What I Thought Was True (10 page)

9/4/13 8:02 AM

to dip my fingers into them. “She called me over at the end of

the day Friday to tell me I’d done her yard all wrong. Again.

That I was supposed to do it ‘vertically.’ But you were there,

right? That
isn’t
what she said.”

“She’ll switch directions on you every time. That’s what

Mrs. Partridge does with whoever’s the current Jose. You’ll get used to it.”

“The current Jose.” Cass turns the phrase over. “I’m not sure

I’m down with being ‘the current Jose.’ Sounds like the fla-

vor of the month.” He flips his wet hair out of his eyes again,

scattering drops on me, then lowers his voice. “I’ve only put

in two days, still getting my rhythm going here, learning the

ropes . . . you know. But this place has gotten . . . a little crazy, hasn’t it?”

“It always was, Cass.” I shield my eyes and peek up at him

through the fence of my fingers.

“That’s not the way I remember it. I mean, sure, there were

always people like Mrs. Partridge, I guess. Yelling at us to get off their lawn and not pop wheelies on the speed bumps.”

“Not people
like
her. Her. She’s a Seashell trad—” I stop, swallow. “She’s been here forever.”

“Really? I don’t remember her at all. She doesn’t seem to

know me either.”

Clear as day, I can see Cass, age eight, leaping off this same

pier on so many summer afternoons with the sky dark like

the one today—skinny shoulder blades, gangly legs, fluffy fly-

away hair, skinned elbows, barnacle-scraped knees. Not exactly

what’s standing here now. All that tan skin.

“You’ve changed a bit.”

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Emory chooses this moment to dump more cold water

down my swimsuit.

Cass’s lips twitch, he ducks his head like he wants to say

something but rules it out. “For real, though . . . Part of my job is to rake the beach. Every other day,” he continues. “Get the

rocks and seaweed off during low tide. Nuts, since it all rolls

back in with high tide.”

“Oh, I know!” I say. “Crazy, right? I wonder what it’s like to

be so rich you expect nature to cooperate with you. That you

can just hire someone to fix it.”

As soon as I say this I feel stupid.
Remember who you’re talking
to, Gwen.
The crown prince of Somers Sails.

“Look, why don’t we just try a starter lesson? See if it plays

at all?”

Emory dumps some water on Cass’s leg. It slides smoothly

down the muscles of his calf. I close my eyes, open them to see

Cass watching my face intently.

“You mean in exchange for the tutoring?” I hurry to ask.

“No,” he says. “That would be a whole separate deal.”

“What tutoring?” Vivien intercedes, firing me a “you didn’t

tell me this!” look. Which I return in spades. In my case, we’re

talking a few summer evenings. In hers, a lifetime commit-

ment.

“Gwen agreed to help me get back on track in English.” He

reaches for Em’s again-empty bucket, heading down the steps

for a refill. Which means his voice is muffled as he adds, “You

can’t put it off forever, Gwen. We need to figure out logistics.”

He comes back up, hands the bucket to my brother, then stands

there for a second, looking at me. “As in your place or mine?”

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A horn blasts from the parking lot. Vivien’s eyebrows shoot

up.

“Gotta go. Let me know where, okay?” He slides by me,

pulls a red towel I hadn’t noticed before off the slats of the pier.

He cracks the towel into the wind, wraps it around his waist,

then tosses over his shoulder: “Decide about the swim lessons.

I may be no genius in Lit 2, but
that
I can do.”

Okay, I watch him go. The whole length of the pier and

then into the beach parking lot, where Spence Channing’s con-

vertible is idling like a big silver shark. How long has he been

there?

A long low whistle and Vivien is fanning her face, then

mine. “Whew. Is it hot here or is it just me?”

“There’s going to be a whole season of this.” I open the

cooler, peer into it and finally fish out a granola bar for Emory, rather than . . . a can of sardines or a cantaloupe. “What the

hell will I do?”

