Fogland Point Page 6

  Conversations like that hadn’t quite gone out of fashion yet. A few years later Teddy and Emma might have gotten a flat together in Greenwich Village or joined a commune, but it was still 1951 and there was little Teddy could do except declare his love and solemnly propose marriage to Mr. Godfrey. That is, I mean, he proposed to marry Emma. Mr. Godfrey gravely accepted on her behalf, and the two went out to share this news with the women.

  Was Emma happy? I’ll say she was! I’ve never seen her happier. I’m sure they talked about marriage loads of times before Mr. Godfrey sprang it on them. Teddy was…well, he was ecstatic. But that’s the Johnsons all over. Once they want a thing, they get it, no matter what. He’d finally gotten Emma, and no couple was better matched. We passed that whole fall in a kind of daze. Constance took Emma to Boston to buy her trousseau. The Godfreys had their whole house painted and the porch lifted to get ready for the reception. Some said Teddy paid for it, but I never knew for sure. Emma was radiant. We all were. It was the same year that I met Phil, and your Grandma her dear Mike, so we were to be three June brides together. Constance was already married then. Oh, his name was Everett. He doesn’t matter.

  Now in the normal course of events a fall engagement would be followed by a June wedding, but you know 1951 was not a normal year. All the boys were being called away to Korea. Phil went into the medic corps, just like that M.A.S.H. show. Your grandpa was in the Navy, on board the U.S.S. Kearsarge. He left a bun in the oven, though, and that was your dad. It felt so strange, like we’d just finished off one war and here we were in another. Everybody was vanishing. They had to stop the Pawtuxet dances. And in the spring of ’51 Teddy got his letter. Report to the divisional commander at Fort Dix, etc., etc. Well it wasn’t exactly unexpected, but Emma was heartbroken. I’ve never seen her like that, before or since. Keening. Said she was sure Teddy was going to die, that they had been too happy and now God was punishing them. It’s a Puritan town, remember, and those sentiments still crop up now and again. I won’t say many of us didn’t feel the same way, to be honest.

  On a sunny morning in early May, Teddy caught the ferry to New York. We all came up to Fall River to see him off. Emma was dry-eyed by then; she’d gotten herself together. That day she wore a pretty white dress with blue forget-me-nots and a handkerchief over her hair. She kissed Teddy on the cheek, told him to do his duty, and waved as the ferry left the dock. There was a smile on her face. I think she was there after the rest of us left.

  Not long after, the first letter arrived. It was dated July 1, 1951, and postmarked Biloxi. Emma read Teddy’s letters aloud. He wrote about the drill sergeants, the mess halls, waking up before dawn, and carrying fifty pounds of gear on his shoulders. He wrote of his love, and his unshakeable faith that God would reunite them soon. I suppose Teddy might have gotten a furlough to come back and make it official, but somehow this never happened. His letters were full of love and optimism, unperturbed by the delay. Mr. Godfrey, on the other hand, never forgave Harry Truman. When Teddy’s check ran dry and another failed to appear, the creditors finally figured out there was nothing coming. The Godfreys had to sell their house and rent an apartment above the Texaco station. Mrs. Godfrey died not long after; she was never a strong woman. But Old Man Godfrey could still be seen there into his eighties, pumping gasoline and cursing his fate.

  And Emma? It was hard for her, of course. She took a long trip to the Carolinas to some health spa—come to think of it, that must have been when she had the baby. After that she moved in with me and Phil for a while. I helped get her a job at Shepard’s, at the cosmetics counter. She was still a very beautiful woman. Lots of men asked her out. She wouldn’t have any of them. Emma belonged to Teddy, it was as simple as that.

  The letters kept coming, all through ’51 and ’52. Sometimes two or three a week. Emma got promoted and ended up running the department all by herself. She moved into the little house next to your Grandma’s and started fixing it up. I think she wanted to make a home for Teddy, once he came back. If he came back. And maybe bring back the baby, too. Well, she was lucky in one way: Teddy wasn’t killed. At first he was a sapper, which meant laying fuses along the enemy lines or throwing grenades into concrete bunkers known as pillboxes. It was dangerous work. He was at Pork Chop Hill, and Kumsong. Then they transferred him out to a desk job at command headquarters in Seoul. And the war ended. But Teddy didn’t come home.

