The Girls of August (7 page)

I snapped open my napkin, determined that our first shared meal on the island would
not be ruined by Crabby Coochie’s presence or absence. As I slipped my spoon into
the velvety soup, I asked, “How are the kids?”

“They’re fine,” both women answered in tandem.

“And Curry?” Rachel asked.

“She’s great. Seems to be loving Cambridge.”

“Hope she feels that way once school starts,” Barbara said. “But she should be A-OK.
Smart girl, that one.”

“Yes, she is,” I said. And then we all fell silent, and not because we didn’t have
anything to say, but because this wasn’t right. The set number was four. And Baby
didn’t count. She wasn’t a girl of August. She just wasn’t.

After about thirty seconds of our staring out at the ocean, not eating, not drinking,
Rachel finally said, “Oh, Christ. Let’s just get this over with. I will never forgive
Teddy for taking Melinda from us. Never. I am still angry and still waiting for him
to fess up that he was responsible.”

“It won’t bring her back,” Barbara said. “There’s nothing he can say or do to make
it right.”

“But it’s his fault.”

“I don’t know, y’all,” I said. “I imagine Teddy feels worse than anybody about the
accident. I mean, he really, really loved her.”

“He really loved who?”

We all jerked our gazes away from the water. There stood Baby, hair wet and combed
flat. She’d slipped into a turquoise cotton shift. Barefoot, without any makeup on
and sweetly tanned, the child was a natural beauty. I had to give her that.

“Melinda,” Rachel said. “Teddy really loved Melinda.”

Baby’s face quivered and turned scarlet, as if she might be on the precipice of
tears. As I watched her, willing her not to break down, it dawned on me that being
the third Mrs. Teddy Patterson was no walk in the park. The other wives, to varying
degrees, were always in the room.

She pulled a chair over and Barbara made room for her on her side. Baby surveyed
the soup and sandwiches. Her face brightened. “This looks great!” she said, spooning
several ladlefuls of soup into her bowl. She dipped her sandwich into the soup and
then said, her mouth full, “He still does.”

“He still does what?” Rachel asked, her eyes narrowing, snakelike.

“Teddy still loves Melinda.” Baby wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Evidently
money did not automatically come with manners. “And that’s OK.” She glugged her wine,
set down the glass, and, with barely a pause, said, “He should love her. I wouldn’t
want to be with a man who fell out of love with his dead wife.”

Barbara did not conceal her surprise. “Wow! That’s a great attitude, Baby. I’m sure
Teddy appreciates it.”

Baby nodded, her normally animated face still and serious. And
serious
looked funny on her, like when a little child tries to explain to a parent a situation
she finds grave and inexplicable.

“I told Teddy that I think of her like my sister. And I want to do right by her.”
Then Baby said, “But I don’t know if I can.”

I glanced at Rachel, who was not convinced. She opened her mouth, and I was sure
a poison-tipped arrow was about to fly, so I jumped in.

“Baby, Melinda was a very fine person. And we miss her something terrible. But that
doesn’t affect how we see you.”

“Awwww! Thank you!” Baby’s eyes brightened. “I just love you guys!” she said.

Rachel responded by making a clucking sound.

And that’s pretty much how our first night on Tiger Island went. We ate good, simple
food, drank lots of wine, divided the chores among us (I would play chef and Barbara
would be my assistant, Baby would do the dishes, Rachel would take out the trash),
and, as the nearly full moon rose up out of the water, we talked about silly things,
dreams of little consequence. Baby wanted a diamond tennis bracelet for her twenty-third
birthday, which was just three months away. “And a dog. I want a little dog that
we get from the pound.”

Rachel said that if she were rich, she’d give away every last penny, except she’d
give a modest sum to each of her five kids. “Ollie could fend for himself,” she said,
and when she did, her voice broke. I looked at her sharply—she was not given to
public displays of emotion—and I sensed there was some sort of trouble brewing, but
on that night, under the glow of that big moon, I could not imagine what problems
might be rattling Rachel.

Barbara said that if she could have anything in the world it would be that all her
friends and relatives, both living and dead, would have a “big ol’ soiree” and everybody
would tell the truth about everything. “Talk about a reckoning!” she said, giggling,
but the laughter did not reach her eyes, and I wondered if both she and Rachel had
come on this trip with suitcases full of secrets.

