The Island (39 page)

Something about his tone arrested India. He sounded like he was going to proposition her. God, was this possible? What about Tate? Having sex with Barrett Lee lived somewhere in India’s deep-seated fantasy life, but only as a funny lark. It was a short, pornographic reel she played in her mind to amuse herself and to prove she wasn’t
that
old.

“Really?” she said. She was tempted to look at Barrett over the top of her sunglasses in her best imitation of Anne Bancroft, but she declined.

He said, “Yeah. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

He sounded nervous, which put her immediately at ease. She said, “Shoot.”

He took a deep breath. He said, “My client Anita Fullin, who was here the other day?” He sounded like India might not remember Anita Fullin, but she had been the only visitor they’d had since they’d been here. How could India not remember? She nodded.

“She wants to buy the little statue in your bedroom.”

“Statue?” India said. “You mean Roger?”

Barrett exhaled. “Yes,” he said. “Roger.”

“Ah,” India said.

“She would like to offer you fifty thousand dollars for it.”

“Fifty thousand,” India said.

“She’s a fan,” Barrett said.

“Ah,” India said. She didn’t know how to respond. Fifty thousand dollars for Roger? She thought back to when she and Bill were first married. Bill had been an art teacher at Conestoga High School. They lived in a condo in Devon, right off 252. At night they’d listen to the rumble of traffic headed to the King of Prussia Mall, and occasionally they could hear a melody or two—Kenny Rogers or Bob Seger—playing at the Valley Forge Music Fair. They hadn’t had two nickels to rub together. India’s parents had been footing the bill for India to go to graduate school at Penn, but they were disapproving. How did Bill and India ever expect to make a decent living, enough to start a family? Well, India explained, they were counting on Bill’s sculpture. He had the one installation on Navy Pier in Chicago, and another small one at Penn’s Landing, which he had sold to the city for a fee of $750.

In 1992, when Bill created Roger, his sculptures—full-size civic installations—were going for more than a million dollars. But those took a year to fabricate. Bill had made Roger in one afternoon; Roger was only twelve inches tall. In India’s mind, Roger was either worth five dollars or he was priceless.

“Hmmmm,” she said. She wished Bill were here. She wished she could send
him
a letter, telling him that funny summer woman from Nantucket was offering India
fifty thousand dollars
for Roger. What would Bill say? She could practically hear him shouting,
Take it!

But India couldn’t take it. She would no sooner sell Roger than she would sell her unborn grandchild. Roger was the personification of her and Bill’s happiness on Tuckernuck. She looked at Roger and thought of lying in Bill’s arms on the beach-plum-jam-filled mattress. She thought of unbuttoning his pants in the Scout. She thought of Bill piling firewood, collecting shells, identifying shorebirds, checking the wind direction, admiring passing yachts, carrying the boys on his shoulders. She thought about how angry she’d been at Bill: he was perfectly fine on Tuckernuck, and a devastating head case at home.
Why can’t we be this happy at home?
she’d screamed on the bluff that long-ago afternoon.
What the hell is wrong with you?
And Bill had said,
You! You’re what’s wrong with me!
They had been so vocal with their anger, Birdie had come up from the beach to shush them. There were the children to think of, as well as the rest of Tuckernuck. They were screaming so loudly that Birdie was afraid someone from the homeowners’ association would hear them and drop off a written warning.

Bill had disappeared down the beach, and later that evening he presented India with Roger—a body made of driftwood, hair of seaweed, eyes of blue beach glass, nose and ears and teeth and toes fashioned from shells.

Roger was his apology.

“She may even be willing to go higher than that,” Barrett said. “I know she really wants it.”

India smiled. “Roger’s not for sale.”

“She’d probably go to seventy-five.”

India shook her head.

“Really?” Barrett said. He sounded disheartened, like a little boy, and this surprised India. His wife had died. India thought that for this reason, he would understand. “Not for sale?”

“Not for sale,” India said.

“And there’s nothing I can do? Nothing I can offer you?”

“Nothing you can do,” India said. “Nothing you can offer me. I’m sorry.”

