Chapter 4 #4
It seemed to Cece then, as it seems to her now, standing on Lorraine’s deck, peepers chirping in the dusky darkness, that her mother feels cheated somehow by the luck of the draw, the inevitable gamble everyone takes when they marry someone.
Barry was favored to win, the safe bet. If only she’d been more ambitious in finding a partner, Kim must think to herself.
That’s why she is where she is, and now she’ll do anything to ensure her daughter, her promising, driven, smart daughter, doesn’t make the same mistake.
Lorraine’s cleared the table of old newspapers and wicker bowls filled with stray coins and double-A batteries.
After slapping down a wooden trivet, she maneuvers an orange Dutch oven onto the table.
When Cece asks what she can do to help, she’s ordered down into the cellar where Lorraine says she can pick any red from the top three rows.
“You’ll understand what I mean when you see it,” Lorraine says after Cece gives her a look.
The cellar is dark and dank, something mossy and pungent in Cece’s nostrils.
She flails for a light, her hand catching air until finding a slender string dangling from the ceiling.
Dark splotches and ringed light—it takes a moment for Cece’s eyes to adjust. She makes out an imposing wine rack running from wall to wall, floor to ceiling.
Under the cobwebs and dust, sideways bottles gleam dull light.
Cece knows nothing about wine, but even she can tell she’s looking at a small fortune.
She counts carefully down from the top before picking something.
Dinner is delicious, and Cece forgets all manners and decorum, agreeing to seconds and then thirds, heaping freshly grated Parmesan atop her spaghetti and meatballs along with basil from the garden. According to Lorraine, Cece’s picked a perfect wine pairing for their meal—a Pinot Noir from Veneto.
“It’s from a former lover. The wine,” Lorraine says, loosening her belt from under her apron.
Do people even have lovers anymore? Cece wonders. Her curiosity about Lorraine only grows, but she’s hesitant to pry. Questions will only beget more questions, and Cece isn’t entirely certain she wants to tell her landlord about the chain of unfortunate events that’ve landed her here.
“We met ages ago. He was a visiting classics professor at the time. I’d just gotten tenure and bought this place for a pittance. Anyway, he was always bringing back wine with him from his travels, or his friends would visit, and they would bring bottles as gifts. We amassed quite the collection.”
“Where’s he now?”
“Greece, I think, with his wife and kids. I only found out about them later.”
“God, that’s awful,” Cece says before she can catch herself. The wine and spaghetti have lulled her into a false sense of security. Get a grip!
Lorraine holds a speckled hand over her mouth.
“Oh, no. You misunderstand. If anything, I was relieved. I remember being terrified at the time that he was going to do something idiotic like propose. I was even more opposed to marriage back then than I am now. No—it took the pressure off, knowing he already had a family. We could just have fun.”
“Opposed?”
Lorraine sloshes more wine into her glass.
“This country is obsessed with marriage. Sometimes I wonder how it’s reached such a venerable status.
Of course, I know how—it’s a Goddamn national interest as far as the American government is concerned.
Marital tax deductions, social security and healthcare benefits, family leave—the list goes on.
But I still can’t wrap my head around it.
What makes people want to follow that crap?
That’s what we were all asking ourselves back in the sixties. I guess we were the crazy ones.”
Something in Lorraine’s words—the anger, the disbelief—tap something deep within Cece, but before she can respond, Lorraine’s swatting the air.
“That was a hypothetical question. Don’t answer it.
Sometimes it’s just hard not to get riled up, especially when things don’t turn out the way you thought. ”
“I get that,” Cece says.
“Nah,” Lorraine says, wine-stained teeth showing through her smile, “you’re too young to understand nonsense like that.”
Cece is somehow simultaneously flattered and offended. “What’s the deal with that house that’s getting fixed up down the street?” she asks, hoping to change the subject.
The mention of Morgan’s home sends Lorraine into another diatribe, mostly about the scaffolding and the ruckus caused by the plastic tarps when the wind blows hard.
