Blue Water (28 page)

It was midnight by the time Rex returned to
Chelone,
cutting the dinghy motor and rowing in, out of courtesy, assuming I was asleep. Climbing into the cockpit, he literally jumped when he saw me, then staggered back, laughing at himself. “I didn't think you'd be up,” he said.

“Me neither.”

Rex sat down beside me, picked up my empty cup. “Found the scotch, I see,” he said.

“It was peppermint tea,” I said. “I thought you got rid of the scotch.”

“Just a little social lubrication,” he said. “Nothing wrong with that, Meg. Looks like you could have used some yourself tonight.” He was studying my face. “You and Nancy got awfully quiet all of a sudden.”

Somewhere in the cove, a heron croaked.

“I told her about Evan.”

He sighed. “I figured it was something like that.”

“I've spent the past month with people who know. I'm not used to keeping secrets.”

“That's not exactly true, now, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“When, exactly, were you planning to tell me you didn't sign the settlement?”

I glanced at him sharply, then looked away. Of course, Rex would have spoken to Arnie at least once, courtesy of Jack's world phone.

“She's already declared bankruptcy,” I said. “She's lost the house. Lost pretty much everything, in fact. I just don't see the point—”

“People like that,” Rex said, “always want you to believe they are on the brink of ruin. She's got cash squirreled away, you can bet on it.”

“I don't think so,” I said. “I talked with her about it.”

“You shouldn't have done that.”

Again, the heron croaked, coughed. Something splashed in the water, and I thought of that terrible unnamed fish, circling beneath us.

“Everything seemed different, once I was actually there,” I said. “Once I was interacting with people. It's hard to see someone the way that you do when you're staring at a piece of paper. Or looking at a photograph. Or even just imagining things inside your head.”

To my surprise, Rex took my hand. “I know,” he said. His voice was unexpectedly gentle, and, for a moment, I thought he understood. But then he said, “Let's just put the question aside again, okay? Nothing has to be decided now. The statute of limitations gives us plenty of time—”

“Listen to me.” I spoke slowly, deliberately, each word a step that could not be retraced. “I saw Cindy Ann repeatedly. I've talked with her on the phone. She's apologized, Rex, she's sorry, and she really has stopped drinking—”

“Don't fall for it,” he said, and now there was nothing of gentleness left, as if somewhere inside him a plug had been pulled, allowing
everything soft, yielding, beloved, to drain away. “Her attorney's been coaching her, that's all. You're losing sight of the facts, Meg, and the facts are that she killed our child, and there is nothing on this earth that she or anybody else can do or say—”

“I know,” I said. “I know. That's why I had to forgive her.”

He leapt to his feet with surprising grace, stood towering over me like an animal. By the light of that half-shadowed moon, I could see how much he wanted to hit me,
hurt
me, a look I recognized instantly, though I'd never seen it before. In the slow eternity of that moment, I listened to the last, stubborn survivors of the Men's Historical, Cultural and Sociological Expedition Society fighting their way through a school bus round of “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” Then, without warning, he spun away, stepped down onto the port side deck, dove overboard into the cove. I watched the sleek, dark shine of his head, moving toward the dock, until I couldn't see anything more. My face, when I touched it, burned as if he'd struck me.

That night, sleeping in the cockpit—I could not bring myself to lie down in our berth—I dreamed that Cindy Ann and I were stepping, once again, through the doors at Twin Lakes. Only this time, we were forced to plunge, headfirst, through solid glass. I woke up. It was just past dawn; Rex had not returned. I wanted to tell him about the dream, but then I remembered that, of course, I could not. I sat up, my entire body slick with morning damp, and I thought about all the secrets I'd have to keep. Even if Rex did let the suit go, I could never reveal what I'd begun to feel for Cindy Ann, a connection as irrevocable, as inexplicable, as kinship. I would have to sacrifice the very thing that would enable me, finally, fully, to survive.

Looking back, I see I could not have stayed married to my anger any longer than I did. And yet, for the next three days, I tried. Rex,
in his way, tried as well. He returned to
Chelone
the following afternoon as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Together, we worked on the whisker poles. We checked through-hulls, plotted a course to Tobago, reviewed lists of provisions, supplies. Twice, we even made love, without speaking; afterward, we held each other as if we might physically find a way to reconnect our lives. But each night, after supper, when he dinghied over to
Nantucket
for a drink, we both pretended it wasn't a relief to everyone that I chose to stay behind. And when, at last, a weather window opened, and
Chelone
followed
Nantucket
out of the cove, Rex pulled up alongside the ferry dock—never quite stopping—so that I could step ashore.

I suppose I still believed, watching the two boats raise their sails, that, eventually, Rex would grow tired of it. I suppose I still was telling myself that, sooner or later, he'd be ready to come home. Even now, there is a part of me that still waits for him, expects him to return, in the same way I keep expecting Evan.

 

Last fall, shortly after the divorce was finalized, I sold the house and moved to Florida, where I bought a condo in Coral Gables, found work at a local accounting firm, set about starting life over again at the age of fifty-two. Just before the move, I spoke to Rex for the last time. He'd called—as he still did once in awhile—to let me know where he was, how he was doing. This time, he'd made it as far as Panama. He was on a lengthy wait-list to pass through the canal. I told him about my plans, and he said, “I just can't picture you in Florida,” and I said, “I can't really picture you in Panama either,” and then neither one of us knew what to say. Our attempts at conversation usually ended just this way. I didn't really want details about his life and who else might be sharing it. Nor did he want to
hear about my life and its inevitable intersections: Toby and Mallory, Cindy Ann and her girls.

It isn't that I don't get angry anymore, sad anymore, because I do. I work at forgiveness every day, in the same way that Cindy Ann works at her sobriety. Stretches of time pass, and it's effortless, easy, until—without warning—it isn't.

The only person who truly understands this, I think, is Cindy Ann.

The night after Toby phoned to tell me about Mal's pregnancy, I woke up from a dream in which I'd climbed into their baby's crib and disassembled her as cleanly, as neatly, as Evan once took apart his Mr. Potato Head. One by one, I fed each piece to the snake fish writhing beneath my feet. For days, the dream stayed with me, clung like sour air. And yet, when Sadie was finally born—dark-haired and violet-eyed—I was on a plane within twenty-four hours, my mother sitting beside me, her grip nearly breaking my fingers as the plane touched down in Milwaukee.

We found Cindy Ann at the hospital with Mallory; Toby, exhausted, had gone home to sleep. Mal had labored twenty hours before agreeing to the C-section. She tried to turn the baby for us to see, then grimaced, shook her head. It was Cindy Ann who finally lifted Sadie from her sister's bed, extended her toward my mother and me, trembling, not knowing which one of us was going to step forward first.

A. M
ANETTE
A
NSAY
is the author of five novels, including
Vinegar Hill
, an Oprah Book Club Selection, and
Midnight Champagne
, a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, as well as a short-story collection,
Read This and Tell Me What It Says
, and a memoir,
Limbo
. Her awards include a National Endowment for the Arts Grant, a Pushcart Prize, the Nelson Algren Prize, and two Great Lakes Book Awards. She lives with her husband and daughter in Florida, where she teaches in the MFA program at the University of Miami.

www.amanetteansay.com

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Cover design by Mary Schuck

Cover photograph by Alfred Gerscheidt/Getty