“It must be very hard on you. I mean on you both.”
“At times it is, but he’s a great kid. He knows what we’re up to, and he tries to make us feel better. He’ll say things to Maddy like, ‘It’s okay, Mommy. I don’t feel sick. Don’t worry about me.’ But you just can’t help feeling so goddamn helpless sometimes, you know?”
“I’m sorry. He’s a lovely boy. He’s such a wonderful combination of Maddy and you.”
They pull up to the house. The boy comes running out. “Daddy, Daddy,” he shouts as the tires crunch to a halt on the gravel. I am sitting by the window, reading the newspaper.
“Hey, sport.”
“Daddy, there was a telephone call for you. From Rome. Mommy took the message.”
“Thanks, pal. Tell Mommy I’m back, okay?” The boy trots back inside.
To Claire, “Got to make a call. Glad you could come along.” He gets out of the car.
“No. Thank you for taking me. When can we do it again?”
“Maybe not for a while.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks at her, a bit puzzled. “I thought you knew. That’s what that call is about. Maddy, Johnny, and I are leaving for Rome in a week. I have a grant to write there. I’ll be working on my new book.”
“No. No, I hadn’t heard.” She feels like she is going to be sick. “How long will you be gone?”
“Almost a year. We’ll be back next June. For the summer.”
“Oh, I see.” And then, “You must be very excited.”
“We are. An old friend of mine found us a place to stay near the Pantheon.”
“What about Johnny? Where will he go to school?”
“There’s an American school. And we have the names of good doctors there.”
“Oh good. I’m so happy for you all.” She tries to make it sound like she means it.
“Thanks. It’ll be a lot of fun. I’ve always wanted to live in Rome. So has Maddy. As you can imagine, she’s very excited about the food. She’s already enrolled in both a cooking and an Italian class.”
“I’m going to miss you.” She throws her arms around his neck and pulls him to her, his cheek next to hers.
He pats her on the back and uncoils himself, smiling at her. “Hey, we’re going to miss you too.”
“Thanks again,” she calls after him as he heads into the house. “I had a wonderful time.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. You were very brave. Not everyone likes to fly in small planes.”
“I loved it.”
He smiles and walks inside the house. She does not notice me and I watch her standing there for a long time after he is gone. Finally, she turns and leaves. I am sorry to see how sad she looks.
I FIND HER SEVERAL HOURS LATER. SHE IS SITTING AT THE end of my dock, staring out over the pond, her feet dangling in the water. A family of swans swims by. A pair of Beetle Cats, the small, gaff-rigged sailboats popular with residents who live on the pond, tacks in the distance. It is very peaceful.
“Where have you been?” I ask. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. We’re going to play tennis.”
Yes, I have a tennis court too. It’s an old-fashioned clay court. I know a lot of people prefer acrylic these days, but I actually still enjoy rolling the court. The preparation as important as the play.
She looks up. Surprised at first and then disappointed, as though she were hoping for someone else. I am in my ratty old tennis whites.
“I’m sorry, Walter. I needed to be alone for a while.”
“Everything all right?”
“Did you know that Harry and Maddy are going to Rome?”
“Of course.”
“I didn’t.”
“Is that so terrible?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I don’t know.”
“You have something against Romans? Did a principe ever break your heart, or did you trip and fall on the Spanish Steps?”
I am trying to be light, but I can tell, too late, she is not in the mood.
She shakes her head silently.
“Anything I can do?”
She shakes her head again.
“Right. Well, I’ll just leave you to it then, shall I?”
“Thank you, Walter. I just feel like being alone. Maybe I’ll wander up later and see how the tennis is going.”
“I hope so. You owe me a rematch.” She manages a smile at that. The week before she leveled me, 6–4, 6–4.
We don’t see her again until evening. After tennis, I tiptoe up to her room and see that her door is closed. At seven she comes down. I am in the kitchen, putting hamburger patties into a cooler. We are going to a cookout on the beach. It’s a Labor Day weekend tradition. There will be about fifty people there. Ned, Harry, and I had gone to the beach earlier to build a bonfire, digging a pit in the sand, filling it with driftwood.
“Sorry I didn’t make it to tennis,” she says as she enters. “I wouldn’t have been any fun.”
“Feeling better?”
“Yes, thanks.” She looks beautiful. A low-cut pink dress. She is not wearing a bra. The sides of her breasts peeking out from behind the fabric. I try not to stare.
“You look lovely, but you might want to bring a sweater or something,” I suggest. “It can get pretty cold on the beach at night this time of year.”
“I could really use a martini, Walter. Do you think you could make one for me?”
“With pleasure,” I say, washing my hands and going to the bar. It is a form of communion. I drop the ice cubes into an old Cartier silver shaker that belonged to my grandfather. Add Beefeater gin and a dash of dry vermouth. I stir it, twenty times exactly, and pour it into a chilled martini glass, also silver, which I garnish with a lemon peel.
“Hope you don’t mind drinking alone. I want to pace myself.”
“Oh, you’re such a fuddy-duddy, Walter.” She takes a sip. “Perfect.”
Ned and Cissy come in. “Priming the pump, eh?” says Ned.
“Want one?” I
