We are all hot and sweaty. Harry proposes a swim. “Let’s make it a race.” We are used to his races.
Cissy groans and tells Harry he’s too energetic.
“I’ll race,” says Claire.
“Fantastic.” Harry beams. “What about you, darling?”
We all know the answer. Maddy says nothing but smiles and removes her old green cotton pareo, the one she bought years ago in Spain. She might be over forty, but she still has the same figure she did when she was in her twenties. A long, lithe torso, surprisingly large breasts, strong shoulders, a flat stomach, small backside, and slender, slightly bowed legs. It is a body that an adolescent boy would have dreamt up.
“You have an amazing figure,” comments Claire as she watches Maddy stretch. “What’s your secret?”
“Are you kidding? I’m fat.” She has always said that. She hates compliments about her looks. She is not fat.
“See that white buoy?” says Harry to Claire. “Out around it and back, okay?”
The three swimmers dive into the water and strike out through the surf. Claire is swimming hard, but Harry and Madeleine swiftly outdistance her. Madeleine knifes through the water with long, powerful strokes. Her speed is incredible. She is well around the buoy by the time Harry reaches it. Claire is far behind them both. Maddy strides easily out of the water first, barely winded. She turns and waits for Harry. He follows closely, panting hard. Ned, Cissy, Johnny, and I all whistle and clap.
“You’re too good,” he says. “One day I’ll beat you.”
“Maybe for your birthday, darling,” she answers with a smile. It is part of their old routine. It is like the Greek myth where the outcome is always the same. I think if by some fluke Harry were to almost win he would hold back. A world in which Maddy doesn’t always win their swim races is a world neither of them wants to live in. I am not sure I would either.
Claire staggers out of the surf. She looks exhausted and surprised that she lost.
“Cheer up, Claire,” Harry says with a laugh, clapping her on the back. “I guess I should have mentioned that Maddy was an Olympic-level swimmer in school. She won the Maryland regionals in high school and was an alternate for the U.S. team. I’ve never even come close to beating her.”
It’s true. Maddy is an extraordinary athlete. You should see her swing a golf club.
Hands on hips, bending slightly at her slender waist, Claire is still breathing hard. She takes in this information without saying anything, but I watch her watching Maddy. She is still a little incredulous. With the arrogance of youth, it is hard for her to believe someone a decade or so older could beat her so easily, especially when she had thought she was going to win. She is seeing in Madeleine something she hadn’t seen before. I know the feeling.
She walks up to Maddy, who is drying her hair, saying, “That was incredible. I had no idea you were such a great swimmer. Why’d you give it up?”
Maddy turns, the sun illuminating her. She is like a being from a more advanced species. “I didn’t give it up. I just found other things that were more important.”
I can tell Claire is puzzled by this response. I watch her face. Talent for her is not something to be taken for granted. “If I was as good as you are, I would have kept at it.”
Maddy smiles. “Come on and give me a hand with lunch,” she says.
They kneel down at the coolers. There are bottles of beer wet with ice, cold chicken legs from last night, egg salad sandwiches, homemade potato chips. Peanut butter and jelly for Johnny. We huddle on the blankets, munching happily. Sitting on a low, old-fashioned beach chair, I am wearing my beat-up straw hat with the slightly ripped brim to keep the sun off my increasing baldness.
Claire leans in to me and whispers, “What happened to Johnny?”
Johnny has his shirt off. There is a long white scar down the center of his tanned chest.
“Heart,” I whisper back. “He had several operations when he was very young.”
“Is he all right now?”
I nod yes. It is something I prefer not to think about too much.
She goes over and sits with him. They begin playing in the sand. Building a castle. The adults are discussing politics. Harry and Ned are, as usual, on opposite ends of the spectrum. Maddy is reading, ignoring them, also as usual. Cissy is lying on her front, the straps of her bikini top unclasped. I think about reading too but feel my eyelids beginning to lower. In the distance, I see Johnny and Claire strolling alone together down the beach collecting shells before I nod off.
