Southampton Spectacular (16 page)

“How was the carnival?” Peter asked suddenly.

Devon was unprepared for the question. She sat down in a chair facing opposite him, and she stalled by taking longer than necessary to make herself comfortable. “Good,” she said, trying to give the word just the right mix of genuine cheerfulness and uncaring, nothing-more-to-report boredom. “Nina finally came home with one of those huge stuffed bananas.”

Peter nodded, looking pleased. “Excellent. And after only a decade or so of trying, too. How nice.”

Cynthia came back with the iced tea, which she handed carefully to her husband. “Were you telling him about the carnival?” she asked Devon, and she smiled in a way that let Devon know she would not be satisfied with a brush-off. She wanted an actual report. On
him
. “How was it?”

“Did you go on some good rides?” her father asked.

Cynthia sat down next to her husband, and they waited. As if they hardly knew what a carnival was. As if they had not both taken Devon and her friends to that very carnival dozens of times over the years. She looked at the two of them, and for a moment she was on the edge of giving them a play-by-play, right from the beginning. From the first moment she had seen him –
really
seen him, when they had been at the Beach Club and he had been looking at her – all the way to him knocking out Duane and then riding the Zipper with her, even though he had lost his lunch only five minutes before. But then she could hear herself going through it, could hear how it would all sound in the actual telling, and she worried that she wouldn’t do it justice. That she would be unable to explain, unable to make them feel what it was like when Austin looked at her in that easy way of his, as if there could never be anything to worry about, not really.

But then, just as quickly, she realized she didn’t
want
to be able to explain that particular experience. Because when Austin looked at her like that, it was something for
her
.

So all she said was, “We had a great time. Austin’s a good guy, and he gets along well with my friends.” She paused, worrying that what she had said was impossibly vague. She could have been describing almost any boy in the world. “He’s game for stuff,” she said at last, hoping that this would cover most of the things she was unable, or unwilling, to explain. “And he looked out for me.”

She cringed inwardly at this last part, worrying she had said too much. She dreaded having to expand on what she meant; her father would be likely to forbid her from ever going near the carnival again if he found out about the episode with Duane. But her parents only nodded and smiled, and they spared her any more questions. Her mother patted Peter’s knee, and he put his arm around his wife.

“Looking out for you is exactly what he’s supposed to do,” he said. “It’s his job.”

“That’s right,” Cynthia said.

“At least until he gets into some sort of accident and bashes his head in,” Peter added, “in which case his job becomes sitting on the couch and having iced tea brought to him.”

Cynthia patted his knee again. “Well, yes,” she said. “But we all deserve drinks brought to us from time to time.”

2

In addition to the lingering mobility problems, the doctor had told them not to be concerned with Peter’s sleeping patterns during his convalescence. “He’ll probably sleep a lot more than usual for the next few months,” the doctor said. He looked at Cynthia and Devon carefully, to make sure they understood. “A
lot
more, and that sleep is not to be disturbed. From a clinical standpoint, his brain has gone through the equivalent of a mild stroke. He needs rest to recover, and he needs isolation. You are not to stay up late talking with him. Or go to parties that last until the wee hours. He will become exhausted more easily, especially after long periods of social interaction. He needs
sleep
.”

Cynthia and Devon had nodded seriously. There was no misunderstanding.

They cooked a small dinner that night, ate together, and soon afterward Devon and her mother could see him getting tired. He was speaking more slowly, and his eyelids were drooping. So they helped him up the stairs together, Cynthia at his side and Devon behind him, though he insisted, as before, on taking every step on his own. Cynthia helped him into bed, and he was asleep almost as soon as he was under the covers.

Cynthia stayed with him for a few minutes, and then she went back downstairs to join her daughter in the kitchen, far enough away from the bedroom to ensure that he would not be disturbed.

They were sitting on tall stools together at the granite-top island in the middle of the kitchen, eating ice cream from small blue bowls that were Cynthia’s favorite. Devon let her mother collect herself for a few minutes.

There were questions she needed to ask.

“He’s better every day,” Cynthia said suddenly, pausing with a spoonful of ice cream halfway to her mouth. “He’s going to be okay.”

Devon watched her carefully, and she nodded. She knew it was hard for both of them. Her father’s movement seemed especially important; she had been relieved when the doctor told them that strength and coordination would likely return with enough time.

She tried to catch her mother’s eye. “And how are
you
doing?”

Cynthia nodded slowly. “Same as him,” she said. “A little better every day.” She got up from her stool and went to the freezer for more ice cream. Devon followed her, still waiting for the right moment. When their bowls were full, they both walked out of the kitchen toward the back porch. The lights were off on the porch itself, but the garden and pool lights were on outside. They sat down together on the one large couch there and looked out over the place where Devon had first learned to swim; where her mother had taught her how to plant tulip bulbs and azaleas. Here, in this room, they were as far away from the master bedroom as they could be in the house.

And still Devon spoke in a whisper.

“What about the letter?” she said. She spoke so quietly that she wasn’t sure her mother had heard her. Anything could have been louder: the sound of spoons clinking on bowls; the sound of ice cream being swallowed; the sound of air being breathed.

Cynthia leaned forward and put her bowl on the ground. Then she sat back and looked at Devon. Even in the semi-darkness of the unlit porch, her eyes were as clear and bright as Devon had ever seen them. “Listen closely,” her mother said, whispering as quietly as Devon had. But with more urgency. “
There is no letter
.”

