Leaving Lucy Pear(40)

Oakes started walking again. “On my way to work I pass this yard, every day, where this Eye-talian man and his wife have a garden. A little kitchen garden right out on the street, covered in soot.” He glanced at Ira, whose eyes were still closed. “So last month I see this guy’s got a project under way, he’s digging up something big and I stop and watch, wanting to see, you know, and he digs and digs and finally he pulls out this bundle, about the size of a child, and I’m thinking, this guy’s a murderer, an absolute madman, he’s unwrapping a corpse in his yard in broad daylight! But then he gets the cloth off and it’s a tree! A f*cking tree.”

“Sweetheart, please,” Adeline said.

“So?” Rose said. “What’s your point?”

“My point? It’s a waste of time! You should have seen how long it took him to plant this thing again, then water it. In and out of the house with a tiny bucket!”

“It’s probably a lemon tree,” Rose said. “Something that can’t survive the winters here.”

“I don’t care what it is! Why doesn’t the guy get a job? If he loves this tree so much, why not take it back to Italy? These anarchist wops kill a man. . . .”

“Two men. Read the paper, Irving. And there’s little evidence that they killed him.”

“Two men! Even better. They kill them and then here we are, however many f*cking years later, and people—Americans!—are going crazy to save them. How in hell can they be innocent?”

“It’s not about innocence. It’s about the fact that they’ve been convicted on account of their politics. It’s about the powerful trying to rout out people who don’t buy in to their power. It’s about process. . . .”

“Process!”

“Yes, Irving! Process! A fair and just trial. For the new as well as the old, the poor as well as the rich. I’m sure to you that sounds very un-American.”

Oakes groaned. He pulled a Chesterfield from his ear, lit it, exhaled. “I don’t even know half the time what the f*ck you’re saying, Rose. My point is why does this guy with his crappy little house spend his time taking care of a tree that’s not even supposed to grow here in the first place?”

Emma and Helen, on the threshold of the room, did not enter. Julian played more slowly, so that Number 17, meant to be allegretto, began to sound like a dirge.

“I think it’s sweet,” Adeline said. “It’s like his baby.”

Bea felt sorry for her. Why had she married Oakes? Bea imagined that when they met, Oakes told Adeline first about his mother dying and second about his taking her middle name for himself and that Adeline took these facts to mean that Oakes was a particular kind of man, sensitive and loyal, perhaps like her own father but wealthy. She appeared bewildered by him now. Still, Adeline had to be terribly naive to have fallen so quickly for Oakes—that or far smarter than she appeared, out for Oakes’s money, in which case she didn’t need Bea’s pity. There was an undeniable comfort in watching Adeline’s unease—she was more an outsider than Bea.

“On to a new topic!” cried Rose. “I’m afraid we’ll have to change our plans for a bake at Brace’s Cove tomorrow. I hear there’s a red tide on the clam flats.”

“It’s not a red tide,” Oakes said. “Just red tide—there’s red tide in the Annisquam. Or wherever. You sound like a tourist.”

“I am a tourist. So are you.”

“We’re summer people.”

“And that’s better.”

“Of course it’s better!” Oakes pounded the mantel. “Summer people descended of year-round people, old people, real people! Bents! Of course it’s better. Have you heard what that interior designer from Boston is doing over at that mansion down on the harbor? Whole rooms wallpapered in circus print. New wings just to show off the wallpaper. His friends are all artists. A bunch of faggots. And I bet they get better booze than us, too. This”—he held up a bottle—“I have my doubts. I suspect Cousin Bea’s been watering it down while we sleep, gradually tricking us into abstinence!”

Breathing wildly, Oakes stared with triumph at Bea. Julian played so slowly now that each note fell dully before the next began, absorbing and irritating her: she could not help straining, in her mind, to pull the notes into line.

“Oh, shut it, Irving,” Rose said. “Though perhaps you could keep Emma on tomorrow, Bea-Bea. We could use the extra help.” Rose threw up her arms as Vera had, with more vigor and drama than a situation called for. She could not stop herself from saying what she said next. In her regular life she dressed herself, shopped for herself, cooked for herself, amused herself, soothed herself; then there were her patients, needing her, and the other doctors, needling her. And most of the time this was all right by Rose. She kept waking and dressing and going and coming. But when she boarded the train to Gloucester, whatever it was that kept her upright through her days seemed to snap. She wanted desperately to be taken care of. She spoke loudly: “I don’t mean to sound like a brat, but this is my vacation. Couldn’t her children look after each other for a couple more days? We looked after each other. They’ll survive.”

Bea looked to Emma. But Emma and Helen were gathering empty glasses, moving in their discreet, superior way around the room. Emma would not pardon Bea for her cousin’s rudeness. “I’ve given Emma the holiday with her children,” Bea said with as much equanimity as she could manage. She was struggling not to jump each time Julian began again. Brigitte’s bejeweled hand circled her stomach. Bea would leave, she decided. She would leave before she cried.