Music in the Night

  He had been up there the whole time, maybe peeping through that hole at me, I thought. I felt my body grow hot with embarrassment as my blood rushed toward the surface of my skin. How much had he seen? We had stopped bathing and sharing the bathroom when we were seven or eight, and I began to demand my privacy even more when I began to develop breasts. Cary's curious eyes had made me feel self-conscious. It wasn't long afterward that I stopped walking around in front of him in my underwear. Even then, the way he looked at me and my changing body made me uncomfortable.

  I got up and went to my door, opening it slightly to peer out as he returned the ladder, I started to open the door wider and then hesitated. If I confronted him, I'd only bring more embarrassment to myself, I thought. It was late, I told myself; it wasn't the time for this.

  I closed the door ever so softly and waited until I heard him go into his room. Then I went back to bed and lay there with my eyes open, trying desperately to drive the troubled thoughts from my mind so I could think only of Robert and our wonderful night together.

  But when I turned on my side and closed my eyes, I saw only Cary's angry face after he had emerged from the darkness behind us, his truck headlights casting him in an eerie silhouette. I finally drifted to sleep, only to find that Cary was in my nightmares, along with the distorted faces of my classmates, whispering, leering, laughing, chasing me toward the roaring sea. Everything was so vivid. I woke in a sweat after the first wave washed over me in my dream. My heart was pounding. I sat up quickly and had to hold my hand over my heart and take deep breaths. Finally, I got up and went to the bathroom to splash my face with cold water.

  Whenever Cary and I had a nightmare, we would share it the next morning. It was a way we both had to drive the demons out of our hearts, to comfort each other. For the first time, I couldn't tell him about my dream. This time, I had to find a way to drive the demons out myself.

  3

  Trouble's Brewing

  .

  Cary sat sullenly at the breakfast table the next

  morning. We exchanged few words, but most of the time when he looked at me, I thought I could see the accusations in his eyes. I didn't believe he had any right to make me feel guilty and I refused to act ashamed. If anyone should be ashamed, he should, I thought, following me around at night, peeping through holes in the ceiling.

  Mommy was eager to hear about the dance, and I was thankful that at least she could share my happiness. As I spoke, I signed to May, describing the decorations, the food, the music. Of course, I left out the unpleasantness over the ticket and mentioned nothing about Cary pulling Robert's car out of the sand.

  "I thought you went to the dance, too, Cary," Daddy said when there was a pause.

  "Hardly," Cary said disdainfully.

  "Then where were you, boy? It was pretty late

  when I heard you come in and hurry up those stairs." "I just met some friends at the BeanBag." he

  said quickly.

  "How can you hang around a custard stand all

  night?" Daddy continued.

  Cary shot a glance at me to see if I would say

  anything, and I looked down at my plate.

  "We were just hanging out," Cary said. "I didn't

  realize how late it got."

  Daddy shook his head.

  "I don't know what you all have to talk about so

  much that you lose track of time."

  "You can pass a lot of time jawin', Jacob,"

  Mommy said, "like when you get together with Pat

  O'Reilly."

  "That's different. We talk about business,"

  Daddy retorted, reddening at the criticism. It was

  enough to end the topic, for which both Cary and I

  were grateful.

  While we waited to go to brunch at Grandma

  Olivia's, I took May out to the beach and made some

  drawings while she sat beside me, asking me

  questions about my date and about Robert. Drawing

  was something I did to help relax, just like

  needlework. I drew pictures of all of us, some from

  memory, some from things I saw at the moment.

  Everyone who saw my drawings thought they were

  very good. I once showed them to Kenneth Childs, who said I might consider taking art classes and developing my talent. I never thought I was good enough to do that, and wasting time trying to be someone I couldn't be was something Daddy

  convinced me was sinful.

  "God grants us enough time to do something

  worthy with ourselves. Procrastination, chasing

  foolish dreams, that's what the devil would like us to

  do," he had said,

  I wasn't fixed on anything yet, but I had been

  thinking lately that I might become a teacher, maybe

  even a teacher in a school for the handicapped. It

  made me feel special and filled me with so much

  pleasure when I was able to teach May something and

  see her eyes brighten with understanding. I felt as

  though I had broken through a thick wall, no matter

  how small the achievement, and I thought I could do

  this successfully with other handicapped children. While we were sitting on the beach, drawing

  and talking, Daddy and Cary went by on their way to

  the dock.

  "We're just going to check on the lobster traps,"

  Daddy explained. Cary stood by, silent, still

  somewhat sullen. "We won't be long, Laura. You

  should get yourself and May ready soon."

