The Other Sister, page 18
“Shh! That’s our little secret, Larry.” Lawrence is one of Dad’s oldest clients and knows a lot of people. He’s on the boards of any number of corporations and trusts and so forth. With everything that is happening, it wouldn’t hurt to have a few extra resources in place, in case they’re needed. “I just wanted to ask, are you free later in the week? There’s something I need to talk with you about.” It’s best to remain a little vague, because I’m not yet sure exactly what our conversation would need to be about.
He squeezes my hand in both of his.
“I’m always free for you, Marie! Nothing serious, I hope?” He lays his hand on my forearm and looks attentively into my eyes.
“Oh, no, nothing. There are just some questions with a new client.”
“Well, then, call whenever you need to. My time is yours.” He gives my arm another of his little squeezes.
I politely extricate myself and move to settle down at my own table. I hope to have a few minutes to settle down and fix myself properly. There’s so much happening, I feel like my head is about to start spinning. But no. Miranda is already leading a beaming Ashley Dickinson toward my table.
“Marie!” We air kiss, both cheeks. She sounds cheerful, but her light has dimmed perceptibly now that she sees I’m the only one at the table. “Martin didn’t tell me you’d be here, too.”
Her tone reminds me I should have texted her as soon as I’d heard from Dad. “I’m sorry, Ashley, but my father was detained.”
The light switches off. Ashley doesn’t even bother with a façade of courtesy. She just grabs the menu card and stares at it. Our server comes by to pour the ice water and take our drinks order.
“Bloody Mary,” Ashley snaps, like the server is already late.
“Just coffee for me, thank you.”
Ashley Dickinson is blond, of course, and gliding through her mid-forties. She has a long face but a snub nose. Her sleeveless pink sheath dress displays a body that’s the kind of fit-thin achieved with a certain amount of help from surgeons, dietitians, and personal trainers. Her jewelry is, well, bold, I suppose is a good word. Gold cuffs shackle her tan wrists. That broad gold collar must hurt when it bumps against her exposed collarbones. I wonder idly what she’s hiding under there.
“Have you been here before?” I ask cheerfully. “The Mediterranean eggs are delicious.”
“Mmm.” Ashley pulls out her phone and checks something on the screen. I respond by bringing out my planner.
“You’ll be glad to know your house is almost ready. Oh, and those finials you liked so much are in. I’d love to schedule some time so you can see what we’ve done, and let us know if there are any last-minute changes.”
“Oh, yeah. Anytime.” She taps her screen a few more times. “No, wait. I’ve got a massage scheduled tomorrow…you’re sure Martin said he couldn’t meet us?”
“He asked me to tell you how sorry he is. It was unavoidable. I’m afraid this is our busy season.”
Our drinks arrive and Ashley takes a long swallow of Bloody Mary, tilting her head back as if she was trying to down a handful of pills along with tomato juice and vodka. My skin curdles and I look away just in time to see Miranda threading her way through the dining room again, this time with my father following closely behind.
Ashley catches me staring, turns her head and sees. The switch is thrown again. Mrs. Ashley Dickinson sets down her Bloody Mary and lights up like a Christmas tree.
“Ladies.” Dad pauses to put a hand on the back of Ashley’s chair. He gives her his best smile, the one that can make the rest of the world fade away. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
“Marie said you weren’t coming.” Ashley holds out her slim hand.
Dad takes her hand. He doesn’t shake, just holds it for a minute. Under her tan and the precise layers of concealer and powder, Ashley turns a shade of pink that a woman her age should have left behind years ago.
“I didn’t think I was going to be able to get away,” Dad tells her. “But…in the end, I just couldn’t help myself. I had to be here.”
Dad is playing up to Mrs. Dickinson, part of what he calls keeping the client sweet. I’ve seen it many times. He has a knack for creating an air of comfort and friendship, and it truly shines when he’s around these women.
Dad sits between us and picks up the menu card. “What are we having?”
