Arriving home after a long absence always made me feel like a waif or a wash-ashore, thinking, Why am I here? Or maybe that was the effect of the way I was usually greeted, as Fidge, the less popular son. You go home and become a child again, the fidgety kid, reminded of your long-ago lapses. Home is always the past, where you’re always small, and known by your high school nickname. At least it was so for me much of the time on Gully Lane.
But I had Vita now. It strengthened me to go home with her. She gave me the confidence to be patient with Mother and to face Frank and Frolic. Odd that I—a traveler, at ease in the world—needed confidence at home, and never when I was alone, in alien landscapes, or among strangers.
We were at the table in the dining room of Tower House and had just finished lunch, Mother in the kitchen making coffee. I’d had my first glimpse of Frolic, who was slim and plain, her brownish hair in braids, with heavy unplucked eyebrows that gave her a judgmental gaze, her pale skin made paler by the dark hair on her arms, and an unmistakable fuzz on her cheeks. In my work I was used to women darkened and roughened by the sun, and Frolic had a pallor that suggested the seclusion of indoors. She did not take her eyes off Vita, looking at her with fascination—the dark Hispanic beauty, her hair now cut short like a boy’s, and a boyish figure, too.
Frank, for a reason I could not explain, but perhaps to annoy me, was wearing a baseball hat at the table. Seeing that I was studying his wife, and perhaps self-conscious, Frank said, “Frolic’s a fabulous cook, aren’t you, Fro?”
This made Frolic laugh, and her laughter, a kind of whinnying that caused her to fling her head back and show her teeth, seemed to relax her and make her more likable.
“If you love chowder, I sure am! My mom taught me to make fruit pies.”
“Maybe you can teach me,” Vita said.
“I’d like that,” Frolic said, still staring at Vita’s face.
Vita and I were lovers, that was apparent, and my good fortune was obvious in my new car, an expensive watch—but it was a compass, too—my sense of well-being, and something else.
“I love your earrings,” Frolic said, reaching across the table, as though intending to poke one with her finger.
“Cal gave them to me for my birthday.”
They were dangly and glittering, and as though to satisfy Frolic, Vita set the gems in motion with her dabbing fingertips.
“Looks like jade,” Frank said, turning the bill of his cap backward to look closely.
“Esmeraldas,” Vita said in lilting Spanish, tossing her head, making them dance, then seeing confusion across the table, added shyly, “Emeralds.”
Just then a buzzing silence-pressure—an upswelling of emotion like grief or joy, a powerful vibration near the point of bursting, that seemed to rattle through Frank and Frolic and shake them into wordlessness.
“From Colombia,” Vita said. “Where we first met.”
Birthday and emeralds and Colombia: each revelation was bright and unanswerable.
“Crystals have a soul,” I said. “Out of respect, you should take off your hat to look at one.”
Just then, Mother walked into the dining room with a tray—a French press beaker of fresh coffee, a small pitcher of cream, and a sugar bowl. She squinted at Vita. Frolic looked tearful with confusion, Frank seemed to be making an assessment of the value of the emeralds, his face flattening, lips twitching as he added numbers, the whir of sums seeming to blink in his eye sockets, but his eyeballs too glazed and bloodshot with effort to be read clearly. He was so obvious a calculator as to be a cartoon of himself, and once again I thought, Why am I here?
That was our first visit—and I knew the answer. I pitied Mother for her frailties, her sadness at being without Dad, becoming fussed and feeling inadequate until Frank stepped in to help or meddle—she was in the grip of Frank’s domination, weakened by his constant attention. Yet I loved our little town, I was successful enough now to enjoy it thoroughly, and I wanted Vita to love it. She’d been raised in Florida in a one-story suburb of Miami, with Ernesto and Gala, swamp steaming on one side, the sea lapping on the other, between the alligators and the sharks, the strip malls and fast food. She knew nothing of the ancient shade trees and the quiet dignity of the small New England town where I came of age, vowing to return only when I’d made enough money to live well here, and buy a place in the Winthrop Estates.
I had seen enough of the world by now to know that this was where I wished to own a home and raise a family. I didn’t want to conduct my business here; I wanted to earn my money elsewhere, and treat Littleford as my refuge.
“I never realized places like this really existed,” Vita said, as we left Gully Lane—and Frank and Frolic and Mother, and Tower House—and drove down Main Street, past white frame churches, and the library and the Greek revival town hall, across the river where today a flotilla of swans were gliding—stately and upright and serene.
