A Book of American Martyrs(52)

“Yes! I might have called.”

It was not clear if our mother spoke repentantly, or defiantly. She seemed about to say more, but did not.

“It’s just that, this is a place where things might happen that are unexpected. Not often, in fact rarely, but—the unexpected can happen here. As it did today.”

In the adult faces was a fever of excitement, as if each had caught the other in subterfuge. We children might not have been present, each of our parents was so captivated by the other, and by what the other might say.

“I wanted the children to see where you work, I think. I want them to be properly proud of you, as I am.”

“Are you being sarcastic, darling?”

“No! My God, no.”

Our mother laughed, uneasily. Our father was kneading her hand, the delicate bones of the back of her hand, harder than he meant to do, so that she pulled away from him, but not emphatically enough to free her hand.

There was a sexual heat between them, the strain of things not-said, and the strain of playing out a scene in front of (child) witnesses.

Speaking carefully our mother was explaining why we’d come to St. Croix instead of driving to The Cove: there’d been the “domestic crisis” of the station wagon and the five-months expired sticker. Like a TV Mom she laughed, baring her teeth. “Your sharp-eyed son discovered it—fortunately. He thinks I might have been arrested.”

Darren protested, “I didn’t say that.”

“Five months expired! Christ. Good for you, Darren.”

Darren shifted his shoulders uncomfortably as if he thought our father might be teasing him. Slyly I said, “You did say Mom might be arrested. I heard you.”

“I did not.”

In her subdued voice, in her chastised voice, our mother was telling our father that if he thought it was a better idea, he should remain at the Center, and not trouble to take us to lunch. “It’s been upsetting here. Even a false alarm is upsetting. You might want to assure your staff . . .”

Quickly our father said of course not, he had no intention of altering his plans for the afternoon. He had set aside a block of time for lunch at Lake Huron—two hours. His Wednesday afternoons were usually kept free for nonclinical matters. He had a late-afternoon meeting and would be at the Center until around 7:00 P.M. and the next day was solidly scheduled with medical appointments and the day after that he would be flying to Washington, D.C., for a conference at the NIH—the National Institutes of Health.

“I see you so rarely, all of you together—this is a special occasion. A family excursion.”

“But—”

“No. It’s private life. Only a true emergency could derail it.”

Then, after a pause: “We don’t let these people intimidate us.”

Quickly our mother spoke, before one of us could ask who these people might be, “I know that, Gus. Of course.”

“We never do. We don’t miss a beat. We don’t publicize what we do, if we can avoid it.”

“You are right. I know. Yes.”

“Here’s the key to the Volvo, Jen. Just wait in the car and I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t interact with the picketers—they might know about the incident, or they might not. We don’t interact with them.”

“Of course, I know! I know—‘we don’t interact with the enemy.’”


WE DROVE to Lake Huron that afternoon, after all. The family excursion had not been deflected.

In our father’s Volvo and with our father at the wheel.

For here was authority, and here was comfort. Here was the familiar, which is comfort.

And at the shore of Lake Huron, beyond a beach strewn with pebbles and kelp, near-deserted on this gusty day, the incandescent sky opened dazzlingly before us.

Like the lifting of headache. A tight band around the head that is the band of pain.

Whatever might have happened, did not happen.

This is happiness. This is love.

The Cove was not so attractive as we’d recalled. Perhaps it had been battered in a recent storm. A loose sign swung and banged in the wind, annoying to our mother. Yet it was wonderful to be seated out on the deck of the restaurant, overlooking the lake—so vast a lake, the farther shore of Ontario, Canada, was not visible.

A faint horizon, hazy and ill-defined—you had to imagine a farther shore.

My father declared that this was a “surprise, celebratory” lunch—a “birthday lunch” for our mother. He had not yet purchased her present (he said) but had something very special in mind, which she would discover next week, on her proper birthday.

“Gus, thank you! I love you.”

“We all love you.”

Below The Cove was a dock where rowboats, canoes, kayaks were for rent. But Lake Huron was rough that day, and the air was chilly for mid-June, and there were few customers.

Still, Darren wanted to take out a kayak, in defiance of our mother who would worry about him.

“Mom, Jesus! I’ll be fine.”

“Why don’t you and Dad go in a double kayak?”

“There aren’t any double kayaks here.”

“Well—a canoe?”

But Darren didn’t want to take out a canoe. We saw that Dad was disappointed, by the genial way in which he supported Darren, that was meant to show he was not disappointed.