Slaters Beach, Massachusetts - 2004

It's August and it's been a six weeks that Jack and I have been together. The girl with the piercing eyes is gone. If she's on the beach she does not come to the snack bar. If I bring Jack clam-cakes and a lemonade at his lifeguard stand, she and her friends are no where to be seen.There are other beaches maybe she's somewhere else. Or maybe she's hidden herself in the throngs of people populating the three mile stretch of beach from shore to the dunes between the parking-lot and the sand. . This is horseback beach, a big public beach. Jack and I work here. This is the beach I've spent most of my time at but now I also go to Slater's Beach, the rich alcove separated from the working class Westport and North Dartmouth. It's close enough to bike there from my parents house - middle class on a couple of acres, closer to Horseback Beach than Slaters. Sometimes after work, I bike through the dusk, down country roads, dappled light through the oak and maple, woods that separate the homes in North Dartmouth. Sometimes I drive my sister's Volkswagen. Now that I have my license it's become imminent domain. She'll go to UMASS Amherst soon and it will be mine. I've even hung a Volkswagen Beetle shaped air freshener from the rear view mirror. It is always in the glove compartment after Anne has driven it. "Please" she'll say if we're riding together and I try to retrieve it. "Please." She's bossy my sister who I look so much like. It's partly because our features are so similar, so much like our mother. It's also because without being completely conscious of it, I copy her. The same straight sandy blonde hair, bob cut, mine still long enough for a pony tail. Hers short enough to see her long dangling earrings. She is not as relaxed as I am, more practical and my father says it's because she "has to be" and that I fill the sweet, light hearted quota for the family.

Jack isn't from our home town. He's not a "townie." Instead he's from a wealthy Boston family. They have a summer cottage on Cape Arch on Slater's. It's bigger than our house and with updated everything. Part of it's appeal is it's "charm." Despite the latest appliances and well built decks. A sauna, even a library it's still got the beach, casual charm. It struck me when Jack first brought me there that it's a privilege reserved for the very rich to have a second or third home so well appointed. To get from our suburban Massachusetts town,  you have to pass through the little "village" of Wonsette. The roads, still well maintained, have sand and sea grass on the shoulder. There is about a mile of curves through past the Arch Cove bay, sand dunes obstructing the view of the blue water and clear skies. Sailboats dotting the shore out towards the horizon. There's a stretch of road where there's woods on one side and the rocky shore on the other. Sometimes rich parents and their children are wading in kaki shorts and faded t-shirts exploring tide pools or digging up clams. Finally, just before we enter the summer community there's a wooden bridge that connects the peninsula to Slater's. There is one long road, the woods still on one side. The houses are off the road, Jack's family's property is down a half  mile lane the opens to his weathered shingled two story summer home. The back has a small patch of woods and a path down to the rocky part of the shore. Out front —the part of the house facing the bay is a log stretch of lawn, it reminds me of the mansions I used to visit on school field trips Newport, once the summer paradise for the wealthiest American's like the Vanderbilt's or Rockafellers. Jay Gatsby sort of place. The lawn leads down to a stone retaining wall, and there beyond that is their own private beach. The houses are far enough apart that it is completely secluded. There, on a blanket - not long after we met Jack and I hd sex for the first time. I had sex for the first time.

Now, only a month and a half into our relationship, I am a welcomed and familiar addition to the Clark family. Often, it's Jack, his mother and me. Often his cousins or other relatives are visiting. His grandparents have been there for two weeks starting in mid July. Mrs. Clark tells me they'll stay the rest of the summer.

There's also Mr. Clark who is home on weekends. He's the stern patriarch. He has a competitive nature with Jack and in particular Jack's older brother and only sibling, Edward. Edward visits rarely. He had only been to the beach house one weekend since I started seeing Jack. The sumer was almost over and when he did arrive he didn't make a fuss over his mother or even really acknowledge me. Edward broke the family rules and it added a tension that I didn't like. I think it's a brooding intellectualism that separates him - isolates him- from the rest of us.

One afternoon Jack and I took his dad's old Colombia Cruiser out--1978, fiberglass boat-kept like new condition. We sailed  out to the Sound. I never sailed much growing up but already that summer Jack had taught me the basics, enough to be his helper, sometimes take over. He steered the boat and I followed his instructions for [research this]. On days when the water was calm we'd let the sail down, anchor,  and sway on the water. Other times, if it was windy we'd move fast over the salty water that alternated gray, translucent blue, and white foam. 

