Be strong.
“I’m glad I got to know you, Pfeff,” Bess says. “Thanks for the laughs at supper, and for the time you brought us cold sodas on the beach, and for catching sand crabs with Tomkin. Thanks for being so nice to our mother. Rest in peace.”
She sits down.
George makes popcorn in the microwave, and since none of us knows what to do next, we start another movie. Fletch.
Not long into it, Penny and Bess fall asleep. Penny’s head drops onto my shoulder.
A while later, George pauses the movie to go use the bathroom and I turn to Major. “You didn’t like Pfeff so much, did you?” I ask.
Major hesitates for a minute, his face flushing. Then he shakes his head. “Since you’re asking, no. I mean, I’m sorry and shocked that the guy is dead, but no.”
“Why not?”
“All the back-and-forth with you and Penny, for one. That’s just low. Though I guess you forgave him.”
I nod. “He made a pretty stellar apology,” I lie. “When he got around to it.”
“But he had this attitude,” says Major. “Like everything belonged to him; it was all his for the taking. Some gay jokes. Jokes about my parents’ spiritual practice. Like, who makes fun of people’s religion? Since when is that okay? I mean, the guy was all the good things I said, too. But underneath, like down deep, I don’t think he thought about anybody else. Nobody else was really a person to him.” He shrugs. “They were just toys.”
George returns, but we don’t watch the end of the movie. I rouse Bess and Penny and the three of us hug them and say It’s all such a shock,
it’s terrible,
we can’t believe he’s really gone,
we’re so sorry your trip ended this way,
we’ve loved having you,
come back to Beechwood anytime—
though we know that they will never be back.
* * *
—
AS PENNY, BESS, and I walk through the night to Clairmont, I tell my sisters, in a whisper, about the missing board. Their eyes widen.
Penny says she didn’t move it.
Bess says she didn’t move it.
“It was stupid as hell to move it. Do you understand?” I say. “If someone finds it, hidden, that will look suspicious. It has literally been sitting in the same spot since the Lemon Hunt. If the police find it in the basement or under your bed or something, it will be so, so bad.”
“Duh,” says Penny. “That is why I didn’t touch it.”
We both look at Bess. She shakes her head earnestly. “I don’t have it,” she says.
“Did you used to have it?” I ask. “Did you do something with it?”
“I told you, no. I haven’t even been on the dock.”
There is nothing for us to do but go home and go to bed.
I am scared to see Rosemary again, after the way I left her, and after all that my sisters and I have done last night and today. But she does not visit me, and the Halcion knocks me hard into the dark.
65.
WORKERS COME AND rip apart the dock. They stack the rough, worn boards in a pile on the sand and eventually cart them away.
They rebuild in the same shape, a little wider, with bright new wood. They do repairs here and there on the walkways, fences, and steps. They fill the island with the sounds of their tools.
It takes four days.
My mother and Luda clean Pevensie from top to bottom. They ship all Tomkin’s and Yardley’s things to their mother’s address and Uncle Dean’s things to his place.
Harris says only one thing to me about Dean’s departure: “He and I are no longer seeing eye to eye.”
Privately, Tipper says that the rupture “was unavoidable and your father is completely in the right.”
Gerrard has been upset over Pfeff’s death. He is a sensitive person, and the second drowning in two years has made him want a job on the mainland. He takes his leave of us kindly, and will not be back.
I haven’t seen Rosemary. I cannot bear that I hurt her. I left her alone when she most wanted me. Abandoning her has probably undone everything I did all summer to try to make her feel loved and secure.
I don’t know how to mend it. I am both afraid to see her—and longing to.
The day after the dock is finished, Mr. and Mrs. Larry Pfefferman come to the island. Tipper offered to pack up Pfeff’s things and ship them home, but the search for the body is ongoing. Pfeff’s parents want to come out and talk to the police. My mother felt she should host them.
Harris picks up the Pfeffermans at Woods Hole. The rest of our family waits for them on the new dock. We introduce ourselves and say how sorry we are.
Mr. Pfefferman is fat in a wide, square way, as if his body has grown into the shape of a boxy business suit. He has his son’s thick hair and wears wire-rimmed glasses. His wife is Italian-born. She speaks with an accent and wears a slim-fitting black summer dress and heels. Her hair is that monochromatic brown that comes from dye.
Bess’s lips quiver when she says hello.
Penny looks at her feet.
I look the Pfeffermans in the eye and think, He was hurting my sister. Then I course-correct: He was drunk in the early morning. He swam too far from the boat. We weren’t looking and he went under. We searched and searched.
Tipper puts the Pfeffermans in Pevensie. Goose is still a mess after the hurricane of the boys.
Bess, Penny, and I agree that we will never be alone with Pfeff’s parents. We will speak to them as little as possible. It is Luda’s night off, so we offer to help Tipper with supper. She is making mini-quiches for nibbles, something she only does for best company in Boston. Bess, a much better cook than Penny or I, rolls and cuts out the quiche crusts and lifts each one into a baking tin. There will be lamb chops, potatoes, and a lettuce-and-mint salad. A blackberry slump with soft-whipped cream for dessert.
The supper is quiet. Harris talks about his publishing company. Tipper and Mrs. Pfefferman discuss cooking and cardiovascular exercise, and Tipper says “what a pleasure it was” getting to know Pfeff. “He was such a polite boy.”
After we eat, and once Bess and Penny have excused themselves to watch TV in the den, Pfeff’s mother takes a photo album from her bag. It is large and covered in a faded fabric printed with storks, like she got it at her baby shower.
I stand to leave the room. I don’t want to be near the Pfeffermans any longer than I have to, or see pictures of the little boy who grew up to think a girl’s body belonged to him just because he said please. But as Mr. Pfefferman goes out on the porch to smoke, Tipper grabs my father’s hand. “Harris, stay and see the pictures. They lost their boy.” She turns to Mrs. Pfefferman. “We lost our little girl, too,” she says. “Last year. We lost our Rosemary in the same ocean.”
I cannot move.
We lost our little girl. Not since the funeral has anyone said that. Not since the funeral has my mother shown me that she feels the loss. Even when I brought it up, she only said Rosemary’s not here. We all wish she were. Then she went on to talk about not dwelling on hard things and living a joyful life.
But here she is, bringing up the subject.
“Did you?” says Mrs. Pfefferman, her hand on her throat. “Oh, Tipper. I am so sorry.”
“No, no. It was a long time ago. Pfeff—I mean, Lor—he was just here. You’ve had a terrible shock. I don’t mean to talk about myself.”
My father puts his hand on Tipper’s shoulder. I’m not sure if he means to console or quiet her.
“It is the worst thing in the world to lose a child,” says Mrs. Pfefferman. “They are meant to outlive us.”
“She was so little,” says my mother, choked. “She loved to swim. We let her swim and no one was watching her. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.”
“We miss her every day,” says Harris. “That never goes away.”
“You miss her?” I blurt.
“I do.”
I stare at his face, as familiar and weathered as always, but now etched with grief he almost never shows.