Fifteen
1976
Mary had always understood her duality, which began at the moment of her conception. Her mother was young and unwed. Her father was a phantom or a devil, or some earthly incarnation of the two. She came into a place and a time where her existence was scandalous, but her beauty was revered. Mary was lovely and terrible. Mary was a blessing and a tragedy. Mary was capable of great love, but only toward a very few.
In the months before Hannah was born, she had nothing to moor her to Sandy Bank. Her affection for her mother was real, but it was muffled by her adolescent anger that was like a roaring in her ears. And when Diane announced that they would be leaving in September, that she couldn’t endure the speculation and rumors that would soon be slithering around Sandy Bank—not again—the longing for the road that was cocooned in Mary’s heart finally unfurled its wings. And Mary decided that she would leave.
She would go as far south as she could and then go farther still. She would find the boy in the white boat on his sandy island, the boy who could take her anywhere, and they would be together. She wouldn’t be in Sandy Bank in October when he came back. So she would go to him.
But Mary needed money.
And so on the sort of evening in August when the humidity was so thick that she would watch the graying sky, waiting for the opaque thunderheads to roll in like chariots, Mary set out for the Pools’ little house, her feet bare on their buckling sand-strewn back walk, and went up to the potted geranium plant. Tilting it carefully to its side, she revealed a brass-toned key. Alice kept it there, Mary knew, for those nights when Stan forgot his set on the boat. Mary was accustomed to taking what she wanted, snatching this and that, lifting a bill here or there to pay for little niceties for herself. But not from the Pools. She wasn’t used to stealing from the Pools. She hesitated for only a moment before lifting the key from the soil-dusted brick. Circumstances, she thought, were extenuating.
Mary propped the screen door open with her hip as she slid the key into the knob and turned. With the side of her body, she pushed against the swollen back door. It offered only a moment of resistance before yielding. The Pools’ kitchen was small and tidy, like the rest of the house, with white ruffled curtains and a blue speckled countertop edged with metal. In the corner was the small table-and-chair set that Mary had sat at countless times while Mrs. Pool made fried bologna sandwiches or mended a hole in her sweater. She knew this house as well as she knew the Water’s Edge. She knew the rattle and roar of the fan in the wood-paneled bathroom. She knew the yellow stain on the doily that lay on top of the television. She knew the closet full of books saved for children who were never born, books of fairy tales with thick spines and leather covers. And Mary also knew the small metal box in the drawer of the Pools’ bedside table. Mr. Pool kept the cash from his fishing charters there. Right underneath the Holy Bible and beside his bottle of TUMS.
It was a Thursday evening and Mrs. Pool played bridge on Thursday evenings. Mr. Pool had taken a group out fishing and wouldn’t be back for hours. Mary had already made her way to the Pools’ bedroom and slid open the drawer when she heard Alice’s voice at the front door. “Don’t say things like that, Marjory.” Her words came gentle but true, a reprimand more forgiving than firm. “She’s had an awful hard time.”
The front door opened with a groan; Mrs. Pool only ever used that entrance when she had a guest.
“Well!” Mary heard a voice she recognized as Marjory Porteiski’s. “I will say that she brings a good deal of it in on herself!” Mrs. Porteiski was a joyless busybody with the same physical softness as Alice Pool but with none of her kindness.
“You don’t know how bad things have been for her. But by the grace of God—”
“Go I. I know my scriptures, Alice.”
Mary knew without seeing that Mrs. Pool was scuttling around the living room, hoping to make her guest feel at home. She was lifting the lid on her candy bowl. She was setting out a tray table that she’d place a plate of cookies on. Stepping carefully to avoid the floorboard that squeaked, Mary collapsed one of the louvered doors to the Pools’ bedroom closet and stepped inside, feeling Mr. Pool’s flannel shirts on her back, Mrs. Pool’s church dresses. More than even the Water’s Edge, the Pools’ house held the smell of the ocean. It was unadulterated there. Undiluted.
“It is a shame that we didn’t get to play tonight,” said Mrs. Pool, trying, Mary thought, to steer the conversation in a more pleasant direction. “I hope Shelley feels better.”
“Shelley is a hypochondriac,” said Mrs. Porteiski. “It’s a condition. Donohue was talking all about it.”
Mary heard Mrs. Pool mumble in both assent and interest. “Can I get you a drink?” she asked.
“Can you make a Tom Collins?”
The doors to the oak liquor cabinet in the Pools’ living room opened and closed. “Let’s see . . . well, I do have gin . . .” Bottles clinked and clanged.
“Just a scotch is fine, Alice,” said Mrs. Porteiski. “Neat.”
Mary heard the glugs of liquor being poured. A few moments later came Marjory’s voice again. “Good Lord, Alice!” she scolded. “That’s plenty!”
“Well, you don’t have to finish it, Marjory!”
After a brief pause, Marjory Porteiski continued her previous line of questioning. “So who is it this time?”
“Hmmm?” asked Mrs. Pool. “How do you mean?”
“Who’s the father of the baby this time?” The disdain in Marjory’s voice was unmistakable.
“You mean Diane’s?”
Mary heard Mrs. Porteiski huff. “No, I mean mine!” she said. “Of course I mean Diane! Who’d she get knocked up by this time?”
“You know who the father is, Marjory. It’s not as if Diane is running around all over the town!” It was as firm a defense as Mrs. Pool was capable of.
“So, it’s that Barry?”
“He doesn’t want a thing to do with her since he found out.”
“Well, of course not! That’s what happens when you give away the milk for free. No man wants to buy the cow!”
“For goodness’ sake, Marjory!”
“You mark my words; she’ll never find a man now. Not with two children born out of wedlock. It’s a real shame.”
Mary could almost see the lifting of Mrs. Pool’s vast chest with a sigh. “It is.”