by Alison Lurie
“Sure, it’s okay,” Polly repeated; what else could she say?
“What was that all about?” Stevie inquired audibly as he followed his mother down the hall.
“Nothing. Just somebody Jeanne knows, who’s been having trouble with her marriage.” Polly swallowed, distressed to hear herself lying — fudging, at least — to her son.
As soon as Stevie had left to visit a friend she got the details. Jeanne had phoned Betsy the night before Thanksgiving, with dramatic results. “I’m so grateful to you,” she cried, hugging Polly again. “Really, if you hadn’t suggested it, I might never have called her.”
At the other end of the line, Betsy had wept with relief. “I thought it was too late; I thought you never wanted to see me again,” she had sobbed happily. Then she had packed her bags, called a taxi, and come straight to Jeanne. While Polly was in Rochester they had had a joyous reunion in Polly’s bed.
“I knew it would be all right,” Jeanne said, smiling. “I mean, I knew you’d got Stevie’s room all ready for him, and I didn’t want to mess it up. Of course I changed the sheets again for you. Oh Polly, it was so lovely.” Jeanne held out her arms as if to embrace the whole world; her cheeks were flushed pink with retrospective pleasure. “You don’t mind?”
“No.” Polly shook her head, irritated to discover that she did mind. “Of course not. So where’s Betsy now?”
“She’s at her parents’ house up in New Canaan, till Monday. She was supposed to have gone there for Thanksgiving, with the husband, but she called to say she was sick. She’s going to tell them everything now.”
“Uh-huh,” Polly said. “So she’ll be staying there for a while?”
“Oh no; just for this weekend, it’s much too far to commute to the college, and of course we want to be together. We’ll share her place in Brooklyn Heights as soon as that creep leaves.” Jeanne leaned over the gladioli, pinching off a half-dead bloom.
“He’s going to move out, then?”
“Oh yes. He’ll have to, because Betsy owns half the apartment; it was bought partly with her parents’ money. But I thought that until then she could stay here.”
“He-yere?” Polly couldn’t prevent a break of dismay in the middle of the word.
“Just for a little while. After Stevie leaves, of course. I thought what we might do is move the bunk bed into your room, maybe take it apart into twin beds, that’d be more convenient for you. And then move the double into Stevie’s room for us.” She smiled brightly. “That would be so much nicer.”
“Well,” Polly said. “I don’t know.”
“Naturally Betsy would help with the expenses, so we’d all be saving money.”
“Mm,” Polly said, thinking that her friend hadn’t said “share.” But then, why should she? From Jeanne’s point of view, Polly was almost rich. Jeanne was scraping by on a mingy academic salary, and Betsy, who taught freshman composition part-time on a one-year contract, was even harder up.
All the same, Polly felt cross and beleaguered, like a child whose parents were arranging her life behind her back. She didn’t want Betsy in her apartment, and she wanted to sleep in her own bed. But to say so would sound selfish and grudging. And after all, it would only be for a few weeks, probably. It couldn’t be more, because Stevie would be home for good before Christmas. “That’s true,” she admitted.
“Oh, wonderful. Thank you, dear.” Jeanne, who had been shifting uneasily along the sofa, bounced up to give Polly another quick hug. “I want to apologize to you, too,” she added. “I know I’ve been awful to live with ever since I broke up with Betsy.”
“You haven’t, really.”
“Oh, yes, I have, Polly. I’ve been frightfully moody and distracted, and not much help around the house either. And you’ve been an angel to put up with me. But I’ll make it up to you now; we both will. Oh, I’m so happy. I’m going to call Betsy right now.”
“I’d like to ask you something,” Polly said after Jeanne had murmured a final series of childish endearments into the phone. “When Stevie gets home, could you give us some time alone to talk?”
“Oh, sure. Is something the matter?”
“No; I just didn’t get much chance to see him in Rochester. My family was all over the place, you know what they’re like. So if you could stay out of the way for an hour or so —”
“How do you mean, out of the way?” Jeanne said, her voice rising slightly. “Do you want me to go out and walk around the block for an hour? Because I can’t go into the park now, you know; it’s nearly dark out already.”
