Loss of Innocence (15 page)

Five

The next morning, Whitney went looking for Ben.

He was not at the guesthouse, nor anywhere on the grounds. When she tried the catwalk, the waiter who had intervened the night before was caulking a powerboat. “I’m trying to find Ben Blaine,” she told him.

Looking up from the boat, he said, “Ben’s not here today. I’m his brother, Jack.”

They could not be less alike, Whitney thought. Jack’s demeanor was solemn and gentle, his long face was somewhere between handsome and homely, and his air of watchfulness reminded Whitney that he had grown up in a violent home. Within the family, Ben had told her, Jack had been the peacemaker. “I’m Whitney Dane,” she said. “Thank you for last night. My fiancé wasn’t at his best.”

Jack nodded, watching her with perceptive eyes. “So that’s what it was.”

To Whitney, the ambiguous remark implied an impression she wanted to dispel. “It was a misunderstanding. Afterward, Peter felt terrible.”

His expression, briefly skeptical, reverted to modesty. “I saw what happened, that’s all. It seemed like I could help.”

“You did.” Whitney hesitated, then asked, “Is Ben out sailing today?”

Jack climbed from the boat. “Good guess,” he responded with a trace of humor. “My brother had urgent business on the water.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

Standing in front of her, Jack gave Whitney a curious look. “After noon, I’d suppose. Should I pass on a message?”

“Not really. I just wanted to see him for a moment. I feel badly about last night.”

The faint smile at the corners of Jack’s mouth did not reach his eyes. “I guess the ‘misunderstanding’ was about you.”

“It was about boys, not me. Peter had a little too much wine, and forgot his manners.”

“A bad idea. My brother can be touchy.”

For Whitney, the admonition evoked an image of Ben ruining his father’s face and teeth. “Ben has a certain idea of himself,” Jack continued more easily, “and he wants what he wants. He takes it hard when other people fool with that. I’d give him a day or two. If not a year or two.”

There were multiple ways of interpreting this, Whitney thought—a concern for Peter; a warning to her; or the resentment of a gentler, less ambitious man for the younger brother who seemed to scorn him. Whatever the case, Jack was not as dispassionate about Ben as he might prefer to seem. “Then I’m glad you were there,” she told him. “With all that testosterone flying around, I wanted to duck for cover.”

A brief smile creased Jack’s face. “Story of my life,” he said dryly. “The voice of reason. I appreciate this moment of recognition.”

Whitney detected more truth in the words than their tone implied. It struck her that she had asked nothing about Jack himself, and knew very little from Ben. “What do you do when you’re not protecting people from Ben?”

“I’m a woodworker. Chairs, desks, armoires, dining room tables, even doors and mailboxes. Whatever people need, as well as I can make it.”

“Sounds like you enjoy it.”

“I do.” Jack’s voice became more animated. “When I finish a piece—a desk, say—it’s something that never existed before, unique to me, that becomes a part of other people’s lives. When I used to paint, or sculpt, sometimes they’d just sit there. Now I put my craft into furnishings people use.”

While Ben aspired to be a writer, Whitney reflected, Jack was already an artist. Though the reasons surely lay deep in childhood—and in their opposing reactions to a violent father—their distance from each other seemed regrettable. “Is there a place that sells your pieces?” she asked.

“I’ve got a shop in Vineyard Haven. Come in sometime, and I can show you how they’re made.” He hesitated. “If you like, you can bring your friend Clarice.”

“Do you know her?”

“Only from catering. But you two always sit together.”

With some embarrassment, Whitney realized that she had never noticed him before, and guessed this was also true of Clarice. “I’m sure she’d like that,” she heard herself saying. “What time is good for you?”

A new warmth surfaced in Jack’s eyes. “Any afternoon,” he assured her. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Whitney thanked him and left, wondering if Ben had gone sailing to avoid her.

