Salt Water (3 page)

NEXT MORNING
I had breakfast with Mother. Father was working on the Angela.

Mother could look older or younger. She looked younger when she was in a bad mood; she moved quickly, and her face was thinner. When she was in a good mood she looked plump, and her movements were round; she put objects down in a kind of curve and walked from one place to another in an arc. This morning she was in a good mood, and she talked about the party, which meant it had been a success.

Mary Cuddihy was a “dear woman,” particularly because “as time goes by it’s hard to make new friends and impossible to make old ones.” Mrs. Cuddihy reminded Mother that for
a semester they had called each other Charmian and Iras after two of Cleopatra’s handmaidens. “Cleopatra was Peebee Brooks, who taught us Elizabethan literature. I had completely forgotten that.”

About Melissa, “She’ll be just fine as soon as she grows up a little.”

“You don’t mean physically,” I said.

“She does take after her father, doesn’t she. As for Zina, she’s intelligent and well-behaved.”

“And beautiful,” I said.

“She has an interesting face, and she really listens to what you’re saying. I like that in a person.”

“How about Mrs. Mertz? Is she well-behaved? Do you think she’s a lady?”

“She could pass in some crowds. Your father probably thinks she is.”

“But you don’t.”

“She’s female, that’s for sure. And Blackheart is too excitable. We should have had him fixed when we could.”

“Father is against fixing.”

“Your father is a natural-state romantic.”

“Me too.”

“You’re a romantic about women, Michael.”

“Is Father?”

She paused and then said, “I don’t know.”

After breakfast I went to the bay. Father was checking the mooring chain for rust. He was especially handsome when he was intent on something. He was really not like a father at all, at least as far as discipline went. Mother was the one who told me what I could and couldn’t do. Father told me what I should and shouldn’t do.

The tide was low, the water waist high beside the boat. I helped Father feed the chain aboard and asked him what he thought of the party. He said it was fun and asked me what I thought.

“Okay. What do you think of Mrs. Mertz now?”

“Life of the party, along with Frank Cuddihy.”

“Mother thinks you like her.”

“Did she say that?”

“Sort of.”

“Everybody likes her.” Exactly my words about Zina.

“Not Mother,” I said

“Did she say so?”

“No, but I can tell. You like Zina, don’t you?”

“Zina is not a simple girl, Michael.”

“Who thinks she’s simple?”

“You do. You think she’s perfect. Perfect is very simple.”

“You once said to me that ordinary women stay near shore, extraordinary women swim out. Zina is extraordinary, isn’t she?”

“Well, she does swim out.”

As we got back to the house we saw a cabin cruiser anchored in the ocean a hundred feet off shore, new and shiny, bobbing and tilting. Father and I were snobbish about power boats. Our feeling was, you might as well take a drive on the highway as sail a power boat. In a sailboat you hear and feel and smell only wind and water. You’re doing what people did thousands of years ago. Take the Angela. She was made of wood and cloth, like sailboats always. She enjoyed the ocean as much as the bay. She was a dreamer and rode so easily she turned you into a dreamer. Who dreams on a power boat? On a power boat you have ambitions, not dreams. The Angela liked to be pushed, but didn’t do tricks. She preferred a strong and steady wind, but smoothed out gusts, never got upset, and was perfectly happy to idle along in a breeze. If you didn’t always know what you were doing she forgave you. She was heavy for her size and preferred not to race. Father said if she were a woman she’d have had big breasts and buttocks, been a better mother than wife, and a better wife than mistress.

There seemed to be no one on the cruiser. At first we thought the visitors would be in our house, but over her shoulder Mother pointed to the guesthouse. “Two exquisite males,” she said, “bronzed and up for a lark.”

Because of the dune I couldn’t see them, but I could
hear them. Father wasn’t interested, and I tried not to be. Were they Zina’s friends or her mother’s? I thought of returning to the Angela, but there was nothing more to do there. I thought of challenging Father to a game of chess, but he had already spread out on the north porch, reading. Finally I motioned to Blackheart, and we hopped over the hot sand to the guesthouse. On the way I plucked a blade of grass to chew and be a casual person, like Zina.

