A Hundred Summers (6 page)

The back door of the Ford juts open, and Graham raises himself awkwardly, raking his hands through his hair, hitching his trousers. Budgie’s head emerges above the roof, on the other side, and bobs to the front door.

“Why do they call her Budgie, anyway?” Nick asks. He makes no move to get up.

I think back. “Well, you know, she was blond as a child. A towhead, if you can believe it. Talking all the time. Her father used to say she was like a bright yellow parakeet. That’s the family story, anyway.”

“What’s her real name?”

“Helen. Like her mother.”

“And is Lily
your
real name, or some ridiculous pet name?”

From the wide arc of the Ford’s headlamps, Graham peers through the darkness and waves to us.

“My real name.”

Nick heaves himself up from the bench and offers me his hand. “I’m glad.”

“But you think it’s ridiculous,” I say, taking his hand and rising.

“Only if it were a pet name. Otherwise, it’s lovely.” He’s still holding my hand. His palm is softer than I imagined, gentle. We stand there, poised, not quite looking at each other. Graham hollers something through the clear air. Nick lets go of my hand and reaches for the crutches.

“Let me help you.”

“No, I’ve got it.” He positions himself expertly above the crutches, and it occurs to me that he must have had another pair, at some point, for some other injury. “Nick is short for Nicholson, by the way. My mother’s maiden name.”

“Nicholson Greenwald. Terribly distinguished.”

“I urge you forcefully to call me Nick.”

Oh, God, I like him. I really do.

Graham is leaning against the passenger door, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded. He winks at Nick. “About time. Did the two of you get lost?”

Nick holds up a crutch. “I can’t exactly sprint with these.”

Budgie toots the horn.

“We should go,” I say. “We’ll probably miss curfew as it is.”

“We can’t have that.” Graham opens the door with a flourish.

I climb inside, and Graham closes the door behind me. The air in the car is close, humid, earthy. I roll down the window. “Good-bye. A pleasure meeting you both.”

“Good-bye, darlings!” Budgie calls, leaning across my chest to waggle her fingers out the window. Graham snatches her hand and kisses it.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says. “You’re driving up again, aren’t you? We’re playing here Saturday, same as today.”

“Then yes. Lily, roll up the window, it’s freezing.” Budgie puts the car in gear and lifts the brake.

I roll up the window. “Good-bye,” I say again, through the disappearing gap, feeling desperate. It can’t be over, not yet, not when everything is hovering on the brink. “I hope your leg feels better!”

Oh, God.
I hope your
leg
feels better?

Nick says something, but Budgie is already popping the clutch, rolling away, and his words lose themselves in the crack of the window.

“Well, that was nice. Wasn’t that nice? Did you and Nick have a nice chat?” Budgie is warm, electric, seething with energy. She pats her hair, smooths it, and changes gears. Her hat has disappeared.

“Yes. He’s very nice.”

She glances sideways. “Souvenir?”

Nick’s jacket. “Oh, no!” I clutch the collar with one hand and brace the other on the door. “Turn around, quick!”

Budgie laughs and leans forward to turn on the radio. “You amateur, you. You don’t have the slightest idea, do you?”

“About what?”

“Listen, the deal is, you keep the jacket, honey. Then you’ve got an excuse to come with me next week and give it back.”

“Oh.” I put my hands in my lap and stare ahead, at the pavement rolling past the beam of the headlamps, at the tunnel of trees on either side of the road. The scent of soap and cedar still rises from the jacket. Nick’s scent. A giddy wheel of anticipation starts to spin inside my stomach. From the radio comes the tinny scratch of “Goodnight, Sweetheart,” filling the Ford with sentiment. I add: “I guess you’re right.”

BUT FOR ONCE,
Budgie is wrong. In the morning, just before seven, I am awakened by a determined knock at my door. Behind it, a groggy-faced fresher in a plaid robe and round tortoiseshell eyeglasses tells me there’s a fellow on crutches waiting downstairs for me, who wants his jacket back.

4.

