A Hundred Summers (22 page)

“I’ve thought about that, sure. I don’t mind. She’s a nice kid. I can teach her some baseball.”

I sat with one arm wrapped around my knees, the other holding my cigarette, thinking and thinking.

Graham reached out and put his hand on my elbow. His grip was soft, and so was his voice. “So, what do you say, Lily? Give me a chance?”

Give him a chance. Why not? Did I have a choice, really? I could say no. I could go on as I had, withering away into a prune of an old maid. Or I could go back to New York at summer’s end and start going to parties, start looking out for a lover, the way Aunt Julie did every September. Did I want to be like Aunt Julie?

Or I could take this man, whom any girl in her right mind should be leaping from her seat to snare: handsome to an inarguable perfection, charming company, well pedigreed, unaccountably eager for marriage and family. Would he make a good husband? Would he be faithful to me, a good father to our children? Who knew? What man was flawless? But I thought I could love him. I was already attracted to him, had always liked him. He flirted expertly, kissed expertly. He had already licked whiskey from my skin, a promising beginning, indeed; what else might he know to thrill me in bed? He would take me out, keep me amused, give me children and a home of my own. We knew the same people. He fit comfortably into my world, like a hand into a glove. Seaview liked Graham Pendleton, had always liked Graham Pendleton. A good sport, Graham Pendleton. A fine catch.

“So why not the first option?” I asked. “Why not just go to bed with me, and figure the rest out later?”

“Because it’s two different things. Because you don’t just sleep with the girl you’re thinking of marrying.”

“Is that a proposal?”

“Not yet it’s not. But it could be. I’d sure like to find out.”

One of the seagulls screamed and dove from the battery, and another followed. The fishing boat disappeared from sight, off to open water, and the horizon spread clear before us.

I finished my cigarette and tossed it into the waves and stood up. “All right, Graham. You have a month and a half left to court me. Then we’ll see.”

SO WE COURTED
with great decorum, and by the scorching end of August, the news of our engagement was expected daily up and down Seaview Neck.

“He’s perfect for you, darling,” said Aunt Julie, fanning herself languorously. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

I lay on my stomach, facing the water, hat shading my head, and watched the men cavort on the beach. Budgie had taken to inviting friends up for the weekend, stuffing her rooms with lacquered young stockbrokers and their red-lipped mistresses, who drank and smoked even more than she did. A group of them was now organizing a game of football on the beach before us—it was low tide—and Graham had been called over to fill the ranks.

He had been lying next to me on the blanket, just outside the perimeter of the umbrella. “I shouldn’t,” he’d said. “I’m supposed to be resting my shoulder.” But Budgie herself had bounced over and dragged him up, until, laughing and protesting, he’d dropped a kiss on my cheek (
You don’t mind, do you, sweetheart?
) and sauntered across the sand.

“Nobody thought of it before,” I said. “Not Graham, and certainly not me.” Even now, watching him, I couldn’t quite believe that such a magnificent creature belonged to me, or professed to, anyway. All the men were in their bathing trunks, without shirts, and Graham shone among them like a golden Adonis, tanned from the sun, muscles etched in picture-book symmetry, jaw squared and blue eyes flashing. His cheekbones rose elegantly above the rest of humanity.

Budgie was tugging at his hand, leading him into the throng. Someone tossed him the football, and he rolled it between his two hands, smiling, testing. He looked over at me and winked.

“Really, I wish you would share him on occasion,” said Aunt Julie. “Mondays, for example, when you’re busy planning the week’s shopping anyway, and don’t need a man about. My needs are simple, at my age. An hour or two would be sufficient.”

I slapped her arm with an indignation I wasn’t quite sure I felt. The truth was, I was entirely happy to share Graham Pendleton on Mondays, if Aunt Julie wanted him. I liked him very much, admired him, felt an obedient physical desire curl up from my middle when he kissed me in the evening, on our back porch. But possessive?

