What I Thought Was True (30 page)

“This is what comes after
Tess
?”

I rouse myself from the sleep I’ve fallen into on the glider

during Mrs. E.’s nap to find Cass standing over me, holding one

of her racy books. This particular cover features a man wear-

ing an eye patch and all too little else, and a stupefied-looking

woman in an extremely low-cut dress that he’s clearly in the

process of lowering farther. They are, of course, standing on a

cliff. In a brewing thunderstorm.

“I’m not at all sure this is physically possible,” he muses,

squinting at the cover.

“Which part? Her breasts?” I sit up to scrutinize the book.

“No, I wasn’t thinking of those, but now that you mention

it . . . anyway . . . where’s his hand?”

“Isn’t this it?” I point.

“I thought that was her, er—”

“No, it’s his hand. I’m sure.”

“Then what’s that?”

I peer at the book cover. When you examine it closely, she

does indeed appear to have too few appendages and he too

many.

“Stand up,” Cass directs. “If I put one hand here on your

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shoulder, and then you sort of collapse back, like she’s doing—

farther, Gwen—I’d need to have a hand right here on your back

so you wouldn’t fall off that cliff. But instead, his other hand

is all over her tits . . . so why doesn’t she hurtle to her death?”

“Tits, Cass? Ew.”

“I know. There are no good words.”

“Maybe she’s a gymnast with superior muscle control.”

“She’d have to be in Cirque de Soleil to manage this. See, if

I take away this hand, you—”

I fall back on the glider with a rusty clang of springs.

“—wind up exactly where I want you.”

I’m not someone who forgets where I am. But I have not

spent any time lying on a gently swinging glider on a porch

by the sea kissing a beautiful boy.
Don’t think
. All my focus, every thought, narrows to this moment, the soft sounds we’re

both making, a few squeaks from the glider springs, the whole

world faded to background music.

Until—“What in the name of God is going on here?” and

Cass, scrambling, slides off me, landing on his butt and look-

ing up at Henry Ellington with the same stunned expression I

must wear.

Behind him is Gavin Gage, his face poised, neutral. Henry,

however, is a thundercloud. An apocalyptic thundercloud turn-

ing darker and darker red. Cass moves in front of me. I shove

my shirt back down. He starts to say, “This isn’t what it—” then

falters because that’s one of the lamest lines ever, right up there with “It didn’t mean anything” and “We can still be friends.”

He switches to, “It’s my fault.”

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“Where’s my mother while all this is going on?”

I hop up next to Cass and hurriedly explain, face flaming,

that it’s okay, she’s napping.

Which makes things worse.

“If this is your idea of what’s acceptable while a helpless old

woman is resting—in her own house—on my dime, you are

very much mistaken.” Then: “Who the hell are you?” to Cass.

“Uh—the yard boy.”

“Not anymore,” Henry returns succinctly. “Nor will
your

dubious idea of caretaking be needed from now on, Guinevere.”

His mouth is screwed up in a line, he’s ramrod straight. If he

were a teacher in an old-fashioned book, he’d be hauling out a

ruler to rap us across the knuckles.

Anger rises in me, steam in a kettle edging toward a boil.

“Henry, maybe we should all take a moment and calm

down,” Gavin Gage interjects unexpectedly. “Back when you

and I were their age—”

“That’s not the issue here,” Henry barks. “Take whatever

you brought with you and get out.” His voice is softer now,

but no less deadly. “You’ve abused my trust, and the trust of a

helpless woman. There will be consequences beyond the loss

of your jobs, I assure you.”

I hate that he can do this. And he can. And with an impact

far beyond this small island. My mind flicks fast. I think of our

first “conversation”—
itemized
—his veiled threat. His muted discussion with Gavin Gage on the other side of the kitchen

door. The way he folded that check and held it out to me, set it

down on the counter like the ace of spades. And I can’t do it—I

can’t keep my mouth shut, I—

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“Listen,” I start, “what makes you think you—”

Cass puts a warning hand on my arm.

I make a strangled sound, fall silent.

This isn’t just about me now.

I need the money, yes. But Cass’s dad got him the job. Get-

ting fired would be one more screw-up, and I can tell just by

the way he won’t meet my eyes that this has already occurred

to him

“Gracious, Henry. Do be quiet!” calls Mrs. Ellington through

the screen porch door. “If it’s not bad enough you’ve woken

me
up, your bellowing is likely reaching all the way to Ada Partridge’s house, and you know how she’ll respond. It would

be
most
embarrassing to have her call the police and have you arrested for creating a public disturbance.”

