Oh god, April. The trip to Apple Island.

“Green and Golden Girl” would open on Broadway in the fall. Winter was over and grass was turning from brown to green. There were clusters of green flowers on the maple trees in Isle End. Larry Shue’s “The Foreigner” was making The Green Door audience laugh, and Frank Marino was smiling at the box office receipts. Rehearsals for three one-acts, Graceland, Hit and Run, and Closet Madness were keeping Jenny busy. I had finished the first draft of “Within Hearing”, and it was in Pamela’s hands. Marines at the U.S. Embassy in Moscow were arrested for being seduced into spying. One was African-American, and the other was a Native American. The black guy, my age, came from the New York metro area, so there was a lot about it in local papers and on TV. He was cleared of the charges, which only made the Indian look guiltier. It was April. Pamela’s stepson, Martin John Wasley, got two and a half weeks off from prep school at Easter and came for a visit.

The kid was 14 years old and looked like his father. He had the same wavy dark hair and blue eyes, but his jaw was still a boy’s. When I met him, he eyed me with an unpleasant and familiar look. I was at Pamela’s that day to talk about the play draft. Although I was taller than Martin, I vowed not to find myself alone with him in the kitchen. He had arrived the day before and awakened late that Saturday morning. He wandered downstairs red-eyed and sleepy to find his stepmother and me at the dining room table, our heads bent over pages of print out.

When he went to the kitchen to find breakfast, Pamela explained in a whisper, “We were up all night talking.”

“Maybe I should leave.”

“I’m the only mother he’s ever known,” she said. “His own mother disappeared when he was a baby. Tom was away in the army. I married Tom before Martin was 2.”

“But they divorced?”

She nodded. I picked up my manuscript.

“It’s a terrific play, Arthur. It even scares me a little how good it is.”

“Good exit line. I’ll see you at The Green Door on Monday.”

“Wait. I wanted to take Martin to Apple Island. He loves to sail. But I’m no sailor. You said you used to be.”

“I used to be, a little.”

“Would you sail with us? Be captain?” Pamela had her green eyes on.

“He’s not going to belt me, is he?”

“Probably not,” she said.

Martin came into the dining room eating a croissant.

“Are we going?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, “we’re all going.”

“I told you, sweetheart,” Pamela said, “didn’t I?”

“I’ll get dressed,” the kid said. “You dressed for sailing, Captain?”

So he’d been listening. As I drove back to town to change my clothes, I passed the green Jaguar headed east to the Point. The driver put out a hand in a friendly wave, and I returned the gesture.

Always organized, Pamela had called ahead to the boat rental and put together provisions sufficient for a battalion. The kid and I hauled everything aboard the plain craft. The 22 footer lacked any style or bright work, but the outboard on its stern looked new. On the water, there was a fair wind of 10 to 14 knots. I took the tiller and steered us on a broad reach toward the shadowy island. White spray flew off the water, and the sails bellied tautly. The lady and the kid sat side by side, leaning against the wind; we listened to the sound of the hull sculling across the sea. It felt familiar and good.

Apple Island’s western shore presented white sand and pebbles, with a slowbreaking surf as gentle as Pontchartrain’s. I dropped the sails about twenty feet from the beach and let the boat drift in. Then the kid took the tiller as I jumped off the bow and walked up the beach with line and anchor. Pamela assumed command as we unpacked and observed our new territory. On the rise facing us we saw orchard rows of budding apple trees, rough-barked and green. 200 years before, some mainland farmer had planted the whole island. Now there wasn’t a trace of his shack, just these rows of abandoned trees. Sunlight lanced through bare branches, but it was imaginable that in a month’s time, the trees would form a green and floral canopy, a buzzing shade attracting teenagers and other romantics.

“I was in an orange orchard in California when I was around your age,” I told Martin.

He ignored me.

Pamela had found a knoll beside a clear brook. “They said there was fresh water here,” she said. She took a big blanket from Martin and unfolded it onto the ground with our help. The food was set at the corners. Another blanket was set beside it, a red one, and a third green one was left folded up. I looked at all that Pamela had brought with us. I was leaning against a tree.

“How long you figure we’re staying here?” I asked.

“You never know,” she said. She took out a platter of fried chicken, and I realized I was starving.

We ate quietly for awhile. Gulls and terns cried over the water and small animals rustled in the new undergrowth. After food and thermos coffee, Pamela began rinsing plates and cups in the stream and ordered the kid and me to “go exploring.” Martin brought along a Frisbee. We walked for about 20 minutes. It got plenty warm so the kid took off his sweater and tied it around his waist. We came upon a clearing.

“You think this is where Johnny Appleseed had his house?” I said.

Martin looked around and shrugged. We started to toss the Frisbee back and forth, running and lunging when the wind would loft it unexpectedly. I caught an especially wide throw and spun it right back before I hit the ground.

“All right!” Martin yelled as I waved back magnanimously from the mossy earth.

Thereafter, our game picked up speed. We were both sweaty, dirty, and satisfied with ourselves and each other by the time we started back.

“You better put your sweater on,” I said. “She’ll worry.”

Martin stopped and did as I suggested, not looking at me as he spoke. “My father is willing to leave his job to get her back. She’s much more important to us than money.”

We resumed walking.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Connecticut,” Martin said, surprised I didn’t know.

“Where do you go to school?”

“The Hill. That’s in Pennsylvania.”

“You like it?”

“It’s okay. I’ve been there since I was 12. Since Mom left. Since my sister died.”

Then I stopped short.

“I didn’t think you knew,” Martin said. “We want her to come home.”

“My mother left when I was about your age.”