She’s called the town on numerous occasions, but no one seems interested in doing anything.
Cece asks if she’s thought about talking to the owner.
“I’ve only seen him a handful of times. He drives that awful truck that makes my windows rattle. He’s nothing but trouble.”
Cece’s cheeks burn, her neck undoubtedly red and splotchy. Red wine does this to her.
“There was an incident back in January. I remember it because it was right after a big snowstorm. The cops showed up outside his house. I asked the neighbors, but no one knew anything for certain. A few people said it was a domestic disturbance.”
“A disturbance.”
“Yeah, like a fight between family members.”
“I see,” Cece hears herself say.
“I swear, all those shipwrights are philistines. They’d rather compensate for their tiny manhood in those big trucks than breathe fresh air. They’re the type to tell you global warming is a hoax when it snows.”
A cold sweat seeps out along Cece’s hairline.
Her heart thuds in her chest, thinking about her plans with Morgan.
Why had she agreed so readily? Was she really that bored?
That desperate for attention? Hadn’t she had every intention of putting distance between them?
Then again, it’s summer, and after the shittiest spring in recent memory, isn’t Cece entitled to some fun?
And if she can’t take up a guy’s invitation to go out on his boat, what can she do?
Still, her doubts remain, clinging to her like cobwebs.
“You’ve never actually talked to the guy, right? ”
Lorraine drains her glass. “Don’t need to. You get to my age, and you can tell a thing or two about a person. They resent us. That bunch.”
“Us?”
“People who work at the college. All the townies hate anyone who teaches up there. They blame the college for the town’s financial woes. Sure, blame the tiny liberal arts college on the hill, not their own government passing NAFTA, repealing Glass-Steagall, or giving tax cuts to corporations.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Trust me. It’s not. I’ve had a few run-ins with their ilk at the monthly commission meetings.
That’s where I first got wind of Richie Rayburn’s plan to expand his oyster business.
All I did was ask a few questions and they got bent out of shape.
They’re not a smart bunch. They’d cut down a forest if it meant they had a job for a week. ”
“I suppose they need the work.”
“Richie claims his proposal will create more jobs, but I’ve seen that before. It’s Pfizer all over again. Why don’t you come with me to the next meeting? I could use a set of fresh eyes on the situation. Maybe you’ll see something I don’t.”
See? Cece thinks to herself, This is why you don’t agree to have dinner with your crazy, Croc-wearing landlord. “I might have work stuff, but I’d love to check it out.”
“No problem if you can’t,” Lorraine says. “You can help get signatures instead.”
“For what?”
“The more signatures we get, the more pressure we can put on the members of the zoning commission. If we can show that Rayburn’s project is unpopular, the proposal might be rejected.
But we need more signatures! Once we get enough, I’ll write a formal objection, and then we’ll attend the public hearing in force.
And if all else fails, we’ll gum up the works, request an environmental-impact study, a congestion study… whatever it takes.”
“It sounds very involved.”
“Glad to have you on board.”
On her way back to the cottage, her head heavy from the wine, grass tickling her ankles, Cece tries to picture the police outside Morgan’s home, lights painting the walls red and blue.
She tries to remember what his house was like on the inside, but all she can remember is him, the touch of his hand, whiskey on his breath.
She tries to imagine him and his boatyard buddies griping about the college and people like Lorraine.
Before she can get her key in the lock, Cece hears Bernard’s paws at the door, frantic and eager. He should’ve been walked hours ago.
Leash looped around her wrist, Cece closes the wooden gate behind them and stands on the sidewalk.
Bernard lets out an impatient whine and tugs them in the usual direction, toward his favorite stop sign.
“Let’s take a different route tonight,” she says.
They turn left instead of right. The dog follows tentatively, ears perked, nose in the air, questioning the motivation behind such a change.
Better not to walk by Morgan’s house tonight, Cece thinks to herself.