Loss of Innocence (14 page)

She put aside the book, unsure that she wished to finish it.

Three

On an afternoon in late July—warm and cloudless, with a light breeze on Quitsa Pond—Whitney and Ben rowed the dinghy to the Barkley’s Herreshoff. She had passed the test, naming each component of the boat. Now it was time for her to sail.

Sitting behind him, Whitney said, “I guess you saw that the Senate killed the gun control bill. Republicans, mostly.”

Ben turned to her, a bitter light in his eyes. “Surprise, Whitney. Nixon needs the NRA. A few nuts with guns kill people every day, so why should one more dead guy make a difference—especially Bobby Kennedy.” He started rowing again, speaking over his shoulder in a low, angry voice. “But it wasn’t just the Republicans. That pompous prick Gene McCarthy said we shouldn’t pass it under ‘panic conditions.’ His last chance to piss on Bobby’s grave.”

He lapsed into silence, rowing fiercely. Whitney regretted saying anything at all.

Reaching the mooring, they tied up the dinghy and climbed into the sailboat. Under Ben’s tutelage, Whitney helped him rig the sails, his concentration on their task leveling his mood. Manning the
tiller, he pointed to a passage between Quitsa and Menemsha Pond. “I’ll get us through the narrows. After that, you’ll take over.”

Propelled by a southeast wind, they headed toward the passage. “It’s called Chaukers,” Ben explained. “It’s shallow there, easy to run aground. To thread the needle requires tacking with each wind shift, consistently moving the mainsail. You’ll have to keep ducking or the boom will take your head off.”

As they headed toward the opening, Ben started tacking with the wind, fighting the tide from Menemsha Pond. Caught by each shift, the mainsail swept across the boat, Whitney ducking beneath the heavy wooden boom. Atop the mast, the arrow that showed wind direction kept veering. Taut and intent, Ben tacked again as the banks of Chaukers closed around them. Thirty feet of width, then twenty. “Notice where the water’s brown,” Ben said between his teeth. “That’s where it’s shallow enough to run aground.”

Swiftly tacking, he guided the Herreshoff along a ribbon of blue between the smudged brown nearer the banks. A gust of wind carried them into Menemsha Pond. “One of my favorite places on the Vineyard,” he told her. “About a mile across and over a hundred feet deep, left by a glacier millions of years ago. God’s gift to sailors.”

Ben still held the tiller, allowing Whitney to take in the expanse of blue water, the direction of the wind. “Now it’s coming from the side of us,” he pointed out to her. “We’re sailing sixty degrees off the wind—a full reach, the perfect tack to be on.”

All at once they were moving faster. As they cut through the water, Whitney felt her spirits lift. “I wish you could see us,” Ben told her. “There’s nothing prettier than a Herreshoff under sail.”

Gaining speed, they headed toward the soft green banks of Herring Creek. “Closer to land, Whitney, the wind will change direction. If you know where and when that happens, it can help you win a race.”

He was different now, she thought—fully absorbed in a task that seemed to touch the deepest part of him, happy in a primal way that perhaps only sailing could create. For a moment it was as if she were
not there. Then he turned the boat in a semicircle, away from land. “Your turn, Whitney.”

She sat sideways to the tiller, Ben beside her. As he handed her the mainsheet, she felt the mainsail tugging on it. “Can you tell where the wind’s coming from?” he asked.

“Right at us.”

Looking up at the arrow, Ben nodded. “You can’t sail into a headwind. So you tack off starboard, or port, depending on where you want to go. Pick a direction.”

Whitney pointed toward the far bank. “See the white house? The one peeking through the trees?”

“Head for it, then. Move the tiller toward you, and the boat will go in the opposite direction. Same thing when you move it away. It may seem counterintuitive, but you’ll catch on.”

Unsure of herself, Whitney gripped the tiller tightly. “No white knuckles,” Ben said in the same even tone. “Just keep three fingers on it, with a light touch. Don’t worry that you’ve never done this. You’re not going to break this boat, and you’ve got me to help you.”

