The Bay at Midnight (23 page)

On Easter Sunday, 1943, Charles asked me to marry him. Of course, I accepted, but as summer grew near and my parents spoke of having him stay with us at the shore, I became increasingly nervous. The rule between Ross and I that we would be lovers during the summers was unwritten and even unspoken, but it existed nevertheless, and I feared his reaction when I showed up with Charles. I hoped it would be clear to him that I needed to put an end to our illicit relationship, and I prayed he did nothing that might arouse Charles’s suspicions. I was in for a surprise.

Charles and I followed my parents’ car as we drove down the shore, and when we pulled into the driveway of the bungalow, I could see that two cars were already present in front of the Chapmans’ house. My heart pounded as we unloaded the car and walked into our musty-smelling house. When I opened the French doors leading to the porch with its panoramic view of the canal, Charles gasped.

“It’s wonderful!” he said, walking across the porch and unlatching the screen door to step outside.

I could see people in the Chapmans’ yard, although I could not tell who they were, and I felt unprepared to walk into the yard with Charles if Ross was there. I’d wanted a chance to talk to Ross alone first. But with Charles already walking outside, I had little choice but to follow him.

“When will your father get the boat?” Charles asked, motioning at the dock as we walked toward the canal. The wooden bulkheads were in place by then, but it would be years before there would be a chain-link fence to mar our view.

“He’ll pick it up tomorrow, probably,” I said, my eyes on the Chapmans’ yard. Two figures stood in the far corner: Ross and a woman. I should have been pleased that he, too, would be preoccupied with a guest, but instead, a breath-stealing jealousy sprang up in my chest.

“Looks like you share your backyard.” Charles nodded toward the twosome.

Ross had his arm around the woman, but as he turned and saw us, his arm fell quickly from her shoulders. He was just as uncomfortable as I was, I thought.

“Hello, Maria!” he called. He put his hand on the woman’s elbow to turn her toward us. In his other hand, he held a cigar.

“Hi, Ross,” I said.

He said something I couldn’t hear to the woman, and they began walking in our direction. I felt Charles’s hand on my back, lightly pushing me forward until the four of us met in the middle of the yard.

Ross looked wonderful, a little trimmer than the year before.
I had trouble meeting his eyes. The delicious, woody scent of his cigar surrounded us.

“This is Joan Rockefeller,” he said. “Joan, this is my neighbor, Maria Foley. And this is…?” He raised his eyebrows in Charles’s direction.

“Charles Bauer,” I volunteered. “This is Ross Chapman.”

The two men shook hands while I studied Joan. She was a blond stunner. Huge blue eyes, carefully coiffed hair, a dress that hugged a very slender frame.

“Any relation to the New York Rockefellers?” Charles asked the question I was thinking. How much was this girl worth?

“I’m about a fifty-first cousin, thrice removed.” Joan laughed. Then she turned to me. “Ross said that your family and his have been summertime neighbors since you were small.” Her highpitched voice was almost childlike.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Maria taught me how to dance,” Ross said.

“Oh, you did a wonderful job.” Joan nodded at me with a smile.

“And Ross taught me how to play tennis,” I said.

I thought of all the other things Ross had taught me that had nothing to do with tennis and felt myself blushing furiously. I couldn’t get a handle on my feelings. I loved Charles, of that I was certain, so it was ridiculous that my chest ached at seeing Ross with another woman. She would be the sort of girl his parents wanted for him. A Rockefeller, no less. I wondered if he felt jealous at seeing me with Charles. He didn’t seem to. He was smiling easily, touching Joan’s arm in an intimate way and I knew that
she
was the one receiving his fiery lovemaking these days.

We put Charles in the attic, which now contained two dou
ble beds and four twins, ready for the cousins and other company who would arrive during the summer. There was no privacy up there, which was not a problem as long as Charles was the only inhabitant, but the week before my cousins were due to arrive, he made a suggestion.

