Eden: A Novel

Chapter 1

LONG HARBOR, RHODE ISLAND

Tuesday, June 16, 2000

I wanted to fill you in sooner, Becca said to her granddaughter, Sarah, who cradled a mug of hot tea in her lap, but it’s been hard to find the right time. She rubbed her weathered hands, adjusted the pillows at the base of her spine, and then straightened her skirt over her knees. The two of them were cozied up on Becca’s favorite, down-filled love seat in front of the fireplace. She’d typically have lit a fire to take the damp out of the air but had opted not to restock the woodpile this year. Sarah waited with expectant eyes for her to continue. She twisted her tea bag around a silver spoon, squeezing out the last bits of flavor.

But Becca looked past Sarah, through the large, paned window with a view of the sea. The glass was streaked with salt and sand, and there were cobwebs between the screen and the storms. Outside a gentle rain was falling, a purifying springtime shower, and Becca paused to count her blessings. Number one, she was healthy. Two, she was ensconced in this beloved, ancestral home, Eden, for the summer season. And three, here was Sarah, all aglow by her side, pregnant, of all things, with Becca’s first great-grandchild.

So? asked Sarah, peering over her dark-framed glasses.

Well, this is quite difficult. Becca stopped again, looking up at the ornate molding and fidgeted with her wedding ring. She forced the words out of her mouth: I discovered something quite alarming after your grandfather died.

Sarah squinted, and cocked her head, twisting her long red hair into a rope in front of one shoulder. Becca turned on a reading lamp, as the rainclouds were obscuring the natural light.

Going over our estate with the lawyer, well, it seems he was not careful.

Not careful? Sarah gripped the love seat’s worn upholstery with one hand and spread her other across her stomach, striking a melodramatic pose, as if safeguarding her unborn child from the unthinkable.

With money.

Oh? Sarah’s shoulders relaxed.

Not that it was all his fault. Eden’s antiquated plumbing and shingled roof cost a lot to maintain. We had to keep up appearances in New Haven, too, you know, given his position at the hospital. A warm flush spread over Becca’s face. It was hard for her to confess Dan’s failures, as she had always been the one to stand up for him. And sitting on this love seat, in what had once been her father’s paneled study, conjured up his booming voice. Doctors are notoriously bad with finances, he had said. You’ll need to keep an eye on things.

Sarah let out an audible phew, and Becca looked up, surprised to see a smile on her face. It’s only money, Gran, she said. It’s not like Poppy committed a crime or kept a mistress.

Of course your grandfather never kept a mistress!

So it’s the money. Is that all? asked Sarah.

Yes. You act as if it’s not a big deal.

Well, actually, I thought you were going to tell me some awful scandal, something truly shocking.

Sarah!

What I mean is that it’s not unheard of, people making bad investments. The rain was falling harder now, and the sky had become almost black. Becca fingered her pearls as she considered the rolling thunder in the distance.

Sarah rose from her seat. Gran, I’m just going to freshen my tea. Can I get you anything?

Please sit down. I’m not finished.

Sarah bit her lip and sat back down, folding one leg up under herself. Becca inhaled deeply, trying to shake the irritation that crept through her. She took in this vision of her granddaughter: single, a student at twenty-nine, trendily dressed in a ridiculous cotton sweater that barely clung to her shoulder. She was pregnant, with no source of income and no plan for paying her bills. How could she be so nonchalant about the fortune that had supported them?

"Sarah, it means I will have to sell my home in New Haven to pay off the debt, and my share of Eden. Thomas, of course, is salivating at the chance to buy me out. But this is likely our last summer. This house is a part of me. Just think of it."

Sarah shrank into the cushions. I love it here, too, she murmured.

Becca couldn’t help but raise her voice. I won’t be able to help out with your rent any longer. You and your mother can’t expect anything from me. And I feel just awful about Lilly. She’s been with us since your mother was born. I need to find a family that can take in a gray-haired, farsighted housekeeper. Becca swiped her index finger along the dusty windowsill to emphasize her point.

