“Here we are, Jessie.”
The rubber boat was where Mark had left it, half-pulled up on the big rock out of reach of the tide. Mr. Roma’s old rowboat was there, too, upside down, showing its grey slivered bottom.
Mrs. Wakefield tugged at the raft until it came bouncing down into the sand. Tautened by the sun-warmed air inside, it seemed ready to burst. But when they dragged it across the sand into the cold water it began to shrink until it was quite flabby.
“It’s leaking,” Jessie said, stepping back up on the dry sand.
“No, it’s not. It’s just the change in temperature.” Mrs. Wakefield had kicked off her shoes and was standing in the water holding the raft steady against the pressure of the breakers. “Take your shoes off and roll up your jeans. I’ll hold it while you get in.”
Jessie obeyed, slowly. The raft, which looked so enormous when it was carried on top of the car, now looked hardly big enough for two.
“Hurry up, Jessie.”
“I am. I’ve got a knot.”
“Leave it then.”
Mrs. Wakefield’s dress was soaked all the way to her waist, but she didn’t seem to mind. She was smiling, and when a wave broke over the raft, slapping its flabby yellow flanks, she let out an excited little laugh.
“Isn’t this fun, Jessie?” she cried. “Look at me, I’m drenched! Come on now, climb in, darling.”
“But it won’t stay still.”
“Of course it won’t. Imagine a boat that would stay still. No one would want such a thing. Come on now.”
“I’m coming.”
Holding up her jeans she stepped into the water. An outgoing wave sucked at her feet and left her up to her ankles in sand. She wished that there was an easier way of getting to the island, such as a bridge or a big ferryboat that didn’t bounce so sickeningly.
She wriggled over the side of the raft, and sat down, stiff with pride and fright, on the little rubber seat in the stern.
“Good girl. Now when I get in we must both paddle as hard as we can to get beyond the breakers. Can you do that?”
“I... guess so.”
“All right then. Bon voyage, Miss Banner.”
Jessie giggled, holding her hand over her mouth.
19
Carmelita had closed the drapes in the living room so the afternoon sun wouldn’t fade the carpet. The room was so dark in contrast to the glare outside that Mark didn’t see Evelyn until she spoke:
“Home so early?”
“Yes.”
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see her more clearly, curled up on the davenport as limp as a rag doll, holding in her lap the half-finished sweater she was knitting for Jessie. The ball of yarn was way over by the fireplace as if it had been thrown there in a fit of rage.
He said carefully, “I didn’t get a haircut.”
“So I see.”
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t get to town at all. I turned around and came back. The wind was so heavy it was like trying to drive through a sand storm on the desert.”
He sat down in a chair opposite her, and rubbed his knuckles against the side of his jaw. He needed a shave and a shower, but he knew that Evelyn expected him to sit down and talk. She had probably been lying there for hours planning what to say to him.
“What have you been doing all afternoon?” he asked her.
“Thinking.”
“What about? Or is that the wrong question?”
“Home, mostly.”
“Homesick already?”
“A little bit.” She stirred, picked up her knitting and let it drop again into her lap. “I know we had a hundred reasons for coming here, but I can’t remember one of them. Isn’t that funny?”
“To avoid the heat,” Mark said, “and to breathe the bracing sea air. Also I believe it was mentioned that travel would broaden Jessie.”
“I don’t feel very braced. And up to today, the heat’s been practically as bad as it is in Manhattan. Do you think Jessie is being broadened?”
“Oh, yes. Definitely. We all are. It’s been a liberal education.”
“Don’t get ironic.”
“I’m not.”
“You can’t talk to me for three minutes anymore without getting ironic. Is it... it is because of her, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“You don’t lie to me often. I can always tell when you do.”
“Can you?” he said wearily. “I can hardly tell myself sometimes.”
He reached for the cigarette box on the coffee table in front of him. The box, as usual, was filled, the cigarettes were fresh, and the table lighter worked at the first try. Detail was Evelyn’s specialty. He felt vaguely irritated that she should waste so much time on such relatively unimportant things. “Do we have to have it so gloomy in here?”
“The carpets will fade.”
“They belong to Mrs. Wakefield. You don’t like her anyway, why not fade her damned carpets?”
“That’s a beautiful thought. I will.”
She got up and flung back the drapes. Dust swirled in the shafts of sunlight.
“Please tell me the truth, Mark. It can’t possibly be any worse than what I’ve imagined.”
“There’s not much truth to tell.”
“She hasn’t been here all afternoon. Was she with you?”
“Some of the time. We said goodbye. Permanently. She’s leaving tomorrow morning, and after that I don’t expect to see her again. You can stop thinking about her.”
“Can I? Can you?” There was a ghastly little smile on her face. “Was the farewell — quite touching?”
“Yes, it was. Most farewells are.”
“But this one... this one specially, eh?”
“Stop it, Evelyn.” He stared into the swirling dust and wished he was a part of it, unable to feel.
“You’re suffering, aren’t you?” she said, her mouth shaking. “Underneath all that wonderful masculine control of yours, I can see you suffering. And I’m glad. I’m laughing, see? Now you know how other people feel, don’t you? Now it’s your turn, and I’m glad. I’m so glad I could die laughing!” She put up her arm and hid her face against her sleeve. “Other... other people can suffer, too.”
He walked over to her and put his hands on her trembling shoulders.
“Leave me alone!”
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I’m very sorry, Evelyn.”
“I know you are. But I don’t happen to want any tender apologies. They don’t affect me anymore. You’re rotten spoiled, Mark. You always have been, always the little king of the castle, with all your sisters dancing attendance on you, and your parents spending half their time convincing you you were the Great Brain. And where they left off, I took over. I became the stooge. I guess I shouldn’t complain now that I’m getting what stooges usually get, a custard pie smack in the puss. Hilarious.” One corner of her mouth turned up in a bitter little smile. “How am I doing in my role of the wronged wife?”
“Just fine,” he said soberly. “Go on.”
“I haven’t anything more to say, except that you’re a hard man, Mark — oh, very gentle and sweet when it comes to dogs or children or horses — but hard on people, on me, and on her, too, I guess. I... I could almost feel sorry for her. Maybe someday I will.”
“And me?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll feel sorry for you, too. How can I help it when I love you?”
The cigarette had burned down to his fingers and the real physical pain of the burn was almost a relief. He opened the window to throw away the butt. The wind fussed, and swept the smoke into the corners of the room like a whining housewife. Closing the window again he saw, a quarter of a mile from shore, the yellow raft bouncing on the choppy, whitecapped waves. The raft was headed out to sea and Mrs. Wakefield was paddling with frenzied speed. In the stern, looking tiny and vulnerable, sat Jessie.