“You did nothing wrong,” he said. “I thought maybe we could hang out. But whatever… I’ll get my bag.”
“I’ll get your bag,” Chess said. “You don’t know where my room is.” She bounded inside and upstairs and grabbed his duffel bag off her rocking chair. I’m sorry, Birdie! she thought. Her mother would be horrified, she was sure. Downstairs, the front parlor was deserted. Chess snatched two of the pumpkin muffins and wrapped them in a paper napkin for Barrett. See? She wasn’t completely thoughtless.
Barrett was standing on the top step, looking down on the street.
“Where did you park?” Chess asked. As a tiny concession, she figured she would walk Barrett to his car on her way to the stadium. But even this was mostly so she could be sure he got into his car and drove away.
“Right there.” He pointed to a battered blue Jeep with a black vinyl top. Tate, Chess thought, would love that car. If Barrett had been smarter, he would have headed south instead of north. He would have gone to New Canaan to surprise Tate. She would have been as fantastically happy as Chess was agitated and disturbed.
“Okay,” she said. She handed him his duffel bag and the muffins, which he accepted without comment, and she led him down the stairs and stood by the door of the Jeep. If she hurried, she would make it to the stadium by halftime.
“I’m sorry this didn’t work out,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again. Why was she apologizing? This wasn’t her fault, but somehow it was.
She wanted him to say, It’s okay. She wanted him to exonerate her, set her free. But he just stared at her and then his face got closer and closer to hers, and he kissed her.
The kiss was nice, really nice, but that may have been because Chess knew that was it, the end.
The end, until this summer. Chess had thought squeamishly about that October 18 and the surprise appearance of Barrett Lee over the years, and what she thought was that she should have skipped the game and gone to lunch with him. She could have brought him along to the tailgating and the party. He might even have slept on the floor of her room. But Chess wanted him out of there. It was kind of a class thing, on top of everything else. Chess was sure he wouldn’t fit in.
Birdie had not found out. All that was left was Chess’s shame, which was old and weak now, compared to her more recent shame.
It could be her on Nantucket this morning with Barrett Lee. He had asked her first. He had led her out to where the Scout was parked, and said, “I have a dinner party to attend tomorrow night. Very fancy, and I need a date. Would you like to go with me?”
Upon his asking, the whole botched road trip came back to Chess in a flash. Here was her chance to atone for the wrong she’d done him. But she couldn’t say yes. The idea of attending a dinner party paralyzed her, and it had nothing to do with the fact that she would be fielding sympathetic glances from people who thought she had cancer. She wasn’t strong enough to meet people, make chitchat, eat a meal, pretend to be fine. And, too, she didn’t want to lead Barrett Lee on; she didn’t want to give him hope. The fact that a dozen years had passed and Barrett Lee was now a widower and Chess was also a kind of widow did seem an incredible irony, but it wasn’t strong enough to bring them together. She loved someone else.
“I can’t,” Chess said.
“You have other plans?” he said, with an ironic half smile.
She adjusted her blue crocheted cap. “I’m not in a good place.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I can see that. I thought maybe getting out would help.”
“It won’t. I’m sorry. I can’t explain it.”
“Hey,” he said, holding up his palms, “no one’s asking you to.”
She said, “Ask Tate to the party.”
And he said, “I will. She was my first choice anyway.”
He had said this, maybe, to hurt her. But Chess was beyond being able to be hurt by Barrett Lee, and, too, she knew she deserved it.
“She should be,” Chess said.
“She is,” Barrett said.
You were his first choice, Chess thought. She should have told Tate this before Tate left for the party. Why hadn’t she?
Eleven o’clock. Noon. No Tate.
At twelve thirty, Birdie called up the stairs: the chowder was ready. Chess was actually engrossed in her book-it was one of the good parts with Natasha in the court-but there was no hurry, so Chess set the book down.
Birdie and India had poured themselves glasses of wine. Three bowls of chowder steamed. There was a box of oyster crackers.
India said, “Chess, do you want a glass of Sancerre?”
Chess said no. She sat at the table. She was sad enough to cry, though she couldn’t say why, which made things worse. Her mother brought her a glass of iced tea with a wedge of lemon, just how she liked it. Chess’s eyes welled, but she didn’t want her mother or India to see; if they saw her crying, they would ask why, and she couldn’t explain.
The door flew open. Tate burst in, wearing an army green rain poncho. She was soaking wet.
“I’m home!” she said. “Did you miss me?”
Tate had brought back a portable DVD player and a copy of Ghost, which had been her and Chess’s favorite movie growing up. The DVD player was contraband-against one of the long-standing Tuckernuck rules-but Barrett had insisted Tate borrow it, because what else were they going to do in the Tuckernuck house in the rain?
Chess had missed her sister, but now that Tate was back, Chess became consumed with anger. Tate was giddy and glowing with the effects of sex and new love, she was Tate in extremis, Tate times one hundred, and Chess couldn’t handle it. Tate could watch the movie, Tate could enjoy the movie, Tate could cry over the movie (she always did), but Chess wouldn’t join her. She was being mean and petty, she knew this, but she couldn’t move past her anger. It would feel good to hunker under the covers with Tate and watch the movie, it would feel as good as a hot bath, but Chess couldn’t cross the chasm that would take her to happiness, however fleeting. She was stuck in her misery. Stuck!
Chess said, “I’m not watching it.”
Tate said, “What? Come on! It’s our favorite movie.”
Chess said, “It was our favorite movie.”
Tate said, “So, what, you’ve grown up now, you have another favorite movie? Fine. That doesn’t mean you can’t watch it. It’ll be fun.”
“No,” Chess said.
Tate said, “Fine, I’ll watch it myself.”
Chess said, “Knock yourself out.”
Tate said, “So I guess you’re not going to ask me how my date was.”
“That’s right.”
Tate said, “It was amazing.” She paused, waiting for Chess to comment or look at her, but Chess did neither. “I’m in love. So you can tell me anything and I’ll understand. I’ll understand because I’m in love now, too.”
Chess gazed at her sister’s earnest face. It was as always: Tate trying to keep up with Chess. The roles they would never abandon.
“You know something?” Chess said. “It was really nice here without you.”
Tate flinched. She still had the remains of last night’s makeup shadowing her eyes.
“Was it?” Tate said.
“It was.”
Tate rummaged through her overnight bag and pulled out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. She wielded it like a club, and for a second, Chess thought Tate was going to slug her with it.
“I brought you this,” Tate said. She tossed it on the bed. “Enjoy.”
TATE
When she woke up on Monday morning, the sky was blue, the sun was out, and all of Tuckernuck was green and sparkling. Tate went downstairs for coffee, and there was Birdie, squeezing oranges for juice.
“Good morning,” Birdie whispered.
Tate kissed her mother’s soft cheek. God, life was hard. Chess had been such a bitch yesterday, so cruel and cutting; it was like they were teenagers again. She had practically brought Tate to tears. Tate had been on the verge of saying, Fuck you, I’m not sitting around for this, I’m leaving. The experiment had failed. Tuckernuck wasn’t bringing them closer; it wasn’t healing them. Chess hadn’t told Tate the first thing about what happened between her and Michael Morgan; she hadn’t pulled back the covers to reveal an inch. It was just like always: Chess didn’t think Tate was smart enough or emotionally evolved enough to understand.