A Dual Inheritance (42 page)

The beach—though right down below them—looked awfully far away, and Rebecca nearly asked if she could take a nap, but she didn’t want to miss anything. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this way, and this acuity propelled her to clear the table, to wash the dishes and the wineglasses. She wanted to be helpful. She wanted to
be—frankly—indispensable. Vivi, after she noticed that Rebecca was being awfully thorough, offered to dry.

“Lovely, thanks,” said Mrs. Shipley, noticing Rebecca’s efforts. “I’m off to my room,” she said, before wandering away.

“Meditation,” Vivi said quietly. “She’s very disciplined.”

When the dishes were done, Rebecca walked out onto the veranda to make sure the table was all cleared. She saw Mr. Shipley in the distance, climbing up the rocks. When he reached the top, he dove the great distance into the sea below.

“I can’t believe he just did that,” said Vivi. Rebecca hadn’t realized she was behind her.

“I know,” Rebecca said, her mouth still gaping open. She really was amazed. But, also, she would kill her father if he pulled anything like that.

They raced to change, suddenly in a rush to soak up the last good hour of daylight. And with the sand still holding the heat of the day, the girls ran down the stone steps and straight into the water, and Rebecca felt about ten years old. She was aware that—no matter how thrilled she’d been to sit with the Shipleys and partake of their wine and cigarettes and listen to what she knew both her parents would have seen as Mr. Shipley’s ridiculous opinions—she’d been pretty tense. Now she let the water hold her, and she floated and floated until the shapes in the clouds had all dramatically changed; when she looked up, Vivi was out of the water, lying facedown on a towel.

“You asleep?” Rebecca asked, hopping up and down; she always got water in her ears.

Vivi turned to face her. She was wearing a purple bikini with gold stripes and had somehow already acquired a tan. “Let’s put Sun-In in your hair tomorrow. I brought you some.”

“My hair will never turn blond from that stuff. Do I really want reddish hair?”

Vivi twisted up her face. “Sit,” she said, and Rebecca did. Vivi lifted Rebecca’s dark thick hair and let it fall. “I think you do,” she said.

“I could get used to this place,” said Rebecca, stretching out on a chaise.

“You should come skiing with us sometime.”

“You go
skiing
, too?” Rebecca realized she was still tipsy from lunch, but this was absurd. When she’d pictured the Shipleys, she’d imagined them only in health clinics, sweating and serious.

“We go about once a year—usually Switzerland. My dad worked briefly for the U.S. government, and we went to this ski resort that had been Hitler’s country place, and we stayed at this hotel that was only open to military families—for dirt cheap, too. I guess after World War Two, the States basically took over all of Hitler’s best spots.”

“You stayed on Hitler’s former playgrounds? That’s … creepy. I mean, don’t you think?”

Vivi nodded. “I think it is creepy but also kind of perfect. What better revenge? American families enjoying his favorite places?”

“But do you think most of the families even thought about it?” Rebecca looked out at the water. Mr. Shipley was swimming long laps beyond where the waves were breaking. He hadn’t even looked up. “Do you think most military families think about the Holocaust, or do you think they’re mostly, like,
Ooh, totally excellent powder today
? And how many of those Americans staying in the hotel are even Jewish? I couldn’t stay in a place like that. I’d be too preoccupied with the past.”

“Ever been out west? Like California or Arizona? Or, really, anywhere in America? Are you preoccupied with the slaughter of Native Americans?”

“That’s not exactly a fair comparison.”

“Well,” said Vivi, before sitting up. “We don’t go skiing there anymore, anyway.”

“I’m just saying—”

“You don’t think I know what you’re saying? Did you hear my father at lunch? Believe me, his passion about home improvement doesn’t begin to approach other, actual
human
injustices. Ask him about bigotry sometime. I mean it, go on.”

“Do you think he’s … too extreme?”

“No, I don’t.” She shook her head. “He’s dedicated. I don’t really know what I’m saying. But sometimes,” she said, with uncharacteristic intensity, “I wonder what the point of ranting is. You know? What does it actually do?”

“But I wonder the same thing. What
is
the point?”

“You want to help people? Fine. Then help. And my father does help. I’m not saying he doesn’t. And—listen—just because I skied at Hitler’s former mountain getaway and I enjoyed it, it doesn’t mean I’m empty-headed. Just because I’m not openly despondent over every single human-rights struggle doesn’t mean I’m not deep.”

