Winona and Hubert were similarly at odds with the situation. Hubert was bewildered. Is this what came of living in New York? Winona expressed concern, worrying for Joan’s safety. Joan and Richard’s first visit to Cincinnati as a couple provoked furtive and sometimes hostile stares on the train and on the streets of the Queen City. But the Adams family celebrated their daughter’s homecoming in the usual way, with tables groaning with food and rooms packed with relatives, friends, and nosy neighbors dropping in to say hello to little Joanie Adams and her white husband.
“Your . . . Richard . . . your husband,” Winona fumbled over the words. “You didn’t tell me that he smokes.” She looked toward the window where Richard and a few of the men stood, shivering in the November cold, smoking on the back stoop because Winona didn’t allow tobacco in the house. She frowned with disapproval.
Joan sighed with relief. Her mother disapproved of Richard’s smoking more than she did of Richard. “Momma . . .”
Winona held up her hand and turned back to the dining room table, where she had been setting up with desserts, plates, and forks. “Don’t mind me, Joan Ann,” she said. “I’ll get used to this. To him, I mean,” she added, stealing another quick look out the window at Richard.
“Are you talking about the cigarettes or the fact that he’s white?”
Winona looked up. Her lips curled upward in a slight smile. “Both. Joanie, I just want you to be safe. This . . . are you safe in New York? With him, I mean. Things are different there, right? Well, they’d have to be.”
Joan smiled at her mother and quickly looked away before her thoughts betrayed her. “We’re fine, Mom.”
Winona set the cake gently on the stand, licking a smear of coconut icing from her finger. Joan dipped her finger across another stray smear of icing and brought it to her lips.
“Joan Ann!” Her mother swatted at her, a huge grin on her face. “It’s good?”
Joan nodded. “It’s wonderful!”
The women laughed and went into the kitchen to gather up the other desserts, Winona’s question forgotten except by Joan.
That was the thing about New York City, Joan mused, glad that her mother hadn’t pressed the issue. Life was different, brilliantly different. The city had . . . well, more of everything: people, noise, smells, buses, cars. More clubs and art to see. More music to listen to and places to go. It was different from Cincinnati. And yet . . . the judge’s secretary’s surly attitude when they’d married; glares from people on the streets; slow service at a restaurant until Rich, furious, threw down his napkin and stormed out, dragging Joan with him; the apartment super who’d hemmed and hawed about renting them a place, finally blurting out that the owners wouldn’t like it. New York City appeared to be more open and different. But in many ways it was the same.
Joan and Richard were the same too, the same as any newly married couple. Joan graduated and took a teaching job. Rich continued his “government” work. They had a tiny apartment, argued over whose turn it was to take out the trash, over Richard’s socks, which had a way of ending up on the bedroom floor, and Joan’s nylons, which took an eternity to dry on the shower rod in the postage-stamp-sized bathroom.
“How many of these . . .” Richard plucked the nylons off the rod, snagging one of them with his finger. “Damn! Do these things multiply at night or what?” He handed them over to Joan, who snatched them from him, then held up the one that now had a prominent hole in it.
“Rich!”
Rich’s cheeks colored. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I’ll buy you another pair.”
“Yes, you will,” she said. She waved the stocking in the air, the sheer fabric swirling like a magic ribbon until the toe of the stocking, still damp, landed on Richard’s nose.
“Hey! JoJo, quit!” He sneezed, then grabbed the stocking, and then he grabbed Joan.
She giggled and waved her hand back and forth in front of his eyes. “You will buy me a pair of Hanes stockings from Lord & Taylor. I repeat: you will buy me a pair of Hanes stockings, size 7½, from Lord & Taylor.”
“What are you doing?” Rich chuckled, nuzzling her neck.
“I’m hypnotizing you,” Joan said, closing her eyes. “I’m hypnotizing you into buying me a new pair of stockings.”
“You don’t need to do that,” Richard murmured. “I’m already under your spell.”
