Tigers in Red Weather (17 page)

Anita lifted the edge of her skirt and unpinned a white handkerchief from the hem. “My grandmother made me take it,” she said. “Just in case.”

Daisy couldn’t look at her. She felt ashamed. She wanted to be like Scarlett O’Hara, to stamp her foot and toss her head and go marry somebody else. But she was scared. She had smelled fear on her opponents before, an actual odor that was part rust and part wet earth, but for the first time, she could now smell it on herself. Part of her wanted Anita to go away, but she was also afraid to be left all alone there. In the distance, she could hear the sounds of laughter and tinkling glass.

Anita took a corner of the handkerchief and gently started dabbing Daisy’s eyes. Daisy was grateful for the cool feeling of the linen
on her hot skin, and the comforting smell of lavender water and starch. She felt her friend’s hand on her forehead, her index finger tracing her brow, then Anita’s face loomed large in the darkness, and her dark eyes seemed to grow bigger. All at once Daisy felt Anita’s lips on her own. She could taste the saltiness of her own tears mingled with Anita’s breath, felt her hair brush her cheek, and the soft down on Anita’s upper lip. Daisy’s head felt light and her heart beat once, in a long, exhausting rush at her rib cage that left her trembling.

Daisy pushed Anita away, hard, and saw her stumble and lose her balance on the path, but she didn’t care. She started running, running toward the light of the party, crossing the street to the sloping lawn beyond, weaving through crowds of smiling guests, trying to pick out the shade of her mother’s dress among the riot of color. The music had stopped. The musicians, on a break, were smoking cigarettes along the side of the fence. She found her father by the bar, and grabbed at his sleeve.

“Where’s Mummy?” Her own voice sounded odd, high-pitched and out of tune, like the old piano that sat moldering in the basement.

“Daisy,” her father said, his smile fading. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Mummy? I need Mummy.”

“I don’t know, sweet pea.” He looked down the lawn. “I think she said she was going to the boathouse to cool off for a minute.”

Daisy tore down the slope toward the little boathouse that sat at the edge of the harbor. She heard her father calling her name, but she didn’t care. The only thing she knew was that she had to find her mother.

When she reached the boathouse, where they kept the life preservers and kerosene lamps, and other odds and ends, she heard the faint sound of running water. Her mother must be in the outdoor shower they used to rinse the salt off after swimming. Daisy, breathing
hard, slowed to a trot as she circled around the front, almost tripping over her mother’s dress, discarded in the grass.

At the steps that led down to the beach, she was startled to see the trumpet player, toweling off his hair, his undershirt clinging to him.

“Hi there.” He smiled at Daisy.

“Hi,” Daisy said, unsure whether to keep going or stop completely.

“Just been for a swim. Hot night.” He continued to dry his hair, looking at her.

“Oh,” Daisy said. It seemed like he wanted to chat and she felt like she should be polite, but it was weird being so close to him there, in the half darkness. With just his undershirt on, Daisy could see the dark hair fanning out underneath his raised arm. She waited for a minute. “I’m looking for my mother,” she said. “I have to go now.”

“Uh-huh.” He smiled slowly. “Sure.”

Daisy edged around him and started walking toward the far side of the boathouse. She turned back once and saw him still looking at her, his face partially hidden in shadow.

When she rounded the corner, she could make out the vague outline of the outdoor shower and the hump of
Rosa rugosa
bush that grew around it. Over the whir of the water, she heard her mother’s voice, humming a tune from earlier in the evening.

She picked up her pace, moving toward the sound. Then she stopped in her tracks. Directly in her path stood Ed, his face pressed up against the wooden slats that gave the shower privacy. One palm was outstretched on a plank above his head. He was still, like always, but something about him reminded Daisy of the squirrel she had seen in the Cambridge Common once, its muscular little body twitching uncontrollably. Rabid, her mother had said.

Maybe she was wrong; maybe her mother wasn’t in the shower. Or they were playing a game. Her brain felt sticky: Peaches’s arm circling Tyler’s neck, Anita’s face growing closer in the darkness, the trumpet
player, drying his hair.
A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. Cleanliness is next to godliness. Children should be seen and not heard
. She chanted her mother’s lessons, as many as she could remember, strangely comforted by the repetition.