He was different than on land, Whitney thought—calm and reassuring. Her grip lightening, she moved the tiller toward her, and saw the mainsail fill with wind. In a half minute, she had them gliding along the water, experimenting with the feel of a boat responding to her hand. Suddenly, she felt the exhilaration of being in control—that she, the wind, and the sailboat were working together. It took Ben’s chuckle to make her realize that she was grinning from sheer pleasure.

“I love this feeling, Ben.”

“I know. I want to do this all my life, sail everywhere there is to sail. I hope I get the chance.”

Hearing the softness in his voice, Whitney felt she knew him in a different way. For a brief moment, she was aware of how close they were sitting. Then a powerboat rocked the sailboat sideways, and left them foundering in its wake. “These boats don’t capsize,” Ben assured her. “Check the wind, then get us back on course.”

Glancing at the arrow, she saw that the wind was shifting and angled the mainsail to catch it. Instantly, they were skimming along the water again. Pointing ahead, Ben told her, “You’ll want to miss that lobster pot.”

Moving the tiller away from her, she cleared the pot. “The wind’s behind us now, Whitney. Use it.”

Within seconds they were racing so close to the wind that the water sped by. In a fresh burst of elation, Whitney thought that she was doing something no one in her family ever had, something all her own. She loved this new sense of mastery—now nothing mattered but the boat, the water, and her. “Want to take us back through Chaukers?” Ben asked.

“Sure.”

“Turn it around, then. You’ll have to be patient, and you’ll be fighting the wind. But I can help you tack.”

As the boat circled, sailing became work again. With Ben’s guidance, she tacked back and forth for endless minutes as the sailboat struggled closer to the passage. Whitney felt herself tense, unsure of where the shallows were. She tacked again, then again.

Abruptly, the boat lurched, stuck in mud she could not see. “Damn,” she muttered.

“Happens all the time,” Ben said with a shrug. “Hard to see these shallows in the afternoon light.”

Peeling off his shirt, he lowered himself into the waist-deep water and began pushing the boat off the mud. As he pulled himself back in, Whitney saw again how lean and muscular he was, the line of dark hair down the center of his chest. For a moment, she imagined herself as Clarice.

Taking the tiller, Ben worked them through the narrows. “Did you ever swim here?” she asked.

“Sure. When I was sixteen, I swam across the pond.”

“The whole mile?”

“Uh-huh. It was a point of pride for me, because my father never learned to swim. That’s a common superstition among fishermen—they take learning to swim as an admission they might drown. So
Dad didn’t, cementing his chance of drowning. One of the many reasons I don’t use him as a role model.”

With a final tack, they made it through the narrows. Then Ben let her sail them to the mooring.

Together, they took down the sails. This time, Whitney felt different—his partner as well as his student. “Thank you,” she said. “That was even better than I’d imagined.”

Ben nodded. “I think you have a feel for this, Whitney. Not everyone does.”

His approval warmed her. “You made it easy for me, really. You’re very patient on the water.”

Ben started folding canvas. “As opposed to on land, you mean? Another reverse lesson from Dad. On the lobster boat he would shout and curse—the worst way to teach anyone. The trick is to never make a beginner feel intimidated by the water. That makes it easier to learn, as does this boat.”

Whitney thought again of her friend. “I should thank Clarice for both of us.”

Ben shrugged. “The boat means nothing to her. She knows just enough to know that I won’t sink it.”

Whitney looked up at him. “You don’t like her much, do you?

“To the contrary, I admire her clarity of purpose. As I perceive it, she’s a girl who knows exactly what she wants—which is what she already has. What’s most intriguing about Clarice is the steely quality she tries so hard to conceal.” He smiled. “To all outward appearances, she has no ambition but to keep on living the life she was born to, killing her allotted time on earth as pleasurably as she can.”

To Whitney’s surprise, his assessment had an uncomfortable ring of truth. “You could say at least some of that about me.”

Ben gave her a thin smile. “I could. But I won’t. Though you may not think so, you’re different.”

Whitney stared at him. “Why do you say that?”

“At the risk of being presumptuous, you’ve been living your life on autopilot, sleepwalking toward eternity. The challenge presented by Clarice is her relentless self-interest, and whether anyone could
ever penetrate that. But unlike Miss Barkley, you ask questions, and you’re curious. I also think you’re questioning yourself.” He shot her a quick grin. “A dangerous tendency, Whitney. Trust me about that.”

