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Boundaries

A Novel

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

The huge arm of Hurricane Beulah scoured the easternmost tip of Long Island, lifting doors, windows, joists, beams, desks, paintings, and even refrigerators and freezers. Like dismembered carcasses the wreckage floated aimlessly over the drowned dunes and out to sea. July was too early for such a severe hurricane, yet here was proof that Beulah had come and gone. Even in the smallest, most protected town of all, Racer's Cove, the water climbed over the dunes dangerously close to the shops and houses.

Nestled in a knuckle of the Atlantic coastline, Racer's Cove was oddly hilly, as if some unknown glacier had stopped, then taken a hurried leap out to sea. Even its name was a puzzle. Some old-timers said it came from the whales. "This is where the fastest whales rested when they were fleeing the whalers—the men who did it for money and the crazy ones, like Captain Ahab." The thought of Ahab ever approaching a town as sleepy as Racer's Cove made the listeners smile as the storytellers continued, "Every once in a while an exhausted whale still comes ashore." Whale experts disagreed. They contended that whales were occasionally seen because the currents near the Cove behaved strangely. Other people insisted that the name came from the pirate ships that used to rove nearby waters. "This is where the pirates stopped to count their booty," they claimed. One very old man disputed both theories. He said the town had been called Dove's Cove and remembered being told by a great-aunt that some entrepreneur had cooked up the pirate story to get more business.

The entrepreneur would have been disappointed, for the Cove had never grown. Only a few hundred people lived there and the small business section of town was a series of charming culs-de-sac filled with small, mostly useless boutique items.

Luckily, the houses in Racer's Cove had been built by men who feared the sea. Beulah had torn away one patio and two porches and anything that had not been battened down was gone or cracked or broken, but the damage was nothing to what the newer towns had suffered. "Still, she didn't kill anyone, she gave plenty of warning," people comforted themselves as they stood next morning in knots along the dunes.

When she arrived in Racer's Cove later that day, Madeleine Glazer could hardly believe in the existence of Beulah. The day was so bright and sparkling and by now fast-moving cumulus clouds had brushed the sky to a clear luminous blue. Yet when she gazed at the ocean, the evidence of Beulah was there. It was a sea as wild as she had ever seen—far out the waves spun thunder, breaking quicker and quicker, faster than the eye or ear could count. Closer in toward shore they merged into enormous concavities of water as they sucked themselves up from the ocean floor, reminding Mady of the waves she had known as a child.

And even closer to her were traces of Beulah. With her forefinger she traced the scour marks on the damp sand. It looked as if an army had gotten down on its hands and knees and scrubbed this beach.

But what a beach! A long sheaf of sand before the ocean began, dotted only here and there with spots of color that meant people. Her friend Anne Levin had told her about this beach near Racer's Cove and when Madeleine looked to the left she could see the tiny unspoiled village. Next to her Foffy bent over her needlepoint. The child was still pale, for she had gotten sick from the car ride. Now as she moved, her blonde head glistened like a coin in the sun.

If she squinted Mady could see her two older children, Peter and Nina, at the water's edge. One kneeled and the other went back and forth with a bucket as they dripped sand into towers and turrets.

"Don't you want to help them?" Mady said.

Foffy shook her head and pursed her lips. The needlepoint was too hard for her but she had wanted it when Madeleine bought hers. Foffy's wispy hair fell into her eyes as she concentrated.

"Here, puss, let me help you." Mady gathered the flosslike hair into a loose ponytail. Still such fine baby hair, though Foffy was almost six years old. So different from the rest of them, who had thick dark hair.

"That looks like a great castle," Mady said and now Foffy looked up.

July was half-gone but it was the first time this summer or last that Mady had ventured to the beach. It had been easier to stay close to home, to swim in the artificial chlorinated safety of Westchester County, surrounded by familiar faces, only minutes from home. Now, alone with her children, listening to the pulsing of the waves, Mady knew why she hadn't come before. David had always wanted the sea—the smell, the salt, and that steady heartbeat of the waves which had been the sound he loved most in the world. If he were here he would be in it up to his neck, letting the waves sweep him upward, rock him, cradle him, carry him toward shore.

"A rough ocean is better than a roller coaster," he used to say, as he dried his thick curly hair while the water ran down his chest and legs.

Even when they had had no money, David had insisted on a room within hearing distance of the waves. "Why be here and not be able to hear it?" he had reasoned. She and the kids had looked at three efficiency apartments; in each she stood by the bedroom window listening. The one they picked was closest to the sound of the sea.

"Now can we go in?" The older children's shadows enveloped her. Madeleine frowned as she looked up. "The lifeguards say it's better now, lots more people are going in," Peter reassured her.

