The Loop (7 page)

‘She’s twenty-five years old.’

And there she was, a block away, locked onto his arm, her great mane of black hair bouncing and shining in the sun as she strode beside him. She was talking and laughing, a talent which Helen had never mastered, while her dad just beamed like a king and subtly scanned the faces of passing males for any trace of envy. He seemed to have lost about thirty pounds and had a different, shorter haircut. Courtney was wearing a no doubt hugely expensive black linen shift with a wide red belt. Her high-heeled sandals were red too and made her taller than he was, which was about five-ten. Her lips were painted to match the belt and the shoes.

Helen was wearing a dress too, her best in fact: a mud-colored cotton print dress, bought two summers ago at The Gap. She briefly considered crawling under the table.

Her father saw her and waved and pointed her out to Courtney and Courtney waved too. Helen quickly stubbed out her cigarette and as they arrived outside the dusty hedge of the
terrazzo
, she stood up and leaned over it to give her dad a hug and, in so doing, knocked the table so that the wine bottle toppled, emptied itself over the skirt of her dress, then rolled off and shattered on the floor.

‘Whoa there!’ said her father.

A waiter torpedoed to the rescue.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ Helen wailed. ‘I’m so stupid.’

‘No you’re not!’ insisted Courtney and Helen almost snapped back,
What the hell do you know? I’ll be stupid if I want.

Her father and Courtney had to go around and in through the door of the restaurant to get out to the
terrazzo
, so Helen had a few moments, with some rather too intimate assistance from the torpedo-waiter, to dry her dress. He was on his knees in front of her, rubbing her thighs with his cloth. Everyone was staring.

‘That’s fine, thank you. That’s fine, really. STOP!’

Mercifully, he did and disappeared and Helen stood there damply, shrugging and grinning like an imbecile at the people at the neighboring tables. Then she saw her father and cranked her face into what she hoped resembled a smile. He opened his arms and she let him hug her.

‘How’s my baby girl?’

‘Wet. Hot and wet.’ He kissed her. He was wearing cologne. Cologne! He stood back, pinning the tops of her arms so that he could inspect her.

‘You look fabulous,’ he lied.

Helen shrugged. She had never known how to react to his compliments. Nor anyone else’s, come to that, not that she got that many. Her father turned to the lovely Courtney, who stood to one side, looking warmly on.

‘Baby, I want you to meet Courtney Dasilva.’

Helen wondered if they were expected to kiss and was relieved when Courtney held out a tanned and elegant hand.

‘Hi,’ Helen said, shaking it. ‘Great nails.’

They matched the belt, the shoes, the lips and, probably, the underwear too. Helen’s own nails were like a trucker’s, all stubby and chipped from working all summer in the kitchen at Moby Dick’s.

‘Why, thank yooou,’ Courtney said. ‘You poor thing, is your dress ruined? Howard, honey, we should go buy her another. There’s a great store just around—’

‘I’m fine. Really. Actually, I always do it, to cool off. And if we run out of wine I’ll just wring some out.’

Howard-honey ordered champagne and after a couple of glasses Helen started to feel better. They talked about the weather, New York in the heat and about SoHo, where Courtney, of course, wanted to get a loft. Helen couldn’t resist asking her with a straight face what she was going to keep in it, Christmas decorations or what? Courtney patiently explained that loft, in this context, meant a sort of large apartment.

The waiter reappeared and told Helen she wasn’t allowed to smoke which, considering they were sitting
alfresco
on the
terrazzo
breathing traffic fumes, seemed less than logical. It was disappointing too because she had already noted Courtney’s disapproval and wanted more. She had only just taken the habit up again after quitting for seven years and drew perverse pleasure out of being the only biologist she knew who smoked.

They ordered. Helen went first, opting for the fish terrine then a heavy-duty pasta number to follow. Then Courtney said all she wanted was an arugula salad with lemon juice, no dressing, and then her new, svelte father, who had already confided, with a proud pat of his stomach, that he went crack of every dawn to a gym where all kinds of famous people worked out, ordered the striped bass, grilled, no oil, no sauce, and nothing to start. Helen felt not just a klutz but a glutton now too.

