“Can I come visit?”
“No, Ricky. It’s just for old women.”
His giggle softened the tight muscles in her face. “You’re not old.”
“I’m older than five hundred and forty fruit flies. How is everything there?”
“I’m bringing in your mail every day like you asked.” He sniffed, avoiding the reason he’d called, and she imagined him wiping his eyes and smearing dirt on his cheek. “I was wondering . . . ”
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“Yes?”
“Could you tell me a story?”
Ricky’s parents were fighting. He needed a story. She wasn’t sure she had any left in her. “A story.”
“I want the one about the ugly bug.”
The bug story was one of his favorites, a black comedy born on a bad day they’d turned to good with laughter and chocolate. Martha closed her eyes to block out the figures on the beach, still there even after the fat lady suicide show was over. She dug down deep inside her until she connected with the power and clarity she needed to tell her stories, until she could see the bug and his forest home so clearly she might as well have been there herself.
“Once upon a time, there was a really ugly bug who lived in a big beautiful forest. None of the other bugs wanted to play with him, because he was so ugly, which made him very sad. His mother told him that what was inside mattered more than what was outside, but the little ugly bug wasn’t satisfied. He knew deep down that somewhere lived an ugly little boy who would understand him, and be his friend.”
Ricky made a small soft sound that Martha recognized as the beginning of a giggle, and clung to it hopefully. She shrugged out of the blanket so her arms and body would be free to help her tell the story, even though she knew Ricky wouldn’t be able to see. But she felt cramped and stifled not being able to move.
“So one day he left home, and traveled long and far, over bumps, under branches, and through puddles, until he came to the big shining city. He scurried along the edge of the buildings to avoid being stepped on by all the shoes belonging to all the feet belonging to all the people, none of whom 118 Isabel
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was his boy. Nobody took notice of him until he got to a corner. There stood a little ugly boy who was about to cross the street, when suddenly he tugged at his mother’s hand, pointed and said, ‘Look, look, look!’
“The little ugly bug quivered with excitement. Here at last was his one true friend.”
Ricky snorted, trying to hold back laughter.
“‘Leave it alone,’ said the ugly boy’s mother, who was pretty ugly herself, ‘it’s just an ugly bug.’ But the ugly boy wouldn’t listen. He came closer and leaned down to look at the little ugly bug more carefully.
“The little ugly bug was beside himself. He smiled his biggest, ugliest smile and waved his littlest ugliest leg. ‘Hi,’
he squeaked. ‘I’ve traveled a long way to find you. Now we can be—’
“‘Wow,’ said the little ugly boy. ‘That is a really ugly bug.’
And he picked up his ugly little foot and stepped on him.”
Martha stood, eyes still closed, listening to the beautiful gales of Ricky’s laughter, let it wash through her pain and rinse some of it away. Eldon would have loved that story too, a welcome relief from the squeaky clean politically correct world he had to live in without her.
She registered another sound and opened her eyes. Smiles and giggles from the kayakers too. Even Ann seemed mildly amused, wrapped, as Martha had been, in a blanket, standing next to Patrick.
Why were they still here? Weren’t they finished gawking?
Except in their faces she saw something new, besides the laughter. Not sympathy, not apprehension, but something pleasant that made her uneasy, but also warmer. In As Good As It Got
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all but Betsy, whose usually kind blue eyes were narrowed thoughtfully.
“Thanks. Thanks for the story. I feel better now.”
“You’re welcome, Ricky.” Martha told him to be good, wishing she could shout the same at his parents, said good-bye and handed the phone back to Betsy, who continued to watch her speculatively.
“Thank you for letting us share your story, Martha. You have a real gift.” Something about the way she phrased it made it sound less like a compliment than a condemnation.
“You and Ann should go back to your cabin and dry off. I’ll have one of the kitchen gals send over hot drinks. And I’ll be available in my office if you want to talk.”
Martha nodded dutifully and started for the wooden stairs leading off the beach. Just before she reached them, she remembered her other story, and how the man running away from the collapsing prairie had escaped at the last second by leaping into the air and catching hold of a star.
Chapter 9
Dear Paul,
You would hate Camp Kinsonu. You would make
fun of every aspect of everything that goes on. I wish
I could have seen your face when they said we had to
sing “I Am Woman.” But you’re not here. I hate that
I am. I hate that you put me here.
