Between Husbands and Friends (20 page)

I’m trying hard to remain in control. Especially in front of the children, I must remain calm. I smile falsely, brightly. “Fine. Is Max home?”

“He just got in on the Hy-Line fast boat. He’s upstairs changing.”

“Margaret? Take care of Jeremy, okay?”

“But, Mom, aren’t we all going to eat together?”

“Dad and I will come down and eat later.” Reaching into the refrigerator, I take out two bottles of beer. I would prefer straight scotch, straight gin, but with everyone watching I settle for the beer.

Silently Margaret sets Jeremy on the floor. She’s chewing the inside of her cheek.

Abby hands my son a pile of napkins. “Help me put these around,” she says.

“Okay.” Jeremy’s game for anything Abby suggests. As he follows her from the room, he announces “I got attached to
electrodes
!”

“I had to have two cavities filled at the dentist,” Abby counters, undaunted. “It sounded like a blender in my head.”

Kate trails me out of the room. “Lucy, what’s up?” Her forehead is creased with worry, more fine lines on that flawless face.

“Oh, Kate.” I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs. I want to put my arms around her. I want to sink to my knees and beg her to help me. I want to beg her to forgive me. “I wish … I’m sorry. I’ve got to talk to Max first.” I run up four steps, then turn back to look at her. She’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching me. “Kate. You know I love you, don’t you?”

Her frown deepens. She opens her mouth, to protest, to demand that I tell her what’s going on, and then she gets it: Something serious is up. Something huge. “Yes. And I love you.”

“I know.” Tears blur my vision and I stumble on the stairs, banging my shin.
“Shit.”

The door to our bedroom is shut. I open it to find my husband changing clothes. Behind him, the August sky shines through the open windows in a flawless blue. The evening air is so heavy and fragrant it seems as if someone in the neighborhood is making wild grape jam. Birds call as they settle in the apple trees and in the tangled thickets surrounding the house. This is paradise.

Max sees my face and swallows. “What is it?” he asks.

When we suffer a terrible loss, it seems that the world has stopped. But of course the earth keeps turning, the sun keeps rising, the birds fly north to sit outside our windows, singing blissfully, bird-brainedly, of the return of summer’s warmth and light. The summer after Maxwell was born, I woke to each day with a heavy heart. I mourned the loss of my little boy. I would continue to do so, in privacy, in the secret space of my own heart, all my life.

But for Margaret’s sake I tried to strike a proper balance between grief and perseverance, between sorrow and the recognition of remaining joys. I loved my daughter. I did not want her to feel as lost in the enormity of Maxwell’s death as her father seemed to be. With each passing day Max became more withdrawn, isolating himself into a carefully guarded darkness into which we could not penetrate. He would recover with time. But Margaret needed me now. And I needed her. I decided to take her to Nantucket. I would devote all my time to my little girl. We would build sand castles on the beach, play in the salty ocean, let the sea and wind and sun scour our souls and heal us. I would show Margaret I could still be happy. We would be happy, together.

Max said he would come, but as usual, he was tied up with work. Chip promised to come, too, later. As usual, Kate and I loaded up the Volvo and made the trip ourselves. Almost as usual … Abby was with us now.

Kate nursed her baby while I drove and sat holding Abby on the ferry ride over while I supervised the M&Ms, trailing behind them as they exuberantly explored the boat. When we arrived at the house, we settled Kate and Abby in state in the living room. I carried all our luggage into the house and up the stairs. I made all the beds, Kate’s and Matthew’s as well as our own, and set up the port-a-crib for Abby. I left the children watching television with Kate while I went off to fight the crowds in the streets and stores for groceries. At home I unloaded the groceries and fixed dinner. By the time I got the M&Ms in bed, all I wanted to do was to fall into my own, and I did.

I woke to a room full of sun. It was almost nine o’clock, and I sat up in bed, slightly dazed. How could I have slept so late?

Most mornings, Margaret woke me. I would awaken to the breeze of her arrival, the slight drift of air as she lifted the sheet from my skin and scooted down next to me, the warmth of her presence. I’d feel the stir of her sweet child’s breath against my skin.

