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It was Thursday morning, a humid day in Seaborough. The Weather Channel showed clear skies over the Gulf of Mexico, but Jean Colfax watched a long line of grey clouds march slowly up from the horizon, casting shadows on the shallow water. She'd decided to sit out on the balcony of her bedroom this morning to wait for her sister to arrive. If Ida was surprised, she didn't show it. She began to fish around for a dress to cover up Mrs. Colfax's blue chiffon nightgown—"Cannot be anything too formal," she said in her German accent, "but nothing too plain, either." She pulled a red silk kimono from the back of a closet: it had hung there since some Christmas long ago. "This thing! It looks like a dress for an old prostitute. I'll send it to Goodwill next week."

"That's what I want to wear," said Jean. "Tie a scarf around my head so my skin won't sag."

"Oh no, dear, you don't want to wear this."

"I do."

"No you don't."

"Yes I do. And don't forget the scarf. I look like a sick elephant."

"Nooo—your skin looks better than mine—with all my spots. See these? That's what I deserve for not taking care of my hands, staying in this sun all year long."

"I've aged too, Ida."

"You have? I haven't noticed it, Mrs. Colfax."

"I have."

Ida chuckled. "Have it your way," she said, shaking her head. She dressed Jean and helped her outside to the balcony, wondering how long this situation would last—like getting children ready to play in the snow, knowing they might not stay out more than minutes. A glass of orange juice was brought, the usual pair of sunglasses, a sweater for the shoulders, in case the breeze was too brisk in the shade. Ah, all ready, all comfortable. Ida nodded her head, satisfied, and hurried off to make beds and iron shirts and recheck the Weather Channel.

Jean hadn't looked at the ocean in a long time: from her seat here on the balcony, it reminded her of a painting in somebody's living room, maybe over a piano. Far away across the choppy green waves she saw Bill's sailboat fluttering up and down, a little corner of white paper torn from the sky. What a relief to have him out of reach, out of earshot, and yet be able to keep an eye on him! She'd have had it that way with everybody if she could have arranged it—everybody except Ida, whom she couldn't allow out of her sight for long, and Ed Flint, who kept her fixed up. And, too, she seemed to need to talk now and then just to exercise her voice, and for that she needed her sister, at least once a week. But no more.

It was peaceful up here—just the steady beat of the wind and the static of the tide. She closed her eyes and dozed. When she woke again, she heard voices below: Linda Kate and Mary Beth chatting. This was nice. The girls always terrified her when they came up to see her (at least it didn't happen often), but listening to them this way—well, it was like being a fly on the wall, a little beetle crawling across the ceiling, unnoticed. No worry at all.

"Who were those people who came by on Tuesday?" said Mary Beth.

Linda Kate sounded grumpy. "Just work friends of Stannie. From the magazine."

"Did he invite them?"

"I have no idea."

"I asked him to go shopping with me yesterday, and then he just left."

"So?"

"Well, it was rude."

"And that surprises you? That Stannie could be rude?"

"No. But does he hate me or something?"

"You're asking the wrong person, Mary Beth. I have no idea who he hates and who he doesn't."

There was silence for a second. "I'm sorry," said Mary Beth. "I'm just sick of this place. Everybody's boring here. Uncle Jim stayed for ages. And all Jimbo did was drink all weekend—and that guy with him, he was so gay."

"Don't be a bigot."

The younger girl sighed loudly."Well I'd just like a chance to meet a decent–looking guy for once, you know, who's not gay? Somebody who doesn't just fish and hit little balls around all day, either, who can actually carry on an intelligent conversation."

Linda Kate laughed. "It's this weather getting to you. We should take a trip."

"Another trip?"

"Yes."

"But you just went to Switzerland."

"So?"

"Well, anyway, where would we go?"

"I don't know. I was reading about these eco–tours deals in Alaska. We could take a helicopter over the Tongass rainforest."

"Oh. Count me out."

"Does everything have to be mindless and expensive to please you, Mary Beth?"

"Yes. If I have to pack, I want to go to Vegas. We haven't been there all year."

"What if we just rented a car and drove to Vegas? Wouldn't that be a blast? Stay in slummy little motels the whole way? We could take a movie camera and make a crazy documentary for Stannie. 'Journey Across America with Mary Beth and Linda Kate.'"