Zina and her mother were glad to see us. Mrs. Mertz, in a bikini, kissed my cheek. Zina took my hand and introduced me to the guests. Henry ran an art gallery in town. Wilder, younger, was a photographer. Henry had a black tan and blond hair. He stood straight and shook my hand seriously. Wilder was friendly too, but not so formal.

Zina told them how I had rediscovered cubism with my photographs of her. Mrs. Mertz hadn’t heard about them, and I promised to bring them over. Henry said that he had immediately seen that I was creative and that I could have sat for Egon Schiele, I was that “innocent and knowing.”

“Henry,” Mrs. Mertz said, “stop the bullshit! You’re embarrassing Misha.”

Henry asked me if I was really Russian, and Mrs. Mertz said I should stay for lunch.

During the meal there was a lot of talk about Bone Point. It was just the place for Mrs. Mertz—nothing to worry
about. I got the impression she was recuperating from something, although she looked perfectly healthy, except thin. There was also a lot of talk about photography. I guess they thought I would be interested. I didn’t recognize any of the names. One of the photographers specialized in nudes. Was his work pornographic?

Mrs. Mertz said it was as arousing as a clothespin.

“Women,” Henry said, “are notoriously insensitive to visual stimuli.”

Zina said the pictures were “too three dimensional—nude Karshes.”

She could see I wasn’t very interested and put her hand over mine to console me. This didn’t seem to bother anyone. Did it mean neither Henry nor Wilder was interested in Zina, or was I too young to be competition? By age Henry should have belonged to Mrs. Mertz, and Wilder to Zina. But I supposed it could just as well be the other way around.

After lunch we swam out to the cruiser, which was named the Chelsea Hotel. For half an hour Henry sped her up and down along the shore and out to sea and back. He was showing off and pushed her to thirty knots, churning up a great wake. He invited me to take the wheel and from behind held my hands as I steered. Power boats are fun for a while, but they’re too easy. Anyone can run a power boat with two minutes instruction—just don’t hit anything.

After that we settled on the guesthouse deck. Mrs. Mertz took orders for drinks, played a Nina Simone record, and sang along. Henry asked her to dance and immediately picked up a splinter. Mrs. Mertz brought out needle and tweezers and offered to remove it, but Henry said he wanted “a young, firm hand,” me. Actually I’m pretty good with splinters. We sat down on facing chairs, and I took his foot in my lap. I was poking around when suddenly Henry said, “Oh, my God, the pain! Don’t stop!”

I didn’t understand he was joking until I saw everyone was laughing, including Henry.

Suddenly Father was there, still in his bathing trunks. I suppose he had heard the music and general jollity. Mrs. Mertz put an arm around his bare back, as if he were a dear old friend, and introduced him as “the best-looking landlord in memory.” She asked Father if he wanted a drink, and when she came out with it, and one for herself, she asked him to dance. That was the scene when Mother arrived— Father and Mrs. Mertz, each holding a drink in their left hand, his right hand around her waist, hers on his shoulder.

Mother was something else when she was angry. Mrs. Mertz let Father go and tried to introduce Mother to Henry and Wilder. Mother nodded to each in turn but wouldn’t take either’s hand. With a shake of her head she refused
Mrs. Mertz’s offer of a drink. She didn’t sit when Mrs. Mertz asked her to, and she stepped away from Father when he came near her. To finish it off, Blackheart, who also had showed up, started sniffing Sonya’s behind and crooning. Mother gave him an awful whack. He yipped and scurried off. Father winked at me. Mrs. Mertz had retreated against the wall of the guesthouse and was taking it all in over the edge of her drink. Zina stared at the deck floor. Henry and Wilder looked confused. Mother, who was extra angry for having lost her temper with Blackheart, had the sense to leave. Through it all she hadn’t said a word.