“Well, I was thinking about the Mediterranean eggs,” Ashley says.
“Oh, no, no. You’ve got to try the blueberry pancakes.”
“Oh, I can’t possibly. I have to watch my figure.”
Dad smiles and leans forward for a stage whisper. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. And they’re delicious. My favorites.”
“Well…Maybe I can indulge just this once.” She hands him the menu card and preens in the glow of his approval.
“You’ll love them.” He turns to the server as she arrives. “Krista, blueberry pancakes for two, and Marie? The eggs?”
“Yes, please.”
Dad is entirely focused on Ashley. In response she smiles up into his deep eyes and leans forward, her perfectly manicured fingers toying with her necklace. Eating out of the palm of his hand. Dad’s gaze flickers toward me. We share the cold joke of her hopeless flirtation, and she doesn’t see a thing.
“Now, have you seen the house?” Dad asks.
“Not yet. But I’m sure it’s perfect.”
“It is. Marie has done her usual magnificent job.” Neither of them look toward me, but her air grows smug. She imagines I am here to act as secretary.
“Will Todd be coming up this week?” The words slip out of me, and I have to work to keep my face casual. It is the wrong time for that question, and I know it. I am off my stride this morning.
“Ppppbbbtt.” Ashley takes another gulp of Bloody Mary. “Somehow this has managed to be his busy season, too. Funny how that happens, isn’t it?”
Dad tsks softly. “I hope he’s not going to make a habit of staying away. I’d hate to think of you in your lovely new house, all alone. The princess in her tower.” He smiles at the metaphor, and so does Ashley.
“Oh, don’t worry about me. After all, I’m up here to relax, aren’t I?” She flutters again.
Dad leans in, leading her on. Not that it’s hard. Like so many others, she wants him to save her from her particular gilded cage.
She’s going to be trouble.
Women like Ashley do not understand. They are useful because they convince their husbands and boyfriends to spend extra for the services that come with the houses—the housekeeping staff, the personal chef, the driver and car. Not one of them can see past the surface of his eyes to his abiding indifference. The only woman in his life was my mother. No one else has ever been able to give him anything he truly wanted. But so many of them want to try, I’ve learned to size them up in advance. Unfortunately, experience tells me Ashley is going to be one of the ones who calls every day for the first few months, trying to get past me to talk with Dad. It’s always painful to hear their manufactured excuses and their petulance.
That, of course, is part of the reason Dad likes me to be at these meetings. By showing me how ridiculous these women make themselves over a few smiles and a little carefully choreographed attention, he is teaching me how to behave. Still. Always. Forever. Until death do us part.
The pancakes come, each stack sizzling in a little cast-iron skillet. Dad slices into his, but watches Ashley. She takes up a forkful, tilting her head back as she swallows, just like she did with the Bloody Mary.
“There now,” he says. “Didn’t I tell you? Aren’t they perfect?”
“Oh, you were so right.”
My skillet holds eggs in tomato sauce and two slices of grilled ciabatta. I occasionally turn a page in my planner as I eat. I am not required for this part of the conversation.
I should also call Geraldine. After our last encounter, I have to at least leave her a message. It would look strange if I didn’t. Maybe I should stop by the house again.
“Well, don’t worry. That’s why we have Marie. Marie?”
I have kept a careful half an ear on the discussion, so I am able to answer without hesitation, despite my personal maunderings. “We should have the last details settled by next Tuesday.”
“It must be lovely to have a daughter who’s so devoted,” remarks Ashley. “I can’t even get Portia to come home on the weekends.”
“Well, between us, Marie’s the one who runs the show. I couldn’t find my socks without her.”
I find myself staring at my father’s hands. The twisted patterns of veins beneath his spotted skin. My father does not monitor his blood pressure the way he should. He works too hard. The risk of stroke is very serious. “Even the bills?” Ashley folds her arms on the table, in an attitude that incidentally pushes up her cleavage. “Wow. I’ve got absolutely no head for numbers. I’m just a little beach bunny.”
