Between the Tides (8 page)

“
El Guardian entre el Centeno, The Catcher in the Rye
. I thought I'd write about how Holden Caulfield is a dweeb who wants us to feel sorry for him. Tom wants another angle, maybe about the girls who Holden calls along the way.” Matilde is slurring her words and I'm not sure why.

“It sounds interesting; both takes sound interesting. But why wouldn't you be writing your own paper, Tom?” That feeling washes over me—my children aren't like this, my life isn't about morality or being a referee. “Matilde has homework of her own, Tom,” I say.

“Let's bring the whole story to Dad, see what he says. I guess he won't care that you write my paper, he'll care if it's late and I'm inconvenienced,” Tom suggests. A petrifying thought, that Charles might condone the idea for Tom's sake.

“Tom? Why are you bringing Mom and Dad into it?” asks Matilde. “Dad will call it cheating—plagiarism. We shouldn't tell him.”

Matilde and Tom fall silent and it occurs to me that they'll work it out on their own, without much consideration for our conversation. The worst part is that I'm relieved. I look in the rearview mirror, where I see Claire is asleep and the strip of candy buttons, another Jess present, has fallen on her chest.

“Matilde, please wake up Claire. If she sleeps in a car at night she won't fall asleep in her bed.”

“Claire. Claire, wake up.” Matilde is moving like a rag doll.

I look again in the rearview mirror. “Matilde, are you all right?”

“Matilde is fine,” Tom says. “So Jess, she's your friend from the Shore, huh, Mom?”

“The Shore … college until she transferred … a long time ago.” I pause. “You know, Jess's husband, William, is the CEO of Elliot Memorial. He's Dad's boss.”

“Dad's boss? Dad has a boss? I thought Dad is the boss,” Tom says.

“Dad is head of orthopedic surgery. Jess's husband runs the entire hospital.”

We pull up at the house and I want to apologize for how hackneyed it must seem to the children after being at Jess's.

“Matilde, darling, let's start unbuckling the twins,” I say.

Tom jumps out of the front seat and slams the front door. In an unusual moment, he opens the back door for Matilde. She almost falls out.

“Tom?” I say, trying to see Matilde's face in the dark. He is holding her up as if she's depleted and I wonder if we each ask too much of her.

“Leave her, Mom. It's okay. I've got the twins, don't worry.”

 

NINE

“Shouldn't Matilde be with her friends?” Charles asks. He is ready to leave for the third Saturday morning in a row for an early round of golf.

“Maybe, Charles.”

“No, seriously, Lainie, Matilde needs to be with the girls in her grade. Today is a Saturday, for chrissake!”

Perhaps he has forgotten—if he ever noticed—how Matilde spent her weekends in the city. From the age of five, she divided her time between painting and learning about artists, playing with Barbie at her friends' houses, and being a guest at manicure/pedicure birthday parties. As she grew older, she continued her balancing act. “She'll figure it out. Charles, she'll be fine,” I say.

An hour later Matilde is on a stepstool, facing the unframed canvas, six by eight, that she and I are going to paint together, a brush in her hand. What I love most about the studio is that it faces to the north and the sun filters in during the day. I have two easels; one is new for Matilde and then my own.

“Mom. I called Grandma. She said she is proud that Dad is the ‘chief.' She said that he is revered and that he changes people's lives.”

“Ah, yes, she would say that. He's her son.” I kick off my booties and put on a smock. “Matilde, people are in line for your father to do their surgeries.” I find my flip-flops by the closet. “I don't have to call Grandma, do I?”

“I don't know, Mom,” Matilde says. “She didn't ask about you.”

“We'll take advantage of the quiet in the house,” I suggest.

I look at the size and the breathtaking emptiness of the canvas. I haven't worked on such a scale for years. “Let's finish the ocean first, Matilde.”

Matilde keeps on painting the jetty that she's started. We should talk about the hue of sunsets. Instead I reconsider what Charles said. “Matilde, wouldn't you prefer to be with girls from school today, wouldn't it be more fun?”

“No, I want to paint, Mom. We've never had a big space before.… We can put mothers and their children in our picture. Cape May families.”

