their conversation, and though she wanted to hear more about what he apparently knew about her, she couldn’t think of a way to turn the conversation back without seeming self-absorbed. She decided just not to say anything, to let him take her somewhere and to try to enjoy this private tour. She looked out at the passing houses perched like eager girls wearing pastel dresses close to the side of the road, and soon the houses became more dilapidated, their porches sagging and paint peeling. On one house hung a battered Soviet flag, on another an enormous sheet spray-painted with a peace symbol.
Hilary often wondered what she’d tell her child about its father once it was old enough. She could tell him or her something romantic: your father died for a cause, in a war, for me, for you. But when she thought about her child she pictured a smaller version of herself, and how could she really tell this person such a large lie?
Daniel had asked about the father after she’d told him over the phone that she was pregnant. When she confessed that she didn’t know who it was, that it could have been more than one person, he said, “You’re kidding.” “I’m not.” “How straight out of a soap opera. I love it.” She begged him not to tell the others she was pregnant, as she wanted to herself and in person. They wouldn’t take it as well, especially Jake, who’d been trying to get his wife pregnant for years. Hilary figured that in person they would have to be at least slightly polite and supportive. And she supposed that another, smaller part of her just couldn’t resist opening a door, standing there and looking at their stunned faces.
Alex pulled off the road and onto a small dirt path and the car rumbled through sparse woods. “Almost there,” he said, and suddenly she felt a flash of concern—what had she been thinking, jumping in his car so eagerly? He could be a murderer. But she told herself to calm down, this was New England, Maine, a small island. An enclosed, finite place where no criminal would be able to hide for long. He was calm and in control and seemed in no way psychotic.
He stopped the car and cut the ignition. They were at the end of a dirt road, facing a sprawling field of tall grass and brown reeds, the sky now solid gray above them. They could have been in the middle of America. The ocean, even the sound of it, was gone.
2
Dichotomies
Daniel only had
a few memories of his family trip to Great Salt: his mother squeezing his hand as they walked off the ferry amid a small crowd of tourists, his father hoisting him onto his shoulders after the two had played Frisbee on the beach. They were, in fact, memories of being tended to more than specific images of the island itself. When he and Brenda went on vacation, they preferred to travel farther, or at least to more interesting places, although traveling anywhere had, of course, become more difficult now with the wheelchair. As they drove toward the coast of Maine, Daniel thought about Jake’s vacation home being no more than an hour away from his house in Portland. “We should have taken my father somewhere like Paris. Or Istanbul. Somewhere with monuments and mosques. He loves his war and history.”
“Has he been to Europe?”
“He and my mother went to Italy years ago but my father’s wallet was stolen. I think they had a terrible time. And of course he was there in the war—but he was practically a kid then.”
“Your dad seems happy with their trips to the Cape and D.C. That was the last one, right?”
“Niagara, and I think that if he were given the chance, he’d be more adventurous. After all, it is his seventy-fifth. We should’ve gone to Istanbul.”
“Don’t be silly. This is easier and cheaper. Hilary and your parents could never afford Turkey.” She turned the car into the fast lane.
“Hilary would love Istanbul—all the ancient history, all those mosques and palaces. She studied anthropology in college.” He traced
Hilary often wondered what she’d tell her child about its father once it was old enough. She could tell him or her something romantic: your father died for a cause, in a war, for me, for you. But when she thought about her child she pictured a smaller version of herself, and how could she really tell this person such a large lie?
Daniel had asked about the father after she’d told him over the phone that she was pregnant. When she confessed that she didn’t know who it was, that it could have been more than one person, he said, “You’re kidding.” “I’m not.” “How straight out of a soap opera. I love it.” She begged him not to tell the others she was pregnant, as she wanted to herself and in person. They wouldn’t take it as well, especially Jake, who’d been trying to get his wife pregnant for years. Hilary figured that in person they would have to be at least slightly polite and supportive. And she supposed that another, smaller part of her just couldn’t resist opening a door, standing there and looking at their stunned faces.
Alex pulled off the road and onto a small dirt path and the car rumbled through sparse woods. “Almost there,” he said, and suddenly she felt a flash of concern—what had she been thinking, jumping in his car so eagerly? He could be a murderer. But she told herself to calm down, this was New England, Maine, a small island. An enclosed, finite place where no criminal would be able to hide for long. He was calm and in control and seemed in no way psychotic.
He stopped the car and cut the ignition. They were at the end of a dirt road, facing a sprawling field of tall grass and brown reeds, the sky now solid gray above them. They could have been in the middle of America. The ocean, even the sound of it, was gone.
2
Dichotomies
Daniel only had
a few memories of his family trip to Great Salt: his mother squeezing his hand as they walked off the ferry amid a small crowd of tourists, his father hoisting him onto his shoulders after the two had played Frisbee on the beach. They were, in fact, memories of being tended to more than specific images of the island itself. When he and Brenda went on vacation, they preferred to travel farther, or at least to more interesting places, although traveling anywhere had, of course, become more difficult now with the wheelchair. As they drove toward the coast of Maine, Daniel thought about Jake’s vacation home being no more than an hour away from his house in Portland. “We should have taken my father somewhere like Paris. Or Istanbul. Somewhere with monuments and mosques. He loves his war and history.”
“Has he been to Europe?”
“He and my mother went to Italy years ago but my father’s wallet was stolen. I think they had a terrible time. And of course he was there in the war—but he was practically a kid then.”
“Your dad seems happy with their trips to the Cape and D.C. That was the last one, right?”
“Niagara, and I think that if he were given the chance, he’d be more adventurous. After all, it is his seventy-fifth. We should’ve gone to Istanbul.”
“Don’t be silly. This is easier and cheaper. Hilary and your parents could never afford Turkey.” She turned the car into the fast lane.
“Hilary would love Istanbul—all the ancient history, all those mosques and palaces. She studied anthropology in college.” He traced
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