After Ron Steckworth had written his check with a flourish, and Aunt Charlotte had given loading directions to the strapping handyman waiting outside with a van to transfer the forty-two by fifty-six safely to the Steckworths’ McMansion (“No, do not cover it, let it breathe during its short ride. And please be careful of those impasto areas where the paint is thickest …”), my aunt, sighing and looking inconvenienced, said she ought to drive over to the mainland to the bank. “I don’t like keeping a check this large in the house. If I should drop dead tonight, Marcus, it would make things difficult for you.” She asked if I wanted to accompany her and when I said an enthusiastic yes—I had not left the island since the day I arrived—I thought I saw a flicker of annoyance on her face. Too late I realized that she probably looked forward to going somewhere all by herself again.
However, she had brightened by the time we were rattling over the causeway. It was early afternoon and some black men with fishing rods were leaning over its railings. Aunt Charlotte replayed some choice Steckworthian utterances (Rita’s “Look, Ronnie, our palmettos are already in!” and Ronnie’s “What will you do back here?”)
Then she floored me by announcing she was going to buy me a really nice beach bike out of her cash cow. Struck dumb by her offer I let the moment go by during which a proper boy would be voicing his excitement and gratitude. Moreover, I couldn’t yet ride in her Mercedes without recalling the shrimp vomit from our first day. Did a whiff still linger?
When we got to the bank she merely said, “I’ll be right back,” not asking if I wanted to go inside the bank with her. What had she meant about dropping dead when the check was still in the house? Why would that make it difficult for me? Why had she said such a thing in the first place? It seemed insensitive given that the only other person in my life had just died.
Back on the island again we stopped at the store and bought a chicken roasted on the spit, various cold cuts and salads, and more bananas and yogurt for Aunt Charlotte. “I’m going to collapse,” she announced as soon as we got home. “If I’m not up by suppertime, go ahead without me and I’ll see you tomorrow.” Off she went to her studio/bedroom carrying an unopened bottle of red wine and the corkscrew.
I put away the things and ate a banana with a cheese sandwich and drank a glass of milk. The chicken, still warm from the spit, called out to me, but I imagined her getting up late in the afternoon and finding one of its legs hacked away. (“Couldn’t the boy have waited for me?”)
Soon it would be the longest day. I had hours more daylight to get through. I could leave a note and walk to the north end of the island and back and the sun would still be strong. Checking myself in the bathroom mirror that cut me off at the collarbone, I marveled that my aunt could exist without a full-length mirror. At our poorest, Mom had always had a full-length mirror. A woman had to know how she looked from behind, she said. A hem could be crooked, a heel worn down, or something hanging that wasn’t meant to show. But Aunt Charlotte seemed to get along fine without knowing how the rest of her looked. She cut her hair in front of the mirror above the sink and that must have been as far down as her grooming concerned her. As she wore only pants and shirts and sandals, there were no skirts or heels or slips to worry about.
I missed seeing my whole self. It would soon be half a year since I had been able to stand in front of a long mirror and see myself from top to bottom, dressed or undressed. I was aware of changes going on below where Aunt Charlotte’s mirror stopped, but I couldn’t judge the whole picture for myself.
I was in a sacrificial frame of mind as I headed north on the beach. I was not meant to enjoy the march, not to look forward to seeing little white trucks or discover meaningful patterns in nature. I simply set myself on automatic to march to the north tip of the island and back, where Aunt Charlotte would probably sleep through the night just to have some time all to herself. The march was something I had to do to keep my mood from getting any worse. If only I could walk until I was empty, like Aunt Charlotte used to do.
Since coming here back in May, I had taken it for granted that I would live with my aunt until I went off to college—though she had mentioned boarding school, if I wanted. Now I was wondering if I should take her up on the boarding school before she got really sick of me. Yet I saw myself doing better if I stayed on the island, going to public school with the children of the ordinary working folks who lived here year-round. If I were to go away to a boarding school, there would be snotty questions about family and fathers. I would have a better chance at passing with the local kids.
Passing for what?
Here I tried not to think my next thought, because I knew it would make me feel horrible. But have you ever tried not to think your next thought? Which was that I would be more respected coming from Aunt Charlotte’s house. Artists could get away with living as they pleased. And Aunt Charlotte was a woman solitary by choice who had a website and a waiting list. My mom had been a single mother who worked minimum wage jobs to support herself and her child. How unfair for Mom that there was plenty of money for Aunt Charlotte and me because of the high-quality insurance plan she had chosen while she lived. I had been the spoiler of my mother’s life.
And here came a worse thought: though I loved her and felt it was unfair that she hadn’t had an easier time, I had been ashamed of her in life as I would never be ashamed of Aunt Charlotte.
My sacrificial march moved me past the yellow trash barrels at a smart clip. I had hardly noticed anything or anybody along the way, although I was aware that the tide was going out. A perverse plan was taking shape: in this punishment mode I would go right up on the porch of Grief Cottage and stand facing the door and confront whatever had scared me there. What was the biggest thing I could lose? Myself. And how bad would it be to empty the world of Marcus? The idea thrilled me. Too bad it wasn’t hurricane season so I would have a better chance of being destroyed. (“Marcus knew better than to go out in that storm. He’d read those books about people drowned and washed out to sea. I’ll never forgive myself for letting him slip out like that.”)
If I got destroyed, what would happen to the insurance money that came with me? Would Aunt Charlotte get it, or did it stop when the beneficiary was dead? If it was nontransferable, she would be sorry, but then she would hate herself for even thinking about money when she should be concentrating on her grief.
Lost in my fantasy I was totally unprepared for the Grief Cottage I saw ahead of me. Last time it had been an eyesore. Today the dazzling afternoon light had transformed it. Before its downfall it must have looked like this to walkers approaching from the south. In the golden haze of five o’clock sun, it shimmered like a mirage.