“Mom-mee,” she’d whisper to me.

I would feign sleep, playing a game that we’d begun when she was there.

“Mom-mee.” A little song. “Time to wake up.”

Sometimes I’d peep out at her from beneath my lashes. She would be studying my face, one plump finger hovering above me as she decided just where to touch me, lightly. Would she lift my eyelid? Or try to tickle me beneath my arm? Or make a buzzing noise and delicately brush my ears and lips, then giggle, “Mommy, that bee is bothering you again!” Finally she’d cry, “Wake up, Mom! The whole ocean’s waiting!”

Why hadn’t she awakened me today? She must still be sleeping.

Or perhaps she was lying awake in her bed, waiting for me, thinking that since Maxwell’s death everything had changed. My heart twisted.

I slipped from bed, pulled on my scarlet kimono, and went into her room. Her bed was empty, rumpled, the covers tossed back in a rush.

I headed downstairs.

And there she was, my daughter, seated on the living room sofa in her pink-and-white nightgown, a pillow tucked beneath her arm, and nestled on her lap and arm was three-month-old Abby. The baby wore only a diaper and a white cotton undershirt. Her pink feet and hands waved in the air.

“Hi, Mommy! I’m holding the baby!” Margaret called proudly.

“Morning, Glory,” I said. I sank down next to my daughter. “Good morning, Abby.”

We both looked down at Abby, who stuck a rosebud tongue between rose petal lips.

“She’s making bubbles, Mom. She’s trying to talk. Aren’t you trying to talk, you smart little girl?” Margaret was totally in love.

Abby was a good baby. She slept through the night. She never had colic. She looked out at the world with calm navy blue eyes that seemed to understand and approve of all she saw.

“Coffee’s ready.” Kate came into the room. She wore shorts and a loose white shirt that buttoned up the front, beneath which her proud, formidable breasts were anchored in a nursing bra. She was barefoot and her hair was pulled up into a sloppy ponytail, but in her ears she wore her one-carat diamond studs; she’d worn them ever since Chip gave them to her, a present at Abby’s birth.

“Great.” I rose and went into the kitchen. I poured myself a mug, added sweetener and milk, and stared at the selection of doughnuts, croissants, and muffins on the table. Since Abby’s birth, Kate and I had spent very little time together. I found it hard to be near her baby; she
understood. One night in June we went to a movie, just the two of us. By the time we drove home, her blouse was wet with milk. I dropped her at her house and drove home, my face wet with tears of grief and envy. But three months had passed since Maxwell’s birth and death. I needed my friend. I missed her. I had to recover my sense of balance and my sense of humor as well if this Nantucket August were to bring us together again.

I returned to the living room to find Kate seated on the sofa next to my daughter and Abby. I sank into a chair across from them. “Gorgeous day.” I pulled my feet up beneath me and settled back.

“Yes,” she said. “Makes me feel lazy.” She traced a figure eight on her daughter’s belly. Abby burbled.

“I feel lazy, too,” Margaret said, looking up at Kate with starry-eyed adoration.

“I got it!” Matthew came thudding down the stairs. His short chestnut hair stuck out in a series of cowlicks. He wore a red basketball jersey that hung down to his knees. He carried a bottle of nail polish in his hand.

“Lovely,” Kate said. “Pull that footstool over here. No, I’ll put my feet there. You can sit on the floor.” She smiled at me. “Matthew’s going to paint my toenails for me. It’s too hard to do it myself.”

“Want me to do it?” I asked.

“No!” Matthew was definite. “I’m going to do it.”

Abby made an airy noise and everyone laughed.

“Abby belched,” Margaret announced proudly.

“She’s a good baby,” I said. “Slept all night.”

“I know. She’s a little doll.” Kate leaned over her baby and cooed, “You’re a little doll, aren’t you, Abby? Mommy’s little doll.”

Abby gurgled and shivered with glee.

Kate looked at me. “You’re not having a croissant?”

“I’m not hungry right now.”

“I’ve already had one. It’s delicious.”

“You can have the other, if you want.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure.”

Kate started to rise, then looked down at her right foot, propped on the footstool. Matthew was biting his lip with concentration, carefully slipping cotton balls between her toes.
“Guess I’ll wait.”