That night, Whitney’s parents watched NBC cover the eve of the Republican convention. Joining them, Whitney heard a commentator note that George Wallace, the independent who had made his name as a segregationist, was polling at fifteen percent, even higher in the South.
The danger for Republicans
, he explained,
is
that Wallace will peel away crucial votes among Southerners and blue-collar voters leery of the civil rights movement and the supposed breakdown in law and order. . . .

“Wallace is a carnival barker,” Charles groused. “He’s running as the last firewall between the barbarians and civilization. But all he can really do is deliver the election to Humphrey and all the people he excoriates. If he were serious, he’d get out of Nixon’s way.”

“What about black voters?” Anne asked him.

“Hopeless,” Charles said gloomily. “Unfortunately, they’re in thrall to the Democrats. To win we need the Wallace people.”

The unspoken subtext, Whitney supposed, was that Nixon could appeal to their fears without the crassness with which Wallace discomfited more genteel whites. Then the cheerful visage of Ronald Reagan appeared, speaking to a bank of microphones. “Of course I’d like a crack at the Presidency,” he said. “I don’t want people thinking I’m some pebble-pushing actor.”

The moment conjured Whitney’s sense of the surreal. From childhood, she remembered him as the host of GE Theater, pitching appliances and half-hour melodramas with the same unvarying enthusiasm. Even as governor of California, Reagan seemed to her more like an entertainer than a potential president, combining breeziness with a folksy demeanor exhumed from some bygone era of vaudeville. “He’s a coming man,” her father told Anne. “But he has to wait his turn.”

To Whitney, the remark had a familiar, faintly proprietary note, as though Reagan were a promising salesman who, with the right patronage and seasoning, might aspire to greater things. Then she thought of Ben’s evocation of Robert Kennedy in Indiana, telling a crowd of grieving blacks that their most hopeful leader had been shot and killed. “I think I’ll go for a walk,” she told her parents.

Ben’s light was on in the guesthouse. When Whitney knocked, he opened the door, beer in hand. At a glance, she saw that his television was turned to the same coverage her parents watched, now focused
on a crowd of Republican delegates. Following her gaze, he remarked, “That’s the whitest bunch of people I’ve seen since yesterday evening.”

Whitney ignored this. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what? You didn’t do anything. And if you’d wanted to apologize, you could have done that last night.”

Whitney flushed. “That would’ve only made things worse. Peter saw us together, and misunderstood.”

“I don’t know why Peter should worry. He’s the one holding a royal flush. Though he seems to have forgotten that your father dealt it to him.”

“He’s really not like that,” Whitney insisted. “Last night was completely out of character.”

“Does he have any?” Ben inquired in an indifferent tone. “Then why did I notice an inverse relationship between your fiancé’s accomplishments and his sense of entitlement? When Robert Kennedy told me to do something, there was a reason for it, and he was never rude. Of course he wasn’t some empty sport coat out of
Love Story
. Good luck with him, Whitney.”

Whitney crossed her arms. “You really
are
angry, aren’t you? Or else you wouldn’t try so hard to be insulting. Before, it just came naturally.”

“You’re right,” Ben snapped. “On a better day I’d have mentioned that your beau ideal is marrying you to get out of the draft. Only a moron couldn’t see there are better reasons to marry you than
that
. Too bad you and your father can’t see it, either.”

Whitney felt the words cut to her core. “You have no idea why Peter’s marrying me,” she said angrily, “and never will.” Abruptly, she stopped herself. “Please tell me what we’re doing, Ben. I’m lost.”

Ben stared at her, and then she saw him expel a breath. “The ersatz Ryan O’Neal struck a nerve. A shame you had to be there. But that’s what you get for maintaining an acquaintanceship no one wants you to have.” His voice softened. “I’m sorry, Whitney. If it helps, you can take my diatribe as a compliment. I think one slipped in somewhere.”

Whitney shook her head. “You know what’s so sad to me? I look at all of us—Peter, and my family, and you—and what I see is good
people with the faults life gave them. I met your brother today, and thought the same thing. But you’re so hurt and angry all you can see is black and white.”

