The Book of Summer

In it she held the telegram, the very one with P.J.’s full name typed in caps. Ruby brought it in case she couldn’t find the words to say. A lucky thing, as that was the situation as she found it.

Ruby passed the paper to her father, hand trembling. A fresh crop of tears filled her eyes. As Daddy studied the telegram, Ruby realized the gross assumption she’d made.

“If you can’t read it—”

She reached out a hand.

“No. I can still read. My vision hasn’t failed quite yet. It’s addressed to me.”

Ruby bit down on her lip and gave a small nod.

“Tilda thought it’d be best if I read it first,” she said, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No,” he answered, his voice a wheeze.

“See?” she said after Daddy held silent for some time. “Mother doesn’t need you. She has Topper and now P.J., Walter, too. I’m the one who needs you, Daddy. Someone has to stay down here for me.”

He crumpled the telegram and held it to his still-pumping heart. Ruby’s own heart could’ve combusted with sorrow.

“Sam,” he said at last. “Have you heard from Sam? Was he at Normandy, too?”

“No,” Ruby said, and sighed. “He was not.”

She hadn’t told her father about Sam, because what was there to say? Ruby didn’t even know how to speak about it herself.

“You don’t sound too happy,” he noted. “For someone saved from almost certain death.”

Suddenly he took in a sharp inhale, and then grimaced in pain. After a moan, Daddy fumbled about his bedside table to locate a small golden bell. With another groan, he gave it a ring.

“Can I get you something?” Ruby asked. “I’m happy to—”

A nurse materialized in the doorway, a different one this time.

“Mr. Young?”

“More pain medication,” he said in a drawn-out croak.

“Right away, sir. We’re almost out. I’ll call the doctor for more.”

The door clicked shut. Ruby turned toward her dad.

“Maybe you should … go slowly,” she said. “With the morphine. I’ve read it can be dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” He let out a low, wet cackle. “The risk being, what, precisely? That I might develop an addiction? Become a drug fiend? There’s no use being careful, petal. Not anymore.”

“Daddy, you—”

“What’s going on with Sam?” he asked, and peered at her through one open eye. “Something’s happened.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Something’s happened. Tell me.”

“Well,” Ruby said, sighing again. “Yes. I suppose something has. The truth is that Sam was not in Normandy because he’s at Cliff House. That’s why I haven’t been able to see you. I was … hesitant … to leave him alone.”

“Why’s that? Is he injured?”

Daddy closed both eyes.

“In a sense,” Ruby said. “Though not physically. You see, there’s been a problem. A discharge. He’s…”

Ruby steadied her breath and worked up the nerve to continue.

“Sam’s done something terrible,” she said. “Wicked even.”

Her eyes stung as tears filled them all the more.

“He’d tell you the same,” Ruby said. “I’m trying my hardest but I don’t know that I can forgive him.”

And just like that, Ruby tore open the little dark box in which she’d been stashing the news.

Between snuffles and sobs and the relentless parade of nurses toting compresses and drugs, Ruby told her father about Sam’s indiscretions, and about his lovers, and the hospital, too. Every last miserable detail she could reveal. She left Topper out of it, though, as much to preserve her own memories as to protect her dad. Ruby refused to remember her beloved brother, her almost-twin, as anything other than a dashing figure perched on the stern of a boat, the wind and sun kissing his golden hair.

When she finally finished her vulgar tale, Ruby studied her father’s face.

“Daddy?” she squeaked, for he was either dead or fast asleep. “Are you awake?”

“I’m awake,” he said, and opened both eyes. “So. Is that all?”

He scooched up onto his elbows, the biggest move he’d made since Ruby tipped toes into the room.

“Is that all?” she scoffed. “I hardly think I could handle more.”

“You can and you will. He’s your husband. He’s confessed his sins and asked for forgiveness. War plays tricks on a person’s mind. The only way he’ll recover is if you believe in him, if you take him at his word. Ruby Genevieve, I say this with nothing but love and adoration. But, dear girl, stop the crying. Gather your wits and march forth. At least you still have a husband to heal. There are a hundred thousand widows who’d trade places with you in a flash.”

Leave it to Daddy to put it exactly like that. Oh yes, the words burned and they stung, but Ruby knew that he was right.

As she ferried back to Nantucket, Ruby’s entire being soared with a renewed sense of vigor and verve. Daddy was nose on the money, same as always. It was high time to get on with this life. She was lucky she still had the chance.

You keep your spirit, she could almost hear Topper say. You’re the most special kind of bird.

God, Ruby missed her baby brother. She missed him fiercely. And if she could forgive Topper, if she could see he was more than the sum of his sins, then she could forgive Sam, too.

And so Ruby made a promise, to Sam but also to Daddy and her brothers and Mother up above. She promised to remain strong, stalwart for them all. Cliff House was hers now, Ruby the only child left of the original four. She was determined to keep their fledgling, small family afloat.

Ruby imagined what she’d say when she swept into the library and threw open the shades (unless there was a blackout drill, in which case they’d have to stay closed). Her plan was to rouse Sam out of his awful, waking slumber. She’d tell him how she felt—that she loved him, and she loved their life together, and there was no sin they couldn’t plow through. All that and she’d finally divulge that another baby was on its way.

But after Ruby exploded through Cliff House’s front door, she did not find the sleeping, slumping person she’d expected. Instead she ran smack into Mrs. Grimsbury, who carried a fretful look and a very short note.

How short? Well, Sam had left. Curt as that.

In the day that Ruby had been gone, Sam had peeled himself off the furniture, packed a lone bag, and skipped town. Where was he bound? San Francisco? New York? Even Sam hadn’t been sure. All he knew was that a family didn’t seem like the right life. So he left home to discover who he really was.





58

Sunday Afternoon



The baby is gone.

The baby Bess planned to “terminate” (God, what a word) is no more. Evan was right; she didn’t want the pregnancy to end. But in the indecision, a judgment was made on her behalf.

Was it the stress? The moving of boxes? Or simply her age? It’s not your fault, the doctors say, which they would to anyone who looks or acts or pays taxes like Bess. She knows this because she’s a doctor, too.

“I’m so sorry,” Evan says, again and again.

He’s lying beside her, his right arm hooked through her left. They are holding hands, both of them staring at the ceiling. She can lie on her back now. Was that the problem? Bess’s nap was almost entirely faceup.

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