Washington, DC 2018

"Well, don't you look pretty. Here-Listen I have to tell you something."

"I haven't even sat down Jack"
You motioned for the waiter. We were at the Blue Pearl, the deck was packed and the air warm with a slight breeze. "God I feel like sailing. Why don't we—soon?"

"I have to pick the kids up by 5. Then Edward's reading."

"you want a wine?" You asked when the waiter arrived?

"yes sure..."
"Pino Grigio -two.. Should we just do a bottle?"
I shrugged.

"All right a bottle. Will you be able to fly back?"

Jack raises his eyebrows and smiles. "you want a salad?"
"No." I said. "chowder."
"Ok, a shrimp salad and chowder"
When the waiter left. I smiled at Jack. How is it that he's so carefree. Do you two love each other at all. "why do you Clarks' always do that?"
"Why do we Clark's do what?"

"Ignore things you don't want to address."

The waiter dropped a basket of bread and a little bowl of olive oil. I tear a piece.

Jack laughs, "Annie, I was ordering. No I won't fly drunk. If I'm drunk in a couple of hours. I'll stay over."

"you should come to the reading."

Jack shakes his head.

What do you have to tell me?" I asked.

Now Jack grows quiet. The charm and flirtatious expression and tone fades.

"I'm leaving Jane."

"You are?" I felt my throat grow dry. I hated Jane. She was a pain in the ass. Jane, stuck up Jane with her straight brown hair, bobbed, forever bobbed. Her headbands. Her diamond studs earrings and that enormous diamond engagement ring Jack's mother gave to him to propose. Edward and I had married first, but no such heirloom was offered, at least not lovingly from his mother. Only the steely cold contempt that has been the shadow of my rejection of Jack. Instead, his sweet grandmother saved the day and she was the true source of the family wealth and she loved Edward. Instead of Carol's own large carat ring, I now wore a French antique engagement diamond and platinum matching band. Even as my friendship with Jack returned, Carol's never did. She never forgave me. Then came Jane...Jane who would never have read Virginia wolf aloud on the deck. Never drink weak margaritas as Carol and I had done for those summers when Jack and I were a couple. Jane was the stiff mirror of you-but unlike you, Jane had nothing hidden behind the mask. She was simply a WASP-y Connecticut girl.

"What about the kids?" I asked.

"They're my kids. I'll see them. half custody."

I nodded. "why?"
"I don't love her. You know I don't."
"I didn't know that." I fiddled with my wedding ring, a princess cut two karat, nothing to be ashamed of but nothing like Jane's. If not for your relationship with your grandmother we would not have aa family ring.

"how does she feel?"

"She's freaking out."

"I would expect—"

"I just can't do it any more."

Jack looked older, He had creases around his eyes. They hadn't lost their blue and with the harbor and blue sky, they shone a deep translucent turquoise.

"I support you no matter—I mean I'm here for you. Do you need anything?"
"you don't get it do you Annie?"

"Get what?"
"This."

"I'm sorry I don't."

Jack keeps his eyes on me for moment.

"I don't know." He is wistful, tears start to form and he looks away, out to the harbor. The sounds of gulls rise, the clanking of boats moored on the dock near by. I wait for him to tell me what I don't get. Then. I looked out towards the water then looked back at him. I took his hands. "It'll work out Jack." Finally he looks back the sounds recede.

"Your husband's a bastard."
I laughed. "He's your brother. It's totally different."

"Annie— it's all bullshit right? You should get out of this family."

There's a long expense between us. A rift in time or consciousness. I have no idea if he's shining a light on the darkness but I don't want him to. If I don't want Edward to why would I want Jack to. He's my refuge. He's my childhood friend. That's why we revisit.

"Can we just enjoy a glass of wine?" I tease. "Hey do you remember Antoinette-that girl that worked t your house that summer?

He comes back to our place. Our friendship. "no...I feel bad now. I hardly noticed the people who worked in our homes." He pours another glass "how gross, really. Would you do that?"

"You don't remember Antoinette? Really?" I laugh. "I was just thinking of her. You don't?"

Jack shakes his head and stands.

"What are you doing?"

He doesn't answer Instead, walks over to the bench I was sitting at. The harbor and sailboats behind us, whooshing as a small wave hit the shore, the clinking of masts. He sits next to me.

"you'll be ok," I whisper. I put my hand on his arm. "Really. Look at you. Totally handsome. Rich. You're still young Jack."

"I don't need a pep talk Annie. It's weird though, right?"

"What is?"

"That this is still here. That we can still be this way with each other. We just stopped and then it was over.You were different. It didn't even seem that weird when you started dating Edward."

"No?"

"I don't know why."

I don't want to go back to that time. I want to go before that time. I want to re-visit our adolescence when jack and I were still kids.

"you look cute. You always look cute." I say. He's wearing white shorts and a white Nantucket sailing t-shirt. His faded blue baseball cap.

His stare is long and deliberate.

"what are you doing?" I asked him, but instead of answering he kisses me. "I love you, Annie." He whispered. "you know that. I still love you."

