Cold Spring Harbor

  “Well, how sweet, Phil,” she said. “And how thoughtful. You remembered.” But she said she’d rather not eat one of them now, if he didn’t mind; she’d rather put them all in the refrigerator until they were nice and cold. “And I bet you didn’t even buy anything for yourself, did you.”

  “I sure did,” he told her. “I made a major purchase. Look.”

  “Oh, nice,” she said. “That looks like a beauty. I’m afraid I can’t open the blades, though, with these long fingernails. Will you do the honors, dear?”

  And when he’d thumbed open both blades of the thing, a long one and a short one, she said “Wonderful. Those two are all you’ll ever want with this kind of knife. If there were any other things in it, like all the stuff in a scout knife, they’d only get in the way and spoil the balance of it, right? This kind of knife is exactly what you want for mumblety-peg and things like that—looks better and feels better too.”

  “Well, I guess so, yeah,” he said, taking it back from her. “Hadn’t really thought of that, though.”

  “You were the best mumblety-peg player in the neighborhood when you were about eleven. I could hardly ever beat you at that, or at any other target kind of game.”

  “Well, it’s okay with me if you want to remember it that way,” he told her. “What I mostly remember is that we never really played mumblety-peg at all, beyond learning a few of the hand positions. What we did was play at playing it. That’s what we did with all the games, and with sports too; or at least I did.”

  “You did not, Phil,” she said. “You really played. You certainly played touch football, when we lived in Morristown, and I’d come out and watch you almost every afternoon.”

  “Rachel, will you cut this out? Touch football is about the worst example you could’ve thought of. I played at playing it, that’s all, and all the other kids were on to me.”

  But she was so serious now, insisting on her own spunky memories, that in the end he let her have whatever she seemed to need. Rachel had never been much of a companion in certain kinds of reminiscence.

  When Evan got home that afternoon it was almost time for Phil to go upstairs and wash up for the parking lot, though not quite; he hadn’t yet made his escape when his sister said “Phil? Have you shown Evan your knife?”

  And so, like a bashful little boy, he had no choice but to offer up the jackknife for his brother-in-law’s inspection and approval.

  “Mm,” Evan said. “Yes, that’s a nice one.”

  All Phil had to do now was get out of this room, but he hadn’t made the first two or three of the stairs when he was stopped by overhearing a little snort of disbelief or amusement as Evan said “Is he really sixteen?”

  “Well, of course he is,” Rachel said impatiently.

  “I’ll be God damned,” Evan told her. “When I was that age I was out getting laid.”

  “Evan!” she said.

  Phil went through his washing-up as calmly as if he’d already decided not to give Evan’s remark a moment’s thought, not to let it get him down at all; but he had to hesitate a long time over whether to wear the chauffeur’s cap on his way down and back through the living room again. He settled on the compromise of stuffing the cloth part of it into one hip pocket, with only the patent-leather crescent of the visor hanging free for ridicule—or for showing how little he cared about ridicule of any kind. That was how he left the house and covered the distance to the driveway, where his bike stood propped on its kickstand; and it wasn’t until an hour later, speaking aloud to the chain link fence over the Sound, that he heard himself say “Yeah, well, fuck you Shepard. Just wait and see, you son of a bitch. You won’t be laughing at me a hell of a lot longer.”

  “Darling?” Rachel Shepard inquired. “Will you be having breakfast here today? Or would you rather have it out?”

  “Have it out, I think,” Evan said. “That’s simpler.”

  It was another of the Saturdays when he would go to visit his daughter, and Rachel never quite knew how to behave on these mornings. If she tried being bright and cheerful she was afraid of seeming too bright, too cheerful; still, giving any hint of the loneliness and jealousy she would feel all day might only be a worse mistake. She was as shy of meeting her husband’s eyes as if he were a man she had just met; and later, along with the helplessness she felt when the front door closed behind him, there was always an unexpected sense of relief.

  Mary Donovan’s parents had moved down toward the south shore four years ago, so that Mr. Donovan could be closer to his job at Grumman Aircraft, and it couldn’t be denied that they’d grown a little less cordial in their dealings with Evan Shepard. This new house of theirs was dominated by a heavily screened front porch, and lately—it happened again this morning—they managed to avoid any real greeting of Evan at all. At the moment he took a step or two up the concrete path from the sidewalk, the screen door opened just enough to let Kathleen out, all dressed up and all eagerness, all arms and legs and flying hair as she came running to meet him—“Daddy!”—and he dropped to his haunches and gathered her up in a hug. Then, when he looked up at the house again, there was a slow wave of a white-sleeved arm in the shadows behind the screen, like the curve of a fish near the surface of murky water. He couldn’t even tell whether it was Mr. or Mrs. Donovan who waved, but the meaning of the signal was clear: a simple acknowledgment of shared responsibility.

  “Well, don’t you look pretty,” Evan said. “Is that a new dress?”

  “Yes. Mom bought it in New York.”

  “Good.”

