Grace begins to long for an embrace, a kiss. She begins to associate bright sunny days with marital trouble. She thinks that maybe her marriage has gone underground.
“Have you considered speaking with Reverend Phillips?” Grace’s mother asks.
“What?” asks a startled Grace.
“Your minister. You know he went to Harvard Divinity School.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“He counsels couples,” says her mother. “Women. And men too, probably. I know for a fact that Dot Truitt and her husband went to see him for counseling.”
“And how did that work out?” Grace asks.
“They’re still married.”
Which tells Grace nothing. “I couldn’t,” she says.
“He’s heard it all, I’m sure. What’s so different about you and Gene?”
Grace, annoyed, says, “We don’t talk, and we don’t have sex.”
Her mother looks shocked and then pained. She purses her mouth in a way that Grace remembers from her childhood and points to Grace’s stomach. “So how did that get in there?”
“That was the last time,” Grace says, “and it was horrible.”
“I don’t want to hear any more,” her mother says, standing and walking out of the room. When she returns, her mind seems to be made up. “Go,” she says. “I’ll watch the children. You get yourself over to the church and see if you can find Reverend Phillips.”
Grace leaves Claire and Tom with her mother and walks not to the church, but to Rosie’s. When her friend opens the door, Grace says, “We don’t have sex.”
If Rosie is taken aback by the pronouncement, she doesn’t show it. “Not at all?” she asks, gesturing for Grace to come inside.
“Not since…” Grace points at her belly. “And even then, it was terrible.”
Rosie clears a dessert plate, a rubber duck, and a washcloth from the sofa. “The children are napping.”
Grace can see from the wrappers on the side table that Rosie was reading magazines and eating Tootsie Rolls during her time off.
Rosie hands Grace a glass of water. “I always knew you weren’t completely happy in your marriage. Sometime it used to waft off you in waves. What’s wrong with Gene anyway?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t ever want to see my face. He doesn’t care if I’m enjoying it or not.” She pauses. “Sex, I mean.”
“It’s always been like this?”
“Pretty much.”
Grace can see Rosie try to mask both surprise and dismay. “Have you ever enjoyed it?” her friend asks quietly.
“Maybe I did in the beginning,” Grace answers, but then she realizes that Rosie is speaking of the god-awful joy she once gleefully mentioned. “Well, no. Not in the way you’re thinking.”
Rosie is silent.
Grace can feel heat rising in her face. “I didn’t ever want you to know. You and Tim…”
“Me and Tim,” Rosie says, sighing. “Every marriage has its problems.”
“But you like sex,” Grace says.
“I do.”
“I don’t. At least the way it is now. I don’t even know if I’d like it ever. Gene’s a good man. Well, he used to be a good man. I’m embarrassed I had to tell you this. I started to talk to my mother about it, but that was a big mistake.” When she looks down, an inch of brandy has replaced the water.
“Can’t hurt,” Rosie says, raising her glass. “You’ve been shaking ever since you walked in the door.”
“You’re a good friend,” Grace says.
“I want to be.”
“You are.” The two women clink glasses, and Grace starts to laugh. “Oh, Rosie, you saved me from telling the minister! That’s where my mother thought I was going.”
“You were going to use the word sex with your minister?” Rosie asks, incredulous.
Grace reads in the newspaper reports of fires in Waldoboro, Topsham, and Lisbon Falls. The news is always one or two days old, and Grace ponders the fate of the people in the stories. What, for example, happened to the house of the man who soaked it with a hose as the fire approached? Did he save it? Or to the gentleman who fled with his tax returns? Did he lose them in the fierce winds created by the fire? Or to the woman who begged to be allowed to take her refrigerator? By the next day, there are new stories to report and no follow-ups. How did the woman intend to transport her treasured appliance?
Many of the stories mention that there is no early warning system for fire in Maine. Often the first sign is the smell of smoke, followed by a vehicle racing into town with a man in it ordering citizens to evacuate. Houses go up like bombs. Animals, trapped in burning barns, die. The ones freed at the last minute sometimes make it to safety.
Her sweaty arm sticks to the newspaper as she tries to turn the page.
The women of Hunts Beach are rarely seen walking alone without a purse or a child or a carriage. Grace, having left her children with her mother, walks out of her house with no destination. In a loose maternity skirt and sleeveless blouse, she lets her arms swing as she moves. Because she always heads south toward the village center, this time she goes north. Most people have left the waterfront cottages for home, school, and work—the natives tend to live two or three streets back, as she does—but occasionally, she sees a window open, a rake leaning against a tree, a carved pumpkin on the front steps. As she strolls, the seashore becomes rockier with surf, a pleasant meditative sound. She is thrilled to be moving faster than she can with the kids, stretching her legs, uncoiling the cat inside. She lets her mind empty, or tries to.
What would she take if someone, this very minute, were to tell her she must evacuate her house? Her children, of course, and bottles for Tom, clean clothes for Claire. Perhaps a change of clothes for herself tucked behind the children in the carriage. A photograph of her wedding? Of the children, when they were younger? Yes, one or two. A picture of her father. The layette for the baby? Her purse. An address book? Cigarettes? But then what would happen? She can’t outrun a fire. Perhaps she might be able to hoist the children and a suitcase onto the back of a truck. But she can’t get rid of the image of herself on foot, pushing the carriage as fast as she can, trying to shush Claire, who would smell and sense, if not actually see, the danger. No one needs to explain a wildfire to a child.
Normally, Grace loves this time of year. It’s not just the turning of the leaves or the crisp weather that one expects; it’s more a feeling of relaxation while the rest of the world becomes busier. With fewer people in town, streets are less crowded. Quiet descends. This year, however, that sense of peace has curdled to one of nervous watching. It’s bound to rain sometime soon, they say. It has to rain someday, they moan.
“Hey, Missy.”
The name jolts Grace, who turns to look. A man calls to her from inside a black Ford across the street. At first she thinks it might be Gene teasing her, but then she notices that the driver has a straw hat. Gene never wears a straw hat.
“Lady, can you give me some directions?”
“Where do you want to go?” she shouts back, putting a hand over her eyes so that she can get a better look at the man’s face. Middle-aged. A little soft.
“Well, I want to go to Cape Porpoise, and I got a map here.”
Grace hesitates.
But why?
As she approaches the automobile, she discovers that the man’s shoulders are bare. In the heat, many men have shed their shirts. He must not be very tall, she decides, because his neck barely clears the bottom of the window. How does he see out to drive?
“How can I help you?” she asks.
“Well, I got this map here.”
She bends to take a better look. The man is naked and is touching himself. He grins up at her. The missing tooth, the fold of flesh at the belly, the limp penis.