And what Vita didn’t realize, nor did I want to tell her, was that the charming town she was seeing was the result of furious litigation by Frank and his cronies against the fast-food people, and the locals who wanted cheap eats. I didn’t want to tell her that Frank’s campaign to keep the town free of neon signs and burger joints and pizza parlors had been a success and had kept the soul of the place intact. No pawnshops, no bars, no liquor stores, either—all that sleaze was across the river in Winterville. The Preservation Pact—keeping Littleford fast-food free—was one of Frank’s signature achievements early in his career, annoying potential franchisees but winning him many clients. Vita would have admired him for it, unless she knew, as I did, that Frank, having dispatched the fast food and the pizza, had invested heavily in the Littleford Diner just off Main Street, where we routinely had lunch and sparred, when I was home, pretending—as seemed necessary—that we were still the Bad Angel brothers, on the best of terms.
Too much to tell, so I said nothing.
“I feel bad about his face,” Vita said, peering at the town, seeming to see Frank.
“He had mumps as a kid,” I said. “Got a little palsy but when he realized that it made him special, he sort of played it up. He’s actually vain about it.”
“Still.” She was brooding, looking glum.
“Vita, it’s his moneymaker.”
As we rode along the bank of the river a wonderful thing happened. As though obeying a signal, the stately floating swans lifted their enormous wings and seemed to step on the river’s surface, propelling themselves forward, lifting in a loud beating of wings, like laundry flapping on a line in a high wind, the swans’ bodies outstretched, seven or eight beautiful birds in flight, a great slapping of air that as they gained altitude seemed like humming. But it was their beautiful wings, the whisper of their feathers. I was reminded of the flock of parrots I’d seen that afternoon in Muzo, my first drink with Vita.
I turned to Vita to mention that and saw that she was crying.
“I want to live here,” she said.
The swans were an omen. They circled and were gone, and we returned to the Riverside Inn and made love, and I thought, My life is complete.
I had not said anything about marriage at that visit to Tower House. I’d introduced Vita as my fiancée, I mentioned that we were engaged—a vague word for a future event—another source of baffled wonderment, the ring on Vita’s finger, from a stone I’d found in my travels, and kept, for whoever my fiancée turned out to be. This yellow diamond, a sunny one from Australia, was different from a “Cape,” from South Africa, but a freakish gem of lively yellow, not highly prized by gemologists who admired purity, but rare in itself, something to crown a woman like no one else, the love of my life.
That was the other hush at the visit—Vita’s ring.
“What kind is it?” Frolic had asked.
Frank had needed her to ask the blunt question. Frolic wasn’t a fool, nor was she as gauche as she seemed. She was merely taking a hint. She’d been in such situations before. She knew what information Frank wanted to know.
Vita said, “It’s a canary.”
“That’s nitrogen,” I said. “It’s got fire, like Vita.”
“Is it supposed to be some kind of diamond?” Frolic said.
Vita had laughed hard—I supposed laughing on my behalf, helping me get through this meal, the sure sign of a partner and lover.
We promised to get in touch for another meal, and as we hugged Mother on the porch, they seemed relieved to see us go. That was just before we drove down Main Street and the churches and along the river where the swans rose up in their great beating of wings—an enchantment and an inspiration.
Wishing to have a place of our own, we moved from the Riverside Inn to an apartment, the top floor of one of Littleford’s elegant houses, and we looked for a house to buy. I knew what I wanted, I knew the right area from early on, my paper route, my lawn mowing jobs, the houses on the only hill in town—called Winthrop Hill, not really a hill but high ground, where the houses had a view of the surrounding woods, and each house was set on acres of lawn. To own a house in the Winthrop Estates, where I’d mowed lawns and been barked at by dogs, had been one of my dreams—the reason I’d come home with Vita.
A wish of youth fulfilled in adulthood is bliss. And there was another attraction to the Winthrop Estates: it was at the opposite end of town from where Frank lived, on three acres, in style, with a swimming pool and a tennis court, and a studio for Frolic, who dabbled in weaving like her father and made pottery.
After the hard work of prospecting and being a consultant geologist—the travel, the rigors of living in mining camps—it was a pleasure to be in this quiet town, with enough money for a down payment on a prime Littleford house. Of course Vita and I were glimpsed by the real estate agents, observed visiting houses for sale; we were mentioned by prospective sellers at open houses, the lovely woman with me remembered and remarked upon. Littleford was a small town, with a small town’s virtues and faults. It was intact and uncorrupted by crass commerce, it had churches and a village green and a sleepy river, and a Civil War memorial; it had no neon signs, no fast food. And it was incapable of keeping secrets.
So we were seen, and one day Frank called and without saying hello or his name, said, “Nest building, Fidge?”
“Who is this?”
“Because if you are”—he kept talking over me, he did not answer my question—“you’ll need to take some factors into account, factors that might not seem apparent to you at the moment, in the heat of your romantic haste.”
“Frank, don’t you have clients to attend to?”