“Oh, Marie knows where all the bodies are buried. She dug the graves herself.”
My father is looking right at me. I will not clench my pencil. I will only raise my eyes and smile with perfect comfort to show how well I share the joke.
At the same time, I picture him on the sidewalk outside, facedown. People gather around to gawp at the sprawling old man with his spotted, veiny hands spread out to catch the sun. Someone snaps a picture to post on Facebook later. Someone remembers to call the ambulance. But they are all too late.
And where am I in this little scene? Up at Windward Hill, because Ashley Dickinson decided she wants her draperies all changed to forest green, something my father suggested at the last minute.
How terrible that would be.
3.
I walk out of the Cherry Tree a little too quickly. After Dad’s remark about how much I know, I was unable to settle back into my role as audience and enabler. Dad will have something to say about that later, I’m sure.
I climb into my Escalade and make sure the tinted windows are rolled up. The parking lot faces the groomed beach and the lake. Gulls hover on the brisk wind. The silhouettes of children and families stroll, or trudge, against the bright background of blue sky and blue lake.
Why can’t I calm down?
It must be overwork. It’s been a busy few days, and there’s the party on Sunday, and, of course, Geraldine, and, unexpectedly, Walt. They’re all pushing too many plans along too quickly. Who wouldn’t get a little stressed?
Maybe I’ll give myself an afternoon off. Take a little drive down to Petoskey, maybe. Do some window shopping for Geraldine. We’re going to need to redecorate when everything’s over with Dad and she’s moved back into the Rose House. She hates to shop, so I’ll have to know exactly where to go to find what she likes. She’ll probably want Aunt Trish’s old room. I’ll have to show her how much I’ve already done, but she’s sure to have a few ideas of her own…
This is when I see Robbie.
I recognize him even in the middle of the crowd of other teenagers. They’re striding up the beach, all in a bunch, dodging the kids and aiming kicks at the gulls. Robbie has his hands shoved in his jacket pocket and he’s shouting something.
I recognize Shelly Bronski, Lauren’s Bronski’s oldest, and that’s Max Koepler. There are two others I don’t know. They’ve all got torn jeans and wrinkled T-shirts and their hair is bleached and dyed all sorts of rainbow colors.
I don’t like them. My son shouldn’t be with them. He shouldn’t be here at all, not when he was supposed to be in Petoskey.
But I can’t criticize. I can’t yell, not when he’s with his friends. But I am still his mother. I can’t just leave him here.
I glance at Marie in the mirror and make sure her face is sunny, and I climb back out of the car.
“Robbie!” I wave. I will apologize for embarrassing him later. “Hello!”
I ignore the expression on his face and the way the others snicker. He mouths something like “back in a sec,” trots up the sand, and edges between the parked cars.
“Mom. What’s going on?” He hasn’t shaved, and I can smell tobacco and beer on his breath. Anger rises in a bubble, filling my throat, and I have to press down hard.
“Nothing.” I smile and rub his arm. “I just missed you. Are those your band friends?”
They’re clustered together on the sand, not coming any closer, but not looking away. I know their kind. I went to school with them. Nothing changes but the clothes and the hair.
“A couple of them. We were gonna go out for pizza. I was gonna text you.”
It’s a harmless enough lie. Something Geraldine might have said when she was his age. But there’s that smell on his breath. Not even the constant wind off the lake can take it away.
“I’d like to spend a little time with you, Robbie.” I do not let my smile waver. “You can tell your friends you’ll go out with them another time.”
“No, Mom. I’ll be home for dinner. Promise.”
“I want you home now.” No, Marie. Stop, Marie. There is no need for this. But in the back of my awareness, Mom is laughing at me. She knows I cannot control my son, not even now when it’s so important that all the pieces stay where I put them. “There’re things we need to discuss.”
