The Invaders

SO LONG AS I PERCEIVE THE WORLD AS HOSTILE,

I REMAIN LINKED TO IT:
I AM NOT CRAZY.

—ROLAND BARTHES,
A LOVER'S DISCOURSE

WHEN JEFFREY'S FIRST WIFE
told me he had a voracious appetite for women, I assumed she was just trying to be vindictive. Now, as I walked up and down the beach on my insomnia prowl, I tried not to think about all the things he had loved about her. The list seemed short to me, but it was always long to him. Why couldn't you love her like that when she was around? I had asked once. He had no idea where the love had gone then, but it was revived after she died. Perhaps that was when I should have left, but I kept hoping we could get back to the before-time—when we felt lucky to be near each other. On mornings like this the sunrise would come up over the Long Island Sound and the neighborhood streets would be quiet and empty. Each beach house had an incredible view of the winding Connecticut shoreline, and if you squinted, you could see Long Island in the distance. Four a.m. would hit and I would find myself walking by windows trying to see what everyone was up to, hoping to see a blue wash of TV screens and peering around for something indecent. But the houses would be dark and quiet, everyone long
asleep. It was the kind of neighborhood that was full of children, their soccer balls and plastic bats lingering in the streets, toy trucks lost in the manicured lawns of American flag-adorned clapboard homes. I looked down at a dirt-caked Barbie doll with kite string wrapped around her plastic arms and wondered if all these children were destined to become troubled teenagers who were shipped off to college with a sigh of relief, as we had done with Jeffrey's son, Teddy, three years before.

Without people, Little Neck Cove was one of the most breathtaking places I'd ever seen. I'd ignore the No Trespassing signs and climb down neighbors' stairs onto their beaches to walk and unwind before Jeffrey woke up. I'd pace the rocks and the beach, looking for shells, mating horseshoe crabs, or seagulls floating through the dawn sky. The beach was covered in smooth, flat stones, hidden quartz and oddly shaped bloodstones. I'd pick them up and inspect the strangest ones, dropping them into my pocket one by one. There was always snapped pieces of seashells and kaleidoscope sea glass all for the taking. These small objects that flipped and swirled along the ribbed floor of the sea would outlast us all. The soft, small waves made a hypnotic sound that would relax me into bliss. The sky would turn gray first, then light blue and finally explode with oranges and yellows. There was nothing to obscure my view here, just sky as far as I could see. I could sit on the beach for hours, listening with my eyes closed, sometimes falling asleep completely. It was the only place I didn't feel shut in, claustrophobic, unwelcome.

Hours before the humidity became unbearable, I would watch the fishermen out on the jagged rocks that jutted out into the sound, their lines glistening in the early morning glow. I knew they had been there all night, drinking and fishing as the waves lapped around them. One, an old man with a shaggy terrier, had come every summer since I met Jeffrey. He drove a beat-up truck with a raccoon tail on the antenna. Seeing him always meant the start of the summer for me. Lately, though, there were more men wandering around than usual. There was talk that
we had made some online list for the best place to clam and fish. People were angry at the intrusion.

We were far away enough from New York to feel like we were in a different world, but close enough to have successful commuter husbands. In the evenings, I'd see a row of pursed-lipped wives idling their cars in the parking lot of the commuter rail station, watching their bar-car-riding husbands stagger off the train. The Connecticut shoreline was full of small towns like ours, each with an old Congregational church and a large town green at its center. Homes with plaques stating their Revolutionary age stood next to tasteful shops and cafés along Main Street. And along the water were hidden coves and snug blocks of beachside cottages. People from New York would grab them as soon as they came on the market, trying to turn this swath of Connecticut into the Vineyard or the Cape.

I passed the anchor of our little neighborhood, the Little Neck Cove Yacht & Country Club, just as the grinding daily cacophony of lawn mowers began. The decorations from last night's Gatsby party were still up. Jeffrey and I had always gone when we first got together—looking silly in a seersucker suit and a flapper dress, but it was fun. We hadn't gone in years. That's what happens: tiny adjustments and contractions to your needs because things are fun and you believe they will never stop being that way. We used to go to all the themed parties and find ourselves making out on the beach, my dress all sparkly in the moonlight. We didn't care who saw us then. We had always been the last couple dancing, full of life, our hands all over each other, sweat beading everywhere. Now I had to stanch the flow of happy memories to survive our current state of indifference toward each other. If I brushed against him, he seemed startled. I had taken the laughing and groping and desire that seemed endless for granted.

After I watched the sun rise this particular morning, I didn't feel like sneaking back into my bed, pretending I was waking up alongside
Jeffrey. He didn't appreciate my attempts at normalcy and never asked where I had been when he woke up to an empty bed anyway. It was as if he was somehow grateful for my absence.

I decided to keep walking to the neighborhood's nature trail. Built into the saltwater marshland of tall cattails, the trail traversed inlets and thick labyrinthine channels connected to the next hidden cove of homes. It was Connecticut postcard-perfect here, full of painted turtles and tiny crabs and unexpected sprays of beach roses. Whenever the tall grass was flattened back after a storm, I could see the teenager-forged trails into the hidden parts of the marsh. I'd follow the trails until they led me into a small grove with beer cans and burned-out wood piles. I'd collect the cans and clean off the wax from tree stumps, trying to erase the damage created by the late-night parties. I wanted to find them in midswing during one of my walks, see who was lusting after whom, feel what it was like to be young again, nervous and hopeful, but I only ever found the remnants of their drunken joy.

