” as Daniel had called it, and were in no way designed for running away, at least, not literally.

“Bastard” was the only word she could coherently piece together among the words and images that whirred in her brain.

William Woodman Adams, pillar of society, head of the most important family this side of the fucking Atlantic if you asked him … William Woodman Adams was nothing more than a two-timing, phony, lying piece of pretentious shit.

As she’d always suspected.

She wanted to run away and forget she’d ever seen what she’d seen.

Then she thought of Mother. Innocent, hurt-no-one, raised-four-children Mother. The woman who had
endured Father’s crap for too many years. And suddenly BeBe’s desire to escape was replaced by another need: this one, to rip out the woman-in-white’s bottle-blond hair, then kick Father squarely in his balls.

Taking a deep breath and rubbing her side, BeBe raised her head and marched back toward the Buick.

“It’s not what you think,” Father said when he turned and saw the look on BeBe’s face.

The woman stepped forward and put her hand on BeBe’s arm. BeBe recoiled. “My name is Lucy Talbot,” she said. “I’m Hugh Talbot’s wife.”

“How convenient, Father,” BeBe sneered, “that both of you are married.” What a big, fat waste of time. She started to turn away; Father grabbed her shoulder and held her there.

“Just who do you think you are, young lady?”

She snapped back. “Don’t call me ‘young lady.’ Why don’t you tell your friend here what you really think of me? Maybe you can tell her over cocktails, while your family is home waiting … without Daniel.”

“If we weren’t on a public street …”

“Wait just a minute,” Blondie interrupted. “Stop it, both of you. This is my fault. Your father got my husband a job. Thanks to him, Hugh is a sheriff. I was thanking your father. That’s all.”

BeBe frowned.
Talbot
. She vaguely remembered hearing the name. “Do you kiss every man who gets your husband a job?”

The woman shook her head. “You don’t understand. Hugh was in the Army. He was on his way to Vietnam. But your father intervened …”

BeBe squinted. “Excuse me?” she interrupted. “My father … intervened?”

Father moved his hand toward the woman. “Lucy,” he said, “I’d rather not …”

“No, Father,” BeBe said, her lips barely moving. “I want to hear this.”