Barrett gazed out at the water. He looked so distraught that India wavered. She was something of a sucker, more like Birdie than she would care to admit. She would be more tempted to give Roger to Barrett for free just to cheer him up than she would be to sell Roger to a summer woman for seventy-five thousand dollars.

“She put a lot of pressure on me,” Barrett said.

“That’s perfectly awful,” India said. “And again, I’m sorry. Roger has extreme sentimental value. My husband made him for me. I can’t sell him.”

“No, I get it,” Barrett said. “I feel like a jerk for even asking.”

“You’re not a jerk for asking,” India said. “If I had a way to do it, I would explain it to Anita myself.”

“She’s used to getting everything she wants,” Barrett said morosely.

India wondered if Barrett was sleeping with this woman. Was that possible? Of course it
was
possible, but what about Tate?

“Well, this will teach her, won’t it?” India said.

Barrett nodded and, without another word, headed up to the house. India hoped he wouldn’t forget about her letter.

TATE

S
he wouldn’t lose him. And so, Tate followed Chess’s advice and let the whole thing go. She didn’t ask Barrett what he had done the night he said he had plans, she didn’t accuse him of having an affair with Anita Fullin, and she didn’t upbraid him for bringing Anita to Tuckernuck uninvited. She pretended nothing had happened.

And everything was fine, or sort of. Barrett was still at the house when Tate and Chess got back from East Pond. Tate snuck up behind him, put her hands over his eyes, and said, “Guess who?” He turned around and scooped her up and they kissed. Chess pounded right up the stairs with a noise of disgust, but Tate didn’t care.

She said, “I missed you.”

He said, “Come with me now?”

Tate knew that Chess was cooking dinner for the first time since they’d been here—grilled swordfish with lime and chili, and an avocado sauce. It signified some sort of positive change. Would Chess understand if Tate missed it? She had just spent all afternoon listening to Tate bellyache. She would understand.

Tate said, “Yes. Let me get my bag.”

She raced up to the attic. Chess was changing into her Diplomatic Immunity T-shirt and her army-surplus shorts. She hadn’t once given the shorts or the T-shirt to Barrett for the laundry; any second now, they were going to get up and walk off on their own.

Tate said, “I’m going with Barrett.”

Chess said, “You’re missing dinner?”

Tate sat down on the bed and looked at her sister. “I am. I’m sorry. Are you mad?”

Chess shrugged.

Tate wavered. Should she stay? They had only so many days left; Tate was afraid to count exactly how many. Barrett was waiting downstairs. It was only swordfish. But Tate wasn’t completely insensitive. It was more than dinner: it was a dinner that Chess was cooking.

Tate said, “I’ll stay.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to stay.”

Chess looked at her sister, and then an amazing thing happened—something more amazing than her cooking. She smiled. She said, “You do not want to stay, you liar. So go—get going, go right now.”

It was both permission and a blessing. Tate threw some clothes and her running shoes in a bag. She went.

She should have stayed home; that was apparent after just the first hour. The boat ride was fine, and Tate enjoyed it like a person who knew there would be a finite number of boat rides left. The sun was hot, but the spray from the ocean cooled her off. She soaked in the incredible beauty of the Nantucket shoreline on a summer day—the green of the eelgrass, the golden sand, the other boats, sleek and white. She thought of the women in her condo complex who sat by the pool all summer in the hundred-degree heat; she thought of the elderly man with double hearing aids who bagged groceries at Harris Teeter. She would soon be returning to that life. Was it possible? She had a job with a pretzel company in Reading, Pennsylvania, on August 1, and another job with Nike in Beaverton, Oregon, as soon as the pretzel job was finished. She could, maybe, do both jobs quickly and fly back and forth from Nantucket.

Barrett was wearing his visor and his sunglasses, but despite this, he was squinting. Tate sat beside him in the copilot’s seat, but they didn’t touch. This was normal: driving a boat was just as serious as driving a car. She couldn’t distract him. And yet she couldn’t help herself. She ran her finger down his spine and felt his body tense. She retracted her hand. They didn’t speak.

He pulled into Madaket Harbor and tied up to his mooring. Tate clambered down into the dinghy. She was nimble and experienced at this. She waited in the dinghy with her overnight bag at her feet while Barrett got organized. He climbed into the dinghy and rowed for shore. He was still squinting; he looked like he was in pain.

