They didn’t expect to see me again; at least, not for some time. I should have come home in eight months but that turned into a year; then two; and then, I guess, they felt I was truly gone. At twenty-four it seems you have the rest of your life; promises made will last forever. When I finally did come through the door they all seemed relieved, yet fearful, as if, perhaps, I’d committed some crime. The great room in the Stafford’s home hadn’t changed. I recognized most of the faces. And of course, Maggie was there. I scanned the crowd, looking for Tom. He waved from in front of a portable bar set up by the patio doors, holding an empty glass, of course.
“You should have called,” his mother said, coming toward me. Dressed in her usual pearls she gave me my kiss on the cheek, a gesture only bestowed upon family. I noticed an eyebrow or two being raised. Still the favorite, they seemed to be saying. Fred, her husband and Tom’s stepfather, extended a hand.
“You always did like an entrance.”
He laughed as only Frederic Stafford III could, a mixture of privilege and resignation. Tom was already heading our way clutching three rock glasses full of bourbon. I assumed it was bourbon; he’d been drinking it since he was twelve. Still a block of granite, wearing whatever Neiman Marcus had to fit him that season, I watched him navigate the crowd, if ever a bull in a china shop, the blue haired seniors braced and ready, the younger men alert to the presence of one to be reckoned.
“So, how goes the world?” he said, setting his fortifications down on a nearby set of engraved coasters.
“It’s still there, “I said, “Bigger than I thought.”
“You’ll need this.”
He handed me one of the glasses. I waited for him to continue.
“I’ve got some things…” he began, but it wouldn’t come. “Well, I guess…”
He studied the oriental runner. The booze in his glass seemed of equal interest.
“That bad?”
“Yeah, that bad.”
It had been more than three years; it had been no time at all. We stood there under the arch in the foyer, a kind of proscenium overlooking the grand living room, a kind of stage set to feature the latest arrival, give a moment’s bow, then one step down and into the audience, the same old crowd – over-dressed, five-figure watches and genuine diamonds – it was always this last Sunday of any given month and had always been their time to show off, the moneyed crowd of Monmouth County. Attendance was almost mandatory. They brought along the new acquaintance, the latest toy, this week’s trade on Wall Street. Today it was me. In a way I belonged to them all.
Tom was still gathering nerve. I noticed Maggie staying put by the line of French doors, her deep red hair not quite so long as I remembered—fuller—as if now she visited salons. It had been months since her last letter. I didn’t have time to answer the bundle which found me in Panama; just getting through the Canal turned into a full time job. I should have answered them. I did read them, of course I read them, but I should have written, should have phoned; I should have said I was on my way home.
She looked surprised when I first entered the room, then angry. I drank in that look meant only for me and watched her emotions sweep the room, fly passed the drapes and make their escape out onto the terrace, such was her power. The entire room took notice, the guests pausing mid-sentence—if only a moment, looking about—an unseen commotion perhaps in the kitchen? I knew how angry she was, but we were both incapable of holding a grudge. She turned away and pretended to study one of the three Cezanne’s the Stafford’s had taken from storage. Things settled down and everyone laughed. How strange they must have thought; there’s something about these two. Then, as if on cue, they all started drinking in earnest, waiting for me, their prodigal son, to mingle and pay my respects. I was in on their secret, what I thought was their secret. Maggie hadn’t written the words but I’d felt them there in the margins, reading her last letter over and over as if it contained some code.
“Even more lovely, don’t you think?” Tom said. He lifted his glass and I thought his bicep might split the delicate sleeve of his shirt.
“You know what I think,” I said, and then as an afterthought, “I had to leave.”
“No, you didn’t. Ed Benzinger could have taken care of everything with a phone call.”
I took a sip of my drink and smiled. “So it’s Ed, now, is it?”
