Amagansett

Twenty

Hollis had never been assaulted by a goose before.
‘Eugene!’ snapped Mary, hurrying over from the house.
Either Eugene was deaf, or Mary estimated her authority over the big bird far too highly; possibly both. Hollis found himself backed up against his car, trying to parry the thrusting beak with his leg.
He thought about taking refuge inside the vehicle, but Mary’s other guests gathered on the lawn were all staring now in rapt amusement, and the idea that they would witness his ignoble withdrawal was too humiliating to even consider.
‘Eugene!’ barked Hollis.
‘Don’t,’ said Mary, ‘you’ll scare him.’
‘What!?’
He only took his eyes off the goose for a split second, but it was enough for Eugene to get a good one away—a sharp nip to the thigh.
‘Christ!’
Mary placed herself between Hollis and Eugene.
‘That’s enough,’ she said firmly. ‘Barn.’ She pointed.
Hollis could have sworn Eugene shot him a look before skulking off, one that said: Saved by the bell, buddy.
‘That’s strange,’ said Mary.
‘What?’
‘I’ve never seen him so angry before.’ There was definitely something in the tone of her voice that suggested Hollis was to blame in some way.
‘I didn’t do a thing,’ he bleated.
‘Maybe you didn’t need to. You know what they say about geese.’
‘That they taste damn good with orange sauce?’
‘That’s not funny.’
But she smiled.
Hollis was immediately collared by a large woman in a noisy print dress who proudly announced in a gruff baritone that she was Chairman of the apron booth at the upcoming LVIS summer fair. She also happened to be the Secretary of the Roadside Committee, and proceeded to spend the next half-hour singing the praises of Tufor weedkiller in the Society’s ongoing drive against poison ivy, ragweed and sumac. She wasn’t as alarmed as some about the threat posed to the local verges by the recent surge in the dandelion population.
Hollis was finally rescued by her appetite, the smell of the lamb flame-grilling on the barbecue luring her away. It left him free to fill his glass at the drinks table and survey the gathering. It seemed to be divided into two clear and quite discordant camps—Mary’s associates from the LVIS, and a younger crowd, dressed more casually. Strangely, they seemed to be mingling quite happily.
‘I see you met Barbara.’
Hollis turned.
‘She doesn’t like me,’ continued Mary, filling her glass. ‘She thinks I’m too young to be President.’
‘She didn’t say anything.’
‘She’s far too diplomatic, knows I’ll demote her to the candy-and-cigarette booth if I hear any rumblings.’
For a moment Hollis thought she was being serious, but as she raised the wine glass to her mouth, her lips curled into the faintest of smiles.
‘Why do you do it?’ he asked.
‘It’s easy to laugh, I know, but I think it’s important, where we live, how we live.’ She paused briefly. ‘And it keeps me out of mischief.’
She took another sip of wine then said, ‘I see from your look that you’ve finally done your research.’
She was right—he had. Abel and Lucy had filled him in on the story, or rather the scandal. Mary’s husband, an engineer, had been spared military service because of their son, but had volunteered to help re-tool the machines at the Grumann aircraft plant in Bethpage. During his lengthy absence Mary had struck up an affair with an army liaison officer based out of Camp Hero at Montauk Point where the big guns were. His job, it seemed, was to develop relations with the locals, a task he had clearly taken to heart.
Opinions were divided when it came to the allocation of blame. Mary’s husband was a man known for his fierce temper and his wandering eye.
‘Does it bother you?’ Mary asked.
‘Why should it bother me?’
‘The fallen woman.’
‘Maybe I’m fallen too,’ said Hollis.
The moment was broken by the arrival of a man dressed in a navy blazer and gray flannels. There was a rakish elegance to his colorful bow tie and the matching kerchief gushing from his breast pocket. His silver mustache was flecked with pieces of potato chip.
‘This is my cousin, Edgar,’ said Mary. ‘He’s a keen sailor.’
‘Vice-commodore of the Three Mile Harbor Sailing Club,’ added Edgar, pumping Hollis’ hand.
