The Summer Cottage (28 page)

“You’re a good person,” said Helen. “You’re witty, intelligent, kind—and attractive. Let that come through naturally. Don’t hide or force it. And don’t look for love, Pammy. It never comes when you’re looking.”

“I hate that expression.”

“That’s because it’s true, and you don’t want to heed it.”

“I wish I could take your advice, Helen. It’s hard not to look for something you want so much.”

“I know that.” Helen put her arm around Pammy’s waist for just a moment. “Don’t look, just for today. Think about other things. And let Daniel go.” Pammy’s eyes welled with tears, indicating she did know Helen was right, as usual. They stopped, allowing time for Pammy to appear carefree before they approached the others at the sand castle. Standing with her sister on the beach, as Helen had so many times over the years, brought back a memory from 1973, when she was ten and Pammy was thirteen, and they spent part of every day together looking for sea glass. “Do you still make jewelry out of sea glass?”

Pammy blotted her eyes with the cotton T-shirt she had slipped on after the swim. “What made you think of that?”

Helen shrugged. “I haven’t heard you talk about it much lately. And I haven’t received any of your handiwork as a gift.”

“I’ve been busy, I guess.”

“I think you should take it up again,” said Helen. “You are very good at it.”

“Yeah?” Pammy raised her eyebrows at her sister. “Mom hasn’t worn anything I’ve made her.”

“Have you ever seen her in any jewelry except her wedding band?” Pammy had no response because what Helen said was true. “She has every piece you’ve ever given her wrapped in a white cashmere scarf. Sometimes she takes it out of her top bureau drawer, rolls it out on the bed, and tells me about a particular set of earrings or a necklace or bracelet.”

Pammy rocked back. “What?”

“What indeed,” said Helen, resuming their walk.

“You never told me this,” said Pammy. “Why did you never tell me this?”

“I don’t know. I guess because now seemed like a good time.”

“Thank you for sharing that, Helen Thompson Street.” Pammy hardly ever spoke Helen’s married name.

“You are entirely welcome.”

Just twenty or so yards from the sand castle, Pammy said, “I’m going to stay until Wednesday, if that’s okay.”

“I would love your company, Pammy. I always do. Stay as long as you wish.”

“And you will see more of me at home. Even perfect people sometimes need help.”

C
HAPTER
34

 

W
hen her father had taken the last bite of his steak, finishing his dinner, Helen popped up from her seat at the table and cleared her place. She walked back in from the kitchen and cleared her father’s place. She then took the meat platter, the vegetable dish, still holding several green beans, and the square dish with a bit of wild rice in one of the corners into the kitchen. Helen filled the sink with sudsy water and, after scraping the meager leftovers that her mother would find not worthy of saving into the garbage can, slid the dishes beneath the foamy surface. Pammy brought in her plate and glass and put them in the sink, as did Thomas. “Come on, Charlotte,” Helen yelled to her sister, still sitting in the dining room.

“I’m not in any hurry to play that stupid game,” Charlotte shouted back, glued to her chair.

“Charlotte?” John Thompson said to his daughter.

“Well, I’m not,” she said matter-of-factly to her father.

“What you want to do is, right now, immaterial,” he said softly to her. “Your younger sister has been waiting for hours to play. She’s been very patient. You’ve no reason to punish her.”

Charlotte sighed and reluctantly got up from the table. She lifted her fork from her plate and brought it into the kitchen, where Helen was busily washing dishes. She threw it into the dishwater. “You’re a peach,” said Helen, lacing with sarcasm the word her mother used to describe people she liked.

“Likewise,” said Charlotte, who went back into the dining room for her glass, which she slowly took into the kitchen. When she started back to the dining room, her father met her at the threshold with her plate, spoon, knife, and napkin.

“Here,” he said, handing everything to Charlotte. “This should make your next four trips unnecessary.”

Thomas was drying the dishes, and Pammy, taking them from him, was putting everything away. Charlotte joined her sister in the pantry, but sat on the metal stool and folded her arms across her chest instead of helping Pammy.

“So, Mom,” Thomas yelled into the dining room. “You had all of us except Charlotte, right? She was definitely adopted.”

“Very funny, asshole,” Charlotte said to her brother.

“Who died and made you queen?” he asked.

“Drop dead,” she said.

“No, really,” Thomas continued. “What makes you think you can sit on your butt while we work?”

“I’m not feeling well.” Charlotte hardly ever vied for sympathy.

“Yeah,” he said. “You haven’t felt well since the day you were born. And being around you has made us feel even worse.” Charlotte started crying and ran out of the kitchen, through the dining room and up the stairs. Claire walked in and asked Thomas for an explanation. “She was sitting smugly in the pantry while the rest of us worked.” He held his hands in the air like a politician appealing to his constituents.