“No, of course not,” said Polly. “But if you’d just, I don’t know, go and work in my bedroom while I make dinner?”
“All right,” Jeanne agreed. “Just let me know when I can come out, okay?”
But in fact Jeanne didn’t stay in the bedroom. Instead, after Stevie returned, she wandered around the apartment like a cat whose territory had been invaded — though maintaining a considerate silence. Don’t worry, I’m not going to interrupt your conversation, her manner seemed to say. But you can’t fault me for going to the bathroom or looking for the Times.
Whether it was because of Jeanne’s hovering presence or not, Polly was unable to break through Stevie’s reserve, though he’d been fairly voluble on the plane and in the taxi from La Guardia, talking about what he wanted to do in New York and the kids he planned to see. Over supper he was still unnaturally quiet and polite; and whenever something almost like a conversation got going, it soon died away. Maybe because it was clear that though Jeanne was really trying, she found his subjects — skiing in Colorado, Star Trek, Halley’s Comet — deeply uninteresting. If it was going to be like this, Polly thought, she might as well have stayed in Rochester, surrounded by relatives. It might even have been better; if Stevie didn’t talk to her there she wouldn’t have noticed so much.
But was it really Jeanne’s fault, or had her son in fact become an alien? Because after the dishes were done, he spent the rest of the evening on the telephone and in front of the TV. (“Mom, do you mind? I don’t want to miss ‘Miami Vice.’ ”)
“Well, how was it?” Jeanne asked when he was in bed. “Did you have a good talk with Stevie?”
“Not yet, really.” Polly sighed. “We’re still sort of awkward with each other, you know.”
“Yes, I noticed that.”
“He’s not in Colorado now, but he still seems almost that far away. And he’s developed such awfully good manners.”
“He certainly eats much less sloppily,” Jeanne agreed.
“I don’t mean just his table manners. It’s, like, his whole attitude. He’s so cool and polite, it almost scares me. I just don’t know.” She paused, waiting for Jeanne to ask, “Don’t know what?”
“I mean,” she continued, “I guess I should expect it to take a while for him to feel at home again, but hell —” Again Polly waited, and again her friend did not speak. “Of course, at that age three months is a big chunk of your life; it’s like a year or so for you or me.” No comment. “I realize I’ve just got to hang in there, give him time. But right now I hardly recognize him as my own kid.”
“Polly, dear. Stevie’s fourteen now. He’s not your kid anymore. He’s growing up, turning into a man.” Jeanne pronounced the noun with distaste; “Turning into a monkey,” she might as well have said.
“I suppose so.”
“I know it’s hard for you to face facts sometimes.” Her friend’s voice was kinder now, soft and soothing. “But you’ve simply got to reconcile yourself to losing him eventually.”
It was Polly’s turn now not to answer. I don’t reconcile myself, I won’t! she thought. And it isn’t hard for me to face facts, either. She opened her mouth to say this, then shut it, remembering how thin the walls were; if she and Jeanne raised their voices in an argument Stevie might hear it. “Maybe,” she muttered finally. “Well, I’m getting sleepy. Goodnight.”
She stamped crossly down the hall to her room, and then lay
awake for a long time, wondering as she thrashed and turned whether Jeanne was right. Was her Stevie, the one she knew and loved, gone for good? Or was he only hidden under a laconic new manner and expensive Western clothes?
Polly had just finished making a late breakfast for her son the next morning and gone into the bathroom when she heard a smash of china and a shout of “Oh, fuck it!” from the kitchen.
She dropped the Times, pulled up her jeans, and hurried down the hall, arriving in time to hear Jeanne wail: “Oh, no! Not Betsy’s darling Japanese teapot!”
“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to —” Stevie had backed away from Jeanne’s misery and fury into a corner; his mouth was open, his elbows raised defensively.
“Oh, hell. Maybe we can mend —” Polly began.
“Don’t be stupid! Can’t you see it’s hopeless?” Jeanne stooped to the floor, then rose with a bony white fragment of china in each hand and an expression of deep bereavement. “Oh, she’ll be so sad!”