Henry offers an explanation that is unflattering in the

extreme to both Cass and me, in which the words
lewd, depraved,
and
wanton
appear more often than you’d think possible, since, maybe,
The Scarlet Letter
. Jesus, we were only kissing.

Instead of a shocked gasp at the end, Mrs. E. gives her low

belly laugh. “That’s what all the fuss was about? The dear chil-

dren were simply—obeying my request.”

Henry, Cass, and I all goggle at her. Gavin Gage sits down in

one of the wicker chairs, crosses his ankles, amusement gleam-

ing in his eyes. All he’s missing is a box of popcorn and a soda.

Mrs. E. edges the porch door open with her cane and steps

out. “You know I adore the theater,” she observes serenely.

“Sadly, I am no longer able to attend it in the city—such a great

crush of people. It has been my dearest wish to see my favorite

play,
Much Ado About Nothing,
performed once again. Your dear 338

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father took me to that once, when we were in London.” She

leans her cane against the weathered porch shingles, clasps her

hands under her chin, tips her face to the side, magnanimous.

“I still remember my favorite line. ‘Lady, I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap and be buried in thy eyes . . .’ ”

Cass’s lips twitch. He ducks his head to hide it.

“I don’t remember that they were all over each other like

white on rice in that play,” Henry says, sounding like a sulky

child.

Mrs. E. waves a hand at him airily. “Shakespeare, dear boy.

Very bawdy. Dear Guinevere and Cassidy were most reluctant

but I urged them to be faithful to the text, and to rehearse

assiduously.”

Ridiculous from the start, this is now officially over-the-top.

Henry glowers. Mrs. E. gives him her benevolent smile.

There’s a long pause, and then Henry grudgingly allows

that he must have misinterpreted what he saw. His mother gra-

ciously accepts his apology. Within minutes Cass and I have our

jobs back.

Cass excuses himself to go back to work, but as I head to the

kitchen to make tea, he pops his head in through the window.

“Helpless old woman, my ass.”

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Mrs. Ellington just saved my job—and Cass’s. And for the next

two hours, I betray her.

Gavin Gage’s eyes don’t glitter with avarice, or bulge with

green dollar signs like in cartoons, but as I go through the

whole tea-serving ritual with all the silver pieces, at which I

am now a semi-pro, I notice his cool appraising glance every

time I pick up a new item.

Mrs. Ellington chats away, asking Gavin about his family,

recalling little details of his friendship with Henry, how they

met at Exeter, were on the sailing team together, this French

teacher, that lacrosse coach etc., etc., and Gavin Gage answers

politely and kindly, even reminisces about some trip they took

as boys with the captain to Captiva.

The only comfort is that Henry Ellington is even more

uncomfortable than me. He would so lose to Grandpa in a

poker game. He keeps grimacing, shifting around in his seat,

pulling at his collar. When Mrs. E. tries to engage him in polite

social conversation, he’s totally distracted, making her repeat

her question. At one point he says abruptly, “I need some air.”

And goes out to the porch.

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Mrs. E. stares after him, then smoothes things over, saying

that of course, Gavin, dear Henry did not mean to be rude. The

poor boy works so hard. Gavin assures her he understands. It’s

all so far from what’s going on under the surface that I want

to scream.

Perched on our battered front steps that afternoon, Grandpa

Ben performs his own ritual as methodically as Mrs. E. enacts

her tea one. Emptying out his pipe. Tapping the fresh tobacco

out of the pouch. Packing it in.

I told Grandpa everything. Or almost everything. Not about

Henry walking in on Cass and me. But everything else, my

voice hushed but sounding loud as a scream in my own ears.

I expect Emory, crashed early on Myrtle, lulled to sleep by the

soporific Dora, to bolt up, eyes wide. But he slumbers on, free-

ing Grandpa to smoke, which he hates to do around Em with

his asthma. Grandpa says nothing for a long time, not until

the pipe is lit and his already rheumy brown eyes are watering

slightly in the smoke.

Then finally, “We do not know.”

That’s it?

“Well, exactly, Grandpa. But . . . but . . . it’s clear Henry doesn’t want his mother to know either. That can’t be good.”

“There are things you don’t want Lucia to understand. Not

all of them are the bad things.”

I feel heat sting my face. “No—but those things aren’t

like . . . Those things are personal.”