I watched him now as he followed after Budgie, as he gave her a playful slap on her bottom when she kicked an impatient spray of sand at his legs, trying to get him to throw her the football. At one time, they had been lovers. They had taken carnal knowledge of each other. You could still see some trace of that knowledge in the easy way they interacted, the little packets of physical contact. I examined myself for jealousy, for any sensation of discomfort or annoyance. I could find none. Was it because I was so sure of his devotion, expressed daily, or because I didn’t care enough?

Graham looked over at me and shrugged. I waved back at him. He was trying to organize them into two teams, based loosely on physical capabilities. His long arms motioned and pointed. I put my chin in my one hand, picked up my cigarette, and savored the rush of sensation in my lungs. It was hot again today, hot and humid, as it had been all summer long. This afternoon there would be thunderstorms, as there had been yesterday. The weight of the air pressed on my shoulders, making every movement slow, every action languid. I stubbed out the cigarette and rose. “I’m going for a swim. It’s too hot.”

Aunt Julie settled herself back on the blanket. “You’re crazy. It’s divine.”

I wandered to the edge of the water, keeping clear of the football game. The water was calm today, a millpond, the waves rolling in slowly as if they were just as oppressed by the heat as we were. I let the foam lap my legs, the kelp wrap around my ankles, and closed my eyes. (“You’ll burn your skin,” said Mother.)

“Lily!”

It was Budgie’s voice shouting my name. I turned.

“We’re one short! You’ve got to play with us. Please say you’ll play.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know how.”

Graham came up and swooped me into his arms. “I’ll show you. Come on, Lily. You can play on my team.”

I flailed my arms and legs until he put me down. “No, really. You can do better than that. How about Mr. Hubert?”

Budgie laughed. “We’d have to stop every two minutes for you-know-what. Your own mother would be better.”

“She’ll never come out in the sun and ruin her skin,” I said. Graham’s arm still rested around my waist; a friend tossed him the football and he caught it one-handed, without letting me go.

“What about Greenwald?” someone called out. “He used to play in college, didn’t he?”

“That’s right,” said Graham, turning to Budgie. “Where’s your loving husband, Mrs. Greenwald?”

“Back at the house, probably, looking over his old blueprints. He’ll never agree.”

“Oh, come on.” Graham winked. “Can’t you work your womanly wiles on him for us?”

She batted her eyelashes. “I want to keep practicing football. Send your own girl. Nick would do anything for Lily.”

A giggle passed between two of the women. Graham’s hand tightened at my waist.

“I’ll go,” said Norm Palmer.

“No, that’s all right,” said Graham. “Lily can go, can’t you, sweetheart?” He looked down at me, face smiling, eyes bland.

“I’ll go.” I picked up Graham’s hand from around my waist and kissed it. “I’ll be back in a minute, darling.”

Graham’s hand patted my behind as I left, just as it had Budgie’s.

I stopped at the blanket and put on my cotton dress over my swimsuit, struggled into my sandals, found my hat. Aunt Julie looked up. “Where are you going?”

“To the Greenwalds’. Nick’s wanted for the football game.”

She gave a low whistle. “Well, well. Hang on to your straps.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

The hot air clung to my skin as I walked down the lane to Nick’s house. We hadn’t spoken at all in the past month, since the night at the roadhouse; I had hardly even seen him. He and Budgie never came to Saturday-night dinners at the club anymore; instead, they stayed at their house, hosting Budgie’s parties, while Seaview huddled and clucked in disapproval at the music, the peals of laughter, the half-dressed women cavorting on the bluestone terrace.

As for me, I was too busy being courted by Graham Pendleton. We dined with the Palmers on Saturday; we went to the movies or dancing on Friday; we took walks and went sailing and played bridge with my mother in the clubhouse when the rain poured down. On fair mornings, Graham gave me his baseball glove and had me catch for him, as he began working his shoulder again, getting ready to play. Within a week or so, I was catching every ball with a confident leather-cushioned
thwack
.