He emptied his glass, put it down and picked up another, picked up my smile and answered without a word. People were looking our way. I was too well liked to be outright rejected, more a disappointment, as Edith Foster liked to say. There were so few young men left in the horse world and here they had lost another. Or had they? The jury was out. The first time I strayed was just after high school, after Barney had been put down, a two-month gig as crew aboard the yacht Bolero for the Classics Regatta down in St. Bart’s. This, of course, was acceptable, they knew I needed a break and it wasn’t that big a leap from pedigreed horses to vintage sailing yachts. Some were no doubt thinking there was still the hunt season and all those shows in the fall for me to get back in shape. The Olympics were coming. But after that small adventure out on the deep blue sea where God came one night in thirty-foot waves and a wind that ripped my breath from my body the farm seemed just another island, and after that I was always leaving, but they were always taking me back; Maggie most of all.
“You’ll have to come for dinner,” Fred said, wiping his tortoise shell glasses with a gray silk handkerchief. “We’ll invite Doris and Ed, and the Wilsons, and of course Maggie, Maggie and…”
“Todd,” Tom’s mother broke in, “He’s Commodore down at the club, now.”
She waited for a response. I barely knew the man. I think his claim was he once backed an America’s Cup boat in the ‘50’s.
“Oh is he?” I managed to say.
Peg flared her eyes, looked again at the room and her guests. I loved them for wanting to shield me. Fred launched into one of his monologues but I was already gone, across the room watching Maggie—Maggie holding her wine; Maggie in sensible heels; Maggie laughing too loud – I knew she was waiting, waiting for just the right moment, an appropriate and nonchalant greeting, finally noting my presence.
“I’m glad you left,” Peg said suddenly, still looking out at the room.
Fred halted mid-sentence, then held out his glass and touched it to mine. “You can’t go home again.” His tumbler barely glanced at mine and, lifting it further, seemed to be toasting the entire gathering. We stepped down onto the floral carpet. The room rushed in, waves of conversation, bouquets of laughter, one or two no, you don’t say’s ricocheted off the vaulted ceiling. I smiled for everyone, letting them know it was all okay; at least for now. We stood in the midst of the crowd. Fred’s baritone faded. Tom took in each one us, pausing as if to let someone speak, then moving on until finally giving up to look down yet again and study the level of booze in his glass, his favorite pastime. Holding it up to the light for a moment, he approved, then downed what was left.
“What am I missing?” I heard Maggie say. “You all look like somebody died.”
In chorus we glanced her way. She had waded through most of the crowd, dressed in a flimsy blue blouse and fitting gray skirt. The heels announced her stride. I turned to deliver my usual opening. The room did as designed; fell away in pastel panels leading out through gothic windows, nothing but blue sky and lighter blue meadows. A promenade seemed to unfold as she approached.
“What?” she said again.
“My surrogate family is doing its best to land things softly,” I told her.
It had always been one of our games – we both knew better – always one step ahead. She gave me a hug, a polite kiss on the cheek, just as we’d always done when out in public. Unless you were standing directly behind you wouldn’t have noticed a thing. Shakespeare’s stars never crossed so completely. Her approach had been like the summoning of courtesans. There was an order to it: the inner circle first and foremost, then the current favorites, and finally, the rest.
“Not now,” she whispered, pulling away.
“Of course not,” I said, perhaps too loud, “Here come the Benzingers.”
“Oh Danny, you didn’t drown,” Mrs. Benzinger said, sweeping all aside and nearly crushing me under the weight of her jewels. She was a handsome woman, the kind who took an hour each day to paint on her face. I’d never seen her without makeup and black was still her best color.
“And how’s our next America’s Cup skipper?” Mr. Benzinger said. He shook my hand, firm, like a father. I looked him in the eye. Tom must have told him what had gone down and the rest he probably guessed. So now we too shared a secret. Everyone in the room probably shared something with Ed Benzinger.