“Hey, I’m sorry. But I didn’t touch the thing, honest,” Stevie protested. “I just opened the cupboard door, and it fell off the counter. Why’d’ja have to leave it like that?”
“I left Betsy’s teapot exactly where I always leave it; where it belongs.” Jeanne was in control again; her tone was cool. “Anyone who had eyes in their head would have seen it —”
Stevie’s look of guilty dismay shifted toward exasperation. “Listen, I said I was sorry already, for shit’s sake.” Jeanne flinched at the obscenity, but made no other reply. “Whadda you want me to do? You want me to buy you a new one? Okay, I will.”
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that,” Jeanne said with a tight smile. “It was an antique; it belonged to Betsy’s grandmother.”
Half an hour later Polly squatted on the kitchen floor, wiping the worn marbled vinyl with a wet wadded paper towel. She was mopping up the last of the cinnamon rose tea, and also the last tiny sharp shards of Japanese china. From this position she heard the front door close, signaling that Jeanne had gone out to buy a new teapot. (“No, thanks, I’d rather do it myself. You wouldn’t know what to look for.”)
Now there were steps in the hall; Stevie slumped in the kitchen doorway.
“Aw, Mom,” he said. “You don’t hafta do that. I already cleaned up the mess.”
“I know you did, pal.” Polly sank back onto her haunches and smiled up at him. “I just want to be sure nobody comes in here in the middle of the night and starts screaming around because they’ve cut their foot. This china is really sharp.” She shook her head; she already had a slash on one knee.
“I guess she’d make a hell of a fuss.” He grinned.
Though this wasn’t what Polly had meant, she let it pass. She was so happy to have the real Stevie back, talking to her in his real voice. He had even, she noticed, changed into one of his old shirts, a red checked flannel that they had bought on a trip to Macy’s last winter, now too short in the sleeves.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, opening the refrigerator. “Can I have some of that cake, or were you saving it?”
“Sure you can have it, if you’re hungry.” She got to her feet. “Have anything you want.”
“Great.” He vanished behind the refrigerator door, emerging with the remainder of Jeanne’s apricot torte in one hand and a bottle of tonic in the other. “There’s never much to eat at Dad’s house.”
“That’s too bad.” Polly could not help grinning.
“Yeah, that Debbie, she’s always on a diet.”
“That’s too bad,” she repeated with equal insincerity.
“Hey,” Stevie said, chewing. “You’re not still pissed at me about this morning?”
“I never was pissed at you. It was an accident, that’s all. Only you’ve got to watch your language with Jeanne, okay, pal? Curse words freak her out. You know some people are like that.”
“Yeah. I know. Listen, Mom,” he added, swallowing.
“Mm?”
“How come Jeanne is staying here? Doesn’t she have anyplace else to live?”
“Well, not right now. She’s looking for an apartment.” Polly’s smile faded. “And she couldn’t go home for Thanksgiving, because she doesn’t have any real family.” (Not strictly true; Jeanne had a father and brother in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but she despised and feared them.) “Do you really mind it that she’s here?”
“I dunno.” Stevie shrugged. “I guess not. I mean, I know she’s company for you when I’m away. I just don’t see why you like her so much, that’s all.”
“We’re really good friends,” Polly said firmly. “She was awfully kind to me last month when I had the flu. And you’ve got to admit she’s a great cook. Wait till you taste the chocolate mousse she’s making for us tonight — you still like chocolate, don’t you?”
“Yeah, sure,” Stevie said, but without eagerness, and in his former constrained manner.
“I know Jeanne’s a little —” Polly’s voice seemed to freeze up. “Anyhow, I’m sure once you get to know her better you’ll like her.”
“I don’t hafta like her, Mom.” Stevie took a swig of tonic directly from the bottle; if Jeanne were to see this, she would be revolted. “You don’t like all my friends.”
“I do too,” Polly protested.
“You don’t like Billy all that much.”
“Well.” Polly grinned. “I guess maybe I don’t. But it’s nothing personal, it’s just that he’s such a computer freak; he never has anything to say to grown-ups.”