That’s all folks,
Ann
Dinnertime at Camp Kinsonu. Ann pushed a piece of yellowish macaroni around her plate. She’d taken maybe five bites of the creamy and faintly curry-flavored casserole, bursting with chicken and vegetables, after a half-sandwich lunch and the microtoast breakfast. Not healthy. At home, As Good As It Got
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or what passed for home these days with her parents, she’d counted on her nightly cocktail to get her appetite going, though her weight continued to drop anyway. Of course, here such shocking indulgence was forbidden. So she starved.
Macaroni made her think of Paul, who detested it, after growing up eating the boxed mix too many evenings while his exhausted mother lay in her room, too depressed to get up and take care of her kids. His father tried hard to be a good dad, but by the time he got home, dinner was over and the sin of mac ’n’ cheese again had already been committed.
She knew she should eat; of course she knew. But tonight she couldn’t get rid of the queasiness that started out on the bay when she noticed her “buddy” missing and turned to see Martha facedown in the sea. Martha insisted she’d fallen, but Ann was pretty sure that was bullshit. Of course, Kinsonu was buzzing. Bad news was like a bad smell: once released, impossible to contain.
“Ann? ”
Ann tried to look as if she were anticipating Cindy’s next words with anything but intense annoyance. She wanted quiet. At home after work, she had gotten used to, then enjoyed, the silence in the house with Paul, stupidly not recognizing the red flag. Here there was pressure to be BFF—best friends forever—from the second they got up until they dropped into bed for bad nights of sleep. “What’s up?”
“Dinah asked you a question.”
“Sorry.” She thought about smiling at Dinah, but one look at the empty eyes, bright lipstick, teased hairdo, and turquoise jogging suit over past-its-prime propped-up cleavage turned her smile into a symbolic gag.
“I was telling everyone about my first honeymoon in 122 Isabel
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Vegas, and my second one in the Florida Keys, and my third one in the Bahamas. Cindy said she’d gone to the Catskills on her honeymoon, and I guess Martha never did get married, so now I’m asking where you went on your honeymoon.
If you ever got married.” She giggled and her cleavage jostled around, as if it were trying to ingest one of the gold chains.
“Though I should probably have asked where you were just now instead, since it was probably more interesting.”
Ann blinked at her. “Where I was?”
“Well, obviously you were a million miles away!” More giggles, more jiggles, hahaha.
“Paris.” Ann spoke sharply. “We honeymooned in Paris.
Stayed on the Left Bank near the Luxembourg Gardens. We walked the city every day and had dinner at a different three-star restaurant every night. We hired a boat and cruised the Seine. We took a two-day trip to the champagne district, and saw the cathedral at Reims. We went to the Loire Valley and tasted Vouvray wine at a farmhouse, served to us by the vintner himself. We went to the church where Joan of Arc worshiped. We saw Napoleon’s tomb.”
She pushed her plate back, irritation making her stomach even more inhospitable. “How does that compare to Vegas?”
Cindy looked down at her plate. Martha took a sip of water, making her shawl jingle. Dinah stayed frozen for a few seconds, then blinked, showing turquoise eye shadow.
“Well lah-dee-dah. I was just asking.”
“I was just answering.”
But she hadn’t been. Not at all. She’d used a trick she recognized suddenly as one of Paul’s. Getting Rid of Unwanted Company by Showing Superiority. An ugly trick, one that had embarrassed her every time.
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Crap.
“Sorry.” She could only manage to direct the apology to her full plate. “I had a shitty day.”
“Whose fault was that?”
Ann lifted her head to glare at Dinah, fiercely protective of Martha’s weakness. “Excuse me?”
“I think you heard me.” She didn’t shy away from eye contact, and Ann realized with a fresh wave of anger that Dinah wasn’t talking about Martha.
“It’s my fault,” Martha said flatly. “I upset her when I—”
“It’s not your fault.” Ann kept her eyes on Dinah. “And it sure as hell isn’t mine.”