* * *
Joan sat on the couch in the front room, her eyes closed, her back resting on a pillow, her feet submerged in a tub of warm water and Epsom salts. The window was open, and the noise of Greenwich Avenue floated up and into the apartment along with the mild un-March-like evening air. On the outside, she was the picture of Buddha-like serenity. Inside, she was Snidely Whiplash, plotting the imminent demise of all twenty-five students in room 10, her fourth grade class in East Harlem. It had been a dreadful day. Every child in her class seemed intent on working her nerves, to the point that she’d ended up shouting at them and attracting the attention of the principal, Mrs. Bamford. Joan wondered whether she and Cricket had been that bad when they were nine years old. If so, she’d apologize to Mrs. Ferguson, her fourth grade teacher, the next time she visited Cincinnati. Worse yet, it was only March. She had to endure these demons until the first week of June. Joan sighed. The bunion on her right toe was throbbing again.
Six years teaching. And it was always the same. By this point in the school year, her head hurt, her back ached, and her jaw was tight. Would she ever learn?
She heard the sound of the key in the lock and the door opening. “Jo? Are you here? How was your day? I’ve got some news!”
Joan didn’t open her eyes, but she smiled. “In here!”
“Here you are,” Rich announced. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “You look done in.” Noticing the tub of water for the first time, he added, “And your feet hurt. What happened?”
Joan shook her head. “It’s a story longer than War and Peace.”
“Are you hungry? If your feet hurt, I can run down to—”
“I’m starving. But I’ll go with you. I’ve been sitting here long enough, reliving every moment of my ordeal in room 10. Sounds like the name of a B movie. What’s this?”
A packet had landed in her lap. She picked it up and turned it over. Pan Am. “Airplane tickets?”
Richard grinned. “What would you say to a belated honeymoon in Europe to celebrate our anniversary?”
They’d talked about Paris for months—Rich had been there for work once, but his trip had been during the school year and she’d been unable to go with him.
“I’d say yes, but . . .”
“But? But what?”
“Well . . .” Joan lifted her feet out of the tub, swiped them with a towel, and stood to walk into the bedroom. A few moments later, she returned and slid an envelope into Richard’s hand.
“Tickets,” she said, grinning. “To the Met for Carmen, Victoria de los Angeles in the lead role. For our anniversary!” She’d been saving for months to get the money for perfect seats, orchestra, row 17, seats 1 and 2.
“When?”
Joan told him. Richard’s initial look of apprehension faded.
“Perfect. Two nights before we leave. We’ll start celebrating our anniversary on Thursday at the Met and end it at the Eiffel Tower.”
* * *
A few days in London, then a quick stop in Amsterdam, and on to glorious Paris, where they stayed in a small hotel on the Left Bank, ate croissants and drank strong French coffee for breakfast; bread, cheese, and meats for lunch; and amazing concoctions for dinner at places in the 5th Arrondissement where Richard knew the proprietors. They meandered through the city, taking in every tourist stop with as much unabashed enthusiasm as they could, not worrying about how “American” they looked: le Louvre, l’Arc de Triomphe, Versailles, la Sacré-Coeur. Joan’s French was appalling, but she enjoyed trying it out. Richard served as tour guide and translator even though he could read and understand the language better than h
e actually spoke it. When they visited the Eiffel Tower, he politely asked a passing gendarme to take a photo of them for “posterity.”
Leah was born the next year, named for her paternal great-grandmother as well as for her father’s favorite opera.
Chapter 15
Joan
The teachers at Joan’s school threw her a baby shower, as did Dorothy. That afternoon Joan and Rich’s tiny apartment was packed with giggling women, a few fussy babies, and pink and yellow wrapping paper variously covered with little bunnies and fuzzy ducklings. “Baby Top,” as she was christened by her godmother, Dorothy, had every gadget and doodad available for babies, including an ornate crib sent by Rich’s father, Ira.