I need time. Just another couple of days. Just until after the party. That’s all.
“Like what?” he demands.
“We are not going to be talking about personal business in the middle of a parking lot,” I snap. “I’ll give you a ride.”
“I’ve got my car, Mom.”
“And you smell like a brewery!”
Robbie glances behind, to see if my shout carried. The others are clustered together, looking at the lake and each other. It’s impossible to know if they heard.
“Jesus, Mom! Why are you so…”
I adjust my look, ever so slightly, and Robbie’s mouth closes. He looks away, and looks back.
“Okay. Okay. Just gimme a sec.”
I watch him trudge back to the others. I am very glad I can’t hear what’s being said between them. I know I should just let him go. I’m overreacting. I need to get hold of myself. What does it matter what his friends look like? He’ll be away from here soon. Once he’s settled in Ann Arbor, he’ll be free to come and go as he chooses, and decide life for himself.
Unlike Geraldine. Unlike me.
Robbie slogs back across the sand and climbs into the passenger seat. I shut us both into the SUV my father gave me and drive away in silence.
All the way, I can feel Mom in the backseat, enjoying the show.
The Household Tales came out of a country ravaged by decades of war. So, perhaps it’s not surprising they are boundlessly bloody and full of impossible dangers. What is a little surprising is how they also emphasize the absolute importance of being kind to strangers.
—Out of the Woods: Musings on Fairy Tales in the Real World,
Dr. Geraldine Monroe
GERALDINE, PRESENT DAY
LAKE MICHIGAN SHORELINE
1.
“Why here?”
That’s the first thing David says to me as I sit down next to him. We’re on a curved stretch of sand and stones, using a driftwood log as a bench. Lake Michigan spreads out in front of us. It’s evening and the sky above the lake is burning orange and fuchsia pink. The wind’s kicking up. White-capped waves curl up and crash down, filling the rapidly cooling air with the scent of fresh water. All at once I’m dried out and thirsty and I want nothing more than to strip down and dive in.
“I wanted to see if you’d come,” I tell him. “And if I would.”
He’s wearing a cap with the Whitestone Security logo. There’s a matching logo on his police-blue polo shirt. His fat gold wedding band still flashes on his left hand. The flesh bulges around its edges and I wonder if it’s ever going to come off. Every time I see him, his hairline is a little farther back and his belly is a little more prominent. What really hurts, though, is watching his strong shoulders slump under the weight of a life he has no way to get out from under.
I wanted to meet earlier today, but David had to wait until he was off-shift. He takes long sips of coffee from a Starbucks cup and is not looking at me. I’ve already had so much caffeine today, I feel like I’m going to shake apart.
The last time David and I came here together was the night Mom died. Back then, you could drive right onto the sand, if you didn’t mind bottoming out a couple of times on the way down. David sprawled beside me on the hood of my car, the murder weapon. We smoked cigarettes and drank beer and stared at the lake. He kept passing me bottles of Budweiser and I kept downing them, hoping the rip current of alcohol and nicotine would drag me past what I had just done.
I don’t know why I decided to screw him. I don’t know why he decided to go along with it.
“Why’d you stay, David?” I ask him now.
He makes a face like the coffee’s turned to ditch water. He also changes the subject.
“That’s a hell of a mess you’ve made of your face there, G.”
“You should see the other guy.”
“Are you serious?”
I don’t answer.
He sighs and lets the Starbucks cup dangle between his knees. “Everybody says you’re staying down at the old house.”
“Everybody’s right.”
“The place is pretty much a wreck.”
“Not pretty much. It is a wreck.”
“And there’s been some trouble.”
“Drugs. Yeah. I heard. In Whitestone Harbor. What is the world coming to?”
David tugs his hat brim down, shading his tired eyes from the glare on the stones and the waves.
“I was hoping you might know who can help me fix the place up,” I say. “I can do some stuff on my own, but not the roof, and I’m going to need a new stove hooked up.”