“What if I hung a system of wires up there,” he said over breakfast one morning. He pulled a fountain pen from his shirt pocket and drew on the back of a paper napkin. “Then we could hang curtains from the wires, so that there would be four cubbyholes around the beds, leaving this middle area open.”

“That’s a fine idea,” my father said.

“I can make the curtains,” my mother suggested, and I offered to help.

“And one other thing,” Charles said. He held his hands up in apology. “I hope I’m not overstepping my boundaries here, but what about adding a toilet and sink up there? I’d be happy to do it. My father taught me carpentry and plumbing.”

“Where would it go?” My mother stared at the napkin and its crisscrossed lines.

“I could build it right above the downstairs bathroom to make it easy to do the plumbing. It would be very small, of course, but then your guests wouldn’t have to climb down those stairs in the middle of the night. And we wouldn’t have to put a door on it. Just hang another curtain for privacy.”

I could tell my father was excited by the idea. “Let’s go to the hardware store as soon as we finish breakfast,” he said to Charles. “And I’ll pay you for your time and expertise.”

“Oh, my gosh, no,” Charles said quickly. “You’re giving me room and board all summer. It’s the least I can do to repay you.”

Both my parents were in love with Charles, as was I. He enjoyed fishing with my father in our motorboat, and in addition to building the upstairs bathroom, he reshingled parts of our roof and painted the trim on the house. He never saw my mother’s accent as something to be ashamed of, but rather as part of her heritage to be celebrated, in spite of the fact that he’d nearly lost his life in a war in which the Italians were our enemy. On her birthday in August, he shooed her out of the kitchen while we made her an authentic five-course Northern Italian meal. It was all his doing; I never would have thought of it. Mother cried when Charles presented the cannoli he’d made, completely by hand and with our carefully rationed sugar, for dessert.

We did not socialize with the Chapmans. Aside from Ross’s and my “friendship,” my family rarely had. We were the sort of neighbors who were there for each other if your car got stuck in the sand, but it was clear we were from different social classes, different worlds. Although our backyards were connected, they were divided by an invisible line drawn in the sand.

Ross and I did not have one single private conversation that entire summer. I was curious to know how he’d met Joan, but she was always standing or sitting right next to him and I never had the opportunity to ask. That was probably just as well.

A few weeks after our arrival at the bungalow, Charles and I were sitting in the backyard enjoying the evening when he suggested we talk to Ross and Joan about double dating with them sometime.

“They’re around our age,” he said, although Charles was technically six years Ross’s senior. “They seem nice. Wouldn’t it be fun to have a couple right next door to do things with?” I hesitated as I tried to think of a response, the idea of get
ting together socially with Ross and his new love horrifying to me. I settled on telling him a partial truth.

“Charles,” I said, “when Ross and I were in high school, he asked me out, but when his parents found out, they told him he was not allowed to date me.”

“Why not?” Charles asked.

“Because I’m Italian.”

Charles looked stunned. “That’s certainly small-minded,” he said, making me love him all the more.

“He and his family have never been friendly with us,” I said. “So, I really would rather not—”

“Of course,” Charles said. He looked over his shoulder toward the Chapmans’ house. “Was Ross in the military?” he asked.

“He was 4-F,” I said. “A minor heart problem.”

“Ah,” Charles said, and I knew I had just planted an immutable wall between my boyfriend, recipient of the Purple Heart, and Ross Chapman. A man who didn’t serve his country, yet nevertheless appeared to be hale and hearty, was a coward in Charles’s eyes.

“If he would just stop smoking,” Charles said, “that heart problem would probably go away.”

I think Charles was a bit disappointed to discover that my parents were not regular churchgoers, but he said nothing about it. I went to mass with him at St. Peter’s every Sunday and we’d stop at Mueller’s Bakery afterward and bring home rolls and crumb cake for a late-morning breakfast with my parents. I enjoyed going to church with him, never ceasing to be touched by the way such a strong and intelligent man was able to find peace and comfort
there. He also prayed the rosary every night before falling asleep. I prayed, too, although not the rosary. I prayed for my small, jealous feelings about Joan Rockefeller to disappear. I prayed to be able to look at the blueberry lot without longing. I prayed to forget the ways Ross had touched me—
taken
me, really, for he could be rough in a way I’d enjoyed. He’d never hurt me, but he could ride me like I was a bucking bronco. A heart problem, my eye.