Ed turned at the sound of her voice—first his head and then, dropping his hand from the slats, his whole body. He looked at her. Daisy looked back. They stood like that for a minute, their eyes locked, Ed’s face frozen, like a mask.

“Mummy?” Daisy called loudly, her eyes never leaving Ed’s. She was no more than six feet away, but her mother didn’t hear her over the sound of the water.

Ed started to move toward her and, for a split second, Daisy felt afraid. And then he was right there, taller than she remembered.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said quietly, so close now that she could feel his breath on her cheek.

Daisy’s heart pounded, once, twice. She was breathing hard. She swallowed. “But satisfaction brought it back.” Her voice sounded harsh and low. She felt her legs shaking. She dug her heels into the soft ground to hide it.

Ed cocked his head, looking at her as if he was making his mind up about something.

“What are you doing looking at my mother, Ed Lewis?” Daisy finally whispered. “Are you a sex maniac? Like Mr. Wilcox?”

“Don’t talk about Mr. Wilcox.” His voice was hard and flat.

“Those matches, the ones from the Hideaway …”

But before she could finish, Daisy saw her father rushing at her from behind Ed. He’d come from the other side of the boathouse, and his speed made her panic.

“Daisy, get away from him.”

He didn’t say another word to either of them, just grabbed Ed and hauled him off toward the beach.

Daisy stood where she was, watching them in the distance, her
father twisting Ed’s arm as he brought his face inches away from her cousin’s. Words drifted up.

“If you ever … my wife …” Her father was jerking Ed’s body as he spoke. “… I will tell them …”

Her father stopped talking, as if he was expecting a response. Then she saw Ed, whose expression hadn’t changed, bend his head toward her father’s ear. By the time his lips had stopped moving, her father’s face seemed to have gone a shade paler in the moonlight.

“Daisy?”

Her mother’s voice made Daisy jump.

“Mummy.” Daisy rushed at her, squeezing herself against her damp body. Her mother felt cool and clean, and Daisy wanted to climb inside her arms, her lap, her skin.

She put one arm around Daisy, using the other to adjust the strap of her slip, soggy from having been put on wet.

“What on earth is going on?” Her mother looked at Daisy, and then down toward the beach. “What’s your father doing? Is he the one who’s been hollering like some alley cat?”

Daisy saw that only her father remained at the end of the lawn, staring out at the harbor lights. Suddenly, she didn’t care about Ed being a sex maniac, or her father’s craziness.

“Mummy.” She started crying, choking against the silk, inhaling the faint odor of her mother’s lily-of-the-valley perfume and the sea.

“Darling, what is happening?” Her mother sounded exasperated.

“Oh, Mummy.” Daisy rubbed her face against her mother’s slip. “Everything’s awful. It’s all wrong. Tyler kissed Peaches. And then …”

“Oh,” her mother said. “Oh, I see.” She sighed, and ran her hand across the top of Daisy’s head. “Why don’t we go into the boathouse for a minute, darling, and you can tell me what happened.”

The boathouse smelled of linseed oil and mildew. A discarded towel lay in a heap near the picnic basket. Her mother pulled down
two of the yellow boat cushions hanging on the wall. She sat down cross-legged on one and patted the spot next to her. In the gloom, Daisy could see her mother’s hair was only slightly wet, her dark glossy waves still brushed back from her forehead. The sapphires in her ears glinted as the beacon from the lighthouse on Chappaquiddick swept through the small windows, momentarily illuminating their faces.

“So,” her mother said as Daisy sat down on the second cushion. “What’s all this?”

Daisy put her head in her mother’s lap, feeling the warmth of her hand on the nape of her neck. “I saw them,” she said quietly. “They were kissing on the porch.
Our porch
. And Peaches had this horrid rose her mother wins competitions with. And she put her arm around him. And …”

“A rose?”

“It’s not about the rose,” Daisy said, impatiently. “It’s that I know I’m better than her. I just know it.”

“I see. Well, it’s not always about choosing the best person,” her mother said. “Sometimes …” Her mother stopped, her hand going still on Daisy’s neck. “Sometimes people just get lonely, and then they do funny things.”

Daisy thought about this. “But Tyler chose her. I wanted him and he chose her.” She buried her face. “Oh, Mummy, I could just die. How could he? Why doesn’t he love me?”