"Okay." She stood up and helped Nina with her cap, then pulled on her own. At fifteen Peter was almost as tall as she was. And Nina, who was almost thirteen, had stretched, too. Friends exclaimed in amazement when they saw them, as if astonished that children could grow so well after their father had died.

"I'll look for shells, Mommy," Foffy said, then let go of her hand. She was afraid of the ocean even on lazy still days. "I'll collect enough shells so Grandma can make me a necklace."

"Don't go beyond the last lifeguard chair," Mady cautioned. Foffy nodded and waved.

The water sliced Mady's skin. A lifeguard saw her flinch. "It's because of the storm, everything's all mixed up because of Beulah," he told her. His eyes roved through the people as he spoke. The angry ocean frightened her, but she couldn't keep saying no to Peter and Nina. Children younger than they were battling the waves; besides, they were both good swimmers. She couldn't stay afraid forever. She straightened, then ducked beneath the surface. Nina took her hand and together they went up and down with the waves. Up, down, up, down. Each time they went up Nina drew in her breath; as they came down she let it out. Peter was farther out. Mady could see his black head bobbing up and down and for a few minutes she was fine. Then, without warning, panic filled her throat. The pull of the undertow, the endless clamor, that relentless surging of the waves against her body pushed her back to those first weeks after David's death—when the air itself pummeled her, when there wasn't any space or light or breath.

"I've got to get out, it's too cold," she shouted to Nina. "Are you okay?" Nina nodded. Madeleine swam in until she could stand, then she pushed her way through the surf and stood shivering at the water's edge. Her toes curled into the sand. After a few moments she walked backward, stumbled on her towel, and picked it up. Quickly she rubbed herself dry, yet her legs still trembled. She wanted to go back for her robe but she was afraid she would lose sight of Peter and Nina—as if their survival depended upon her watching them. Would she ever get over this? She fixed her eyes on the two bobbing heads; she wished she could turn away casually, yet she knew she couldn't.

Finally they had had enough. She watched their slow ramble toward shore and smiled and turned. Foffy was back at the blanket, crouching as she sorted her precious shells. Madeleine pulled off her cap and shook her hair and ears free of water, strangely aware that someone's eyes were on her. She turned again toward shore. A man about ten feet away was frowning at her. A middle-aged man with a graying beard and a stocky body. Most noticeable about his squarish frame were his muscular upper arms.

He stepped toward her. "You're shaking and your lips are purple," he said.

"I'm okay."

He shook his head. "You're still shivering and you've been out of the water for at least fifteen minutes." Mady shrugged. She couldn't tell him that her trembling legs had nothing to do with the cold ocean, that her legs had shaken uncontrollably for days after David died.

"It's very cold in there, Beulah has upset everything," she said as offhandedly as she could manage. He didn't answer and kept staring at her, as a doctor might. Was he a doctor? she wanted to ask, but he nodded briskly and turned away. Beneath his brusque manner was real concern. Why, she had no idea, but it was touching and she wanted to say something to him, thank him, perhaps, but before she could think of anything he had taken off his glasses and put them down. He jogged into the waves without a moment's hesitation. As she turned to walk back with Peter and Nina, she saw he was a strong swimmer.

All evening the tiny apartment hummed with the children's laughter. Here, away from the pitying troubled eyes that watched them constantly for signs of grief, the three children were freer, happier, than they had been since David's death. She was right to have come here alone with them. She had refused several invitations, she had wanted to go somewhere new—where no one knew her or her children. She closed her book and took a deep breath. She was reading One Hundred Years of Solitude. Someone had suggested it because he thought it was about living alone. Mady laughed out loud. It was a wonderful book and she wished David had read it, he would have liked its energy. She looked at the copyright date; they could have made it.

How comforting to live at such close quarters for a little while. She sank deeper into the pillows and turned off her light. As she dropped off to sleep, a cocoon of sounds surrounded her—Foffy's even breathing in the bed next to her, Peter and Nina whispering in the next room, occasional voices, coughs, laughter in the courtyard below—all against the endless soughing of the waves.

Next morning the sea was quieter, the sun scorching. Peter and Nina played catch with some kids they had met. Several yards from her Foffy dug a hole. Mady started the woman in her needlepoint. Doing something with her hands had saved her life this last year.

Into the rhythm of the needlework came a strange, somewhat throaty voice. "Are you all right?" She shielded her eyes and looked up. The man who had watched her yesterday stood over her. Now she could discern his accent—a blend of Germany and England.