“What about you?” Baby asked. “If you could have anything in the world, Madison, what
would it be?”

I started to speak, but stopped. I knew if I uttered one word, I would burst into
tears. That urge to cry, I told myself, was probably from the wine. I looked at Rachel
first, then Barbara. They both knew what my Achilles’ heel was: my barren womb.

Not having a clue, Baby said, smiling, “Well?”

“World peace,” I blurted. “I’d want world peace.”

Rachel guffawed.

Barbara said, “Let me find your tiara!”

“A queen is born!” Rachel crowed.

Then everyone but Baby started laughing. She looked at us, one at a time, as if
we were off our rockers, her pert little face knotted into a scowl. “What’s so funny?”

“World peace,” Barbara said, wiping giggle-tears off her cheeks. “It’s what bubbleheaded
Miss America contestants always say.”

“Shoot,” Baby said, still clearly not getting it. “I always wanted to try out for
Miss America but then I went and got married. You know, I can twirl a fire baton.”

“You can?” I asked, happy to move the focus off of me.

She nodded yes. “If I can get some kerosene while we’re here, I’ll show you.”

“Great!” Barbara said. “Wine and a floor show.”

“Talent show,” Rachel said. “Let’s have a goddamned talent show while we’re here.”

“That would be woooonderful!” Baby said, jumping up and spinning around before falling
on her round behind. “Whoops.”

“No more wine for you,” Barbara said, pouring herself a refill.

This was nice. The sea breeze. The bright moon. The stars. The easy conversation.
“Well, ladies,” I said, lifting my glass while Baby scrambled to her feet and rubbed
her bum, “welcome home!”

“Welcome home!”

“Welcome home!”

“Welcome home!”

We clinked glasses and Baby chugged from the bottle. And when the moon was nearly
right above the house, causing the lightning rod with its cobalt ball to appear made
out of quicksilver, we all hugged and then drifted to bed and no one said anything
mean about Baby.

I do believe that each of us slept the whole night through without our real lives
interrupting our dreams.

I will not deny that I am a superstitious woman. I avoid black cats when at all
possible. I never walk under ladders. I believe that I must tell Mac I love him each
time we finish a phone conversation or else something horrendous will happen. After
all, you never know when a meteor might plummet from the heavens and strike your
house. Or when squirrels will chew through the wiring in your attic, setting the
whole house ablaze. Or when a nest of rattlers will take a liking to the dark space
under your driver’s seat…talk about an accident waiting to happen!

That being the case, and in order to ensure a rollicking good time with the girls
of August, I had developed a full first-day ritual: Get out of bed before dawn and
watch the sun levitate out of the pink waters. If I didn’t, I feared all manner
of mayhem could descend.

As my eyes adjusted to being open and as my brain slowly began to fire on all cylinders,
I imagined the sun rising out of the Atlantic: the golds, the wild blues, the pink
stain, the illumination of a dawning day. It promised to be stunning.

Not bothering to flip on a light, I slipped out of my pajamas and into my bathing
suit in the dying darkness. I headed downstairs and into the kitchen in search of
coffee. The heart pine floors were cool beneath my bare feet. Without the sounds
of the wind and surf, Tiger’s Eye would have been resolutely silent.

To my surprise, someone had already made coffee. I opened the cabinet door and found
an array of big mugs in bright colors. Baby was a bit of a challenge, but she obviously
came from a happy and loving family.

Mug in hand, I pattered through the living room, eased open the front door, and encountered
my second surprise of the morning. Barbara was sitting on the steps, staring at
the water, holding her coffee cup in both hands.
It’s OK
, I thought, cautioning myself.
This is not bad luck. This is good luck. Good, abundant luck
.

“Good morning, Barbara. Mind if I join you?”

“Maddy!” She patted the empty spot next to her. “Have a seat.”

“You’re up awfully early,” I said, settling down beside her.

“Oh, well, you know…sleep, it’s overrated.”

She gazed into the distance and I felt a smidge guilty for having interrupted her
reverie. She surely seemed lost in thought. And, if I were blatantly honest, the
gathering cloud of crow’s-feet around her pretty brown eyes deepened her beauty.
“It’s starting,” she said.

