The Paper Palace(63)

“I’m not sure how useful that would have been.” I laugh. “And it was hardly hours. We walked over to have a quick look at the ocean. The afternoon light was so beautiful.”

“It’s a full moon tonight,” she says.

Behind us, Peter and all three kids are playing Parcheesi. I glance over to see if Peter is listening, but he has just rolled doubles and is busy trying to create a blockade.

“Anyone there?” my mother asks.

“I saw the Biddles camped out to the right, toward Higgins. And I could just make out her purple skirt, but I’m pretty sure it was Pamela, way down the beach taking her daily walk. Other than that, it was pretty empty. The piping plover signs are finally down.”

“Thank God.” She pries the lid off the tin of tea with the back end of a spoon. “Here.” She hands it to me, takes the kettle off the stove. “The water must be hot enough by now.”

“For god’s sake, Wallace,” Peter says, “wait until the water boils. You might as well just hand me a cup of warm piss. And do not even think about plying me with that Lapsang Souchong rubbish. Filthy stuff.”

“It’s smoked over pine needles,” Mum says.

“Even worse.”

“He’s a bit bossy, that husband of yours,” my mother says, but I can tell she likes it. She puts the kettle back on the burner and goes in search of some plain English tea.

Finn gets up from the table and comes to give me a hug. “I found a shark egg on the beach.”

“A shark egg?” I ask, dubious.

He sticks his hand in his pocket and brings out what looks like a small, crispy black pouch with devil horns on each end. “Here. Gina says it’s an egg sack. For a baby shark.”

“Everyone thinks that, for some reason. But it’s actually for a skate. It’s called a mermaid’s purse.”

“Which makes no sense unless the mermaid is Goth.” Peter laughs.

I hand it back to Finn. “Put it up on the shelf so it doesn’t break.”

“Maybe I should be a mermaid this year for Halloween,” Maddy says.

“Excellent idea. Though it might be hard to walk around the neighborhood with no feet,” Peter points out. “Come play the next round with us, wife.”

“I’m not really in a Parcheesi mood. I need to get out of this wet bathing suit.”

“You certainly do. You’ll get a urinary tract infection.” My mother comes out of the pantry holding a ten-pack of toilet paper. “Put this in the bathroom, would you? We’re out. I don’t know how you all manage to go through things so quickly. You’re like a bunch of locusts.”

“Your daughter has a bladder the size of a pea,” Peter says. “It’s all her fault.”

“Untrue,” I say. “I don’t think you’ve ever changed a roll of toilet paper in your life.”

Peter turns to the kids. “On our first date, your mother pulled down her pants and peed in front of me.”

“Gross,” Jack says.

“It wasn’t a date,” I say. “You were just some guy giving me a lift back to my dorm. And it was that or pee in your car—which probably would have gone unnoticed, because that car was disgusting. It smelled like rotten meat.”

“No, no.” Peter laughs. “You wanted me. The moment I saw you squatting under a tree in your white underpants, I knew.”

“So deeply not.”

“You guys.” Jack makes a gagging noise.

“Also, I had just saved your life.”

“Your father was very heroic,” I say. Which, of course, makes the little kids laugh.

“Dixon and Andrea invited us for hamburgers,” my mother says. “They’re having an impromptu barbecue. I told them we’d walk over around six thirty or seven.”

“Ugh,” I say.

“Don’t let me forget—I said we’d bring a red onion.”

“Can’t we have a quiet dinner at home? I’m still recovering from last night.”

“Our cupboards are bare,” Mum says. “No one went to the supermarket.” There is blame-lust in every syllable.

“I know we have a packet of pasta. And frozen peas.”

“At any rate, I’m not in the mood to cook.”

“I’ll cook. It’s supposed to rain tonight.”

Peter looks up from the Parcheesi board. “I’m happy to take the kids if you want to stay home.”

“It’s just—we’ve barely been home from Memphis for twenty-four hours and it’s been nonstop socializing. I need an early night.” I need time to think.

“Then you shall have it,” Peter says.

I walk over to him, put my hands on his shoulders, lean down, and give him a kiss. “You’re a saint.”

“Don’t distract me,” he says. “This is a very serious game we’re playing,” and sends one of Finn’s little yellow pieces home.

Outside the Big House, I pause, watch my family. Finn rolls dice out of a small cardboard canister. My mother pours boiling water into an old brown teapot. A trail of steam rises from its spout. She watches the tea steep before pouring it into a chipped ironstone mug through a bamboo strainer. She peers into the sugar bowl, frowns, and wanders off.