“Yeah. Mothers who are lucky enough to not get sentenced to life in Elliot.” I sigh. “I don't know what I'd do without the studio to come back to … the retreat that it is for me … the only good thing about the house except for the space and the fact that there aren't cockroaches. Or water bugs. They only inhabit the city, where the fun is.…”

“Mom … please don't be … this way.…” Matilde stops working and is about to console me when I censor myself.

“You're right, Matilde, women at the shoreline—with their children. That's what we should have.”

*   *   *

Candy and the twins come back from children's hour at the library by midafternoon, race up the stairs, and crash into the quiet. Within a matter of seconds, my studio feels crowded and the questions are fired at me.

“Where's Daddy?” Jack asks. “Where's Tom?” His hands are grubby and I don't want him to graze anything in the room.

“Golf,” Matilde answers. She's preoccupied with the angle of the jetty and has changed it twice already. “Tom's out with his friends. He's got lots of new friends.…”

“Tom is out! Tom is out!” Jack starts to stomp around. “Mommy! I don't like this room.”

In my dreams my younger children are occasionally muffled, toned down, silent. Or better yet, I take a break at a faraway seaside resort. My family doesn't notice, doesn't care, and the shoreline resembles the isolated resort in
The Thorn Birds
where Meggie meets Father Ralph and they have their secret tryst. The best part about it, since Father Ralph turns out not to love Meggie enough to forfeit his love of God and the glamour of priesthood, is the place itself. I want to skip along that very beach at daybreak and twilight, without any children in sight. Obviously, I keep my thoughts to myself.

Then we hear Charles's voice. Candy and I look at each other since his return is earlier than expected and not what I have in mind. There are footsteps up the stairs, Charles's first and then Tom's, both home too soon and ready to invade.

Charles knocks as he opens the door. Tom is beside him.

“Why, Dr. Chuck! What a quick game it must have been,” Candy says.

The room becomes gloomy. Charles puts his arms around Jack and reaches for Claire, who half slithers away, half comes toward him. Matilde and I stop painting. At any second Charles will dismiss the twins and Candy while Tom will remain in the room. We are a family of gender divides and gender sidekicks. Tom's face is lit up—it's going to be them against me.

“Dad!” Matilde runs to Charles. “Look at what Mom and I are working on together!” Matilde the politician, attempting to win Charles's favor with our work. She persists, “Dad, look at what we've just started, our wall mural, the first work that we've ever shared. See it?”

Charles nods and gives Matilde a pained smile.

“Hello, Charles, hello, Tom,” I say. “How did it go today?”

Tom puts his hands on his hips.

“No big deal,” Charles answers, “I shot a ninety. No one was Tiger Woods. I was good enough.” He clears his throat. “You know there's a dinner coming up next Saturday. A dinner with wives—the same group, at the country club.”

“What country club?” I ask.

“The one where I played a round of golf an hour ago, Lainie.”

“Of course, Charles.” I keep mixing the colors. “Just text or e-mail the details.”

Charles has a beer in his right hand when he sits down on the wrought-iron love seat that I found last week in the Elliot consignment shop. He pushes at the cushion. “Lainie, why did you buy this? It's very uncomfortable, too stiff and wiry.”

“I know why, Dad,” Matilde offers. “It reminds Mom of summer … the bayfront and cookouts. The furniture she likes to keep outdoors.”

“I love it, Charles. It reminds me of the sunsets at the Shore.”

Charles tries to adjust the cushion. I'm tempted to say,
Why don't you rent a wife, Charles, the kind of wife who would suit you?
I've mentioned it before; sometimes we laugh at the thought, sometimes we don't and the room is filled with tension.

Charles stands up, then sits down harder in the chair; the floorboards squeak when Tom moves back and forth.

“Mom? What's that over there?” Tom points to the miniatures on my worktable, the commissioned painting propped up on the easel.

Matilde races to the miniatures and gathers them together. She opens the single large drawer beneath and starts stuffing everything away. “These aren't ready to show, not yet. Right, Mom?” She closes the door with a thud.

“Nice job, Matilde,” says Tom. “But I'm sure Mom can handle things.”

“Aren't those your commissioned work? Due soon enough, Lainie, yes?” Charles asks.