I stood there and answered their questions, politely, methodically. Once they were satisfied Mrs. B turned to look about, a signal to all I would now entertain them. Maggie was with me; the pluperfect pair back in the limelight. Maggie would draw me out, encourage the little asides, massage my casual statements to bold opinions of what and ought not to be. She had never appeared more radiant, a woman now, a glow I’d never seen, no longer the girl I left on the dock that day except for the smile, that wonderful smile. Of course, the elephant in the room stood by, foreleg chained to one of the huge andirons in the fireless hearth, a chain of beaten gold, a uniformed Indian boy by its side.
“When did you last get my letters?” she hushed. We were moving now, waltzing from clique to clique like Kelly and Astaire. There wasn’t room to answer.
“You’re so good together,” Dot Fabian said as we neared. “Why, it should be you two getting married, not…”
“Greta!” Maggie said, drawing away. Greta Thompson conveniently turned. It was Greta who organized half the events in the county. “Greta,” Maggie said gaily, “look who I found.”
“Oh yes, dear Greta,” Dot blushed as we glided passed.
“Panama,” I whispered. “The last one was dated…”
“Sue Ellen!” Maggie declared, “Yes, he is more handsome than ever.”
I let her lead – I always did in public – as if nothing had changed, as if I had never left.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said to Doc Lawrence when he mentioned the next hunt meet, “I won’t be able to walk for a week.”
Doc was a farm’s veterinarian. He laughed, then Maggie leaned in. “When did you say?”
We had found a little space before the next crowd. “March,” I told her, “early April…”
“Hey there, my boy,” someone else said, “What’s this talk of you and the Cup?”
It went like that, the dance through the crowd, neither one of us simply coming out with it. All I kept thinking was how I’d arrived in time. It didn’t matter who he was. And I’d seen her smile—that was mine—if anything, she loved me even more.
Luncheon was served and the liquor flowed. After all, that was the primary objective. The three of us – Tom, Maggie and I – took a stand near the grand piano. People dropped by to chat and catch up; then went outside to sit at the little green tables. Cliques lined the garden wall like so many Monet’s in the afternoon sun. The staff opened all the doors. Jersey in August was brutal. Stainless steel misting fans flailed the heat and the great room’s cool interior hissed out over the stone, crawling up into the ivy, turning the blue-green leaves to shining that much deeper. The world seemed amplified. It was all as I remembered. We talked about the exotic places I’d been, the storms and the calms, harbors filled with all sorts of characters sad and wonderful. Maggie took advantage of a longer silence to break off and get us another tray full of drinks. Tom and I watched as she walked out onto the terrace.
“Has she told you?” he asked.
“She won’t in this crowd.”
“But you know.”
I looked at him, again, waiting.
“You don’t know,” he said.
I put up a hand.
“For what it’s worth… Maybe as much for me as for you, but I did ask.”
“For you?” I said.
He drained yet another glass. It was rare that he stood and looked me straight in the eye. Though older, he would always remain my kid brother. “I will always love you,” he said, “asshole blinders and all.” He nodded toward the terrace, Maggie was coming back. Looking down yet again, he mumbled, “Remember that blouse?”
And just as he finished I did. It was the same one she wore the day I left, metallic blue and sheer, though now she filled it in ways only suggested back then. I’d sprung the voyage on both of them, buying the boat, using the money my uncle had left to give me an Ivy League start. Tom knew I had to go, though he did try and offer a few alternatives, not the least bit of romance in any of them. It would only be for a little while, I explained. Maggie knew nothing of the other matter and I trusted Tom with my life. They both swore allegiance to my grand adventure. She stood on the dock that day sending me off. Tom had watched from the clubhouse porch, afternoon cocktail in hand, a bit past nine in the morning.
“The sky was blue, the pier was gray, the boat a deep hunter green,” Maggie said as she waved, narrating the moment, giving a little laugh at the end.
“You look stunning in that blouse,” I said, watching her grow smaller as the boat pulled away.