“Who said anything about you not being deep? You are extremely deep.”

“You don’t have to go that far, but don’t make that mistake about me. Okay?”

“Definitely not.” They both lay back and closed their eyes. “So,” offered Rebecca, “what do you do on these ski trips, anyway?”

When Vivi didn’t say anything, Rebecca sat up and saw Vivi lying with her eyes still closed. She remembered that day at the tree; it seemed like years ago now.

“We usually hit the slopes around ten-thirty,” said Vivi finally. “We have lunch at one-thirty, and that’s … generally about it for the day. We’re all pretty lazy about skiing. My mom and I usually crap out on the last day—sit in the hot tub, eat too much fondue.” She opened her eyes and sat up, more animated now. “Do you know how to ski? I didn’t even ask.”

Rebecca nodded, tried to keep from smiling.

“What?”

“It’s just that we start at about eight, break for lunch at noon—half hour,
maybe
an hour—and ski until the very bitter end of the day. My father doesn’t have it in him to pay for something and not use it. And he’s constantly paying!
And
we have a ridiculous amount of photos indoors in the ski lodge, which are always terrible because of the goggle tans, and then my father always insists on having one professionally
done at the top of the mountain, where we have to do something stupid like stick our poles in the air.”

“I want to see
those
pictures,” said Vivi.

“One day,” said Rebecca, taking a deep breath. The errant palms sticking out sideways, the pale-turquoise water, the white sand—it was all so beautiful. And then she realized, with an odd little twist of smug surprise, that this kind of beautiful was also boring. “Why do you think our fathers didn’t stay friends?”

Vivi shrugged. “Who knows. They don’t exactly have much in common, do they?”

“No, but—”

“I mean, I doubt they were all
that
close.”

“What makes you think so? It sounds like they were. I mean, nobody meets my grandfather.”

“I guess I think my mom would have more to say about your dad if he was a really good friend back then. She’s opinionated, and my parents were definitely together then. They’ve been together since high school. I mean, maybe my mother didn’t like him. Maybe that’s why they didn’t stay friends.”

“Or maybe she did,” said Rebecca, widening her eyes.

“Oooh …” said Vivi dramatically. “Can you imagine?”

Rebecca let herself. She let the image pass across the screen of her mind: tall, aloof, in-the-present-moment Mrs. Shipley and
her father
, kicking leaves in Harvard Yard.

“No way,” said Rebecca. “Besides, even though your mom is so beautiful, she’s not my dad’s type.”

“You know your dad’s type?”

“Well, I know my mother. And, yeah, I think I do know his type.”

“No offense, but I think my mom was probably everyone’s type. You should see
those
pictures. And your dad …”

“What?”

“This is so stupid,” said Vivi.

“What were you going to say about my dad?”

“Let’s just ask them.”

“No,” said Rebecca, “I don’t want to.”

“Why
not
?”

Rebecca felt her chest and face flushing, and she became so flustered that she nearly shouted, “You’re suggesting that my dad was some kind of loser.”

“I’m not suggesting your dad was a
loser
. Rebecca! You’re the one who said my mom wouldn’t have been your dad’s type.”

“Okay, fine, but—I don’t think he ever dated anyone who wasn’t Jewish.”

“Oh,” said Vivi. “Well, okay, then! I guess this ridiculous hypothetical conversation can come to an end.”

“Definitely,” said Rebecca tersely. She stood up too quickly and got dizzy. The sky was easing into some kind of lurid pink. And then, even though she was suddenly chilled, she rushed into the sea, taking giant sloshing steps into that pale-blue water, which was—she now observed—the same color as Mr. Shipley’s eyes.

Later that evening, Vivi shook her awake—when had she fallen asleep in the lumpy twin bed? It was pitch dark outside. Vivi picked out Rebecca’s clothes, handed her a cup of strong tea, and they were all off to the home of a local musician named Maxy Max—a black man with reddish dreads and a graying beard, who wore sunglasses even though it was nighttime and who threw his arms around Mr. Shipley and began talking so quickly about what he’d been missing since the last time he came.

“I thought this was your first time here,” whispered Rebecca, after the introductions.

