A Widow for One Year (28 page)

At the top of his small suitcase, Eddie had already packed the O’Hare family’s copy of
The Mouse Crawling Between the Walls;
it was the copy that Minty had wanted Mr. Cole to autograph, but Eddie could not (under the circumstances) bring himself to ask the famous author and illustrator for his signature. Instead, Eddie stole one of Ted’s pens; it was a fountain pen with the kind of nib Ted liked best for autographs. On the ferry, Eddie assumed, he would have time to try his best imitation of Ted Cole’s careful calligraphy. Eddie hoped that his mom and dad would never know the difference.

In the driveway, there was little to say in the way of good-byes— formal or informal.

“Well.” Ted stopped. “You’re a good driver, Eddie,” Ted managed to say; he held out his hand. Eddie accepted the handshake. He cautiously extended the mangled, bread loaf–shaped present for Ruth in his left hand. There was nothing to do but give it to Ted, which Eddie did.

“It’s for Ruth, but I don’t know what it is,” Eddie said. “It’s from my parents. It was in my duffel bag all summer,” he explained. He could see the distaste with which Ted examined the crushed wrapping paper, which was virtually undone. The present begged to be opened, if only to be free of its dreadful wrapping. Certainly Eddie was curious to see what it was; he also suspected he would be
embarrassed
to see what it was. Eddie could tell that Ted wanted to open it, too.

“Should I open it, or let Ruth open it?” Ted asked Eddie.

“Why don’t
you
open it?” Eddie said.

When Ted opened the present, it was clothing—a little T-shirt. What four-year-old is interested in clothing? If Ruth had opened the present, she would have been disappointed that it wasn’t a toy or a book. Besides, the little T-shirt was already too small for Ruth; by next summer, when it was T-shirt weather again, the child would have completely outgrown it.

Ted fully unfolded the T-shirt and held it up for Eddie to see. The Exeter theme should not have surprised Eddie, but the boy—for the first time in sixteen years—had just spent almost three months in a world where the academy was
not
the day-in, day-out topic of discussion. Across the chest of the little shirt, Eddie could read the maroon lettering on a field of gray:

EXETER 197__

Ted also showed Eddie the enclosed note from Minty. His father had written: “Not that it’s likely—at least not in
our
lifetimes—that the academy will ever admit girls, but I thought that, as a fellow Exonian, you would appreciate the possibility of your daughter attending Exeter. With my thanks for giving my boy his first job!” The note was signed
Joe O’Hare, ’36.
It was ironic, Eddie thought, that 1936, which was the year that his father had graduated from Exeter, was also the year Ted had married Marion.

It was more ironic that Ruth Cole
would
go to Exeter, despite Minty’s (and many of the Exeter faculty’s) belief that coeducation at the old academy was unlikely. In fact, on February 27, 1970, the trustees announced that Exeter would admit girls in the fall of that year. Ruth would then leave her life on Long Island for the venerable boarding school in New Hampshire; she was sixteen. At the age of nineteen, she would graduate from Exeter, in the class of ’73.

That year, Eddie’s mother, Dot O’Hare, would send her son a letter, telling him that his former employer’s daughter had graduated from the academy—along with 46 other girls, who were the female classmates of 239 boys. Dot admitted to Eddie that the numbers might be even more one-sided, because she had counted several of the boys as girls—so many of the boys had such long hair.

It’s true: the Exeter class of ’73 demonstrated that long hair for boys was in fashion; long, straight hair that was parted in the middle was also fashionable for girls. At the time, Ruth was no exception. She would go through college with long, straight hair parted in the middle, before she finally became the master of her own hair and cut it short—the way (she would say) she’d always wanted it, and not
only
to spite her father.

In the summer of ’73, when Eddie O’Hare was briefly at home, visiting his parents, he would pay no more than passing attention to the yearbook of Ruth’s graduating class. (Minty had foisted the ’73
PEAN
on him.)

“I think she’s got her mother’s looks,” Minty told Eddie, not that Minty would know. He’d never met Marion. Minty may have seen a photograph of her in a newspaper or magazine, around the time the boys died, but what he said nonetheless got Eddie’s attention.