Whitney felt the remark jangle her nerve ends. There was something uncanny about him, she thought, that made her want to hide. “I think you’re imagining things.”

“Am I? Would you mind if I read your diary?”

“Actually, I would,” she said stiffly. “It’s private.”

“Obviously.” Pausing, he regarded her with surprising seriousness. “You’re more like me than you think—a loner. Except that you’re surrounded by other people.”

Whitney shook her head, resistant. “I certainly don’t feel alone.”

“I think you are,” Ben retorted calmly. “You want to write, but I’d guess no one urges you on. You taught black kids, but I’d give odds that everyone in your family—and certainly your intended—saw it as an experiment in idealism, from which you managed to escape without being gang-raped by a pack of subliterate schoolyard basketball players . . .”

“That’s not fair,” Whitney snapped.

“Isn’t it? Has your fiancé ever encouraged you to do anything other than get married?”

Whitney sat straighter. “I have to say that you wear better under sail. Here on land, it’s my dim understanding married people grow together . . .”

“Actually, mine shriveled.”

“Maybe so,” Whitney retorted sharply. “But most men don’t beat their wives.”

“Most men don’t have to. Would you say that your mother has grown in her marriage?”

Whitney gave herself a moment to speak more calmly. “You’re in no position to ask that question, let alone to answer it. My mother raised us, and helped my Dad in every way she could. That’s how she wanted to spend her life, and there’s a lot of good in that for everyone. In spite of your jibes about Clarice.”

Ben smiled at this. “I certainly didn’t call Clarice a fool. I’m quite sure that beneath her very pretty and vivacious surface she’s coolly determined to find a husband capable of protecting her many prerogatives in life.”

Once again, the accuracy of his perceptions unsettled Whitney. “So was my mother,” she told him. “At least if you mean that its easier to stay in love with a man you admire and respect, rather than to some guy you have to prop up every minute. Even if he has money.”

“Didn’t your father?”

“Hardly. Despite your seemingly unshakable prejudices, my dad came from nowhere. In fact, oddly enough, Clarice gave you a bigger compliment than you deserve. She said you reminded her of him.”

Surprise bled the irony from Ben’s expression. “Interesting coming from Clarice, who I take to be a keen judge of men. At least the ones she knows well. But it’s odd she should pick your father as my soul mate. From what I can gather, we’re nothing alike.”

Whitney gave him a wintry smile. “True. Dad’s far more generous of spirit.”

The trace of humor reappeared in his eyes. “A pretty low bar, I guess. But have you ever defied him, or known anyone who has? Not your fiancé, certainly. Seems like Dad’s arranged life precisely the way he wants it.”

Once again, Whitney felt herself bridle at his presumption. “Let’s talk about something else. You can pick the topic.”

Ben smiled again. “But they’re narrowing so quickly. First Peter, then Clarice, and now your father.”

“Then choose one you know something about, like sailing. I thought you were here to teach me.”

A new and unreadable emotion moved through his eyes, then vanished. “I am,” he said simply.

Four

On a warm, humid evening in early August, the Danes and Barkleys attended a charity dinner to support the purchase of land for nature preserves. It took place on the lawn of a rambling summer home overlooking Quitsa Pond, evoking for Whitney her last sail with Ben. The men wore blazers—often navy-blue like Charles’s and Peter’s—the women bright summer dresses. Whitney’s dress was pink, cut slightly above the knee, while Clarice’s yellow miniskirt revealed the tan, slender legs that were her pride. Waiters in black bow ties and white cloth jackets dipped in and out among the guests, serving canapés and drinks on silver trays. To Whitney it seemed much like other such evenings—pleasant enough but ultimately boring, a gathering of lemmings whose chatter was as bland as the hors d’oeuvres. Deciding that a glass of wine might improve her perspective, she drifted away from Peter and her parents, and realized the waiter approaching with a drink tray was Benjamin Blaine.

Despite his lack of expression, she sensed an awkwardness that matched her own. Recalling that Ben and his brother had catered
parties in high school, she wondered how this felt to him after his years at Yale and the murder of his candidate-hero. As he held out the tray, she mustered her warmest smile. “Hi, Ben. It’s nice to see you.”