“Yes, they are commissioned work,” I say. Matilde's eyes turn inky. Tom's hands are still on his hips. If Matilde and I seem in cahoots, Tom and Charles are twisting their faces the same way. In the seconds before their dissension, both of their lips disappear.

*   *   *

Charles starts to pace. “So there was a scene last week that has just come to my attention.”

“A scene,” I say. “Well…”

“Well? Well?” Charles slams his hand against his thigh.

“Tom, what have you told Dad about the drop-off that day?”

“Nothing, nothing really.” Tom stands robotlike.

Matilde puts her hands up as if she's swatting the scene away and yells, “How could you do that to her, Tom? You aren't fair. She's not who you think she is.”

“You embarrassed Tom, Lainie. At a party that he was invited to, in a new town,” Charles says.

“That isn't what happened.” My voice is very clear.

“For chrissake, Lainie.” Charles sighs. “What did happen?”

“You think I'm the chauffeur, don't you, Charles?” I stand against the wall; Matilde comes beside me, she could be superimposed into the picture.

“Tom! Matilde!” Charles says. “Go downstairs. This minute.”

Tom scuffs his loafers on the wood floor. Old wood that I appreciate.

“Tom, please go downstairs to the family room where the little ones are with Candy,” I say.

Matilde waits against the wall; perhaps she hopes that I've forgotten to send her too because it's about Tom.

“Matilde, join your brother.” Charles is fuming.

“Isn't it horrible enough? Isn't Tom sorry yet?” Matilde is crying. “Don't you see that she's awfully sorry today, Dad? Can't you make her laugh again?”

Charles points. “Go. Now.”

“Matilde, you should go,” I say.

Tom and Matilde leave. Charles fumbles with the door handle in search of a lock.

“I had that changed so that Claire and Jack wouldn't accidentally get locked in or out,” I say.

Charles pushes the door and it thuds shut. “What in hell's name is going on, Lainie? You've made a mess for Tom.”

“Don't you understand, Charles, that I don't want these people in my life? People with mean dogs, people who judge you by your car, your wardrobe.”

“Mean dogs? They were golden retrievers, Lainie!”

“They were slurping at me! Then they actually started to bite. I was frightened!”

“We have a different life in Elliot, Lainie. There's no question that with four children it involves presenting yourself a certain way. It involves driving. You've known that from the start.”

“Driving,” I repeat. “Presenting.”

“Yes. You have a responsibility to wear suitable clothes. To be quiet about someone's fucking golden retrievers.”

Charles's mouth moves. “Let me remind you of how lucky we are to be here. I've provided for our family, haven't I? Is there something you're missing, Lainie? Are the children without something?”

“Compared to whom, Charles? There are plenty of entitled tortured people around Elliot. Have you rambled along the main street, have you ever seen it in play on a weekday around noon? I have met the women, I have watched them. They complain at the dry cleaners, they are sour at the pharmacy, they steal a parking spot in front of your eyes. They check me out when I walk down the street. When I pick up the twins no one speaks to me. They were mock friendly, not truly friendly when the dogs were attacking me.

“I don't want to burst your bubble or your vision of country life, but there's a torment … despite the size of the houses and golf courses at every turn. You get to escape the everyday.… You're in a hospital where nothing has changed for you. Except you are chief, headier than ever.”

“Since when did you become a sociologist, Lainie? What makes you think everyone is miserable? Not everyone wants to be an artist. Some people enjoy coming home from work and kicking back with a drink and an hour of HBO. Some people want to put their work behind them at the end of the day. Other people want to spend their days shopping or having lunches out. Maybe they don't think their lives are miserable. Maybe they would view you as miserable.”

“I'm not one of them,” I whisper.

“What are you denied in Elliot that you had in the city, Lainie?”

“Everything. My friends, my art classes, the waterfront. People who are open-minded and kind.”

I remember our apartment in New York City, the windows open to the street, the herringbone wood floors, the eggshell paint on the walls, the orderly living room and not-so-neat bedrooms, the peanut butter sandwiches without crusts, the deliveries up the back elevator. Bolting was much easier there. It feels so thick living in the country, as if I'm swimming against the current to reach the other side. As if getting to the Shore will be a heroic feat.