Between Husbands and Friends (29 page)

What were they thinking, I wonder, how could Max and Kate and Chip leave
me
in charge of four children? While the sun slowly slides across the sky, I pretend to read a book, but really I’m watching their every move with a kind of desperate vigilance, as if I’m being tested, as if the truth is out now, that I’m a worthless, reckless, dangerous woman, a poor excuse for a mother, a fool. A menace.

I’ve forgotten my sunglasses. The sun on the water is so brilliant it blinds me, my eyes burn with the effort of watching the children in the glinting light, and I’m glad, the discomfort pulls my mind away from the seductive whispers of self-loathing that rose up in my mind yesterday and threaten to multiply, obliterating all other thoughts. Now I understand why young women burn themselves with cigarettes, why troubled adolescents cut themselves, because their very own body has become a stranger to them, a traitor, a thing apart that acts of its own stupid,
stupid
accord, and must be punished. Now for the first time I understand how one pain desires another, and when the memory of Max’s face last night, or Kate’s, or Chip’s, threatens to make me burst into a torrent of tears right here on the sunny beach in front of the children, I dig my nails into my skin as hard as I can, and that pain, pure and shrill, draws my mind away and provides a stinging moment of relief.

But I am the grown-up here. It’s essential, I remind myself, to be rational, competent, decisive. If only because the other three have left us, these children are in my charge, and I can at
least protect them now. This moment. This moment. And the next. So I track their every move in the water and slather them with sunblock. At the end of the afternoon I round them up and drive them home. We all shower and clean up and the M&Ms help me chop veggies for tacos while Jeremy and Abby return to their card house.

Tacos are a naturally messy meal, and at dinner, the four kids laugh when the filling falls back onto the plate or a crunched taco shell flies across the table. They joke and tease and blast each other with obscene noises. They laugh so hard they spit. I let them. They are silly, even unruly, but they are safe.

Every night Kate calls to talk to her children. The third night, when I answer the phone, Kate asks me, “Are my kids driving you crazy?”

I miss you, Kate! I want to cry. I’m so confused, so lonely, so guilty, so bad, God, what I wouldn’t give to really talk to you now. But her voice is chilly and formal. I reply, “Not at all.”

“They can come home any time. Just let me know. And I’ve mailed you a check for groceries and stuff.” She sounds like a stranger.

Kate, I think, my Kate, Katie! “That’s not necessary.”

“I know. But I want you to cash it. I’ll feel awkward otherwise.”

At this I can’t help but burst out laughing. “Well, God, I wouldn’t want you to feel awkward, Kate.”

She doesn’t reply for a moment, but when she does, her voice is softer. “How’s Jeremy?”

“Fine. He seems perfectly healthy. But I’ve scheduled a complete workup for him in September. How’s Garrison?”

“Not good.”

“Perhaps you should talk to him about all this. He’s wise.”

“Maybe.”

We’re beginning to talk. Hope rises in me like a stream. “I want you to know that I didn’t tell Chip anything.”

“About what?”

“You know what I mean. The men … those first summers here.”

“That was a long time ago, Lucy.”

“Yeah, well, so was Chip’s infidelity. And mine.”

“But you were my best friend, Lucy. That makes a difference.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. But you still need to talk to Chip.”

“Why? Because it suits you, because you want to get everything out in the open?” Her voice grows angry. “I’m sorry about Jeremy, but don’t use his illness to hide your shit.”

“Kate—”

“I’ve got to go. Call me if you want me to come get my kids.”

Max doesn’t phone me, so I call Stan, who has friends who work at the newspaper.

“What’s up?” Stan asks lazily.

I start to tell Stan about Jeremy and find my throat blocked. If I tell Stan, that will somehow make Jeremy’s illness more real. Will bring it closer. Jeremy doesn’t even know about it yet, it doesn’t seem fair to give this information to someone outside our family. Besides, I don’t deserve the comfort of Stan’s sympathy.

“Max and I have had an argument, Stan. A big one.”

“So Max is depressed?”

“Very. Could you just kind of keep an eye on him for me? Phone me if you hear rumors that they’re worried about him at work?”

“Can do.”

“How’s Write?/Right?”