“And you, Lady Dane.”

Whitney took a glass of white wine. “Lady Dane? Didn’t the Rolling Stones record that?”

Ben had the grace to laugh. “I preferred ‘Under My Thumb.’ Enjoy the party, Whitney.”

As he started to leave, she said swiftly, “So when are we sailing again? It was a nice day, I thought. At least mostly.”

He stopped briefly, glancing at her sideways. “I don’t have my appointment book with me. But you know where I live.” Then he was off again, circulating among the guests.

Gazing after him, Whitney sensed someone at her shoulder. “Isn’t that your friend?” Peter said. “The outfit looks good on him.”

To Whitney, this attempt at bluff humor carried a trace of belligerence. Before coming, Peter had enjoyed a cocktail or two with her father, who insisted on at least one glass of single malt scotch before Vineyard charity events—the spirits would be paltry, he groused, the wine second tier. But while a tumbler of Macallan reliably elevated Charles’s disposition, it seemed to have left Peter a little fuzzy of tongue.

“Friend is overstating it,” she told him. “We’re friendly, that’s all.”

Still looking toward Ben, Peter said nothing. Whitney sensed that his brain had slowed a little, calibrating his reactions with less facility than was usual for the easy, openhearted young man everyone liked so much. “Why don’t we find our table,” she suggested. “These new pumps are hurting my feet.”

There were seven people at the table for eight—to her mother’s distress, Janine had chosen not to come for the weekend, pleading fatigue from days of photo shoots. Clarice sat between her parents, a genetic mixture of them both. While George Barkley’s sandy hair, blue eyes, and fine features were the prototype for his daughter’s
good looks, Clarice’s vitality came from her energetic if somewhat fidgety mother Jane, a diminutive brunette whose quick tongue never quite concealed the insecurity that had caused Clarice to dub her “Our Lady of Perpetual Anxiety.” Tonight her worries were no doubt exacerbated by the fear that her husband stood on fiscal quicksand. As often, Whitney was grateful for her father, sitting between her and Anne with his accustomed air of tranquil authority. But Peter made her edgy; he was drinking more wine than normal, and a flush stained his cheeks and forehead. Across the table, Clarice’s gaze moved from Peter to Whitney, her eyebrows slightly raised, before flickering toward someone standing behind them.

Turning, Whitney saw Ben passing with dinner plates in both hands. As he paused to give her a fleeting glance, Peter held out his wine glass. “Fill this for me,” he demanded.

Ben stopped where he was, regarding Peter with a long, cool glance, silence his only response. Peter thrust out the glass toward him. “Wine,” he demanded.

Still, Ben took his time to respond. “I’m serving dinner now. That explains the plates I’m holding. But someone will be over soon enough.”

“I’m asking you,” Peter insisted with rising belligerence.

Ben’s smile, a brief movement of his lips, suggested his disdain. “Yeah, I got that. But maybe you should ask for coffee.”

Embarrassed, Whitney glanced at Clarice. She was studying Charles, who, to Whitney’s surprise, was watching Ben with the utter lack of expression she saw only when all his faculties were trained on assessing another male. The others were not as self-possessed: George Barkley looked away; his wife rediscovered her wine glass; and Whitney’s mother shot Peter a surreptitious look of worry.

Before Peter could respond, Ben left him holding his glass aloft. “Can you believe that?” Peter asked, his voice louder in their silence.

Ignoring this, Charles still watched Ben walk away. To her relief, Whitney noticed a tall, solemn-looking waiter approaching their table. He gave her a faint but reassuring smile, then addressed Peter. “May I get you something?” he asked politely.

Unlike Ben, he had an inherent gentleness of manner. Mollified, Peter said, “A glass of red wine, thank you.”

“Of course.” Filling Peter’s glass, the young man glanced briefly at Clarice. “Would anyone else care for wine?”

“A final glass for me,” Charles said, which Whitney took as a tacit directive to Peter. Then the moment passed, allowing Whitney’s mother to remark on Clarice’s hemline.

Upon their return home, Peter and Whitney remained on the lawn. Even in the moonlight, his chagrin was apparent. “You were pretty quiet tonight, Whit.”

“Was I?”