Ben raised a hand, a glint of humor in his eyes. “Stop, Whitney, please. It’s way too late for group therapy, and I don’t know the words to ‘Kumbaya.’ I’m not taking your boyfriend sailing, or renting a tuxedo for the wedding. You’ll have to settle for a punch bowl from Tiffany’s.”

“I don’t need one,” she retorted, then felt Ben’s jibe ignite an impulsive thought. “And you needn’t wait for the wedding. My dad’s inviting you to dinner.”

He studied her, angling his head. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Not really.” Caught in her own trap, Whitney forged on. “He feels awkward about the other night, and grateful you bothered to pull me out of the ocean. I also told him that if you two were civil about politics, you might even like each other. He didn’t grow up with a trust fund, either.”

For once, Ben’s expression was devoid of irony or humor. “I’m not sure this is a good idea, Whitney.”

She had said as much to her father. But, whether from hope or incaution, she had gone too far. “Not if you’re determined to see him as the great class enemy, and my mother as the lady of the manor. But if you keep an open mind, you might find each other interesting.”

The glint reappeared in his eyes. “Are some black kids from Roxbury coming too?”

“We asked them, of course,” Whitney said tartly. “But they’re tied up playing basketball.”

Silent, Ben studied her face. More quietly, he asked, “So what do you want me to do, Whitney?”

Despite herself, Whitney realized that she wanted her parents to like him. “To show up for dinner. More or less on time.”

“Not fashionably late?” Ben said in an ironic tone tinged with resignation. “That’s what
my
parents always taught me.”

Six

When she heard Ben knock on the door, Whitney hurried to open it.

To her surprise, he looked different—his hair was damp from the shower, and combed into a semblance of discipline; he wore a blue sport coat and khakis that seemed slightly worn; and, most incongruous to her, carried a vase of freshly cut flowers. Despite his insouciant smile, Whitney could feel his discomfort—entering the Dane’s home ground, he seemed less self-assured.

“Here goes the neighborhood,” he murmured, and followed her inside.

Charles waited in the living room with Anne, a scotch already in his hand. He put the tumbler down on a mahogany drink coaster, and stood to meet their guest. “Hello, Ben,” he said, extending a firm handshake and a smile that perhaps only Whitney saw as short of fully welcoming. “I’m Charles Dane.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Dane,” Ben responded a trifle stiffly. He turned to Anne, holding out the vase of flowers. “I brought these for you, Mrs. Dane.”

“How lovely,” Anne said with a smile of her own. “Where did you find them?”

Ben shifted his weight. “I picked these while I was weeding the Dunmores’ garden. Seeing how they’re in Europe this summer, I thought you might enjoy them.”

Anne’s smile diminished. “The Dunmores’ loss is our gain,” she responded, and put the vase on the coffee table, sliding a magazine beneath it so that nothing got on the wood. A brief but awkward silence was interrupted by a sharp rap on the rear door.

“It’s Clarice,” Whitney told Ben. “I invited her to join us.”

The glint in his eye suggested he fully grasped her reason—Clarice could serve as a social buffer, helping to make this a dinner for young people rather than a simulacrum of parents meeting a new boyfriend in front of their captive daughter. When Whitney answered the door, Clarice whispered, “Is he already here?”

Nodding, Whitney said under her breath. “I can’t believe I did this.”

“So let’s make the best of it,” Clarice said with a mischievous smile. “Charlotte Brontë meets Edith Wharton. Personally, I see Ben as Heathcliff.”

Briskly, Clarice entered the living room with a minuet of courtesy, embracing Anne without smudging her makeup, giving Charles a bright smile followed by an decorous daughterly kiss on the cheek, and according Ben a casual, “Hi, Ben,” suited to his age and standing. Charles offered the women white wine, then turned to his guest. “What’s your pleasure, Ben? We have everything.”

“Whiskey, thanks. No ice.”

Reaching into the liquor cabinet, Charles poured him a generous measure of Maker’s Mark. Then everyone sat, Whitney’s parents in two wing chairs, Ben and Whitney on the couch with their duenna, Clarice, between them. Charles raised a glass to Ben. “This is my first chance to thank you for saving Whitney from drowning.”