“I’ll get it,” I said.

“No,
I’ll
get it!” Margaret cried urgently. She looked up at Kate. “You hold Abby.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” Kate said, and lifted her daughter into her arms. “Who’s the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world?” she asked, nuzzling kisses into Abby’s face.

Margaret raced to the kitchen, returning with a croissant on a plate and a napkin. “Here, Kate.”

“Thanks. Let’s see. Put the plate on the sofa on this side, then you sit next to me on this side and hold Abby again for me so I can eat, okay?”

Margaret gladly obeyed. Abby was perfectly content to be transferred from arm to arm. Kate sighed and nibbled on her croissant. Her son sat at her feet, carefully brushing polish onto Kate’s toes.

I said, “So, Margaret. Let’s have breakfast, then we can go to the beach.”

My daughter shot me a cautious glance. She edged a millimeter closer to Kate. “Are you going to the beach?” she asked Kate.

“Not today.” Kate yawned. “It was such a commotion yesterday, getting here. I’m wiped out.”

I ran my finger around the rim of my mug.

“I’m wiped out, too,” my daughter said. She bent over the baby, wagged her own head from side to side so that her curls tickled the baby’s face, and chanted, “Aren’t you tired, too? Tired, too? Tired, too?” Abby waved with glee.

“But don’t you want to go to the beach?” I asked Margaret.

She didn’t look up at me. Her shoulders shrugged beneath the pink-and-white nightie. “I can go later.”

“Matthew? Want to go swimming?”

Matthew bent over his mother’s feet. “No, thanks.”

Abby was beginning to fuss. Her face flushed and little catching sobs broke into her gurgling. Kate’s face took on a radiance.

“I’m going to have to feed her soon.” She stuck a finger into her daughter’s diaper.

“She’s still dry. I need a diaper for my shoulder.”

“I’ll get it!” Margaret exclaimed.

“Upstairs, near her crib. Bring me the Handi-Wipes, too. I’ll be needing them sometime soon.”

Her tongue stuck between her teeth as she concentrated, Margaret gently placed the baby in Kate’s arms, then she skipped up the stairs.

Matthew said, “There, Mom! What do you think?”

Kate scrutinized her red toenails. “It looks perfect, Matthew. Thanks.”

Matthew climbed up on the sofa, snuggled next to his mother, and made a series of comic faces at his sister. Abby cooed and reached out for him, enchanted. Then her face flushed again and she threw herself backward and began to cry in earnest.

“She’s hungry, honey.”

“Here’s the diaper!” Margaret skipped back into the room.

Kate put the diaper on her shoulder, unbuttoned her shirt and unfastened her bra. She lifted her breast into her daughter’s mouth, adjusted her arm and legs. Margaret sat on one side, watching every movement with wide eyes. On the other side, Matthew scooted close to his mother, reached out his finger, and grinned when Abby clutched it in her fist. The four of them sat there, completely engrossed in the moment.

I could almost feel the tug of a baby’s mouth on my nipple, the answering pull deep in my pelvis. The tingling flood of milk. The relief and the narcotic sensations of pleasure. The knowledge of being pulled into the sweet hot core of the universe.

I rose and went upstairs. No one called my name.

That weekend, Chip came down to visit his family and I went back to Sussex. Max had called to say he was so busy that he couldn’t come to Nantucket; he would try to come the next weekend. His voice on the phone had been dull, preoccupied, listless.

My own week had been lonely. Kate and Abby and Matthew and Margaret had coalesced into a kind of hive with the baby at the center. Twice I’d taken the M&Ms to the beach while Kate and Abby napped, but when we returned home they flew from my side to find the baby.

I know there is something mysterious and desirous about a nursing mother. There is something primitive and erotic and compelling about a woman with an infant, and Margaret was caught in the spell. At the back of my mind, I was glad. I wanted Margaret to see—to feel—the primal satisfaction of motherhood, so that she would want to have children, so that she would be a good, involved mother. It was possible she would not have the chance to observe this with me.
I might never have another child. Certainly not if Max continued to be sexually numb.