Surely this was about his father, Adam thought, perhaps another woman. But he had not seen the restless, predatory look that suggested Ben was on the hunt, or the complacent air that went with some new conquest-this summer, Benjamin Blaine’s ego seemed preoccupied with besting his younger son in sailing. Watching Clarice in profile, Adam had the tantalizing, disturbing sense that he was closer to penetrating the inner life she tried so hard to mask. Gently, he said, “Talk to me, please. You’re the most loving mother on the planet, but I’m not always sure I know you.”
A mist appeared in her eyes. “Then I’ve succeeded, haven’t I? Who really wants to know their parents? And what ‘loving mother’ would inflict that on her children?” She faced him, her need to restore self-discipline showing in the tightness of her jawline. “I’m sorry to be so delphic. As you can see, I’m drunk, babbling about nothing. I’ll behave myself for Jenny.”
To Adam, the last phrase was freighted with meaning-not about dinner with Adam’s girlfriend, but as the credo for his mother’s life. In seconds the wall between Clarice and the world had reappeared. “Go on,” she said in a brittle voice. “I’m sure she’s waiting for you, as I once waited for him. I’m fine here by myself and fine tomorrow night.”
There was nothing he could do. Touching her hand, he left, trailed by the shattering sense of a long-ago psychic explosion, its damage concealed by a shell.
Ten years later, with his mother facing ruin, the memory seemed oddly prescient. But now, as then, its deeper meaning eluded him. And on the night Jenny had come for dinner, his father and mother were the parents he wished for.
Looking about her, Jenny had seemed in awe of the size of their house, the artifacts of privilege and travel. To his surprise, she accepted a glass of wine, a sign of nervousness that put Adam more on edge. But Clarice, an expert hostess, engaged Jenny with what seemed to be genuine interest, while Ben presided with avuncular good humor. “Is it true,” he asked, “that Adam is trying to make a sailor out of you?”
To Adam, the trill of Jenny’s laugh suggested a paradoxical emotion-the determination to relax. “Did he also say he was trying to drown me?”
Ben grinned at Adam. “Another failure on the high seas.”
“A small setback,” Adam interjected airily.
Jenny sipped her wine, glancing nervously at Ben. “Actually, I was terrified. You know how they say your whole life flashes before you? This is ridiculous, I thought. My life isn’t even a short story, let alone a novella. I’ve hardly left Massachusetts.” Glancing at Clarice, she said, “You’ve been everywhere, right?”
Clarice smiled at her. “Ben’s been everywhere,” she answered with wry self-deprecation. “He takes me to the nicer places, like Tuscany and the south of France. But I get to skip Kosovo and Darfur.” More seriously, she added, “It’s a terrible character defect, I know-one Ben as a writer can’t afford. But I’ve learned that human ugliness is hard for me to witness.”
Jenny nodded. “I know it would be for me. Still, I’d like to see everything I can.”
Ben regarded her with curiosity. “Why is that?”
“Because writers shouldn’t protect themselves. I want to know the truth, whatever that is, then write about it in a way that causes other people to see.” She shook her head. “My problem is how little I’ve experienced.”
“Oh, you’ll catch up,” Clarice assured her. “At this age, you and Adam have barely nibbled around the edges.”
With a dubious smile, Jenny looked around her at the polished antiques, the ornate Persian carpets, the African masks, and Asian tapestries on the Blaines’ spacious walls. Adam could follow her thoughts-Clarice’s remark, though intended kindly, reflected an ease of access to the world Jenny Leigh had never known. Judging from his observant look, Ben saw this as well. “I know what you’re feeling,” he told her. “I remember having nothing, and wondering if my ambitions were delusional. Like you, I’d barely been off this island. But for all its faults, this is a meritocratic country. A smart young woman like you has the power to create her own future. But you have to want that with every fiber of your being.”
This, Adam knew, was the heart of Ben’s code-that the world was a malleable place for those with the will to make it so. Pleasantly, his father said to Jenny, “Tell me about your family.”
Briefly, she averted her eyes. “Not much to tell. My father’s long gone. There’s only me and my mom.”