While the waiter heaped a mortifying amount of spaghetti carbonara onto her plate, her father leaned nearer and said,

‘Guess where we’re getting married.’

Helen wanted to say Vegas maybe? Or Reno, or wherever it was you could get divorce papers out of a machine the very next day.

‘I have absolutely no idea.’

‘Barbados.’

He took Courtney’s hand and Courtney smiled and kissed him on the cheek. Helen wanted to throw up.

‘Wow,’ she said instead. ‘Barbados. Wow.’

‘But only if you promise to come,’ said Courtney, wagging a long red nail at her.

‘Well, sure. I’m often cruising around down there, so why the hell not?’ Helen saw a flicker of hurt in her father’s eyes and told herself to stop. Be nice, for heaven’s sake, just be nice.

‘You pay, I come.’ She beamed at them both and went on, ‘No, seriously, I’d love to. I’m really happy for you both.’

Courtney seemed touched. She smiled and her eyes went all watery. She probably wasn’t so bad, thought Helen, although why she should want to marry a man more than twice her age was a mystery. For heaven’s sake, the guy wasn’t even rich.

Courtney said, ‘I know stepmothers are supposed to be like the wicked Queen in
Snow White
or something—’

‘Right!’ Helen cut in. ‘But give it time, you can grow into it. I mean, hey, you’ve already got the nails.’ She boomed with laughter. Courtney smiled uncertainly. Helen poured herself the last of the champagne, feeling her father’s eyes on her. He and Courtney had already switched to mineral water. Klutz, glutton, why not drunken bitch too?

‘You’re a biologist,’ Courtney said. Boy, she was trying hard.

‘I wash dishes. Or used to wash dishes. I quit last week. Technically, at the moment I’m, as they say, “between jobs”.’

‘“Available.”’

‘That too.’

‘And you’re still up on Cape Cod?’

‘Yup. Stranded on the Cape. Good a place as any to wash up.’

‘Why do you always put yourself down so much?’ her father said. He turned to Courtney. ‘She’s a brilliant wolf biologist. This PhD thesis she’s finishing is ground-breaking stuff.’

‘Groundbreaking!’ Helen scoffed.

‘It’s true. Your supervisor said so.’

‘He doesn’t know a thing. Anyway, that was three years ago. By now the whole species has probably evolved into tree-dwelling herbivores.’

‘Helen lived among them in Minnesota for a number of years.’

‘“Lived among them.” Dad, you make me sound like Mowgli or something.’

‘Well, you did.’

‘Not “lived among”. You hardly ever got to see the damn things. I just did research, that’s all.’

In fact, her father wasn’t far wide of the mark. Whether her research was ‘groundbreaking’ was debatable, but it was certainly one of the most intensive studies ever carried out into why some wolves kill livestock and others don’t. It was about the age-old issue of nature versus nurture (which had always intrigued her) and seemed to suggest that cattle-killing was more learned than inherited.

Helen was damned, however, if she was going to perform a party piece and share any of this with Courtney, who now had her pretty chin propped on one hand, trying to look fascinated.

‘Tell me what it was like. I mean, what did you do?’

Helen emptied her glass before answering, nonchalantly.

‘Oh, you kind of follow them around. Follow their tracks, trap them, radio-collar them. Find out what they’re eating.’

‘How?’

‘Basically you examine their shit.’

A woman at the next table gave her a look. Helen smiled sweetly at her and went on, louder.

‘You pick up every piece of shit you find and poke around in it for hairs and bone and stuff and then analyze what it came from. When they’ve just been on a kill, the shit’s all kind of black and runny which makes it more difficult to handle. And really, really smelly, you know? God, that kind of wolf shit, can it stink! It’s better when they haven’t eaten in awhile, you know, the turds are kind of firmer. Easier to pick up. With your fingers.’

Courtney nodded sagely. To her credit, she hadn’t flinched once. Helen knew her father was giving her his hurt stare and she told herself off for being so childish. She’d had way too much to drink.

‘Anyway, that’s enough of that shit,’ she said. ‘Courtney, why don’t you tell me about your shit? You’re a banker right?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Got any money?’

Courtney smiled, easily. She had class, this girl.

‘Only other people’s,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘And you’re a psychologist.’

‘Well, I never practiced.’

