Indiscretion Page 5

  “It’s also got the worst wine list in the world, but that’s part of its charm,” says Harry.

  Tonight, though, we are all tired. There will be no midnight swim. Madeleine says she will clean, and Claire offers to help her. Harry excuses himself and goes upstairs to work. I lead Ned and Cissy back through the bushes to my house. It is late when the two women go to bed. I can imagine them in the living room talking, their feet tucked up behind them on the couch, finishing the wine. They are very different, but there is a growing bond between them. It is hard to resist being idolized.

  So much has been made about Harry, yet Madeleine has never protested or voiced any resentment. She has given of herself utterly. Since their marriage I had never thought of Madeleine needing or wanting anything other than Harry because she had so much already. He was the missing piece that made her complete. But she is human, too, something that many of us forget at times because she seems immune to pettiness, possessing a serenity that actually grows more pronounced the greater her troubles. She knew she had Harry and Johnny—and me, of course—but can she be blamed for wanting more? What is important is she thought she was the one making the choice.

  As I often do, I sit in my room looking across to her house. In the distance I hear the whistle of the night train heading back to New York. Maddy’s light goes out well past midnight, and I crawl into my childhood bed.

  4

  The next morning Claire comes down later than the rest of us. It is nearly eleven. We are outside in the sunlight. Harry has been up for hours. He says it’s the time when he works best. We have all settled into our normal weekend routines. Newspapers. The smells of coffee and bacon. The hum of crickets, the call of birds. Harry and Johnny are practicing their fly casting on the lawn. They flick and roll the long line out gracefully, allowing the bare tip to hover for a second before floating down to the grass. They have been doing this for nearly forty-five minutes. It is mesmerizing, like watching water eddy and pool in a stream. It is a skill I have never been able to master. Johnny already casts like an old pro. Last year Harry took him to Wyoming for a week along the Bighorn. Harry once told me that if he hadn’t become a writer, he would have been a fishing guide.

  Claire emerges from the house, carrying a mug. Her eyes are slightly puffy. She is wearing Harry’s Yale hockey T-shirt. It reaches down to just below the tops of her thighs. Her feet are bare.

  “So that’s where it is,” he says. “Been looking for that.”

  “Sorry. I took it by mistake. I brought it out last night to give back. Hope you don’t mind. It’s just so comfortable.”

  “Not at all. Consider it a gift. I can always get another. After all, you did give me a new T-shirt last night.”

  “Thank you.”

  I can’t help but stare at her. I can see the curve of her breasts under the shirt, their youthful lift, the barely visible outlines of her nipples. Maybe she senses my eyes on her and excuses herself to go back inside. I have already seen her naked in the dark, but somehow in the morning it’s different. Of course, she has seen me naked too, but it’s not quite the same thing. I no longer possess the allure of youth, if I ever did.

  On a summer day, for us there is only one way to go for a day at the beach—by canoe. My house and Madeleine’s former house sit side by side overlooking a brackish lagoon that drains into the ocean. As children we disdained the notion of being driven to the beach, or even biking. We would pack up a battered Old Town canoe with towels, coolers, beach chairs, and whatever else we needed and set off like Lewis and Clark. It is nearly half a mile to paddle, and the winds could be stiff, sometimes forcing us to hug the shore, but the extra effort was always worth it. Unlike those people who came by car and sat crowded in clumps by the parking lot, we had a whole stretch of beach almost entirely to ourselves.

  There are two canoes now, and we keep them on racks at my house, the paddles and mildewed life jackets, which only Johnny ever wears, hanging from the thwarts. Harry and I hoist one canoe and walk it past the bulrushes onto the old dock and into the water, our feet sinking in the mire. Ned easily picks up the other one by himself. The wicker on the seats has long since given out and been replaced with crude and less comfortable wooden boards. Spiders dash out from the gunnels, and we scoop them out with our hands. Standing calf-deep in the water, we load up the canoes and take our seats. From long custom, I sit in the stern and Maddy in the bow of one, Harry and Ned in the other. Johnny sits in front of his father while Cissy reclines in the middle on a folding beach chair like Cleopatra touring the Nile. Claire hops into ours and sits on a cooler.

  “I feel like a freeloader,” she says. “Would it be all right if I got out and pushed?”

  “Nonsense,” I say. “Enjoy the ride.”

  “Only if one of you lets me paddle back,” she says.