"Why don't we just make Stannie go with us?"

"Like he'd ever consider it. He's going back to D.C. on Monday, anyway. He misses Rose."

"Did you actually talk to him about her?"

"I can tell he misses her. I don't think I could stand three whole days with him, anyway."

"Linda Kate, don't you wish Stannie would take us with him to Hollywood, to the awards? We could buy Oscar de la Renta gowns."

"He'll take Rose for sure."

"So? We could drive up in the limousine with them, couldn't we? We wouldn't have to go in, we'd just hang around outside and then go find a bar or something."

"You ask him, Mary Beth, that's all I have to say. Just tell me what he says."

Jean strained to hear more, but a small plane suddenly hummed over the house, flying low toward the beach. She looked up over the rim of her sunglasses, took a sip of orange juice, and watched as the plane circled over the water, then banked and headed west. By the time it was gone, the balcony below was quiet again, as if the girls had been swept away.

She felt so detached from them now: yet how she'd fretted about them as children! Worrying they'd be kidnapped by somebody who wanted Colfax money or a political deal. She'd watched them stumble across the sand behind a succession of nannies and then swimming coaches, going farther and farther out into the water, out of earshot.

She heard the bay window click open behind her. She turned. The frame was low enough to straddle. Ed Flint stepped over it.

"Well, good morning Ed," she said softly.

He limped toward her, holding a grocery bag.

"What's this?"

"What you asked for."

"Oh, that's wonderful. Is my sister here yet?"

"No Ma'am." He hardly opened his mouth when he spoke. There was a huge white scar where his lower lip should have been—the only scar you could see when he had his hat on.

"I've got the worst headache," she said. "Sit down and don't hover over me, please."

He pulled up a chair and lowered himself into it, one metal hand resting across his thighs. With the other hand he arranged the grocery bag between his knees and lifted out the bottle inside.

"You're a good soul," she said. "Pour a little in my orange juice."

He shook his head as he did what she asked, then slipped the bottle back in the bag and set it on the floor of the balcony, against the green wrought–iron railing.

"How long has Bill been out?" she asked.

"I wouldn't know, Ma'am. I ain't been up 'nere."

"Up there?"

"I been soldering all morning. Got broke pipe down in the cellar. I had to cut the water off early, but I got it back on afore anybody waked up."

"The cellar?" she laughed. "I didn't even know we had a cellar."

"Mr. Colfax calls it the half–basement." Ed never looked at her when he talked. He kept his face tucked up under the cap—for her benefit, she thought, but she didn't care how he looked. In a strange way it comforted her to look at ugly people. Maybe it gave her a feeling of nostalgia. Her father had been a plastic surgeon in St. Augustine.

"This house is getting old now, isn't it?" she said. "My dear husband sure doesn't bother to keep it up. If I had the energy, hell I swear I'd get out the tools myself." She cackled.

"I'm real good with the tools," said Ed. "You don't need to worry. I done fix the burglar bell in the dockhouse, yesterday. It rung ever time Mr. Colfax opened the door. Ain't rung for nobody else, just Mr. Colfax."

"Probably all the steel in his chest set it off."

"I can't say why it done that. I played with it, though. Jimmied with it. I'm good with my tools. I'm the kind what uses a kitchen knife for screwdriver, bottle opener, most everything you can imagine, I do it with a kitchen knife." He grinned under his hat: his toothless gums were shiny with spit.

"I'm glad we have you around, then. Especially because you bring me my booze."

"Yes, Ma'am. I know how you needs it."

"Would you like some cash?"

"Oh, no Ma'am."

"Really, take what you need, Ed. You're worth more to me than whatever Bill pays you. You know where the money is. I trust you, I promise I do. You ever need anything—"

"Yes, Ma'am, I appreciate it."

"You want a drink?"

"I don't tech it. There is one thing I'd like a lot, though."

"Yes?"

He was quiet for a second, then he burst out in his heavy voice, "I do love children, Mrs. Colfax. I'd sure like to work for your sister over to that school."

"What?" She couldn't help laughing. "You already work here." "It'd just be part–time, if they got something. You could talk to your sister for me."

"Are you Catholic, Ed?"

"Oh, yes Ma'am."

"Really? I had no idea. I always thought—well, I don't know what I thought. Do you go to confession?" She smiled. "I hope you do."

"No, I don't do that."

