What’s the trouble. If I knew, I could fix it. “Oh, I just haven’t felt like myself since the accident, I guess.” That’s what we call Stephen’s death, “the accident.”
George nodded solemnly. “We all miss him.”
I nodded solemnly, too, but that wasn’t it. I’m not sure anyone but Ruth really misses Stephen. That sounds terrible, I take it back—Carrie’s a mess, sometimes I think she’s never going to be her old self again. Well, me, then: as fond as I was of my son-in-law, as much as I approved of him for Carrie, I don’t miss him, put it that way. Not that he wasn’t a fine, decent, admirable man, good husband and father, all that. He was always standoffish, though, and now it seems to me he’s just standing off a little farther.
“Do you remember if heart trouble ran in Stephen’s family?” I asked. “Birdie told me I told her that’s how his father died, but I stood her down and said that wasn’t it at all. Do you have any such recollection?”
“Well, now, that rings a bell—”
“No, it was something else, it wasn’t heart. Stephen’s attack was a fluke, heart does not run in that family.”
“Maybe so.” He shrugged. He doesn’t make associations the same way I do—one of our many differences. Stephen’s death was Stephen’s death; it didn’t make George worry more about his prostate, or think about buying a plot at Hill Haven, or look at his old man’s face in the mirror and ask it where his life’s gone. Supposedly George lives a life of the mind, but it doesn’t always seem to me to be his own mind.
He started drumming his fingers on the keyboard space bar. “Guess who was at Carrie’s this afternoon,” I said to keep his attention. “When I got there with Birdie and Ruth.”
“Who?”
“Guess.”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“Come on.”
“Dana—”
“Okay. Jess Deeping.”
He looked blank. Then, “Oh—that fellow, the one who’s on the town council?”
“Yes, but—the one who used to be Carrie’s boyfriend! In high school.” God, men. “You remember, I know you do. You didn’t care for him any more than I did.”
“That boy? Really?” Hard to believe, but he was just now making the connection between childhood friend and Clayborne city councilman. “Well, he turned out all right, I guess. Did you and Carrie have a nice visit?” he asked politely, eyes drifting toward his computer screen.
“Get this, George.” I leaned in closer. He frowned at my hip, which was encroaching on his papers. “Remember the Arkists?”
“The artists?”
“Arkists. The religious cult that started up around here years ago, the paper did a story. Those people who called themselves the Arkists? The Sons of Noah?”
“No.”
“Oh, you do, too. The ringleader was that tobacco farmer, Pletcher, something Pletcher. Carrie went to school with the son.”
“Oh, yes, yes, very, very vaguely. But it wasn’t a cult, I don’t believe, it was a sect. I thought they’d died out by now.”
“Cult, sect—no, they didn’t die out, and the old man’s still alive. And the son not only owns the farm next door to Jess Deeping, he’s also his very good friend.”
“You don’t say.”
“And—follow me, now—this cult is all set to build an ark—an ark, I’m saying ark—and Jess Deeping wants Carrie to build the animals!”
“What?”
“A life-size ark! They want to sail it on the river for the glory of God! Can you believe it?”
No.” He joined me in a wonderful laugh, our best in ages, we leaned back and rocked with it. “Why, that makes no sense at all.”
“I know! You should’ve heard Jess Deeping trying to explain it.”
“What did Carrie say?”
“She said no, of course.” But not forcefully enough, if you ask me; she left room for hope, left the door open a crack. “I don’t think so,” she told Jess Deeping, and “I just can’t imagine it. But I’m flattered you thought of me.” Baloney. It wasn’t flattering, it was frightening.
“She does need a job, though,” I told George. “Soon, because she could lose that house.”
“I still say she ought to sell it. Move someplace smaller.”
“I know, but Ruth loves it. No, Carrie needs a good paying job, that’s what she needs. She has to get out of that house, quit making those damn flower arrangements. Lord, they make me shiver, dried-up little things. They look like nests, they look like dead animals. If she’d gotten an education degree twenty years ago, none of this would be happening. She could’ve been teaching art at the middle school right now, maybe even the high school. George.”
