Between the Tides (21 page)

“What's your name?”

“Lainie. Lainie Smith Morris.” The flurry blows it out of my mouth and into the Narrows.

“Again?” he shouts.

“Lainie Smith Morris.”
Take me, Lainie. Take the Lainie out of Lainie Smith Morris
.

He hands me a card, cheap paper, too much design on it. R
.
M
C
C
AIN
is in block letters and beneath the 718 precinct number is his cell, beginning with a 917 area code. Reading his information makes me miss the city.

“We could get a cup of coffee.” He smiles at me and his teeth are good. The kind of white teeth that each of us wants. Then the smile radiates toward me through the cool breeze and I smile back.

I don't know if he means at this moment or if he means someday as in “we must get something on the calendar” Elliot lingo. Either way he wants to see me again.

“I would like that,” I say.

I believe that I'm in his arms in a hotel room with a low rate where no one I have ever known would go and they short-sheet the beds. His chest is an aphrodisiac. He gets to me and I repeat his name over and over.

I take off my sunglasses. I expect a surprise, a surprise kiss. If I am doing poorly at this, he is worse. He looks down at the water and his face is pure rugged angles and machismo.

“Well, Lainie Smith Morris, text or call if you ever need anything. Anything. Any time.”

I put his card in my wallet and watch his shoulders as he faces away from me. His neck is reassuringly strong and I know instinctively that he would fight to the finish for me. He walks like Charles could never walk, a dense/light/forsaken/safe gait.

*   *   *

The moon rises early this time of year. Tonight it shines through the window directly behind where Tom sits at the dinner table. The children's conversation sounds far off and I'm back at the Narrows with the thick/thin officer and his blue/black eyes. I want to take his card out of my wallet to begin. Begin what? A betrayal of Charles?

I haven't been so much as casually curious about a man for years. Yet within hours of the meeting I reenact the scene; it washes over me and colors the night. Later, as Charles sleeps, I stare at him in shadows that are cast despite the blackout shades, despite the opaque pockets of the house. No matter what his sleep used to be, it belonged to me, his wife. Now it's as if he's not in the room. Maybe I'm not in the room. I feel that I'm watching curtains that don't exist move across the window frames. This is how people lose their minds, I suppose. Then I do hear something, a stealth sound. One of the children prowling around. The wood landing creaks near my studio.

I find Matilde at my drafting board, using my largest sheets of heavy paper, twenty-four inches by thirty-six inches. She's using her graphite pencils, not pastels. She is sketching exactly the scene from the Narrows.

“Oh, Matilde, you frightened me.”

“Mom.” She is expecting me.

“Matilde, how did you get the picture?”

“You left your phone in my room.”

She keeps sketching, keeps switching from blue to green to earth tones.

“There are snapshots in your camera too, Mom. I found them … sitting there.”

Matilde holds up a drawing and it has a distinctive style—the saturation of water and light. Her interpretation is simpatico with my preliminary sketch from the afternoon.

“Beautiful, Matilde,” I say. “Perfectly beautiful.” The chill of witnessing your child's unadulterated creativity. “Keep working through till morning, if need be.”

“What about our swim?” She looks at my iPad and reads the time. “Less than two hours away.”

“Let it go, my darling girl. Sleep in. I'll swim alone, I'll swim for you.” I kiss the top of her head and take one more glance at how gifted she is.

*   *   *

Matilde sleeps and I drive alone through the sleepy town to the Y pool. Jess is in the women's locker room, along with a few die-hard swimmers.

“You'd think people would respect the hour,” Jess says. “They are loud and it's too early in the morning for me to feel tolerant.”

“I'm glad to find you,” I say.

“What's up?” Jess frowns. “Everything okay?”

“Yes.” I look around. “Let's try to speak alone.”

Jess motions to me and we walk with our goggles and caps in our hands to the pool.

“Something has happened?” Jess asks.

“Well, yes, something very strange and dubious. You won't believe it.”

“Try me.” Jess is practically rolling her eyes. She isn't interested and I should not have begun this with her.

“Oh, never mind.…” I say.

“Lainie! Tell me.”