  He had heard other fathers say that seven was “a nice age for a girl,” and now he could easily see what they meant. From a distance Kathleen might look frail and disorganized, but up close, in his arms, there was a reassuring strength in her that suggested a healthy young heart. And girls of seven did seem to like their fathers with an unqualified enthusiasm; that was another nice thing.

  “So what would you like to do today?” he asked as he set her carefully down on the pavement and took her hand for walking. “We can do whatever you want.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “Let’s decide later, okay?”

  When they were settled in the car he reviewed several possibilities. “Well, we could drive along the south shore a little ways and see the big ocean waves breaking on the beaches there,” he told her. “Or, if you’d rather, I think I’ve got enough gas to take us all the way out to Montauk Point, where the lighthouse is, and where there’ll be absolutely nothing between us and Europe but about a hundred sea gulls making a terrible racket in the sky.”

  “Good,” she said, rubbing her hands together between her skinny legs. “That’ll be neat, Dad.”

  At one or two o’clock that afternoon, over the remains of a seafood lunch at an outdoor, paper-plate restaurant, Evan felt calm enough to ask a few direct questions about her mother.

  “Oh, she’s fine,” the child said, her buttery fingers still at work on a near-empty crab shell. “She’s got a new job now and she really likes it a lot.”

  “What kind of job is that, dear?”

  Asking these questions was pleasurable in itself, but Evan knew it would be a mistake to ask very many more; he would have to sense when it was time to stop.

  “She’s the assistant night manager at Bill Bailey’s, out on Route Twelve,” Kathleen told him.

  “The old ice-cream parlor, you mean?”

  “Yes, except it’s all different now and a whole lot bigger. They’ve remodeled everything, and they’re branching out. You can get almost anything there now, like hamburgers and french fries and stuff. Oh, and fried chicken, too, and Mom says the people there are really, really nice.”

  “Well, good,” Evan said. “That does sound good. Listen, though, dear: you haven’t told me anything about school yet. How’s school?”

  Small, tidy puckers of exasperation appeared in her forehead. “Dad, it’s summer vacation,” she said. “This is July and it’s practically August and ther
e won’t even be any school again until—”

  “I know that,” he interrupted, trying for a quick save. “Don’t you think I even know a thing like that? What do you take me for, some dumb, ignorant slob of a father or something? The kind of father you’d be embarrassed to introduce to your friends?”

  And she was laughing now, with a sparkle in her eyes that was almost incredibly nice, but he knew better than to trust this momentary advantage. He would have to come through with something substantial and serious for her soon, or her laughter might fade into the blank, lost, bewildered look that he never knew how to interpret.

  “I mean, of course I knew that, Kathy,” he said. “All I meant, you see, is how do you feel about starting third grade? Because I know there were certain things you didn’t like about second grade—a few other children you didn’t much care for, and things like that—so I’ve been wondering how the prospect of another year of school is shaping up for you, that’s all.”

  “Oh,” Kathleen said, and she set her heaped paper plate carefully aside in the manner of someone getting down to business. “Well, I think it’ll be okay most of the time—I mean, most of the other kids are perfectly nice and everything—but there’s this one horrible boy.”

  And Evan knew at once that he was back in charge of the interview. All he had to do now was nod or frown in appropriate places while she told about the horrible boy; then he’d be expected to offer some wise-sounding advice (he could already tell how easy that part of it would be), and the two of them would be ready for the next activity of the day.

  The horrible boy’s name was Sonny Esposito, and he was very ugly and much too big for his age: he was so big and strong that all the other boys were afraid of him—oh, some of them might act as if they weren’t, but they were—and he always laughed very loud at things that weren’t even funny. Ever since way back last fall he’d done one awful thing after another to Kathleen: he had pushed her into puddles in the schoolyard; he had grabbed her best knitted hat and stuffed it far out of reach inside the ventilating system; once he had taken the classroom window pole and chased her down the hall with it until she’d had to run into the girls’ room to hide from him.

  “So anyway,” she concluded, “on the last day of school he followed me almost all the way home, just to be mean; then he stood there in the street sort of laughing, and he said ‘I haven’t even started on you yet, Shepard. Just wait’ll next year.’ ”

  And for the space of at least a breath or two, Evan couldn’t bring his attention into focus on anything but the boy’s having called her “Shepard.” Years ago, soon after the divorce, the Donovans had tactfully let him know of Mary’s decision to resume the use of her maiden name, for college and for any other personal or legal requirements likely to arise; since then he had always assumed that his daughter’s name must be Donovan, too, and so this came as a revelation. Son of a bitch: Kathleen Shepard.

  “Well, Kathy,” he began, “I don’t think that’s necessarily anything to worry about. Maybe all this boy’s been trying to do is tell you he likes you a whole lot. Ever think of that?”

  But her quick, sour expression made clear that the very idea was preposterous. “Oh, Dad,” she said.

  “No, I’m serious,” he told her. “I’m serious. Listen: when I was a boy I was always horrible to the girls I liked best. And what I think it amounted to was—”

  “You were?”

  “I sure was. And what I think it amounted to was this: I figured if I could make an impression on a girl—any kind of impression—then that would be better than no impression at all. So. Know what you might try doing with this Sonny Esposito?”