“That Avoid Him At All Costs plan of yours? I’m not sure he

signed off on it.” Vivien tilts her head, staring into the parking lot as the car backs up and surges forward, too fast, of course,

because it’s Spence and rules don’t apply to him. “Maybe you

should give him another chance?”

“You were the one who told me to watch out!”

“I know.” She hunches her shoulders, shivering a little as

another chilly breeze comes off the water. “It’s just maybe . . .

maybe you’re watching out for the wrong things.”

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Mom catches Nic and me before we head out the door Mon-

day morning. “Did Mrs. E. talk about how often she’s going to

pay, Gwen? It would help a lot if I knew if it was every week

or every two. And what about you, Nico? Marco and Tony still

pay by the job? And did Almeida’s give you some at the end of

the night, or . . .”

Nic and I look at each other. A barrage of money questions

first thing in the morning can’t be a good thing.

“Like always, Aunt Luce. They bill the houses and then the

owners send the checks. But Almeida’s paid.” He heads back

into his room, returning with a roll of bills neatly wrapped in

an elastic band. “Yours is in here too, Gwenners.”

I reach out my hand, but Mom’s faster. She takes the bills

and begins leafing through them, her lips moving as she

silently adds the denominations. Finally, she gives a satisfied

nod, divides the money carefully in thirds, returning some to

Nic, some to me, slipping the rest into her purse.

“Anything wrong, Mom?”

She blinks rapidly, which, if she were a poker player, would

be her tell. “Nothing,” she says finally.

“Sure, Aunt Luce?” Nic asks, tapping each of his shoulders

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in turn. “Broad shoulders. Ready to listen. Man of the house

and all that.”

Mom ruffles his hair. “No worries, Nico.”

Once she leaves, Nic and I have only to exchange a glance.

“Damn, what now?” he says.

I shake my head. “If she starts taking in laundry, we’ll know

something’s up.”

Taking in extra is what happened last winter when the hot

water heater melted down, the Bronco needed brake work,

and Emory needed an orthotic lift in one of his shoes because

one leg is slightly shorter than the other. Grandpa Ben also

began spending a lot more time at bingo nights, honing his

card shark skills.

“Shit.” Nic rubs his forehead. “I don’t want to think about

this. I just want to think about food and sex and swimming and

sex and lifting and sex.”

“You’re so well-rounded.” I whack him on the shoulder

with a box of Cheerios.

“I’m not supposed to be well-rounded,” he says, through a

mouthful of last night’s leftover pasta. “Neither are you. And

cuz . . . you can’t tell me you don’t think about it.”

“I don’t think about it,” I answer resolutely, concentrating

very hard on pouring milk into my cereal.

Nic snorts.

We look up as the screen door squeaks open to see Dad

standing there. He looks pissed off and for a second I’m

afraid he overheard our conversation. Not a story he needs

to know.

But then he drops his aged khaki laundry duffel inside the

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door, kicking it to the side wall with one foot. “Screen door’s

still broken,” he mutters, scowling.

Nic fixes Dad with a stare, then returns his attention to the

steady movement of his fork.

“Top step to the porch is rotting out too,” Dad says. “Fix it,

Nicolas. Like I told you last time. Ben could put a foot through

that. Or Emory, the state it’s in. A man takes care of his family.”

“Or he just bails on everyone,” Nic mumbles without look-

ing up from texting on his cell. Grandpa Ben, coming in, fresh

from the outdoor shower, sprig of lavender in hand to put

under Vovó’s picture, gives Nic a warning glance, shakes his

head. Dad is slightly deaf in one ear, but not immune to tone.

“What was that?” he asks, plunging his index finger into his

ear. “What did you just say to me?”

“I said I’ll get to it, Uncle Mike.” Nic forks up the last of the

pasta.

“Told you about it last month, Nico.” Dad grabs his bag

again, dumps his laundry out on the kitchen floor near the

washing machine in the closet. “A man tends to his own.”

My cousin scrapes back his chair, rolls his shoulders back,

stretching, then clangs the plate into the sink. “Going to work.