“Mm?”
“I’ve invited Brian Wright to dinner tomorrow night.”
He looked up at that. “What for? Brian Wright? I thought Carrie and Ruth were coming tomorrow.”
“He’s thinking of hiring an assistant.”
“Brian is? How do you know?”
“He told me—I ran into him at the bank. This’ll be good, wait and see. Brian’s on the rise.”
George sniffed.
“He is, he’s got gumption, he’s making something of himself. Carrie could do a lot worse.”
He looked alarmed.
“In a boss, she could do worse in an employer. That’s all I’m talking about.”
Suspicion narrowed his eyes for a second. But then he lost interest and turned full face to his computer screen. My time was up.
* * *
I served pot roast. I can make smarter, more glamorous meals—the other night I made chicken Monterey for the Becks, and a Peking duck last month for the academic dean and his wife. But Brian Wright is divorced, his wife got the kids, and he lives by himself, and something just told me a nice pot roast would be the thing. Warm and homey.
I thought the evening went well. Brian arrived first, and when Carrie saw him, there was just the tiniest nervous moment, but I don’t think anyone noticed it but me. Well, and her. Thank God she looked all right for a change; she had on slacks and a sweater, perfectly nice, and her hair pulled back in a barrette, even a little makeup, hallelujah. Compared to the last time I saw her, she looked like Grace Kelly. She’s forty-two, but she never looked it until Stephen died. And Ruth, bless her heart, I swear she gets cuter every day. She’s going to be prettier than Carrie, I predict. She needs some poise and some of that nervous energy burned off, but one of these days, look out.
We had drinks in the living room, where it came up that Brian lifts weights. This I didn’t know; he’s fortyish, and I thought he was stocky, a touch overweight, but no, it’s all muscle. Now I can see it—he’s got those sloping shoulders bodybuilders have; his neck’s as big around as my thigh. He made the room smaller, and not just with his physique. He’s so full of energy and enthusiasm, a complete extrovert. He felt like a breath of fresh air on my sad, quiet family. He wears a buzz cut and a neat little goatee, of all things. Now I don’t usually care for facial hair on a man, I think it’s tacky, and no one should be allowed to wear a crew cut after he’s ten. But somehow Brian Wright manages to carry these two fashion mistakes off. Maybe it’s his size? You want to give the benefit of the doubt to somebody that big.
And eat? He gobbled up everything in front of him, and I kept the plates moving. No leftovers from this dinner. I know George doesn’t like him, but he made an effort to talk and be sociable, and that helped smooth over the times Carrie clicked off. It happens all the time, she’ll be pleasant and attentive one minute, lost in space the next. I’m so worried about her. I want to ask, “Honey, are you on drugs?” and I don’t mean the kind doctors prescribe.
I was the one who finally brought up business. I waited till we finished eating and were having our second cups of coffee, still at the dining room table. “So, Brian,” I said casually, “how are things at the Other School?”
“Great, just great, Mrs. Danziger, this is the best semester we’ve had. We’ve got t
welve classes up and running right now, and about six more planned for winter term. We’ll be going to four quarters starting in the spring.”
“Why, that’s wonderful, and in such a short time, too.”
“Just about three years now.” He smiled down, modest but proud, into the bottom of his rice pudding bowl. “I can’t complain about growth, that’s for sure. The whole thing took off like a rocket.”
“Well, the town needed it,” I said.
“It did,” he agreed, winking at me. “It just didn’t know it.”
The Other School is one of those alternative, community-based “free” schools that do well in the big cities but aren’t very common in towns as small as Clayborne. Except for the college, there’s no higher or adult education in our three-county area. Brian saw an opportunity and started the school on a very small scale, practically in his spare time, while he was still working as the registrar at Remington. It grew faster than anybody imagined, and eventually he quit the registrar job to be a full-time entrepreneur. “He’s crazy,” George said, and plenty of people agreed with him, Carrie’s husband included. “It won’t fly and he’ll lose his shirt,” they said, but he didn’t, and now the only question they were asking was why somebody hadn’t thought of it sooner.