“I hope your wife … ,” Mrs. Mertz said. Father held up his hand. In the same motion he indicated that I should hang around for a while and went back to the house.

“Well,” Mrs. Mertz said with a sigh and a smile, “shall we dance?”

No one wanted to.

Henry and Wilder said they had to get back.

Mrs. Mertz said she was going to take a nap.

“The trouble is,” Zina said when everyone was gone, “Mother has one drink and she thinks she’s Brigitte Bardot.”

“The trouble is my father likes Brigitte Bardot.”

“I hope you didn’t mind Henry’s camping around. He’s really not like that.”

“How is he really?”

“He’s been the best friend to Mother. When Father walked out she fell apart. Henry saved her life.”

“You must like him a lot.”

“I do. All right, your father’s had time to make peace. Now go home and tell your funny little dog to mind his manners.”

Instead I walked to the bay and stood at the water’s edge. Blackheart showed up. We liked the low-tide stench of the sea-plant rot. The late afternoon sun had turned the sky violet. The Angela, unmoving in the glassy water, was the perfect boat. Blackheart was the best and most loyal dog in the world. Talking to Zina about her mother and my father made me feel closer to her. It was almost as if we had conspired.

As I got back to the house, Father was walking off toward the ocean.

I went upstairs. The door of my parents’ bedroom was shut. I knocked.

“Go away!” Mother said.

“It’s me.”

“You too.”

Blackheart followed me downstairs and watched carefully. Either he wanted an explanation or dinner. I fed him, and he wandered off.

I didn’t know which way Father was walking. If north, toward the end of the Point, he would be back soon. If south, toward the mainland, he might never come back.

The parents of my closest friend, Hillyer, had split two years ago. He was pretty depressed at first. He felt they should have waited till he and his kid brother were grown. I had just gotten a letter from him. His father was in South America, and his brother wasn’t talking to his mother. “There ought to be a better way of getting into the world than having parents,” he wrote.

This would not happen to our family, I thought. Father knew how to handle Mother. He could always bring her around. He’d give her a hug, and she’d frown. He’d give her another hug, and she’d smile. Mother adored him.

However, if Father did fall in love with Mrs. Mertz, would they actually live together? It was hard to imagine Father living with Mrs. Mertz. She was attractive, even beautiful, but she needed a lot of attention of the kind Father didn’t give out. In a way she was like Father. They were both charmers, except he was an amateur, she was in the business.

So how would they get along? He would probably be lively and talkative, and so would she. Or maybe with a different kind of wife he would be quiet and let her talk. I pictured Zina and me exchanging looks at things they said to each other. But whatever happened between them Zina would remain my stepsister. Or would she? Those were my thoughts as I waited for Father to get back.

He walked in as I was rummaging through the refrigerator.

“Any news from upstairs?”

“Maybe we should go up and see,” I said.

“Let’s fix something to eat, and I’ll take it up.”

We made sandwiches. Father put two on a tray with glasses and a bottle of wine. He held the tray on his hand above his head and mounted the stairs like an actor playing a waiter.

He came right down. “I left it outside the door. Where’s Blackheart?”

“Asleep on the porch.”

“He’s partial to sandwiches.”

“Did Mother lock the door?”

“Yup, but I have a plan. Let’s eat first.”

“What did you think of those visitors?” I said.

“You were on their boat. What did you think?”

“They were okay. Do you think they’re interested in Zina and Mrs. Mertz?”

“Romantically, no.”

“Why not?”

“That’s just what I think.”

His plan worked. We took the ladder from under the east porch, put it against the house, and he climbed through the bedroom window. Mother screamed, but before long she was laughing. He really was an expert. I wondered if I’d ever be able to do that with women.

NEXT MORNING THE
sky was pale blue and cloudless, the ocean green and clear near shore and blue-black far out. A snappy breeze blew in from the bay over the Point and into the sea, keeping the water smooth and the breaking waves small and tight. It was a nifty day for sailing.