“Pers-o-nal.” Grandpa draws the word out slowly, as if he

can’t remember what it means in English. That happens every

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now and then. More this year than last, more last year than the

year before.

“Personal. Belonging to me,” I translate.

Grandpa Ben tilts his head, as though he’s still not clear, but

then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his worn dark leather

wallet, nudges it open, hands me a picture.

Vovó.

Oh. Not that. My stomach hurts.

I think I know what Grandpa’s doing.

I remember my Vovó, emaciated and pale near the end, but

in this picture she’s warm and strong, all curvy brown arms

holding up a silver-flecked fish half as big as she is and laugh-

ing. The grandmother I remember, wholehearted and real,

always smiling, not the solemn one formally posing on the

wall, frozen in time.

I look at the photo for only an instant before I hand it back

to him. I know what he’s saying, without saying, and I don’t

want to hear it. Don’t want to think about it. But I say it out

loud anyway.

“Other people’s stories.”

He nods at me, a small smile. “You remember.
Sim. Histórias

de outras pessoas . . .
” He trails off.

This is as close as we have ever come to talking about it.

Another memory of that long-ago summer, nine years ago, the

year Cass’s family was on the island.

It was one of those New England years of weird weather.

Hurricane season runs from June to November here, and

it’s usually a non-event. Something brews off the coast of

Mexico, blows out to sea long before it hits us here. Marco

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and Tony watch the path on the Weather Channel, field the

calls from summer people, stand ready to block shore-

facing windows with plywood. We year-rounders don’t worry

so much, knowing our low-crouching houses are hunkered

down to survive storms, outlast anything. But that year, Sea-

shell was moody. Unpredictable. Currents and squalls from

every different direction. There was a lot of heat lightning at

night, rolling thunder that tumbled over the island like an

angry warning, but came to nothing in the end.

Nic and I had the run of the island that summer. We were

seven and eight. Marco and Tony hired us to catch blue crabs

off the creek bridge to sell, hooking them with bent-out safety

pins, piling our catch into Dad’s emptied-out plastic ice cream

buckets, but that was pretty much the only structured activity.

We could climb onto the Somerses’ boat and jet off when we

wanted to. We could have sand fights with Vivie at the beach.

Work on swimming out to the boat float, then the breakwa-

ter, our biggest goals. Dad was at Castle’s 24/7 . . . he’d just

extended the hours. Mom was newly pregnant, with Em, nau-

seated most of the time. If we left her a box of saltines and a

stack of books, cheap and stained from the library or a yard

sale, we could go off until sunset.

Vovó was nauseated too, but for a different reason. One I

wasn’t supposed to know about.

“It will only worry your mother,” Dad explained to me

firmly, looking sharply in the rearview mirror after we dropped

Vovó off at the doctor’s. “She’s having a hard time as it is.”
Hahd
.

Heavy on his accent. Which I knew meant he was worried.

“It will be fine,” Grandpa said stoutly. “Your Vovó, Glaucia,

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she has been fighting germs her whole life.”

But this needed more than Clorox and Comet, of course.

Vovó got sicker, and the story for Mom was that she was work-

ing longer hours—that’s why she wasn’t coming by as much,

looked a little thinner, and I stopped being worried and got

scared.

So I told Mom. It felt like she started crying then and cried

for the rest of the summer.

It was the angriest I’ve ever seen Grandpa. He threw a pan—

he never did things like that—his eyes as wide with shock as

my own when it hit the floor, eggs and linguica spattered

everywhere. And yelled at me, all these words I’d never heard,

strung together in ways I couldn’t understand. Except for that

phrase, because it wasn’t the last time I heard it.
“Histórias de
outras pessoas.”
Other people’s stories—Mom would say it later, when Nic and I scrambled to pass on some bit of Seashell gos-sip, some nugget of information to talk about at dinner.
Deixe
que as histórias de outras pessoas sejam contadas por elas
—are their own to tell.

Grandpa reaches out for me now, nudges his knuckles

beneath my chin. Once, twice. But I don’t nod back. I feel a

little sick. We’ve never brought that up. The whole topic, my

part in it, ended when he threw the pan. Or later that evening

when he bought me an ice-cream cone, cupped my chin in

his hands and apologized, then said, “We will not speak of it

again.”