“You have any money?”
“Some.”
His eyes travel across me. He’s remembering, just like I am, and comparing those memories to what he sees now.
“Like two thousand dollars?” he asks me.
He squeezes my hand in both of his.
“I’m always free for you, Marie! Nothing serious, I hope?” He lays his hand on my forearm and looks attentively into my eyes.
“Oh, no, nothing. There are just some questions with a new client.”
“Well, then, call whenever you need to. My time is yours.” He gives my arm another of his little squeezes.
I politely extricate myself and move to settle down at my own table. I hope to have a few minutes to settle down and fix myself properly. There’s so much happening, I feel like my head is about to start spinning. But no. Miranda is already leading a beaming Ashley Dickinson toward my table.
“Marie!” We air kiss, both cheeks. She sounds cheerful, but her light has dimmed perceptibly now that she sees I’m the only one at the table. “Martin didn’t tell me you’d be here, too.”
Her tone reminds me I should have texted her as soon as I’d heard from Dad. “I’m sorry, Ashley, but my father was detained.”
The light switches off. Ashley doesn’t even bother with a façade of courtesy. She just grabs the menu card and stares at it. Our server comes by to pour the ice water and take our drinks order.
“Bloody Mary,” Ashley snaps, like the server is already late.
“Just coffee for me, thank you.”
Ashley Dickinson is blond, of course, and gliding through her mid-forties. She has a long face but a snub nose. Her sleeveless pink sheath dress displays a body that’s the kind of fit-thin achieved with a certain amount of help from surgeons, dietitians, and personal trainers. Her jewelry is, well, bold, I suppose is a good word. Gold cuffs shackle her tan wrists. That broad gold collar must hurt when it bumps against her exposed collarbones. I wonder idly what she’s hiding under there.
“Have you been here before?” I ask cheerfully. “The Mediterranean eggs are delicious.”
“Mmm.” Ashley pulls out her phone and checks something on the screen. I respond by bringing out my planner.
“You’ll be glad to know your house is almost ready. Oh, and those finials you liked so much are in. I’d love to schedule some time so you can see what we’ve done, and let us know if there are any last-minute changes.”
“Oh, yeah. Anytime.” She taps her screen a few more times. “No, wait. I’ve got a massage scheduled tomorrow…you’re sure Martin said he couldn’t meet us?”
“He asked me to tell you how sorry he is. It was unavoidable. I’m afraid this is our busy season.”
Our drinks arrive and Ashley takes a long swallow of Bloody Mary, tilting her head back as if she was trying to down a handful of pills along with tomato juice and vodka. My skin curdles and I look away just in time to see Miranda threading her way through the dining room again, this time with my father following closely behind.
Ashley catches me staring, turns her head and sees. The switch is thrown again. Mrs. Ashley Dickinson sets down her Bloody Mary and lights up like a Christmas tree.
“Ladies.” Dad pauses to put a hand on the back of Ashley’s chair. He gives her his best smile, the one that can make the rest of the world fade away. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
“Marie said you weren’t coming.” Ashley holds out her slim hand.
Dad takes her hand. He doesn’t shake, just holds it for a minute. Under her tan and the precise layers of concealer and powder, Ashley turns a shade of pink that a woman her age should have left behind years ago.
“I didn’t think I was going to be able to get away,” Dad tells her. “But…in the end, I just couldn’t help myself. I had to be here.”
Dad is playing up to Mrs. Dickinson, part of what he calls keeping the client sweet. I’ve seen it many times. He has a knack for creating an air of comfort and friendship, and it truly shines when he’s around these women.
Dad sits between us and picks up the menu card. “What are we having?”
“Well, I was thinking about the Mediterranean eggs,” Ashley says.
“Oh, no, no. You’ve got to try the blueberry pancakes.”
“Oh, I can’t possibly. I have to watch my figure.”
