sandy road. They passed no one on the chase
down, and at the small carport outside her house they parked side by side. By the time he had opened his door, she was running through the rain down a flagstone path into the house.
Inside, the rain was fat drops blowing across the burnt grass to slap against the windowpanes. Beyond her frame of vision, he saw from his tallness the lawn pulsing in the ominous darkening of
the day; the vista of cattails and hay field nodding in the gusts of wind. For a time, together, they watched. Then she spoke without turning. “Do you know that a year ago Clinton was
considering staying here?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget it.”
He found himself, suddenly, unwilling to look at her, afraid—from the tone of her voice, from the need in her voice—what he might see.
“May I have a drink?”
She answered by motioning with her head. He followed her gesture, and saw a small canvas, a still life hanging over a hutch containing bottles and flowers. With a slight shock, he recognized the
painting: this was Rosenthal’s famous Soutine. He stepped over to pour two scotches in small crystal glasses. Then he carried Alley’s to her and looked full at her.
The soft storm light on her skin. The corners of her mouth red at the edges, her expression alive with invitation. Her hand trembled slightly at the end of her bare arm as she took the drink.
Then, sipping thirstily, she looked up at him, her green eyes so alive as to make shimmer the light in them. And a decision was made for Dee. When she removed the glass he leaned down to kiss her,
tasted scotch and felt cold in the skin of her lips, a damp cold he had felt years before, years before. He straightened and directly, she turned away, hugging herself tightly.
7.
She hugged herself tighter, looking away over the land, at the cattails nodding in the ocean wind, at the hay field stretching pure gold under the long, threatening light. Then
she felt his hands on her shoulders, the warmth of his body, chest, stomach, and groin, against her back.
Could this be happening? she asked herself again, her back to him, her face to the storm, interrogating the wave of cattails, the rising ocean swell. Could this be happening? His hands came
farther down her arms, whose skin she felt hardening against the warmth of his fingers. Still hugging herself, she turned and lifted her face, decided on nothing.
But a longing so pure was through her. Through and through her, like an ache, from her ears to her eyes to the full surface of her skin: all the parts of her body that perceived, suddenly, felt;
and then all the parts that permitted to live too—her heart, her lungs—were pierced.
Against the roar of the surf. She pushed him away, watched him for a moment, then took him by the hand and led him through the living room. The shade of the falling light. The wooden stairway
into the heart of the empty house with all its old, familial smell. Gone was the silence, gone was the desertion, and she looked into Pauly’s room as if he were there, on his bed, lying with
his head between his Boston Acoustics and listening to David Byrne. When she turned to Dee, in her room, that look was on his face, the look of fathomless tenderness, and a flush went clean through
her. And then she was in the dry scent of his body, in the airiness of his clean hair, in the beat of his heart and the heat of his skin.
It was like coming home. It was like filling the aching emptiness she had felt from her earliest youth, for her mother, for her father, for her brother. She had tried before, plugging men into
the hollow heart of that longing. One or two had fit, for a while, if she worked hard enough at it. And now that hollow heart filled, not with family but in solitude, one person, this person, it
filled and in those moments Allison Rosenthal, Esther, felt herself whole.
CHAPTER 5
September 4, 1994.
Ocean View Farm.
1.
There is an unspeakable pathos to a summer
down, and at the small carport outside her house they parked side by side. By the time he had opened his door, she was running through the rain down a flagstone path into the house.
Inside, the rain was fat drops blowing across the burnt grass to slap against the windowpanes. Beyond her frame of vision, he saw from his tallness the lawn pulsing in the ominous darkening of
the day; the vista of cattails and hay field nodding in the gusts of wind. For a time, together, they watched. Then she spoke without turning. “Do you know that a year ago Clinton was
considering staying here?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget it.”
He found himself, suddenly, unwilling to look at her, afraid—from the tone of her voice, from the need in her voice—what he might see.
“May I have a drink?”
She answered by motioning with her head. He followed her gesture, and saw a small canvas, a still life hanging over a hutch containing bottles and flowers. With a slight shock, he recognized the
painting: this was Rosenthal’s famous Soutine. He stepped over to pour two scotches in small crystal glasses. Then he carried Alley’s to her and looked full at her.
The soft storm light on her skin. The corners of her mouth red at the edges, her expression alive with invitation. Her hand trembled slightly at the end of her bare arm as she took the drink.
Then, sipping thirstily, she looked up at him, her green eyes so alive as to make shimmer the light in them. And a decision was made for Dee. When she removed the glass he leaned down to kiss her,
tasted scotch and felt cold in the skin of her lips, a damp cold he had felt years before, years before. He straightened and directly, she turned away, hugging herself tightly.
7.
She hugged herself tighter, looking away over the land, at the cattails nodding in the ocean wind, at the hay field stretching pure gold under the long, threatening light. Then
she felt his hands on her shoulders, the warmth of his body, chest, stomach, and groin, against her back.
Could this be happening? she asked herself again, her back to him, her face to the storm, interrogating the wave of cattails, the rising ocean swell. Could this be happening? His hands came
farther down her arms, whose skin she felt hardening against the warmth of his fingers. Still hugging herself, she turned and lifted her face, decided on nothing.
But a longing so pure was through her. Through and through her, like an ache, from her ears to her eyes to the full surface of her skin: all the parts of her body that perceived, suddenly, felt;
and then all the parts that permitted to live too—her heart, her lungs—were pierced.
Against the roar of the surf. She pushed him away, watched him for a moment, then took him by the hand and led him through the living room. The shade of the falling light. The wooden stairway
into the heart of the empty house with all its old, familial smell. Gone was the silence, gone was the desertion, and she looked into Pauly’s room as if he were there, on his bed, lying with
his head between his Boston Acoustics and listening to David Byrne. When she turned to Dee, in her room, that look was on his face, the look of fathomless tenderness, and a flush went clean through
her. And then she was in the dry scent of his body, in the airiness of his clean hair, in the beat of his heart and the heat of his skin.
It was like coming home. It was like filling the aching emptiness she had felt from her earliest youth, for her mother, for her father, for her brother. She had tried before, plugging men into
the hollow heart of that longing. One or two had fit, for a while, if she worked hard enough at it. And now that hollow heart filled, not with family but in solitude, one person, this person, it
filled and in those moments Allison Rosenthal, Esther, felt herself whole.
CHAPTER 5
September 4, 1994.
Ocean View Farm.
1.
There is an unspeakable pathos to a summer
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