“It must keep you terribly busy,” I said. “Tied to the office, no outside life to speak of. Unless, of course, you’ve got good help.”
Carrie set her cup down and looked at me. I thought she’d have figured it out by now, but obviously the plot was just hitting her. She’s not usually so slow.
Brian picked up instantly, such a clever boy—of course it helped that I’d already planted the seed in his mind at the bank. “Interesting you should say that, because as it happens I have been looking for some help. Not formally, I haven’t advertised yet, just been keeping my eyes open.” He looked straight at Carrie. “It’s gotten too much for me. I’ve got a wonderful girl, but she’s more clerical, you know, she follows directions. What I need is somebody who can make decisions, somebody bright who can talk to the instructors on their own level. Chris—that’s my secretary—she’s a sweetheart, I’d be lost without her, but now I really need somebody a cut above, you know what I mean.” Above his goatee, his cheeks glowed pink with good health. “May I have a little more coffee?”
Carrie cleared her throat. I, her mother, heard amusement, resignation, skepticism, and curiosity, but I expect Brian just heard her clear her throat. “How interesting,” she said dryly. “Tell us more.”
“Well.” He hitched his body around toward her, crossing one muscle-bound thigh over the other. “I’m looking for someone to take some of the load off, and that means dealing with advertisers, the day-to-day troubleshooting, making up the curriculum brochure—that’s one of the big things, I want completely out from under that, and it’s a big job. Somebody to interface one-on-one with our current instructors, and also help recruit more. I’d like somebody to brainstorm with me over new courses, new angles, trying to keep it fresh and alive. Because you gotta constantly refresh, you can’t get stale in this business or you’re dead. I subscribe to four newspapers, and I probably read eight more on-line, every day, day in and day out. Got to stay fresh. Thanks.” He stopped talking to gulp his coffee.
I was getting excited myself—maybe he should give me the job. The Other School has courses like “Computers Don’t Byte,” “Your Backyard Vineyard,” “A Closer Look at Van Gogh.” They have them on weeknights in places like the Unitarian Church or the Elks Club, anyplace there’s an empty room and a proprietor who’ll let Brian borrow it. Carrie took a course in tole painting last summer; Birdie and I took one called “The Joys of Grandparenting.” (George wouldn’t go with me, of course, but it’s just as well, because frankly that one was a boondoggle.) The fees are cheap, and the teachers get paid based on how many students enroll in their classes. I imagine overhead’s practically nothing. My guess is, in a small, Clayborne-type way, Brian Wright’s making a killing.
“It’s still a risky business, I won’t kid you.” He pushed back from the table, wiped his mouth with his napkin, balled it up, and set it beside his plate. So big. His shoulders were so broad, I couldn’t see the back of his chair. “I couldn’t withstand a recession yet, for example. I mean, anything can happen. I’ll be honest—anybody I hired would be taking the same chance I’m taking.”
Well, I certainly admired his candor. Personally, I would love a job like that, all the riskiness and newness, everything not completely planned out yet. I glanced at Carrie, who was pressing her fingertips together and looking thoughtful.
“May I be excused, please?”
Poor Ruth, she was bored to tears. “Of course,” I started to say, “why don’t you and your grandfather go watch TV.” While I start the dishes, and Carrie and Brian have a little private chat—was my thought. But before I could finish, Brian stood up and said he hated to go but he had an early day tomorrow, dinner was wonderful, thanks so much, etc., etc., good-bye.
People—mostly Birdie; sometimes Carrie—say I have no tact. This is not true. I happen to believe there’s a time for tact and a time for action, and here was a perfect example. Tact was what got this business meeting started, and action would see it through to the end.
“’Bye, Brian, I’m so glad you could come, it was lovely seeing you. Carrie, could you get Brian’s coat? Ruth honey, you go watch your program. George, can you help me in the kitchen?”
There. Everybody went where they were supposed to go. Except for George, who kept going, out the back door and into the yard to smoke his pipe. I didn’t spy on them, but before I closed the kitchen door I saw Carrie and Brian huddled in the foyer, talking in earnest voices. He was leaning forward, she was leaning back.