“Anyhow, Jeanne doesn’t like me either, so who cares?” Stevie shrugged and opened the refrigerator again.
I care, Polly wanted to say, but the words would not leave her mouth. “What makes you think that?”
“I d’know.” Stevie paused, looking at his mother over the open door of the fridge, his heavy eyebrows drawn into a puzzled frown. “It’s just — The way she keeps watching me. I feel like she’s kind of got it in for me; she wants me to fuck up. Like this morning. I figure she sort of left her dumb old teapot out on purpose, to see if maybe I would break it.”
“Oh, Stevie,” Polly exclaimed. “Jeanne wouldn’t do anything like that.” But her son, who was eating cranberry sauce with his fingers, did not reply.
An hour later, after Stevie had left, Jeanne returned carrying a plastic bag marked Pottery Barn.
“Did you find a teapot?” Polly looked around from her notes.
“Well. I found a kind of teapot.” Jeanne halfheartedly unwrapped a plain white pot. “It’ll have to do for a while.”
“How much was it? I’ll pay you now.”
“No rush, dear. It was nothing, only about twelve dollars.”
“That’s not nothing.” Polly stood up and began to look for her handbag.
“Please, don’t bother. I tell you what. Someday when I have time I’ll go over to Bloomie’s, and if I find a pretty one you can buy me that.” Jeanne’s smile was open and charming, her tone casual, but what Polly thought was that her friend was still furious.
“All right,” she agreed, for after all fair was fair. But what an awful lot of fuss about a “dumb old teapot”!
Not that that was so unusual. Jeanne always overvalued objects; she could go into raptures over some battered mirror frame or motheaten fringed shawl in a shop window on Columbus Avenue. The high point of her trip to England two years ago, to hear her tell it, had been the Victoria and Albert Museum, and during her occupation Stevie’s room had become a gallery of frayed silk and bubbled glass and chipped marquetry.
Jeanne cares for things more than she does for people, Polly thought. But then for most of her life Jeanne hadn’t had anyone of her own to care for. Her mother had died when she was ten, her father and brother were coarse heavy-drinking French-Canadian paternalist types, and she had no children. Polly looked at her friend again, but now with pity.
“Where’s Stevie, is he in my room?” Jeanne asked.
His room, you mean, Polly thought, but forbore to sa
y. “No, he’s gone visiting.”
“Ah.” Jeanne sank onto the sofa with a sigh, lit a cigarette, and picked up Vogue, which she occasionally bought herself as a treat the way she bought bags of chocolate-covered cherries. “You know,” she said casually over the magazine a few moments later, “it’s Stevie who should pay for Betsy’s teapot, not you.”
“And you know Stevie won’t have twelve dollars.” Polly almost laughed; it was characteristic of her son, as of her father — whom, she realized, he was also beginning to resemble physically — that he couldn’t save money. But Jeanne didn’t smile.
“I expect he has twelve dollars somewhere, in a savings account or whatever. Or at least he has an allowance.”
“You really think Stevie should pay you out of his allowance? But he only gets two dollars a week. Even if he gave you half of that, it’d take him a long time.”
“Well, why shouldn’t it?” Jeanne smiled. “He might learn something that way.”
“Learn something?”
“Yes, learn to be a little more careful of other people’s property. If that’s possible.” She laughed lightly.
“Well, maybe he could pay part of it,” Polly said, struggling with her own irritation. “But I don’t really think — It was just an accident, after all.” She looked at her friend for confirmation, but instead there was silence. “I mean, it’s not as if Stevie meant to break the teapot.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” Jeanne turned a page of Vogue with a scissoring sound.
“Oh, of course he didn’t.” Polly shook her head, smiling. “You —” She stopped. You’re both being ridiculously paranoid, she had been about to say, he thinks you left it out deliberately. But that could lead to real trouble.
“I realize Stevie’s your innocent child. Or rather, he was. But he’s growing up now, and you’ve got to grow up a little too.”
“You mean, you really believe —” Her voice rose.