Sarah’s face was downcast. Does Mom know? she asked.

Not yet. I was about to get into it the afternoon you arrived. You walked in just as we were sitting down to talk.

Oh.

And ever since you made your announcement, she’s been up in her room, getting all worked up. This is the last thing I can raise with her now.

Gran—

And Lilly doesn’t know either. She has no family left, and I don’t want to worry her. God knows what type of place I’ll end up in, but it certainly won’t have maids’ quarters!

Gran, I’m sorry.

Don’t you say a word to either of them. I’ll be the one to tell them.

You know I wouldn’t do that. Sarah put a hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. I’m sure everything will sort itself out.

Sarah, you don’t seem to understand how this works. How all of this gets paid for. Becca made a sweeping gesture with her arm. And it’s never been more pertinent than now, what with you having another mouth to feed.

I know how it works. I just thought . . .

Well, I suggest you do a whole lot more thinking. A baby is a lot of responsibility. And expensive, to boot. Maybe you should call that boyfriend of yours and see if you can’t patch things up. Her shoulders were tense, and her hands were balled into tight fists in her lap.

Gran, we’ve gone over this. Single moms can make it on their own these days, Sarah said.

You don’t think he’d be supportive?

No, he’s quite angry.

Becca had never liked the sound of him—Sarah’s professor, for goodness’ sake. And how was a PhD in renaissance painting going to translate into a suitable income? I know you’re the new generation, Sarah, but . . . Becca treaded cautiously. I think you need to choose.

Gran, Sarah interrupted, her tone defensive, almost condescending. I am very close to finishing my dissertation, and then I’ll be applying for lecturing positions. And if Alistair doesn’t want to be a part of this baby’s life, I won’t beg him to change his mind. Women can have careers and babies these days, with or without a husband. You don’t understand.

Becca bristled. She tucked a loose strand of gray hair behind her ear, squared her shoulders, and cleared her throat. Sarah, I love you, but these have been a hard six months for me. Do you have any idea what it is like to lose a husband of fifty years and then to find out there’s not a dime left? She raised her voice a decibel higher. And for you to sit there and tell me I don’t understand? I have lived a full life, Sarah, and I understand plenty.

Becca felt tears welling. She inhaled deeply, then dabbed the corners of her eyes with the tissue she kept tucked inside her sleeve. She retrieved a lipstick from her pocket, applied her signature peach, and rubbed her lips together to even out the color. I thought I would fill you in on this financial crisis to inform your decisions with regard to your boyfriend and whether to go back to school or to get to work. Consider it a courtesy.

Now tears were rolling down Sarah’s cheeks. Gran, I’ve never seen you like this, she said, playing with the fringe of her sweater.

Becca inhaled, and her eyes softened. She did not like to be angry. Sarah, this is a wake-up call for all of us.

Gran, I want you to know that I’ve also considered not keeping the baby. Sarah blew her nose into a napkin.

No, Becca said, shaking her head. Write to him. He may respond to a letter. Invite him up here to talk it over. Consider every option first before you do something like that.

Okay, I’ll think about it, Sarah said, twisting her hair into an even tighter rope. But in the end, it will be my choice.

Chapter 2

LONG HARBOR, RHODE ISLAND

Friday, June 26, 2000

Becca’s nostrils flared as she inhaled the briny air, elongating her stride and pumping her arms. She was already perspiring. Typical—last week she had considered lighting a fire in the study, and today was hazy, hot, and humid, the beginning of a heat wave. They were saying record temperatures, straight on through the holiday weekend.

Becca had walked the same crescent beach, one mile out and one mile back, most summer mornings for the past fifty years. She used to have the beach all to herself, had started back before it was in vogue to wear tight black pants and earphones.

Some mornings the tide was high, leaving only a sliver of sea-weed-coated sand for her to struggle through. Other mornings, like this one, it was delightfully low, exposing a broad and glassy, hard-packed surface that her aged legs glided over briskly. Although the beach’s contours changed from day to day and winter storms often eroded the sand dramatically, the man-made landmarks beyond the dunes remained as familiar to her as the rooms of Eden.