He started walking again, handing off the Frisbee from right to left hand. He stayed a few steps ahead of me until he said, “My natural mother also ran off. Do you know why yours did?”

I thought to myself, the things we tell strangers and kids.

“Why?” Martin repeated.

“She had cancer so she took something for the pain. Then my father, who’s a doctor, made it very easy for her to take as much as she wanted.”

“So she died. She didn’t leave.”

“She left. She decided to take her leave.” Even after 10 years, the phrase was a fresh wound.

Now Martin’s voice came from behind me. “My sister was only 2. She had meningitis…”

We had arrived near the knoll and could see Pamela lying on the red blanket, her arm covering her forehead.

“…one day she had a fever, 101, and the next day she was in a coma,” Martin was saying. “She just never woke up. And it feels like neither did we.”

“When was this?”

“Couple of days before Valentine’s Day.”

“When?” I said. “Oh. Jesus.”

“I remember red hearts decorated all around the house. My mother loves stuff like that. She can’t get over it so she won’t come home.”

“There are some things it’s wrong to get over.”

Martin’s voice turned hard. “My father and I don’t live that way.”

I was suddenly as angry as he was. We approached Pamela and she sat up. Her smile turned to a frown. She spoke to the kid. “What were you doing?”

He remained sullen so I said, “Frisbee. Talking.”

“And?” Pamela said.

“It’s okay,” Martin said. He sat down on the red blanket near the border where the chicken was and took a piece. Mouth full of food, he looked up and appeared to narrow his eyes at the sun, but I knew it was to me he said, “Leave me alone.”

Pamela stood and put her jacket over her shoulders. “You’re overtired,” she scolded gently.

“Go on,” the kid said more hopefully.

“All right,” Pamela said to him, then, “All right?” to me.

Off we went. Pamela looked back at him several times before we moved out his sight under the apple trees on the way to the beach.

She was quiet. Then she said, “Martin loves the water. And the woods. My idea of Nature is finding a path to where you can sit down.”

“He loves you.”

“Your sister says you sleep with the light on.”

At the beach we sat on the sand. The tide was low and ocean scent strong. The sun was high above the water, bright and glinting. Pamela’s green eyes were the color of apple buds.

“The kid wants you back,” I said.

“I can’t go home.”

“I know. I tried to tell him that.”

“So now you know about my little girl.”

I knew about the sleepless night with a pleading son; I knew I’d begged my mother just the same. Pamela sobbed. Her green eyes became swollen. Then she was quiet, which was worse. I took her hand and turned her palm over.

“What do you see?” she said.

“I don’t–”

She moved her palm from my hand and touched my cheek, drawing me close. She kissed me and gripped me so tightly that I held onto her as if she were falling. I thought I felt her heart pound, but it could have been my own. Her breasts were soft, the nipples hard. Our mouths and tongues were hermaphrodites. We were inside each other completely, and then slowly I was out, like a craft pulled back into an ebb tide. It was one kiss. I moved back, knelt, and then stood up, holding out my hand to help her. She looked up at me, squinting at the sun, and complied. We didn’t talk, picked ourselves up, and returned to find Martin leaning against a budding apple tree. Pamela sat down beside him and drew him against her, stroking his hair. He pushed his head into the hollow of her neck. I watched as her breathing slowed and he seemed to sleep. I watched them for a long time, and then I looked away.

The next day, Jenny said, “So you went to Apple Island with Pamela.”

“With the kid, her 14 year old kid.”

“So you finally–”

“No, I did not. Would I even tell you about Apple Island if I had?”

Jenny’s eyes looked like a storm. “What am I to you, Hopewell? What?”

“Oh, no, not this.”

“What am I to you?”

“Look. Let’s get something straight here. You don’t love me.”

“You’re as dumb as God made you, you know that?”

Jenny pulled on her suede jacket and walked to the door. I could feel an exit line coming, but she just opened the door and closed it behind her without even slamming it. Within seconds, though, it opened again.

“I’m back,” she said.

“I’m glad.”

“Listen to me now.”

“Okay.”

“Sit.”

I did.

“Jenny DePinna is my stage name. I’m Bonnie Winkowski.”

I stared at her. “Why?”

“Bonnie Jane Winkowski went to Immaculate High School in Port Wagner. Her father runs a duck farm. Her mother got a job for the first time in her life two years ago as a receptionist for an orthodontist.” Jenny paused.

“And how long have you known this?” I asked.

“I have known this since I was obsessed by you.”

“I know the feeling of being obsessed by me.”

“From the minute I saw you, that first day when you arrived from the airport.”

“A duck farm?”

“It’s not a joke. I’m not 22, I’m 26, and I’m four months older than you. I believe in mind-reading and reincarnation,” Jenny said.

“Why?”

“What?”

“No, why did you – Jenny DePinna?”

“How can you even—you think Robert-Doucette-Arthur-Hopewell would’ve given Bonnie Winkowski a second look? And Bonnie would never have made the first move. She lacked Jenny’s brass ovaries.”

“I thought you were a good actress. I had no idea. About, apparently, everything. Maybe there is something to reincarnation,” I said.

“Now you’re joking.”

“Now I want us to get dressed up and go out on a double date with ourselves.”

“Okay. And I want you never to tell anyone, ever, that I am four months older than you.”

I saw Bonnie Jane Winkowski in her Catholic school uniform: plaid skirt, white blouse, dark blazer and knee socks, a bow around her long pony tail. She’d be clutching an armful of books– and then she was Jenny DePinna, clutching me.

It was the first time that I, by any name, had been in love. Clairvoyant, I could see a voyage to Apple Island in our future.