Good Harbor (23 page)

Kathleen said she was too tired. “Next week. I’ll be done with radiation then.”

Hal looked disappointed but didn’t insist.

Joyce called a little later and announced that it was too hot for an afternoon walk,
but that she was coming over for a visit. She arrived at two with a paper bag from
which she produced a dozen limes, a bottle of tequila, and margarita mix. “Take me
to your blender,” she said.

As they sat in the den with the blinds drawn against the heat, Hal regaled them with
San Francisco stories. Slightly tipsy, Kathleen put her feet up on the couch and listened
as her friend and her son engaged in a spirited conversation about movies she’d never
seen and pop music she’d never heard. She beamed at the sight of Joyce being charmed
by her charming son, and at Hal, impressed by her wisecracking friend.

But when Hal asked Joyce about her work, Kathleen heard Joyce’s voice go up a tone
and saw her smile turn tight and artificial. I don’t ask enough about what’s going
on with Joyce, Kathleen thought. Joyce was taking good care of her, but she wasn’t
returning the kindness.

Kathleen dozed off. Waking up in the darkened room, she realized that she was only
a little embarrassed; if she had fallen asleep like that in front of anyone but Joyce,
she’d be mortified for life.

It was past six. Joyce was long gone and Hal had set the dining room table with the
Sabbath candlesticks and wine cup.

Standing by the table, Kathleen realized she was deeply touched by Hal’s new interest
in his Jewishness. Not that she could say why. Religion had never been central to
her life, not in an obvious way. And yet she was moved at the sight of Hal carrying
a challah and wearing a crocheted blue yarmulke. He’d bought the challah at the supermarket,
along with a roast chicken and salad. “My brother would shudder,” Hal said, pointing
at the ready-made feast.

“Your grandparents would be tickled,” Kathleen said.

As she lit the candles, she remembered how she’d done the same thing two months before,
when she’d found out that the cancer wasn’t going to kill her. She stared at the flames.

“Mom?”

“I’m okay,” she said, wondering whether he would disapprove of her Hebrew pronunciation,
now that he’d gotten so religious. But he smiled as she recited the prayer, then hugged
her tight. “Shabbat shalom,” he said, hugging Buddy next.

He said it again on his way out the door later.

“You, too,” Kathleen said.

Kathleen was out on the deck, wrapped in a cotton blanket, when Hal got home. It was
one in the morning. He stood at the sink and wolfed down a sandwich. He didn’t see
her, but Kathleen had a clear view of his face. She watched him rinse his hands and
smile. She would have given anything to know what he was thinking.

Hal turned off the light, and Kathleen leaned back in the chaise lounge to look up
at the sky and make wishes. After a little while, she got into bed, pressing her arm
against her breast. The scar and the skin around it were numb.

In the morning, she found Buddy and Hal in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading
the paper. Hal was already dressed, wearing the blue yarmulke again.

“I thought I’d go to Torah study,” he said as Kathleen kissed the top of his head.

Buddy raised his eyebrows. “I hope you’re not becoming a religious fanatic.”

Hal frowned a little and shrugged.

After he left, Kathleen told Buddy about Hal’s meeting with the rabbi in the restaurant
and his late return last night. Buddy pumped her for more details but Kathleen had
nothing more to add.

“I sure hope they’re not just talking about theology,” Buddy said.

“That might be a good place to start.”

“As long as it doesn’t end there.”

Kathleen put a finger up to her lips. “Shhhh.”

“Oh, I won’t say anything,” Buddy groused. “But I sure am going to cross my fingers.”

Kathleen crossed hers, too.

JOYCE WAS CONVINCED
Patrick had seen her spying on him that night through the window. She had no proof,
of course, and she knew it was irrational. But as she faced the weekend, she grew
more and more certain that he wouldn’t call next week, that she’d never see him again.

Frank called three or four times a day on weekends, to apologize mostly. And weekends
were hard, because that’s when Joyce missed Nina most.

She didn’t want to go too far from the phone, just in case Patrick did call (not that
he would), but now she couldn’t stand to be inside the house either. All the rooms
were painted, and every surface reproached her. The hallway trim had been finished
in the afterglow of her first meeting with Patrick. The kitchen windows were completed
after her first day of panting and grunting in Patrick’s bed. She finished the bedroom
— hers and Frank’s — while plotting ways to peel off Patrick’s shirt.

Joyce called Kathleen a few times, but hung up before the machine clicked into gear.
She couldn’t read, couldn’t even watch TV.

She stared out the window at the yard and winced at the mess. The kid they’d hired
to mow the lawn had stopped showing up two weeks ago, and he’d never touched the borders
and flowerbeds. The space around the untrimmed bushes had turned into a knee-high
jungle.

Joyce knocked on her next-door neighbors’ door and borrowed Ben and Eric’s lawn mower
and rake. She pulled Frank’s hand tools out of the garage and trimmed the bushes.
Then she got down on her knees and started pulling weeds.

Gardening had always been Frank’s exclusive domain, to the point that it was a family
joke. “Mom was attacked by a dandelion when she was a baby,” Frank had told Nina.
“She’s been afraid of plants ever since.” Frank — who had grown up in apartment buildings
— had acquired a shelf full of gardening books since they’d moved to Belmont, and
a headful of facts about temperature zones, soil pH, and growing seasons. When they’d
closed on the Gloucester house, he’d splurged on a fancy new set of shears that came
with a suede holster. Frank probably misses this garden more than he misses me, Joyce
thought.