Devon said nothing at first. She wanted to show her mother that she understood. That while she wanted to help, wanted to listen and share and suffer together with her, she was also willing to try and forget the letter had even existed. Out of a sense of duty. And love. So at last she said, “Okay.”

“And because there is no letter,” Cynthia said, still in that urgent whisper, “you must never mention it to your father.”

Devon was ready to agree to this as well, but then she thought for a moment. “The lawyer said that Dad was the one who set up the
non compos mentis
delivery in the first place,” she whispered, “so wouldn’t that mean that Dad might already – ”

“You must
never
mention it to him,” Cynthia said again, a little quaver entering her voice.

Devon nodded. “Okay,” she said softly. “I won’t. It’s going to be okay.”

Cynthia looked at her for another second with that intense, bright-eyed expression, and then she seemed to relax. As though Devon’s assurance had been the last loose end in need of tying off. She put her head down and held Devon by the shoulders, and then she looked up. Devon was surprised to see her smiling. Her mother hugged her then, and Devon supposed that this might be the last time she would ever hear the lawyer’s letter mentioned. Cynthia seemed ready to dispose of the event altogether. Like an awkward conversation. Something to be moved past. Never discussed. Never remembered.

Gone.

She was confident her mother could pull it off, no matter what that letter might have said. Having Peter back home was a big step, and it was true that he was getting better every day. Cynthia seemed to have turned a corner of her own, and they could –

But then Devon could feel something change. She and her mother were still hugging one another, and she could feel her mother’s shoulders shaking. Cynthia Hall was sobbing. Now she was pawing at Devon’s shoulders like a climber trying to find purchase on a cliff-face, trying to hold onto something that was in danger of falling, something that was slipping away.

She cried and cried, and made no sound.

3

There was nothing to do the next morning but try to get back to normal. To resume the routine. They had breakfast in the huge white kitchen, and the sun came through the east windows and lit up the little crystal chandelier over the main table. Cynthia was making pancakes. Peter had his morning New York Times and his coffee and his boiled egg in a cup, and he was dressed in his favorite blue-checked button-down. Everything was as it had been before.

Devon put in the effort. “So,” she said brightly, “I was going to ask the two of you, before we were so rudely interrupted – ”

“Interrupted?” her mother said. “By what?”

“By dad jumping over a wall
.”

Peter glanced up from his paper, looking amused. “My fault.”

“I was going to ask the two of you,” Devon said again, “what kind of party you want for your 25th wedding anniversary next month.”

Peter and Cynthia glanced at each other, then back at Devon.

“That’s very kind,” Peter said with a smile, “but I don’t think – ”

“Stop,” Devon said. “We’re having a party, end of story. The only question is how you want it done. Big, little? Here, at a restaurant in town? Lots of people, or lots and
lots
of people?”

Peter looked at his wife for help, but she just looked back at him. “I
like
the idea,” she said pointedly, as though daring him to disagree.

“Absolutely,” he said quickly. “I’m just worried I won’t quite have my dance steps back in shape before then.”

“That’s no excuse,” Cynthia said with a laugh, and she walked to the table to deliver another pancake to Devon’s plate. “A party’s a party even if you’re not making everyone else look bad.”

Peter frowned at this, as though making everyone else look bad was the
only
thing that made a party a party, and he returned his attention to Devon. “Let me ask you this,” he said, cracking open his boiled egg with a practiced hand.

“Yes?” Devon could tell he was stalling, looking for another way to change the subject. Suddenly he seemed to think of something.

“What are you doing for the talent show?”

Devon shook her head. “Dad. You know I haven’t been in the talent show since I was thirteen. None of us has.”

“Florin is in it every year.”

“Florin’s
dog
is in it,” Devon said, “and that’s only because Florin will jump at any excuse to show off her precious Jasper.”

“Well, fine. But you should still be there to support her.”

“And I will. But going to watch Florin put Jasper’s tricks on display doesn’t make me unable to plan an anniversary party.”

Peter nodded thoughtfully at this. “I suppose that’s true,” he said, and he smiled again.

1

Devon had left out nearly every detail when describing her night at the carnival to her mother and father, but she told herself that this was to be expected. Her parents didn’t really need to know most of that stuff. The thing about Duane, for instance. Especially the part about her taking Austin on rides until he threw up behind a game stand. That would be her little secret. She had a feeling her mother might get quite angry at her for such a blatant violation of the basic rules of hospitality.

Thou shalt not cause one’s guest to vomit.

In any case, there was one detail she realized she would need to mention to her parents before long. Within the next few hours, actually.

“He’s going to take me out again tonight,” she said to them, as she cleared her plate and left the breakfast table, moving slightly faster than normal.

They made protesting sounds at her as she walked out of the kitchen.

“What?”

“Who?”

“Shocking.”

“Out of the question.”

Devon sighed loudly and resisted the temptation to rise to the bait, knowing they were only trying to get her worked up. Which wasn’t necessary, since she was already nervous enough. Not nervous for herself, necessarily, but for Austin. She was worried he would try to do too much. That he would try to knock her over with the perfect first dinner at some outrageously expensive, tarted-up place with too many foreign words on the menu and not enough dishes that came with coleslaw.