There were four houses on the Point if you count our house and the guesthouse as one. The house nearest the mainland was a snug little shack belonging to Mr. Strangfeld, who had been living there alone since before World War II. The older he got the more we wondered how he managed in the winter. He had electricity but no phone. If he had gotten into trouble, there wouldn’t have been much he could do
about it. Every spring when we opened the house we half expected to hear that he had died, his flesh stripped by rats.

He made his living from the Pointers. He drove his beach buggy past the house every morning about eight. If we wanted a ride to the mainland we planted a green flag in the sand and he picked us up. It was the only way to get off the Point by land. He did it rain or shine as long as anyone was left. He performed two other services. We all had wells, but the water was brackish. Mr. Strangfeld delivered ten-gallon bottles of drinking water from the mainland. When we wanted one we left the empty in front of the house and he changed it for a full one. Also, he kept an eye on the houses during the winter to see they hadn’t been burgled, blown down, or washed away. I don’t know how much we Pointers paid him, but it was enough for his taxes, electricity, and food. We could have had our own beach buggies, but we felt to deny Mr. Strangfeld any part of his income would have endangered his survival.

Bone Point stretches six miles north-south along the mainland, with the end of the Point to the north, the ocean on the east, and the bay on the west. By Grandfather Michael’s day Bone Point was an island, but it must have been a peninsula once, when it was named. During World War II the Army Engineers built a causeway from the southern end
to the mainland. The town, with a population then of seventy thousand, was about three miles to the north. What Mr. Strangfeld did was drive us to the base of the Point, over the causeway to the mainland, where you could take the coastal rail line one stop into the center of town. We kept our car at the station and usually drove into town alongside the railroad.

Father went in that morning, so I gathered up my courage and invited Zina to sail. She was so beautiful in her candy-striped bathing suit that it made me self-conscious to look at her. I put her in charge of the mainsail, and she learned quickly. In no time she was ducking and shifting like a veteran. I told her she would make a good sailor, which got us talking about what we wanted to be.

She wanted to be a good photographer, “not famous, just good.” She explained that she hadn’t yet plotted her course, mainly because of what she called the chrome shift, the change from black-and-white to color. She said that color photography had been technically perfected too soon. “Black-and-white had years to go. Now it’s hard to resist color. Plenty of serious photographers do only black-andwhite, but there’s something affected about it, like making black-and-white movies. Color may never be any good, it may be too real. Good photographs aren’t real, they’re pictures of what you think about what’s real.” She said the truth
had come to her one evening in a New York restaurant. “There were black-and-whites on the wall. Everything else was in color. I was in color, the man opposite me, the chairs, the floor. The pictures were the only exception, the only refuge. Art is a refuge from reality.”

She asked me if I had a talent. I said I thought I had a talent for happiness. “Like Father,” I added.

She said I seemed more serious than Father.

“Father is very serious. It doesn’t show, because he’s witty and he’s nice to people.”

“You’re nice to people, Misha, when you want to be.”

I knew what she was getting at, which I didn’t want to talk about, so I said, “But do you think I have a talent for happiness?”

“I think you have a talent for goodness.”

“What good is that?”

“It’s good for the people around you.”

“Is it good for you?” I said.

“Maybe. But when I said you were nice to people when you wanted to be—”

“You meant Melissa.”

“That girl loves you.”

“I don’t love her.”

“If I were a man,” Zina said, “I’d make love to every woman who loved me.”

“Suppose you were a movie actor and thousands of women loved you.”

“I’d make love to every one of them once. It would be my sacred obligation.”

“What about when they wanted to do it again?” I said.

“I’d explain about my sacred obligation to the others and send them away.”

“Suppose they insisted?”

“I’d tell them they were lucky to get me once.”

“What would you do if I said I loved you?”

“Well, Misha, I’m not a man. A woman must love a man before she makes love with him. That’s
her
sacred obligation.”

“Well, I love you.”

“Maybe you do, and maybe you don’t. I’ll give you a test. Can I let go of this sail?”

