Chess whispered, “Where are Birdie and India?”
“On the porch,” Tate said. “I told them whatever it was, I’d take care of it.”
“Oh, you took care of it all right,” Chess said.
They were quiet. The bats seemed to calm down. They circled, they swooped, they did figure eights. They were graceful, Chess decided. The bats moved upward toward the ceiling, and then they would swoop down-one, two, three-in their own particular ballet. Their movements became hypnotic as Chess watched. What were they after? Chess wondered, though she knew the answer was prosaic: they were after bugs. The bats gathered in a cluster; for a split second, they seemed suspended in the hot attic air. And then, one by one, they discovered the open window, that square of opportunity, a gateway to their wildest dreams of freedom.
Chess and Tate stayed up most of the night. They were worried about the bats returning, so they closed the window and endured the stifling heat. Tate poked and prodded the far corners of the attic to make sure there were no more bats lurking. They were safe from bats.
Chess read Tate her confession by the beam of her flashlight, and Tate listened in rapt attention. It reminded Chess of long-ago years when she would read to Tate from their storybooks. Tate didn’t comment on what she heard; she might have been appalled, or she might have been accepting, Chess couldn’t tell. Tate just lay back with her eyes glued on Chess. The confession read like a story, a piece of fiction, and God, Chess wished, she wished, it were fiction.
After Chess shut the notebook and the truth was out, floating in the air around them, Chess said, “So what do you think?”
“What do you think?” Tate asked.
“I should have told Michael how I felt about Nick,” Chess said. “But I wasn’t sure my feelings were real, and since they were maybe not real, they were easy to hide.” She looked at Tate, and even in the near darkness, she saw a new expression on her sister’s face. Chess startled; it was almost like she was here in the attic with someone else. Tate looked serious; she looked thoughtful.
Tate said, “I know why you didn’t tell Michael. You didn’t want to. You liked Michael. You loved him. You didn’t want to be the person who had an unshakable obsession with his younger rock-star brother. You never wanted to veer off-course, Chess. You got into this pattern, this mold, with Mom and Dad and everyone else, where everything you did was right. Michael was the kind of man you expected to marry. He fit right into your perfect life. If you had married Michael-do I even need to say it?-you would have had a six-thousand-square-foot house, a manicured lawn, gorgeous children-and you would have been miserable. You didn’t betray Michael by not telling him about Nick. You betrayed yourself. You didn’t want to be the person who had feelings for Nick, but guess what, Chess? You were that person. You are that person.”
Chess stared at the woman lying across the bed, who may or may not have been her sister.
“You’re right.”
“I know I’m right.”
Chess pinched the bridge of her nose. “I can tell you one thing, little sister.” She said “little sister” with irony; in this instance, Tate was most definitely the big sister. “Love is not worth it.”
“Ah,” Tate said. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
TATE
She wrote on the list for Barrett, which was now the list for Trey: Don’t leave without me!
And when she got back from running, Trey, dutiful young man, was waiting for her on the beach. She hadn’t said why she was going to Nantucket, and he didn’t ask. He wasn’t curious; he didn’t care. This was for the best.
He had learned-from Barrett-that Tate was a Springsteen fan. And guess what? So was he! He wanted to talk about the Boss, the new albums, the old albums. This kind of conversation used to delight Tate, but now she could barely find a word to say about how much she loved “Jungleland” and found it a work of genius on the scale of West Side Story. The things that used to matter, the person she used to be, had been usurped. She had room in her mind only for Barrett.
Love is worth it.
After they arrived and anchored and after they paddled the dinghy to shore (it physically pained Tate to do these things with Trey instead of Barrett), Trey asked Tate if she needed a ride anywhere.
“I have Born to Run in my truck,” he said.
She accepted a ride to town and they listened to “Thunder Road” and “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out.” Trey tapped the steering wheel and bobbed his head like the dedicated fan he was. Tate asked to be dropped on Main Street in front of the pharmacy.
He said, “How are you getting back?”
She said, “Taxi. I’ll be at Madaket Harbor at quarter to four.”
He gave her the thumbs-up and grinned. In his mind, they were buddies.
Main Street was bustling. There were people everywhere: two lovely ladies outside Congdon and Coleman Insurance selling raffle tickets for a needlepoint rug benefiting the Episcopal church, a swarm of people surrounding the Bartlett Farm truck buying zucchini and snapdragons and corn on the cob, tourists with maps and strollers and shopping bags. Everyone looked happy. Had everyone on this street found love, then, except for her?
She wandered through town and stopped twice for directions to Brant Point. Gradually the streets became more residential, and then Tate found the familiar corner and she turned right. Inside, she was quiet, which surprised her. She was a calm, cool pond.
She found Anita’s house with ease; it was impossible to forget. She peeked through the rose-draped trellis. The lawn and front gardens were peaceful and serene except for the whirring of the sprinklers.
Okay, so now what? Should she knock? Should she walk in?
She didn’t see Barrett’s truck. Was he running one of the countless errands that Anita Fullin and her house required? Tate studied the picturesque front of the house-the gray-shingled expanse, the many white-trimmed windows, the fat, happy hydrangea bushes with their periwinkle blossoms.
Tate opened the gate and marched to the front door. She was here to talk to Barrett; she wouldn’t leave until she had. For Tate, men would forever fall into two categories: Barrett, and those who were not Barrett. She knocked with purpose. She waited. She thought about Chess and all that had happened. Chess believed that her chance to be happy was over; her system had crashed and couldn’t be saved or restored. Michael was dead; Nick wouldn’t be coming back. She would, Tate pointed out, meet someone else down the road.
Yes, Chess said. But it won’t be Nick.
And Tate conceded: it wouldn’t be Nick.
And Michael is dead.
Tate said, Michael’s death was an accident.
Chess said, It was a suicide.
Tate said, You don’t believe that?
Chess said, Yes, I do believe that.
Tate was ready for anything when Anita Fullin opened the door. Or so she thought.
Anita Fullin was wearing an orange bikini. Her hair was in a bun and her face was slick with sunscreen. She had been lying in the sun. Through the house, Tate could see an orange towel draped over a chaise on the back deck; she could see a Bose radio on the table and a glass of white wine. Was this how Anita Fullin spent her days? It wasn’t fair of Tate to judge; she had spent the past twenty-five days doing pretty much the same thing.
Anita’s expression was mildly pleasant, expectant, wary. Why was her sunbathing being interrupted?
She doesn’t recognize me, Tate thought. She has no idea who I am.
Okay, this was infuriating. Her anger felt good; it felt like firepower.