SEAVIEW, RHODE ISLAND

May 1938

U
nlike me, Kiki was never afraid of strangers. Adult or child, tall or small, human or animal, everyone was her friend. While I stood frozen, just out of sight at the bottom of the stairs, my hand clutched around my gin glass, she replied to Nick Greenwald as if she had known him all her life.

“That’s a fine hat you’re wearing. What’s your name?” she asked pleasantly.

“My name is Nick Greenwald. And I think I know who you are.”

“Do you?” She was excited by this information.

“You must be Miss Catherine Dane of New York City. Am I right?”

His voice floated out from above me, exactly the same as I remembered, only a little deeper, more mellowed. I pivoted around the base of the veranda and sank into the sand, shaking at the familiarity of the sound.

Kiki gasped over my head. “How did you know that, Mr. Greenwald?”

“Well, look at those eyes of yours. I’d recognize them anywhere.” He paused. “Is your family here?”

“Lily’s right behind me. Lily?”

I sprang up and forced my feet to the steps. “Right here, darling. I was just picking up my glass and . . . Oh! Mr. Greenwald!”

Nick was crouching next to Kiki, addressing her eye-to-eye, and the expression on his face was so soft it stopped my breath. He straightened slowly to his full towering height. “Lily Dane,” he said. “How are you?”

Kiki was right about his hat. It looked new, the straw still stiff and bright, like he’d bought it last week at Brooks Brothers just for the purpose of a summer on the Seaview beach. Beneath the brim, his eyes were the same warm hazel as ever, and his face had lost all traces of boyishness. The bones sat prominently below his skin, austere as a monk’s, regular and uncompromising.

“I’m well, I’m well. How are you?”

“Never better. I . . .”

But before we could enlarge on this promising beginning, another familiar voice carried across the slow-moving air of the veranda.

“Why, Lily Dane! Look at you!”

Nick and I both turned, with simultaneous relief.

By now I was well prepared for the sight of Budgie Greenwald. I had seen her face in the newspapers, so I knew that she now kept her dark hair longer and her curls softer, according to fashion. I knew that her round eyes now had a sultry cast, though I didn’t know whether this was due to some natural effect of maturity or from some sort of cosmetic pose; I knew that she tinted her lips a deep wine red, which was even more startling in the full color of real life. I knew she would be dressed in the height of fashion, and her floating full-length chiffon gown, with its bare arms and relaxed Grecian neckline, did not disappoint.

But still I was shocked by her, more even than by Nick. Perhaps this was only natural. After all, I’d known Budgie all my life, from childhood to adolescence to adulthood, in all moods and settings: far more intricately than I had known Nick. This new phase of Budgie’s life was the first I hadn’t seen as it developed. Now here she stood before me, fully realized, every promise fulfilled, and I couldn’t stand the strangeness of it.

“I thought you might be here. I’ve been looking all over. Of course Nick was clever enough to find you for me, weren’t you, darling?” She slithered to his side in a rush of chiffon and looped one languorous arm through his. Her eyebrows raised expectantly.

I knew I had to speak, but I couldn’t think of a single word.

Kiki saved me. “You’re Budgie Byrne, aren’t you?” she said. “I’ve heard about you.”

Budgie looked down. “I beg your pardon, my dear.”

I couldn’t find my voice for myself, but I could find it for Kiki. “Budgie, how lovely to see you. Such a nice surprise. Kiki, this is Mrs. Greenwald.”

“Kiki. Of course.” Budgie held out her hand and spoke gravely. “How do you do?”

Kiki took her hand without hesitation. “I’m very well, thank you. I adore your dress.”

Budgie laughed. “Why, thank you. Now tell me, what have you heard about me? Something scandalous, I hope?”

“I’ve heard you grew up with my sister, before I was born.”

“Your sister.” Budgie’s sly eyes met mine. “I certainly did. I can tell you the most horrific stories about her, things you’d never believe.”

“Oh, like what?” Kiki asked eagerly.

“Oh, let me think.” Budgie tapped her pointed chin. “Well, for one thing, she used to swim naked in the ocean, in the morning, before everyone else was up.”