When Eddie saw Ruth’s senior portrait, his opinion was that Ruth looked more like Ted. It wasn’t just the dark hair—it was her square face, the wide-apart eyes, her small mouth, her big jaw. Ruth was certainly attractive, but she was more handsome than she was beautiful; she was good-looking in an almost masculine way.

And this impression of Ruth at nineteen was enhanced by her jockish appearance in the team photograph for Varsity Squash. There would not be a
girls’
squash team at Exeter until the following year; in ’73, Ruth was permitted to play on the boys’ varsity, where she was the third-ranked player. In the team photo, Ruth could easily have been mistaken for one of the boys.

The only other photograph of Ruth Cole in the ’73 Exeter yearbook was a group portrait of the girls in her dormitory, Bancroft Hall. Ruth is smiling serenely in the center of a group of girls; she looks content, but alone.

And so his dismissive glimpse of Ruth in her Exeter yearbook photographs would permit Eddie to continue to think of her as “the poor kid” he had last seen asleep in the summer of 1958. It would be twentytwo years from that date before Ruth Cole would publish her first novel—when she was twenty-six. Eddie O’Hare would be thirty-eight when he read it; only then would he acknowledge that there was arguably more of Marion in Ruth than there was of Ted. And Ruth herself would be forty-one before Eddie realized that there was more of
Ruth
in Ruth than there was of either Ted or Marion.

But how could Eddie O’Hare have predicted this from a T-shirt that, in the summer of ’58, was already too small for Ruth to wear? At that moment, Eddie—like Marion—wanted only to leave, and his ride was waiting. The sixteen-year-old got into the cab of the pickup truck beside Eduardo Gomez; as the gardener was backing out the driveway, Eddie was debating whether or not he would wave good-bye to Ted, who was still standing in the driveway. If he waves first, I’ll wave back, Eddie decided; it seemed to him that Ted was on the verge of waving the little T-shirt, but Ted had something more emphatic than waving on his mind.

Before Eduardo could exit the driveway, Ted ran forward and stopped the truck. Although the morning air was cool, Eddie—wearing his inside-out Exeter sweatshirt—had his elbow resting on the open passenger-side window of the cab. Ted squeezed Eddie’s elbow as he spoke. “About Marion—there’s another thing you should know,” he told the boy. “Even before the accident, she was a difficult woman. I mean, if there had never been an accident, Marion would still be difficult. Do you understand what I’m saying, Eddie?”

Ted’s grip on Eddie’s elbow exerted a steady pressure, but Eddie could neither move his arm nor speak. He stops the truck to tell me that Marion is “a difficult woman,” Eddie was thinking. Even to a sixteen-year-old, the phrase did not ring true; in fact, it rang utterly false. It was strictly a male expression. It was what men who thought they were being polite said of their ex-wives. It was what a man said about a woman who was unavailable to him—or who had made herself in some way inaccessible. It was what a man said about a woman when he meant something else, when he meant
anything
else. And when a man said it, it was always derogatory, wasn’t it? But Eddie could think of nothing to say.

“I forgot something—there’s just one last thing,” Ted told the sixteen-year-old. “About the shoe . . .” If Eddie could have moved, he would have covered his ears, but the boy was paralyzed—a pillar of salt. Eddie could appreciate how Marion had turned to stone at the mere mention of the accident. “It was a basketball shoe,” Ted went on. “Timmy called them his high-tops.”

That was all Ted had to say.

As the pickup truck passed through Sag Harbor, Eduardo said: “This is where I live. I could sell my house for a lot of money. But the way things are going, I couldn’t afford to buy another house—at least not around here.”

Eddie nodded and smiled to the gardener. But the boy couldn’t talk; his elbow, which was still sticking out the passenger-side window, was numb from the cold air, but Eddie couldn’t move his arm.

They took the first small ferry to Shelter Island, and drove across the island, and took the other small ferry from the north end of the island to Greenport. (Years later, Ruth would always think of these little ferries as her preparation for leaving home—for going back to Exeter.)

In Greenport, Eduardo Gomez said to Eddie O’Hare: “With what I could get for my house in Sag Harbor, I could buy a really nice house here. But you can’t make much of a living as a gardener in Greenport.”

“No, I wouldn’t suppose so,” Eddie was able to say, although his tongue felt funny and his own speech sounded foreign to him.