“When I consider how important my brother is to me, all other matters recede into insignificance,” he said. It was formal and pompous, the sort of thing he might declare in a courtroom, as he approached the jury.
“I’m not sure what’s on your mind.”
“Fidge, we have to talk.”
“Go ahead.”
“Face-to-face,” he said. “This is serious. I’ll meet you anywhere.”
He’d blindsided me with the call and I put him off. He seldom phoned me, and when he did, it was usually preceded by his secretary saying, I’ve got Attorney Belanger on the line for you—always pronouncing the name his way, and in those early days Miss Muntner seldom called him Frank. He always called Meryl, Miss Muntner.
I’d thought when the phone rang the next day that it was one of the realtors offering an appointment to view a property. It was late morning, on a hot August day, the big pinky-pale blossoms of the hydrangeas below our porch going brown, a rosebush needing to be deadheaded, a frantic dragonfly swooping and hovering, beyond where Vita sat in a chaise lounge with a book on her lap but not reading, instead gazing at the gilded dragonfly, which I saw was not a dragonfly at all but a hummingbird darting its beak into the orange blossom of a trumpet vine tangled on an arbor. I’d been about to join her and point this out when I heard the phone.
“Lunch,” Frank said.
“I’ve already eaten.”
“Coffee—dessert’s on me.”
“Maybe some other time.”
“Cal,” he said in a hot whisper—and calling me Cal and not Fidge meant he was being serious. “We have to meet now. Without delay. Time’s of the essence. I’m talking contractual. A drink.”
“What about?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. The diner at five. Come alone, it won’t take long. It’s in your interest. Say yes, Cal.”
“Okay. See you at five. One drink.”
Persistence was one of Frank’s traits, clinging until he got the answer he wanted, it was what he was famous for, not taking no for an answer. I was resolute when I needed to be, but I didn’t have the salesman’s urgency that motivated Frank, the imperative to win. I could not bear trying to persuade someone to do something they didn’t want to do. I took no as a final answer. A no to Frank was a challenge, it didn’t mean no, it meant maybe, and maybe was a yes.
Here was the proof, my distrust of Frank, my usual objection to his proposals, and yet hanging up the phone, telling Vita I’d be meeting Frank, walking through town to the diner, keeping my promise to meet him—my yes.
He was early, seated at a booth in the far corner, though he jumped up to greet me with a hug, burying his face in my shoulder and groaning a welcome into my neck. He was in his attorney’s uniform—bow tie, red suspenders, pin-striped pants, his suit coat hung on a hook beside the booth.
“What’ll you have—I’m paying.”
“Beer,” I said. “Any kind.”
“They’ve got a fantastic pale ale on draft here—artisanal, very hoppy, new brewery, small batches, craft beer. Or do you want canned panther piss?”
He was still talking as I slid into my bench to face him, smiling, because he was now telling me which beer to order and what kind of glass to drink it in.
“Ballantine for me,” I said, when the waiter came over, taking a pad and pen from his apron pocket.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Frank said. And to the waiter, “Fitch’s Pale Ale, in a chilled pilsner glass.”
“Be right back with your order.”
“How long has it been, Cal?” Frank asked, with emotion, one eye glistening, the other drooping.
“Two and a half years—more.”
“And look at you—picture of health. You’re smart, a job that offers travel, fresh air, plenty of exercise. And from what I see, you’re not hurting for cash flow.”
“Frank,” I said, and raised one hand, traffic cop fashion, “please tell me what’s on your mind.”
He shushed me as the waiter set out two coasters and placed full glasses of beer on them, reminding us of the brands—“Ballantine, Fitch”—and wished us well. Frank picked up his glass, clinked it against mine and sipped. I hated watching him eat or drink with his sloping inefficient mouth and nibbling teeth, and so I looked away and took a swig.
With his glass jammed on the table, Frank holding it with both hands, as though to steady himself, he said, “Tell me about your house hunting.”
“We’re just looking—nothing definite.”
“Market’s hot. Gully Lane houses are going for the high six figures. More in the Winthrop Estates. Serious money.”
Two of the places we’d been looking: Frank had reliable informants. I said, “We could get a mortgage.”
Now he gave me his pistachio-nut smile, as though he’d just scored a point; he sat straighter, raised his glass with both hands, sipped again, and set it down.
“You’re smiling. What is it?”
“You said ‘we.’”
“Yes. Vita and me.”
“That’s what we need to discuss.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Vita,” he said.
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“You’re not a lawyer—you’re a rock collector. You have no idea of the implications.”
I stared at him, and he probably thought I was defying him, but what I saw was Vita, stretched out on the chaise lounge, smiling into the luminous sky of the summer evening—beautiful woman, new to town, alone, innocent, not knowing that Frank was saying with assurance, “Vita,” summoning her for evaluation.
