21

The ferry landing at Marten’s Island was in a small sheltered cove. On one side of it was the dock, and a sandy parking lot. On the far side of the cove rose a small steep bluff, covered in a dense tangle of long grass. At the top, the ground flattened abruptly, and the grass there was cut decorously short and became a back lawn, shared by three brick bungalows. The brick houses had been built by the Army, during World War II, when Marten’s Island had been used as a surveillance post. Day and night, from concrete bunkers that still huddled against the dunes, American eyes had scanned the shifting gray ocean waters for the shafts of German submarines. The brick military houses, small and utilitarian, were in marked contrast to the rest of the local houses. The island had become a summer colony around the turn of the century, and the old houses were shingle style, with turrets and gables and wide wraparound porches.

On Friday evening, when Emma arrived at the ferry landing, cars were already lined up along the dock. The parking lot was nearly full. Women stood together in chatting groups, and streams of children galloped among the parked cars.

Waiting for the ferry, the women looked different: tonight they were dressy, tended, glowing. Clothes were crisper, more colorful. Hair shone silkily, freshly washed. Legs were immaculately smooth, just shaved. The mood was festive and anticipatory: on Friday night the husbands arrived, and when the husbands arrived, the season changed. The evenings lengthened, the island clocks changed to Adult Time: it was the start of the Weekend.

The weeks on Marten’s were quiet and domestic. Daily, the mothers wound the giant ticking clock of the house. The children were like small suns, at the center of everything. The deep and steady gaze of the mothers was focused on them. During the week, the mothers were only mothers. Elsewhere, the rest of the year, most of the mothers worked, full-time or part-time, paid or volunteer. But here on the island, during the week, they were only mothers.

On Friday nights, the mothers became wives. Their steady gazes shifted: now they focused on larger, more demanding stars. In the weekend sky, the fathers eclipsed their children effortlessly. Excited by their fathers’ presence, resentful at the shift, the children turned rowdy and demanding. The mothers turned annoyed, the fathers admonitory. The fathers turned their own gaze on the children, but it was not the deep and steady one of the mothers. The fathers’ gaze was loving but lordly: they demanded precedence by right. They had spent the week in the hot asphalt city. During the fathers’ time, the activities were adult: Golf. Cocktail parties. Sex.

But the season of the husbands was brief. By Monday morning the heavens had shifted again, and the galaxy of husbands was gone. The children ruled the firmament once more.

It was after seven when Emma made her way across the lot, smiling and calling out greetings. She knew everyone she saw. Marten’s was large enough to have different circles, but small enough so that everyone knew everyone. When Emma had first come here, she had worried that it might be claustrophobic, but now she saw it differently. The population was larger than it seemed. Each house was used by not just a family but an extended family—grandparents, siblings, in-laws and cousins. The summer population was fluid, people came and went all season—relatives and houseguests and tenants. Now Emma liked the sense of community; she had made real friends here.

Tonight she felt cool and crisp. In honor of the ferry she wore a fancy ironed long-sleeved jersey, deep purple, and clean white ironed jeans. She had put on dangly silver earrings: one of the benefits of very short hair was earrings. Getting out of her car, she joined Susan Cartwright in a cluster of women. Susan taught Spanish at a girls’ school in New York. She was big-boned and generous looking, with a wide freckled face and long friendly eyes. She wore a white linen shirt and raspberry-colored shorts. Her sunglasses, set on top of her head, held her dark straight hair in place.

“We’re complaining about our children,” Susan told Emma.

“I cannot get Sarah to do her summer reading,” Alison Rogers said. She had her daughter Sarah’s earnest hazel eyes, the high smooth forehead. She was wearing red heart-shaped earrings. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. She has two whole books left, and it’s almost the end of August. I’m going to have to lock her in her room for the rest of the vacation. It’s like this every year. It drives me crazy. We fight every day.”

“You’re lucky Sarah’s read one,” Carol Morris said. Carol was short and stocky, with a wide mouth and heavy eyelids. “Nick won’t read anything at all.” She sounded triumphant. “Not one single word. I mean it. But I think the schools expect too much. This is supposed to be vacation. The books they give them are too long. I wouldn’t want to read them, myself.”