At Orient Point, the ferry was not yet in sight; the dark-blue water was flecked with whitecaps. Since it was a Saturday, a lot of day-trippers were waiting for the ferry; most of them were foot passengers who were going shopping in New London. It was a different crowd from that day in June when Eddie had landed at Orient Point and Marion had met him. (“Hello, Eddie,” Marion had said. “I thought you’d never see me.” As if he
hadn’t
seen her! As if he could have
missed
seeing her!)

“Well, so long,” Eddie said to the gardener. “Thanks for the ride.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Eduardo said sincerely, “what’s it like working for Mr. Cole?”

Leaving Long Island

It was so cold and windy on the upper deck of the Cross Sound Ferry that Eddie sought refuge in the lee of the pilothouse; there, out of the wind, he practiced Ted Cole’s signature in one of his writing notebooks. The block letters of the capitals,
T
and
C,
were easy; here Ted’s handwriting resembled a sans-serif typeface. But the lowercase letters were a challenge; Ted’s lowercase letters were small and perfectly slanted, the handwritten equivalent of Baskerville italics. After twenty-odd attempts in his notebook, Eddie could still see signs of his own, more spontaneous handwriting in his imitations of Ted’s signature. Eddie feared that his parents, who knew their son’s handwriting very well, would suspect the forgery.

He was concentrating so fiercely that he failed to notice the very same clam-truck driver who had crossed the sound with him on that fateful June day. The clam-truck driver, who took the ferry from Orient Point to New London (and back again) every day except Sunday, recognized Eddie and sat down on the bench beside him. The driver couldn’t help observing that Eddie was caught up in the act of perfecting an apparent signature; remembering that Eddie had been hired to do something strange—there had been a brief discussion of exactly what a so-called writer’s assistant might
do
—the clam-truck driver assumed that Eddie’s chore of rewriting the same short name must be part of the boy’s peculiar job.

“How’s it going, kid?” the clam-truck driver asked. “Looks like you’re working hard.”

A future novelist, if never a hugely successful one, Eddie O’Hare was a young man with an instinct for spotting closure; as such, he was happy to see the clam-truck driver again. Eddie explained to the driver the task at hand: having “forgotten” to ask Ted Cole for his autograph, the boy didn’t want to disappoint his mom and dad.

“Let
me
try,” the clam-truck driver said.

Thus, in the lee of the pilothouse on the wind-blown upper deck, the driver of a clam truck rendered a flawless imitation of the best-selling author’s signature. After only a half-dozen attempts in the notebook, the clam-truck driver was ready for the real thing; Eddie allowed the excited man to autograph the O’Hare family’s copy of
The Mouse Crawling Between the Walls
. Snugly out of the wind, both man and boy admired the results. In gratitude, Eddie offered the clam-truck driver Ted Cole’s fountain pen.

“You gotta be kidding,” the clam-truck driver said.

“Take it—it’s yours,” Eddie told him. “I really don’t want it.” He really
didn’t
want the pen, which the clam-truck driver happily clipped to the inside pocket of his dirty windbreaker. The man smelled of hot dogs and beer, but also—especially out of the wind—of clams. He offered Eddie a beer, which Eddie declined, and then he asked Eddie if “the writer’s assistant” would be returning to Long Island the following summer.

Eddie didn’t think so. But, in truth, Eddie O’Hare would never quite leave Long Island—least of all, in his mind—and although he would spend the following summer at home in Exeter, where he worked for the academy as a guide in the admissions office, giving tours of the school to prospective Exonians and their parents, Eddie would return to Long Island as soon as the summer after that.

In the year of his graduation from Exeter (1960), Eddie was prompted to seek a summer job away from home; this desire, in combination with Eddie’s developing awareness that he was attracted to older women—and that they were attracted to him—would lead Eddie to remember Penny Pierce’s business card, which he had saved. Only when Eddie was anticipating his graduation from the academy—about a year and half
after
Penny Pierce had offered him a job in her Southampton frame shop—did he realize that Mrs. Pierce
might
have been offering him more than a job.

The Exeter senior would write to the Southampton divorcée with disarming candor. (“Hi! You may not remember me. I was formerly a writer’s assistant to Ted Cole. I was in your shop one day and you offered me a job. You
may
remember that I was, albeit briefly, Marion Cole’s lover?”)