"Wow," Jack says, look at the sky. It was crazy dark towards the Cape. You could see only out as far as the peninsula.

"Should we go back?"

"I think we're ok." He says. It was a strange omen-feeling scene. The dark clouds seemed to portend a lightning storm and it worried me a little when I heard a low rumble of thunder.

"should't we?" I asked twenty minutes later.

"I think we're ok." He said. I trusted him. Maybe even if a storm passed the boat would be ok. It felt like the mast would be a beacon for lightening but Jack was so insulated from harm, somehow blessed or charmed. Things always worked in his favor. I pulled my towel and sunscreen out of the water proof duffel we'd brought. I removed a bottle of wine. It was almost 5:00 and the plan was to sit a while longer and then head back in time to get ready for dinner at 7:00.

We talked as we drank and I always kept one eye on the dark horizon to the west. It didn't seem to move but hovered over the land across the sound.

"What's with your brother?" This was the first weekend I'd met him.

Jack shakes his head, leans back and rests his hand in the cool water. That's a habit of his, I notice it. If we are near the ocean he always wants a connection with it. He's like that with me too. When we playing cards with Carol or walking the beach. After work in the car, riding back to his beach house. He always is in physical contact with me. I like it.

"you guys don't seem like you get along at all."

"We don't. He's the most closed up person I've ever met. I think he has some kind of personality disorder."
"Really? Like what?"
"He's so oppositional. He cultivates negativity in our family. Everything is great and then he shows up."

"But why is he?" I put my hand in the water too. Now we are side by side on the little [boat] holding hands our wine in cup holders and each of us touching the water. The sky is still bright and now the dark horizon grows darker. It is strange and surreal and feels almost like the one time I ate mushrooms. The impossibility of the phenomena in the natural world: a purple sky or wind that sings, audibly human. Hallucinatory.

Jack and I close our eyes and a little time passes with just the waves lapping the side of the boat, the fiberglass hollow beneath us, wind against the [whatever it's called when a sail is down]. It's so calm and quiet that my whole body relaxes completely.

Jack starts up again, eyes still closed ,head rested back on his [prep school] sweatshirt. "The only thing my brother and I have in common is liking the Cars."

"The cars." I too have my eyes closed. "The band?"

"Yeah."

"I didn't know you like the Cars."

"Candy O"

"There was like a month when we hung out together. It was his last year of high school. I looked up to him my whole life. He was the best at everything. He won almost every race: a better sailer than me or even my dad."

I nod but Jack's eyes are still closed and he doesn't see me. I squeeze his hand. "you're a great sailer."

"Thanks." He continues, "It was his last year of high school. I just finished freshman year. Big difference when you're 14 and your brother is 17. I sort of thought I'd proven myself and finally I was old enough for him to let me into his orbit."

"Is the what you wanted? To be his friend?"

"You can't be friends with Edward. You can be in his orbit."

"Oh" I said but I didn't really get what he meant. My sister was 2 yers older. I wouldn't say I was in her orbit, as if she was at the center. We were connected. I loved her and we'd spent so much time together as children playing and experiencing our family world that even though we were't exactly friends we were connected and loyal.

"He had my dad's old car—really old. A Mercedes. Super cool car. We drove it around all summer. Here, Boston. He took me to Rhode Island."

"That sounds so fun. Was he normal with you?"

'Yeah. Totally included me. Seemed like he liked me. I even saw his side of things."

"What do you mean?"

Now Jack sits up and I do too. He leans against the side of the boat and pours another cup of wine. Fills my cup. The back grey along the opposite shore has nearly dissipated. "Edward has never hidden how he feels about my parents—my dad mostly. My dad is what they call "authoritarian." If you know what I mean.

"Yeah I see that but Edward doesn't like that?"

jack shrugs. It seems he's ventured out a little further that he's comfortable but the emotion hasn't caught up with him yet.

"What?" I ask. I can tell it's serious but I don't know why.

"I guess there were times when you could say he beat the crap out of us."
It was so explicit and unexpected. There is no ambiguity in beat the crap out of us.

"Beat the crap out of you?" I ask.