This vision made me love her more and vow to protect her; it made me despise Frank. I had not seen him for almost three years, and after my being home for a week, I was being subjected to him saying, Here’s what you need to do.
I was guzzling my beer, intent on finishing it and leaving immediately. But chugging beer was something I had not mastered, and I choked, and Frank became solicitous, and my hurrying my beer caused Frank to interrupt himself in his pitch and say, “You all right, Cal? Take a deep breath.”
I was winded, gagging, I couldn’t speak.
“One story,” Frank said, filling the silence. “I had a client, awesome guy, made it big importing carpets from India—traveler, like you. Huge markup on the carpets, warehousing them, selling them out of a catalog, low overhead . . .”
“Is this about carpets?” I managed to say in a stricken voice. “Because if it is . . .”
“His marriage,” Frank said. “Met a woman. Very attractive. Whirlwind romance.”
“And he gave her a carpet,” I said, to annoy him.
“He gave her a diamond. A big rock. They get married, they buy a house. He hardly knows the woman. They move in together and—about six months later—‘I don’t love you anymore.’ She demands that he leave. She gets the house, she needs money to maintain her lifestyle, he’s on the hook for alimony and maintenance. At last he does something sensible. He comes to me. I says, ‘You’re a little late, Larry. You should have come to me before you took the plunge. But, hey, you’ve got a few options.’”
I was still seeing Vita, a stranger to this town, alone on the porch, serene in contemplating the stars pricking the early evening sky, her hands folded on her book, waiting for me to come back. I was ashamed of being here, listening to Frank. It was like being unfaithful.
“What are you doing?” Frank said, because I had begun to slide out of the booth.
“I’m leaving.”
“We have to talk, Cal.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“She’s from Florida. It’s a totally different culture—unregulated, improvisational. She’ll be lost here.” He raised his voice as he saw me stepping out of the booth. “What do you know about her background? Have you met her family? Have you looked into her finances?”
“Frank, are you crazy?”
“An asset search,” he said. “You need to do it.”
“No.”
“And the house? Joint ownership? Which names on the title deed? What about a prenup? I’ve got a bulletproof prenup with Frolic. You’re making a huge mistake.”
I wanted to hit him. I said, “Stop—please, stop,” and backed away from him, stumbling, in my hurry to leave.
Frank repeated his argument, hissing so that the nearby booths couldn’t hear. “She’s an unknown quantity. A stranger! Hire a private investigator! Execute an asset search! Threaten an intimidation audit! Get a prenup! It’s a test of love!”
He was sighing, pleading in a low anguished voice, telling me it was for my own good. But I had heard enough—too much, in fact. I should never have agreed to meet him. I knew Frank, I should have guessed that he’d try to interfere.
He was tangled in his suit coat, poking his arm into one sleeve and then blocked by the waiter, who, seeing us on our way out, rushed over with a saucer, the check folded on it. As Frank lingered to pay, I hurried to my car.
Back at the house, I took Vita in my arms and kissed her, and held her.
“What did big brother want?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just wanted to talk.”
“The real estate guy called while you were out. He’s arranged for us to see a big old house tomorrow.”
It was in the Winthrop Estates—not old, but Federal style, redbrick façade, simple windows, colonnaded front porch, a fanlight over the front door, a low stone wall surrounding it, beds of rosebushes, room for a pool at the back. The house was tired, it needed work, which was why the elderly owners were selling—not able to face the cost of repairs. And with the proceeds of the sale, they were planning to relocate to Florida.
“I can tell you all about Florida,” Vita was saying to the wife, as the real estate agent and I discussed the cost of renovation.
Within days, we agreed to buy the house, and the deal was done quickly, to my satisfaction. We remained in our rental, supervising the repairs (new roof, many new windows, upgraded kitchen and bathroom fixtures), and within a few months we moved in. When we were settled we planned our wedding, a small affair, Mother, Frank, and Frolic (who announced she was pregnant). Ernesto and Gala flew from Florida—their first visit to New England—we brought them on our honeymoon to Maine, and I showed them the lighthouses and took Ernesto fishing. We chartered a boat and sailed out of Tenants Harbor, into Wheeler Bay as far as Eagle Island, where I’d once done rock hunting. They flew back home from Rockland, while we remained for another week on the granite coast, in each other’s arms.
I took an assignment right after that and was away for a month (Canada, copper) while Vita put the new house in order.
On my return, Vita said, “At last, I’m going to do something about those exploited children in Colombia.”
“That’s great.”
“There are abuses like this all over South America—he says we’ve got the potential for a landmark case.”
“He?”
“Frank. He promised to help. Maybe file a lawsuit. He’s been advising me—pro bono.”