Five-plus years into their marriage, with a third child on the way, the Winters were outgrowing their little home on Roanoke. But they couldn’t afford anything bigger, not in a decent neighborhood, anyway, and not on an underwriter’s salary. Four years shy of his thirtieth birthday, Abe had grown to detest his job at Safeco and yearned more than ever to become an agent. As it was, he did more than his share of the heavy lifting at the firm with none of the financial benefits and little room for advancement. It was time to forge his own path.
Though Ruth managed most days to put on a happy face for Abe’s benefit, it was clear that her free spirit—that curiosity and appetite for newness, that soulful impetus that had once animated her and driven her into the arms of poetry and art—was flagging under the strain and rigorous routine of her homemaking responsibilities. Abe understood firsthand what she was up against. For two and a half hours every Saturday, he was treated to a little taste of what Ruth endured daily as he was tasked with watching the kids while Ruth shopped and ran errands. Rarely was it as simple as setting them in front of the television or distracting them with playthings. Somebody was usually hungry, or crying, or in need of attention in some way. Harmony was nearly impossible to achieve.
Anne wanted to go to the park, but Karen needed a nap. Too bad she was too big to nap in the baby carriage anymore. Also, too bad she had a dirty diaper, and not the kind Abe could pretend not to notice for another forty-five minutes; it was a ripe one, beginning to test the cloth. Anne wanted fish sticks for lunch, but not until Daddy washed his hands, and not if they were burnt. Karen refused to eat at all, despite Abe’s entreaties, though she desperately needed to, because her mood was headed south. She was starting to rub her eyes and glower. Abe burned the fish sticks, of course, so Anne wouldn’t eat them. Hunger finally got the better of Karen, who had a meltdown and couldn’t be consoled until, mercifully, she fell asleep on the kitchen floor, the tears on her face not yet dry. Anne still wanted to go to the park.
By the time Ruth made it home Saturday afternoons, Abe was ready for a two-week vacation. How Ruth managed it eighty hours a week, he could not fathom.
The way Abe saw it, the time had come to shake things up; time for newness and adventure, time for the Winter family to reinvent themselves. Abe had a plan, a surefire cure to the domestic doldrums that ailed them.
Bainbridge Island. That wooded little utopia of six thousand adventurous souls across Elliott Bay, nine miles and thirty-five minutes by ferry from downtown Seattle. Bainbridge Island, with its offbeat village charm and its wide-open spaces, its untapped potential and affordable real estate. On Bainbridge Island, Ruth could have a garden, a studio even. Heck, they could have a barn, with goats, or a horse. They wouldn’t have to lock their doors. The kids could all have their own rooms and run around outside until sundown.
The more Abe envisioned such a life for himself and his family, the more certain he was that their fortunes awaited them across Elliott Bay. He schemed for months, and even missed work one Friday to ferry across the sound and look at home listings at the Sam Clarke Realty office. Still, he did not talk about these plans to Ruth. He didn’t want to get her hopes up until he knew he could make it happen. And he had a plan for that, too.
Ready to give his notice any day, Abe took another Friday off at Safeco, feigning illness, and ferried across the bay once more, this time to seize his destiny. He disembarked at the Winslow terminal, shoes buffed to an onyx sheen, briefcase in hand, and headed directly to the heart of town, brimming with purpose and determination. Don’t take no for an answer, he told himself. Hit your talking points. Don’t appeal to his sentiment, appeal to his fiscal instincts. For all his certainty, Abe had to reject with every step the likelihood that he was only an imposter, a young man who was in way over his head.
Thus, when Abe waltzed into Bainbridge Island Insurance as though he’d just bought the place, his heart was beating triplets as he handed his freshly minted business card to the girl behind the counter.
“Abe Winter to see Todd Hall,” he said.
Abe straightened his tie and checked his breath against an open hand as the receptionist left her station to consult with Hall. Alone in the foyer, Abe cast a look around. The sofa was contemporary, orange faux leather and a little worse for wear. The potted ferns, though ostensibly healthy, needed grooming, cluttered as they were with withered brown stalks. The agents pictured on the wall, four in all, were all over fifty, gray haired, and bespectacled. Clearly, Bainbridge Island Insurance could benefit from an infusion of youth.
The desk girl returned thirty seconds later, escorting Abe to Hall’s office, or cubicle, as it were, in the rear of the building. Abe put Todd Hall somewhere in his late forties, a man nearly as wide as the desk he manned, a spot of mustard on his tie, his forehead filmy with perspiration, his thinning hair coaxed in a dozen furrows to one side in a misguided attempt at volume.
“Mr. Winter, is it?” he said.
“Yessir,” said Abe.
“How can I help you?”
Small talk was not on the menu. Hall was a man who took his business seriously. Thus, Abe proceeded directly to phase two.