There was a great deal of meaning, Adam knew, in these few words-abandonment, struggle, an adolescence without nurturing. “My father was a vicious drunk,” Ben responded bluntly. “I used to wish he had taken off. But not all of us can be so lucky.” He paused, moderating his tone. “I don’t mean to make light of it. Drunk or absent, we both wanted the father we didn’t have.”
From Jenny’s expression, open now, Adam perceived that his father had succeeded in disarming her. “It’s all I know,” she told him. “In some ways, I guess I raised myself.”
Ben smiled at this. “From what Adam tells me, and from meeting you, I’d say you’ve done just fine.” He turned to his wife, including her. “Wouldn’t you say so, Clarice?”
“I would,” Clarice said firmly. “On that point, at least, it seems that the Blaines are unanimous.”
Turning from Ben to Clarice, Jenny gave them both an incandescent smile. Relieved, Adam began to hope that the evening would go as he had planned.
At dinner, his biggest concern was for Jenny herself, nodding each time Ben offered to fill her glass with wine, chilled on ice inside the Herreshoff Cup-an act of proprietary lese-majeste that, Adam suspected, was calculated to remind the son that this prize belonged to his father. Though he rarely saw Jenny drink, Adam could anticipate the changes in her behavior-by dinner she was vivacious, even charming, but poised on the brink of unpredictability. “If you had your choice of travels,” Clarice asked her, “where would you go first?”
To Adam’s mind, Jenny considered the question too long, as though wine had altered the chemistry in her brain. “This may sound strange, but I don’t really care. I’d like the experience to pick me, then let me be surprised by how I’ve changed. Sort of like going in the Peace Corps, and winding up somewhere you’ve never imagined.”
“A fair response,” Ben answered. “Only my Peace Corps was the army. I learned about cowardice then, and cruelty, and nobility. And I was forced to look inside myself-the best of me and the beast in me.” His tone became insistent. “Good writing takes courage. You have to see the truth about other people, and about yourself. Often, it’s not pretty. But after Vietnam I couldn’t read novels that sugarcoated the human condition, and it’s good you don’t want to write them.” Glancing at Adam, he said more easily, “My son says you brought a short story. If you don’t mind, I’d be pleased to read it.”
Jenny flushed. “I’d love that,” she answered, her voice laden with humility.
Ben took the story to his den, closing the door behind him.
Minutes passed, with Adam and Clarice trying to keep Jenny at ease. Adam knew that what was happening behind Ben’s door must feel momentous-a verdict not just on her writing but on Jenny herself. Adam understood the feeling all too well.
Suddenly, Jenny covered her face, a comic pantomime of apprehension. “God,” she told them. “I feel like I’m sitting outside the emergency room and someone’s operating on my baby.”
“Well,” Clarice ventured with a hopeful sigh, “maybe they can save him.”
Jenny managed to laugh. “In all seriousness,” Clarice went on, “Ben’s an honest critic, but not a cruel one. Whatever he says, he’ll mean it to be helpful.”
Slowly, Jenny nodded. “I know he will. And I wanted so much for him to read it. It’s just that I’ve never shown my work to anyone but my teachers, and all of them consider Benjamin Blaine one of our greatest writers. Now I’m sitting here wondering what he thinks of me.”
“Your story,” Clarice corrected. “Not you. After all, your life is subject to many more revisions-”
Ben’s door opened abruptly. He emerged with a snifter of cognac, his thoughtful gaze directed at the rug, then sat in his chair across from Jenny. Looking up at her, he raised his eyebrows in an ironical expression. “I suppose you’re curious what I think.”
Jenny laughed nervously. “A little.”
“All right,” he responded briskly. “For openers, you can write. Your imagery is strong, though strained at times. I’ve scribbled some notes in the margins, and underlined passages I particularly liked or questioned. I wouldn’t have bothered if this story were no good.” His voice became stern. “Just from reading it, I’d have known you were young. Too often you try to kill your readers with sentence after dazzling sentence, until you’re all too likely to succeed. You want to write simply and clearly, so that the reader sees and feels what you’re describing