Now, Jack begins to wake from the numbness. His tone becomes a little weaker and when I look at his posture he almost seems like a child, his shoulders forward and his head down for a moment.

"I'm sorry. I wouldn't have thought—"

"Not much though Annie."

"Not much what do you mean?"

"I mean not all the time. We weren't abused kids."

"Beat the crap though—"

"It's just that Edward could never ride out the storm. You know—when you're sailing and you are caught in a storm. I think of that—you can't pretend it's not happening. It's scary but you just focus on navigating, you get hyper focused you know what I mean?"

"Edward didn't?"

"Nope." A big sip of wine now, finishes the cup.

"What did he do?"

"I don't know Annie. I don't really like talking about it."

A little more time passed. I have never been on a boat in a storm. I had hardly been on boats before. Now I wished that the dark clouds that were almost gone would move towards us. I wished the winds would pick up, become violent. I wanted -not to experience sailing through a storm. I wanted to see how Jack navigated it. I wanted to understand his way of coping. At that time I thought his strategy was stronger than Edwards. I thought relying on yourself was better than letting the tension linger and making everyone else suffer once the storm had passed. I touched Jacks arm and I was glad he let me comfort him. I moved to him and sat right next to him. I kissed him. I tasted the red wine, the salt from the ocean air that dried on his lips.

"you're so gorgeous" I said to him. "I like you so much."

"I like you too Anne." He kissed me back. I could feel his breathing become regular again. I felt his muscles relax and I loved the feel of the heat over our skin. That's the nice thing about being on a small boat so close to the water, the contrast of hot and cool. The hot air and sun and being so close to the cold water.

I looked at him and smiled. We were so close the I whispered "I'm glad you had that summer."

"What summer?" He asked. Had he forgotten our conversation about Edward already?

"The Cars—with Edward."

Jack laughed "Yeah, well he's still an asshole" We slid down to the floor of the boat. It was't stable enough to make love but stayed there, still, careful not to tip and kissed for a long time.

After Jack told me about Mr. Clark's violence, I felt differently when we were all together. My idealism for Mrs. Clark waned a little because I tried to imagine what she did when Mr. Clark beat Edward and Jack. Was she there? I tried to understand how the family system worked before and after the violence. How did she reconcile this? Was there yelling and shouting in the background while she consumed three or four vodka and sodas with a twist of Meyer lemon.

Every evening at 4 or 5:00 Mrs. Clark insists everyone 'clean up" for cocktails. I am only sixteen but I am part of the ritual. So is Jack, a year older than me. We are only "allowed" one everyone else is encouraged to have several gin and tonics, or vodka martinis, or as Mr. Clark likes scotch straight (a choice Mrs. Clark turns her nose up to. It doesn't fit the script. The dark liquid represents something less than what might appear in the pages of architectural digest. Clear gin or vodka 'go with' the pale, white washed beach decor. Mrs. Clark smiles at me and dotes on me. It's natural for me because of my role in my own family. I don't know if it's who I am or how I'm treated but It encourages a closeness with Mrs. Clark that I like.

"A writer" she says. She's says it in front of Edward. He smiles but keeps his eyes on the bay, on the pretty afternoon light that Edward will later tell me -ten years later when we are lovers— is his inspiration for everything. The Adirondack chairs on the back porch are weathered too but they are sturdy and I watch Edward as he examines the beauty beyond the lawn, the way the light looks on the calm water. I study him and without realizing it, contrast him with Jack who is animated and performative with their mother. That first summer with Jack, she is still young in her early 40s. I get the feeling that her marriage is cold and lonely. That Mr. Clark, the dashing business man-a man of privilege who didn't need to work at all, has built a fortune in his own right. I think of all that money, growing and growing. I don't think of it for myself, just the implausibility of it. I have never known people this rich. I don't want it to replace my world, my life. Although I can't say I'm not impressed. It is just cognitive dissonance.

"And...Edward" Jack's mother is about to announce one of his accomplishments. "tell everyone about the story in Harpers." I see her pale orange lipstick leave a mark on the glass. She notices it too and calls for the woman who works for her. "Marie—come here dear. Marie—" dutifully and not so miserable Maria enters and without being instructed replaces the lipstick stained glass with another gin and tonic.