‘Tom. Tom Hollis.’
‘Tom’s with the Town Police.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Edgar knowingly. ‘Didn’t recognize you in civvies. You’re the one whose wife slipped her moorings.’
He didn’t intend to be the last to leave, but when he found himself alone with Mary, the final set of taillights disappearing down the track, he was struck by a sense of inevitability, that somehow they were always going to find themselves in this situation.
Or not.
Maybe he was deceiving himself. It wasn’t as if he had much experience of such matters. It was quite possible he’d imagined the unspoken complicity, the words behind her eyes.
‘I should be going,’ he said.
‘What, and leave me to tidy up on my own?’
They carried everything inside to the kitchen on trays. She washed up; he dried, putting crockery and glasses away in the cupboards according to her instructions. It was an ordered kitchen, spotlessly clean, and he vowed to himself that he’d make an assault on his own the very next day.
She suggested a nightcap, and they retired to the veranda with their glasses, where they sat on wicker chairs, their knees almost touching.
‘Are you working tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Sunday?’
‘The night shift.’
‘Do you have any plans?’
He tried to think of something, anything.
‘I thought I might take in a movie tomorrow night.’ He hesitated, mustering the courage. ‘Do you want to come?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m going walking.’
‘At night?’
She smiled. ‘Tomorrow, but I’ll stay over in Springs. I sometimes do.’
‘Friends?’
‘A friend.’
‘Oh.’ He swirled the wine around his glass, suddenly aware how late it was, and wishing he was gone.
‘Do you want to come?’ she asked.
‘Excuse me?’
‘With me. Walking.’
‘Walking?’
‘You’ll pick it up quick, it’s very easy.’
He smiled. ‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Tom.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to kiss me?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘No, I’d like to.’
‘Your glass.’
‘Oh. Yes.’
He put it down beside the chair.
They both leaned forward and their lips met.
For a moment he felt ridiculous, detached, as if observing himself from on high. He could see the small patch of thinning hair on the crown of his head as he craned his neck, her hand sliding up his arm, taking a hold and drawing him closer. Then her tongue forced its way between his lips, and he dropped back into himself.
Only two tongues had breached the barrier of his lips before. One had belonged to Lydia, the other to a downtown whore he’d arrested—a pasty young Ukrainian who had lunged at him in a bid to secure her release. That time, the kiss had lasted no more than a couple of seconds, though he still wondered whether that wasn’t just a little longer than had been absolutely necessary.
Unlike Lydia, who kissed like she was stoking a fire, Mary’s tongue was soft, gentle, probing. And then gone.
‘Mmmmmmmm,’ she said, smiling, looking deep into his eyes.
‘Yes.’
They kissed some more. When they broke off again, she said, ‘I set off early.’
‘Huh?’
‘To beat the heat.’
‘Oh.’
‘You can stay if you want.’
‘Isn’t that a bad idea?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m all out of good ideas.’
‘I’m thinking of you.’
‘I know you are.’
He sat back in his chair. ‘I don’t know, Mary.’
She took his hands in hers. ‘Let me put it another way,’ she said. ‘Edward—that’s my son—comes home in just over a week. He’s only seven, and I love him…’ Her words tailed off.
‘But…?’
‘But he’s difficult. If this doesn’t happen soon it’s never going to.’
‘Difficult how?’
‘Think Eugene then add a bit.’
‘Where’s the bedroom?’
They undressed in silence in the near-darkness, Hollis perched on the edge of the bed, Mary standing near the window, silhouetted against the moonlight striking the blind.
He was the first to slip between the sheets. They were crisp and fresh, as new.
‘That’s my side,’ said Mary.
‘Sorry.’
‘No, don’t move.’
She climbed in beside him, facing him. He ran his hand along her thigh, up over her hip, down into the dip of her waist. A different contour, a different landscape to Lydia’s—more rugged, angular.
‘He knew,’ said Mary.
‘What’s that?’
‘Eugene. He knew. That’s why he went for you.’
‘Be quiet.’
‘Okay.’
They made love, slow and tender, taking their time.