‘Practice makes perfect and you seem pretty damn perfect to me.’

‘Helen . . .’ Her father put a hand on her arm.

‘What? What?’ Helen looked at him, all innocence.

He was about to say something, then gave her a sad little smile instead. ‘Who’d like dessert?’

Courtney said she needed to go to the bathroom, though after how little she’d consumed, Helen couldn’t imagine why, except to touch up her nails maybe. When she had safely gone, Helen’s father said,

‘What’s the matter with you, baby?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s no rule that says you have to hate her, you know.’

‘Hate her? What on earth do you mean?’

He sighed and looked away. Helen felt her eyes suddenly fill up with tears. She reached out and put a hand on her father’s arm.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

He took her hand in both of his and looked, with great concern, right into her eyes.

‘Are you okay?’ he said.

She sniffed and fought back the tears. God, she couldn’t make yet another scene in this place, they’d have her committed.

‘I’m fine.’

‘I worry about you.’

‘There’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine.’

‘Have you heard from Joel?’

She had prayed he wouldn’t ask. Now she was sure to cry. She nodded, not trusting her voice for a moment, and took a deep breath.

‘Yep. He wrote me.’

No, she wasn’t going to cry. Joel was thousands of miles away and it was all over, anyway. And here came dear old Courtney, heading out toward them through the restaurant, smiling with new resolve and freshly glossed lips. Helen resolved to give her a break. She wasn’t so bad. In fact there was something tough and sassy about her that Helen found appealing.

Who knows, she thought, someday they might even be friends.

6

H
elen flew back to Boston that same evening. She had planned to stay the weekend with friends in New York but she called them from the airport and made some excuse about having to get home. In truth, she simply wanted to get out of the stifle and clamor of Manhattan.

The rest of the lunch had been better. Her father gave her a beautiful Italian leather purse that Courtney had helped him choose. Courtney had a present for her too, a bottle of perfume, and redeemed herself vastly in Helen’s estimation by eating a giant slice of chocolate gateau.

To her father’s obvious pleasure, the two women had even kissed goodbye, with Helen undertaking to be in Barbados for the wedding, though refusing flatly to be a bridesmaid. Not even Matron of Dishonor, she said.

It was getting on for ten o’clock by the time she’d driven down from Boston and swung east onto Route 6, which would take her all the way up the Cape to Wellfleet.

In her haste to get out of New York, she had forgotten it was a Friday night, when the going was always slowest. Most of the way it was bumper to bumper with weekenders and tourists, their car roofs stacked high with bicycles, boats and boogie boards. Helen longed for the fall when the place would empty out and even more for winter when the wind roared across the bay and you could walk the ocean shore for mile upon mile and the only living things you saw were birds.

The house she had lived in for the last two years was a rental on the bay side, a mile or so south of Wellfleet village. She still thought of it as Joel’s house. To reach it you had to leave the highway and negotiate a labyrinth of narrow, wooded lanes, then a steep dirt trail that led down to the water.

Driving through the woods, away from the traffic at last, Helen turned off the air-conditioning of the ancient Volvo station wagon and wound down the window to get the warm smell of the woods. It was probably no cooler than New York, but the heat here was different, the air clean and there was nearly always a breeze.

The car bumped its way down the trail until she could see the black expanse of water below her through the trees and the three small houses she had to pass before the final descent to her own. She stopped beside her mailbox but there was nothing in it. He hadn’t written for over a month.

There was a light still on at the Turners’ who looked after Buzz when she was away. She could hear him barking a welcome as she pulled up outside. He was inside the screen door of the kitchen, wagging his tail and watching her. Mrs Turner appeared and let him out.

Buzz was a neutered scruff of uncertain parentage that Helen had got from a dog pound in Minneapolis, the Christmas before she met Joel. Which, except for her father and an ill-tempered hamster - one of the menagerie of pets Helen had kept as a child - made it the longest relationship with a male she had ever had. His coat was shaggy now, which made nonsense of his name. When she’d first laid eyes on him, he’d had an all-over crew-cut to rid him of a frightful infestation. Covered in blotches of purple disinfectant, he’d been, without even a close rival, the ugliest dog in the pound. Helen simply had to have him.