Her springer spaniel, Hennessy, preferred nosing around the driftwood up by the dunes to her full-steam-ahead approach. He yanked on the leash, almost pulling her over. Becca relented and unclipped him, even though the week before he had bounded through the protective fencing around the piping plovers’ nesting grounds. An irate park ranger had yelled at Becca for several humiliating minutes while she struggled to get the dog under control. Dan had never hidden his irritation at the expansive sanctuary claimed for the plovers, saying, If those damn birds are ever going to survive in the wild, they shouldn’t be coddled.

Becca tried to supplant that memory and her creeping melancholy with some enthusiasm for the upcoming season. Summer had always been her favorite; over her life, she had come to appreciate its unique cycle. During the cooler weeks just after Memorial Day, people were scarce. The weather was damp with spray to be washed off the windows. In July, houses filled, the sun heated up, and tides rose. By August, Long Harbor was in full swing, insects buzzed in the garden, and tomatoes ripened on the vine. As September approached, the tide slowly ebbed; hostesses grew weary of houseguests, parents happily delivered their children back to school, and one could pull the blankets back over the sheets.

Walking parallel to the lapping waves, Becca gazed somewhat sentimentally toward the Bancrofts’ gray-shingled beach cabana, the Taylors’ large stone cottage, and the Whites’ controversial renovation. She passed another five or six homes, each with a saga of its own. When she saw a porch light on, she made a mental note of who was in town, then allowed herself a few minutes of sorrow, anticipating her final summer among this exclusive band of neighbors.

But her nostalgia soon turned to dread as she imagined them, all upright people, aghast upon learning about Sarah’s pregnancy, the gossip that would take place through the privet hedges. People would be whispering, although it didn’t seem to faze Sarah a bit. She’d walked through the kitchen door just as Becca was about to discuss the family finances with Rachel. Sarah had dropped her overstuffed duffels with a thud, and her mother and grandmother had turned in their seats. What a surprise! We weren’t expecting you for weeks, Becca had said.

I know, Gran. I had to leave. Alistair and I . . . Sarah’s voice trembled.

Oh dear—did you have a fight? Becca had predicted romance with a professor would end only in disaster, but she had been careful to keep her opinions to herself, knowing too well that Rachel was doling out a hefty portion of criticism.

Rachel stood up with the instincts of a mother smelling trouble. Sarah, are you all right?

I’m all right, Sarah stammered. I mean, I will be. I have some news. She looked nervously back and forth between them for several long moments.

Rachel scowled accusingly. You’re not pregnant, are you?

Sarah nodded sheepishly.

Oh, Sarah, Rachel said. But your degree . . . Why? How many months?

Two . . . or three, Sarah said.

After all the work you’ve put in? Now you’re going to throw it down the drain? Rachel shouted. She pounded her fist on the counter and marched out of the kitchen and had been holed up in her room ever since.

Becca cringed at the memory of her daughter’s reaction to the news. She wished it could have been different, but it struck a raw nerve. Rachel had dropped out of college thirty years earlier, pregnant with Sarah.

Becca took her longest, most athletic strides now, inhaling the moist fog that enveloped her thin body and clung to her shoulder-length gray hair. Yes, people would be talking, or, then again, maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe Sarah was right that these things were so common now: single motherhood, infidelity, financial ruin. Nobody would blink an eye. Regardless, Becca suspected there might be a touch of schadenfreude in Long Harbor when it came to her downfall.

She reached the one-mile mark and turned around. The early-morning sun was burning through the mist. Becca flipped her sunglasses down off the top of her head for the walk back. Enough with the power walking, she thought, and slowed to a comfortable pace. But she veered too close to the waves, soaking her tennis shoes and the hem of her tracksuit. She darted quickly for drier ground like a sandpiper flirting with the undertow.