“Mr. Hall,” he said. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ve got an opportunity for you.”
“Oh?” said Hall, glancing at the face of his Omega Speedmaster, a far cry from Abe’s Timex. But now was not the time to doubt his own worth, because it was Abe who had the leverage.
“Yessir, Mr. Hall, an opportunity for both of us,” he said.
“Mm,” said Hall.
“It’s a real moneymaker,” Abe said.
“Is that so?” said Hall, clearly unconvinced.
“You’ve got this whole island to yourself, am I right? I mean, it’s in the name: Bainbridge Island Insurance. This is your domain.”
“That’s right,” said Hall.
“No competition this side of the city. It’s open season out here for comprehensive coverage, right? Problem is,” said Abe, “your clientele is unmined, Mr. Hall. You’re sitting on a fortune here.”
His office chair issued a plaintive groan as Hall straightened up. “Okay, you’ve got my attention,” he said.
“It’s as simple as two words,” said Abe.
“And what might those be?” said Hall.
“Life insurance.”
“Keep talking,” Hall said doubtfully.
“Life insurance is a higher-commission, higher-gain proposition than any coverage you’re offering here. If you think twenty percent on home and auto is profitable, how about eighty percent on whole life?”
For the first time, Hall looked mildly impressed. “Tell me more,” he said.
“Not to mention,” said Abe, “it’s proven that the more lines you can offer a client, the more likely they are to stick with you over the long haul. Persistence is the key to profitability, right?”
“Okay,” said Hall. “So, who sells it?”
“He’s standing right in front of you, sir.”
“What’s your background, Winter?”
“Three years at Safeco,” said Abe.
“As an agent?”
“Underwriting,” said Abe.
Hall slumped perceptibly at this news.
“Hear me out, Mr. Hall. My experience is a benefit. I know the variables, the risks and rewards. I’ve got the product knowledge, I know the game, I know the markets, and I know who I’ll be selling to—young families like myself, in addition to your existing clientele, of course.”
“And what makes you think you can sell anything?”
“If you met my wife, you wouldn’t ask that question, sir.”
“Okay,” said Hall. “Sell me some life insurance, then. Right now. I’m forty-three years old, I’m overweight, I smoke, and I’m afraid to die. Just not bad enough to quit smoking.”
“You have a wife?” said Abe.
“Of course,” said Hall.
“Kids?”
“Boy and a girl, both out of the house.”
“I’ve got two girls myself,” said Abe. “Very much in the house, if you know what I mean. Expecting a third in about four months.”
“Congratulations,” said Hall. “Back to my life insurance. Why should I buy a policy? I’m up to my neck in expenses as it is.”
“For your family,” said Abe. “That’s the real reason you’re afraid to die, leaving your family business unfinished. It’s your responsibility to have the bases covered, right?”
“You’re not wrong,” said Hall.
“This isn’t just about peace of mind, here, though. This is about financial resources. We’re not just gonna protect your family, we’re gonna make your family some money doing it. I can sell you a ten-thousand-dollar whole life policy for eighteen to twenty-five dollars a month.”
“At my age?”
“Yes.”
“As a smoker?”
“Yep.”
“Fat?”
“So long as there’s no preexisting conditions, yes.”
“Ten thousand?”
“Ten thousand,” said Abe.
“Not bad,” said Hall, sinking back down into his chair, pinching his uppermost chin between thumb and forefinger as he contemplated the possibilities. “Eighty percent, you say?”
“Eighty percent,” said Abe. “Split, of course.”
“That is good,” Hall conceded. “So, what’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch,” said Abe. “Just say the word. You bring me on board, and I’ll call the movers and the Realtor before five o’clock today. I’ll be making you money inside the month.”
“And your family knows about this?”
“It’s a surprise,” said Abe.
“Helluva surprise,” Hall said.
They were in the tiny kitchen, the girls finally down for the night, Ruth drying the last of the dinner dishes, when Abe divulged his master plan.
“Bainbridge Island?” said Ruth. “What on earth would make you think I’d ever want to live on an island?”
“It’s beautiful!” said Abe. “There’s woods, and beaches, and strawberry fields, and—”
“Abe, did it occur to you that I left Shelton for the very reason that I didn’t want to live in a small town?”
“Bainbridge Island isn’t some backwater mill town.”
“Actually, it was a mill that put the place on the map,” said Ruth.
“Well, it’s different than Shelton. It’s more…I don’t know…enlightened.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a poet’s paradise!” he said. “All that nature, and fresh air, and the smell of salt water. We could have chickens!”
“Oh, and what do you know about poetry?” she said. “I came to the city because there was culture, museums and bookstores and architecture…”
“They’ve got architecture on Bainbridge,” Abe interjected.
“And universities, and theaters, and cafés?” said Ruth.
“I don’t know about theaters, but they’ve got coffee over there,” said Abe. “They even have a French restaurant. At least it sounds French—Martinique.”
