They almost never made love on this bed, even when it was something they did, not on this bed. The ancient springs send a chorus of rusted squeaks through the house, just turning over seems to be an undoing, the bed giving a final death call. So they used to cover the floor with blankets, tell the curious children in the morning that they’d fallen asleep having a picnic.
They had many picnics in this room. They had picnics in every room. They had quick picnics and slow, savoring picnics, even one unfortunate picnic in college that had bugs. They were healthy eaters. Outdoorsmen. The last time on their little screened porch, on these blankets now hung so neatly on the back of the rocker. The blankets had been laid for him, too sticky in bed that hot night. Such a rarity here; hot nights are the domain of the city. Here nights wear pants and long sleeves. But that night, after their littlest was brought up from the floor of the cove where she had drifted for the briefest moment, just long enough to make them think she might not surface, they sat together on their porch. And then they lay together. It wasn’t the purposeful smoothing of blankets onto the floor, a conscious decision, we do this now, this is the time. Instead it was a slow progression from chair to blanket, and then they drew together, dovetailing. First their feet, the soft curve of arches over each other, then calves, the tender back of a knee snug over a kneecap. Then hips, bellies, arms, chins, shoulders. And lips. The curve of his lower lip, like a drop of honey about to fall from his mouth. She bit it. And he her cheek, and they tore at each other. Clawed and tangled and tasted. A chair went over backward. He pulled her hair, and she took him into her with the hunger of a decade, even if it had only been six months. They chewed and licked and panted and cried. And then he had her face between his hands, and his lips on her face, cheeks, eyes, lips; he pressed his forehead against her neck, raised his head, looked her in the eyes.
“Where have you been?” he asked. She had no answer, no words, barely any breath, his weight so deliciously heavy on her. With bent legs and curled toes it ended, finishing with a great expansive clarity, the height and freshness of a sky after rain, wet air that is about to dry. I am here.
Suddenly she wishes not to wash the sheets, not to have taken them from the bed. She wishes she could sleep in them every night until he is home again. The last of his smell is in these sheets. How can she think of drifting off without that smell? Even through the camphor and sea air she can smell it. But it is too late. The sheets lie crumpled on the floor. They have been removed; again she has made a step out of habit or expectation that does not match what she truly wants. What she wants comes late, a realization too late, a missed turn on the highway. That was it, wasn’t it, back there? Don’t go. I’m sorry.
She gets up, not wanting to be here, or there. She gathers the linens in her arms and shoves an elbow in between the door and the jamb to unstick it, everything in this house sticks, squeaks. She can’t get the mothball smell out of the mattresses, the pillows. She uses two cases to try to diffuse it. When they first bought the place she tried everything. Burning sage, incense, candles, a fire in every fireplace, cedar sachets, scented shelf paper. But smoke cleared; candles melted, leaving gleaming white drip castles on the lips of wine bottles and smooth ponds in the centers of tables; mice built nests in the cedar, their babies born in the warmth and tidiness of a pouch with an embroidered shell; shelf paper yellowed, curled, in the closets with windows, of which there are three, went white like a photogram. She wishes she had thought to put leaves on them, creating a permanent shadow. The smell remains. The mice remain.
During a heavy rain, the floor of the great room is pockmarked with buckets, washcloths wet at the bottom to muffle the drops, drippity dropping, the kids used to say. The whole roof needs replacing. She must have Remy find someone; if she tries they will give her the summer rate; Remy can get the local price. He is always the go-between, always this lobsterman vouching for them.
Remy will know where he has gone. A wave of relief sweeps over her. Remy will watch his course, the weather, will have gassed up the boat, repaired the anchor, got the boys at the boat shop keeping an eye on things. Remy will know her husband’s next port.
She walks down the long balcony, looks out the bay window in the great room at the empty mooring. Put into port, lie anchor soon, crave a haven with shops and other boats, need something, run low. A letter is coming. Down a few steps, up a few steps to the hallway and the kids’ rooms. She will write the letter while the clothes churn in the washer. She is about to nudge open Libby’s bedroom door, strip her bed too, when she hears a noise. With the girls off at sailing and her oldest never home anymore, she is alone in the house. She hears it again, a rustling and squeaking, this house, she thinks. Hinges, floorboards, steps, bedsprings, sashes, faucets, chairs, all a symphony of squeaks, whines, groans. The faucets, those are the whines she hates the most. Late at night, early in the morning, she wants only the soft sound of running water. She drops the linens in the doorway and heads farther down the hall toward the sound. A window left open, a breeze kicking up, she guesses.
Gwen is in her room with a local. They tied up the boat down on the beach, only visible from the porch. She was supposed be teaching him sailing, a year younger than she is. Instead, she has brought him here in their small sailboat. Her mother must be having a nap, she says. She takes off her shirt. The local fumbles with the bra clasp; finally she turns around, so he can see what he is doing. It is unhooked, and she turns to face him. He leaves it there, hanging limply from her shoulders, and she takes it off. His shirt goes on the floor, his pants, her pants. She is faster than he is, and she lies naked in the bed. Gwen feels as if the world is now made entirely of afternoon sun and an ocean, not this cold thing, but one warm enough to stay immersed in. She is swimming. Kisses are strokes, short splashing, broad, full, deep, and propelling them ever forward.