  There were reasons, of course. At first they needed him for the transition, and Emma told us how he was working as adjutant to a very powerful U.S. general, arranging meetings and hosting diplomats from all over the world. Then he was assigned to General Waller’s staff, and given the rank of Captain. From Seoul he went to Paris, then Istanbul. The letters still came, every week.

  At some point, though, people began to wonder. By 1960 Emma wasn’t a young woman anymore, the war was long over, but still Teddy never came back. Though his letters continued to arrive without fail. Every week, like clockwork. It was uncanny.

  What did they say? None of us ever knew. Emma never talked about them, not after the war ended. The house that she bought for Teddy started to look more feminine. She put out nasturtiums and painted the living room pink. She called herself a spinster, and, I’m sorry to say, the word suited her. She started wearing gingham dresses and gave piano lessons. On Sundays she played the organ at the United Congregational. Eventually, she went away to Kingston and came back with a degree in oceanography. Shocked us all. But she was damn good at it, no question. Best wreck-finder in New England, knew all about shifting sandbars and tidal currents. We brought her in sometimes to work with us at Wrecking and Salvage, whenever there was a boat that went missing.

  We never asked about Teddy, but others did. It was very rude. They talked behind Emma’s back, too. Why had Teddy abandoned her? Had he married someone else? Or perhaps (and this was whispered very quietly, indeed) he had never meant to marry her. Perhaps he was one of those ‘gentlemen bachelors’ that kept pug dogs and lived in Provincetown. But, if any of these were true, why did he still write? That was the mystery. Those letters kept coming right up until last week. No, they’ve stopped now. So I guess he knows she’s gone. But now you see, dear, why none of this could have anything to do with poor Emma’s death. Teddy loved her, in his fashion. And I’m sure he never knew about their child. We certainly didn’t. What—you think he came back after all these years and brained her in her own kitchen? Nonsense.

  You know, in a way I envy her. She loved a man that never aged, never changed, never lied or betrayed her. Not like my Phil. They had a whole life together—well, not actually together, but you know what I mean. Isn’t that beautiful? Really, isn’t it?

  Chapter Five

  On Friday afternoon the phone rings. Grandma answers.

  “Yes! Yes! Who? No, there’s no David here. Hold on.” I am frantically waving my arms. “What do you want? Can’t you see I’m on the phone?” She turns her back to me. “Yes, of course I’m sure. I live here, don’t I? A message? For whom? No I don’t want to meet you at the Armstrong House. Nobody’s lived there for dog’s years. There’s a funny couple that bought it now. I dunno, funny. Like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. What? Oh, for heaven’s sake, all right. If I ever meet anyone named David, I’ll give him your message. Good-bye!” She slams down the phone. “Some people!”

  It seems incredible that it took only a casual suggestion by Aunt Constance to result in an invitation to dinner, but so it was. When I finally spoke with Marcus Rhinegold, the voice on the other end was effusive, delighted. Yes, yes, by all means, do come. Dinner at eight. Be happy to have you.

  But that night I wonder if I’ve been the victim of some elaborate practical joke. The Armstrong House is dark and shuttered when I arrive. No one’s lived in this place for a long time. The yard is parched and bare, with piles of sand and bits of construction material strewn about. Several of the windows are broken. The house, with its he
avy gray stone and mansard roof and single ocular window staring down at the driveway, looks like a summer cottage for the Addams Family. At last the door opens to a cavernous dark within and Marcus Rhinegold emerges. “You’re on time!” he cries, surprised.

  “I was under the impression I was coming to dinner.”

  “Not here!” He looks horrified at the thought. “We’ll eat on the Calliope. But Miss Heckman—Constance—said you’d like one last look at the old place.”