  The other canoe is far in front of us. The trip to the beach is always a race. Johnny’s and Cissy’s extra weight, along with most of the gear, usually evens things out, but now with Claire we are losing ground. Madeleine is intensely focused, reaching her paddle far out to draw as much water as possible, sending miniature whirlpools by me. She is very strong. I paddle hard too, focusing more on speed than on steering. “Oh, it’s all my fault,” says Claire, seeing how badly we are trailing. She has grasped the urgency of the moment yet can do nothing. “That’s it,” she says, and takes off her shirt. Gracefully, she dives into the water and we shoot forward. “I wasn’t kidding about pushing,” she says, and we feel her kicking behind the canoe.

  Madeleine yells, “We’re gaining.”

  It’s true. We are. My arms are tiring, but I keep up the same pace as before. I won’t let her down. Madeleine is the most competitive person I know.

  “Get a horse,” I yell to the other canoe as we pull within several lengths.

  “Hey, that’s cheating,” cries Harry. “No motors allowed.”

  “Faster, Daddy, faster!”

  I feel Claire stop pushing and see the other canoe now veering off to the right. Claire has reappeared by the other canoe. She has grabbed the stern and is forcing it off course.

  “No fair,” Harry shouts, as he begins to stand up.

  Cissy shrieks, “Don’t even think about it, Harry!”

  Laughing, he tries to grab for Claire, but she ducks under the water. Seconds later her head pops up on the other side, like a seal’s. The canoe rocks dangerously but doesn’t tip over. Ned is sitting in the bow with his paddle poised in the air, looking bemused.

  “I want a do-over,” he says.

  Madeleine keeps paddling hard as we pass them. My arms feel like they are going to fall off, and my back is on fire, but we keep going until we hit the shallows. There is no way we can lose now. I lean back, exhausted, as we glide to a stop, the nose of the canoe crunching into the sand. Maddy gets out and dances triumphantly in the water. Claire splashes up, and the two hug like tournament champions.

  “In your face, Winslow!” crows Maddy.

  I am too tired to move.

  “Flagrant violation. We are lodging an official protest to the stewards of the yacht club,” jokes Harry, as they glide lazily to the beach. “We’ll see you barred from these waters for good, Mrs. Winslow.”

  “You’re just a sore loser.”

  “Me? We had you beat fair and square until you torpedoed us.”

  “All’s fair in love and canoeing, darling.” She kisses him.

  “You’re coming with us on the way back,” he says loudly to Claire, and everyone laughs.

  I know most people find the beach restful and restorative, but some beaches have special healing powers. For me, this is that beach. It is a place I have explored since childhood, and I feel as comfortable here as I would in my own house. I tolerate the occasional intruder the way any host would but am always secretly glad to have the place to myself again. Put me down on a stretch of sand in the Caribbean or Maine, and I will certainly appreciate it, but it’s not quite the same thing. In some places the wa
ter’s too cold, or too warm, or too green. The shells are alien to me, the smells unfamiliar. But here it is perfect, and I will come here as happily in January as in August. There are few days I look forward to more than that first warm day when I feel brave and resolved enough to withstand the still-frigid temperatures and the only other creatures in the water are neoprene-clad surfers and the fish, and I dive into numbing, cleansing cold.

  My father did this every year too. He and I would drive to the beach in the old station wagon and plunge in. No one else was on the beach at that time of year, and he would say, “It’s polar bear time, Walt.” Now, I partly do it for him, and if I had a son, I would do it with him too.

  By midsummer the water warms up, and the bathing becomes easier, although it rarely gets above seventy degrees. I am by no means a sun worshiper, though, one of those people who lie immobile for hours courting melanoma. For me the beach is about movement, about swimming or walking or playing, some food, and then a chance to doze in the sun and recharge before beginning the paddle back.

  Maddy spreads out the blankets on the sand while Harry and I plant the umbrellas. We are fanatical about making sure the pole is deep enough. A sudden gust could pick up a poorly entrenched umbrella and send it skittering across the beach like a headless chicken. The sure sign of a beach rookie. We dig deep, packing the base with wet sand, tamping it down. Then there is football. Johnny, Claire, and Harry on one team. Ned, Cissy, and me the other. Claire is surprisingly good. She catches several of Harry’s passes and runs by me twice, making me feel old and fat. When her team wins, Claire jumps up and down, grinning with delight. This is her day; she is making an impact on all our lives.

  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.

  5

  The 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 th
is 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.”