Tate said, “Are you okay? You seem quiet.”

He said, “I’m okay.”

“So, how did Anita like Tuckernuck?”

Barrett said, “Let’s not talk about Anita. Please.”

Tate said, “Okay.”

This was something of a conversation killer. Barrett was either annoyed or preoccupied, and all Tate wanted to do was bombard him with questions, but this would make the situation worse. When they reached the beach, Barrett tied up the dinghy and they walked to Barrett’s truck in the marina parking lot. The inside of the truck was hot; Tate scorched the backs of her thighs on the seat. In the console was half a cup of coffee with a skin of milk across the top like pond scum. Tate lifted it up. “Want me to toss this? There’s a trash can over there.”

“Just leave it.” Barrett turned the key in the ignition. The radio was on painfully loud. Tate turned it down.

Barrett said, “I told you, just leave it!”

Tate stared at him. “Why are you yelling?”

“I’m not yelling.”

They drove in silence. Tate thought,
This is it. This is real life.
The floating, head-over-heels stuff was over; this was real, hot, boring, tired life with Barrett Lee. He’d had a bad day at work, or something else was wrong. She looked at him. He was so handsome, it hurt.

She said, “So what did you do the other night? You never told me.”

He said, “Tate—”

“Is it a secret?”

“No, it’s not a secret. I went to Anita’s for a barbecue. Roman had a meeting or something in Washington, he couldn’t be there, and she needed me to fill in.”

Tate got a sour feeling in her stomach. “Fill in?”

“Right. Play husband. I grilled the steaks, opened the wine, sat at the head of the table, the whole goddamned thing.”

“Did you sleep with her?”

“Jesus, Tate!”

“Did you?” she asked.

“I didn’t. But thank you for asking. That really shows what you think of me.”

“What am I supposed to think? I
knew
you were with her that night, and then the next morning you didn’t show up at all, and when you did show up, you were with her. Now tell me,
what am I supposed to think?
”

Barrett said nothing.

The pieces of the puzzle fell into place too neatly for Tate to keep quiet, although that was what her brain was telling her to do.
Keep quiet! Don’t push it!

She said, “Why didn’t you come yesterday morning?”

“I was busy.”

“With Anita?”

He sighed. “Cameron had a dentist appointment.”

“Really?” This sounded like a lie.

“Really.”

She looked out the window as the old-gym-shoe smell infiltrated the truck; they were passing the dump. She wanted to ask him about the future or, at the very least, the rest of the summer. She wanted to move in with him, travel for the business she had to take care of, and return. Would he want this, too? She couldn’t ask him now.

She said, “Do you want to go out tonight? Get wickedly drunk? Go to the Chicken Box and dance?”

“I’m too tired,” he said. “I want to have a beer on the deck, grill some burgers, hang out with you and the kids.”

This was real life.

“Okay,” she said.

Tate was flexible; she could roll with any plans and be happy. They picked the boys up from Barrett’s parents’ house. Tate received a nice hug from Chuck Lee, who looked like an old man. Because of the stroke, he walked with a cane and his speech was slow and pained, so Tate waited patiently as he labored to ask after Grant, Birdie, India, Chess, Billy, Teddy, and Ethan. (He remembered everyone’s name, which was amazing, and he remembered that Bill Bishop was dead, which was even more amazing.) Tate told Chuck that everyone was well, and that Birdie, India, and Chess were happy in the house on Tuckernuck.

Chuck said, “Your mother was a beautiful woman.”

Tate said, “She still is.”

“And so, for that matter, was your aunt.”

“She still is, too.”

“I’ll bet,” Chuck said.

She could have talked to Chuck Lee all afternoon, but she could tell Barrett was antsy for his beer on the deck, and the kids were whining. Tate backed toward the truck holding Tucker, promising she would see Chuck again soon.

Tucker cried when Tate buckled him into his car seat, and then Cameron started to cry.

Barrett said, “I have a goddamned headache.”

When they reached Barrett’s house, Tate helped unsnap the kids from their car seats and shepherded them toward the outdoor shower. The water made them cry harder.

Barrett said, “I’m going to run in and get them some pajamas.”