I turned the Angela into the wind, and Zina sat down beside me. “All right,” she said, “I will kiss you on the eyes, but you must keep them open.”

“Kiss me on the actual eyes?”

“Yes, and if you can’t keep them open you don’t love me.”

“I can do it.”

“You can’t keep them open with your fingers.”

“I know. Go ahead!”

She touched one eye with the tip of her tongue. She let me close my eyes in between. Then she touched the other eye. Tears ran down my face.

“You’re really crying,” she said

“I really love you,” I said.

She dove into the water. I could handle that mainsail and the tiller perfectly well myself, but to take over so suddenly flustered me. She came right to the surface. We were far out, and she was surprised by the feel of deep water. It has a swell and pull that let you know you’re in its power. The sails caught the wind and the Angela moved away. Struggling to get the boat under control, I saw on Zina’s face not fear so much as intense curiosity. I wanted to get to her before she became afraid.

Returning to a given spot in a sailboat is not easy. You don’t move in a circle, as you would in a power boat. You execute a figure eight. As roundabout as that sounds, it’s the proven way to get back to someone overboard. Father taught it to me. I had done it once, and did it again now. Zina at first thought I was sailing away from her. I kept shouting, “It’s okay. I’m coming back.”

She needed help getting aboard. We didn’t talk much going in. She had been afraid.

After we moored I asked her if she would have lunch with Mother and me.

“You better see if your mother would like that.”

“My mother was peeved with your mother, not with you.”

Mother said sure, and I fetched Zina from the guesthouse.

I loved listening to the two of them. They brought out the lady in each other. They talked as if I weren’t there.

Zina wanted to know what Father did (he was an insurance broker with his own business), where we lived in the winter (in an apartment in town), whether Mother or Father had been married before (no), whether Mother had more women friends than men friends (women), whether Mother had a job or profession (no).

Zina said she knew she would be a success as a photographer.

Mother asked how she knew.

“Because I want it so much.”

“Do you think things work that way?” Mother said.

“In my case,” Zina said and smiled, and Mother laughed.

Zina said she had been born in New York City, which she liked because it was “half European.” She went to college for only one year because she had thought she wanted to be a philosopher, but it turned out that she was more interested in things than ideas. She liked Bone Point because she didn’t have to wear shoes. Her parents had been living
apart for six years but were still married. Mr. Mertz was in import/export and traveled a lot. Zina didn’t plan to marry for a while, if ever, and if she had children she would wait till she was thirty at least. She had more men friends than women friends, which she intended to change, “because there’s more to learn from women; men only teach you about themselves.” She knew she was attractive to men, but that was because she was independent. “Men like independent women. They’re easy to get rid of when the time comes.”

“I doubt you learned that from experience,” Mother said.

Zina giggled. “Really my mother said that, I didn’t.”

I was very pleased that Mother liked her. I wanted everyone I loved to be close. Mother, Father, Zina, Blackheart. And maybe there was room for Mrs. Mertz.

As she was leaving, Zina said, “I think you have a peach of a kid.”

“So does your mother,” Mother said.

“I would like to say … I want you to know … Mother is really harmless. Would you come and have lunch with us?”

“I’d love to.”

I admired how quickly Mother said it.

Zina kissed Mother’s cheek, touched the tip of my nose with her finger, and left.

We cleared the table silently. I was sure Mother would have something to say, but she didn’t. So finally I said,
“Zina’s okay, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is,” Mother said, turning away.

“Do you think she’ll be a success?”

“If she doesn’t lose her way.”

“How could she do that?”

“Get married and have kids and give up a career. Any number of ways.”

“She said she’ll be a success because she wants it so much.”

Mother turned around angrily. “She’s wrong. She may be a success, or she may not, but it won’t be because she wants it. Life is not like that. Don’t you understand that?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Michael, Zina may look like a girl to you, but she is a grown woman. She will break your heart if you don’t get this idea out of your head. You do not get in life what you want because you want it, you get what life gives you.”

She went out to the porch, slamming the door behind her.