“This is so strange, you know. I was at the Narrows yesterday and this patrol cop came over and he flirted with me.”

“And you were drawn to him.” Jess watches my face.

“Sort of, yes.”

“Lainie, that's great!”

“Great?” I'm in despair. I'm about to cry.

“How old is he?”

“How old? I don't know. Young, maybe thirty.”

“Lainie, perfect!”

“Perfect?”

“You should meet him for a beer or whatever they do, those guys.”

“Jess, I could never do it, never have a beer with him if he asked. I couldn't do it to Charles, to our family. He was unlike Charles, the opposite, that's the thing. Probably what made him … interesting.…”

“Lainie, did he ask, did he ask you to meet him somewhere?”

I look around to be sure that no one is listening. “He mentioned coffee. I'm almost sure of that.”

“Lainie, what's wrong with a flirtation? Elliot isn't your piece of heaven on earth. You acclimate the best you know how. You need a pleasure of your own, you deserve a distraction.”

“I would
never
do it to Charles; maybe that's why I stayed up most of the night thinking about it.”

“You feel guilty and you've done nothing.
Nothing,
Lainie. Why not do something for yourself? The
idea
of it isn't very satisfying, it would be the deed that satisfies. Remember when Jimmy Carter said he lusted in his heart? Lusting in one's heart is … well, a dead end.”

A lesson from Jess. “How about the promises that don't exist after a while? Isn't that what you mean?” I ask.

“Exactly,” Jess says. We both look at the clock on the wall. We know we only have a half hour to swim before we shower and pick up the kids to start carpooling. “I'm also saying that nothing is what it seems. Who could predict that there'd be a guy? You didn't go after some cop in Red Hook.”

“It wasn't Red Hook, Jess.”

“Okay! I get it,” Jess laughs. “A specific guy in a specific place. Something about it got to you, or we would be swimming already.”

“Charles is my concern. That counts. I should be faithful to him.”

“Why? Charles is everywhere and nowhere. William, more so.” Jess puts her arms around me. “These men, Lainie,” she says. “They slip and slide, they come, they go.”

 

TWENTY-NINE

Although Vermont this year is unlike our previous ski vacations, I feel obligated to a modicum of enthusiasm. Matilde's skepticism, her outright negativity, has to be dispelled. “Matilde,” I explain, “the Howard family and our family have always skied in southern Vermont. How serendipitous is that?” I do not mention that we ski neither with the same frequency nor at the same level. Besides, Charles is incredibly pleased that we are staying at the Howards' chateau ski house, more lodge than house, and has conveyed that we are decent enough skiers.

We begin the vacation by admiring the humongus fireplace, three stories high in the main room, with a deer's head and antlers above the mantle. The large, black eyes are glazed, a reminder of how very dead it is, while on the floor there is another dead animal's head, a bear's head on the bear rug around the fireplace.

Jess is in gym coach mode. She practically blows a whistle as she leads us through the rooms. Charles gives me a glance that conveys that I should be admiring of every detail. “Oh, Jess, I'll need a road map to get back to my wing” and “How romantic it is!” and “I love your home!” I say.

Jess is also in a glamorous Vermont mode; her bangle bracelets clink together while she twists and turns as we follow her to the master bedroom. There is a fireplace and a four-poster bed that has a stepstool on both sides. Jess pulls up the shades to reveal the mountains.

“Lainie, it unquestionably rivals the Atlantic Ocean and the Hudson River, right? I mean, seriously, Lainie … Lainie?”

“Yes, it's terrific, Jess.” Have I ever felt farther from the zephyrs and swift currents, the waves that break and roll to shore?

“That's for sure! That's right!” Jess claps her hands.

Charles instructs both Tom and Matilde to help set up the children's room. Tom carries knapsacks and duffel bags to the finished attic, as Jess says, “for the boys.” The girls are to sleep in a large bedroom that is reminiscent of a country-style dorm room. Three single beds are made up with matching white starched duvet covers.