“We’ve all got troubles. Everyone here. But only you need to
punish
us with yours.” Dinah flicked a nervous glance around the group, then waved her hand, shoo, shoo, as if Ann were a fly that had disturbed her dinner. “Now . . . now grow up and take it like a woman. Like the rest of us.”
That was it. Forget anger. This called for fury. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
Dinah lifted her chin.
“Um . . . I think what she
means
is that you can control how you react to your day, and you can make that reaction more positive.” Cindy snuck a wary peek at Ann, then back to Dinah. “Right?”
“That’s the nice way of putting it, yes.”
Furious rage. Rage boiling so high and hot that tears snuck into her eyes and she wanted Paul so badly her chest felt as if it were going to implode. He’d know exactly how to take her side. He’d laugh calmly, then come up with the brilliant cutting insult she was too upset to think of. Rat bastard, where was he when she needed him?
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“Hey there, ladies.” Patrick bent over the table between Dinah and Cindy, glancing first at Martha, then at Ann and her full plate. “How’s it going?”
Silence. Ann managed to stay seated, but barely. To hell with fight
or
flight, she wanted both. Take out a few of Dinah’s overwhitened teeth, then a few from Cindy’s equine overbite, and run.
“Well . . . Ann was just telling us about her honeymoon.
In Paris.” Cindy beamed up at him. “It sounded really romantic.”
“I bet.” He turned his gray eyes on Ann again, and even in the blazing midst of her fury she felt the unwelcome shock of attraction. “Paris is one of my very favorite cities.”
“Ooh, you’ve been there too?” Cindy swiveled to gaze up at him like a lovesick puppy. “I’ve always wanted to go.”
Oh
God
. If Ann’s own attraction to Patrick was unwelcome, her jealousy over Cindy’s was ten times more.
“You’ll get to Paris someday, Cindy.” He smiled down at her. “If you really want to go.”
“You’re right. I will.” She nodded happily, transported by his apparently all-encompassing wisdom. Ann’s stomach heaved.
“How are you doing there, Miss Martha?” Patrick ex-tracted himself from Cindy’s gaze and turned to the end of the table.
“I’m fine.” Her voice was so weary that some of Ann’s rage dissolved into fresh concern. “Thank you.”
“Did something happen to you today?” This from Dinah, their china shop’s resident bull.
“No,” Ann said. “She’s
fine
.”
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about you as if something bad happened, and now Patrick is asking . . . ”
Martha heaved one of her endless sighs, looking as if she’d like to tip off the bench and drown herself in the floor-boards.
“She fell out of her kayak.” Ann turned away from Martha’s grateful look and stared pointedly at Dinah. “Splash.
She got wet. She got dry. She’s fine.”
“Oh good. Because people are talking as if she tried to—”
“For God’s
sake
.” Ann whammed her palms on either side of her plate. A clump of macaroni separated itself from her serving and toppled over as if she’d shot it.
Silence at their table, silence and stares from the table next to theirs. Ann would be given a shiny new moniker: Camp Troublemaker.
“People think I tried to kill myself.”
Dinah gasped and pressed a ringed hand to her mouth, but not before Ann caught her ambulance-chaser smile. Cindy looked stricken. The table behind theirs fell quiet. Martha turned toward the sea, deep blue now that the light was fading, bringing colors vividly to life, before it hid them for the night.
This was sickening. Why wasn’t Patrick saying anything?
Why wasn’t he taking charge, helping Martha out?
“She fell.” Ann’s nails dug into the tablecloth. “I was there. If people want to turn it into high drama, that’s their problem.”
“Okay, okay!” Dinah lifted her red-taloned fingers. “I get it. You don’t have to bite my head off. I was just asking.”
“I was just answering.”
“Everyone going to the bonfire tonight?” Patrick’s loud 126 Isabel
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voice cut in—finally—and the tables around them came back to life with comments and chatter. Dinah and Cindy exclaimed their enthusiasm. Martha nodded silently.
Ann laughed without pleasure. Bonfire tonight. Whoopee.
She’d forgotten. A perfect shit ending to a perfect shit day.
And tomorrow? Even better. Up at dawn for her mandatory lobstering lesson. Of all the useless ways to spend her time.
“I’m going to sit this one out.”
“But you can’t.” Cindy stared in alarm. “I mean everyone goes, don’t they, Patrick?”