T
he restaurant is in an old farmhouse set back from the highway. Local legend has it that in a former incarnation it had been a speakeasy. Across the road sits one of the area’s last remaining farms, the fields of young corn hushed in the twilight. The hostess, Anna, is barely five-foot, with close-cut red hair and a beaklike nose. She has never married. Her mother, who died a few years ago, was very fat, and she would sit each night on a chair in the sweltering kitchen waiting for the last customer to leave. When Anna sees us, she gives Maddy, Harry, and me a hug, a sign of favor that we know has as much to do with Harry being a respected author as it does with us having been loyal patrons for years. One wall behind the bar is covered with faded framed and autographed book jackets from regular patrons. Vonnegut, Plimpton, Jones, Winslow.
“You’re late,” she reproves us. We had waited at home to watch the sunset and are already a little drunk. Harry had mixed martinis. “I almost gave up your table. We are very busy tonight.”
Waiting customers crowd into the small bar, where Kosta pours drinks. We wave to him and follow Anna to our table. The decor hasn’t changed since I first started eating here in the 1970s with my parents and probably not since it opened in the 1950s. The walls are brown with age. “You wanted to sit inside, right?”
There is an outside dining porch during the summer, but it is too brightly lit for our tastes. It’s where the millionaires sit. The interior room is cozier, the tables and chairs wooden and solid, not the cheap plastic found outside, the red-and-white checkered tablecloths patched and worn. An enormous old cast-iron stove sits unused in the corner. We order more martinis from one of the Vietnamese girls who work there. There is a family of them. They all live in a trailer behind the restaurant.
“Wait till you try this meat,” Harry tells Claire, leaning across the table. “It’s the best steak in the world.”
She looks at the prices and whispers to me, “Walter, it’s very expensive.”
It is expensive. This is not the kind of place where she would normally come if a man wasn’t paying. I can see her doing the math in her head. I remember what it is like to go out with a large group with expensive tastes when you only have a few dollars in the bank.
Once in college I joined some classmates at a restaurant on the Upper East Side, students down for the weekend on a spree. My first credit card sat chastely in my wallet. When my father had given it to me, he said, “Now, Walt, this is for use only in emergencies.” I had about fifty dollars in cash too, a fortune back then. One of our group, the son of a wine importer who had been raised glamorously in both Connecticut and England, casually informed us that he was having the caviar. Several others, equally privileged, did as well. I gulped when I saw the prices. He then ordered wine, champagnes and Bordeaux.
This was not the way I normally lived. Part of me was greedy for the experience, the other part appalled by the extravagance. And, mind you, we weren’t poor. But a closely controlled lifetime of allowances, boarding schools, country clubs, and college had kept me sheltered from this kind of decadence. Scrupulously, I ordered the cheapest thing on the menu. Chicken of some kind. It didn’t matter, of course. When the bill came we all divided it up equally. I was horrified to see that my share was nearly one hundred dollars. I had never spent anywhere close to that on a meal in my life. If my companions were equally aghast, they hid it. As I found out, that was the code. Gentlemen don’t quibble about the check. As I reluctantly handed over the card, I felt a tremendous fool, especially at the thought of those who had gorged themselves at my expense.
When I told my father what had happened, he assured me he would pay the bill. This time. “I hope you learned a lesson,” he said. “Next time I won’t bail you out.”
I turn to Claire and whisper, “Don’t worry. This is our treat. You’re our guest.”
She doesn’t say anything, thanking me instead with her eyes. They are truly lovely.
We order. Our drinks come. Then hot plates of saganaki, which is basically melted Greek cheese. Incredibly delicious. Taramasalata, bread, and olives. Wine. We are all laughing a lot, and Harry is standing up and telling a funny story in some kind of accent and doing a little dance, which has us all roaring.
Finally the steaks arrive. Large hunks of seared beef, thick, charred crusts of salt, pepper, and sparkling fat dripping down the sides. We fall on them like sled dogs.
“Oh my god, this is the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten,” gasps Claire.
The rest of us grunt appreciatively, too happy to stop chewing.
In midbite, I sense Claire tense. I look at her, thinking she might be about to choke. But it is not that. She sees something. I look around, following her gaze.
“What’s the idea, Winslow?”
It’s Clive. He’s standing over the table. Staring hard. He looks flushed.
“Clive,” says Claire. “What are you . . . ?”
“Quiet. I’m not talking to you.”
Harry puts down his knife and fork. The rest of us sit expectantly. Ned pushes his chair back. The muscles bunch in his neck. Harry says, “Clive, I’ll ask you not to speak to Claire like that.”