“Everything’s cool. You seen a doctor about those anxiety attacks?”

“You know, Stan, they haven’t been occurring lately.”

“Great. Maybe you don’t have anything to be anxious about.”

“That must be it,” I say drily.

“Take care of yourself, lady,” Stan says warmly.

“Thanks.” Unexpected tears sting my eyes.

A few days later, I receive an envelope in the mail with the Write?/Right return address on it.
Stan has sent me Max’s editorial from this week’s newspaper. It’s all about CDA. Max declares that in the beginning he didn’t know that Paul Richardson, the owner of the paper, was also a shareholder in the corporation that wants to build offices on the land, but he knows now, and he stands firm on his position: The land should be built on. It will be beneficial to the town. He’d be glad to debate this with anyone. I’m glad Max has taken this stand. I’m glad to know he’s working, just as if his life has not been shattered.

I read the editorial to the children and talk with them about this, the issues of the town, the more private matters of fighting for what one believes in.

Margaret asks, “When is Dad coming back to the island?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her truthfully. “Why don’t you call him and find out?”

It’s after seven. He doesn’t answer at home. He doesn’t answer at the office.

“We’ll try later,” I tell her.

We do, but we still can’t reach him.

It is probably the most beautiful August I’ve ever spent on the island. We go to the beach every day. The sun beats down, spangling the ocean with diamonds. We all swim, build sand castles, play Frisbee, search for shells. We turn as brown as filberts. Jeremy doesn’t cough. At night we sit around the dining room table playing noisy games of Clue and Monopoly and poker.

A week goes by like a dream, the only reality the flash-fire thought—Jeremy has cystic fibrosis—that wakes me in my bed at night and assaults me all through the day, flaring over my head, or exploding in my chest like a gunshot. There is nothing I can do, no way I can change things, but I can hope, I can pray, that when the tests come back, they will prove that Max is Jeremy’s father, even if it means—terrible thought, I’m a traitor whatever I wish. Because of me, there’s a 50 percent chance that Margaret carries the CF gene. It’s so odd, not having anyone to talk to, not Kate or Max. It’s lonely, and I hold the ache of loneliness close to me, pressing it against me like a sliver of glass or a razor, using it to punish me for what I’ve brought upon us all, knowing that as a punishment it is not nearly sufficient.

Thursday night I take the four children to see a comedy at the Dreamland Theater. About a thousand other families want to see this movie, too, but we take our place in the long snaking line and wait patiently, progressing by inches to the box office where we’re at last rewarded with tickets. Matthew steers the Littlies in to get seats for us all; Margaret and I wait in line at the concession stand to buy candy and popcorn for everyone.

The movie’s funny and brilliantly bright. When the lights come on everything around us seems slightly dim, as if we’ve faded or our vision has. This is exacerbated when we make our way with the crowd to the exit to find the dark night teeming with rain. Sharp needles of cold rain blow sideways in the wind; I pull Jeremy back into the shelter of the foyer.

“Wait a minute!” I call to Matthew, Margaret, and Abby, who are being swept by the crowd out the front doors. Stripping off my sweatshirt, I yank it on over Jeremy’s head.

“Mom!” he fusses. “Don’t!”

“I don’t want you to get a cold, honey.” I squat down to his level, surrounded by an army of knees and feet and legs, shoved and buffeted by the general movement of the crowd.

“I won’t get a cold! I don’t want to wear your stupid sweatshirt, I’ll look stupid!” For a small boy, he’s determined; as fast as I can pull it down, he struggles to pull it up and off.

“No one will see you.” When had he become so stubborn? Finally: “Jeremy Maxwell West!” I snap, iron in my voice. “We are not leaving the theater until you wear this sweatshirt, do you understand?”

A woman my age looks down at me, alarmed by my tone of voice, then understands the problem and gives me a sympathetic smile.

“All right.” Jeremy gives up and goes limp, so that I practically have to drag him by the hand through the crowd and out the door.

I parked the Volvo on Oak Street, next to 21 Federal. With Jeremy’s hand tight in mine, I run across the street and up the sidewalk, open the car door, and usher him in.

Matthew and Margaret are already in the backseat.

“Where’s Abby?” I ask.