“Then I won’t wear it again until you come back,” she had said, cupping her hands so I’d hear, waving one more time, waving as if we were still in school, she in the stands and me down on the field. We had been so sure of ourselves. I thought she would wait; she thought I’d come home: because we always had, and our one simple rule was never to say goodbye. We were wise; we were young; we had time. Letters crossed oceans, turned up in piles six inches thick. No ship’s library ever held so many dog-eared volumes. Diving back in from the stifling heat to the cool rush of the room she pulled me aside.
“How long are you here?”
I could see the Stafford’s making their way back. “What do you mean?” I said.
“I need the phone,” she replied, brushing passed, barely touching my shoulder, returning almost at once to announce she was leaving. Peg, ever the arbiter of our close-knit group, agreed.
“Not a good thing to be late,” she said.
They looked in every direction but mine, all but Maggie. I raised an eyebrow as if to say, good for you, old friend, though I wasn’t fooling anyone. The room began settling down; one by one the guests were let in. The elephant trumpeted so loud up the chimney I was sure half the county heard. It broke loose and sauntered off through the dining room alcove and out to the kitchen, dragging the chain behind. The boy did the best he could.
No one seemed to notice.
Maggie started saying her goodbyes, saving me for last. I got my hug—silent, electric, perhaps a nanosecond longer—and then I watched with the rest as she opened the door of her father’s Jag and motored down the hill. The cherry red car flickered in and out of the pines lining the way, turned with a final glint of chrome and vanished altogether. Everyone tried making small talk, ignoring the shadow left by our missing piece of the sun. I drifted in and out of too many casual conversations, imagining I was with her again and driving along the river, her breath quickening as we powered out over the marsh and roared to the top of the hill. How many times had we stolen that car, both of us fifteen and lost in the touching of hands.
“Can I use the phone?”
“She’s probably home by now,” Peg said.
We had ended up in the kitchen picking at a platter of shrimp. Fred attempted a smile. Tom had long since gone out and glued himself back to the terrace bar. I made my excuse and walked out to the front hall where they had a phone set on a small, Queen Ann table, original, of course.
“Why did you come?” Maggie said when she picked up the line, not even saying hello. I had dialed her private number.
“You know why,” I said.
“I knew you’d pull something like this.”
“Tell me you’re not going through with it.”
“Don’t you dare,” she shot back. “Don’t you dare.”
“Maggie.”
“It’s too late, Danny” and then, softer, “I’m too late.”
“Maggie.”
“They’re here. Everyone’s here. What do you want me to do?”
For a moment neither one spoke.
“It’s where I belong,” she finally said.
“You belong with me.”
“Do I?”
I stood there, looking out through the alcove at everyone looking at me.
“I waited,” I heard her say, with such finality I almost sat down. The Stafford’s had one of those delicate chairs wrapped in pale striped silk placed by the table, the kind with delicate, spindly legs; the kind you’re really shouldn’t sit down on. “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” she said, “Maybe you’ll drown or I’ll die in childbirth.”
I wisely chose the stairs.
“You’re pregnant?”
She was crying now, bitterly, sitting, I knew, on the banquette beneath her bedroom window. She was watching the same setting sun, long shadows down manicured lawns leaping passed hedgerows and spilling into gardens—her parents’ estate. They had never liked me, or better said, never liked that Maggie loved me. I knew from her window she could see my boat moored out near the end of the breakwater, suddenly there again, as if it belonged. She must have seen it that morning.
“Let me go?” she said, barely a whisper. “My dearest, sweetest memory… “
I held the phone, the barns beyond the Stafford’s’ great windows turning gold in the evening light, drowning the places we loved—no touch ever softer, no bodies ever given so sweetly.
“I can’t,” I told her.
“I know,” she said.
Then click — the click of a telephone going dead — a sound you and I will never know again.
Derek Osborne lives in eastern Pennsylvania. His work has appeared in Bartleby-Snopes, PicFic/Folded Word, and Boston Literary among others. He is one of the writers being featured in the Pure Slush 2014 Series, and his first novel, Gadabout, is now making the rounds, looking for a home. To read more or contact, visit: http://gertrudesflat.blogspot.
–Art by Sagi Kortler