"Fine, perfectly fine. The water was icy!" she insisted. He wasn't convinced and frowned a little, shrugged, started to back away. Suddenly she didn't want him to leave, she wanted to talk to him. She had prided herself on being able to fool almost everyone else, yet here was this total stranger who knew immediately that she was fibbing.

"Don't go," she said softly. He stopped, surprised.

"Please sit down." Mady gestured toward the blanket. He hesitated, then sat on the sand.

"The blanket won't bite."

He laughed, an unexpectedly deep laugh. "I like the sand, it's really amazing sand, you know, so fine. Not like the sand I knew as a child."

"Where was that?"

"Africa. Kenya. My family used to go swimming near Mombasa on our holidays. There the sand is pebbly, grayer." He took off his sunglasses and abruptly his face was younger. He was closer to her own age than she had thought, probably in his early forties. His eyes were a light hazel, with gold flecks in them; they seemed to be listening when he looked at her.

"I grew up in Africa on a coffee farm. My father's brother and my father owned the farm for a while together. We all lived in one big house." He stared into the distance and his glance rested on Foffy. "That beautiful child digging over there reminds me of my younger sister."

"That's Foffy, my youngest child."

"But I thought—yesterday I saw you with two older children."

"Peter and Nina. Foffy's the baby."

"She's so fair." He looked puzzled. Mady smiled, used to his confusion. People often thought Foffy was from a second marriage.

"Yes, no one knows quite where she came from. The other children have such dark hair and eyes. Her father's hair was almost black." She paused, waiting for the usual question in his eyes, but he wasn't even looking at her. Slowly he filtered the sand through his fingers. Madeleine took out more wool to thread her needle.

"Where is your sister now?" she asked as she moistened the tip of the wool with her tongue.

"She's back in Germany, in Stuttgart, where I was born. She's married to a writer, they have three sons."

Mady frowned. "I don't understand," she began to say. When he mentioned Kenya, she had expected him to tell her about one English parent.

"We were German, or at least born in Germany. But in the late twenties my father made some bad investments and he and my mother took me and my twin brother to Kenya when we were babies. His older brother, my Uncle Hans-Karl, owned a big coffee farm near Nairobi. We lived there through the thirties, but my father believed in Hitler and was very proud of his membership in the Nazi Party. As soon as the war started he went back to Germany. In 1942 he came back to Kenya and took my brother Karl and me and my mother back to Germany. My sister was still little so she stayed in Kenya, and then after the war she and I went to school in England." His voice was flat, his expression distant, as if he had known as he spoke that she had stiffened, almost recoiled at what he was telling her. He had couched it as carefully as he could, but the fact remained, his father was a Nazi. That should have been enough to keep her silent, but she still didn't understand.

"How could you leave Africa in the middle of the war?" she asked, and stared at him with the curiosity of a child.

He didn't seem to mind. He smiled, shrugged. "Good question. I'm still not sure to this day, but from what I have pieced together, my father knew the right people and my grandparents had recouped some of the lost money. They bribed several people to get us out. I remember that we flew in army transports. My father was a very determined man, he believed absolutely in what he called 'the new Germany' and wanted us to be there when Hitler won." He looked away toward the sea. As he spoke his eyes had become more and more distant, and although she guessed the answer to her question, she knew she had to ask it.

"And your twin?" she said gently.

"He was killed in a training accident a few months after we joined the Hitler Youth. In the spring of 1943." His eyes still refused to meet hers.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said quickly. The words came out like a reflex. In the past months she had learned to hate them, yet here she was, mouthing them herself.

"So am I. I still miss him." He looked at her now and shrugged again. She fought an impulse to touch his arm.

"Were you identical?"

"Yes." A shadow passed over his face. Seeing it, Mady knew he wasn't married. But she felt as if she had crossed some invisible barrier, so she turned and gazed at the ocean.

Suddenly the unlikely sound of "Gelati! Gelati!" came drifting toward them. The man smiled. "It's the only bit of phony chic on this beach," he told her. "The town elders didn't want the usual ice-cream stand and someone knew about an Italian family who make their own gelati. It's really very good." He stood up. "Would you like some?" Before she could nod he was gone.

How odd, she thought a few minutes later, to be sitting here, savoring the ice cream, holding it too long in her mouth exactly as the children did, with this man whose name she didn't even know but about whom she knew so much.

"What happened to your parents?" she asked.

"My mother had a nervous breakdown after the war and she and my father separated and subsequently divorced. I go back to see her every few years, but it isn't very comforting for either of us. Now she has a heart condition. My father died in 1960. My sister and I are fond of each other, but our lives are so different ..." His voice dwindled.

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Excerpted from Boundaries by Roberta Silman. Copyright © 1979 Roberta Silman. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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