Then Vee’s. I’ll be back late.” He directs his eyes only to me and Grandpa.

“Too hard on the boy, Mike,” Grandpa says in the silence

that follows the clap of the screen door.

“He’s not a boy anymore. He should be thinking first about

pulling his weight, not lifting those.” Dad points to Nic’s

dumbbell. “Where’s Luce?”

“Where is she always?” Managing to look dignified despite

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the towel wrap, Grandpa heads for the refrigerator. He takes

out a grapefruit, setting it on the cutting board. “Working.”

Brows lowering, Dad looks at him sharply, but Ben’s face is

innocent as the cherubs painted on the ceiling at St. Anthony’s.

Dad says, “You get a hammer and some wood glue, I can fix

that door right now.”

“Why aren’t you after
me
to fix it, Dad? The ability to hammer a nail isn’t just for Y chromosomes.”

“Like I said, it’s the job of the man of the house.”

Grandpa draws himself up straighter, clears his throat.

“The
young
man of the house. You’ve fixed your fair share of doors, Ben. No one’s taking that away from you.” Dad reaches

for the hammer I’ve pulled from the tool kit in the kitchen

closet.

He gets the door fixed in about twenty seconds, all the bet-

ter to slam it slightly when he leaves a few minutes later.

What was that about? I’m not even sure who provoked who

more. Grandpa Ben reaches over and pats me on the shoulder.

“
Seja gentil,
Guinevere. By Nico’s age, Mike owned a business, was about to be a father,
pai
.”

His dark brown eyes look old, watery, full of too much sor-

row. “Then with two little babies. He didn’t have much chance

for horsing around.”

I know every child of divorced parents is supposed to

secretly hope their parents fall back in love and reunite. But I

never have. Dad’s leaving removed a buzzing tension from the

house, like a downed wire that might be harmless but could

suddenly shock you senseless if you tripped over it. Grandpa

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Ben, Mom, Nic, me, Em . . . we’re peaceful together.
É fácil ser
gentil
. Easy to be kind.

The Ellington house is eerily quiet when I arrive. I knock on

the door, tentatively call “Hello!” but am met by nothing but

silence. Do I just march in?

After several minutes of knocking, I kick off my shoes, head

into the kitchen. The teakettle’s whistling on the stove, there

are breakfast dishes on the table, a chair pushed back. But no

sign of Mrs. E.

She’s not on the porch. Not in the living room or any of

the downstairs rooms. Now I’m starting to panic. It’s my first

day and I’ve already lost my employer. Did she go off to the

beach alone? I’m right on time . . . wouldn’t she be expecting

me?

Then I hear a crash from upstairs, along with a groan.

I take the steps two at a time, panic rushing up as fast as I

do, calling Mrs. E.’s name.

“In here, dear,” she calls from a room at the back corner of

the house, following that up with what sounds like a muffled

curse.

I dash into the room to find her sprawled on the floor in

front of a huge open closet door, covered with dresses and skirts

and shirts. Seeing me, she lifts a hand in greeting and gives an

embarrassed shrug.

“Guinevere, I must say, I am not enjoying being incapa-

citated! I was reaching for my beach hat with my cane,

overbalanced, and took half the closet down with me. Just

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trying to get a hat. How I shall contrive to change into my

bathing suit, I cannot imagine. And the ladies will be here

any minute.”

I take her hand and try to pull her to her feet, but she’s too

wobbly for that to work. Finally, I have to put a hand under

each arm, haul her upright.

“Dear me,” she mutters, swaying, “this is pure bother. I’m

so sorry, dear Gwen. How undignified!”

I assure her it’s fine and, limping, she makes her way slowly

to a green-and-white sofa in the corner of the room. I walk

behind her, which is awkward because she keeps stopping,

so I bump into her back three times in the short distance.

