It had been six months, almost seven, since their mother had died. Tom tried not to keep track. He wished he could wear a black armband. It seemed far more civilized than the pathetic arrangement of carnations from his assistant, who was apparently a tattletale. Melissa had understood, at least. She hadn’t asked him questions or given him sympathetic looks. She just kept the kitchen sink scrubbed clean the way he liked, had the kids do their homework in the dining room where he could watch their books get dog-eared and highlighted.
He came out of the bathroom and, without intending to exactly, slammed the door behind him. Half the restaurant turned in his direction. Eyes down, he headed back to the table. Gwen was there, and everyone already had a drink but him.
“I wasn’t sure what you wanted.” Melissa pointed at her wine. Tom shrugged, caught the eye of the waiter, and ordered a whiskey. Libby looked at Gwen for a beat. Normally, Tom didn’t catch this, but today he saw their eyebrows go up, saw the corners of their mouths crinkle slightly, then nothing.
“Yes?” he asked them.
“It’s awesome to see you cut loose a little,” said Gwen.
“Well, we can’t all be on perpetual spring break.” He tilted his chair back on two legs and held on to the edge of the table with both hands.
“Maybe make it a double,” said Danny quietly. Danny unrolled his silverware from his napkin and put the knife and fork on opposite sides of his plate.
“You know what, let’s all have a whiskey,” said Melissa. She patted the table with both hands as if she had struck upon the ultimate solution.
Libby started flipping through the wine list, a small, rigid binder. Schooners had been slowly moving up on the scale of sophistication. When five years ago they had started using tablecloths, Bob had walked into, then immediately out of, the restaurant.
He refused to enter until Danny popped his head out of the door and said, “Dad, they’ve got gelato now!” Bob had turned on his heel and headed into the restaurant. “Well, we can’t let the children down.”
Scarlet had turned to Tom and said, “Apparently we’re having ice cream for dinner.”
Libby passed the wine list to Tom.
“Let’s just get a bottle,” said Tom.
“Or two,” said Melissa.
Tom could feel the whiskey traveling along his limbs, drawing everything closer to the floor. It was small, but all he needed. He left the wine drinking to the rest of them. The whiskey acted like a scrim. It gave just enough separation between him and them that he could stop worrying about their stupid choices. Instead, Tom watched Danny push his hair out of his face as he explained cannabinoids to Gwen. Gwen unabashedly ate the bread off of Danny’s bread plate as he talked. Danny passed her more butter. Libby recounted to Melissa a face-off with one of her students: “He literally said, ‘but it’s my body, my body.’ What do you say to that? You’re right, your body is your own, be empowered, be protective, but also stop drawing all over it.”
Tom held Melissa’s hand under the table. He wanted to pull her onto his side of the scrim. He wanted to take her to Costa Rica with him. They could be co-owners; they could teach the turtles to catch grapes in their mouths. But that would mean telling her he didn’t know when he would be allowed back to work. That would mean telling her what he’s been afraid of for most of their marriage. It would mean acknowledging what she has told him. It would mean confessions and therapy and tears and there was no way. He just needed to get back to work. They just needed to separate.
The check lay on the table, and Tom picked it up instinctively. Sometimes he would experiment, giving his siblings a minute to swoop in. There was never any swooping. But then again, the minute he had started earning enough, he’d always picked up the check. He reached into his back pocket. His front pocket. He patted his chest pocket. The back pocket again. He excused himself and went out to the car. Tom emptied the glove box, the well in the driver’s door, the pocket behind the seat. Nothing. He had forgotten his wallet. He could see it on his dresser, waiting for him to finish his bath, to comb his hair and run his belt through the loops. He kept checking, but he knew it wasn’t there. How could I have done that? How? Tom went back into Schooners and sat down. He whispered to Melissa that his wallet was back at the house.
“Shit, I didn’t bring mine.” She cringed. Melissa turned to the others. “Who brought their wallet?”
They had the look of kindergarteners asked to read a clock, on the spot and clueless. Blink. Blink. Then they all began digging through pockets and bags. Then shaking their heads.
“Maybe we can come back tomorrow with the credit card, or call it in when we get home?” said Libby.
“I’m ready to wash dishes,” said Danny, pushing up his sleeves.
“Dine and dash,” said Gwen.
“They know where we live, Gwen.” Tom. He knew she was kidding but just couldn’t—
“I’m sorry to bother you.” A man, not much older than Tom, was standing at the head of the table.
“I couldn’t help overhearing, and I would love to treat you all to dinner.” He had curly blond hair cut close and a square chin that brought to mind regattas and lacrosse, like maybe he had just come from an alumni event at Colgate. Tom looked at him, stared for a few moments. Then quickly shifted his gaze to the tablecloth. No. No no no.
“That is so thoughtful, but we couldn’t,” said Libby. “I’m sure they’ll let us come back with it later.”
“You’re the Willoughbys, right? I insist. I knew your parents. Jeremy Aldridge.” He held out his hand to Libby. She shook it and introduced each of them around the table. Tom didn’t look up. Why? Why is he here? Why is he talking to us?
“Do you live on the island?” Gwen asked. Tom picked up the bill off the table and drew it into his lap.
“Every summer my entire life.”
“Oh, so Ned is your dad? You’ve got that great place on the other side of Tiptoe Mountain,” said Libby. Tom didn’t want to know any of this. Not his name, not his house.
“Is Evan your brother?” Gwen asked. She shifted up in her seat.
“Cousin. Ned is my uncle.” Jeremy Aldridge rested his fingertips on the edge of the table.
“So you’re just a freeloader.” Gwen.
“Exactly, which is why you should let me get you dinner.” Here Jeremy Aldridge scanned the table. Tom held the check tight in his hand, until his fingers ached. Wet footprints on the porch, in the dining room. No.
“No, thank you, we’ve got this.” Tom looked only at the man’s chin as he said this. I don’t want to know the color of your eyes. He pushed back his chair with a screech. As he walked out the door, the check still in his hand, he heard the man say to his siblings, “I’m sorry to hear about your mom.”
Out the door and over to the small bridge above the cove, Tom leaned out, letting the wall dig into his stomach. The last time I saw that man was the last time I loved my parents. He threw the check into the water. He spat after it. He walked back to the jeep and got in. With both hands on the steering wheel, his arms were straight as if he were about to take a sharp curve. He turned on the AC until it was icy. It was all he could do not to drive away, drive and drive and drive.
Melissa knocked on the glass. Tom unrolled his window.
“It’s okay to forget your wallet.”
“Let’s go. Get in.” He motioned to the front seat.
“Gwen already called shotgun.”