The Bay at Midnight

He smiled as he neared me, and although there was something familiar in the curve of his lips, I still couldn’t place him.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” he said, without reproach.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t,” I said. “Do you go to Holy Trinity?”

He held his left hand toward me, his right hand leaning heavily on his cane. “I’m Ross Chapman,” he said.

I had stood up slowly enough, of that I was certain, yet my head went so light I thought I might pass out. I took his hand more to steady myself than to shake it and I could not seem to find my voice.

“It’s been a long, long time,” he said.

I managed to nod. “Yes,” I said.

“You are still a stunning woman,” he said, even though I was wearing my gardening overalls and probably had dirt smeared on my face.

“Thank you.” I couldn’t bring myself to reciprocate. Ross Chapman had once been a very handsome man, but in the fortyone years since I’d last seen him in person, he had withered and paled. After we left the summer house for the last time in 1962, I would see his picture occasionally in the papers and on TV, since he was a prominent figure in New Jersey and had even run for governor. But he looked nothing like that robust politician now.

“Is this how you spend your days?” he asked, motioning toward the flower bed. “Working in your garden?”

“I also work at McDonald’s in Garwood and I’m a volunteer at the hospital,” I said.

“McDonald’s?” he laughed. “That’s marvelous. You always knew how to keep busy,” he said, nodding with what I guessed was approval.

I wasn’t sure what to do with him. We stood for a moment in an awkward silence. I didn’t want to invite him in, but I saw no alternative.

“Would you like to come in?” I asked finally. “Have something to drink?”

“I’d like that,” he said.

I walked up the front steps and inside the house, holding the door open for him. I could see that the four concrete steps were a bit of a struggle for him and I looked away, not wanting to embarrass him by noticing his frailty.

“Why don’t you sit here?” I motioned toward the armchair in the living room, then rattled off the things I could offer him to drink.

“Just ice water,” he said.

In the kitchen, I took my time getting out the glasses, filling them with ice. I wished he had not come. I could see no point to this visit. I could have quite happily lived out the rest of my days without seeing my old neighbor again.

When I returned to the living room, I saw that he had not taken a seat as I’d suggested. Instead, he was looking at the pictures on the mantel. There was one of the four of us—Charles and myself and Julie and Lucy, when the girls were fifteen and eleven. It was the last picture I had of Charles; he’d dropped dead from a heart attack in our kitchen only a few weeks after it had been taken. Then there were Julie’s and Lucy’s old college-graduation pictures and, next to them, Shannon’s senior picture. Ross lifted that last one up and looked toward me, a smile on his lips.

“A granddaughter?” he asked.

I nodded. “Shannon,” I said. “She’s Julie’s.” I thought of telling him more about her, how she’d been accepted to Oberlin, how accomplished she was already, but I didn’t want to extend my conversation with Ross any longer than I had to.

“Lovely.” Then he poked a finger at Julie’s picture. “That’s Julie, right? She was the sharp one. The one with the brains and the spunk.”

His words jolted me. Julie had brains, all right, but her spunk had gone out the window long ago. He was right, though. When he knew my girls, Julie was the one who’d had the most gumption.

“Yes,” I said, to keep things short and simple. “She was always up to something.”

Ross limped over to the armchair and sat down. “I have one granddaughter and a great-granddaughter,” he said. He took the glass I held out for him and looked up at me. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

I set a coaster on the end table next to him, then sat on the hassock in front of the other armchair. “Why are you here?” I asked. The back of my neck ached a bit, and I rubbed it. My skin was slick with perspiration, more from anxiety than the heat.

“Do you know that my Ethan and your Julie are meeting for lunch today?” Ross asked.

“What?” I’d been about to take a sip of my water and nearly dropped the glass. “Why on earth?” As far as I knew, Julie and Ethan Chapman had had no contact since 1962.

Ross shrugged. “Ethan just said he was thinking about her and felt like getting together. They planned to meet in Spring Lake.”

“Well,” I said, recovering from the shock. “Good for them. They were friends when they were little.”

“Anyhow,” Ross said, “when Ethan told me he was going to see Julie, it started me thinking about you…about your family. About how I…” He set his glass down on the coaster and looked directly into my eyes. “I mishandled things, Maria. In every which way. I—”

“Water under the bridge, Ross,” I said. “It’s not necessary to rehash it.”

“But I think it is,” he said. I recognized his earnest look as one he’d employed when running for governor. It was a look that made you want to trust him.

“I’m old and tired,” he said. “I really doubt I’ll live much longer and I just want to make amends to any people I