“My pleasure, sir. As I told Mrs. Dane, it was sheer luck—Whitney swims off my favorite place on the island.”

“Tell us about yourself,” Anne requested pleasantly. “The four of us know everything about each other. But none of us knows what it’s like to really live here.”

Ben took a hasty sip of whisky. “I don’t have much to compare it to. My family came here a long time ago. Whaling, to start, then fishing, then lobstering.”

“The whaling industry must have been interesting. Were they sea captains?”

“I doubt it,” Ben answered with a smile. “I expect they went along for the ride and whatever they could make from a year at sea. But nobody thought to keep track of it. All I can know is that the headstones on Abel’s Hill go back to the early 1800’s.”

“That
is
a long time,” Anne agreed, “Where on the island do your parents live now?”

“In Menemsha, near the harbor.”

“Is that the family home?”

Ben smiled fractionally. “In the sense that my family lives there. It’s not new, but I couldn’t say when it was built—nothing about it would tell you, and neither of my parents is big on family history. For them history begins every morning when my father gets up before dawn, and ends with him falling asleep in his chair.”

Ben said this courteously enough, and Whitney was grateful that he had airbrushed the violence that had distorted his youth. But the laconic words underscored the chasm between his life and that of the Danes, leaving Whitney to wonder whether her mother had intended to adduce this, or simply had always been too affluent to imagine a much harsher existence. From beneath lowered eyelids, Clarice seemed to be watching Ben intently. “So you grew up on the island,” Charles said. “Seems like a nice place to do that.”

“In some ways,” Ben allowed. “I guess you’ve never been here in February.”

“I haven’t. We close down the house every fall.”

“Good idea. We don’t get the picture-postcard winter people associate with New England. The Vineyard is cold and gray and barren, and the days end so quickly that darkness feels like it’s closing
in around you. By February it’s so raw and bleak it seeps into your bones. That’s when you know you’re on a rock in the middle of the Atlantic. It changes people, and not for the better.”

Ben’s tone was not complaining; instead, it had the reportorial neutrality of someone describing an experience to others who have never had it. “When you say it changes people . . .” Charles inquired.

“They start to look hunched, like they’re cooped up in a cage. I’ve come to think there’s a kind of cruelty in having summers so beautiful and yet so short, followed by this claustrophobic winter you’d swear will never end. It makes for too much drinking, too many fathers beating their wives and kids. Sometimes worse.”

“What could be worse?” Anne asked with muted horror.

Ben took a sip of whisky, considering his answer. “Lines get crossed. Ever notice how many deaf people there are on the island?”

Anne’s brow knit. “I suppose so. There are a couple of businesses that employ them, aren’t there?”

Nodding, Ben continued in the same dispassionate tone. “In the last century, when the menfolk got shut in for months, some of them got tired of turning to their wives. After a few decades of pregnant daughters, some of the babies started getting born deaf. But that’s not the kind of family history people put in books.”

Discomfited, Whitney saw Anne’s expression of shock, and Charles shaking his head before saying, “That’s a terrible story.”

“It is,” Ben agreed. “Fortunately for me, everyone in my family can hear just fine. At least when they’re listening.” As though feeling Whitney’s unease, he continued, “You’re right, though—there’s a lot about growing up here I wouldn’t change. In the summer, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else, especially when I was on the water.” He glanced briefly at Clarice. “In fact, I used to crew for Clarice’s dad.”

“So George tells me,” Charles responded. “He says you’re quite the seaman.”

“It’s in the blood, I guess. If I’d had some other life, I’d never have set foot on Mr. Barkley’s boat. I’ve learned to appreciate when I’m lucky.”

Charles nodded his approval. But to Whitney, even this pleasant exchange carried an unspoken subtext: that Charles had called George Barkley to inquire about Ben; that Ben felt the Danes took their good fortune for granted. “And the schools here must be excellent,” Anne was saying. “Whitney says you’re going to Yale.”

