Fiona Range

by Mary McGarry Morris

  “Of course we did.” She felt queasy. She stared over the wheel, suddenly remembering the gleam of wet breasts bobbing in the water as she floated on her back, the churning laughter as Larry’s flabby arms thrashed toward her, the hairy white breach of his huge buttocks as he dove under her.

  “Well anyway,” Larry continued as he thumped his leg to the music, “I said we were kissing and then I said we were tryna dance but the dog kept humping us and then he said you let Brad Glidden—”

  “No, that’s not true!” she interrupted. “You know it’s not, right, Larry?” She pulled to the curb in front of the small white cape. The front door opened and Mr. Belleau was halfway down the front path in his red slipper socks before Larry saw him.

  “Oh boy oh boy oh boy,” he muttered, frantically fumbling with the latch when his father threw open the door.

  Fiona hadn’t seen Mr. Belleau in years. He looked like an old man, but his voice was the same deep growl she remembered. He ordered Larry out of the car, but then stood in his way berating him. He had been gone since early morning. Couldn’t he have at least called to say where he was or when he’d be back? “Your mother’s been a wreck, just a wreck all day!” Mr. Belleau said. Mrs. Belleau watched from behind the storm door.

  “I’m sorry I’m really really sorry Daddy,” Larry said with his head hung.

  His point made, Mr. Belleau’s gaze shifted. His eyes flashed with recognition and disgust. He sniffed and leaned closer. He lifted Larry’s right hand and smelled his fingers. “You’ve been smoking pot again, God damn it!” he cried, flinging Larry’s hand back in his face. “Get out of this goddamn car and get in the goddamn house!” He watched his bearish son shamble up the front walk. Larry’s wide jeans hung so low on his hips the cuffs dragged under his heels. He glanced back and waved. “C’mon! C’mon! Hurry it up!” Mr. Belleau barked, and Larry tried to run, but his feet tangled and he stumbled onto the first step, catching himself on the wrought iron railing. The door opened, and his tiny mother rushed out to help him. With her hand at his elbow she guided him into the house.

  Fiona looked away.

  “Tell me something, what’s in this for you? You think it’s funny? You get some kick out of turning him on like this?” Mr. Belleau was saying. “He’s damaged goods, he doesn’t know any better. But what the hell’s your excuse?”

  “No,” she tried to say, but he wouldn’t listen. He kept talking.

  “If it weren’t for the fact that your uncle’s been so good to us, I’d go in there right now and call him. But I won’t. Not now anyway. But be forewarned, Fiona Range, the next time he comes back like this, I won’t bother calling your uncle. I’ll just have you thrown in jail!”

  ■

  That night she let the machine answer every call. They were all from Patrick, either begging her to call him or angry she wasn’t there. The phone was ringing again now. She sat up in bed trying to read the biography of Abraham Lincoln she had started last fall. She just couldn’t get into it, but she suspected the fault wasn’t so much with the book as with her. It was like everything else in her life. “What’s your excuse?” Mr. Belleau had asked. Chester said she thought she had all the answers, when the real problem was that she never had the right questions. The ringing stopped and the answering machine message began to play. She looked toward the living room where Patrick’s disembodied voice filled the darkness.

  “Please call me,” he said, breathless as if from some strenuous activity. “It’s very important, Fiona. I have something for you. Something I want to show you.”

  She threw the book aside and ran to the phone. She stood over it, waiting while he also waited, listening for the click, for the receiver to be lifted. There was only the rise and fall of his labored breathing. This was all her fault. She had provoked this anger and confusion that neither seemed able to subdue.

  “God damn it,” he muttered. “I know you’re there. Why do you make me keep calling? Why are you doing this to me?”

  She jumped as the phone crashed down at the other end of the line.

  It was Friday. She was supposed to pick George up at seven. She had almost called to say maybe he shouldn’t go to the party after all. But then Elizabeth had called, leaving a strained, conciliatory message reminding Fiona that the party started at seven-thirty and to please call if she needed a ride or anything. Because there was no mention of George, Fiona assumed his coming had been worked out between them.