  We always dressed up for brunch at Grandma

  Olivia's. In fact, we never went there without treating

  the visit as if it were a special occasion. This was easy

  for Grandma Olivia, since she was always formally

  dressed. Even when she was working in her garden,

  she had her hair pinned properly and wore outfits that

  most would save for trips into town or visits with

  company. Grandpa Samuel usually wore a sports

  jacket and slacks, along with a cravat or a tie. Their

  home was kept immaculate, everything in its proper

  place. As children, we were forbidden to wander in

  the rooms and were terrified of touching anything. "Okay, Daddy," I said and folded my drawing

  pad. I signed to May and she folded hers as well. As

  we headed for the house, I thought this would be the

  best and maybe only time I would get to call Robert. I

  was sure he was on pins and needles, worrying about

  what might have happened after I entered the house

  last night.

  Robert's mother answered.

  "Oh hello," she said with enthusiasm, after I

  had introduced myself. "From the way Robert's been

  acting this morning, I'd say you and he had a

  wonderful time last night. I have to say everything to

  him twice," she added with a little laugh. I heard Robert complaining in the background. "I'd better

  give him the phone before he throws a fit."

  "Hi," he said. "My mother's in one of her

  hilarious moods today."

  "I can't wait to meet her," I said.

  "I'll introduce you . . as long as you know she'll

  say anything," he added in a voice meant for her ears.

  He paused and then in a lower voice, asked how

  things were.

  "Everything's fine," I said. "My father was

  waiting up and I could tell he was relieved that I made

  it home before curfew. And Cary didn't say anything,"

  I added, knowing he was waiting to hear about that

  most of all.

  "Your father was waiting up? I guess it would

  have been disastrous if Cary hadn't come to the

  rescue,
but I still can't get over his following us,

  Laura. Have you talked to him about it?"

  "Not yet, Robert. I'm waiting for the right

  time." "Don't put it off, Laura," he warned.

  "I won't," I said in a little voice. It wasn't

  something I looked forward to doing.

  "I can't wait to see you again," he added in a

  softer tone.

  "Me neither. I'm going to my grandmother's for brunch in a little while. I've got to get ready and then

  help May get dressed."

  "Okay. Thanks for the call," he said in a voice

  that sent shivers all the way to my toes.

  "I couldn't wait," I confessed shyly.

  "I'm glad," he said and we both hung up. I

  hurried upstairs to dress and help May pick out

  something that wouldn't make Grandma Olivia shake

  her head disapprovingly.

  Grandma Olivia was always uncomfortable

  around May. We all knew that the signing unnerved

  her: She said all those hands bending and turning

  through the air, fingers jabbing, made her stomach

  jump. She resisted learning any of it and consequently

  spoke to her youngest grandchild only through an

  interpreter, usually me or Cary.

  Although Mommy seemed to look forward to

  Grandma Olivia's brunches and dinners, she was

  always nervous the day of the visit. Mommy reminded

  me of someone who was preparing for an audition.

  Pains were taken over how all of us dressed, how well

  our hair was brushed, our shoes shined, and we were

  always, even now, reminded about the rules of

  behavior when at Grandma Olivia's' home, including

  what not to say and what to say. If one of us didn't pass Grandma Olivia's inspection, Daddy usually blamed Mommy, so we did our best to live up to

  expectations.

  We all ended up looking like different people

  when we were all dressed up, especially May and I,

  since Grandma Olivia didn't like women to wear their

  hair loose and down. She said that it made them look

  like witches, so I had to use bobby pins and combs to

  wrap my hair neatly, and even May wore a little

  French twist. Although the old-fashioned hairdos

  added years to our age, we didn't look overly grownup, since makeup was strictly forbidden, even for

  Mommy. She didn't even wear lipstick.

  Despite all this, I did look forward to going.

  Grandma Olivia usually had wonderful things to eat. I

  especially loved the tiny cakes with frosting and jelly

  in the center, and even now, even though we were

  really grown-up, Grandpa Samuel always gave me

  and Cary, along with May, crisp five-dollar bills when

  we left.

  I had one particular dress that always seemed

  the most acceptable to Grandma Olivia. It was a navy

  blue dress with a white collar that buttoned at the base

  of my throat. Although I had other, equally dowdy

  dresses, for some reason this one always brought a

  smile to Grandma Olivia's grim face.

  When I stood before the mirror, I reminded

  myself to keep my shoulders back and my head up, as

  if I were balancing a book on top. One of Grandma

  Olivia's pet peeves was the way young people

  slouched. She claimed posture showed character and

  embellished good health.

  I never told anyone except Cary, but I actually

  felt sorry for Grandma Olivia. Sure, she had a big,

  beautiful house filled with extravagant furniture,

  paintings, and decorations. Her dinners were elaborate

  and served on expensive china with fine crystal

  glasses and real silverware.

  Yet for all her extravagance, her important

  acquaintances, and her gala affairs, Grandma Olivia

  never looked happy to me. If anything, I thought she

  was trapped by her wealth and position. How sad it

  must be, I concluded, to go through your life never

  letting your hair down, never walking barefoot on the

  beach, never just being lazy or having a potluck

  dinner, in short, never doing anything spontaneously,

  but always first having to go through the proper

  arrangements, as if your whole life had to be lived

  according to Emily Post.

