Authors: Laura Pedersen
Frightened by the faltering uncertainty in his father’s voice and uncomfortable with the weight on his slender shoulders, Joey steps to the side. Without the support of his son, Evan sinks down on the lawn so that he’s sitting on the heels of his boots.
Joey becomes increasingly alarmed, his gaze frantically darting from grown-up to grown-up as they all start to shout and gesticulate like angry statues that have magically come to life under the cool glow of the moon.
Having gone inside and made the phone call, Rosamond returns to her position on the front stoop. In the midst of the erupting chaos she slowly raises her arms, the billowing fabric of the robe suggesting an enormous white heron stretching its wings. Joey dashes toward the bathrobe and Rosamond wraps her arms around the frightened child. She leads him into the house so they can wait for the police.
From the kitchen they hear a loud series of arguments out front, mostly men’s voices. But occasionally there’s an isolated diatribe from Diana, sharp with distress and protectiveness.
Soon they hear the wail of sirens. Rosamond places two dishes of vanilla ice cream on the table and sits down next to the shaken boy. Joey silently spoons the ice cream into his mouth. And the tears that occasionally drop onto his bowl aren’t born of sadness so much as discovered strength.
Rosamond understands Joey’s frustration with waiting—waiting for his father to act like a father, waiting to grow up, waiting to be able to take control of his life. She’d felt much the same way about waiting to become secure in her faith and devotion to God. Only she’d failed and finally surrendered to her disappointment.
Eventually Joey says, “I don’t understand. I prayed and prayed for Dad to find a good job and to come back and live with us. But it didn’t work.”
Rosamond places her hand on his arm. “All prayers are answered. It’s just that sometimes the answer is ‘not right now.’ ”
It takes another half hour for the quarreling in the front yard to subside and a complaint to be filed. Diana, Hayden, and Hank return to the house exhausted. Hayden is muttering “useless as a wet Woodbine” and rattling around the cabinet for his scotch. Diana is too unnerved to stop him and effusively coddles and comforts Joey the same way she always does after he’s suffered an injury.
But Rosamond can tell by his trembling lips and rigid body that Joey is no longer the idealistic boy who ran out of the house to greet his daddy. Nor will he ever be again. As farmers feel the weather changing deep within their bones, Joey senses that his childhood has come to an end.
chapter fifty-four
T
he morning of the big trip dawns lush with summer and the scent of freshly mown grass. Trees bow under the weight of overripe fruit and swollen seedpods split open and fall to the ground. Hayden and Joey rise early and go to the service station to fill the car with gas and buy windshield-washer fluid. Or rather, Joey confidently attends the automobile, even replacing a fuse and checking the tire pressure, while his grandfather waits in the driver’s seat. Though Hayden hates to admit it, he has limited energy these days, and the same small errands and quick chores that used to start his day now drain him.
There’s hardly any traffic on the way home and so Hayden lets Joey sit next to him and steer while he operates the gas pedal and brake. This cheers Joey slightly, but once they arrive home and he sees the suitcases on the front porch he falls silent again, and Hayden reconsiders Rosamond’s advice. Only he can’t think of anything philosophical to say to his grandson—about fatherhood, life, or even death, the subject in which he’d so recently attempted to make himself an expert. What he considers mentioning is that women are somehow at the bottom of the whole thing. They can give a man more self-confidence than a new suit and old money, or else knock him into the gutter with a single disapproving glance.
When the two enter the kitchen to get some breakfast, Hayden is surprised that the coffeemaker, blender, toaster, juicer, and all Diana’s favorite morning appliances aren’t going at full speed. Though knowing the way his daughter worries, as if it’s a job she gets paid to do, he assumes it was a long while before she finally went back to sleep the night before. Joey continues to mope around and carelessly pours cornflakes into a bowl so that they spill over onto the countertop. It breaks Hayden’s heart to see his grandson so world-weary.
“Joey, run and get a rubber band from the mailbox,” Hayden says with forced enthusiasm.
Joey appears puzzled, but does as he’s told. When he returns, Hayden is standing in front of the sink holding a black Magic Marker and motions for Joey to bring the rubber band over to him. “Now watch this.”
Hayden colors the tan rubber band until it’s black on both sides. Then he pulls the sprayer out of the sink, presses down on the black plastic bar so it’s in the “on” position, and then winds the rubber band tightly around the nozzle before replacing it. Just as the hose clicks back into place they hear footsteps on the stairs. Hayden jumps away from the sink and motions for Joey to do the same.