Charles was a believer in prayers being answered. I could only conclude that I did not pray quite hard enough.

Charles and I were married in June the following year. I feigned pain when we first made love, and to my great relief, he believed I was a virgin. We took our honeymoon in Niagara Falls, and then joined my parents at the bungalow, this time sharing the small downstairs bedroom that had always been mine. We unpacked our suitcases, then went onto the porch and I stopped dead in my tracks at the sound coming from next door: the cries of a baby.

“Whose baby is that?” I asked.

My mother was sitting at the table. “It’s Ross and Joan’s,” she said. “Sue Clements told me they got married last September and the baby was born just a few weeks ago. Ross’s parents retired to Florida, so it’s just the three of them in the house there now.”

I did the math in my head and felt a wave of disappointment that he had not married her simply because she was pregnant. He must have married her for love, then, the sort of love he and I could never have known because of all the forces against us. Would I ever get over it?

We saw the baby that evening. Joan carried him over to us in
the backyard, cooing and showing him off. Although I didn’t ask to hold him, she carefully transferred him to my arms and I felt an involuntary pull of my nipples at cradling his beautiful warmth.

“His name is Ned Rosswell Chapman,” she said.

Charles leaned over and gently drew the blanket away from the baby’s cheek. Ned Rosswell Chapman sucked his fingers in his sleep.

“He’s adorable,” I said sincerely. I didn’t need eyes in the back of my head to know that Ross was approaching us from behind. It was some sort of sixth sense I had, so strong that I was not surprised when he suddenly appeared at Joan’s side, slipping an arm around her waist.

“What do you think of him?” he asked me, nodding in the direction of his son.

“He’s precious,” I said. I looked up at him and saw that he was gazing at me, the look in his eyes raw with desire. For me? For Joan? I didn’t know, and I looked quickly away from him, back to the face of his child.

We chatted a while about little Ned and about our honeymoon, and gradually the conversation shifted to the war, as it usually did in those days. Joan and I withdrew into silence as the men’s voices grew louder. Ross complained that the government was handing us propaganda about how well the war was going while hiding the truth about the number of casualties suffered. Charles argued back, showing a side of himself I had not known existed. Both men were strident and impassioned, and I could see the future mapped out ahead of us: Ross Chapman and Charles Bauer would never be friends. They were lawyer and doctor, on opposite teams. That night in our shared backyard,
we forged the cool and contentious relationship with our neighbors that would remain for the rest of our years—even as our children became friends.

Julie

I’
d like you to see my obstetrician.

Would you like to go to my OB/GYN?

My obstetrician is the best in the area.

I’d practiced every way of saying it, trying to find the words that would offer the path of least resistance when I presented the idea to Shannon. I should have known it wouldn’t matter. My daughter had her own plans.

I called her Friday morning, timing the call so that I’d reach her before she had to be to work but late enough that I knew she’d be up.

“Hi, Mom,” she said, apparently seeing my number on the caller ID of her cell phone. I took it as a good sign that she’d answered despite knowing it was me.

“Hi, honey,” I said. I was sitting on my bed, cross-legged, lean
ing back against the sham. I’d changed the sheets after getting up that morning, just in case: Ethan was coming to Westfield tonight. “How are you feeling?”

“You mean because I’m pregnant?”

No matter what I said to her, she seemed to take it as an attack. “I mean, in general,” I said.

“Fine.”

“I thought I’d call to see if you’d like me to make an appointment for you with my OB/GYN. I know you’d like her. She’s—”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Shannon interrupted me. “I already have a doctor.”

“You have?” I asked. My daughter was living a completely secret life. “Where are you…are you going to a clinic?”