•  •  •

I was enjoying the bright sparkle of the water, training my binoculars on the hatching birds' nest beds staked high above the sea grass. The hiss of locusts and summer beetles filled the air, a clucking that I missed all winter long. As the sun rose, the humidity felt like a bath and I was already soaked through my shirt. I had a thin, small bird book that Jeffrey had given me in my back pocket. Now was the time when the plover birthings were in full swing and it was exhilarating. Their call notes, plaintive, bell-like whistles, filled the air around me. It was a sound unlike any other and I preferred it to humans talking. The whistles flitting around me made me feel calm yet alive. These birds were unencumbered. They just lived and flew, and most of all, they didn't betray. I tried to follow their calls and considered going off the bridge to walk along the shore, a no-no in the bird-sanctuary rule book. I wanted a closer look, so I looped one leg over the rope of the boardwalk and
looked around to make sure no one was watching. Then I heard a moan, almost a groan really, and looked down. Three feet below me were two legs with sneakers and an arm feverishly moving. I pulled my leg up and backed away from the edge of the boardwalk, not wanting to disturb anything. I didn't want to be caught watching. I didn't want a confrontation.

As I hurried down the path, away from the legs, I kept turning around to make sure he wasn't following me. Who was it? A teenager? Someone's husband who liked to get off on the rocks? Finally something had happened to wake up my summer.

I looked at my watch and realized I wouldn't be able to go home and change before the club's summer fashion show. As I ran down the trail, fluffing my hair and hoping the bags under my eyes weren't too drawn, I stopped once more to see if the legs were still splayed out in the sand and rocks. They were gone. As I saw wide bird wings fill the sky, I knew the man under the boardwalk was coming. He was somewhere I couldn't see, so I ran.

•  •  •

At the club, I eyed the women. Could it have been one of their husbands under the bridge? Hadn't he been worried a kayaker might paddle by? I looked around, wondering what everyone's secret could be. I knew it hadn't been Jeffrey; the ankles hadn't been delicate like his. I looked at the ladies and they were all in some form of undress. We were all exposing ourselves to one another as we got ready for the runway, some more shy about it than others. Jeffrey and I hadn't had sex in two hundred and twenty-five days, but I wasn't sure if that was a lot to anyone else because it wasn't something any of us talked about. We said things like “Oh, we don't do that anymore, ha ha.” But then you looked around at one another suspiciously to see who had the downcast eyes, the ones who also didn't do it anymore. At all. I wanted to know which of these women were still having sex with their husbands. I wanted to know if I
was pathetic or if this was just how it turned out for everybody.

When I was a teenager, my mother used to say, “Men only love you when you're fertile, even if they don't want you to have their child.” She'd looked at me, sixteen and glowing, and said, “They only want you. They want to suck out your youth. I don't have any more to give.” I'd told her that it wasn't true, that men came around for her all the time, but she'd just said, “That isn't love.” I'd had no view of the future, no idea she was wise.

I really shouldn't be the one with the downcast eyes. In this club, I was young. At forty-four, I had floated through the young-mother years without cesarean scars or crumpled, crepe-paper-belly skin. I had retained my figure and it had to count for something. I was the new guard. It didn't matter that Jeffrey was part of the old guard. His first wife had had to deal with key parties and rushing Teddy to bed before starting the arguments about strands of hair in the bed sheets that did not match her shade of dye. I was lucky to have missed all that. It must have troubled her, seeing Jeffrey saunter off with Johnson Picard's wife from down the block, if the rumors were true. It's one thing to hear about it and another to see it with your own eyes and not be able to do anything because you had agreed to it ahead of time. The women waddling around drinking Chardonnay with ice cubes, women with deep creases in the vees of their cleavage—he had slept with them first. In their white sneakers and print shirts and those . . . cotton short pants.

We were now transitioning between desirable and undesirable—that sad moment when a woman realizes that absolutely no man is looking at her, not even a passing glance. It made us all paralyzed with fear.

We battled the decline with bright, exotic colors and bold prints—anything to draw that attention back to the curves of our bodies. Even if various parts had begun to hang or droop, at least men were still looking. Men were easy after all, weren't they? Quick glances at erect
nipples under the smooth cotton of a pale pink golf shirt or at the hem of a too-short pleated tennis skirt that seemed to elongate even the stubbiest of lady legs. It had to cause some kind of stirring in them. We all hoped, at least. The Shop Till You Drop fashion show had been organized by Mary Ann to highlight the fashions from the Main Street shops. Bring the fashion to us, we begged. And they did. Sales reps from each boutique sat in the back row and were set to take note on who leaned in when.

There were women of all ages going through the racks of clothes, looking for their names, and changing into the first string of outfits for the runway. Mary Ann had picked the models from dozens of members. Young or old, it didn't matter; they just had to be pretty and slim, their beauty something to aspire to. I looked at the daughters of friends shimmying out of short shorts and then at the older women who were watching them, forlorn, and I realized we weren't ever going to be the ones men were looking at again. They were looking at the daughters, the ones with taut upper arms, smooth legs, and tiny bikini bodies who flipped from stomach to back on pool loungers all day long. I stared at them and craved their youth and their bodies. Their youth! I would never be that young again. It was too painful to linger on and it wasn't something we could say out loud to one another. I wanted to go up to each young thing and tell her, This isn't infinite for you. Women have an expiration date. But those things hadn't registered to my youth-dumb ears, so why should it for them? I wondered who we were allowed to steal our youth from.