“She isn’t feeling well,” Claire said.

“So I heard,” said Thomas.

“Well?”

“Well, what? If she’s not feeling well, then she needs to excuse herself from the dinner table and hit the sack. Why sit there holding up your kid sister, then make a scene in the kitchen? Don’t you get a wee bit tired of the drama sometimes, Mom?”

“We all can be dramatic, Thomas,” said Claire, giving him a studied look.

“Clearly some more than others,” he said.

Claire walked back into the dining room and sat next to her husband. “He’s got a point, you know,” said John.

“Yes, he’s got a point.”

“What’s wrong with her tonight?”

“She’s got her period, honey. She’s got cramps.”

“Would it help if I talked to her, or do you think she’d rather be with you?”

“I’ll go,” said Claire, getting out of her seat. She walked up the stairs and down the hall to Charlotte’s room. She knocked softly on the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, honey,” said Claire. “Can I come in?”

“Okay,” said Charlotte, getting up from her bed to unlatch the door. Hers was the only lock on any door in the Thompson cottage. Claire had balked at its installation, but her husband John prevailed, telling his wife that it was not unreasonable for a young woman to require privacy. Charlotte opened the door, then went back to bed and got under the covers.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Claire, entering. “Hot tea?”

“How about another older brother?”

“Thomas is harmless,” said Claire, sitting on the bed next to her daughter. “You take him too seriously.”

“He is anything but harmless, Mom. He picks on me constantly and makes my life miserable.”

“And how do you treat him?” asked Claire. “And I want you to think before you answer me.”

“If he’s nasty to me, I’m nasty back.”

“You’re never nasty first?”

Charlotte hesitated. “Maybe once in a while,” she admitted.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“I’ve got horrible cramps. Can we talk about this another time?”

“Have you tried sit-ups?”

“Just once,” said Charlotte, “when you told me they got rid of cramps.”

“And what happened?”

“The cramps got worse.”

“Ah,” said Claire. “Well, mind over matter. Don’t let these cramps ruin your evening.”

“Yes, I know. Suck up the pain, right?”

Claire, who had had menstrual cramps when she was a teenager, demurred. “I know you’ll feel better in the morning. The first day is always the worst.”

Charlotte nodded her head at the gentler side of her mother, a side she rarely saw, but was always tempted to be taken in by. But they were, had been, especially at odds this summer—Charlotte craving independence, and Claire craving control. A heart-to-heart talk at this point would expose Charlotte’s vulnerability. “Can you get me that tea?” she said.

“Sure, Charlotte.” Claire got up from the bed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Claire walked out of the room. On her way down the stairs, she wondered whether she and her oldest daughter would ever be close. Claire had been so hopeful when Charlotte was born that she and her daughter would have the kind of relationship Claire once had with her swim teammates—competitive but supportive. Not that Claire wanted to compete against her daughter, no; she wanted to compete
with
her. And for a while, they had spent time with one another, riding bikes, walking in the woods, playing tennis, being physically active. But Charlotte’s interests shifted in middle school. Instead of pursuing activities with her mother or younger sisters, she chased boys. And as soon as she actually caught them, they were her entire focus. Pammy, at thirteen, was just starting to show an interest in boys. But Claire could already tell that she would never seek their company in Charlotte’s predatory manner. And Helen’s athleticism would hold her attention through high school. There would be boyfriends for both Pammy and Helen, but Claire could already tell that they would be a secondary rather than a primary concern.

 

“How’s she feeling?” John asked Claire when she returned to the dining room.

“About the same.”

“Let’s go outside. Helen’s champing at the bit.”

“You go,” said Claire. “I’m making tea for Charlotte. I’ll be out in a minute.”

 

“Okay,” said Thomas, as soon as he saw his mother, “here’s the deal. The picnic table we’re sitting on is base. I’m it. I’m going to sit here and count to thirty, and you’re going to scatter and find some kind of temporary hiding place. The object of the game is not to remain hidden, however. The object is to get back to base before I tag you. Any questions?”

“Can we go anywhere?” Helen was jumping up and down an inch or so off the ground.

“In our yard and in the Hendersons’ yard next door. That’s it. Ready?”

“Ready,” Helen said, moving away from the picnic table.

“Go!” Thomas shouted, closing his eyes and beginning to count, “One, two, three, four . . .”

Helen bolted for the Hendersons’ garage, which hadn’t housed a car in her memory. Instead, bikes, ride-on toys, inflatable rafts and life rings, hammers, boxes of nails, saws, shutters, cast-off furniture, a broken refrigerator—just about anything anybody could ever want or not want—filled the space. Propped against the far wall was an old rowboat. Helen made a cursory check for spider webs and then ducked underneath. She squatted at the back end, just out of view, and listened. Five, maybe ten minutes later, she heard the squeaky garage door open. She held her breath. She could hear Thomas lifting the rafts off the floor, even checking inside the old refrigerator. She never would have hidden in there because Thomas told her it was dangerous. She wondered why he bothered to look for her there. “Helen?” he called.