"Why not? Too much to confess?"

"Maybe not so much as them."

"Not so much as who?"

"Them fathers."

"The priests, you mean?"

"They ain't all no saints, I reckon. A few is, most ain't. I could be a father, but they don't take folks look like I do."

"That might not matter at all, I mean what you look like."

"And one what—I mean I've got my hands bloody now and then. They don't like that."

"Hands bloody—you mean in Korea?"

"Yes, Ma'am. They's a bunch of little girls, is what they is. I mean a soldier is a soldier, and the priest he's a priest, and you won't see no priest totin' no weapons. I weren't afraid to do what I had to do."

"Yes, but Korea was a long time ago. You're not much of a soldier now, Ed. Maybe you should consider a new vocation."

"Well, I can't be no priest. Let's just leave it there." Ed stood up quickly and pushed his chair back to the table. It scraped the concrete so hard that the metal frames on the awnings rattled.

"What's the matter?" Jean asked. She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. "Did I offend you?"

"No, Ma'am," he said, but he sounded hurt.

"Ed … did you have your accident in Korea? You've never told me about that."

He took a deep breath and she could hear his chest rattle. "That ain't important. What bothers me, Mrs. Colfax, I don't like how little children can't stand to look at me no more. I love children so much, it breaks my heart to scare a child."

She frowned, not sure what to say.

"Could you talk to your sister for me?" he asked again, his mangled arms hanging down by his sides. They looked heavy: the right elbow twitched slightly against his hip.

"Yes, sure," Jean said after a second. "Why not?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Colfax, I appreciate all you done. I mean to do right by your family."

"All right, Ed."

A door opened and closed inside the house.

"Somebody there?" said Jean.

Ed stood up straight and whirled around. One of his hands scraped the metal table and left a ringing sound in the air. He stepped back to the window.

"Hello Mother," said Stannie, coming in sight on the other side.

"Oh, Mr. Colfax," said Ed. He sounded nervous. "Good morning."

"Top of the morning to you, Ed." Stannie straddled the windowsill and stepped through. "You don't have to go."

"Got plenty to do," mumbled Ed. He brushed past Stannie and disappeared with hardly a sound.

"Hmm," said Stannie to his mother, "I hope I haven't caught you two at an awkward moment."

"You're an idiot."

"Nice to see you, too, Mother."

"It's been a while, I'll say that." She took a moment to study him. He wore a baseball cap turned backwards, a long white shirt, and baggy shorts. He had a three– or four–day–old beard which made his face look gaunt but still handsome. His dark eyes—Jean had always liked his sharp, dark eyes, the way they fixed on a person, pinned a person—they were shining.

She hadn't seen him during this visit—now more than a week long. When had she last laid eyes on him? Christmas day maybe, up in Washington, in the other rooms? At Christmas she always loaded up on tranquilizers, just to make it through the dinner and the gifts. She really couldn't remember much about this Christmas or any other, but she supposed Stannie had been there, because she recollected a column he'd written about it in his magazine—"Holiday in Hell." Or maybe that was year before last. Who could blame him if he wanted to capitalize a little on the family misery? She'd have done it too, if she could have figured out a way.

"Could I talk to you a minute?" he said.

"Come on out. Pull up a chair."

Stannie sat down on the window ledge. "I'm very comfortable here, thanks."

"Ed and I were just chatting about the weather. I think it might rain."

He nodded at her orange juice, half–smiling. "I know what you see in Ed."

"Come here boy," she said, holding out her hand. "You can get close to me, I'm not a corpse."

"Not yet, anyway. I did ask Ida if it was OK before I came up—wanted to make sure you were still alive up here."

"I am."

"Yes. So it seems." He took a cigar from his shirt pocket and lit it.

"Just like your father. That stupid habit."

"Thank you. You think I'm like my father. That's a compliment."

"Even his mother smoked those things, you know. And his sisters. That's why they both had breast cancer."

"The rotten apple doesn't fall far from the tree. In fact, it probably doesn't fall at all."

"No." She cackled. "It gets eaten by worms or crows, right there on the branch."

"Exactly."

"Stanley?"

"Yes."

"I'm feeling sleepy, and you wanted to ask me something."

"Yes."

"Well, what the hell is it?"

"Actually—" He smiled."I want to know about my birth mother."