Entering the narrow path through the dunes, she passed the pink beach roses ascending the sandy hill. It was from this higher vantage point that Eden always appeared most dramatic, a grande dame from another era. Her silver-gray shingles lent a touch of informality to her magnificence. She rose three stories in the middle and had a sprawling wing on either side, extending graciously across a lush green lawn.

When Becca’s father, Bunny Meister, conceived of the home in the 1920s, he intended to take people’s breath away, and from a distance, he succeeded. Even though its floral upholstery had faded into a state of classic Yankee shabby, its paint was peeling, and bats made a home in the attic, the house welcomed her summer after summer, lulling her—indeed, the whole family—into a sense of immunity to the world’s chaos. It was the one constant in her life.

Even though Becca could become accustomed to life without her husband, a life without Eden was an entirely different story. Even during the winter, the sheer notion of this place had buoyed her as much as the physical house did during the summer. Eden transcended time as the receptacle of the family’s legends and most vivid memories. She associated Eden with love and tradition, a link between the generations, and it made her sad to think that Sarah’s baby would miss the opportunity to run through its cool grass. The only thing sadder was the idea that Sarah might choose not to have her baby at all.

As Becca crossed the lawn and continued down the flagstone path, she noticed the dew still clinging to an intricate spider web on an eave over the back door. It reminded her of the summer she read Charlotte’s Web to Sarah. Her heart ached. There wasn’t an inch of this house that wouldn’t remind her of something.

She wiped her eyes and reached for the knob on the screen door, pulling it open, the hinges creaking in the process. She should have replaced them long ago, but the familiar sound prevented surprise entrances through a door that was always left unlocked. Becca kicked off her wet, sandy shoes and socks and placed them on the mat before she filled Hennessy’s water bowl.

It was now 7:00 A.M., long before anyone else would be down. The counters smelled lemony from the wipe-down Lilly had given them the night before, and yesterday’s newspapers were stacked in a wicker basket on the floor. There was a sense of order in a room that would transform over the course of the day into the hub of Eden’s activity.

The fog was lifting, the sun shining through the window and onto the kitchen table. Becca ran her fingers over the grain of its wood. If Sarah could be so bold, fearless in the face of single parenthood, maybe Becca could find the courage, too. It would feel so good to get everything off her chest. She had kept a secret of her own for so long, its tentacles had wrapped her from end to end. Her family would be convening for the Fourth of July weekend. It was the perfect opportunity.

Becca collected the centerpiece from the dining room and placed it in the pantry sink. She picked through the peony blossoms and refreshed the water, then buried her face in their browning petals, breathing in their calming aroma. Dan had tended the peonies with such love, just as her father had before him. The image of her father in the garden made Becca’s eyes well with tears. She sniffed back her emotions and wiped her eyes. She would enjoy Eden’s small pleasures while they were still hers.

Chapter 3

LONG HARBOR, RHODE ISLAND

1955

Bunny sat in his cushioned wheelchair on Eden’s back porch. Lilly had deposited him there half an hour earlier with a scotch perched in his right hand, a blanket over his lap, and a mustard-yellow cardigan across his shoulders. He pulled the nub of a cigar from his chest pocket. He liked to sneak a few puffs before dinner where the women wouldn’t complain. The pungent aroma of smoke wafting about his head, he meditated on the autumnal angle of the sun, its quick fade beyond the dunes, burning shades of yellow, orange, and red into the water below and the clouds above. When the sun set completely, he snubbed the cigar against a large clamshell he kept hidden behind a planter.

Bunny breathed slowly, the acrid taste of tobacco still fresh on his lips. There was a rattle in his throat, and he was conscious of a stiffening, a thickening, deep inside, gripping his chest. He could imagine it spreading slowly to his abdomen, his limbs, and eventually, probably in the not-so-distant future, to his mind. His life had been so beautiful—a blessing, really. But there was one thing that nagged at him. It had to do with Becca. She tried so hard to be the perfect doctor’s wife, but Bunny caught her staring vacantly into space at odd moments. Sometimes he saw tears in her eyes. Certain topics were especially difficult for fathers and daughters to discuss, but if he was nearing the end, he had no time to waste.