There was no more jazz, no more whiskey, no more kissing below the neck. Graham delivered me to my door by midnight. We drank lemonade on the back porch, kissed, smoked, kissed some more. Occasionally Graham’s hand crept up my dress, or wandered in the no-man’s-land between my back and front, not quite reaching the sides of my breasts. Then he would pull back, wink suggestively, and say it was time for him to be going. He’d shortcut up across the unfenced back lawns of Seaview Neck, whistling, disappearing into the hot darkness, cigarette glowing orange from his fingers, and show up again at ten in the morning, fresh-faced and sparkle-eyed once more.

So Graham took up most of my time, and I liked it that way. I didn’t want to think about Nick, or the things he had said to me on the night of the roadhouse. I made sure I had no time to spare to think about Nick Greenwald, or to wonder what he did with his wife and his time.

I knew, of course, he spent much of that time with Kiki. When I pushed open the front door, which stood ajar, newly refinished and rehinged, I could hear her laughter to my right. I followed the sound, past Budgie’s fresh white walls and open doorways and gleaming mirrors, until I found the two of them sprawled in the sunroom, lying on their stomachs side by side, blueprints spread across the floor. In deference to the heat, Nick was in shirtsleeves and light flannel trousers, his endless legs stretching halfway across the room. Kiki wore her blue dress with white stripes and no shoes. She looked up and saw me first.

“Lily!” She jumped up and ran over and flung herself around my legs. “Nick was showing me the plans for his apartment in New York. A spiral staircase, Lily! He said I could come over and slide down the banister if . . .” She stopped.

“If you didn’t tell your sister,” Nick said. He rose up on his knees. “Is everything all right, Lily?”

He had been smiling widely when I entered, but the smile slid away as he looked at me, millimeter by millimeter, replaced by a look of intense alertness. I returned his gaze, and in the strange habit of memory, I thought of the way he had looked sitting across the table at the diner at college, that first morning. His features were the same, still precise and arresting, still able to alter with his mood: hard with determination, soft with love. The hazy sunshine floated in the room, touching his hazel eyes with gold. My heart was dropping away from my body.

I bent and put my arms around Kiki’s back. “Everything’s fine. You’re wanted at the beach. They’re playing football.”

“Football?”

I smiled. “You remember football, don’t you? Oblong ball, rectangular field.”

“You know how to play
football
, Nick?” Kiki asked in awe.

“Kiki, Nick was the best football player at Dartmouth College, once. You should have seen him. He used to throw the ball so far and so fast, you couldn’t even see it as it went through the air.”

Nick rose to his feet. “And then I broke my leg, and haven’t picked up a ball since.”

“Except once,” I heard myself say. “In Central Park.”

Kiki turned in my arms. “Which leg?”

“This one.” He pointed to his left leg.

“Is it all better now?”

Nick glanced at me, and away. “All better.”

Kiki darted forward and grabbed his hand. “Let’s go down to the beach! I want to see you play. I want you to throw the ball to me. I’ll bet I can catch it.”

“Ladies don’t bet, Kiki,” I said.

“You sound like Mother. Come on, Nick!” She tugged at his hand.

Nick looked at me helplessly.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I’ll tell them you were busy.”

“You
do
have to go,” said Kiki. “I
want
you to go.”

“Kiki!” I said, shocked.

“No, it’s all right,” said Nick. “I’ll go. Come along, Kiki. We’ll see what my old arm can do.”

She skipped along next to him. “Can I play, too, Nick? Can I be on your team?”

“May,”
I said. “
May
I play on your team.”

“If you like,” said Nick.

We found Kiki’s sandals and walked back up the lane to the beach, the three of us abreast, Kiki skipping along between us and holding both our hands. The sun beat down on my straw hat and radiated up my bare legs from the graveled lane. Kiki chattered away to the percussive crunch of our footsteps.

When we reached the beach, everyone looked at us, and even the seagulls seemed to cease their screaming for a pregnant instant.