  “What?”

  “You might try being sort of nice to him. Oh, not too nice—I’m not saying that—and not even very nice, for that matter; just sort of courteous, in a quiet way. Like on the first day of school you might say ‘Hello, Sonny,’ and see what happens. I wouldn’t be surprised if he starts being courteous to you, too, from then on. See how that could work out?”

  Kathleen appeared to be thinking it over. “Well—maybe,” she said at last, though she didn’t sound at all persuaded, and there was a forgiving tolerance in her hesitant smile. She seemed to be saying she should have known how useless his advice would be in a matter like this, but that she didn’t really mind because he was a father well worth having in other ways.

  It took him a moment to remember where else he had seen a smile like that: it was Mary’s own way of looking at him, in the best of their early times, whenever he’d solemnly spoken his mind on some complicated question without coming close to the heart of it—and that touch of forgiveness in her eyes had always been a lovely, shining thing.

  Now, though, he was afraid he’d taken too soft a line on Sonny Esposito. His own most vivid memories of being horrible to girls were of a much later time in childhood, of the sixth and seventh and eighth grades and beyond; he couldn’t honestly say what his behavior had been like at Kathleen’s age, and shouldn’t have pretended he could. Besides, what if Sonny Esposito really was some menacing, overgrown Italian whelp that any other girl’s father would instantly detest?

  “I think that’s worth a try anyway, dear,” he said, “don’t you? Being sort of nice to him? But if he still goes on giving you trouble I want you to tell me about it right away. Okay? You promise?”

  “Well, okay,” she said uncertainly.

  “Because then I’ll call the principal and arrange for this boy to be given a very sharp reprimand. Or,” he said, warming to his own voice, “I might just pay a visit to that classroom of yours myself, and I’d find him there and take him out in the hall, and I’d say ‘Look, Esposito: You better leave my little girl alone or you’re gonna be in trouble, understand? Bad trouble.’ ”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just silly, is all. Nobody’s father ever does things like that.”

  “So what does anybody’s father ever do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, but I mean what was the point of telling me about this boy, Kathy, if you didn’t want a few suggestions?”

  “I don’t know.” She was gazing off into the distance of the highway now, watching the cars, and he could see just enough of her face to tell it had taken on its lost, bewildered look.

  “Talk about silly,” he said. “Seems to me you can be pretty silly yourself sometimes.” And then, clearly, it was time to change the subject. “Feel like getting back on the road again?” he asked her. “And maybe find some things to do along the way?”

  “ ‘Kay.”

  He didn’t quite know what he meant by “things to do along the way” except a roadside game of miniature golf that they’d both grown bored with in previous outings; still, as a last resort they could always visit a big, cut-rate toy store not far from her home.

  When she said goodbye to him at last and turned away to the dim face of her grandparents’ house, conspicuously using both arms to carry the few cheap things he’d bought for her, Evan watched for the slow arm wave behind the screen and answered it with a jauntier, more youthful wave of his own; then he walked back to the car.

  There was always a great sadness on these homeward drives; sometimes too there were feelings of inadequacy (“So what does anybody’s father ever do?”) and of failure. Oh, Jesus, divorce could sure as hell leave a lot to be desired.

  For a while he just drove north toward Cold Spring Harbor, putting on a little speed because he’d be late for dinner if he didn’t, but soon an unaccustomed thought occurred to him: the hell with dinner. The Drakes could eat without him for once; they might even be happier, in fact, if he didn’t show up.

  He skillfully found his way to Route Twelve, made the turn, and began driving east in what anyone would have said was no particular hurry. But he wouldn’t have tried to kid anyone about where he was headed now, and he sure as God wasn’t trying to kid himself. When the long bright structure of Bi
ll Bailey’s emerged from a clutter of other commercial ventures, under a darkening sky, he saw at once that Kathleen had been right: it was a far more impressive business than the simple place he’d remembered. Mary must have pretty nice working conditions here, if being “assistant night manager” kept her well enough away from the heat and bustle of service personnel out in front where the quick snacks and the money changed hands.

  He was slowing down to make the turn with other hungry customers when it struck him that he’d better not do this: it wouldn’t be a good idea. She worked only at night and it wasn’t even night yet; somebody would tell him either to come back later or to wait—and if he decided to wait, in some spotless, airless alcove, he’d be as tense and jumpy as a nervous wreck by the time she came walking in and discovered him there. No, the better plan would be to find some other place along the road for waiting—or, if he continued to feel the almost crippling doubts at work in him now, to turn around right here and go home. He could always come again some other night, after dark, when he had a better grip on his courage.

  So he went all the way home, where Rachel had kept his dinner warm. And he allowed three or four more days and nights to pass—patience was important in a thing like this—before he felt brave enough to make another try.

  “Are you going out, darling?” Rachel asked when she came upstairs that night and found him fresh from the shower, putting on a clean shirt; and her large-eyed, small-mouthed face showed she wasn’t even trying to hide her uneasiness.

  “Well, just to get away from the house for a while,” he said. “Just to be by myself for a little while, is all. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”