Quickly our father said of course not, he had no intention of altering his plans for the afternoon. He had set aside a block of time for lunch at Lake Huron—two hours. His Wednesday afternoons were usually kept free for nonclinical matters. He had a late-afternoon meeting and would be at the Center until around 7:00 P.M. and the next day was solidly scheduled with medical appointments and the day after that he would be flying to Washington, D.C., for a conference at the NIH—the National Institutes of Health.
“I see you so rarely, all of you together—this is a special occasion. A family excursion.”
“But—”
“No. It’s private life. Only a true emergency could derail it.”
Then, after a pause: “We don’t let these people intimidate us.”
Quickly our mother spoke, before one of us could ask who these people might be, “I know that, Gus. Of course.”
“We never do. We don’t miss a beat. We don’t publicize what we do, if we can avoid it.”
“You are right. I know. Yes.”
“Here’s the key to the Volvo, Jen. Just wait in the car and I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t interact with the picketers—they might know about the incident, or they might not. We don’t interact with them.”
“Of course, I know! I know—‘we don’t interact with the enemy.’”
WE DROVE to Lake Huron that afternoon, after all. The family excursion had not been deflected.
In our father’s Volvo and with our father at the wheel.
For here was authority, and here was comfort. Here was the familiar, which is comfort.
And at the shore of Lake Huron, beyond a beach strewn with pebbles and kelp, near-deserted on this gusty day, the incandescent sky opened dazzlingly before us.
Like the lifting of headache. A tight band around the head that is the band of pain.
Whatever might have happened, did not happen.
This is happiness. This is love.
The Cove was not so attractive as we’d recalled. Perhaps it had been battered in a recent storm. A loose sign swung and banged in the wind, annoying to our mother. Yet it was wonderful to be seated out on the deck of the restaurant, overlooking the lake—so vast a lake, the farther shore of Ontario, Canada, was not visible.
A faint horizon, hazy and ill-defined—you had to imagine a farther shore.
My father declared that this was a “surprise, celebratory” lunch—a “birthday lunch” for our mother. He had not yet purchased her present (he said) but had something very special in mind, which she would discover next week, on her proper birthday.
“Gus, thank you! I love you.”
“We all love you.”
Below The Cove was a dock where rowboats, canoes, kayaks were for rent. But Lake Huron was rough that day, and the air was chilly for mid-June, and there were few customers.
Still, Darren wanted to take out a kayak, in defiance of our mother who would worry about him.
“Mom, Jesus! I’ll be fine.”
“Why don’t you and Dad go in a double kayak?”
“There aren’t any double kayaks here.”
“Well—a canoe?”
But Darren didn’t want to take out a canoe. We saw that Dad was disappointed, by the genial way in which he supported Darren, that was meant to show he was not disappointed.
I saw that my prissy brother would have his way. He would have his way, so that we had to worry about him.
Hiking along the beach, and along a muddy inlet, where shorebirds swarmed and shrieked, for something had died there. A briny soft-rotting odor, shell-less things, unprotected flesh about which iridescent insects buzzed antic with life.
Frantic with life.
Nobody’s baby chooses to die.
Your nostrils pinched, you felt a gagging sensation and quickly turned away.
We watched Darren paddle along the shore. Rough, choppy waves. He’d become a skilled kayaker, our father had instructed him. He did not glance back at us but surely he felt our eyes on him.
Meanly I thought—I hope he capsizes.
I did not want my brother to drown. (I think.) But I would have smiled if Darren had capsized in the kayak.
Except they’d have run to him. Both our parents would have waded out into the surf, to “save” him.
The hard-packed sand made walking difficult. And the wind taking away our breaths like a wet mouth sucking at our mouths. We hiked behind our parents who were speaking earnestly together—my little sister and me, hand in hand—(I had taken Melissa’s small hand, I loved to feel that small hand in mine and to tug my sister a little faster)—overhearing fragments of our parents’ conversation.
Why did you come today, Jenna?
I—don’t know.
You brought the children. It was premediated.
I don’t know, Gus. I don’t think so.
But you do know.
I think—it was to show them—something . . .
And did that happen? What you’d intended?
No. Or—I don’t know.
And for a while they walked in silence, and I saw that my father was gripping my mother’s hand and that they were walking close together, awkwardly close together so that they were thrown just slightly off balance, and yet they continued to walk in that way, ducking their heads against the wind that tore at my mother’s hair in particular loosening wisps and tendrils about her forehead. And I would think then, as I would think through my life, there are connections between people, there are secret connections between people who are essentially strangers to you, you can’t know, can’t guess. And you can’t judge.
Was it a bomb, Gus?
I’ve told you—no.
I mean, something amateur that didn’t work—obviously. You can tell me.