Luckily, she gives a low chuckle instead of getting angry or

falling over again and breaking her hip. Reaching the couch,

she sits down heavily, grimacing and rotating her ankle, shov-

ing aside a big green leather case. It’s flipped open to reveal

what looks like our junk drawer at home crossed with
Pirates

of the Caribbean
—a crazy tumble of diamond rings, pearl

necklaces, gold chains, silver bracelets, coral pins, an emer-

ald necklace. I can’t help noticing this enormous diamond,

so large, square, gleamingly clear that it reminds me of an ice

cube. That thing could choke a pony. I would be afraid even

to touch it. What would it be like to be so used to priceless

things that you don’t set them carefully against the velvet, just

toss them in like we do to the jumble of pens that don’t work,

takeout flyers, flashlights, Grandpa Ben’s old pipes, discarded

plastic action figures of Emory’s?

Mrs. E. gives another little groan, rubbing her ankle with a

grimace.

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“Should I get some ice—for your ankle? Or something to

rest it on? Are you okay?”

She reaches out to pat my cheek. “My dignity is slightly

sprained, but I shall recover. My wardrobe is in far more need

of assistance than I—” She jabs her cane in the direction of the

spill of clothing. “If you would be so kind?”

Rehanging the closet is like traveling through time—there

are sequined dresses and wild seventies prints, sheaths Audrey

Hepburn could have worn to Tiffany’s, full-skirted, tight-

waisted outfits, bell-bottomed pants. Mrs. E. has evidently

never parted with a single outfit. I have a flash of an image of

her trying them on in front of the mirror like an aging little

girl playing dress-up. When I finally rehang the last of them, I

turn around to find her completely nude.

Before I can stop myself, I let out a little screech. Mrs. E.,

who was bending over, picking something up off the floor,

sways and nearly falls. I rush over to steady her, and then don’t

know where to grab hold. Luckily, she catches herself on the

arm of the couch as I wave my hands ineffectually behind her.

“Gwen, dear,” she says serenely, stretching out her wrist,

from which a black bathing suit is dangling. “I fear I am going

to require your assistance here.”

This is not how I imagined my first day at work. Flipping

burgers, sprinkling jimmies, and frying shrimp is looking

really good. Or weed-whacking. Or simply hijacking one of

the lawn mowers and getting the hell off island.

“Close your eyes, dear,” Mrs. E. says briskly, possibly seeing

me visibly brace myself. Her own eyes look sad.

I squeeze them shut, then immediately realize I actually

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have to see what I’m doing in order to pull black spandex onto

an octogenarian with a broken foot and a cane.

So, okay, I’m not that comfortable with my own body. Who

would be when their best friend is Vivie the Cheerleader?

When their school job is timing for a bunch of buff boys in

Speedos? When your mom marks time by saying things like,

“That was before I was such a blimp”?

But this takes body consciousness to a whole new level.

I’m bending over, yanking the suit over her soft, blue-veined

calves, when she makes a little sound.

“Am I hurting you?” Oh God. I should have stayed at Cas-

tle’s, should have scrubbed toilets with Mom, should have. . . .

“No, no, dear girl, it’s just that after a certain age, one barely recognizes oneself. Especially in a state of undress. It’s rather

like the portrait of Dorian Gray, if he were female and wore a

swimming suit.”

“Yoo-hoo!” calls a voice from downstairs.

“That will be the ladies,” Mrs. Ellington says, a bit breath-

lessly, as I tug the swimsuit over her hips. “Go let them in. I

believe I can manage from here.”

I open the door to find Big Mrs. McCloud, as she’s always

called on Seashell (her daughter-in-law is Little Mrs. McCloud),

Avis King, Mrs. Cole, as always clutching her tiny terrier Phelps

like a purse, and, surprisingly, Beth McHenry, who used to work

with Mom cleaning houses until she retired. They’re all wear-

ing straw hats, sunglasses, and bathing suits. Among the ladies,

there are no cover-ups, no sarongs, just brightly flowered suits

with skirts, freckled skin that’s seen a lot of sun, wrinkles, and what Mom would call “jiggly bits.” I didn’t imagine my day

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