“Okay, Brother,” David said as he and Rich awkwardly maneuvered the gargantuan carton through the narrow door of the apartment, down the tiny hall, and into the front room. “Get your toolbox out. We have work to do.” The brothers set the carton on the floor with a thump that was guaranteed to elicit a visit from Mr. Ramos in the apartment below.
Joan was pacing the floor, patting Leah on the back to get her to burp.
“Are you sure it’s only a crib in there? And not a body? Or two?”
“I’m sure,” David gasped out. “I caught a peek of this thing in the window display at Schwartz. It’s a doozie.”
“It’d have to be,” Rich said, returning from the kitchen with a toolbox. “The question is, where will we put it? Our bed takes up most of the bedroom.”
Joan scanned the small living room. In the years of their marriage so far, they’d used more of their “extra” money to travel, to attend concerts, the theatre, and the opera, than they had on furniture. A planter in front of the window, one small apartment-size sofa, one Queen Anne–style chair (also on the smallish side), a coffee table (used), and a bookshelf.
“What if we put it in here?” she suggested. “I think it would fit. Maybe.” It really was a huge box. “Maybe not . . .” she murmured.
Rich slit the packing tape with his box cutter.
“But what if she cries? You won’t be able to hear her,” David commented.
Joan laughed. “This baby girl has lungs strong enough to sing Carmen! Or Brunhilde!” As if aware that she was being discussed, Baby Top opened her eyes and stared at her mother. “Leontyne, look out.”
Rich planted a kiss on his daughter’s cheek.
“How many nicknames does one little girl need? If you don’t call her by her given name, she won’t know what name to answer to.” He nuzzled the baby’s cheek and murmured, “Will you, My Little Dumpling?”
Joan smirked. David chuckled.
“Oh, you’re one to talk. Let’s see. Dimples. Sugar Cookie. Dumpling and, my favorite, Baby Stinky Bottom.”
David laughed. Rich’s cheeks flushed.
“But only on special occasions,” he said.
“And Carmen,” Joan added.
Baby-Top-Dumpling-Sugar Cookie-Stinky Bottom let out an ear-splitting cry.
Rich grinned.
“Yes, no doubt about it! She can sing Carmen!”
The crib was gigantic and ornate—French country fused with Victorian. It came in so many pieces that it took the brothers over four hours to put it together. When they were finished, they collapsed on the living room floor—what was left of it now that the crib held court—toasting themselves with beer and Chinese takeout.
“It’s different, that’s for sure,” Rich said, casting a doubtful look at the new crib in which Leah was sleeping.
“And huge!” David added, tiptoeing over to check on his niece. “She only takes up one-tenth of the thing.”
“Don’t worry. She’ll grow into it.”
“What on earth possessed Dad to buy it?” Rich asked, although Joan could tell from the tone of his voice that he was pleased.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s a gift,” Joan said. “I’ll call him tomorrow to say thank you.”
David cleared his throat.
Rich said, “No. I’ll call him and say thank you. If you call and Mom answers the phone . . .”
She’ll hang up.
Rich had explained it to her, but she still didn’t understand. As far as Bella was concerned, Richard was dead and Joan was a non-person. Except that Rich wasn’t dead, he was alive. It made her crazy to think about it. But, as Rich and then David explained, their mother had performed the mourning rituals, so in her mind it was official.
Even so, Joan wasn’t giving up. “Okay. So I won’t call. I’ll write. I’ll send a note to—”
“Dad,” David interrupted.
Joan smiled. “Y-e-ssss, to your dad at—”
“His office,” her husband piped in. “I’ll get you the address.”
Joan sighed. “Okay. I’ll write the thank-you note to your dad and mail it to his office. I don’t want him to think I wasn’t brought up right. Momma would be horrified if she thought that I—we—received a gift and didn’t send a proper thank-you note.”
“Emily Post,” David said, his thin face, so like Rich’s, splitting into a wide grin. “You married Emily Post.”
Chapter 16
Carmen
Carmen waved her arms around in a frenzy of searching, scattering notepaper, news clippings, and snapshots into a shower of confetti.