I looked at the horizon. Indeed it was. A glimmering line of liquid silver broke
the darkness at the edge of the ocean. “It’s going to be a good one.”

“Sure as hell is,” and she reached for something by her left foot. “Bailey’s?”

“My, my, Barbara! Of course.” I held up my cup and she poured a healthy shot of
sweet liqueur into my coffee and then did likewise with hers. This was a different
Barbara. Up at the crack of dawn. Drinking at the crack of dawn. An assertive ease
fueling her gestures. The Barbara I knew had always been a tad tentative. Rachel
and I were the leaders of our happy band. Barbara had always followed us, a gentle
acquiescence lighting her eyes. Now a fierce light burned, leaving no room for equivocation.

She stood and her hair unfurled from its loosely caught ponytail. I liked this new
Barbara.

I followed her toward the ocean as the night slowly melted away.

After an hour or so spent walking the beach, watching the sun’s ascent amid a purple-and-gold
sky, agreeing that Teddy Patterson could tack the title “cradle robber” onto his
personal résumé right after “gold digger,” and sipping our spiked coffee, hunger
pulled Barbara and me back to Tiger’s Eye, where Baby and Rachel were still soundly
asleep.

Barbara rinsed out our mugs and I studied the contents of the fridge. It was going
on eight thirty and already I could feel our time slipping away. “You know what?”
I said, looking over my shoulder. “This ain’t no slumber party. I’ll fry the eggs
if you rouse those two out of bed.”

Barbara scanned the kitchen, obviously deep in thought, as if a great idea were brewing.
Then she grabbed a pan, a lid, and two big spoons. “We’re
both
going to rouse them,” she said, her eyes gleaming.

“Aha!” I said, perceiving her meaning.

We were a duet composed solely of cacophony. We marched through the living room
and up the stairs, pounding on our makeshift instruments for all we were worth. The
last time I’d behaved in such a fashion my bike still sported training wheels, and
a training bra was nothing but a gleam in my un-made-up eyes.

We reached the landing and headed down the hall. Barbara paused in her banging only
long enough to throw open Rachel’s door and belt out a rewritten version of that
old Tom Jones song. “Wake up, pussycat! Whoa-o-o-o-o-ah!”

Rachel groaned, rolled over, and pushed her burgundy-colored silk eye mask up on
her forehead. Her blue eyes were heavy with sleep.

“What the…” She shaded her eyes and looked at us as though we were on fire.

“You cannot sleep all day, Ms. Grump-along,” I said. “This is our first day in paradise,
and we are going to have fun even if it kills us!”

“Big whoop,” she grumbled. But she did throw back the sheet, sit up, stretch, and
yawn loud and long. “OK, guys,” she said, removing the eye mask and tossing it on
the white wicker side table, “you win.” She looked bedraggled, as if sleep had done
her no favors.

“Next up?” Barbara asked, her right eyebrow arched roguishly.

“Baby!” we both yelled, resuming our pot banging, our lack of rhythm no doubt aided
by the Bailey’s we’d ingested at sunrise. Giggling, we rushed out of the room as
Rachel rifled through her sheets in search of something lost in the night.

Barbara paused for a moment and I nearly ran into her. Over the clanging, in a stage
whisper, she said, “Ugh. I’m losing my enthusiasm.” She nodded her head in the direction
of Baby’s room.

“No can do. She’s one of us now.”

Barbara narrowed her eyes. “Never!” She laughed like a madwoman and we took off again.

As we hustled down the hall, I thought that surely with all the commotion Baby would
be awake. Barbara pounded on the door three times: “I’m gonna huff!”
Pound
!
“And puff!”
Pound
!
“And blooow your house down.”
Pound
!
Then she threw open the door. We clanked and hooted our way in. And then we stopped.

Baby
was
still asleep, laid out like a silk ribbon on top of the sheet. She wore a long
nightshirt the same color as her hair. But the golden girl in slumber did not look
like her giddy waking self. Rather, there was something about her—maybe it was the
turn of her mouth or the one hand clenched into a fist—that made me sad. But her
deep sleep piqued my concern.