The Castaways (17 page)

But teenage girls were fragile. They were both brave and stupid. They were innocent and cunning. A few girls, over the years, had fallen so in love with Greg they nearly drowned in it. Greg was always kind, always firm, always funny and avuncular.
You feel this way now, but you’ll get over it. You’ll grow up and shine your light and I will seem very small and faraway to you, I promise.

Sometimes the girls showed up at the Begonia “for dinner” in low-cut tops and lower-cut jeans, and when Delilah told them, at ten when the kitchen closed, that they had to leave because they were underage, they—well, they whined.
I want to see Mr. Mac play. Just one song. Please?
Delilah had small children at home, she knew how to deal with whiners.
Off you go. Come back when you’re twenty-one.

They really love you,
Delilah said to Greg.

Yes,
he said.
But do you?

Delilah swatted him, sashayed away. People talked about Greg and those girls, but the crushes were innocent and funny; it was an after-school special.

Until April Peck.

Why April Peck and not some other girl? Like anything, most of it was timing. Delilah had sensed things coming to a head between Greg and Tess. He complained about Tess all the time, and his complaints were angry and mean-spirited. He and Tess were in a rut—sexually and emotionally. The summer had brought the Debacle of the Roof. (Greg dwelled on the roof more than Delilah thought necessary. It was a home improvement project! Could it really fell a marriage?) Tess and Greg had had some serious leaking in the spring rains, and they’d discovered they needed a new roof. They were quoted a price of thirty-seven thousand dollars to replace the roof, which they couldn’t afford. Greg decided to replace the roof himself. He hired two Lithuanian day laborers; he bought twenty-two bundles of shingles at Marine Home Center. He rented the tools and the ladders, and with a
DIY
website as his professional reference, he got to work. They spent a week getting the old shingles off and a thousand dollars dropping them at the dump, then another two weeks reshingling in the brutal July sun, only to discover that the roof still leaked and had to be torn off and redone by professionals. Tess did not handle this well. There was a lot of innuendo about the roof caving in on the marriage, literally and figuratively. By the time school started in September, Tess and Greg were depleted, stressed out, and sick of each other.

There had been a lot of drives to Cisco Beach to talk that September, a lot of Greg pushing and Delilah resisting. He grew belligerent.

You don’t care about me.

Because I won’t sleep with you, I don’t care about you? Even you, Greg MacAvoy, are too emotionally mature to believe that.

I need…
he said.

What?
she said.

Something,
he said.

April Peck was a senior. She had lived on Nantucket for two years. She lived with her mother in a huge beach house owned by her mother’s parents. There was a father and a brother in New York City. A bad divorce, apparently.

The night in question was October 23, a Sunday night. According to Greg, things at home had been okay: they were having a fire, Tess had roasted a chicken, football was on. Tess wanted to read the rest of the Sunday paper and watch
60 Minutes,
and she had to make the kids’ lunches and get her lesson plans straight for the week. Chloe had a fever of 100.7—not anything to worry about, but still. They, the MacAvoys, had not gone over to Delilah and Jeffrey’s house for cocktails and a six-foot sub for the usual Sunday afternoon drunken free-for-all because of Chloe’s fever. If she had something, Tess didn’t want her to pass it on to the other kids. Tess also didn’t want Chloe to get run down. They were staying home, Tess had told Delilah over the phone, to have a “family night.” Delilah had been disappointed and a little hurt—weren’t they all family?

Greg had not wanted to stay home. He loved their friends and the tradition of the free-for-all Sundays. He loved Delilah and Jeffrey’s house, he adored Delilah’s cooking (her repertoire was straight off a sports bar menu—stuffed potato skins, Reuben sandwiches), he loved taking his guitar and getting everyone singing. Sundays, he said, were the days that made him glad to be alive—the drinking, the music, their friends, the kids running around. He could not believe they were turning down a Sunday just because Chloe felt a little warm.

“A hundred point seven is more than just ‘a little warm,’” Tess said.

