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Authors: Richard North Patterson
Tags: Fiction
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Janine.”
Whitney understood that the intent of this veiled rebuke was to keep her at bay. For the first time, she wondered if Anne were protecting her sister, or herself. But it was not the morning to pursue this, or say anything at all.
As if unnerved by Whitney’s silence, Anne turned toward the television. Listening to a surgeon describe Robert Kennedy’s wounds, she said, “It’s dreadful, isn’t it. The world is becoming such a frightening place. In times like these, family is all the more important.”
“I know, Mom. That’s why I asked about Janine.”
“Then just love her, Whitney. Your aunt, the college professor, and I could never manage that. She didn’t care about me, or anyone in the family. Now we barely speak. I don’t want that for my own two daughters.”
The unspoken subtext to this, Whitney knew, was that her aunt might be a lesbian. But Anne could never acknowledge this, leavingWhitney to guess at who had rejected whom. Her mother’s defenses might be more artful than Anne herself knew.
“I do love Janine,” Whitney affirmed, silently asking if her mother truly did.
In the next hour, there were no definitive reports on Robert Kennedy. Whitney watched helplessly, her fears punctuated by disquiet about Janine. Then Clarice entered the room.
Surprised, Whitney said, “You’ve heard about Bobby Kennedy.”
Clarice nodded. “Why do they let people like that have guns? It’s as if we’ve become a shooting gallery.” She looked around, then asked quietly, “I guess Janine made it home.”
“Almost intact. I guess she’d been drinking a little.”
“You can skip the ‘a little.’ I wondered what became of her, and thought you might wonder about me.”
“I did,” Whitney assured her. “Maybe we could go for a walk. I didn’t sleep at all.”
Clarice seemed to grasp Whitney’s need to talk. “Fresh air beats sitting here, doesn’t it? Especially on a day like this.”
Stifling the childish thought that she was abandoning Robert Kennedy, Whitney changed into a light sweater and blue jeans and drove with Clarice to Lucy Vincent Beach.
A dazzling blue sky cast light on sparkling water, and there was a fresh greenness in the new grass, a harbinger of summer. To Whitney the morning was so brilliant that it mocked reality, reflecting the vast indifference of a God she could never quite believe in. Taking the catwalk through the grass, the two friends kicked off their shoes and began walking at the water’s edge. “So tell me about last night,” Whitney asked.
“A waste of time,” Clarice answered briskly. “You know the scene—a dark, smoky room jammed with islanders and college kids here for the summer. I couldn’t hear a thing, and sipping Budweiser while mouthing words at strangers is my idea of misery. But Janine was drinking whiskey and swaying along with themusic, sex in a low-cut dress. Pretty soon guys we’d never seen were paying for our drinks while Janine preened like a slumming princess.”
Whitney put on sunglasses, cutting the brightness that hurt her eyes. “Did she pair off with anyone?”
“When I was there she wasn’t playing favorites, except maybe the two guys on each side of her, each looking down her dress. The three of them drank a lot, and seemed to amuse each other in a way I couldn’t fathom. When I told her I was ready to leave, Janine said one of the guys would drive her home. That was okay with me—and with them, it seemed quite clear.”
“Were they good-looking?”
“They were islanders,” Clarice answered in a throwaway tone. “I suppose one of them had some appeal in a scruffy, sinewy way, though it seemed best not to probe his intellect. But he certainly admired Janine—if that’s what you call sniffing at her with the subtlety of a rottweiler.”
It was a pity, Whitney thought, that Clarice chose not to share her powers of observation with the larger world. “So did Janine seem all right to you? Emotionally, I
Whitney understood that the intent of this veiled rebuke was to keep her at bay. For the first time, she wondered if Anne were protecting her sister, or herself. But it was not the morning to pursue this, or say anything at all.
As if unnerved by Whitney’s silence, Anne turned toward the television. Listening to a surgeon describe Robert Kennedy’s wounds, she said, “It’s dreadful, isn’t it. The world is becoming such a frightening place. In times like these, family is all the more important.”
“I know, Mom. That’s why I asked about Janine.”
“Then just love her, Whitney. Your aunt, the college professor, and I could never manage that. She didn’t care about me, or anyone in the family. Now we barely speak. I don’t want that for my own two daughters.”
The unspoken subtext to this, Whitney knew, was that her aunt might be a lesbian. But Anne could never acknowledge this, leavingWhitney to guess at who had rejected whom. Her mother’s defenses might be more artful than Anne herself knew.
“I do love Janine,” Whitney affirmed, silently asking if her mother truly did.
In the next hour, there were no definitive reports on Robert Kennedy. Whitney watched helplessly, her fears punctuated by disquiet about Janine. Then Clarice entered the room.
Surprised, Whitney said, “You’ve heard about Bobby Kennedy.”
Clarice nodded. “Why do they let people like that have guns? It’s as if we’ve become a shooting gallery.” She looked around, then asked quietly, “I guess Janine made it home.”
“Almost intact. I guess she’d been drinking a little.”
“You can skip the ‘a little.’ I wondered what became of her, and thought you might wonder about me.”
“I did,” Whitney assured her. “Maybe we could go for a walk. I didn’t sleep at all.”
Clarice seemed to grasp Whitney’s need to talk. “Fresh air beats sitting here, doesn’t it? Especially on a day like this.”
Stifling the childish thought that she was abandoning Robert Kennedy, Whitney changed into a light sweater and blue jeans and drove with Clarice to Lucy Vincent Beach.
A dazzling blue sky cast light on sparkling water, and there was a fresh greenness in the new grass, a harbinger of summer. To Whitney the morning was so brilliant that it mocked reality, reflecting the vast indifference of a God she could never quite believe in. Taking the catwalk through the grass, the two friends kicked off their shoes and began walking at the water’s edge. “So tell me about last night,” Whitney asked.
“A waste of time,” Clarice answered briskly. “You know the scene—a dark, smoky room jammed with islanders and college kids here for the summer. I couldn’t hear a thing, and sipping Budweiser while mouthing words at strangers is my idea of misery. But Janine was drinking whiskey and swaying along with themusic, sex in a low-cut dress. Pretty soon guys we’d never seen were paying for our drinks while Janine preened like a slumming princess.”
Whitney put on sunglasses, cutting the brightness that hurt her eyes. “Did she pair off with anyone?”
“When I was there she wasn’t playing favorites, except maybe the two guys on each side of her, each looking down her dress. The three of them drank a lot, and seemed to amuse each other in a way I couldn’t fathom. When I told her I was ready to leave, Janine said one of the guys would drive her home. That was okay with me—and with them, it seemed quite clear.”
“Were they good-looking?”
“They were islanders,” Clarice answered in a throwaway tone. “I suppose one of them had some appeal in a scruffy, sinewy way, though it seemed best not to probe his intellect. But he certainly admired Janine—if that’s what you call sniffing at her with the subtlety of a rottweiler.”
It was a pity, Whitney thought, that Clarice chose not to share her powers of observation with the larger world. “So did Janine seem all right to you? Emotionally, I
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