“All mine will do is watch TV,” said Ricky Thompson, who was fair, nearly albino, with pale thick skin and strawy eyelashes. “I wish the schools would test them on old Star Trek episodes.”

“I’ve given up. I’m not going to fight with Jamie anymore. I’m going to cheat,” announced Nancy Williamson. “I’m going to read all the books and tell him what they’re about. Then I’ll take his SATs and apply to college for him. Probably won’t get in.”

Alison turned to Emma. “Has Tess done her reading?” she asked accusingly. “I bet she has.”

“Oh, she’s doing all right,” said Emma, noncommittal. Tess had finished her reading, but Emma would never have said that. You never boasted about your child, any more than you boasted about yourself. You sidestepped praise, you offered flaws. You praised others, and let them sidestep praise.

“Oh, of course Tess has finished her reading,” Susan said cheerfully. “Tess is a genius, we all know that.”

“It’s true,” said Alison, scolding. “She probably read the books on her own. It’s really revolting, Emma.”

“Oh, come on,” said Emma, proud. “She’s hardly a genius. She just likes to read.”

“What about Amanda?” Alison asked, her eyes narrowing. “I suppose she ‘just likes to read,’ too.”

“Not so much,” Emma said.

About stepchildren the rules were not so clear. Criticizing your stepchild was not the same as criticizing your own child. Everyone knew the place your own child held in your heart, but no one knew what place your stepchild held, or if that child had any place in your heart at all. Complaints about your own child showed modesty, but about your husband’s, malice.

“I don’t really know how Amanda is doing on her reading,” Emma said, untruthfully. “Peter’s in charge of that.”

“Smart,” said Carol Morris, emphatically. “It’s his responsibility. Why ruin your summer? I have to say, Emma, you’re brave to have her here, for the whole month. Brave or crazy.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Emma said. “It’s fun.”

Carol shook her head. “I put my foot down about Ted’s daughter. I won’t have her here on Marten’s,” she went on. “I told Ted, ‘Look, this is where I came when I was little. It’s my family’s place, and our family’s place. I want someplace where she doesn’t intrude. You can see Cynthia in New York.’”

“And what did Ted say?” asked Emma.

“He didn’t like it,” Carol said vengefully, “but he got used to it. It was a nightmare, having Cynthia here. She’d fawn all over Ted. ‘Daddy, what was it like at your wedding to Mommy?’” Carol’s voice rose to falsetto. “‘Was Mommy really pretty when you married her?’ One time she brought their wedding photographs out here! That’s when I said, ‘Okay, that’s it. Out.’” Her voice rose again in imitation: “‘Wasn’t Mommy beautiful when you married her? Weren’t you happy then?’” Carol went on, in her own voice, “I said, ‘See her all you want in New York.’” She shook her head. “Not here. I’d had it.”

“Well,” said Emma. “It sounds difficult.”

“That child was a horror. I don’t know about Amanda.” Carol looked at Emma expectantly.

But Emma would not offer her the horrors of Amanda. “Oh, Amanda is fine,” she said vaguely, and turned away, looking out to the water.

It was so baffling, being a stepmother, so difficult to figure out. Who are our role models? Emma wondered. There are no nice stepmothers, they’re all cruel. We have to make it up as we go along. We make up motherhood too, but we have great examples of that, all over the place. And as mothers we have maternal instinct on our side, urging us to cherish our children. But as stepmothers, we find that maternal instinct is busy telling us to turn the kids loose in the forest, and keep the bread crumbs for our own children. Besides, the premise is different. We choose motherhood, for itself, but not stepmotherhood. We may welcome stepchildren, we may learn to love them, but what we chose was their father. No one agreed to marry the father because she fell in love with his children.

Emma gazed into the glinting evening sea, out to where the ferry would appear. “Is it going to be late, do you think?”

“Oh, God, I hope not,” said Carol. “I have people coming for dinner.”

There would be dinner parties all over the island tonight, the tables set with jeweled colors. There would be candles, tall columns of white set at measured intervals; there would be little flickering votive pots scattered among the dishes. There would be flowers: masses of stiff hothouse blossoms, in formal constructions. There would be fragile messy wildflowers, dripping petals on the cloth. There would be clusters of glasses and goblets, crowded around the tip of each knife. There would be serious food.