I wait a moment. I recognize this waiting. It's allowing an indiscretion to be normal, ordinary. I don't answer. Something I've learned being in your family. Carry on as if nothing has happened.

"You don't' feel the same way?" He presses.

Instead of kissing him I put my arms around him and hold him. I'll tell myself the whole way home that was what he really wanted. He didn't know how to say it but he wanted me to comfort him.

"Sometimes I think about. it. You were my best friend. And I just left you." I whisper against his cheek. "I feel guilty about that."

"I don't know if it's you or what you represent Annie, but I can't get over it."

I move away from Jack and keep my eyes on him. He's staring out into the bay now. The light is so pretty and it's so relaxing here and how much I wish it were six years ago. Not five years ago but there at 17 years old with Jack.

He continues, "It all went to hell after that didn't it?"
"After what." I feel a cool numbness set in it moves through my body rapidly, something liquid.

"you know—your accident. After what happened."

"What do you think happened that night Jack?"

He raises his eye brows. Now I want something from him and instead of the teenager with the cute unbleached hair and baseball cap instead there is this man. I can see I'd been talking to the teenage Jack all along. I didn't even see this new 30 year old man, a private jet pilot. A stock manager. A rich, handsome conservative.

"Why are you looking at me that way?" He asks I think he sees the real me, the woman who he knew as a girl.

"What happened that night?"
'I don't know Annie. You almost drowned, I guess."

"Edward wants to talk about it—he always has. I just don't—"

The waiter interrupts "can I get you anything else?"

Jack is back to his confident, assertive self. The same adolescent charm, an honest charm not manipulative or sexist. He has always had a magnetism that most people respond to. He smiles and turns to me "Annie?"

"No thanks," I say.

Jack has changed. The grown up jack is so completely privileged and unlike Edward it seems he has grown into an entitlement that will never be proven wrong. I've met so many wealthy people since I've known the Clarks. What most people don't understand is that despite all their problems, the clarks and people like them don't share the same anxiety about money. It makes a difference too. Changes standards, the sense of superiority seeps into everyday life. Even for those who work at being down-to-earth, the handful of friends and acquaintances who use their Ivy League medial or law degrees to help the poor or devoted their lives to finding cures for diseases or developing technology to save the environment. Even they, at the core, live a fundamentally different life. People like my mom resent it and have "zero intention" (as she says) of validating an "elitist power structure." Whatever that means. She loved jack and loves Edward but she has nothing but contempt for the Clarks and if she knew what they did to me, there would be hell to pay.

"it's all so weird." I'm referring to the night on the beach, the fall out, the lasting effects on Edward and despite my denial-if I'm being honest the lasting effects on me.

But, Jack does't get the reference. He's back to his failing marriage with Jane. I think, failing? It was never a success, not from the start. Not three children later.

"I'm here for you." I say as I pack my phone and keys into my purse.
"I'm not going to lie to you Annie, if you wanted more—"

I shake my head, have that feeling of freezing. Really, I should stop this now, make clear my boundaries but in this unpredictable ocean of his family, our shared psychology I feel myself on the surface of the water, sailboats cutting across the sea. Regattas are violent, harnessing the power of the wind. This feels like a regatta—like the men in his family racing each other. It's not sportsmanship or valor.

—-

When I enter the bookstore it's crowded. This surprises me because readings are never this way. They are always intimate, a handful of people-long thoughtful questions-dialogue. But tonight is different. The reading is in an open area in the back of the old bookstore. Shelves have been pushed aside and it feels like an arc, a large ship that I'm entering. I see you, your book in stacks on a table. A podium you'll stand behind. This is when you're most comfortable, ironic I think. Or maybe you're always comfortable. For a moment I think I see Lenore. I thinks she's there, long wavy red hair. Resilient. How hard it is to be human, according to her. My senses are unpredictable. For a moment the room seems to shrink and I am walking on rolling invisible hills towards you, a queasiness takes over me but subsides.

Then you are before me, you kiss me passionately and it seems for someone else. Maybe Lenore is here. Maybe someone is recording this and she'll rewind over and over to see if you really love me. She'll decide you don't. She'll decide I'm plain and not good enough for you. I can sense these judgments and it's not anything in particular about Lenore herself, but what I imagine the thoughts are of a woman who would engage in infidelity. She'll tell herself I'm not a "creative" like the two of you: a writer and a film makers, story tellers you both. She'll try to contort architecture into commercial and dismiss the fundamental artistic connections between design and art. If she happens to concede on this front (really an academic/ artist could not deny architecture' place). She'll find some other diminution of me and what I do, who I am. Maybe even skirting the idea that motherhood is inane and tedious—and yes, tedious it is.

"You're mom's got the kids?"

"Yes."
"all night?" You ask.

I nod.

You're leading me the short distance to the chair It is in the front row. You want my attention for this. A sinking paranoia sets in. Maybe you're going to tell me something through your words. Maybe the story is about jack and me—I know what the story is about. You've been writing this book for years. You published it a year ago. I know the story. I've read drafts but not the final draft. I wonder if you are going to tell the world about Lenore and me

"You ok?" You ask.

