Deena Goldstone - Tell Me One Thing

Max gets up out of bed, repositions the box fan he found in the garage and hauled up to their bedroom. It helps a little to move it closer to the window, but not much. There’s scant cool air to draw into the room.

He stands at the bedroom window and looks out over the yard to the darkened garage apartment. What goes on in there that keeps the two of them intertwined and motionless? He has no idea. He must have sighed, because he hears Bernadette say, “It’s the heat, isn’t it?”

And he goes back to her, to the bed, and lies on top of the sheet, spread-eagle; any body part touching any other body part is too much heat.

“Yes,” he says, but Bernadette hears something in his voice.

“Something else, too?”

“Hmm,” he murmurs.

“Max, we’ve got to find a way to get Lucia moving. I promised you ‘a way station’ and it’s turning out to be ‘a way-too-long station.’ ”

He grins in the dark room. She can’t see it, but can feel his body relax beside her.

“It’s Maggie.…” he says.

“Of course.”

“She misses Richard.”

“I would guess.”

There’s a silence. Max struggles with himself and then says, “I know.”

And Bernadette understands immediately. She props herself up on one elbow and looks at him in the dark. “She talked to you?”

“Yes, but with a promise I wouldn’t tell. She’s desperate for him.… What should we do?”

“Jesus … I don’t know.” Then, “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this.…”

He takes her hand. “Shhhh.”

“Things were so perfect before, just us … perfection.”

Another grin in the dark. “I know,” and he pulls her to him, the heat be damned.

Later, in the early morning hours when the outside air finally cools down, Bernadette, three-quarters asleep and languid with satisfaction, reaches for a sheet to pull over her. Max is still awake beside her.

“Bernadette …?”

“Mmmmm …”

“You mustn’t tell Lucia. I promised Maggie. Now you promise me.”

There’s a long silence. Bernadette isn’t sure she agrees with him, but finally, she promises as well. “All right.”

They reach for each other, find the right intermingling of legs and backs, stomachs and arms, and fall asleep.

IN THE LIGHT OF THE MORNING, Bernadette isn’t at all sure she should have agreed to keep her tongue, but Max puts a premium on loyalty and discretion and so she has to honor her late-night promise. She can’t tell Lucia about Maggie’s words. But that’s all she promised.

It seems like a beach day, hot already at ten a.m. She rounds up Lucia and Maggie, packs sandwiches for them all, and the three of them head to the ocean. Max is already at his office on campus. For years he’s been trying to finish a book on the naval battles of the Civil War. Bernadette knows he’ll spend all day there and come home frazzled and defeated by the writing process. That’s why she’s planned a special dinner and some peace and quiet.

Even this early in the day Santa Monica beach is crowded with people trying to take the edge off the heat, but Maggie is able to find a spot near the water, where she digs and builds. Lucia and Bernadette sit on their beach blanket, close enough to keep an eye on her but far enough away to have a conversation. Bernadette wears her large straw gardening hat. Her fair and freckled skin doesn’t do well in the sun.

“I’m losing her,” Lucia says, her eyes on her daughter.

Bernadette simply nods, an acknowledgment. Lately she has stopped trying to give Lucia either advice or reassurance. She feels certain now that neither makes any difference.

“She’s disappearing in front of my eyes.”

A little boy, around Maggie’s age, maybe a little younger, comes over and squats next to her, watching as she digs and pats the remaining sand into shape, forming the wide basin she’s creating. He talks to her. They can see that but not hear what he says. Maggie says not a word but hands him the second shovel and the two of them set to work, side by side.

Bernadette is thinking how little we really need to talk. Wouldn’t it be much more restful if we communicated primarily with touch and gestures? She smiles at herself, remembering the touch and gestures of last night with Max. Not a word was spoken. None were needed.

“I can’t send her to kindergarten like this. No one would understand her.”

Bernadette is worried about the same thing. How can Maggie go to school mute?

“If she’s not talking, she’ll have to stay home with me.”

That’s the last thing Maggie needs — to spend more time alone with Lucia. Bernadette almost says it, but instead takes a deep breath and spreads herself flat on the blanket. She puts her straw hat over her face and pretends to sleep.

Lucia sits with her arms around her shins, her head on her knees, her eyes on her child, watching, watching. Motionless.

They arrive back at Max’s house at the end of the afternoon, Maggie’s and Lucia’s olive skins even more tanned, all three of them sandy and tired out from the sun. Bernadette parks her Volvo halfway up the driveway and Maggie sprints into the backyard to check on the bees. She knows she mustn’t get too close without her pith helmet and veil.

Lucia is so exhausted she doesn’t know how she’ll manage the stairs to their apartment. These days everything is an effort. If she could make a decision about which direction to go in, she’s not sure she’d have the energy to get there.

Bernadette sees it in her face and puts an arm around Lucia’s shoulder, drawing her close. “This heat. We’re all worn out by it.”

Bernadette leads Lucia down the driveway. She wants to be with her when Lucia steps onto the grass.

“Maggie,” Lucia calls out, “we need to get out of these wet bathing—” and she stops midsentence because there in the backyard, standing at the foot of the stairs, is Richard with Maggie in his arms, his eyes closed in what looks like rapture.

Lucia is stunned, caught completely off guard, and then she knows. She looks at Bernadette, who meets her gaze without flinching. If Lucia asks her, Bernadette will tell the truth— I called him, I gave him the address —but Lucia doesn’t.

She looks back at her daughter in her husband’s arms. Richard is swaying as he holds her, and Maggie’s face is buried in his neck. No one speaks or moves. It’s as if time has stopped and held its breath. Then Lucia shrugs as if what she sees was inevitable.

She walks slowly but deliberately across the lawn to her husband and child and the three of them take the stairs to the garage apartment, Maggie still in her father’s arms.

Very soon, the Weiss family comes back down the stairs, Maggie walking now, her backpack on her shoulders, Raymond, the stuffed dachshund, in her arms. Richard carries the two duffel bags. Without a glance at the house, where Bernadette’s face can be seen in the kitchen window, they walk down the driveway to the street, get into Richard’s car, and drive back to Riverside.

AS THE SUN GOES DOWN, Bernadette sets the patio table with a batik tablecloth in shades of deep blue. She puts out two fat, red candles and lights them. She opens a bottle of wine and cuts shockingly pink and orange zinnias from the garden and installs them in a small white pitcher in the center of the table. She does not look up at the empty apartment, but she wrestles with her conscience.

Yes, she wanted her home back — the one she and Max were beginning to build together. The quiet, the privacy, their intimacy. She readily admits that to herself. But there was more — Lucia wasn’t capable of solving the dilemma she created for herself, so, ultimately, weren’t Bernadette’s actions an effort to save Maggie? Weren’t they? Right now she honestly doesn’t know. What she does know is that she can’t wait for Max to get home and she won’t let anything else, anything, get in the way of what they have.