Greg huffed and considered slamming around the house to demonstrate how pissed off he was, but then he got the great idea that he would put the kids to bed and head over to Jeffrey and Delilah’s alone. He switched immediately into model parent mode. He got the kids in the bath, he gave Chloe a dose of Motrin, he supervised the tooth-brushing and hunkered down with them through three chapters of
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
Downstairs, Tess finished the newspaper, made herself a cup of chamomile tea, and watched
60 Minutes.

Greg came down from reading to the kids, but he did not speak to Tess. If he told her he was going to Jeffrey and Delilah’s, they would fight. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted to be free. He felt like he was shackled to the house. He opened the fridge and got a beer.

Tess said, “Are the kids asleep?”

Greg said, “What do you think?”

He was angry. And resentful. He felt like a sullen teenager that Tess had grounded.

“Go over there if you want,” she said.

He did not appreciate the way she’d read his mind. She was so sure she was always one step ahead of him. He said, “I’m going into work.”

“Work?” she said.

“I want to play,” he said. “If I play here, I’ll wake up the kids.”

Sheer brilliance. Tess did not like it when Greg played the guitar or the piano at night because the kids
did
wake up, every time. They loved to listen to him, and would not go back to sleep until he was finished.

“Fine,” said Tess, and Greg left.

Greg’s official version of what happened that night went as follows: He arrived at the school; he played the piano in his room. He figured he had been playing for an hour or so when April Peck walked in. She was wet, he said. Her blond hair was matted and dripping; the soles of her shoes squeaked against the tile floor. When Greg looked out the window, he saw that it had started to rain. Then he realized April was upset; she was crying. She was wearing a jean jacket and a denim miniskirt. The jean jacket was soaked. April took it off and laid it across his piano. Underneath her jacket she wore a white T-shirt, which was also wet. He looked down at his hands, arched over the keys. (In the unedited version, he told Delilah he knew right then that he was in trouble.) He stopped playing.

He said, “What are you doing here, April? It’s nine o’clock.”

April said, still crying, “Play me something.”

Greg said, “You don’t belong in the school after-hours without a reason. Do you have a way home, or would you like me to call your mother?”

April said, “I don’t have a way home. Derek dropped me.”

“Why did he drop you
here?
”

“I saw the light on in your room. I thought you would be here.”

Greg said, “I’m going to call your mother and have her come get you.”

April broke into hysterical sobs. In Greg’s words, she threw herself into Greg’s arms. (
Meaning what?
Delilah asked. Meaning he was sitting on the piano bench and she lobbed herself into his lap.
So she was sitting on your lap? Sort of, yes. It was awkward. I was trying to get her up, get her off me.
) Her white T-shirt was wet and she “did not seem to be wearing a bra.” He said he “patted” April’s back and then tried to ease her up.
Up onto your feet!
he said.
Let’s go.
He said she put her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts against his shoulder. He said he jumped up with such force that he dumped April onto the ground and she bumped her shin on the leg of the piano. She howled in pain, even though it was just a bump and couldn’t have hurt that much.

She said, “I just want to talk to you.”

Greg said again, “You don’t belong here.”

She said, “I want you to take me somewhere.”

Greg said, “I’m calling your mother.” He dug out the phone book, but the number wasn’t listed under Peck. The house belonged to April’s grandparents. Greg asked April for the number; she would not tell him. Greg picked April’s jean jacket up off the piano and found her cell phone in the pocket. He scrolled through it for her home number. April grabbed for her cell phone, he held it up over his head, and in trying to get the phone back from Greg, she scratched his face. He gave her the cell phone and said, “Fine. You deal with it, then.” The scratch on his face was bleeding. He ushered April out of the room, turned off the light, locked the door, and headed down the corridor, leaving April behind. April followed him, crying, pleading.
Take me home. Please don’t call my mother. She thinks I’m here with you, practicing.

“What?” Greg said. He was very, very angry now. He was afraid, too, and incredulous. What must April’s mother think about a so-called practice at nine o’clock on a Sunday night? Greg said, “I can’t take you home, I’ve been drinking.” As soon as he said it, he realized it was a huge mistake, and it was at that point that he wondered if April had been drinking or if she was on something. He hurried out to his car in the rain. Parked next to him was the car he knew to be April’s, a white Jeep Cherokee. He said he peered into the front seat to check that it was indeed April’s car, and he saw a bra lying across the driver’s seat. He got into his car and drove home, leaving April in the rain in front of the school, crying.