He searched his memory for the point in time when she had changed. When she had stopped letting him call her Princess. He kept coming back to the year after the boys returned from the war, after she returned from that finishing school Sadie sent her off to. What was the name of that place? He hadn’t even visited. Couldn’t picture it. The one school he could recall was in the thick of Deutschtown, a densely populated wedge of Pittsburgh just north of where the Allegheny River merged with the Ohio. The American flag had hung at the front of his third-grade classroom. Bunny remembered standing erect, to the left of his desk every morning, his hand over his heart, his black hair pasted down, wholeheartedly reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. His father had been so proud that he was growing up a regular American kid. You see, Anna, he would say to his wife, Bernhard speaks English without an accent. Nobody would ever know we are German.

Bunny took a last, long swig of scotch and put the crystal glass on the table by his side. He gripped the wheels of his chair in each hand and strained to turn himself toward the glow of the living room window. The room was fully illuminated, making him invisible to his twin grandsons, who labored over a jigsaw puzzle on the carpet inside. He saw Ruth, his daughter-in-law, walk through the living room and lovingly tousle young Joseph’s blond curls. He radiated affection back in her direction. She remained poised, despite all she had been through. If only Becca had the same confidence.

He felt for those boys, grief-stricken in their own right, yet devoted to their mother’s well-being. His own mother had depended on him, too. She had always been a foreigner in this country, learning passable English, but if she really had something to say, it was in Yiddish. She said, Your father, he calls thees progress, but I can only theenk of vat ve haf left behind. She taught Bunny Hebrew prayers and urged him to recite them under his breath, in bed at night. Her facial expressions revealed the distaste she harbored toward his father’s work in a meatpacking house, handling pork all day. She groaned about the Pittsburgh sky, always black with soot. Even though she scrubbed and scrubbed, the grime from the factories permeated everything and frequent floods from the Allegheny left their home cold and damp.

Bunny leaned forward in his wheelchair to tap on the window. Little Joseph turned suddenly from the puzzle, looking up toward the glass. Bunny leaned in close, tapped again, waved, and pointed toward the French doors. Joseph hurried to turn the knob with both of his little hands and stepped out on the porch.

What are you doing out here, Grandpa?

I told Lilly I wanted to watch the sunset, but I think she’s forgotten about me.

Are you cold? the boy asked, as he hugged himself against the breezy night.

No, it’s toasty under this blanket. Hop up on my lap, and I’ll warm you up.

Bunny was arranging Joseph snug against his chest when Benjamin appeared in front of them.

C’mon, there’s room for you, too.

Bunny pulled the blanket over all three of them. Although they had once been rather rambunctious boys, nobody could predict when they might rebound from the shock of their father’s death. Granted, Ruth had lost her husband and Bunny and Sadie had lost a son, but all Bunny’s grief now centered on the fact that these boys would grow up without a father. He’d provide for them, sure, but that wasn’t the point. A boy needs a man to get him started on the right foot.

His own father had been his greatest motivator, encouraging him at every point in his life. A rags-to-riches story himself, Samuel Meister had worked at H. J. Heinz for thirty years, being promoted from packing meat in the factory to floor supervisor and ultimately to headquarters, where he had worked his way up in the personnel department. Bunny had heard his mother complain that the factory was not clean, not kosher, but he admired the path his father had taken. His father waved his knife and fork in the air, commanding Bunny’s attention at the dinner table. Hard work, Bernhard, and taking risks at the right time—that’s what it takes. If your mother and I had never left Germany, we’d still be sleeping on a straw mattress in her father’s attic!

Bunny hugged his grandsons as the three of them stared up into the night sky. The trust funds were one thing, but who would guide them along the way? His uncles might, but nobody could replace a father.

