Ann out of the cabin. The Amazing Babbler was still talking about every stick of furniture in her houses, from what seemed like dozens of marriages, what it looked like, where it stood, where it had come from, and how much it 52 Isabel
Sharpe
cost. Even Cindy looked haggard. Martha seemed to have the ability to tune shit like that out. Maybe she could teach Ann the technique, to save her from being jailed for Dinahcide.
“You coming with us, Ann?” Cindy interrupted the chatter, anxiously peering at Ann’s face in the growing darkness.
Some women naturally assumed the role of mother hen; Cindy was one of those. But Ann didn’t need a mother. She had one back home in Framingham. A mother who had a big hand in persuading her daughter into this mess in the first place. You could grow up and become as rich and powerful as the Queen of England—or J. K. Rowling—but when your mother was around, you were still just a kid.
“Sure. I’ll come.” What the hell else was there to do? She wasn’t going to sit in that depressingly cute cabin by herself and boohoo how she felt so cut off from everything familiar and secure. “But if they sing ‘Kumbayah,’ I’m outta here.”
Martha smirked along with Cindy’s giggle, but the comment launched Dinah off on a tale about her summer camp experience and how she’d been chosen to sing the solo on parents’ day in front of the whole camp, and how she’d been stung by a bee minutes before this incredible honor was to have taken place, and how . . .
This fascinating tale took them down the narrow bumpy path to the wooden steps to the small sandy cove where a bonfire already blazed. Around it sat roughly thirty women, all ages and shapes and sizes, all in emotional agony.
No, she’d been wrong. Not “Kumbayah.” “We Shall Over-come.” She felt it in her bones.
The mismatched quartet from Cabin Four picked a spot on the ocean side of the fire, and sat waiting for the program to begin while Dinah entertained them into stupor with her As Good As It Got
53
views on the best way to clean beach tar from one’s feet and how many of the oceanside plants were edible if you knew where to look, which of course she did.
Breezes mixed the scent of burning wood with the already wonderful fragrance of tide and pine. If she closed her eyes, Ann could imagine her and Paul here, sharing a bottle of something-or-other, watching the stars, maybe making love on the sand in the firelight.
Except they wouldn’t. Bugs, sand, and sticks would stop them. They were creatures of comfort in all things, now that she thought about it. And definitely bed people when it came to sex.
She sighed. Too soon now, but she’d like to think she’d be able to have decent sex again one day. No, good sex. No, great sex. Paul had withdrawn from her physically in the last few years as well.
Betsy stood and held up both her hands, palms facing, elbows at ninety degrees. She had barely aged since Ann last saw her at their tenth high school reunion, but she’d changed nonetheless. Gotten stronger somehow, exchanged the ditz for a more centered presence, though obviously she’d re-tained her cheerleading instincts. She’d hugged Ann for so long at the registration table that Ann nearly had to shove her away before she had an anxiety attack. Yes, okay, she was grieving, could everyone please keep emotional triggers far, far away?
The get-to-know-you chatter dissipated and died, replaced by an expectant silence that went on until Ann rolled her eyes. Was this the evening’s program, “Staring at Betsy”?
Were they supposed to guess what she was? Frozen orchestra conductor? Woman holding invisible yarn for winding?
54 Isabel
Sharpe
Betsy inhaled suddenly and began clapping, a slow, powerful, rhythmic clap. After a dozen or so seconds someone else joined, then another, then another, and then everyone was clap-clap-clapping along. Everyone except Ann, who clearly had missed the point; unless it was
Sharpe
cost. Even Cindy looked haggard. Martha seemed to have the ability to tune shit like that out. Maybe she could teach Ann the technique, to save her from being jailed for Dinahcide.
“You coming with us, Ann?” Cindy interrupted the chatter, anxiously peering at Ann’s face in the growing darkness.
Some women naturally assumed the role of mother hen; Cindy was one of those. But Ann didn’t need a mother. She had one back home in Framingham. A mother who had a big hand in persuading her daughter into this mess in the first place. You could grow up and become as rich and powerful as the Queen of England—or J. K. Rowling—but when your mother was around, you were still just a kid.
“Sure. I’ll come.” What the hell else was there to do? She wasn’t going to sit in that depressingly cute cabin by herself and boohoo how she felt so cut off from everything familiar and secure. “But if they sing ‘Kumbayah,’ I’m outta here.”
Martha smirked along with Cindy’s giggle, but the comment launched Dinah off on a tale about her summer camp experience and how she’d been chosen to sing the solo on parents’ day in front of the whole camp, and how she’d been stung by a bee minutes before this incredible honor was to have taken place, and how . . .
This fascinating tale took them down the narrow bumpy path to the wooden steps to the small sandy cove where a bonfire already blazed. Around it sat roughly thirty women, all ages and shapes and sizes, all in emotional agony.
No, she’d been wrong. Not “Kumbayah.” “We Shall Over-come.” She felt it in her bones.
The mismatched quartet from Cabin Four picked a spot on the ocean side of the fire, and sat waiting for the program to begin while Dinah entertained them into stupor with her As Good As It Got
53
views on the best way to clean beach tar from one’s feet and how many of the oceanside plants were edible if you knew where to look, which of course she did.
Breezes mixed the scent of burning wood with the already wonderful fragrance of tide and pine. If she closed her eyes, Ann could imagine her and Paul here, sharing a bottle of something-or-other, watching the stars, maybe making love on the sand in the firelight.
Except they wouldn’t. Bugs, sand, and sticks would stop them. They were creatures of comfort in all things, now that she thought about it. And definitely bed people when it came to sex.
She sighed. Too soon now, but she’d like to think she’d be able to have decent sex again one day. No, good sex. No, great sex. Paul had withdrawn from her physically in the last few years as well.
Betsy stood and held up both her hands, palms facing, elbows at ninety degrees. She had barely aged since Ann last saw her at their tenth high school reunion, but she’d changed nonetheless. Gotten stronger somehow, exchanged the ditz for a more centered presence, though obviously she’d re-tained her cheerleading instincts. She’d hugged Ann for so long at the registration table that Ann nearly had to shove her away before she had an anxiety attack. Yes, okay, she was grieving, could everyone please keep emotional triggers far, far away?
The get-to-know-you chatter dissipated and died, replaced by an expectant silence that went on until Ann rolled her eyes. Was this the evening’s program, “Staring at Betsy”?
Were they supposed to guess what she was? Frozen orchestra conductor? Woman holding invisible yarn for winding?
54 Isabel
Sharpe
Betsy inhaled suddenly and began clapping, a slow, powerful, rhythmic clap. After a dozen or so seconds someone else joined, then another, then another, and then everyone was clap-clap-clapping along. Everyone except Ann, who clearly had missed the point; unless it was
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