He should have gone home, he said. He should have crawled into bed next to Tess and told her exactly what had happened. But he did not do that, because he did not want to go home to Tess, and he knew that if he told her what had happened, she would blow a gasket. She would find something wrong with the way he’d handled things (indeed, he felt he’d handled things badly, but the situation had been impossible). Tess would berate him, they would fight. Which was why he’d left home in the first place.

So he went to Jeffrey and Delilah’s. Everyone was still there: Addison and Phoebe, the Chief and Andrea. Delilah was buzzed; she’d shrieked enthusiastically when he walked in. She fixed him a plate of food, which he was too agitated to consider eating, but he sucked down a cocktail pronto.

Jeffrey said, “Where’ve you been?”

Addison said, “It’s Phoebe’s Packers, so we decided to stay.”

Andrea said, “Where’s Tess?”

“Home with the kids,” Greg said. “Chloe has a little fever.”

Jeffrey said, “Are you okay? You look terrible.”

They all turned to look at him. This, he told Delilah, was the moment when he should have told them what happened. Full disclosure.

“What happened to your face?” Andrea said. She inspected the place where April had scratched him. “You’re bleeding.”

He didn’t know what to say. At that moment the real story seemed grotesque and not remotely feasible. “The goddamn cherry tree in my yard,” he said. “I didn’t see the branch.”

Andrea gave him a funny look. She didn’t believe him. She thought something else had happened. She thought… what? That
Tess
had scratched him? Now was the time to set things straight, but Greg didn’t want to lend his encounter with April Peck any more energy than it already had. Was there a crime in that?

So he lied. And lying begat more lying.

“It’s fine,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I think I might be coming down with a little something myself.”

The following afternoon April Peck filed a complaint with the superintendent’s office.

April’s story went like this: She had left a book that she really needed in her locker, and she had swung by school to pick it up. Luckily, the men’s basketball team was playing and the door to the school was open. Since April’s boyfriend, Derek, who had graduated the year before, played in the men’s league, she stopped by the gym to look for him, but he wasn’t there. She saw a light on in the music room, peeked through the window, saw Mr. Mac, and decided to say hi.

She said it had been raining and Mr. Mac encouraged her to take off her wet jacket. She said Greg patted the spot next to him on the piano bench. “I’ll play you something,” he said.

She said she declined. She told him she had just come by to say hi. She had to pick up her book and get home to study.

He said, “Won’t you just stay and listen to one song? No one at home wants to listen to me play.”

She said she didn’t want to, but she agreed. She said she felt self-conscious without her jacket on because her T-shirt was so wet it was see-through and she wasn’t wearing a bra. She said that the song Mr. Mac played, “Tiny Dancer,” made her uncomfortable. She said he was more than singing it. He was singing it
to her
in a way that seemed to mean something. April said when she went to stand up, Mr. Mac stopped playing, grabbed her arm, and kissed her. She said he tasted like beer. She said he touched one of her breasts through the wet T-shirt. She said she could tell he had an erection. He said, “I know why you came here.” She turned to leave—to run!—and stumbled over the piano bench. She said he reached out for her, saying,
Please don’t leave
.
I need… I need… I need
... He had her by the arm again. She said she was afraid, so she scratched him, hard, on the face. She dashed out of the room, out of the school, to her car. She said as she pulled away, Mr. Mac was standing in the rain, calling her name.

Delilah heard the two stories, in tandem, on Monday night. Delilah was horrified. She was—how else could she say it?—crushed.

Jeffrey said, “We have to support Greg in this. He needs us. This is going to blow up into one of those huge, ugly stories that ruins his reputation.”

Jeffrey was, as ever, correct. The stories traveled around the island like an infectious disease.
Everyone
was talking about it. Delilah knew this because for the remainder of the week, wherever she went—the post office, dry cleaners, Stop & Shop, the Begonia—people clammed up when she approached.