“Not a clinic. It’s Dr. Myers-Blake in Morristown. She’s good. A friend told me about her.”

“Myersblick?” I repeated. I’d never heard of her.

“Myers-Blake,” she said slowly. “It’s hyphenated.”

The name was still unfamiliar to me. “But how did you pay?” I asked. “Our insurance—”

“Tanner sent me money,” she said, “but she
does
take our insurance. I picked a doctor who did, so that once you knew, I could start having our insurance pay for her.”

I was quiet, amazed that she had thought the issue through so carefully and thoroughly when her other recent decisions seemed to have been impulsively made. Through my bedroom window, I could see the massive oak tree Shannon used to climb as a kid. I missed that girl. I missed her so much. But I looked away from the window. The future was here and now.

“I’m proud of you for getting prenatal care on your own,” I said. “But please consider going to my doctor.”

“No,” she said. “I’m in charge of my life from now on.”

“Well, listen, honey.” It was time for a new tack. “Abby Chapman, Ethan Chapman’s daughter who is about twenty-six, is willing to talk to you about how she handled getting pregnant when she was about your age. She—”

“I’m handling it just fine, Mom.” Her voice was filled with irritation; I was losing her.

“I know you are,” I said. “But, see…what she did…and maybe you haven’t considered this option…is that she placed her baby with adoptive parents, and she—”

“Mother, would you please respect my decision?” Shannon asked. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m keeping this baby? I didn’t mean to get pregnant. I didn’t set out to mess up my college plans. But it happened and now I’ll deal with it. And there’s something else I need to tell you.”

Oh, God.
“What?”

“Tanner is coming here next week,” she said. “He’s staying with his friends in Morristown for two weeks, and then he has to go back to Colorado and I’m going to go with him. So, I’ll be going to a doctor there, ultimately, anyway.”

“You mean, you’d be going there
now?
To
stay?
”

“In about three weeks,” she said. “And I don’t know if we’ll stay there forever, but we’ll be there at least until he finishes his Ph.D. program. Then, who knows where we’ll end up.”

I felt panicky. “Let’s talk this over, Shannon,” I said, standing up from my seat on the bed. “Talking something over doesn’t make you any less a grown-up. I talk to Lucy about important decisions I have to make, and this decision is certainly important.”

She sighed. “I have to get to work, Mom, so maybe we can talk later, okay?”

“All right,” I said. What else
could
I say. “But please, Shannon. Please let’s talk later.”

I called Glen at work the moment I got off the phone with Shannon. I spoke quickly, telling him about her going to a doctor we didn’t know and her planned move to Colorado. He listened quietly. He was always quiet. I’d once appreciated his gentle, compliant nature. Now I hated it. “Can you exert any influence over her since she’s living with you?” I pleaded.

“I think we need to let her do it her way,” he said finally.

“You’re afraid to make waves with her,” I said. “You’re always afraid to make waves. I would probably still not know you were having an affair if what’s-her-face hadn’t called to tell me.”

Glen said nothing. He knew it was the truth.

“Do you
want
her to move away?” I asked, looking for some response. I would take any response at that point.

“I think if she’s old enough to get pregnant,” he said, “she’s old enough to deal with the consequences.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Eleven-year-olds can get pregnant, Glen.You think an eleven-year-old should deal with the consequences?”

“She’s not eleven.”

“Don’t you care that she’s leaving?”

“She would have left for college anyway,” he said, most likely with one of his
c’est la vie
shrugs.

I hung up. I couldn’t remember ever hanging up on anyone before in my entire life, but I could no longer tolerate his inability to confront difficult situations head-on. That’s what had cost us our marriage. I wasn’t going to let it cost me my daughter.

I got online to e-mail Lucy regarding Shannon’s latest plans and discovered a message from Ethan.

The police found Bruno Walker’s sister. She said he’s on a solo sailing trip around the world. The cop I spoke with said they’ll find him and “cut his trip short.”

And they questioned Dad.

See you tonight.