Diana enters the kitchen bleary-eyed and still in her bathrobe, her hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. “What a night,” she says to Joey and Hayden and dazedly lifts the top on the coffeemaker as if half asleep.
Hayden sneaks a quick peek at Joey, who suddenly realizes what’s going to happen next as his mother reaches toward the sink, and is thrilled by the look of anticipation on his grandson’s face. As expected, when Diana turns on the faucet a huge blast of water sprays her directly in the face and also soaks her hair and the front of her nightclothes. She lets out a shriek and backs away from the water-spewing sink while frantically rotating her arms like a high-speed windmill.
Hayden closes in on the sink from the side, turns off the faucet, and while Diana’s eyes are still closed from the surprise deluge, he quickly removes the rubber band and slips it into his pocket. Standing a few feet behind Diana, Joey is convulsed with laughter from the sight of his normally glamorous and composed mother flailing like a person drowning.
“Oh my God!” a thoroughly soaked Diana shouts as she wipes her eyes and forehead with a dish towel.
Rosamond comes running into the kitchen. “What’s wrong
now
?”
“Nothing to worry about,” says Hayden. “Just a little plumbing problem. It happens with these old houses.”
Meanwhile Joey is covering his face with his hands as he tries to stop laughing but is unable to reduce his gleeful howls. If anything, he’s laughing progressively harder and in danger of vomiting.
“It’s not funny, Joey!” Hayden chastises him with a sly wink. “In fact, go and get the toolbox and fix the pipes for your mother, just like I’ve been showing you.”
Diana looks concerned. “Shouldn’t we should call a plumber?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Joey will have that fixed in a jiffy.”
Diana’s too exhausted to argue and stumbles upstairs to change. On the landing she passes Hank, who is preparing to drive the vacationers to the airport.
“Will you please make sure you get a number for a doctor down there?” Diana calls to Hayden from the top of the stairs. “You look jaundiced. I wish you’d see a specialist.”
“It’s just a suntan.” Hayden pulls his red golf visor down to thwart any further examination.
Diana returns to the kitchen where Joey is busy impressing Rosamond by “fixing” the sink. She hands Rosamond a pink-and-white-striped Victoria’s Secret bag.
“What’s this?” Rosamond assumes Diana has packed some sandwiches for the plane ride, since she’d been worrying that they wouldn’t be fed properly.
Diana looks through the archway to make sure that Hayden and Hank aren’t nearby. “Just put it in your suitcase. Men are like crows. They’re attracted to shiny objects.”
“Let’s go!” Hayden shouts from out in the driveway.
Rosamond tucks the bag Diana has given her into a carry-on case and Joey comes out from under the sink announcing that it was just a loose pipe and is now repaired. Diana tests the faucet and it seems to work perfectly. She pats her son on the shoulder to show that she’s truly impressed. Now that Joey’s almost as tall as she, it’s no longer as easy to reach the top of his head unless he’s sitting down.
They all squeeze into the station wagon for the trip to the airport. The expressway is packed with people heading east to enjoy the beaches in the Hamptons, Fire Island, the North Fork, and Montauk. Others are off to summer concerts at Jones Beach and to catch the ferry to Shelter Island. Hank drives and Hayden busies himself keeping everyone amused. “Hey, Joey, what goes
clump clump, bang bang, clump clump?
”
“An Amish drive-by!” Joey shouts before Hayden can even turn to look at him in the backseat.
“Dad!” scolds Diana. “Don’t be sacrilegious.”
“I think it’d be an excellent idea to sack religion,” says Hayden.
Hank stifles a laugh. Rosamond doesn’t appear to hear any of what’s being said as she stares out the window, nervously fingering the charm bracelet on her wrist as if it’s a rosary.
“Why can’t the Amish go to jail?” asks Joey.
“Because no one would ever know,” Hayden shoots back. “None of their relatives have phones!”
As they say good-bye, Rosamond suppresses the urge to shout that it’s all been a terrible mistake. Somehow removing the bags from the car at the airport has a feeling of finality about it, as if they’re being shipped off to an internment camp rather than embarking upon a tropical vacation. Having been on an airplane only once, she tries to convince herself that she’s experiencing anxiety about flying.