"What?" She took a sip of orange juice. "Don't tell me you're getting sentimental on me!"

"Never."

"I'll be damned. I think you are." She shook her head, grinning. Her teeth had a pink tint, as if you could see right through them to the pulp.

"I don't care who my parents are," he said flatly. "I just want to know who they're not. There's a woman around here claiming to be my mother. I've put her up at a motel for a few days—till I'm sure she's lying. I'd hate to turn my own mother out on the street."

She licked her teeth and laughed. "You're so kind, Stanley. Well, now. That's what you get for putting your life in print. I told you you should get those toes fixed, anyway. Now somebody shows up wanting something from you."

"Maybe. What do you say, though? You know anything about my birth mother?"

"Such as?"

"Color, height, width. Anything. Was she a prostitute? I don't care, I'd just like to know a little more than I know now."

"What does it matter? Send the woman away. Your life is none of her business, even if she did haul you around in her uterus for nine months." Jean took off her sunglasses and dropped them in her lap. "What is that? What's nine months compared to a lifetime? We've had you all your life."

"Where did I come from, though? What state? At least tell me that." He flicked his cigar against the window sill and then swept the ashes away with his bare foot.

"I don't know where you came from. It wasn't that kind of adoption."

"What kind was it then?"

"Very private."

"Black market?" He cocked his head and smiled.

"No." She leaned back in her chair and held her hand out to him again. "Come on, sit over here. Over here."

He stood up and sat down again in the chair Ed had occupied. He took her hand—her fingers were like the fingers of a wooden puppet, cool and slender, with knobby joints. She opened his palm and began to massage it.

"Stanley," she said, "I don't really know where you came from. Your aunt is the only person who knows that. My sister."

"Your sister the nun?" He snorted.

"Yes. She knows. But she won't tell you, it's a Catholic thing. She took a vow."

"Any chance she's my mother? Get knocked up by some priest or monsignor or something?"

"Hah. Your aunt is like an angel. But it was her idea for me to get you—I wouldn't have thought of it on my own. I just couldn't carry a baby without miscarrying. I lost five, one right after another. I was getting desperate. Every woman wants a baby, Stanley. Even Madonna wants babies. It's a biological thing. I thought I might kill myself if I couldn't get pregnant."

"And? So what happened then?"

"One night my sister brought you to me and said she had you in foster care for a Catholic agency. She said that you were healthy and she was hoping I might adopt you."

"She didn't tell you where I came from?"

"Just that you were conceived out of wedlock. She acted like it was all a big secret. But I didn't think much of that—she exaggerates everything. She's as paranoid as hell. She'd have made a good spy. Anyway, I liked you. And I still do, even if you are a bastard."

Stannie laughed.

"I talked to your father and we filed papers to adopt. I never got anything from my sister about your background. She said you were a special case and that a priest had put some kind of a blessing on you. All that Catholic hooey—that's all I know about you."

He sat quietly looking at her, curling his upper lip till it touched the bottom of his nose. Then he laughed again.

"You want to know anything else," she said, "you'll have to ask her about it. Stop giggling like an idiot. I'm expecting her this afternoon. Why don't you come up here and play gin with us?"

"No, thank you," he said. "I've got other things to do."

"Such as?"

"None of your business."

"But I thought you wanted to talk to your aunt."

"I'll call her. She has a phone at the convent, doesn't she?"

"Stanley—" She reached out for his hand again as he stood up, but he moved out of reach.

"Stanley," she said, putting her sunglasses on again, "do me a favor and don't mention your adoption again in print."

"Fine. I'll only talk about it in cyberspace. My e–column."

"No. Don't mention it anywhere."

"Oh, and may I ask why not? What have you got to lose?"

"I've got some dignity left, damn it." Her voice was thick. "This is my life and I don't want it paraded in front of the whole damn world. Just don't do it. I don't like it." She frowned at him. Suddenly a gust of wind blew up from below, catching her kimono: the red silk billowed up from her thighs like a giant apple bursting out of her lap.

Stannie stood for a moment and then let out a last, sharp laugh. She heard him still laughing in the hall beyond her bedroom, then faintly on the stairs. Her hands shook as she reached down to smooth the kimono over her knees. She could no longer see Bill's sail near the horizon. The clouds had marched by. The sky was pale and hollow, as far as she could see.

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture Magazine.
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