“How inviting,” I say. “Matilde, what fun it will be with the younger girls.” If she wonders why she is the built-in babysitter, it has to do with Jess's impassioned plea for help over Christmas break. Although she has hired Mrs. Higgins at double the salary—at Charles's behest—and Norine is here, Jess considers Matilde the “big girl” of the group.

Charles and William walk into the girls' room. William is slapping Charles on the back and Charles is laughing at a punch line: “And then they just pass each other in the hallway and say, ‘Fuck you.'”

Jess focuses on the men. “William? Where is Mrs. Higgins?”

“Mrs. Higgins is in the kitchen, Jess,” Charles says. Then he whistles, which is unlike him. I raise my eyebrows.

“Well, I happened to be in the kitchen with William, looking at their Wolf ranges, six burners each at two stations. Quite imposing. Mrs. Higgins is in her milieu, concentrating on our dinner.”

Now I'm stunned. “I'm sorry?”

“Mrs. Higgins is starting a lamb stew as we speak,” Jess says. “Peeling potatoes and steaming vegetables, browning the meat.”

I look at Matilde. William moves toward the open doorway, an escape artist of immense talent.

“I love lamb stew,” Charles says. I'm not sure if it's true or not since I don't make stews and he's never talked about it before.

“I'm about to start a cr
è
me br
û
l
é
e. Would you like to join me, Matilde?” Jess asks.

“Okay.” My daughter moves toward Jess as if she's on the field and it's time to concede to the other team.

*   *   *

William arrives late for dinner, having skied Stratton the entire afternoon. He strolls to the head of the table without taking off his ski sweater while Jess starts waving to signal a lack of manners. The twins squirm in their seats while Billy tries to emulate Tom. Liza, who has told Matilde that her friends are at more exciting places for Christmas than Vermont, is preoccupied with texting them. Jess has blown her hair dry and is wearing a heavy layer of mascara. She has changed her clothes for dinner and is wearing a black cashmere V-neck body-fitting sweater and a black wool skirt. Too late I realize that
à
la
Downton Abbey,
there is the expectation that we will change for dinner every night—and I'm still in the clothes that I wore for the four-hour ride up. No wonder that William annoyed Jess. I feel the hives spreading across my neck and I miss my studio almost as much as I miss the Shore. Both places seem remarkably far away.

“What attractive silverware and placemats.” I fill the tension in the room.

“Lainie, how gracious of you.” Jess gives me a practiced smile. Claire starts her water dance.

“Mommy? Let's go get a book!”

“Claire, my darling girl, we are about to have a family dinner. A double family dinner with two families. All the Howards and all the Morrises. That means you. So we'll do the book
after
dinner.”

In less than a minute I'm up and have returned with the copy of
Amelia Bedelia Goes Camping
that is always in the bottom of my purse. “Darling girl, this is your book.” I hand it to Claire, who slams it down on the table. “You turn the pages yourself and I'll read it to you later, after dinner.”

Claire scowls. “What? No! Read it now, Mommy!”

“Claire, listen to me.…” I'm so very tired.

Jess brings in the tureen filled with the stew and places it on the sideboard. “Jeez Louise, Lainie. Let's give your five-year-old an iPad or take her into the kitchen and switch on the TV for a few minutes. You know, to her favorite show?”

“Not necessary, Jess. She's fine. Thank you.”

Norine enters with a salad and a bread basket in either hand. Jess moves nervously from her seat to the sideboard and starts to dish out the food.

“Mom, when are you leaving?” Matilde asks.

“I'm leaving tomorrow, in the late afternoon.”

“Tomorrow? Mom, we just got to Vermont.”

“Yes, Matilde, I thought you knew. I have to prepare for the show.”

William shakes his head at us—pathetic fools that we are to him. He leans toward his plate and rudely slurps his food into his mouth. I'm wondering how I will be able to exit gracefully. I brace myself for Charles's onslaught:
Lainie, don't leave, don't leave your children.
Instead, Tom sits straight in the chair, shoulders back, and says, “I knew, Mom, that you were leaving tomorrow. It'll be okay, Jess and Dad will be here. We'll ski Bromley those four days.”

“
Four days,
Mom? Why can't you come back after two days, for the last part of Vermont?” Matilde asks.