Bunny’s father had worked hard to move his family out of Deutschtown, making it possible for Bunny to attend private boys’ school in Oakland and for his mother to have a postage-stamp garden. She may not have approved of the meat his father packed, but her demeanor certainly improved once she had her own bit of earth to plant. His father didn’t mind when, wanting to sound more American, Bunny dropped the h from the middle of his name, becoming Bernard, later nicknamed Bernie by his teammates. His father had been at all of his football games, watching proudly from the stands.

Bunny never told his father how the coach had yelled at the team during the halftime of their game against Deutschtown. They sat on a long wooden bench, down by a touchdown, several players injured at the half. I want you boys to fight! I want you to remember who you are and where you come from. You’re not going to let those filthy Huns and Jews come onto our field and hand us a loss. Let’s send those meatpackers home with their tails between their legs.

Bunny felt a rush of heat under his helmet, fearful he’d be discovered as an imposter. He went back out onto the field, taking his position on the front line, looking at the ground, instead of into the eyes of his opposition, as he had been taught. What were the chances of somebody from the old neighborhood recognizing him or his father? Days later, after it had become clear that his classmates assumed he was one of their own, his relief had turned to panic. It would take extreme vigilance to keep his family’s origins a secret, especially considering his mother’s accent.

Joseph interrupted Bunny’s reverie. Grandpa, do you think Daddy is in heaven?

Joseph—Bunny stumbled over the mention of their father—of course he is, of course. After a few minutes, he continued, When you boys miss your father, think about him here, at Eden. He loved it and will always be with you here. He was a little boy here, just like you are now. His imprint is all over this place. He was by my side, rebuilding her, after the great hurricane. Hell, he saved his sister’s life.

Bunny pointed a crooked finger toward the ocean. See those dunes out there? When you climb over them, he’ll be holding your hand. When you fish or go sailing, look for his reflection in the sea; listen for his voice in the waves. And when you look at the stars in the sky, think of the way his eyes sparkled.

Joseph nodded his understanding. I will, Grandpa.

Were you a little boy here, too, Grandpa? Benjamin asked.

No, not me. I never left Pittsburgh as a child.

What made you come here?

Oh, well, I guess I just got it in my head. . . .

He told his grandsons how the seed had been planted, one afternoon tossing the football on Michael Turner’s front lawn. Michael was Bunny’s best friend in high school and often went on about his summer plans. We all go to Long Harbor, Rhode Island. His extended family had purchased a two-hundred-acre farm nestled into a peninsula, creating beachfront property on one side and a protected harbor and several coves on the other. Bernie, it’s perfect—we have the waves on one side and lots of boating on the other, and we escape the city’s stench every summer.

Bunny tried to conceal his awe. He had never seen the ocean and was all too familiar with the stink of Pittsburgh during the summer. The only image he had of the Atlantic was based on the cold and stormy scenes in Rudyard Kipling’s Captains Courageous. Not until he went off to Yale on a football scholarship would he have his first real-life encounter.

His friends at Yale opened him up to a whole new world. Bunny didn’t tell his grandsons how Whitey and Stalworth used to barge into his dorm room, smacking a bottle of whiskey down right in the middle of a paper he was writing. C’mon, Bernie, don’t be such a grind, they’d complain. Eventually he learned how to play their game, donning his tie loosely, swinging his feet up on his desk, and hiding how much he studied by regularly mixing them drinks. He became a natural among prep-schooled Ivy Leaguers.

Instead, he continued the story by describing the time Whitey invited him to Southampton. The glare blinded him as he stepped off the jitney. Bunny held his hand against his brow to shield the expression of wonderment on his face as much to shade his eyes from the bright sun reflecting off the white sand. He had finally entered the sun-kissed world that Michael Turner had gone on about.

Whitey led him to a wide beach, where his friends, his sisters, and their friends were all spread out on blankets. Man, Bernie, after that trip you must be hot! C’mon! With that, Whitey bounded over the blankets toward the water, crashing through the foamy breakers, diving under the waves until he was far enough out to tread water easily. He floated higher and lower with every swell. Bunny marveled at his friend’s skillful emergence into the calmer, deep water. He followed until the water reached his waist and splashed some onto his face and hair, then wrapped his arms around his