“Are you cooking?” Emma asked.

Carol made a face. “I’ve already cooked,” she said plaintively. “I cooked all during my twenties and thirties. Isn’t that enough?”

Emma laughed. The others were still talking about the summer reading.

“I said to Talley, ‘Fine, don’t do it,’” said Susan. “‘Don’t read at all. Ever. What does it matter if you get into college? Waitressing is good, steady work.’” Susan shook her head, gritting her teeth. “She drives me crazy.”

The other women laughed companionably. Their children were, all of them, infuriating, intractable, all determined to live their own incomprehensible lives. The mothers were thwarted, helpless against their children’s worst instincts. Comforting, comforted, resigned, the mothers turned toward the water, waiting for their husbands. Emma waited with them, silent.

The evening was not quite calm. An offshore breeze flipped up the waves into a mild chop. Low in the sky hung a long rumpled bank of herringbone clouds. Emma realized suddenly that she could hear the ferry, that it was approaching, unseen, and she had been listening to it, unaware. There was a steady, distant thrumming. The sound slowly increased.

The women stopped talking. The engine noise grew louder, thunderous. The ferry hove into view, rounding the point, filling the small entrance of the cove, ponderous, commanding, like a potentate arriving in the throne room. In the mouth of the cove the ferry paused, and the engine pitch changed to a high roar. The boat pivoted with a majestic swirl. It churned powerfully backward and then, with another change in tone, lunged neatly sideways. It surged to a halt, precisely at the dock’s edge. The water in the tiny cove foamed. Ropes were thrown over pilings, snugged tight. The movement of the boat ceased, and the ferry stopped, caught and quieted. On deck, behind the ropes, was the herd of husbands. Rumpled, tired, they stood massed and motionless, like immigrants, arriving on this island of wives and children. Emma looked along the line of faces: at this distance, they all looked like strangers. But as the boat drew closer, the faces grew clearer, familiar. There was Susan’s husband, Jackson, with his intent, myopic stare, his odd rectangular glasses. There was Ted Morris, with his soft, unformed features, as though he hadn’t quite finished being baked.

There were not only husbands onboard; there were now lots of working women. There was Julia, the eldest Sykes girl, a lawyer, in crumpled red linen, her blond hair wild from the crossing. Beside her, the same height, was her husband, upright, square faced, Soo-Yung Kim, who worked in the same Wall Street firm. The Sykeses loved Soo-Yung, regardless of his foreignness. And how could they not? He had gone to Harvard and Harvard Law. The Sykeses’ only son, Charlie, had dropped out of three colleges, none of them Harvard, before he’d been sent off to rehab in Minnesota, and he’d been in and out of that at least twice. This summer Charlie was drifting goofily around Marten’s. Emma had run into him at lunch at the Big Club one day. Smiling and empty eyed, he had told her in a hippie drawl that he was “working on a screenplay.” How could the Sykeses not love the steady, brilliant, focused Soo-Yung?

The Anglo-Saxon homogeneity of Marten’s was disappearing. It wasn’t only Julia Sykes who had gone splashing boldly into foreign gene pools: Angus Witherspoon had married a black classmate from Yale Law, and the Wilsons’ son had married a pretty Mexican girl. Blue-eyed blond babies with paper-white skin were sharing the sand with sloe-eyed, black-haired, caramel-skinned babies at the Little Club beach. A generation earlier this would have been unthinkable, but now no one complained. These were not interlopers who had somehow snuck into the club, these were third-generation members, born into it. No matter how tightly closed your mind was, how could you close your heart to your own liquid-eyed, soft-skinned, beloved grandchild, gazing peacefully up at you from the circle of your own arms?

Emma searched through the crowd of tired faces for Peter’s. She found him, and felt a tiny shock of pleasure. He saw her; they smiled. She watched him, with a surge of anticipation. He stood taller than the other men but looked just as rumpled. His shirt collar was open, his tie off. So slatternly, Emma thought happily, a business suit and no tie. He was usually so neat, so formal, it tickled her to see him so charmingly rumpled. She waved at him. He was so handsome, it still surprised her. His hair was summer-blond, and a big lock of it was loose, flopping rakishly on his forehead. His wide white smile came straight at her. The crowd of passengers began to move, surging forward onto the dock.