“I’ll speak to her any bloody way I like. So,” he says, now turning to Claire, “have you fucked him yet?” Turning to Harry, he continues, “She’s a pretty good fuck, isn’t she, ’Arry?”
I notice him dropping his
h
’s, revealing his true origins. Yes, I know, I am a snob. But is that worse than pretending you are something you are not?
“Get out of here, Clive. You’re drunk.”
“So what if I am?” To Maddy he sneers, “You better watch her, or she’ll be shagging ’Arry the moment your back’s turned.”
“All right. That does it.” Harry is on his feet, moving toward Clive.
For a minute I think he is going to hit him. Clive seems to think so too because he involuntarily flinches, awaiting a blow that never comes. And Harry is a powerful man, maybe not as strong as Ned but big enough. You don’t play hockey the way Harry did and not be good with your fists. Instead he grabs Clive fiercely by the lapels.
“Clive, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but obviously you’ve had too much to drink,” he says. “I want you to apologize to my wife, Claire, and Cissy. Then I want you to pay your check and get out of here.”
Clive looks nervous but responds, “What if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll take you outside and beat the hell out of you.”
By this time Anna is at our table, and diners sitting around us are staring. “What’s going on? Mister Harry, what are you doing?”
Harry releases Clive. “Nothing, Anna. One of your guests was just leaving.”
“Fuck off, ’Arry,” says Clive, regaining his composure as he retreats from the room. To Claire: “And fuck you too, you slag.”
Ned is about to go after him, but Harry puts his hand on his shoulder. “Let him go. It’s not worth it.” To Anna, he says, “My apologies, Anna. Hope that didn’t spoil any of your other guests’ appetites.”
“I don’t like that kind of thing here, Mister Harry,” she says. “I don’t want him coming back here. You can always come back. You’re almost like family, you, Mrs. Winslow, and Mister Walter.”
“Thank you, Anna.” Then he turns to Claire and puts his hands on her shoulders and asks, “Are you all right?”
She nods, her eyes red. “I’m sorry,” she chokes. “I’m sorry.”
“Some men just don’t like being dumped, eh?” someone jokes to break the tension. I think it is me.
“Harry,” says Maddy, rising regally to her feet. “I’m going to take Claire into the ladies’ room. Come on, Claire. Cissy, you come too.”
After they return, Claire is quiet. She doesn’t look at anyone. Maddy leans into Harry. “We should go.”
“Of course. I’ll go see Anna about the bill.”
The ride home is suffused with awkward silence. Ned and Cissy are in their own car, the rest of us in the old Jeep. Harry tries to make light of what happened. For once his natural charm is ineffectual. It is impossible to tell what Maddy is thinking. She is keeping her thoughts to herself. What will the two of them talk about later in bed, in the privacy of their own room? Will Maddy be angry? Will she be frightened? And what will Harry do or say? Would they say anything? I have no idea. This is unexplored territory. They have been married for nearly twenty years, and are so inseparable she even went with him on his book tours.
It is Madeleine who saves the moment. She turns in her seat, looks at Claire, who is sitting in the back next to me, and says, “I hope you know I think what Clive said is complete shit.”
Claire sniffs gratefully. “Thank you, Maddy.”
“No. You don’t have to thank me. It just sickens me that someone like him feels he can go about poisoning people’s minds just because he isn’t happy. He’s a stupid man, and he was trying to hurt you and us. We offended his vanity, and he had to lash out.”
I have almost never been more proud of her. She has always had the ability to cut through the extraneous and focus on the essential.
Harry is driving, concentrating on the road. Briefly, he looks at Maddy and smiles, and she smiles back. Unpleasantness has been forgotten; order, trust have been restored. Harry asks, “Did you see his face when he thought I was going to hit him?”
Maddy laughs. “I know! I thought he was going to start crying. Why didn’t you hit him, anyway? God knows he deserved it.”
“It’s not the way it used to be, darling. For all I know, he could have come to dinner with a table of lawyers hoping I’d do just that. You can’t hit anyone anymore without getting sued. Happened to a friend of mine a few years back. Got taken to the cleaners. Lawyers take the fun out of everything. Sorry, Walter, no offense meant.”