“I was. College is where I got lucky in a couple of respects. Yale had started looking for more public school kids. Then some teachers helped me get a scholarship, so I could actually go.”

Charles smiled to indicate that this aspect of Ben’s story was familiar. “I was a scholarship boy, too, at Columbia. Every day I told myself to make the most of it.”

Ben glanced at their surroundings with a respectfully appreciative gaze. “Seems like you have, Mr. Dane. I hope that I can, too.”

It was good, Whitney supposed, that Ben did not know that the house had belonged to Anne’s father—or that Charles, like Peter, had married into the firm. Aware of her silence, she told her parents, “Ben’s interested in writing.”

“Really?” Charles said to Ben. “What kind?”

“Journalism, to start.”

“Then I imagine you plan on journalism school.”

Ben grimaced. “I was. But I dropped out of Yale to campaign for Robert Kennedy. One of the unfortunate by-products is that I lost my draft deferment.”

Her father must have forgotten this, Whitney thought. His expression somber, Charles said, “That was a shame, Ben—all around. So what will you do now?”

“As I told Whitney, I hope to get back to Yale at the end of summer, finish up before the draft board snags me. Right now they’re looking for bodies, anyone without a deferment. Until September, that’s me.”

Feeling Clarice’s glance, Whitney wished that her father had not steered the conversation so close to the escape he had obtained for Peter. “I’m sure you’re worried,” Charles said. “But I’d think there’d be enough candidates so that you could get by for another month or so.”

Ben’s face turned blank. “Hope so. But that particular kind of luck may depend on where you’re from.”

“How do you mean?”

Ben finished his drink. “Seems like the local draft board has fewer prospects than some do. About a year ago, a friend from high school ran short of money and had to drop out of UMass. Within two months, they’d reclassified Johnny 1-A and called him in for a physical. The way he told the story, he stripped down to his underwear and tramped around with a bunch of other guys, while Army doctors in white coats certified they were still alive. Johnny thought that breathing was pretty much the baseline qualification—unless you’d found your own doctor to say you had some debilitating disease.”

Having finished a substantial glass of whiskey, Ben was sounding more like himself. Whitney did not find this reassuring; nor was she happy, when her father poured another inch or two in his tumbler, reminding her that Charles’s overgenerosity with liquor had led to Peter’s gracelessness. “I
do
know some guys who got out,” Clarice offered encouragingly. “Quite a few, actually.”

“No doubt,” Ben said in a slightly ironic tone. “At the end of the physical, Johnny told me, they asked the next fifteen guys in line if they had a disability that would exempt them. Thirteen of them were white, like Johnny—except they were graduate students from the mainland who’d already slipped into a reserve unit.” Ben took another swallow of whisky. “Strangely, all thirteen had doctor’s letters explaining why they couldn’t serve. Even though all they had to do was show up for drill a few weeks every year, and their only chance of dying would be to fall on their own bayonets.”

To Whitney, the parallel to Peter had become far too exact. From the cool look in his eyes, Charles saw it, too. But Ben went on in the pleasant manner of anyone narrating a story. “Most of the white guys got out. Without a letter, Johnny was doomed. But you know what he thought even funnier? The black guy turned out to have one leg an inch shorter than the other. When they rejected him, he
was actually let down. Turned out he couldn’t find a job, and was hoping to make the Army a career.”

“I think that’s admirable,” Anne said firmly. “Someone using military service to better himself.”

Ben nodded, an indecipherable expression on his face. “Hopefully he’s found a job by now. A safer one.”

Whitney saw Clarice watching him with renewed attentiveness. Quietly, she asked, “What happened to your friend?”

For a moment, Ben started into the bottom of his empty glass. “Oh,” he said softly, “Johnny’s dead. He stepped on a landmine in Vietnam, less than a week ago. At least that’s what his mom told me when I dropped by this morning.”

A deep silence descended, no one looking at anyone else. “A terrible thing,” Charles said gravely, and then the housekeeper announced dinner.