  Patrick had called twice in the morning, then three more times this afternoon. Hearing his voice in the stark slant of November sunlight made her cringe. It was the low, hungry way he said her name, turning it into as much of an intimacy as a warning. Would she please call him soon. He wanted to make things right. And to do this, there was something he needed to show her. It would help clear the air, he said. At five-thirty the phone rang again as she stepped out of the shower. She shivered in the cold clutch of Patrick’s raised voice informing her from the other room that he was at a pay phone. He had just driven by her apartment and seen her car so he knew she was there; knew, in fact, that right now at this very moment she was standing there, listening to him. “Why are you doing this?” he shouted. “Why won’t you let me explain? What are you trying to pull here? What the hell are you up to? What the hell do you want?” He paused. “Please, Fiona, please pick up. I’m right around the corner. I just want us to be friends. That’s all I want.” He paused again. “All right. I guess I’m getting the message here. I won’t bother you anymore. Is that what you want? Is that what the hell you want, God damn it!” He slammed down the phone.

  He was falling apart and by doing nothing she was only making it worse. No matter how painful it might become, she had to confront the truth. She couldn’t abandon Patrick the way she had everything else in her life.

  A moment later the phone rang again and she ran to answer it. She tried to hide her disappointment when she realized it was Rudy. He asked if he could stop in before the party. No, he couldn’t; she was trying to get ready now, she said, anxious to hang up so Patrick could call back.

  How about if he gave her a ride then? That way neither one would have to come home alone.

  “Actually, I won’t be. I’m picking up George,” she said.

  “George? Oh! Yes, George.” He sounded confused. “Grimshaw, right?”

  “Yah, I ended up inviting him,” she said quickly so he wouldn’t think Elizabeth had.

  “You did? Well, I didn’t know that. Obviously,” he said with a self-conscious laugh. “I guess I was just assuming you’d be going alone.”

  “Yah, well, so much for false assumptions,” she said, and for a moment he didn’t say anything.

  “Fiona, if I could just come over . . . I mean, I know there’s not much time, but it’s important.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m really running late here—”

  “I just need to tell you something,” he interrupted.

  “I’ll see you at the party. You can tell me there.” All about you and Elizabeth, she thought, as she hung up and dialed Patrick’s number. He didn’t answer so she left a brief message: she wouldn’t be able to call later because of her aunt and uncle’s party, but she’d call him first thing tomorrow.

  The minute she pulled into George’s driveway he hurried out of the house.

  “Can’t wait to see me, huh?” she said as he got into the car. It irritated her to think he had rushed out before she could get inside his house.

  He didn’t answer. At first his seat belt had been caught in the door, but now that it was out he couldn’t attach it.

  “Here,” she said, reaching, her hand over his to guide it into the buckle. “What happened?” She laughed as she backed out of the driveway. “All of a sudden you’re mechanically inept?”

  “No, just socially.” He kept swallowing and wetting his lips. He tugged at his tie again to straighten it. He took a deep breath and tried to smile. “I can’t remember the last time I went to a party.” He loo
ked at his watch. “So are we early or late? I couldn’t remember if it starts at seven-thirty or eight.”

  “Seven-thirty. We’re going to be fashionably late.”

  “Oh,” he said, then they drove in silence for a while.

  She heard him sigh a couple more times. “Hey, you look really sharp, George. I like that jacket.” She had forgotten how handsome he really was, especially dressed up.

  “Thanks, and you look very nice too.” He looked at her. “I like that coat.”

  “Oh, you do, huh?” She laughed. “I’ve only worn it for the last five winters, but wait’ll you see what’s under it.”

  He looked out the window. “Going to be a lot of people there tonight?” he asked quickly.

  “I think so. This is probably their biggest party ever, now that Uncle Charles has been nominated for the Supreme Court.”

  “Superior Court,” he said. “Or at least that’s what someone said.”

  “Oh yah?” She paused to hide her annoyance. Ever since they’d been children, he’d been informing and correcting her about events in her own family. “So what about Elizabeth? What did she have to say?”