“No! No, no, no!”
She had read the last letter.
She’d been in a cool groove, such a smooth Zen zone of letter reading, Diet Coke drinking balanced with quick potty breaks, that it hit her in the head like a hundred-pound weight. She was out of letters, photos, and scrapbooks. The realization threw her into a panic. Carmen had been sure, had been positively certain, that this mystery—her mystery—would be solved once she finished the last letter. That’s the way it happened in books. That’s the way it happened in movies. That one final letter, the one that told all. But it wasn’t happening here. Joan’s last letter to her mother, quickly scribbled, appeared to be a thank-you note, gratitude for a baby gift paired with a benign comment on the weather (“It was humid”), and that was all. That was it. It was like the ending to The Sopranos—ordinary, dull, and a setup to nowhere and anywhere.
Carmen stretched and took a deep breath, then took her place on the floor again in front of the coffee table. She excavated a legal pad from beneath a stack of postcards and read over the lists she’d created, two columns: “Things I know,” “Things I don’t know.” What she knew was that her mother had moved to New York to finish college, fell in love, and married Richard Topolosky, worked as a teacher, went to clubs and concerts, traveled, loved the opera . . .
Which is why she named me . . . Carmen mused, fingering a small stack of faded ticket stubs. Joan must have saved them from every opera she’d seen. Aida, The Marriage of Figaro, La Boheme, and others.
Her eyes scanned the “Things I don’t know” list. It was a short list with long implications. Why did the marriage break up? Abuse? Infidelity? What happened to Richard? Is he still alive?
She hadn’t found a death certificate. She hadn’t found a divorce decree either. Carmen jotted a few more words on her tablet: “marriage license,” “divorce decree,” “birth certificates,” “death certificates,” “the laws of New York governing divorce, adoption.”
She looked up and realized that she hadn’t drawn the blinds. She reached to turn off the lamp and sat for a few moments in the dark, looking out over the rolling hills southeast toward the twinkling lights of Cincinnati in the distance, letting her mind wander.
She knew a lot and she knew nothing. And what she knew for sure was that she had not known her mother. She clicked the lamp back on and picked up the letters, placing them back into their envelopes in chronological order. There was one in Grandma Nona’s handwriting, elegant and strong with well-placed Victorian-style swirls and flourishes. The envelope was missing and Nona had not dated the letter. The last one, the last letter actually received by her mother after her move back to Cincinnati was from Cousin Dorothy. This time the
letter was missing and only the envelope remained, Dorothy’s address circled most likely as a reminder for Joan to record it in her address book.
The postmark was smudged, as was the return address. Dorothy’s handwriting, like Dorothy, was bold and letter perfect. She remembered Cousin Dorothy well, a feisty, irreverent woman with a penchant for whiskey sours and jazz. She was so cool, so hip—she had entertained the likes of James Baldwin, Billie Holiday, and Ralph Ellison—that it was hard to remember she had been a WAC in World War II and then returned to graduate school, becoming an English professor and college librarian.
The paper was fragile, practically coming apart. Carmen wondered if she should wear white gloves when handling it, as curators did with ancient papyrus. The postmark caught her eye again, and she picked up the magnifying glass that had been so useful when she was studying the old photos or trying to read the elaborate handwriting in some of the letters. Dorothy had posted the letter in New York City at Union Station on August 30, 1967. 1967. Carmen stared at the postmark again.
The fireproof strongbox was a fixed presence in the back of the closet in the second bedroom even though it was nearly invisible, covered by tote bags and long coats. It was gray, unobtrusive, and as heavy as a concrete block. Carmen had put it in the corner for safety reasons: she had banged her toe on it more times than was good for her. She sprinted down the hall to the back bedroom and dragged it out of its hiding place into the middle of the floor. She paused a few seconds to remember the combination, then turned the dials and opened it.
A few jewelry boxes, the pearls she never wore but cherished, her marriage license, her divorce decree, Social Security card . . .
The Secret Women Page 8