By the time they reach the airline counter Hayden is in full salesman’s mode, endearing but insistent, his brogue at an all-time thickness, and a smile that assures anyone who cares to look that laughter resides at his doorstep. “Yes, we’re both dyin’,” he informs the agent. “She doesn’t look like it right now, I know.” He nods toward Rosamond. “But trust me, we’re goners.” He pulls out the X-ray he’d stolen from his file and shows it to the woman as proof. “So if you can give us two seats together, with hers next to the window, I’d be eternally grateful.” Hayden emphasizes
eternal
and accompanies it with a friendly wink.
“Your accent sounds familiar,” the agent says, by now completely charmed.
“Well, do’an’ go saying anythin’ but one of my poorer relations is a famous movie actor.”
“Oh!” The woman’s eyes widen and then she smiles and nods to indicate that his secret is safe with her.
chapter fifty-five
R
osamond is relieved that she and Hayden have two separate rooms, though they’re adjacent to each other. Small vases containing fresh flowers placed on the table and next to the sink in the bathroom make the dazzling white towels and linens appear lovely and fresh. A woven straw carpet gives the room a feeling of casual elegance. The walls are decorated with tranquil beach scenes and delicate watercolors of local flora that appear to have been rendered by an artful botanist. A great silver bowl overflowing with brightly colored exotic fruits sits on the table looking like one of the still-life paintings they’d admired at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Rosamond has never seen such an exquisite place in all her life, and after the initial thrill of it, she thinks of her tiny barren cell back at the convent and then all the world’s poor who don’t have so much as a clean mat to lie upon.
Hayden, on the other hand, barely notices his surroundings. And the minute they finish unpacking he rushes them off to the world-famous golf course overlooking the clear blue Caribbean Sea. Along the winding palm-lined road stand rows of tin-roofed houses in faded yellow, pink, and ocher, resplendent with vivid blazes of magenta bougainvillea and red hibiscus out front. By the hillside tall cactuses emerge from the brush every few yards, a half dozen or so topped with flamboyant orangish-pink globes, blooms that are said to appear only once every hundred years.
“I wish I’d brought my wimple and veil to protect me from the sun,” Rosamond says while Hayden demonstrates how to swing a golf club.
He gallantly hands her his visor. “Try this. It’s what nine out o’ ten golfers prefer over a wimple and veil.” Rosamond hits her ball only a few feet from the hole. Hayden slices and lands his in the nearby sand. “Oh Christ, I’m my own handicap.”
“Hayden!” She blanches at the Lord’s name taken in vain.
“Beg pardon,” he says contritely and loudly exhales. Hayden occasionally winces or takes a deep breath for no apparent reason, in the manner of a person who carries a pain around inside.
“What’s the white flag for?” asks Rosamond.
“For you it marks the hole where you’re trying to get the ball,” he says. “For me it’s saying that I should surrender.”
By the time they exit the clubhouse Hayden is enjoying the cheerful and outstanding service afforded an affable local mayor, having befriended everyone from the caddies to the golf pro, the manager of the restaurant, and a group of businessmen from Minneapolis. As usual, his high spirits color the day and easily spread to perfect strangers so that they carry this joy away with them and pass it along to others.
After returning to the resort for a nap in their respective rooms, they stroll on the white sand beach as the wind ruffles the nearby water with waves and breathe in the peacefulness. Overhead the gulls soar and dip, their wings flashing silver in the sunlight. The refreshing tranquillity reminds Rosamond of the Liturgy of the Hours, the seven times a day the nuns went to chapel for prayer. Now her sisters would be gathering for Nones, the ninth hour call for more perseverance and strength to continue as one exceeds her prime and must keep going. By acknowledging this midafternoon hour of Christ’s death, one was supposedly able to touch finitude.
While carefully making their way around the blankets and lounge chairs of sprawled pink flesh, the two eventually walk close to a couple lying together and kissing. Rosamond watches unabashedly for a moment. The man notices her and smiles. She smiles back before looking away. The warm sea air and flood of clean sunshine have lent a certain happiness to her face, brushing out the fine wrinkles around her eyes, which are the color of forget-me-nots against the pale blue sky. A few freckles have appeared across her nose and cheeks and shoulders, as if she’s been splattered with gold paint. And her shorn hair has grown into a tousled array of pale blond curls that flutter against her cheekbones in the gentle ocean breeze.