Back in the car, Emma said, “Hold still for a moment,” and put her arms around him. Peter hugged her hard, squeezing her ribs. He smelled wonderful, tired and sweaty, a faintly bronze whiff. Emma breathed him in, reminding herself.

“Let’s just stay here in the car,” she suggested, her eyes closed. “Everyone’ll be gone in a few minutes. We can spend the evening here.” No dinner, she thought, no girls, no tension.

Peter tightened his hold. “Let’s.”

But they separated, smiled. Emma started the car.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here,” Peter said. “The guy next to me on the train hadn’t brought anything to read. I thought I’d go mad. He kept peeking at my Times, over my shoulder.”

“What did you do?”

“I asked him if he’d like to look at it, to shame him into stopping. He said no, and then went right on doing it. I asked him again, and he acted as though he didn’t know what I was talking about. So I moved into the other corner of the seat, and folded the paper up into quarters, so he really couldn’t read it. He kept peeking around under his eyebrows, to see what I was doing. I think he was hoping I’d give it to him when I finished it.”

“And did you?”

“Of course not. I folded it up and put it in my briefcase.”

Emma laughed. “The poor beast,” she said. “He must have been salivating. Why were you so mean?”

“Why was he so stupid? I offered it to him twice, the silly bugger.”

“Men are so strange,” Emma said.

“What would women have done?”

“Oh, you know. It would just be different. They’d be trying to empathize with each other. Evan Bradbury was complaining that now that women are at the editorial meetings, at his paper, everything has changed. Apparently we’ve ruined everything.”

“How have you done that?”

“Everyone used to shout. That was how they resolved things, by shouting at each other. But now, he says, if you shout at the women editors they start to cry. It’s ruined everything,” she repeated.

“Quite right,” Peter said. “What do you want us to do, be polite?” He was beginning to relax. “God, that ride is long.”

“It’s the last one for the summer,” Emma said. He was here now until Labor Day. She patted his leg. She felt happy: maybe everything would be all right, now Peter was back. “I’m glad you’re staying.” She did not add, “to take charge of Amanda.”

But Peter heard it. “You’ve had everything on your shoulders,” he said at once. He patted her leg. “You’ve been great.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Emma said uncomfortably, knowing she had not. “I’m glad you’re here now.”

Their car was part of a slow vehicular mass, all converging on the exit at the far end of the parking lot.

“Tell me what’s been going on,” Peter said.

“Not much,” said Emma. “Carol Morris told me she supports Bush.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“I guess I just assume that women will be Democrats,” Emma said.

“Even I couldn’t vote for Bush,” he said. “The convention was sickening. Not that I think Clinton is a whole lot better.”

“I know,” Emma said. “He’s so obviously unprincipled.” Those badboy blue eyes, that self-consciously charming smile. The awful blow-dried hair, like a dentist. “He has that ‘come on, honey,’ look. But he’s still better than Bush. He’s pro-choice, and he’s better for poor people and the environment.”

“Did you tell Carol that?”

“She says he’s going to ruin the economy. She says it like that, ‘Oh, Clinton’s going to ruin the economy.’ I don’t think Carol knows anything about the economy. I think that’s what she hears Ted say.”

Emma looked at Peter, waiting for him to laugh with her, but he looked out the window.

“Just because the people here are Republicans,” he said, “it doesn’t mean it’s a terrible place. You’re so intolerant, Emma.”

“I am not,” Emma said. “I don’t think all Republicans are terrible. I like you, for example.”

“Thank you,” said Peter. His mouth was still tight.

“Peter, that was just an idle comment,” Emma said. “I like it here. I like my friends here. You don’t have to defend Marten’s to me, you know.”

“It was my idea to come here,” Peter said. “If you make fun of it, I’m unhappy.”

“I agreed to come. And now I like it. We’re here together.”

He looked at her. “I hope so,” he said.

“Everything is not on your shoulders,” she said. “You feel responsible for everything. You take on too much.” She stroked the back of his head, and after a moment he yielded, leaning his head toward her palm.