“Pfft,” he says now, thrusting his hand rapidly through the

air as though shooing away flies. “Enough. Enough of the long

face. Here,
querida
.” He hunches back on his hips, reaching into 344

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his pocket, pulls out his customary roll of bills, held together

with a rubber band—the wallet is only for pictures—extracts

two fives and hands them to me. “Go out with the young yard

boy. Be happy.”

“What about the Rose of the Island?”

“To grow in the salt and the heat and the wind, very tough,

island roses.”

“You sound like a fortune cookie, Grandpa.”

His eyes twinkle at me, and his broadest smile flashes. “Rose

is strong, Guinevere. With other things not known for sure, I

would rely on that. And here is your boy now.”

Grandpa waves enthusiastically at Cass, strolling up with his

hands in his pockets, as if flagging down a taxi that might pass

him by. He makes a big production of ordering Cass to sit

down on the steps, inspecting his blisters, then punching him

on the shoulder with a wink. “Take the pretty girl and go now.”

As we walk away, he calls one last phrase after us. “Even though

they look like that,
eu a deixo em suas mãos.”
Heh-heh-heh.

What?
I trust her in your hands?

Oh God. What happened to the knife salesman?

“You sure you don’t know any Portuguese?” I ask.

“We really have to work on your greetings, Gwen. ‘Hey

there, babe’ would be a lot better.”

“I’m not going to call you babe. Ever. Answer my question.”

“Nope. All I got was that he sounded happy. Phew. Thought

he might have heard”—he jerks his head in the direction of

the Ellington house—“the Henry Ellington story. Almost got

you in big trouble there.”

I’m so grateful that this story is mine right now that I turn,

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pull him close so quickly, I can hear a startled intake of breath, see a little spot he missed on his chin shaving, see that the base of his eyelashes are blond before they tip dark. “I’d say you’re

worth the risk.”

“Forget what I said. Your greetings are great. Perfect.”

I’m just about to touch my lips to his when I hear a loud

“None of that funny business here!” and realize we’re in front

of Old Mrs. Partridge’s yard. Where she’s also standing, rooting

through her mailbox impatiently.

I try to move back, but Cass’s hand snakes behind me, hold-

ing me in place. “Good evening, Mrs. Partridge.”

“Never mind that, Jose. None of this in a public street.”

“Not the best spot for it,” Cass allows. “But it’s such a beau-

tiful summer afternoon. And look at this girl, Mrs. Partridge.”

“Look at this girl somewhere else,” she says crossly. But

there’s just a shade of amusement in her voice and she leaves

without further harassment.

I stare after her, amazed. “How did you do that?”

“She’s only human. Seems kind of lonely,” Cass says. “Now,

where were we?”

Friday, early evening, we take the sailboat out again, anchor in

Seldon’s cove and are lying, Cass’s head on some seat cushions

and a life jacket, mine on his chest, the thrum of his heartbeat

in my ear. Since Seldon’s is protected by two spits of land encir-

cling it in a C, the motion of the water is gentler than in open

water, as though we’re being rocked in a giant cradle.

I close my eyes, see the sun glow orange-red through my

lids, feel Cass’s thumb, the skin healing but still rough, trace up 346

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the side of my arm, sweep back down, then along the line of

my other arm. I start to squirm, ticklish.

“Steady. I’m mapping you,” he says, close to my ear, moving

his touch to my jawline, then along my lips to the little groove

above them.

“Useless fact,” I say. “That’s called a philtrum.”

“Useful fact,” Cass counters. “Maps came before written

language.” Now he’s tracing the line of my chin. Under my

ear, down, sweeping back. My chin? Not anywhere anyone has

been interested in before. I’m resisting the urge to grab his

hand and put it somewhere more risky.

“I’ve heard of math geeks, but map geek is new.”

“Maps are the key to everything,” he says absently. “Gotta

find your direction.” He clears his throat. “Hey, Gwen? I know

that guy—the one who was at the house with Mrs. E.’s son.

Spence’s dad buys old paintings and stuff from him.”

“Is he a sleazebucket?” I ask. “Because I think Henry Elling-

ton might be.”

The whole story, what I’ve seen, what I think I know, comes

tumbling out—

Except. The check. Burning a hole in my pocket. A cliché I

wish were true—that it would just ignite, drift out as ashes,

blow away over the ocean, instead of lurking in the pocket of

whatever I was wearing that day. Because I never did—I never

threw it out.

“Would you tell? If you knew a secret that could hurt some-

one you cared about?”

Cass’s brow furrows. For a second his fingers tighten on my chin.

“Ow,” I say, surprised.

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