Dad smiles and leans forward for a stage whisper. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. And they’re delicious. My favorites.”
“Well…Maybe I can indulge just this once.” She hands him the menu card and preens in the glow of his approval.
“You’ll love them.” He turns to the server as she arrives. “Krista, blueberry pancakes for two, and Marie? The eggs?”
“Yes, please.”
Dad is entirely focused on Ashley. In response she smiles up into his deep eyes and leans forward, her perfectly manicured fingers toying with her necklace. Eating out of the palm of his hand. Dad’s gaze flickers toward me. We share the cold joke of her hopeless flirtation, and she doesn’t see a thing.
“Now, have you seen the house?” Dad asks.
“Not yet. But I’m sure it’s perfect.”
“It is. Marie has done her usual magnificent job.” Neither of them look toward me, but her air grows smug. She imagines I am here to act as secretary.
“Will Todd be coming up this week?” The words slip out of me, and I have to work to keep my face casual. It is the wrong time for that question, and I know it. I am off my stride this morning.
“Ppppbbbtt.” Ashley takes another gulp of Bloody Mary. “Somehow this has managed to be his busy season, too. Funny how that happens, isn’t it?”
Dad tsks softly. “I hope he’s not going to make a habit of staying away. I’d hate to think of you in your lovely new house, all alone. The princess in her tower.” He smiles at the metaphor, and so does Ashley.
“Oh, don’t worry about me. After all, I’m up here to relax, aren’t I?” She flutters again.
Dad leans in, leading her on. Not that it’s hard. Like so many others, she wants him to save her from her particular gilded cage.
She’s going to be trouble.
Women like Ashley do not understand. They are useful because they convince their husbands and boyfriends to spend extra for the services that come with the houses—the housekeeping staff, the personal chef, the driver and car. Not one of them can see past the surface of his eyes to his abiding indifference. The only woman in his life was my mother. No one else has ever been able to give him anything he truly wanted. But so many of them want to try, I’ve learned to size them up in advance. Unfortunately, experience tells me Ashley is going to be one of the ones who calls every day for the first few months, trying to get past me to talk with Dad. It’s always painful to hear their manufactured excuses and their petulance.
That, of course, is part of the reason Dad likes me to be at these meetings. By showing me how ridiculous these women make themselves over a few smiles and a little carefully choreographed attention, he is teaching me how to behave. Still. Always. Forever. Until death do us part.
The pancakes come, each stack sizzling in a little cast-iron skillet. Dad slices into his, but watches Ashley. She takes up a forkful, tilting her head back as she swallows, just like she did with the Bloody Mary.
“There now,” he says. “Didn’t I tell you? Aren’t they perfect?”
“Oh, you were so right.”
My skillet holds eggs in tomato sauce and two slices of grilled ciabatta. I occasionally turn a page in my planner as I eat. I am not required for this part of the conversation.
I should also call Geraldine. After our last encounter, I have to at least leave her a message. It would look strange if I didn’t. Maybe I should stop by the house again.
“Well, don’t worry. That’s why we have Marie. Marie?”
I have kept a careful half an ear on the discussion, so I am able to answer without hesitation, despite my personal maunderings. “We should have the last details settled by next Tuesday.”
“It must be lovely to have a daughter who’s so devoted,” remarks Ashley. “I can’t even get Portia to come home on the weekends.”
“Well, between us, Marie’s the one who runs the show. I couldn’t find my socks without her.”
I find myself staring at my father’s hands. The twisted patterns of veins beneath his spotted skin. My father does not monitor his blood pressure the way he should. He works too hard. The risk of stroke is very serious. “Even the bills?” Ashley folds her arms on the table, in an attitude that incidentally pushes up her cleavage. “Wow. I’ve got absolutely no head for numbers. I’m just a little beach bunny.”
“Oh, Marie knows where all the bodies are buried. She dug the graves herself.”