His shoulders hunched. “Didn’t handle that very well, did I?”

“You treated him like a menial, Peter. It’s not like you.”

“Ever meet someone who makes your hair stand up? There’s something about this guy. You saw how insolent he was.”

“Only after I saw how insulting
you
were. Can I ask what brought that on? Other than scotch, that is.”

He shifted his weight. “I guess I don’t like you hanging out with him.”

“We’re not ‘hanging out’ . . .”

“He’s going after you, Whitney. Maybe you don’t think so, but he is.”

Was he? she wondered. She found this hard to imagine: in the hours they had spent together, Ben had done little to suggest that she was other than a mildly diverting specimen of her class in his interregnum of loneliness and uncertainty. “He knows I’m getting married,” she said firmly. “He’s no more interested in me than I am in him . . .”

“Then why were you upset?”

“I wasn’t upset. I was embarrassed, and I felt badly for you. This wasn’t about him at all.”

Peter shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t want you apologizing for me, Whitney. I don’t want him thinking he’s that important.”

“I won’t, and he doesn’t. So please let it go, all right?”

At length, Peter sighed in apology. “So tell me we’ll be fine tomorrow.”

Rising on her tiptoes, Whitney gave him a kiss. “We’re fine now,” she assured him. “And you’ll be fine tomorrow if you take some aspirin.”

Peter smiled ruefully. “I hope so. Good night, Whit.”

Pensive, she watched him walk slowly toward the guesthouse. When she went inside, her father was sitting in the living room. “Can we talk a minute?” he asked.

Tense, Whitney sat across from him. “I guess this is about Peter.”

Charles nodded. “He didn’t handle that well, it’s true. But your mother and I felt for him, and his behavior should give you pause for thought.”

The remark, calm but faintly accusatory, aroused Whitney’s stubbornness. “It did, actually. I was thinking you should cut back on cocktail hour. I’m not the one who primed him with scotch, after all.”

Her unaccustomed sharpness caused Charles to flush. “And I’m not the one who struck up a random friendship with another man.” His voice rose. “Every instinct I possess tells me that
this
man is a human stick of dynamite, whose mere presence in your life could blow it up.
You
may think nothing of spending time with him, but others will. Especially Peter. No man wants people believing him a fool, and no man wants to be one.”

“What are you implying, Dad?”

“About your intentions, nothing. I’m simply suggesting that you act with the care appropriate to a woman about to marry a fine young man.”

“I’m not a child,” Whitney objected, “and Peter has no reason to be jealous. I can’t shun someone just because of what other people may think.” She softened her voice, hoping to persuade him. “I don’t want to treat Ben as poorly as Peter did. He’s had a tough time all his life, and a worse one lately. He got himself into
Yale on a scholarship, then dropped out to campaign with Bobby Kennedy. He’s devastated by what happened, and now the draft may get him.”

Charles put curled fingers to his lips. “You seem to know a lot about this boy.”

“I’ve always been a decent listener, haven’t I? Actually, he’s pretty annoying, though I admire his determination to succeed. In fact, Clarice says he reminds her of you.”

Charles’s eyes narrowed slightly. In a cooler tone, he said, “Really.”

“I don’t see it,” Whitney consoled him. “Except that you’re both overly opinionated, and better at arguing than listening, you’re nothing alike.”

Charles allowed himself a smile of self-recognition. “I’m the soul of tolerance, Whitney.”

“Of course you are. If it weren’t for Ben’s politics, I’m certain you’d adore him.”

Charles regarded her in contemplative silence. “You do make him sound interesting,” he responded in a more suitable tone. “Certainly the part about resembling me. Perhaps you should invite him to dinner. That might relieve whatever awkwardness you feel, and put your mother and me more at ease. It’s even remotely conceivable that I’ve been a bit too harsh.”

Whitney felt a stab of apprehension: the image of Ben with her family filled her with misgivings.” I don’t think that’s necessary, Dad. Let’s drop it.”

“Suit yourself,” her father said easily. “But he did fish you out of the water, and we’ve always welcomed your friends. Once Peter returns to Manhattan, why don’t you see what Ben thinks.”

After a moment, Whitney nodded, resolved to do nothing of the kind.