“I know it hurts, darling. It’s so hard to be young and have all this wanting.”

“But when you were young, you loved Daddy and he loved you back. You got what you wanted.”

“First of all, we were older than you are. And then, well, we were very lucky.” Her mother sighed.

“I want to be lucky,” Daisy said.

“You’ll be better than lucky.” Her mother brushed Daisy’s hair off
her forehead. “You’ll be strong. And all the Peaches and Tylers in the world won’t be able to hurt you.”

Daisy was silent. She thought about growing tall like a giant and crushing a very small Peaches under her foot.

“Besides,” her mother said matter-of-factly, “Peaches is a very nasty young girl.”

“I know.” Daisy sighed. “But he loves her.”

“Darling, I doubt very much that Tyler loves Peaches. Boys are just like that. Peaches is fast, and boys that age just take what’s offered to them.”

“Oh, and then, Mummy, something else happened …” Daisy stopped, thinking about Anita’s big eyes and the taste of her breath. “It’s so awful.”

“What else happened?”

“Anita. She was giving me her handkerchief, and then, Mummy, she kissed me.”

“Oh, well.” Her mother laughed. “That
is
interesting.”

“It’s not funny.” Daisy sat up. “Why would she do that? She knows I love Tyler and that I wanted him to kiss me.”

“No, you’re right, it’s not funny,” her mother said, but she was still smiling. “Anita’s just a theatrical girl. And, frankly, Daisy, her family’s a bit bohemian. You know that.”

“I don’t care. I hate all of them.”

“Darling”—her mother took Daisy’s face in her hands—“I want you to listen to me. I’m going to tell you this because someday it may be very important for you to remember.” Her mother’s face was serious, her big green eyes like snakeskin. “If there’s one thing you can be sure about in this life, it’s that you won’t always be kissing the right person.”

1959: AUGUST
II

D
aisy unscrewed the wooden press from her racquet and laced her fingers between the strings, pulling on the gut. It was eleven in the morning and the sun was already burning her bare shoulders, the dust from the clay court creating a haze around her.

She set the press on the spectators’ bench near the post and looked up at the tennis club’s big, cool porch, where her mother sat chatting with Mrs. Coolridge. She was nodding her head slightly at something the director was saying. Unlike her father, who had given her a good-luck kiss earlier that morning, Daisy’s mother looked fresh, as if the party had never happened. She saw Mr. Montgomery whispering into Peaches’s ear. Daisy turned back to the court.

She scraped her Keds against the clay and then used the top of her racquet to knock them clean. Peaches came down the steps, her ponytail catching the sun. Daisy pushed her headband higher up on her head, and used the back of her wrist to wipe the gathering sweat off her top lip.

She pretended not to watch as Peaches sat on the bench, pulled a chammy out of her bag and began polishing the already gleaming frame of her racquet.

She’s cold, I’m hot. She’s cold, I’m hot
.

Daisy looked up at the porch again. Her mother’s eyes were on her, a small line creasing the smooth skin between her eyebrows. Mrs. Coolridge was now shaking Mr. Montgomery’s hand, smiling at something he was saying. The voices were just a murmur and they made her feel like the hot square of clay was a world away. Her head ached from the glare and she could hear a faint ringing in her ears.

Hot enough to roast an ox
.

There was a small stirring on the porch. Daisy saw Mrs. Coolridge turn her head and squint toward the dark interior of the clubhouse.

Ed stepped out, his eyes flicking momentarily over the program director, before taking a few easy strides toward her mother. Daisy breathed out. She hadn’t seen him since the night before and, although she couldn’t say why, exactly, she was glad he was there. Her mother looked up and smiled at Ed, who pulled one of the wooden deck chairs closer and sat down. Daisy fingered the arrowhead in the pocket of her dress. It was rough, like a small piece of coral, against her thumb and forefinger.

Mrs. Coolridge descended.

“All right, girls, you know the rules. First to win two sets,” she said.

Daisy made a small crescent in the clay with the rubber tip of her shoe.

Mrs. Coolridge dug in her pocket and pulled out a quarter. “Daisy Derringer, you will call the toss.”

She looked up at the sky, wide and blue and bright.

Mrs. Coolridge spun the coin up. It glinted in the sun.

“Heads.”
Heads I win, tails you lose
.