  He glanced over uneasily. “Same thing: Superior Court.”

  “I mean about tonight. You know, about your coming with me.”

  “Well, not much really, she . . . I mean, it was one of those quick conversations. We didn’t have much of a chance to talk,” he said, loyal as ever.

  “So it’s okay with her then if you go tonight.” She looked at him. They were almost there. “Go with me, that is,” she added.

  “Well I certainly hope so!” he declared with a blustery laugh that only seemed to irritate his throat. He coughed softly into his hand, then took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  She pulled down the long driveway, then turned so she’d be facing out. Both sides of the road were already lined with cars, all the way down to Lucretia Kendale’s property. She smiled to see the gracious old house she’d grown up in blazing with lights. Theirs had always been the first house decorated for the holidays. The red-ribboned wreaths on the glittering windows filled her with giddy excitement as she remembered how wonderful this time of year always was.

  “Before we go in, there’s something I want to ask you,” she said.

  He stared miserably over the dashboard.

  She kept looking at him. There weren’t many choices with George, just black or white. He made it too easy. “Do you love me, George?” she blurted, unable to resist, then burst out laughing to see his mouth gape open. “No, no, no. I’m only kidding. It’s a joke! It’s a joke! It’s a joke, joke, joke,” she cried, wincing. “No, really. What I was going to ask you was, is this okay? Are you sure Elizabeth won’t be upset? I mean, I don’t want her having an anxiety attack or anything in the middle of the party.”

  “She knows I’m coming,” he said, looking up at the house with surprising defiance.

  Chapter 16

  Across the room her uncle was surrounded by admiring friends. Tall and slender, with bright blue eyes and pure white hair, he was a uniquely handsome man. There had always been an unusual sheen to his skin, a glow, as if of some rare inner vitality that both set him apart and drew people to him. Aunt Arlene was telling her about last night’s announcement at the Chamber of Commerce dinner dance. Judge Hollis had been named this year’s winner of the Dearborn Citizen of the Year Award.

  “He must be pleased,” she said.

  “He should be, but you know your uncle,” her aunt confided. “He says they scraped the bottom of the barrel to get to him.”

  He threw back his head, laughing at something a younger man in the group was saying, then suddenly turned and looked at her. He excused himself and hurried to greet her.

  “Well, look at you!” he said, holding her hands at arm’s length. “Doesn’t this young lady look pretty special, Arlene?”

  “Yes, she does,” her aunt agreed, smiling at her. “Beautiful, just beautiful.”

  “I can’t get over it,” he said, leaning to kiss her cheek.

  “What?” Fiona stiffened. “What can’t you get over?”

  “How nice you look,” he said with quiet guardedness, his smile as quickly blurred as a ripple in water, his eyes fast on hers.

  “You seem so surprised. What’d you think, I was going to show up in a G-string or something?” she said, already hating herself and wanting the words, the moment back, but of course, as usual, once again, it was too late.

  “Fiona, your uncle was only complimenting you. And I think you know that,” her aunt said softly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “To answer your question, Fiona, I expected you to arrive looking every bit as lovely as you do.”

  “Thank you.” She was thoroughly ashamed.

  “Well! See you in a bit,” he said in the flat, wounded voice only she could provoke. Someone had called his name. Aunt Arlene followed him to the door.

  As a child Fiona had adored him, but then with adolescence began to sense his discomfort around her. There came to be invisible limits, wordless signposts, rules unarticulated beyond the flash of his eyes or his tightening grip on her arm. Uneasiness grew into almost constant disapproval. She would glance up to find him regarding her with the same aversion as he might any chronic offender in his courtroom. Her aunt tried to mediate the many clashes by getting them to at least acknowledge the fact of their opposite natures. Uncle Charles would try to be more patient and understanding, but knowing she could agitate him in ways no one else could became too heady an empowerment. She took pride in her cousins’ shock each time she crossed the line or stood her ground. It seemed proof not just of her strength, but of her very identity, her role in this close-knit family. Central to their growing conflict was the fierce need she sensed in him. It was almost as if he were so desperate for her happiness because everyone else’s depended upon it. There was little one could ever do to please the other. Her willfulness had always set her apart. If she could not have her own mother, she could be just like her. And yet the harder she tried to be different, the more deeply she resented his pained acceptance of it. She was the flaw in a seamless life, the foundling he could neither abandon nor love the way he did his own flesh-and-blood children.