“On the train I was planning things we could do together, these two weeks,” Peter said. “I thought we could play family tennis, doubles. What do you think?” He looked at her hopefully.

“Fine,” Emma said. “Let’s.” She wondered what Amanda would say.

“Will Tess be up for it, do you think?”

“Tess will be fine about it. She’s not a star, but she’s a trouper. She’ll do it.”

“Good,” said Peter, encouraged. “Amanda ought to be pretty good by now, after all these clinics. Actually, she was always pretty good. She always walloped the ball.”

Emma glanced at him: this happened every Friday. In New York all week, away from Amanda, Peter created in his mind another daughter. He was thinking now of that longed-for child: how good she was at tennis, how much fun it was to be with her, how sweet she was at being a daughter, how loving she was.

A car slid up next to them: the Morrises. Ted was in the passenger seat, and Emma smiled, lifting her hand. Ted waved back energetically. His tortoiseshell glasses slid down his nose as he smiled, and he pushed them up sloppily with his middle finger, the other fingers splayed across his face.

“There’s Ted Morris,” Emma said.

“I saw him on the train,” Peter said, not turning. “He’s got some terrible deal he wants me to look at.” Peter thought Ted was a fool.

To make up for Peter, Emma smiled again at Ted. Past him was Carol’s profile, her chin high and firm.

“Carol won’t let Ted’s daughter come to Marten’s. She’s too difficult.” Emma spoke without turning. “She says Ted can see her in New York.”

“Nice of her,” Peter said.

“She says Ted didn’t like it, but he’d learned to live with it.”

“Aren’t I lucky,” Peter said, looking at Emma. “Is that what you want me to say?”

Emma said nothing.

“Well, it’s true, I am,” Peter said. “I know you wouldn’t ever do that.” He leaned back, stretching his neck. “Ahh. I’m looking forward to these two weeks. It’s the first time we’ll all have spent any time together in the new house.” Emma heard in his voice his anticipation. He saw them all happy there.

They had reached the mouth of the parking lot and passed through it. Now they were in a line of cars, winding slowly in single file along the narrow road, under a canopy of trees.

“One other thing that happened,” Emma said carefully. “Amanda and I had a discussion at breakfast.” She paused. “It got rather heated, I’m afraid.” As soon as she had spoken she regretted it. It was a poor moment to tell Peter this. But she was driven by guilt: not telling at once made her feel as though she were concealing what had happened, lying by omission.

Peter did not answer.

“She got upset,” said Emma.

Peter waited. The line of cars moved ceremonially along the road.

“It was about coffee,” Emma said. “Whether she should be allowed to drink it when she’s here. I think she’s too young for it. Apparently she’s allowed to have it at home.”

Peter looked out the car window.

“At fifteen,” Emma said.

Peter turned to her. “I know how old Amanda is,” he said.

Emma looked straight ahead.

They did not speak again until they were home. Emma jogged up the steps without looking back, and held the screen door for Peter without turning.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” said Emma, still not looking at him. The girls were upstairs. She went straight to the kitchen and listened to Peter slowly mounting the stairs. She had gotten everything ready before she left, and now she took from the refrigerator the covered bowl of sliced vegetables, the bag of washed feathery greens, the pale blubbery slabs of swordfish.

When Peter came down, he was showered and changed, still angry.

“How do you think it makes me feel when you say things like that?” he asked. He opened the refrigerator and stood before the cold glowing interior, staring into it. “Do you think I want to hear about how badly Caroline has brought Amanda up?”

“Is that what you think?” asked Emma. “That Caroline has brought Amanda up badly?” It gave her a thrill to say this.

“Don’t ask me,” Peter said, “to criticize the mother of my daughter.” He took out a bottle of white wine and set it loudly on the counter. “But if Caroline is doing a bad job, I can do nothing about it. Do you understand that? Caroline makes the decisions. She has custody. She pays no attention to what I say.”

Emma said nothing. She was standing in front of the stove. In one pot was rice, in another a summer stew: glistening strips of peppers—gray-green, yellow, deep red—and slivers of translucent onion. Below the pots trembled low blue circles of flame. The rice simmered beneath its lid, the vegetables were slowly approaching a hiccupping boil.