I nod.

You kiss me again. "Let's go somewhere after."

An older woman leans over. Is Edward Clark your husband?

I smile. I'm settled now that I'm sitting. "Yes." Why did I drink so much at lunch. The lingering sensation of Jack kissing me is distracting. It's a growing shame. It's a complicity when I didn't really do anything and I know if -like in a movie- a private eye had snapped a photograph it would look consensual. It would look like an affair. It was consensual -or an act that didn't mandate consent. Consent turns it into something it's not.
"He's very talented." She's older and kind looking but her manner is not soft. It's intellectual. They are all intellectuals.

I nod and look down at my phone.

"She left. She didn't take the news well." It's jack. hey look...I'm sorry about today. I don't know whaat' the F's wrong with me."

"Are you all right?" I type. "I'm at Edward's reading. I have to turn my phone off in a moment."

"as well as can be expected. Will you come to the Massachusetts this weekend? I promise I won't try anything :)"

Edward taps the mic. The room grows quiet.

"I'll write more later. I have to go. xo"

"xo"

You take a breath. A sip of water.

How do I describe you, my husband? You're 6 feet tall, light brown hair with a slight wave. Your eyes are green, sometimes gray. Tonight you wear a wool sweater and visible beneath is the collar of a white t-shirt. You're wearing dark suit pants and loafers. The thing about you - Edward- is your clean cut, conservative dress. You have slender build and your eyes are intent words you choose, particularly when you are in a work mode like here at the reading. You present so authoritatively on writing and your work. There seems to be no insecurity and indeed, for a writer you have little doubt about your talent. You labor over the mechanics, plot, the words you choose. When you work you are not a man driven by inspiration and mad pursuit of literary genius. You are calm and methodical. You keep it separate. I think now as I consider these qualities that maybe that is the way all artists are as they get older. Maybe the crazy genius is a stereotype. You are not that. I knew you when you were young too and even then you seemed enigmatic, maybe a little judgmental of your family and me but you never seemed unstable, Edward.

You hold your gaze seconds longer than expected, that is a snare. That is how you mesmerize, draw the audience under your command. Your manners are slow and intentional. You're charming and sarcastic. Your flirtation is magnetic and once I came to know you, after those summers with Jack. Once I was on the same campus and our chance meetings became encounters and that became a relationship, the world disappeared and it was only Edward.

You clear your throat and smile at me. I offer a small wave. You give me a tiny wave back. Then, as you begin, I see her..she's in the very rear of the book store, off to the side, against a shelf. She has two other women with her. A notebook. Her hair is flowing and she is less pretty than in her facebook pictures. I can see she's staring at me, she's behind you and so I don't know if you know she's there. Because my mind fails me so often lately -and you know this is true- I break the cardinal rule of intellectual book readings. I raise my phone and snap a picture of you, but you are not the subject, I've zoomed in to Lenore. I feel my heart fill with relief as I look at the picture. It's clear, it's in focus. Your mistress is here and so am I. Is this the source of all your affection. Before you start reading your eye catches mine. With the slightest gesture you shake your head for me to put the phone away. There it is, your micro-expressions. You want me to read you. You want a mind reader for a wife. You want a magician. Someone who can pretend and withstand and endure.

You begin:

[add excerpt from his book]

—

I realize now our home replicates the things you love. It is a barrier now to me. It is the insulation of your life that has become suffocating. I am unable to breathe and yet we still go to your house on the shore, we still sit with little children running by the sea as if it is the the 1920s, just before a crash. The same sound of waves not retreating but approaching with silent violence. This is the fourth summer you and I have spent here together. The second with our children. We have now completed the dream.

Did you bring Lenore here? I am burning to ask you, but the way you are now with your brother—how you can still get along is remarkable. Sometimes when I'm particularly insecure or maybe even narcissistic, I think I am simply a game piece - particularly back at the house on Salter's Cove, that vacuum within with all the violence lives. I think things when I'm here and if I let myself I say there is a ghost. That this is the source of my own haunting. One night you talked about Ted Hughes. It was one of the first summers, maybe I was 16 or 17. Your mother rolled her eyes and inside I did too...I agreed with everything your mother said and did back then. I felt somewhere underneath your intellectual bantering that you were really illustrating something about your father. Why did you love Ted Hughes so much, is it his philosophy his poetry or is it the man who controls the mortality of women and children? That's how you put it, I can not believe I remember that. A man who controls the mortality of women and children. It's creepy.But God Edward are you so different? I never saw your father as a man of letters. It wouldn't be a surprise that he was a cheat. But so are you. Maybe you are not violent but maybe you do control the mortality of women and children. Here you sit with a woman—a wife—who found herself in that very same lethal black sea as Sylvia Plath. o, that's wrong. Hers was air, poison air. Mine was water, an altogether different element. She wanted / did sleep. I wanted to drown.