Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

Between Manic Bill and Depressive Bill there was a normal man, on an even keel. It was Bill Bishop of 346 Anthony Wayne Way, owner of fourteen acres and a stone farmhouse and barn-cum-studio, husband of India Tate Bishop, father of Billy, Teddy, and Ethan.

Bill and India lived in the suburbs, and their boys attended Malvern Prep and played sports. Bill and India attended functions and parties, they went to movies and restaurants, they celebrated holidays. They took their trash to the dump and raked leaves and mowed the lawn. It was all well and good that Bill was a “famous artist,” but they had a life to live and it required sanity.

In those days, India had depended on Tuckernuck to clear Bill’s mind. Bill was good on Tuckernuck. He was strong; he was sane. Back then, when the final day arrived, India had never wanted to leave.

India lay back on the mattress-filled with jelly, Jell-O, toothpaste, lemon curd, caviar, something impossibly squishy-and studied Roger. They called him Roger, but really the little man with the driftwood torso and the blue beach-glass eyes and seaweed dreadlocks was Bill when he was happy.

God, she missed him.

She had made up her mind to leave Tuckernuck on Wednesday. First of all, she was smoking. Smoking helped calm her nerves, it kept her hands occupied, it allowed her to think-but when Birdie found out India was smoking, she would kick India out of the house. Just as the headmistress at Miss Porter’s School had kicked India out for smoking when she was fourteen. (India then went to Pomfret, where smoking was tolerated, and then to college at Bennington, where smoking was mandatory.)

There was a knock at the door. India panicked. She sat up in bed and tried to wave the smoke out the open window-but it was pointless. Anyone who entered would know she was smoking. She was fifty-five years old; she had to be accountable for her actions. But Birdie was such a Goody Two-shoes. This had always been the case. She hadn’t married a tempestuous, mentally ill sculptor, she had never snorted cocaine at two in the morning at an underground club, she had never romantically kissed another woman. Birdie made pancakes and squeezed the juice from oranges; she went to church. She was the reincarnation of their mother.

“Come in!” India said, praying for one of the girls.

The door opened. It was Birdie.

“You’re smoking?” Birdie said.

India inhaled defiantly and nodded.

Birdie sat on the corner of the gelatinous mattress. “Can I have one?”

“One what?”

“A cigarette.”

India smiled. She couldn’t help herself. This was funny. Birdie might have been joking, but the woman couldn’t pull off sarcasm or irony; her voice was full of its usual earnest. Little Birdie, Mother Bird, wasn’t going to send India home for smoking. She was going to join her in the filthy vice.

India didn’t remark. She didn’t want to scare Birdie away. She plucked a cigarette from her pack and handed it to Birdie. Birdie placed it between her lips, and India lit it with her gorgeous jeweled Versace lighter. Birdie inhaled. India watched, fascinated. Birdie had the smooth mannerisms of a practiced smoker. India realized then how little she knew about Birdie’s adult life. Birdie and Grant hadn’t smoked at home; of this, India was certain. Grant had puffed his cigars on the golf course and with brandy at the steak house, but when did Birdie find occasion to smoke? At the country club dances, perhaps, in the ladies’ room when the women were all fixing their hair and thinking about sleeping with one another’s husbands? Or maybe the smoking was new since the divorce. Maybe it was a sign of further rebellion. Because although Birdie was a Goody Two-shoes like their mother, she had done that which would have been unthinkable to their mother: Birdie had left her husband. It amazed India now how little she knew about Birdie’s divorce.

There had been one phone call to India’s office at PAFA. India knew something was up; Birdie didn’t call unless someone had died or was sick.

“What’s going on?” India had said.

Birdie said, “I’m divorcing Grant.” Her voice was bloodless, matter-of-fact.

“You are?” India said.

“I am,” Birdie said. “It’s time.” Like she was talking about putting the dog to sleep.

“Did you catch him cheating?”

“No,” Birdie said. “I don’t think women interest him. And that includes me.”

“Is he gay?” India asked. This couldn’t be true-not Grant!-but she lived in the art world, where she had seen the most unlikely people come out of the closet.

“God, no,” Birdie said. “But he has his golf, the Yankees, the stock market, work, his car, his scotch. I’m sick of it.”

“I don’t blame you,” India said. “You have my full support.”

“Oh, I know I do,” Birdie said. “I just wanted to tell you first. You’re the first person to know other than the kids.”

“Oh,” India had said. “Well… thanks.”

That had been the extent of their conversation on the topic, though now India wished she had asked more questions. What had the deciding factor been? Had something happened, had they fought, did Grant check his Blackberry one too many times, did he fail to look up from the Wall Street Journal when she called his name, had he not thanked her for his eggs (over easy, perfectly salted and peppered)? Or had something shifted in Birdie’s own mind? Had she read a book, seen a movie? Had one of her New Canaan friends asked for a divorce? Had Birdie fallen in love?

India hadn’t asked then, but she could ask now. Now they were alone, face-to-face, with a string of empty hours ahead of them. They were smoking together.

“What was it?” India said. “That made you leave Grant?”

“Oh, God…,” Birdie said.

“No, I mean the one thing. The moment.”

“The moment?”

“The moment when you knew. When you were spurred to action.” India was high from the nicotine and from this unusual closeness with her sister. “Because you know Bill and I had our problems, big problems, huge fucking problems. How many times did I contemplate throwing him out? Leaving him on the subway in Stockholm? Serving him with papers on the squash court? And yet, I couldn’t. I never had the guts. I didn’t want to turn our world upside down. I didn’t want to disrupt the status quo.” India exhaled. “And then, of course, he did it for me.”

Birdie nodded thoughtfully, and India felt ashamed. Here, she’d asked Birdie a question and then she’d talked about herself. She was a selfish bitch and always had been, and that, ultimately, was why Bill had shot himself.

Birdie said, “Well…”

India leaned forward. She wanted to know.

“It was a couple of things in succession. First, there was the trip we took to Charlotte to visit Tate. She had just moved to the city on her own, and I wanted to see how she was faring. We arrived on Friday night and left on Sunday, but it killed Grant, you know, because it was what he liked to call ‘forced family fun.’ He had to interact with us; he had to be present. So Friday night was fine-Tate drove us around the city a little, we saw the stadium lit up at night, that kind of thing. Saturday we met Tate at the park where she liked to run, and then we went to lunch and did a little shopping. I wanted to buy Tate some new clothes, pretty clothes… get her out of her jeans. The whole afternoon, Grant was like a huge, reluctant Saint Bernard that I was yanking on a leash. Then, that night at dinner-we were at a steak house-Grant got up from the table and I thought he’d gone to the men’s room, but he never returned. So Tate and I finished up, I paid the bill, and we went to find him. He was in the bar, of course, where there was a television. He was talking to a complete stranger about the Giants’ chance the next day against the Panthers.”