“But even if Caroline did listen to me, that’s not what you want,” Peter went on. He set the corkscrew onto the neck of the bottle. “You want Caroline to listen to you. You want her to take your advice about coffee, not mine.”

“But you don’t think Amanda should drink coffee?” Emma asked. “At fifteen?”

“How should I know when Amanda should drink coffee? I don’t give a damn when she drinks it,” Peter said angrily. He screwed the cork violently out of the bottle. “I think there are more important things to argue about.”

The rice, suddenly, boiled over. Water foamed furiously under the lid, hissing and steaming. As Emma slid the pot off the burner the broth slopped down the side, sizzling against the stainless steel.

“Of course there are more important things than coffee,” said Emma, angry now herself, and flustered by the rice. “It’s just an example: Amanda has no rules. She’s allowed anything she wants.”

“Maybe that’s true,” Peter said. His voice was loud and angry. “Or maybe Caroline has her own rules, ones you don’t know about. But in any case, please stop complaining to me about it. I can do nothing. Just as Warren can do nothing about how you bring up Tess.”

“I listen to Warren about Tess,” said Emma.

Peter made a skeptical sound in his nose. He banged open a cupboard door and took out two wineglasses.

Emma put down her spoon and turned to face him.

“Peter, who am I supposed to be, with Amanda? Am I meant to be the mother? Am I meant to be in charge, here in my house?” Emma paused. Her own voice rose. “I’m not in charge. I have no authority over Amanda, she won’t permit it. If I say, ‘Don’t put your shoes on the bedspread,’ she puts her shoes on the bedspread. If I say ‘You shouldn’t have coffee,’ she says, ‘Then I won’t have breakfast,’ and she walks out the door. Everything here is temporary for her: she doesn’t care. She’s just killing time, she’s waiting to go home. I’ve never had much control over her, and now I have none. Now I feel how precarious everything is. At any moment she may blow everything up.”

“You’re just feeling sorry for yourself,” Peter said.

“Maybe I am,” Emma said. “But I’ve tried feeling sorry for her for years, and it doesn’t help. The only way I can think to help her is to be a mother to her, and neither you nor she will let me do that.”

There was silence. They stood looking at each other.

When they had arrived from the ferry, there was still light in the fading evening. The windows had revealed shadowy trees, the darkening lawn, the mysterious descending undulations of the distant golf course. Now the evening was over, and the summer dark was settling heavily around the house. Through the broad kitchen archway, the big dining room windows were gray and opaque. They had become ghostly mirrors, reflecting the bright colors of the interior in pallid grisaille. Outside, the damp night air pressed against the panes.

“What do you want me to say?” Peter asked, his voice quieter, but not friendly. “I can’t control any of you. Do you want me to say I wish Caroline were more strict? I do. And I wish you were less strict. I wish Amanda were less resentful. I wish she were happy here with you. I wish you were happy here with her. I wish you loved her.” He laughed suddenly, unhappily. “Christ, I wish you liked her.”

“Don’t try to blackmail me,” Emma said, in a fury. “Don’t you try to bully me into feeling the way you want me to feel. I can’t control how I feel. I can control what I do, but not what I feel. Don’t do this to me. I never did it to you.”

“Don’t you tell me that my daughter feels being here with me is temporary, and that she hates it,” Peter answered.

“When have you ever given her a choice?” Emma asked. “You’ve never given either one of us a choice, a chance to decide for ourselves what we’d like. You’ve forced us on each other from the beginning. You’ve forced us to do what you wanted us to do, and now you’re trying to force us to feel how you want us to feel.”

“Don’t hide your behavior behind mine. Don’t pretend that I’m to blame for what you’ve done,” Peter said. He had picked up the wine bottle to pour it, but now stood holding it in the air, gripping the neck of it, as though he could strangle it. “And don’t try to tell me that you’ve tried to be a mother to Amanda.”

Emma did not answer.

“This is the worst thing in my life,” Peter said. His voice was terrible, now, filled with grief. “You and Amanda.”

The stew had just begun sloppily to boil, and Emma turned back to it. She stood over it, thrusting the spoon against the dead weight of the vegetables, their slithery mass. The heat now rose from the big iron stove in dense, suffocating waves. It was hard for her to breathe.