Page 124 of The Book of Summer

Ruby

She crammed them into the envelope, gave it a lick, and then, before she could think better of it, Ruby hustled outside and grabbed Topper’s old bike from the shed. She hopped atop and pedaled the one mile to the post office, able to dispatch the note seconds before the postman closed the gate.

51

Saturday Afternoon

Bess is waist-and-elbow-deep in the linen closet, a misnomer of a room as it seems to include only boxes orphaned decades ago, scarcely a linen to be found aside from a yellowed tablecloth and a set of nautical tea towels.

“Yuck,” Bess says with a cough as she lugs a box of themed salt- and-pepper shakers down from the top shelf.

She inspects the collection. Two bunches of bananas. A yellow iron and a black iron. Kittens wearing sailor garb. A disturbing white maid, black mammy combination. Kitschy and cute, some of them, but Bess doesn’t anticipate ever needing salt-and-pepper shakers by the dozens. On the other hand, it seems wrong to sell Ruby’s stuff.

Still undecided on the shakers, Bess drags a 12 × 12 × 12 box out into the hall. It is heavy, weighted down. As she goes to catch her breath, Bess reaches around for Evan’s note. It remains snug against her, in her back pocket.

But how do you say that to someone who looks so beautiful, eyes shining with hope? How do you tell her that she’s not seeing things clearly?

Bess doesn’t know about any shiny-eyed hope, but she remembers talking to him at the rehearsal dinner as she struggled not to weep. At the time, she’d chalked it up to good old mopey-dope nostalgia. They’d had fun, the two of them. A perfect high school dream. Getting herself expelled from Choate was the best move Bess ever made, aside from attending medical school, but you really can’t compare the two.

At the wedding I’ll try not to watch. I won’t say a word to you.

Yeah, well, Bess remembers talking to him at the wedding. He didn’t exactly leave her alone, as promised.

God, Bess ignored so much, for so long. Before the marriage. The four years during the marriage. Bess was busy, a dedicated physician, aggressively head-down and toiling away just as Grandma Ruby always advised. Who needed alcoholism or drug addiction? Become a workaholic and enjoy the twin benefits of avoiding your problems and earning a paycheck.

Bess understands, for the first time, that the shame she has about the divorce is not because she couldn’t make a marriage work. No, Bess’s real regret is that she married him at all. She knew better. She knew she was getting a set of veneers.

With a sigh, Bess peels a strip of tape from the box, though it hardly has any stick left. After lifting the flaps, she wades through mounds of bunched-up newsprint and uncovers a carefully wrapped package. Inside are two dishes, cream-colored with silver scalloped edges, pink and yellow Virginia roses meandering about the perimeter. Grandma Ruby’s china? This is something she will save.

Bess digs deeper into the box, through ever more wads of newsprint and wrapped-up dinner plates and salad plates and saucers. She even finds an empty packet of cigarettes—Gauloises, a French brand. Grandma Ruby smoked one cigarette a week. Every Sunday, five o’clock. Bess smiles at the memory.

She’s enjoying the treasure hunt, cigarette trash and all, until her hand finds a strange clump of paper, distinctly urine in tone. There’s a scattering of brown pellets nearby.

“Ew!” Bess screeches. “Yuck!”

A nest. Mice or rats, most likely.

“Disgusting!”

Bess wipes both hands on her jeans and then picks up the box, holding it far from her body, nose scrunched. The box doesn’t smell necessarily, but it seems like it should. With previously untapped core strength, Bess clambers downstairs, through the French doors, and out onto the patio.

“Bess!” Cissy says from her spot at the bar. She’s mixing a cocktail, of all things. “What on earth…?”

Bess sets down the box, her arms suddenly loose and weak. She is wheezing, a little out of breath.

“Bess?”

“Rodents,” she heaves and gasps, pointing. “Mice. Or rats.”

A swift breeze kicks up then, goosing Bess from behind. Below her a wave crashes, and Bess’s heart gives a skip. She peers over the box and sees nothing but air. Rain begins falling lightly on her head.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Cissy calls. “You look ghastly. Come dear, have a drink.”

Cissy waves her over, smiling brightly, as Bess’s eyes narrow.

“Elisabeth?”

“So, darling mother,” she says, sauntering toward her. “What’s new?”