My father is looking right at me. I will not clench my pencil. I will only raise my eyes and smile with perfect comfort to show how well I share the joke.
At the same time, I picture him on the sidewalk outside, facedown. People gather around to gawp at the sprawling old man with his spotted, veiny hands spread out to catch the sun. Someone snaps a picture to post on Facebook later. Someone remembers to call the ambulance. But they are all too late.
And where am I in this little scene? Up at Windward Hill, because Ashley Dickinson decided she wants her draperies all changed to forest green, something my father suggested at the last minute.
How terrible that would be.
3.
I walk out of the Cherry Tree a little too quickly. After Dad’s remark about how much I know, I was unable to settle back into my role as audience and enabler. Dad will have something to say about that later, I’m sure.
I climb into my Escalade and make sure the tinted windows are rolled up. The parking lot faces the groomed beach and the lake. Gulls hover on the brisk wind. The silhouettes of children and families stroll, or trudge, against the bright background of blue sky and blue lake.
Why can’t I calm down?
It must be overwork. It’s been a busy few days, and there’s the party on Sunday, and, of course, Geraldine, and, unexpectedly, Walt. They’re all pushing too many plans along too quickly. Who wouldn’t get a little stressed?
Maybe I’ll give myself an afternoon off. Take a little drive down to Petoskey, maybe. Do some window shopping for Geraldine. We’re going to need to redecorate when everything’s over with Dad and she’s moved back into the Rose House. She hates to shop, so I’ll have to know exactly where to go to find what she likes. She’ll probably want Aunt Trish’s old room. I’ll have to show her how much I’ve already done, but she’s sure to have a few ideas of her own…
This is when I see Robbie.
I recognize him even in the middle of the crowd of other teenagers. They’re striding up the beach, all in a bunch, dodging the kids and aiming kicks at the gulls. Robbie has his hands shoved in his jacket pocket and he’s shouting something.
I recognize Shelly Bronski, Lauren’s Bronski’s oldest, and that’s Max Koepler. There are two others I don’t know. They’ve all got torn jeans and wrinkled T-shirts and their hair is bleached and dyed all sorts of rainbow colors.
I don’t like them. My son shouldn’t be with them. He shouldn’t be here at all, not when he was supposed to be in Petoskey.
But I can’t criticize. I can’t yell, not when he’s with his friends. But I am still his mother. I can’t just leave him here.
I glance at Marie in the mirror and make sure her face is sunny, and I climb back out of the car.
“Robbie!” I wave. I will apologize for embarrassing him later. “Hello!”
I ignore the expression on his face and the way the others snicker. He mouths something like “back in a sec,” trots up the sand, and edges between the parked cars.
“Mom. What’s going on?” He hasn’t shaved, and I can smell tobacco and beer on his breath. Anger rises in a bubble, filling my throat, and I have to press down hard.
“Nothing.” I smile and rub his arm. “I just missed you. Are those your band friends?”
They’re clustered together on the sand, not coming any closer, but not looking away. I know their kind. I went to school with them. Nothing changes but the clothes and the hair.
“A couple of them. We were gonna go out for pizza. I was gonna text you.”
It’s a harmless enough lie. Something Geraldine might have said when she was his age. But there’s that smell on his breath. Not even the constant wind off the lake can take it away.
“I’d like to spend a little time with you, Robbie.” I do not let my smile waver. “You can tell your friends you’ll go out with them another time.”
“No, Mom. I’ll be home for dinner. Promise.”
“I want you home now.” No, Marie. Stop, Marie. There is no need for this. But in the back of my awareness, Mom is laughing at me. She knows I cannot control my son, not even now when it’s so important that all the pieces stay where I put them. “There’re things we need to discuss.”
I need time. Just another couple of days. Just until after the party. That’s all.
“Like what?” he demands.
“We are not going to be talking about personal business in the middle of a parking lot,” I snap. “I’ll give you a ride.”