“Why didn’t you just tell me, Mama? It would’ve been nice to know he was coming, that’s all.”
“I don’t see why, and this way you didn’t have to worry. Think of it as a stress-free job interview. Wasn’t that a lot nicer than going down to his office and answering questions?”
“But what if he didn’t want to interview me? You made it impossible for him not to.”
“No, no, he did want to, I figured that out in the bank. What you don’t understand is that this all started with Brian, not me.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Well, so? What did he say? Are you going to take it?”
Carrie straightened up from the dishwasher, swatting her hair back over her shoulder. “We both said we’d think it over.”
“Oh. But he did offer it to you, the job, formally?”
“Well, I guess. Sort of. He told me more about what I’d do.”
“What would you do?”
“Well, write all the copy for the spring semester’s course brochure, that sounds like the main thing. Help him recruit new sponsors and advertisers. Write up ads and figure out new places to put them. ‘Editorial and administration,’ he said.”
“My goodness, that sounds exciting.”
“You think so?”
“Oh, my, yes. You’ll be in charge of everything, sounds like. What will he do?”
She smiled, loosening up, getting over her huff. “I guess it might be okay. It doesn’t sound too hard, nothing I probably couldn’t learn.”
“Are you kidding? He’s lucky to get you. Did you talk about money?”
“No. Oh—he said he was glad to know I’m good with computers. Mama, what in the world did you tell him?”
“Nothing. Just that the last time you worked, which was in Chicago three years ago, you had a very important administrative position in a busy high-tech office.”
“I was a part-time assistant in the math department at Stephen’s college.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
Oh, it was good to hear Carrie laugh! Ruth came in while we were still at it. She went to the sink, pushing her mother aside with her hip to get a glass of water. Carrie reached up to push a lock of hair out of her face, but she shrugged
away, still drinking. “So are you taking that job, Mom?”
“I don’t know, sweetie. We said we’d talk about it some more.”
“You and Mr. Wright.” She set the glass in the sink too hard. She looked disgusted, curling her lip in a very unattractive way.
Carrie frowned. “Don’t you want me to take it?”
“God, Mom, I so don’t care.”
“Well, nothing’s formal yet anyway. He may not even offer it to me.”
“Oh, he’ll offer it to you, don’t worry. I bet you a million dollars.”
“How do you know?”
“Are you kidding? God, it’s so obvious. The guy is hot for you.”
Carrie stared, then laughed. “Oh, that’s funny. Boy, are you off base.”
“Nuh uhh.”
“Ruthie, what am I going to do with you?”
“Jeez, Mom, are you really that dense?”
I didn’t care for this conversation. I interrupted it to ask Ruth, hoping to change her mood, “How’s that boyfriend of yours? The one I met at the bus stop the other day.”
“Mama,” Carrie said.
“I don’t have any boyfriend, Gram.”
“You know,” I said, “Gull, Herring—”
“If you’re speaking of Raven, he is not my boyfriend.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” I laughed, hoping she’d join me. “I wanted to say to him, ‘Honey, where’s your calendar, Halloween’s over.’”
“Mama.”
“What?”
It was a cold, nasty day when I met this person, probably forty degrees and spitting rain, but all “Raven” had on was leather pants and a black fishnet top. Fishnet. He had white makeup all over his face, and black lipstick on his mouth, the sides curling up in a creepy smile—it gave me the willies. He’d dyed his hair black, you could tell by the inch-long light-brown roots, and he wore it hacked off short on one side and combed over long on the other, long and stringy and absolutely ridiculous, like Michael Jackson’s hair, like Dracula’s. I was dying to hear what he had to say for himself, so I smiled at him and held my arm out the car window until he had to come over. Well, it was like shaking hands with the undead. His black lips moved, so he must’ve said something, but what I could not say. Then he walked backward, into the crowd of kids at the bus stop, and before I knew it he was gone. Like Bela Lugosi turning into a bat.
Circle of Three Page 4