  Tonight he and Aunt Arlene looked every inch the happily unpretentious couple they had always been. They wore the same clothes every year. She had on the long, shapeless red velvet dress and he wore the holly green blazer, red suspenders, and red Santa Claus tie he would wear to all the parties between now and Christmas. Aunt Arlene had paused by the laurel-swagged mantel to talk to a vaguely familiar overweight man and his tiny wife. Fiona wondered what she could be saying to make them laugh so uproariously. She had never considered her aunt a particularly clever woman, certainly not a witty one. Her life’s greatest concern was the well-being of her family and countless friends. Women were always telling Fiona how much they adored Arlene. She was the kindest person, and so considerate, just the sweetest, dearest thing. She was forever writing thank-you notes, messages of encouragement, congratulations and condolences, sending flowers, baskets of cookies she’d baked, delivering casseroles for mercy meals. For all her charity, there was little she could be given back. For all her affection, it was the hard bony protrusions that Fiona would remember most of an embrace. There was a remoteness about her, not coldness but an almost regal inviolability. And as is often the way for women said to have grown into their looks, simplicity had become her most attractive feature, her plainness its own stark adornment. She had never colored her wiry steel-gray hair. Even tonight her only makeup was pale lipstick, her jewelry a thin strand of flawless pearls.

  Every room downstairs was filled with guests. Red-vested waiters were passing hors d’oeuvres on small silver trays. The bar was in the TV room and the buffet was being set up in the long, narrow dining room. Ham, tenderloin, lobster pie, pastas cooked to order on small portable burners, salads: it was the holiday party by which all others woul
d be measured. Fiona wandered from room to room, enjoying her brief encounters. She hadn’t seen most of these people since last year’s party. She paused now at a circle of women to admire Lily Tyler’s jade necklace and earrings, which everyone agreed were the same green as her eyes. Aunt Arlene had asked Fiona earlier to make a lot of her old friend if she could. This was Lily’s first night out since her husband’s death in August. Lily hugged Fiona and told her how beautiful she looked. Fiona returned the hug and compliment, then slipped away to the study. She had forgotten how good she was at this, how deftly she cold flit into a group, weave herself effortlessly into the conversation, then float off to the next one. So many people, the close hum, the gloss, the fragments of words as she passed, the flickering candle flame—it all shimmered around her like an enormous bubble. She could feel herself growing more and more animated, and she hadn’t even had a drink yet. She loved the commotion, loved parties, loved to laugh, knowing all the while she was being watched and envied by other women who wished they could be as clever, as amusing, as natural in this contrived setting as she was. She truly was.

  She looked around for Elizabeth, who was probably hiding upstairs. This was always the one night when Aunt Arlene really appreciated Fiona’s spirited nature, her indefatigable determination to have a good time. But not her uncle of course. He would try to keep her in focus all night long to make sure she didn’t drink too much, laugh too loudly, make any inappropriate comments to her elders. She wondered what Patrick was doing. No. She didn’t want to think of him now when she was surrounded by so much festivity. Poor Patrick. She didn’t want to feel guilty again tonight.

  She didn’t know where George had gone. She hadn’t seen him for quite a while now. When she and George had arrived, Rudy and Elizabeth had been in the kitchen; Elizabeth in a corner white-faced with tightly folded arms and downcast eyes as Rudy stood close talking to her. His deep concern and her cousin’s cold misery angered Fiona again now as she thought of it. She regretted bringing George. She tried to remember why she had even asked him. She should have thought it through first. Because of it Rudy was miserable. Once again she’d been too impulsive. She fanned herself with her hand. It was getting warm in here.