“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, good,” Grant said.
“How about you?” Birdie asked. “Are you dating anyone?”
“Hell, no,” Grant said. “Women are nothing but trouble.”
“Right,” Birdie said.
“Except for you,” Grant said. “I don’t mean you.”
Birdie felt the sun on her face. What was happening here? She said, “So the card, with the flowers… you composed that yourself?”
“Composed?” he said.
“I mean, those were your words on the card. The girl at the shop didn’t help you write it?”
“No, the girl at the shop did not help me write it,” Grant said, sounding quasi-offended. “I wrote it myself. I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”
Birdie pressed her lips together. She felt a flash of pleasure and she had to remind herself that it was Grant on the other end of the phone, Grant Cousins, the man she shared a bed with and served dinner to for thirty years. The man who had kept her emotionally at bay, who had thwarted her chance at a career and personal fulfillment, the man who made her become just like every other housewife in New Canaan, Connecticut: frustrated and lonely and overly devoted to her children.
Against the tide of these thoughts, she said, “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
He said, “Will you call me again tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she said.
INDIA
She was alone on the beach when Barrett’s boat pulled in. She had been asleep in her upright beach chair, her head lolling around on her left shoulder. She had heard herself snoring at the same moment that she heard the boat’s motor, and she snapped awake and wiped the drool from her chin. There was nothing attractive about a woman of a certain age taking a nap. Her book, The Red Tent-she was only now reading the things that other women had read ten years ago-had fallen off her lap into the sand. She was wearing her sunglasses, and Bill’s reading glasses were resting against her bosom.
She waved at Barrett, hoping he hadn’t seen the grotesque spectacle of her asleep. He nodded at her; his hands were full. Groceries, ice. The poor kid. He was their slave. Then India remembered that she had something for Barrett: the letter for Lula and twenty dollars to ensure that it was FedExed to her. She was glad she was alone at the beach.
Barrett sloshed to shore. Normally, he headed right up to the house with the provisions, but today he trudged over to India. She dug madly through her bag for the envelope, addressed to Lula’s apartment in Philadelphia.
She said, “I’m glad I caught you alone.” She handed the envelope to Barrett; he set the ice down on Birdie’s empty beach chair and accepted the letter and the twenty-dollar bill. “Will you mail this for me? Overnight it.”
He nodded. He set the bag of groceries down in the sand and slid the letter into his front shorts pocket. He said, “I’m glad I caught you alone as well.”
Something about his tone arrested India. He sounded like he was going to proposition her. God, was this possible? What about Tate? Having sex with Barrett Lee lived somewhere in India’s deep-seated fantasy life, but only as a funny lark. It was a short, pornographic reel she played in her mind to amuse herself and to prove she wasn’t that old.
“Really?” she said. She was tempted to look at Barrett over the top of her sunglasses in her best imitation of Anne Bancroft, but she declined.
He said, “Yeah. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
He sounded nervous, which put her immediately at ease. She said, “Shoot.”
He took a deep breath. He said, “My client Anita Fullin, who was here the other day?” He sounded like India might not remember Anita Fullin, but she had been the only visitor they’d had since they’d been here. How could India not remember? She nodded.
“She wants to buy the little statue in your bedroom.”
“Statue?” India said. “You mean Roger?”
Barrett exhaled. “Yes,” he said. “Roger.”
“Ah,” India said.
“She would like to offer you fifty thousand dollars for it.”
“Fifty thousand,” India said.
“She’s a fan,” Barrett said.
“Ah,” India said. She didn’t know how to respond. Fifty thousand dollars for Roger? She thought back to when she and Bill were first married. Bill had been an art teacher at Conestoga High School. They lived in a condo in Devon, right off 252. At night they’d listen to the rumble of traffic headed to the King of Prussia Mall, and occasionally they could hear a melody or two-Kenny Rogers or Bob Seger-playing at the Valley Forge Music Fair. They hadn’t had two nickels to rub together. India’s parents had been footing the bill for India to go to graduate school at Penn, but they were disapproving. How did Bill and India ever expect to make a decent living, enough to start a family? Well, India explained, they were counting on Bill’s sculpture. He had the one installation on Navy Pier in Chicago, and another small one at Penn’s Landing, which he had sold to the city for a fee of $750.
In 1992, when Bill created Roger, his sculptures-full-size civic installations-were going for more than a million dollars. But those took a year to fabricate. Bill had made Roger in one afternoon; Roger was only twelve inches tall. In India’s mind, Roger was either worth five dollars or he was priceless.
“Hmmmm,” she said. She wished Bill were here. She wished she could send him a letter, telling him that funny summer woman from Nantucket was offering India fifty thousand dollars for Roger. What would Bill say? She could practically hear him shouting, Take it!
But India couldn’t take it. She would no sooner sell Roger than she would sell her unborn grandchild. Roger was the personification of her and Bill’s happiness on Tuckernuck. She looked at Roger and thought of lying in Bill’s arms on the beach-plum-jam-filled mattress. She thought of unbuttoning his pants in the Scout. She thought of Bill piling firewood, collecting shells, identifying shorebirds, checking the wind direction, admiring passing yachts, carrying the boys on his shoulders. She thought about how angry she’d been at Bilclass="underline" he was perfectly fine on Tuckernuck, and a devastating head case at home. Why can’t we be this happy at home? she’d screamed on the bluff that long-ago afternoon. What the hell is wrong with you? And Bill had said, You! You’re what’s wrong with me! They had been so vocal with their anger, Birdie had come up from the beach to shush them. There were the children to think of, as well as the rest of Tuckernuck. They were screaming so loudly that Birdie was afraid someone from the homeowners’ association would hear them and drop off a written warning.
Bill had disappeared down the beach, and later that evening he presented India with Roger-a body made of driftwood, hair of seaweed, eyes of blue beach glass, nose and ears and teeth and toes fashioned from shells.
Roger was his apology.
“She may even be willing to go higher than that,” Barrett said. “I know she really wants it.”
India smiled. “Roger’s not for sale.”
“She’d probably go to seventy-five.”
India shook her head.
“Really?” Barrett said. He sounded disheartened, like a little boy, and this surprised India. His wife had died. India thought that for this reason, he would understand. “Not for sale?”
“Not for sale,” India said.
“And there’s nothing I can do? Nothing I can offer you?”
“Nothing you can do,” India said. “Nothing you can offer me. I’m sorry.”
Barrett gazed out at the water. He looked so distraught that India wavered. She was something of a sucker, more like Birdie than she would care to admit. She would be more tempted to give Roger to Barrett for free just to cheer him up than she would be to sell Roger to a summer woman for seventy-five thousand dollars.