“I guess not for my father,” said Vivi. “He travels a lot. I lose track.” They wandered off to sit on a big piece of driftwood. “How about this place?”

It was a gnarled tree house by the sea with a large deck. There had
been some damage, said Maxy, during the last big storm. A beautiful woman reclined in a hammock. It was only on closer inspection that Rebecca noticed she was nursing an infant. A pack of children ran around chasing a chicken, while a couple of men smoked a joint by a bar. They laughed and one skinny man called out:
Getim getim gowon and get that nasty bird
.

Mrs. Shipley was drinking from a bottle of beer and talking to the woman in the hammock, whose dreadlocks were piled high atop her head. Rebecca heard Mrs. Shipley ask,
How old is he? Are you getting any sleep?
But because of the wind and the sound of the waves lapping onshore, Rebecca couldn’t hear any answers.
Your fourth?
said Mrs. Shipley. Then:
Me? Only my daughter. Oh yes, just the one
.

They both watched Mrs. Shipley hold the baby boy. He reached up and grabbed Vivi’s mother’s hair, and as Mrs. Shipley smiled and smiled, Rebecca could not deny this unexpected thought:
She’s sad
.

“You okay now?” asked Vivi.

“Yep,” said Rebecca. “Totally fine.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I’m moody,” said Rebecca. “I realize that.”

Vivi nodded.

“And you’re not.”

“No,” said Vivi. “That’s true. But I’m other things.”

The girls watched Vivi’s parents. They were laughing at something that Maxy had said. On the beach, two white birds poked around between the rocks and shells. A tree that looked like a giant gnarled bonsai appeared to be bending from a harsh wind, even though it wasn’t windy. She wondered if the Shipleys even celebrated Thanksgiving, which seemed—at this moment—like a monumental waste of time.

“Maybe,” said Rebecca, “we should try to get a beer?”

“Well, what do you know,” said Vivi.

Down a dirt road, the car got stuck. The Shipleys were not fazed. Mrs. Shipley said,
Girls, out of the car
, and they got out, all set to push. Mr.
Shipley, at the wheel, didn’t even take the cigarette from between his lips as he called out,
NOW
. The stars and the moon were so bright that it seemed as if there were streetlights, and as the car regained its momentum, Mr. Shipley sped over rocks and the girls jumped in, as if they were leaving a crime scene. He sped toward another outdoor deck, where there were so many bodies on the dance floor that it took a moment for Rebecca to realize they were the only white people on it. No island reggae here. No Jimmy Buffett. A shirtless black man rapped into a microphone over a dance-hall beat. His skin was slick with sweat. Everyone was sweating, and everyone was dancing, except for Mr. Shipley, who remained standing, a tall still tree amidst a field of waving, twisting reeds, and Rebecca was one of them.

And after the rapping stopped, the canned beat went on, the dancing went on, and Rebecca squeezed through the crowd, following Vivi and her parents to what looked like the back lot of someone’s house (what, in fact,
was
someone’s house). Mr. Shipley knew to knock on the door and order barbecue for four. They sat at a picnic table in a small yard strewn with plastic toys and the familiar sight of headless, naked Barbie. They ate chicken and ribs. They drank Carib beer. And when, after Mr. Shipley drove them home too fast, weaving on both the dirt and paved roads (
please oh please don’t let us die
), they still didn’t go to bed. Without discussing it, the Shipleys took the narrow stone steps down to the sea, where Vivi and her parents stripped to their underwear and rushed into the water, and Rebecca raced to catch up. When it started to rain, they looked out for lightning but there wasn’t any; just rain—steady, warm, falling.

She woke up with a speeding heart, panicked over the fact that she had ridden in a car with a driver so obviously drunk, that she was, actually, exactly that stupid, and that her father had no idea where she was. She thought it was five in the morning, and when she looked in Vivi’s bed and didn’t see Vivi, she assumed that her friend had stayed up all night reading, as Rebecca knew she sometimes liked to do. But then she peeked
through the blinds and saw the light flood in; it wasn’t dawn light, not even close. She went up the stairs in search of—what? She wasn’t sure, but it felt urgent that she find out the time, that she orient herself, that—

“Happy Thanksgiving,” called Mr. Shipley from the kitchen.

“What time is it?” she wondered aloud, seeing the table on the veranda festively set, hearing the far-off splash of someone in the sea. She wandered into the kitchen.