Kiki rolled her eyes. “Oh, I know that.”

“She still does, does she?” Budgie laughed again. “In the little cove near your house, right?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, well. I’ll have to come over some morning, for old times’ sake. Even though dawn isn’t my style at all.” Budgie disengaged her arm from Nick and bent down. The motion made the neckline of her dress gape away from her skin, exposing the slim curves of her breasts. She was not, it seemed, wearing anything underneath. “Why, look at you! You’re the very image of Lily. Isn’t she, Nick?” She looked back over her shoulder.

My hand tightened around Kiki’s, drawing her against my leg.

Nick crossed his arms and spoke in a low voice: “There’s a resemblance, naturally.”

“Except for that dark hair, of course. And all that tanned skin! How has she managed to get so brown already, Lily?” Budgie straightened and looked at me with laughing eyes.

“She was out playing on the beach all day.”

All at once, I became conscious of the preternatural quiet saturating the veranda. The clink of glasses, the hum of conversation: everything had settled into stillness. A breeze stirred between us, loosening my already unruly hair; I tucked a strand behind my ear and tried to ignore the sidelong gazes pressed to my back, the finely tuned attention in the air.

“Lucky girl, to have such skin. Oh, look. You’re empty already.” She placed her hand on Nick’s arm, her left hand. Three square diamonds competed for precedence on her ring finger, overwhelming the slim gold band that contained them. “Darling, be a gentleman and refill Lily’s glass.”

Nick held out his open palm. I had forgotten how large his hands were, the way they dwarfed mine. “What are you having, Lily?” he asked.

I placed the glass against his fingers. “Gin and tonic.”

He turned to Budgie. “Anything I can get for you, darling?”

“I’ll have the same.” Without warning, Budgie linked her arm into mine. “We’ll have a nice chat while you’re gone, won’t we, Lily?”

“I ought to find my mother and Aunt Julie. We’re supposed to have dinner.”

“Oh, join us. They should join us, Nick, shouldn’t they?” She turned, but Nick had already disappeared in search of gin. “Well, I’m sure he’ll agree. He’ll be delighted to catch up with you, after all these years.”

“I can’t speak for my mother. . . .” My skin shrank away from the touch of her arm. I took a step back, as if put off balance by the unfamiliar pressure. Kiki turned her face up, looking at me anxiously.

“Oh, please, Lily. I’ve been so eager to see you again.” A new note entered her voice, or rather left it: a shedding of brightness. Her arm tightened and pulled me back. “I’ve missed you, honey. We used to have such good times. Sometimes I think . . .”

“Lily! There you are.”

Mrs. Hubert’s voice bolted between us, so suddenly that Budgie’s arm jerked back as if caught in some naughtiness by a sharp-eyed teacher.

I followed the sound to the corner of the veranda, from which Mrs. Hubert advanced with a purposeful stride, sparing not a glance for Budgie, nor for the interested eyes following her progress over the rims of an army of highball glasses.

“We’ve been wondering where you got to. I’ve asked your mother to join us for dinner tonight. We’re inside, I’m afraid, but surely you’ve had enough sea air for one evening.” Her voice was laden with meaning.

I hesitated and looked at Budgie, whose face had stiffened into a false smile. “Budgie has just asked me to join her and Nick. You remember Budgie, don’t you, Mrs. Hubert?”

“Of course I remember Budgie.” She finished her sentence before turning her gaze to Budgie herself. “How do you do. It’s Mrs. Greenwald now, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

Mrs. Hubert passed right over the customary congratulations, and instead said: “What a stylish dress you’re wearing, Mrs. Greenwald. You look like a film star.” Her tone conveyed exactly what she thought of film stars.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hubert. You’re looking well. I can’t believe . . .”

“I’m afraid, however, I
must
steal Lily and Kiki away. We’re deep in discussion for the Fourth of July party at the moment, and I can’t possibly spare her.”

This was news to me, as I hadn’t volunteered for the Fourth of July committee this year.