She stopped herself from automatically answering him by slowly letting out her breath and holding it again. He walked out of the garage, and Helen counted silently to thirty. She then poked her head out of the boat, and, seeing nothing, she slid her body out from behind it. Placing her feet carefully between, next to, and over the yellow metal Tonka trucks and the multicolored plastic pails and shovels, Helen tiptoed away from the boat and closer to the door. She had just sidled up to the shutters when the door opened and Thomas walked in again. Helen squatted and crossed her fingers; she was thankful for the darkening sky that muted the sharp lines of the garage’s content. She was also thankful for the dark clothing she had chosen to wear for the game.

“There’s no escape, little girl,” he said, looking around the garage. “I’ve got everybody else. And I know you’re in here. It’s just a matter of time before I get you.” Thomas moved toward the workbench in the back, which he checked under before spotting the boat. He smiled as he stepped over a red tricycle to reach it. “It’s all over now, Helen,” he said, getting down on his knees and ducking his head to look under it.

Now!
Helen thought. She popped up from her hiding place. Hearing her, Thomas jerked his head, hitting it on the boat’s seat. Helen jumped over the milk crates filled with magazines that blocked her access and then bolted through the door to the unencumbered stretch of grass that separated her from base. Only then did she dare to look back and was instantly horrified to see Thomas, still holding his head, emerging from the garage. She turned her head and focused on the picnic table, some twenty yards away, where her mother, father, and Pammy were cheering her on. “Run, Helen!” Pammy screamed. “He’s catching you!”

Helen pumped her arms and pushed her legs as fast as they would go. Thomas’s thundering footsteps were right behind her. She reached out her hands to touch the table, which now sat within a few feet of her grasp. Hearing her brother’s laughter and thinking she felt his breath, Helen knew she was out of time. Lifting herself off the ground, Helen dove for the top of the table, landing with a thud against her father, who was sitting on the far side. “Safe!” shouted John, cradling his daughter in his arms and kissing her face. “You are amazing, Helen.”

Secure with her father, Helen looked at Thomas, who, with his hands on his knees, was breathing hard and sweating. She flashed him a smile, and he smiled back. “Next time,” he said, pointing at her. “Next time, you’re mine.”

“Who’s it?” Helen asked.

“I am,” said Pammy, dejected.

“Pammy, you’ve just got to get more creative in your hiding choices,” said Claire, instructing. “The shower is too obvious, dear.”

“Okay, Mom,” said Pammy, more as a means to restart the game than to acknowledge Claire’s advice. Pammy quickly closed her eyes and began to count. Everyone raced from the table. Thomas ran behind the Hendersons’ house. John ducked behind their own garage, and Claire stooped behind the garbage bins that stood next to the garage. They were both a short distance from base. Helen chose the crabapple tree in their spacious backyard. She adeptly scaled its familiar trunk and was soon sitting on her favorite branch listening for Pammy. Seconds later, she appeared. “I’ve got you,” said Pammy, rounding the corner of the garage and staring at Helen.

“How’d you know where I was?”

“I heard you climbing.”

“No way,” said Helen. “You peeked.”

“I did not,” said Pammy, “and now you’re it.”

“Not until you tag me,” sang Helen.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got to touch me, Pammy. You can’t just see me.”

As Pammy and Helen talked, Thomas ran to base from his hiding spot behind the Henderson’s screened-in porch, and yelled his name. Pammy darted back to base, then back to Helen, who was still sitting contentedly on her branch. “I’m coming up,” said Pammy, putting her foot on the tree.

“Glad to hear it,” said Helen. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“I’ve climbed this tree, smarty pants.”

“It’s kind of tricky,” said Helen. “The bark is slippery.”

Pammy hoisted herself up onto a low branch and began her ascent. “Not that slippery,” said Pammy, even though she was struggling to get a firm grip. Helen smiled at her sister and counted silently. At ten, she quickly slid her body off the branch, which she briefly hung from before dropping to the ground. Picking herself up, she strolled from the tree to base. “Crap,” said Pammy, climbing down. She rounded the corner of the garage and saw all of them sitting on the picnic table. “This game stinks,” she announced.

“You were absolutely stellar last time,” said John, standing. “I’m heading in. You kids play another round. Your mother and I are ready for coffee.”

“I’ve got the late shift,” said Thomas, looking at his watch.

“And I’m going upstairs,” said Pammy.

“One more game?” asked Helen, still sitting on the table.

“We love you, Helen,” said Thomas, “but not that much.”

“It was fun,” her father called before disappearing into the house.

“You are a champion, Helen,” said Claire following John.