“There’s proof,” said Gwen. “Even Scarlet and Dad’s room had wallpaper; you can still see it in the closet.”
Tom turned and they all looked up at the window of their parents’ bedroom, which opened into the great room above the stage. Danny loved that window. He’d always thought that the slim diagonal panes added to the whole Heidi’s-grandpa’s-house look. One pane was cracked. Their mother had been a Ping-Pong wizard, and in a victorious frenzy she had sent a ball flying up into that window. No one had ever mentioned repairing it. Just like no one mentioned checking the closet for wallpaper. Danny had no intention of going into that room. Even the crack in the glass was too much to look at. He scratched at a fresh blister on his palm, ran the soft tip of his index finger against it. He could think about the blister. He could think about how his skin was just layers of molecules ready to peel away and disappear into the ether.
Gwen came down the stairs, stood just behind Danny, put her arms around him, and rested her chin on his shoulder. She was a good three inches taller than her little brother, and Tom was even taller than she was, both of them giants like their father. At twenty-one Danny still felt like the baby. He would never outgrow them. Even his license still had the great red mark on it, “UNDER 21.” Though now that wasn’t true. It was his only legal ID, since losing his passport this past spring somewhere between Scranton and Ensenada. And now it lied. As if the world was conspiring against his growing up. Stay small, the world whispered. Even his doctor was in on it. “I’ll give you the quarter of an inch, but you just aren’t five eight.”
“Dan? Remember when you were little, how you got scared at night up here?” asked Gwen. “You used to come into my room to look at the lights from town.”
“You’d tell me what each light was and what it meant.”
“That was a game that Scarlet taught me and Tom. We’d sit on the end of the float after dinner, after Libby had gone to bed, and try to figure out every light.”
Danny looked over at Tom. Tom had leaned the broom against the wall. He had always assumed that somehow Tom and Gwen lived separate lives as kids, like mini adults, standing in the doorways of their separate rooms in feetsie pajamas, waving cordially, but never inviting the other in.
Tom gave Gwen a pat on the shoulder. “That’s true,” he said, “but now they have those horrible new floodlights on the ferry landing. You’d think they were expecting the QE2. Maybe that’s what Scarlet was hoping for, that the QE2 would pull into port and take her away.” He looked out the bay window, over the water, to town. Tilting her head back so Danny could see her face, Gwen made a what-the-hell-is-he-saying expression that Danny had seen before, often.
“I think Scarlet was living the dream,” said Gwen, “eventually, anyway.” She squeezed Danny’s shoulder. He was the dream.
Tom picked up a magazine, wiped the dust from the cover on his pant leg, and headed toward the dining room and the door to the porch. “Sure, an elaborate fallacy created by her subconscious, or her conscious mind, depending on the day,” he said, and left the room smacking the rolled-up magazine against the heel of his hand. “You guys can handle the cleanup.”
“Tom?” Gwen called, but they heard the screen door smack shut. Again, Gwen turned to Danny and grimaced.
“You’d think her dying would’ve chilled out his irrational anger,” she said.
“That, or turning thirty-eight,” said Danny.
“Maybe he’s just mad she’s not here to fight with.”
“That drama queen,” said Danny, “maybe he’s just in withdrawal. They hadn’t had a good blowout since my seventeenth birthday. Are you seriously still allowed to storm out of parties after you’re thirty?”
“He didn’t come back for poor Melissa for two hours. Just forgot about her completely. That lady is a saint.” Danny was drawing lines in the dust with his toe.
“I can’t even remember what he and Mom were fighting about.”
“Insurance. Because that is such an emotional topic.” The two of them broke down into a small laughing fit. When they heard Tom drag a wooden chair across the porch, they laughed harder. Scarlet hated when they dragged the furniture around. But then Danny didn’t want to joke anymore. Laughing made him feel like he was too deep in his body, too far away from his skin. He coughed from the dust.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” she said. “Finals must’ve been a bitch.”
“Yeah, it’s been tough.” He leaned into her for a second. “I need some water.”
“Oh, crap. She’s back.” Gwen pointed out the window to the backyard. “Flee the scene!”
THIRTEEN
LIBBY
July 7
From where they sat on the porch Libby and Melissa could see Tom at the wheel of the Whaler. He’d just come back from a jaunt, and tied the boat up, but stayed where he was, looking out toward town. The women were in matching Adirondack chairs, their feet propped up on the rail, books lying facedown in their laps. Melissa wore a hat, and her legs looked pale and veined next to Libby’s, which were tanned from hours working on boats and clearing brush from the edge of the wood for the past few weeks. Melissa looked delicate and magical, Libby thought, like a lily or some thin, exotic cat. So unlike her own seasoned self, the salty dog with the tennis body, her hands a little too rough for the country club but too lithe for the lobster boat.
“I can’t believe that those idiots broke the house. I was only gone for an hour.”
“At least they tried to clean up,” said Melissa.
“‘Tried’ being the operative word.” Libby glanced over her shoulder at the bay windows. Through them she could see the hole in the ceiling, a dark patch with pinpricks of light. It made her strangely happy. No one else will want it now. The risk of the offer had been buried under ancient plaster.
“At least it’s not raining,” said Melissa. Libby would rather the house become a mud pit then a fleet of condos.
“Tom has been obsessively listening to NOAA to make sure nothing happens before we can get it fixed,” said Libby. Remy would come tomorrow and start putting it all back together. How much could a roof cost?
“See, he’s not such an idiot. It was on our second date, when Tom told me about you.”
“Really?” Libby scratched the top of one foot with the arch of the other.
“He talked about his little sister, he said he always used you as an example in meetings: ‘Would my little sister like this ad, would this make her buy it,’ like you were the everygirl. I expected you to be in college. And then when we first met, you were only fifteen.”
“That’s surprising, considering Tom thinks he’s in a generation all his own. I wonder why he told you about me. Gwen would have made the better story.”