  In truth, I don’t. I remember this house when the Cavendishes lived here. They were a nice couple with a son my own age, Peter. We went to Moses Brown School together, until he fell from a swing in his senior year and shattered his spine. Then came a terrible year of braces and wheelchairs, plasma bags and oxygen. But the big house, with all its stairs and narrow passageways, defeated them. They bought a raised ranch in Woonsocket and spent a small fortune widening the doorways and putting in ramps. Just before they could move in, Peter caught an infection and died. I went to the funeral. I don’t know where the Cavendishes went after that. They might have stayed, but they had already sold the house to some land trust that was planning to turn it into a high-class rest home. By the time the trust got all its approvals, it was 2008, and the economy tanked. The firm went under and the house has been empty ever since. I never had the slightest interest in going inside after all that. But it seems rude to say so.

  Rhinegold hands me a flashlight and we enter together. It’s a week before Halloween and this has all the markings of a D-grade slasher flick. There’s plastic sheeting on the floor. Mirrored walls catch the light from our flashlights and reveal us looking momentarily horrified. The rooms are vast and empty. “This used to be the ballroom,” Rhinegold tells me.

  Actually it was the front parlor. The walls are lined with oak wainscoting and red silk, with a great marble fireplace that the Armstrongs brought over from a castle in Ireland. The floor is parquet laid out in hexagrams, which may be why Rhinegold thought it was for dancing. But I look to the corner of the room and can almost see the hospital gurney, the oblong bag dangling from its hook, and hear the steady shush of the ventilator. “They put him in here so he could look out at the sea.”

  “What’s that?” Rhinegold asks, confused.

  “Nothing.”

  The bottle of wine still dangles from my hand. “That looks great!” Rhinegold says, taking it from me. “Shall we try it?”

  “Here?”

  “Upstairs. There’s a great view of the ocean from the balcony. With a moon on the water, you can’t miss it.”

  I could tell him that I spent my whole life with that water and that moon, but I don’t. I’m beginning to get a sense of this man. He is very rich and very lonely, and unaccustomed to making new friends. I follow him upstairs. The French doors to the balcony are thrown open and the room is, as promised, filled with moonlight. He takes me out to the parapet. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  It is. A clear night in late October, with a harvest moon hanging low and fecund over a perfectly calm bay. The air is just cold enough to be bracing. “I’ll be sorry to tear the place down,” Rhinegold says, “But at least I get to keep the view.”

  The moonlight frames his face in profile as he looks out to sea. Up close, he’s younger than I thought. It’s a patrician face, startlingly handsome despite the gray at the temples.

  “Should we have some wine?”

  “Yeah.”

  We open it with Rhinegold’s penknife and drink it from the bottle, a cheap Chianti that makes us both gag a little. “Very nice,” Rhinegold chokes, with tears in his eyes.

  Through the French doors I catch sight of his yacht glittering in the harbor below. “She’s a beauty.”

  He smiles. “She is that. We’ve been all over the world, Alicia and me. Biarritz, Alexandria, Tortola, Monte Carlo… Hell, the whole boat is full of crap we bought along the way. Astrakhan rugs, Benares brass tables, you name it.”

  “And then you came here. Seems an odd place to land, after Biarritz and Monte Carlo.”

  “I got tired. Can you understand that? Tired of feeling like I was being chased. Finally I realized there really wasn’t anyone there.” He takes another swig from the bottle. “When I was a little kid I was in an orphanage in Bensonhurst. That doesn’t matter. We never really got to go anywhere, just back and forth from one big brick building to the other. I never saw anything of the world except Nostrand Avenue. Except this one time. I must’ve been about twelve or thirteen. That summer they sent us up to Montauk on the ferry. One day in early June. I’d never been on the water before. The Sound was a little rough, and some of the kids got sick. But I didn’t. I stood right on the bow, leaned over the rail. I’d never seen so much sky before. It was beautiful.”

  His face is lit with a smile and looks years younger. For just that moment I can see the tough little orphan kid, his face a hard kernel of fierce joy.

  “Then we got to Montauk. There was a bus waiting for us right at the pier. They took us down to the beach. The bus passed right through this little town, and I want to tell you, it wasn’t anything like I’d ever seen. The houses were all painted white with flower boxes in the windows. And each family had a house all to themselves! Incredible. Instead of a supermarket they had a little grocery store with baskets full of flowers out front. People didn’t hurry down the street; they just sort of ambled. Even the kids. We pressed our faces up against the glass and stared. By the time I got to the beach, I didn’t give a damn about the water. I just wanted to go back to that town, and disappear into one of those little white houses, and hide until they never found me again.”