“I’ve got my car, Mom.”
“And you smell like a brewery!”
Robbie glances behind, to see if my shout carried. The others are clustered together, looking at the lake and each other. It’s impossible to know if they heard.
“Jesus, Mom! Why are you so…”
I adjust my look, ever so slightly, and Robbie’s mouth closes. He looks away, and looks back.
“Okay. Okay. Just gimme a sec.”
I watch him trudge back to the others. I am very glad I can’t hear what’s being said between them. I know I should just let him go. I’m overreacting. I need to get hold of myself. What does it matter what his friends look like? He’ll be away from here soon. Once he’s settled in Ann Arbor, he’ll be free to come and go as he chooses, and decide life for himself.
Unlike Geraldine. Unlike me.
Robbie slogs back across the sand and climbs into the passenger seat. I shut us both into the SUV my father gave me and drive away in silence.
All the way, I can feel Mom in the backseat, enjoying the show.
The Household Tales came out of a country ravaged by decades of war. So, perhaps it’s not surprising they are boundlessly bloody and full of impossible dangers. What is a little surprising is how they also emphasize the absolute importance of being kind to strangers.
—Out of the Woods: Musings on Fairy Tales in the Real World,
Dr. Geraldine Monroe
GERALDINE, PRESENT DAY
LAKE MICHIGAN SHORELINE
1.
“Why here?”
That’s the first thing David says to me as I sit down next to him. We’re on a curved stretch of sand and stones, using a driftwood log as a bench. Lake Michigan spreads out in front of us. It’s evening and the sky above the lake is burning orange and fuchsia pink. The wind’s kicking up. White-capped waves curl up and crash down, filling the rapidly cooling air with the scent of fresh water. All at once I’m dried out and thirsty and I want nothing more than to strip down and dive in.
“I wanted to see if you’d come,” I tell him. “And if I would.”
He’s wearing a cap with the Whitestone Security logo. There’s a matching logo on his police-blue polo shirt. His fat gold wedding band still flashes on his left hand. The flesh bulges around its edges and I wonder if it’s ever going to come off. Every time I see him, his hairline is a little farther back and his belly is a little more prominent. What really hurts, though, is watching his strong shoulders slump under the weight of a life he has no way to get out from under.
I wanted to meet earlier today, but David had to wait until he was off-shift. He takes long sips of coffee from a Starbucks cup and is not looking at me. I’ve already had so much caffeine today, I feel like I’m going to shake apart.
The last time David and I came here together was the night Mom died. Back then, you could drive right onto the sand, if you didn’t mind bottoming out a couple of times on the way down. David sprawled beside me on the hood of my car, the murder weapon. We smoked cigarettes and drank beer and stared at the lake. He kept passing me bottles of Budweiser and I kept downing them, hoping the rip current of alcohol and nicotine would drag me past what I had just done.
I don’t know why I decided to screw him. I don’t know why he decided to go along with it.
“Why’d you stay, David?” I ask him now.
He makes a face like the coffee’s turned to ditch water. He also changes the subject.
“That’s a hell of a mess you’ve made of your face there, G.”
“You should see the other guy.”
“Are you serious?”
I don’t answer.
He sighs and lets the Starbucks cup dangle between his knees. “Everybody says you’re staying down at the old house.”
“Everybody’s right.”
“The place is pretty much a wreck.”
“Not pretty much. It is a wreck.”
“And there’s been some trouble.”
“Drugs. Yeah. I heard. In Whitestone Harbor. What is the world coming to?”
David tugs his hat brim down, shading his tired eyes from the glare on the stones and the waves.
“I was hoping you might know who can help me fix the place up,” I say. “I can do some stuff on my own, but not the roof, and I’m going to need a new stove hooked up.”
“You have any money?”
“Some.”
His eyes travel across me. He’s remembering, just like I am, and comparing those memories to what he sees now.
“Like two thousand dollars?” he asks me.