  I knew very little about my grandmother's past. She never volunteered any information and rarely, if ever, told any stories, unless of course, they were to illustrate and support some rule of behavior. Whenever I asked Mommy questions about Grandma Olivia, Mommy would shake her head and say, "Your grandmother had a difficult childhood because of the problems caused by her sister Belinda." What those problems were and how they had made Grandma Olivia's life difficult was left a mystery. Belinda had problems with alcohol when she was younger and eventually ended up in a rest home nearby. Whenever I visited with her, she told me stories and made references to her and Grandma Olivia's youth, but her stories were almost impossible to understand because Aunt Belinda confused the past and the present, mixing up people and places. Sometimes when she saw me, she called me Sara, thinking I was my

  mother, and once, recently, she called me Haille. I know Grandma Olivia did not approve of my

  visiting Aunt Belinda. She treated her sister as if she

  were poisonous and could infect one of us with her

  outlandish stories and statements. I rarely brought up

  her name in front of Grandma Olivia because I knew

  what sort of reaction I would receive.

  With all these no-no's and strict rules to follow, Cary, May, and I practically tiptoed around the big house and grounds, keeping our voices low and keeping ourselves as much out of sight and out of

  mind as possible.

  After we were all dressed, Daddy looked us

  over as if we were lining up for parade inspection. He

  straightened Cary's tie and brushed down May's skirt

  after he spotted a tiny crease.

  "I can have her take it off and iron it, Jacob,"

  Mommy offered.

  "It's all right," he said. "We'll be late. Let's get

  started."

  The three of us got into the backseat, Cary

  sitting on one end and me on the other with May

  between us. He gazed out the window and didn't look

  at me once during the ride over to Grandma Olivia

  and Grandpa Samuel's.

  "What a pretty spring day," Mommy said as we

  headed down Route 6. Grandma Olivia's house was

  midway between Provincetown and North Truro.

  From the outside, my grandparents' house looked far

  from cold and impersonal. It was a large two-story,

  clapboard covered home with a wide-planked

  whitewashed front door. Over the door was a fanshaped window of colored glass and, though I'm sure it was meant to be decorative, Cary and I always joked about it looking like a big gloomy frown

  warning visitors to stay away.

  Grandma Olivia was very proud of her home,

  claiming it was prestigious because of its historic past. "The original portion of this house was built

  around 1780," she declared to every new visitor. She

  usually added, "That was when the prosperous

  families began to build some of the more fashionable

  buildings in colonial America. Today," she would

  continue in that sharp, critical tone of voice of hers,

  "wealthy people sacrifice classic fashion for

  ostentation."
>
  The grounds around the house were also

  beautiful and well taken care of. The carpet-like green

  lawn was always immaculate, and the flower garden

  was dazzling with its hydrangeas, pansies, roses, and

  geraniums. There was even a small duck pond with a

  dozen or so ducks in it. In front of the house were two

  large, blooming red maple trees. Between them on the

  far right was a bench swing with a canopy over it,

  although I don't think anyone but Cary, May, or I ever

  used it.

  We saw Judge Childs's car parked in the

  circular driveway when we pulled in. Judge Childs was a frequent guest, especially for Sunday brunch. He was my grandparents' closest old friend. The judge was retired, but Grandma Olivia always stressed the fact that he still had friends in high places and was

  very influential.

  After we got out of the car, Mommy gave us

  another once-over, straightening May's clothes and

  again trying to brush out any creases.

  Daddy rang the doorbell, and Grandma Olivia's

  housekeeper, Loretta, answered the door. For as long

  as I could remember, Loretta had worked for

  Grandma Olivia and Grandpa Samuel, but she never

  looked terribly happy about it.

  "Everyone is in the sitting room," she declared

  without much emotion and stepped back to allow us

  in.

  We entered like one of the duck families in the

  pond, Daddy first, Mommy right behind him, and then

  the three of us trailing in single file.

  There was a short, marble-floored entryway

  with paintings on both sides, seascapes of the Cape

  and boats and portraits of sailors. The house was

  always full of the perfumed aroma of flowers, even in

  the wintertime.

  The sitting room was the first room on the right. It had the look of a showcase in a furniture store window. The oak wood floor was kept so polished, Cary and I used to pretend that we could go ice skating over it. There was a large rug between the pair of beige sofas and under the large dark maple coffee table. Beside both settees were matching maple end tables. On every table, on every shelf, there were expensive-looking crystal pieces, vases and, occasionally, pictures in silver and gold frames of Grandpa Samuel and Grandma Olivia when they were younger, and some pictures of Daddy, Mommy, as well as one group picture of me, Cary, and May taken four years ago. There were no pictures of the ostracized Uncle Chester and Aunt Haille. Bringing up their names in this house was the same as uttering