  “I guess you finally did.”

  “I guess so.” But he doesn’t seem sure. Then, suddenly, the mask is back in place. Marcus grins, slips an arm over my shoulders. “I’m really glad I met you, David. I hope we get to see more of each other.” He’s close enough for me to smell his cologne, something fruity with a tang of cinnamon. His hand hasn’t moved. “That’s a pretty tattoo,” he murmurs, staring at the green tendrils that peek out of my open collar. “Is that a tree?”

  “It’s antlers.”

  “I’d love to see the whole stag.”

  Several things are becoming clearer. I edge backward, letting his hand fall to his side. “Shouldn’t we be getting down to the boat? Your wife will be wondering where you are.”

  “No, she won’t.”

  “But dinner…”

  “It’s okay.” He leans and whispers urgently into my ear. “I told her not to expect us till nine. It’s only seven-thirty now. We have lots of time.”

  “No, really…”

  “There’s a bed in the other room, David.” His voice is almost hoarse with lust, but his eyes are pleading. “I had my staff make it up. If you…you know…want to use it.”

  “Marcus.” I’m horrified and angry with myself at the same time. And very, very angry with Billy Dyer, who should have known better. I’m only five-foot-five, with spiky brown hair, blue eyes, and long eyelashes. My face never quite lost its babyish roundness. The term, in certain circles, is twink. “Marcus, don’t think I’m not flattered. I am. But I don’t think that’s where this night is headed.”

  There’s a long moment when we just stare at each other. “Oh,” he says finally. “Yeah.” Doors are closing all over his face. “Did you think…did you think I was…Nah, I’m married! Jeez, I just meant in case you were tired or something!”

  “I think I should probably go.”

  “No!” Rhinegold looks around desperately, as if there were a magic talisman on the floor that he could pick up and erase the last five minutes. “No, we’ve got dinner waiting! Alicia made us a terrific Jamaican jerk chicken. Well, she didn’t make it, exactly, the chef made it, but she ordered it, which I guess is the same thing…”

  He’s babbling now, his eyes still searching the sky, the darkened hous
e, anywhere except me. Neither of us wants to go to Alicia or the jerk chicken, but there’s nothing we can do. He can’t rescind his invitation without admitting it was a ploy, and I can’t do anything but pretend it’s real.

  The Calliope is a stunner. Mortified as I am, I can’t help but stare. Long and white and lovely, with a saloon made of solid teak and a stubby little funnel that pokes up from behind the wheelhouse. Every light is ablaze, casting a warm glow. “Wow,” I breathe.

  “Isn’t she something?” Rhinegold gets a bit of his confidence back. “Built as a sub chaser during the war. Solid mahogany inside and out, with big Chrysler diesels that lift her clear out of the water. She’ll do forty knots if she’s pushed.”

  “I didn’t know they made sub chasers that looked like that.”

  “Aww, well, I added a few improvements.” He grins, his good humor almost restored. Like most men, he takes refuge in machines. Especially his own. “The deckhouse, that actually came off a pilot boat. And all the trim is new. The whole interior had to be gutted as well, and the hull fitted for deep-sea travel. She’s got a huge gas tank now, in what used to be the depth charge storage. I can go all the way from here to Florida without refueling.”

  I try to look impressed as he reels off the statistics. But I get the feeling we are both waiting for something. Finally a shaft of light appears. “Marcus? You guys coming inside, or what?”

  “Yeah, honey.” But for the longest moment neither of us moves.

  Dinner is every bit as awkward as you’d expect. Rhinegold points to various objects around the room and tells stories about them. Alicia is wearing a tank top and sweatpants and looks bored. The jerk chicken is brought in by a steward. It is very good, and I say so. “Oh, I didn’t make it,” Alicia avers at once.

  “Alicia can’t even boil water,” Marcus adds.

  I don’t know what to say to this, so I nod and smile. Alicia goes back to staring out the window at the darkness. Rhinegold picks up a wooden figurine and turns it over in his hand. It looks African and vaguely sinister. The expression is disdainful, as if it resents being touched. “Picked this up in a market in Marrakech,” he says. “The vendor claims they ward off evil and increase virility…”