She was surprised at how much she enjoyed yardwork. After paint fumes, the dirt and
roots smelled sweet. She caught a tang of mint and chive in one of the overgrown flowerbeds.
Did Mary Loquasto grow herbs, or was it someone from long ago? A fisherman’s wife’s
kitchen garden? Magnolia’s great-granddaughter, perhaps?

It was the first time she’d thought of Magnolia for weeks, and she let her mind wander
in the direction that Kathleen had suggested that time at Good Harbor. What if Magnolia
did end up here, in Gloucester? She’d have to kill Jordan in order to provide her
heroine with new romantic tension. Poor Jordan. She smiled as she considered whether
to finish him off by scurvy, storm, or pirate attack.

On Sunday, she filled two more bags with weeds, dead leaves, and bits of paper. Ben
and Eric stopped to admire her progress and offered her some orange lilies from their
yard. “They’re totally overgrown and we need to divide them,” Eric said. “You’d be
doing us a favor.”

Joyce accepted, knowing how Kathleen would get a kick out of her joining the daylily
club. She thought a lot about Kathleen as she worked outside: her health, her fears,
her sons, her confidences. God bless Kathleen, Joyce thought. It’s strange how effortless
friendship seems, especially compared to family. Just showing up qualifies you for
a medal. I really need to find something to celebrate the end of her treatment. Maybe
I can find a “Duck and Cover” poster somewhere.

For some reason, as she worked outdoors, Joyce didn’t think about Patrick at all.

By Sunday afternoon, only one big cleanup project remained. Joyce squared her shoulders
and headed for the bed surrounding the statue of Mary. She felt sheepish about leaving
this for last. “You are a superstitious nitwit,” she lectured herself as she grabbed
the trowel and an empty bag and headed for the “grotto.” Did she think the Madonna
was going to come to life and paint a big red
A
on her chest? Did she believe Mary even cared about her sorry Jewish sins?

Father Sherry had called and left a few apologetic messages. His mother was ill and
had taken several turns for the worse. Someone from the rectory had called yesterday
to say the priest was still in Detroit.

Oh, well, at least no one has left any wreaths lately, thought Joyce, as she got down
on her knees and reached for the tall grass that had grown past the statue’s knees.
A moment later she was back on her heels. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

The overgrowth was a blind, hiding a heap of trinkets and coins. Joyce picked them
up, one by one: six religious medallions (four Marys and two St. Christophers), a
tarnished silver thimble, a collection of tricolor ribbons from St. Peter’s festival.
She found a miniature china teacup and saucer, and a pile of nickels and dimes.

The soil under the coins had been turned over. With one turn of the shovel, Joyce
unearthed a diamond engagement ring and a pair of pearl earrings. Oh, no, she thought.
That poor woman is really crazy.

She wrapped the “offerings” in a kitchen towel and called Kathleen, who agreed to
meet for a walk. “I feel a little like I robbed a grave or something,” Joyce said
as they set out under a dramatic, cloud-filled sky. “But I couldn’t just leave it
all there, could I?”

“You did the right thing,” Kathleen said. “It sounds like Theresa is now way past
reverence for the Virgin. She’s got to be eighty. She lives just around the corner
from you, with her daughter, Lena. Maybe you should call Lena.”

“I’ll do that.”

They walked on quietly for a few moments. A steady wind pushed the high cumulus clouds,
blocking the sun and then revealing it. Huge shadows fell on the sand, so that Joyce
and Kathleen walked through disappearing walls of warmth and light.

“Joyce, what’s going on with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seemed sort of edgy when Hal asked about your writing.”

“Oh, that.” Joyce brushed the question away with her hand.

Kathleen waited for an answer.

“I haven’t written anything all summer. Sometimes I think I’ll never write anything
again.”

“You’re just becalmed.”

“That’s a nice word,” Joyce said wistfully.

“You’ll catch a breeze. You won’t stay becalmed. Or maybe you could think of it as
lying fallow.”

“That’s a less attractive image.”

“Not really. You’ve only just started digging around in your garden, but after a year
you’ll get to see how flowers thrive in places that have been uncultivated. Those
will be the most beautiful parts.”

“Actually, I had a thought about Magnolia while I was rooting around out there. I
imagined one of her descendants living up here, planting a kitchen garden.”

“So Magnolia becomes a mother, does she?”

“I suppose she does, eventually.”

“Then you can plumb your own mother-daughter issues.”

“Oh, great,” Joyce said, shaking her head. “Part of me can’t wait for Nina to come
home and another part of me is dreading the fray. Sometimes, I fantasize that she
comes back as ten-year-old Nina who wants to play Monopoly with me. Sometimes, I imagine
that she’ll be totally mature and my best friend. But then reality strikes and I remember
that we’re only just starting the whole adolescent thing.”

“You know,” Kathleen said, “I sometimes wonder if people who see us walking on the
beach think we’re mother and daughter. I don’t think of you as my daughter, not at
all, though you’re young enough to be.”

“I sure don’t think of you as my mom. Mothers and daughters, huh? It’s never easy.”

“Mothers and sons are complicated, too. Hal seems angry with me these days.”

“Why?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I used to think we were close, but now I’m wondering whether
the reason he moved to California was to get away from me. I suspected that he was
gay,” she said, turning toward Joyce. “Did I ever tell you that? For years, I assumed
that’s why he lived in San Francisco with Josh. But I was wrong. And now I feel like
I don’t know him at all, and that it’s my fault.