When it was over, she said, ‘Well, that was quick.’
‘Was it?’
He was a little stung, but genuinely curious; he really had very little else to judge it by.
‘I enjoyed it a lot,’ she said, stroking his face.
‘Did you?’
‘Couldn’t you tell?’
She had certainly seemed to enjoy it, but in truth he’d been a little distracted, his mind straying to other matters, such as how firm she was, how taut, just how slack and baggy he felt beside her, on top of her.
She took his hand and placed it between her legs, the oily warmth, the matted hair. ‘You see. Feel how wet I am.’
She didn’t release his hand.
This time they took longer, though he couldn’t say just how long. His desire—unchecked and unruly this time—pushed all other senses to the periphery of his world. She uttered words he’d never heard spoken by a woman, and her whispers sped him towards a conclusion she would then deny him.
The release, when it finally came, was somehow not his, or theirs for that matter. It belonged to the thing that had swallowed them whole.
He lay on his back, drifting in and out of sweet slumber, her arm draped across his midriff, her breath cooling the skin of his chest. He felt like a man who had unearthed a hidden mystery. He told himself it was only sex, but his heart rejected the words.
Had he really spent so many years of his life not knowing?
When he felt an involuntary twitch of sleep in her leg, he gently extricated himself, tugged on his pants and headed downstairs.
He pulled the car behind the barn, where it couldn’t be seen from the road.
As he slipped back into bed, she said, ‘That’s very thoughtful.’
‘Go to sleep.’
‘I can’t.’
He fought the urge to ask how it had been for her.
‘How was that for you?’ he asked.
‘Christ, Tom, look at me. I’m a wreck.’
He looked at her, then kissed her, overcome with tenderness.
‘Your ankles crack when you walk,’ she said.
They talked for quite some while. He wallowed in the intimacy of feeling her body while asking her about her life. She seemed to be related to pretty much everyone in the area, worryingly so, but that was the way with the older families, she assured him—they were all ‘cousins’ of some sort or another. She had inherited the farm from her uncle, who had died childless, and she lived off the rent from the land. The eldest of three girls, her two sisters and her parents lived in East Hampton, all within a few miles’ radius. She said that since they now knew each other carnally, it was only right he should meet them all the next day. His face dropped, but she was only joking.
They discussed his work, and she told him several amusing anecdotes about Chief Milligan which he hadn’t heard before. Though he knew it wasn’t the moment to ask, he couldn’t help himself.
‘Do you know Conrad Labarde?’
‘The one who found Lillian Wallace?’
‘Yes, the fisherman.’
‘I met his stepmother a few times. Maude. She used to be a teacher at the school in Amagansett, a good woman. My mother was on the same charity committee as her.’
‘Where’s she now?’
‘She moved away when her husband died. It was a couple of years ago, just before the war ended. She wasn’t from here. There was a brother—Antton, I think—he died too.’
‘How?’
‘Some kind of fishing accident before the war. He drowned off the beach. I know they all took it hard.’
Hollis tried to picture it: the Basque returning from the war in Europe to find his father dead, his stepmother gone. He knew the Basque had served in Europe during the conflict, because he had paid a visit to the Veterans of Foreign Wars office in East Hampton. They didn’t have the details of the outfit he’d ended up with—only a record of his enlistment and dispatch to Camp Upton along with all the other local men—but the Post Commander had heard that he’d seen action in Italy. Maybe the American Legion in Amagansett would know more. Hollis made a mental note to check with them.
‘Tom.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t want to know what this is about.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Don’t lie to me. First you ask me about Lillian Wallace, now it’s the man who found her.’
In the silence that followed he tried to formulate a response, enough to satisfy her, nip her curiosity in the bud. It wasn’t required.
‘I mean it,’ said Mary. ‘I don’t want to know. But there might come a time when I do. And then I’ll expect you to be honest with me. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘May I have my breast back now?’
He removed his hand and she rolled on to her side. He snuggled up behind her and kissed the nape of her neck, inhaling her scent.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
‘Just tell me one thing. Is it important?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’re forgiven.’