"Thank you dear," she says "You are really a love."
Marie smiles. I notice—it's subtle but I notice Marie looks at Edward. This is the first time his eyes have shifted from the water. There's a moment. I can see it and when I look around I know I'm the only one privy to the fact that they are sleeping together. Marie smiles and starts to leave.

'Dear" Mrs. Clark says "why don't you put the steaks on soon?" Mrs. Clark says it into the air, as if she is a magician and this feat will just happen upon her incantatiohn.

"Nope." Mr. Clark declares "I'm grilling them tonight."

"oh geeze. Well what do I know?" Mrs. Clark says in a sing songy voice then makes eye contact with me. Smiles Takes a sip of her drink. A. Performance for me I think. The silliness, commiseration for my benefit. Our intimacy grows with these little asides.

Mr. Clark is putting down his paper and starts to get up. I examine Marie while she waits for her instruction. She's about my height 5'7. She looks about 25. I know from Jack that she's a local who has worked for the Clarks every summer for the last seven years. So she started when she was about my age. There's a little cottage on the property, out of view of the house, nestled in the wooded patch. I say little but it's a well appointed studio style place with floor to ceiling windows that look out on the the bay. It's not large but like the main house it has the best of everything.

She has black curly hair. Mrs. Clark says she's exotic—after several gin and tonics. "isn't she?" I know somehow this is demeaning.

"Mom. It's rude. It's a rude thing to say" Edward's defense is more evidence I think. So are his long walks at night along the shore. Sometimes when I see his silhouette heading out towards the shore I have a strange desire to follow him. I don't know why. This story is intriguing to me. I wonder if Edward - the writer, the young teaching assistant at Georgetown -is living one of his stories. Is the story of Marie and Edward a narrative that seeps into his imagination? Is she the inspiration? Not the beautiful afternoon light and the orange shadows it casts? Marie looks younger than 25. She is of slight build and seems endlessly patient. I would ordinarily feel awkward around what Mrs. Clark calls house staff. My life is closer to Marie's I'm sure. So it would feel hypocritical to accept a sandwich served to me out on the deck while Jack and I play rummy. But Marie doesn't make it feel that way at all. I think she likes the arrangement. A feeder fish, but not in in the negative sense Not a parasite Marie lives in the wake of the impossibly wealthy Clarks and in exchange she has a beautiful studio cottage on the beach. I don't know her story but I want to. I know I'll never know all of it but someday Edward will tell me part of it.

I always stop at Dunkin Donuts and get one of their eclairs and sit for a cup of coffee in those little stoneware coffee cups. I sit at the counter because my friend Trisha works the morning shift. In the summer it's still slow at 6:30 surprisingly. There's still the construction guys and a couple of businessmen on their way to downtown New Bedford. But those are few and far between. I sit at a swivel stool and she sits beside me. Her red hair shines more copper in the summer and her skin is tanned but with hint of orange from the spray tan she uses before going to the tanning beds. I used to work at the Dunkin donuts too through the school year. Then, at the end of last spring Ed Franklin, the man who franchises the snack bar at Horseback Beach asked me if I wanted to work at the snack bar this summer. He said he had lots of extra work opportunities too even throughout the year because he owns several food carts that follow football games, festivals, and parades. That's how I got the job.

But now I'm telling Trisha about Jack. Jack's an enigma because he's one of the rich guys from Salters Beach, new Arch Canyon.

"My rule is to stay away from those rich people." Trisha's father is a psychiatrist, very well to do. The director at St. John's hospital in New Bedford. They have a beautiful house, an old ship captain's mansion in New Bedford. It's one of the last streets that is well to do. The rest of the small city is crumbling. Despite it's pretty harbor. Despite it's cobble stone downtown.

"A lot of people think you're rich."

"Not like that." She pours me another cup. "want another eclair?"

"No. no." I say.

"He's so cute." I pull out a picture from the photo booth at the Portuguese festival we went to last week.

"I'm surprised he'd even go to something like that. He ventured into New Bedford?"

"Stop."

Now, she's inspecting the picture. She looks at me. "you look so pretty"

"He's cute isn't he?"

She hand she picture back to me. "He looks like a European model. That worries me even more."

"Why?" I laugh. I don't know if she's serious. 

"i'm just kidding."

" Do you want to come to a bon fire tonight? At the beach"

"Slaters?"
"I'll pick you up. I have my sister's car."

"ok." She says. She smiles and raises her eye brows. "OK"