How could he be so clueless? She dreamed of living in Paris, among poets and cathedrals, not on some remote island covered with trees. Did he really imagine that raising chickens was going to fill the mental and spiritual void that had replaced her sense of self, that strawberries and gravel roads were going to magically make her feel like somebody again, that driving five miles to the nearest grocery store was going to imbue her life with that missing sense of purpose she so desperately yearned for, that purpose she’d lost the day she dropped out of UW, a purpose beyond making peanut butter sandwiches, and brushing hair, and reading children’s books aloud?
“I don’t want to live on Bainbridge Island or any island. I just want…I don’t even know what I want anymore, but it’s not on an island.”
“But, honey, you don’t understand, I already got the job!”
“What job?”
“The job I’ve wanted since I graduated college. I already printed business cards.”
Sure enough, he fished one out of his billfold and presented it to Ruth.
Stunned, Ruth read the card—Abe Winter, Agent, Bainbridge Island Insurance—and fell silent, a molten anger bubbling up behind her ribs. This was never about her, it was always about Abe, what Abe wanted, what Abe decided. Abe, who’d had the opportunity to finish college, and the benefit of a few precious years to grow into himself, to question and identify what it was he wanted out of life and to go after it, while Ruth was left scrubbing toilets and ironing shirts, her dreams, such as they were, gathering dust along with all the unread books piled on the nightstand.
“When were you going to tell me about this?” she said.
“It was a surprise,” he said.
“A surprise? A surprise is a gold-plated locket or a diamond brooch, Abe, not this.”
“You’re gonna love it, I promise,” Abe said.
“Love what? Your new job?”
“The island,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Abe, but I’m not moving to an island. I feel isolated enough here.”
“But, honey, it’s already done, I took the job.”
“So, commute,” she said. “There’s people on the island who commute to the city, you’ll just be going the other way.”
“Ruthie, I bought the house.”
Ruth’s ears started burning.
“You what? What house?”
“Four bedrooms! It’s twice the size of this place. Oh, it’s beautiful, Ruthie, you’re gonna love it. And get this: It’s on five acres—a farm! Our yard is as big as this whole block! It’s got a barn, and a henhouse, and a—”
“You bought a house? On an island? Without even telling me? Are you out of your mind? Abe, this…do you not understand that this is…it’s not okay. These are not the kind of decisions you surprise your—your damn spouse with! What were you thinking?”
Abe looked stunned as he fell silent, his eyes seeking out the linoleum.
“Well?” said Ruth.
“I…I guess I was thinking that you were unhappy,” he said. “That you were stuck, that both of us were stuck. And that moving somewhere would be a good thing. That you’d be excited by the possibilities, the fresh start. That it would be a whole new way of life for us. That we could thrive there.”
“So, then, you made a mutual decision?” she said. “Just like that, it was settled. Suddenly we’re the Swiss Family Winter? Unbelievable. Isn’t this the sort of thing we addressed when we made our wedding vows, Abe? Did you forget the ‘together’ part?”
“Ruthie, maybe if you just give it a chance…?” said Abe.
“It appears you haven’t left me much of a choice,” she said.
Ruth put the last plate in the rack and walked out of the kitchen in a huff. She didn’t speak to Abe for two days. She ironed his shirts according to custom, poured his coffee, and made his toast, but she didn’t utter more than the occasional grunt or sigh by way of communication. Not that Abe didn’t try to elicit a response.
“Look, the escrow hasn’t closed yet. I don’t have to take the job, I can stay at Safeco. I never gave my notice.”
“What about the baby, Abe? Where will the baby be delivered? There’s no hospital on Bainbridge Island.”
“I guess I figured…I didn’t really think about…”
“Of course you didn’t. What about the schools?”
Abe perked up immediately. “Now, that, I did ask about,” he said. “The schools are great. There’s a dentist, there’s a salon, a feed store.”
“Feed store? Is that supposed to be a selling point?”
“There’s a library!” said Abe.
Ruth began to soften despite herself. Abe wasn’t totally wrong; the newness and change were indeed enticing, loath as she was to admit it. New routines, new possibilities, new friends. Annie could get that dog she was begging for. On the island, Ruth would be closer to her parents in Shelton. And fresh eggs didn’t sound so bad after all. Still, it was hard to forgive Abe for the sheer, unmitigated audacity of the whole endeavor. Imagine the conceit of deciding someone else’s future without their consent.
“At least let’s go out and look at the place Saturday,” said Abe.
“What about the kids?”
“Bring them, of course,” he said. “It’s gonna be their home, too. I mean, if you—if we decide…”
“Fine,” she said. “We’ll look at the place. But that doesn’t mean I’m moving there.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “The decision is yours.”
Thus, an uneasy accord was reached, if only temporarily.