The Wonder Spot by Melissa Bank Page B

Veniceorders, like, “Just get over there,” and she was obeying them. She didn’t seem angry or upset or embarrassed, as I would have been. I thought maybe the windlessness was more dire than I realized, and the two of them were following emergency sailing procedures, which included the captain acting like a jerk and his mate ignoring him.
    But neither changed, even once we got close to shore and out of danger; again, I wondered if Venice was thinking less about where she was now than where she’d be later.
    We were pulling the boat up onto the sand when I saw how wrong I was. Behind Hugh’s back, her face was full of sympathy. Venice knew exactly what he was feeling: The life he’d known was about to end; it would end as soon as she got on the train. She knew that he was scared of losing her and scared of not finding a job, and this was her way of telling him he didn’t have to be.
    On the beach she did a cartwheel, and he did one, too, a failure, but she laughed and got him laughing.
    Back at the house, Venice took the first shower. I was packing when Hugh came and stood in the doorway and said, “Why don’t you stay another night?”
    I told him that my older brother expected me to spend the night with him in Manhattan.
    â€œStay with me,” he said, and his look let me know I would be doing him a favor.
    . . . . .
    At a restaurant on Main Street, Hugh and I sat outside, drinking scotch for dinner. We weren’t talking at all. I felt awkward and tried to think up topics other than the girlfriend who’d left and the job he didn’t have.
    When he recognized someone he knew and called him to the table, I was overjoyed.
    Hugh rose and said, “Have a drink with us.”
    The guy tipped his head bar-ward and said, “I’m in the middle of something,” and his tone said, In the middle of some girl. Then he said hi to me, and, “I’m Michael Whitmore,” and I told him my name, andwe shook hands. To Hugh, he said, “Call me at the office on Tuesday,” and was gone.
    Another year of silence passed before Hugh said, “I should’ve majored in economics.”
    It reminded me of how I’d felt applying to college. Night after night, I sat with my father in his study while he read aloud from Barron’s . He’d read the name of the college, the number of men and the number of women, and a description in guidebook prose; then he’d say, “How does that sound?” and I’d think, Sounds just like the last one.
    It took me a few nights to realize that my father was reading only the colleges that I had some chance of getting into—not Brown but Bowling Green; not Wesleyan but Ohio Wesleyan; not Williams or Smith, but William Smith. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that my grades and test scores over the years were anything more than individual humiliations; I hadn’t realized that one day all of them would add up and count against me.
    My father was waiting to hear my reaction to whatever college he’d just read me the description of. He looked over at me. “What is it?”
    â€œI wish someone had told me,” I said.
    â€œTold you what?”
    I hadn’t answered. I’d already figured out that not understanding my failings was another of my failings.
    Now I wanted to convince Hugh that whatever prevented him from finding a job was not a failing but a strength. “You’re a painter,” I told him. “I don’t even know why you’re looking for a job in investment banking.”
    He said, “I need to make a living, Sophie.”
    â€œMaybe you could do something with art, though,” I said.
    He asked if I had any idea how much private-school tuition was.
    â€œNo.” I waited for him to make his point. Then I realized he already had. He was talking about the cost of educating the children he planned to have with Venice.
    I told