by Sarah S.
When the phone rang, she jumped. The ringer sounded like a siren. She looked at the caller ID. It was a number she didn’t recognize from an area code in the middle of the state.
The phone rang again. She lurched for it and picked it up. There was static on the other end, a whooshing sound as if the caller was on a train. “Is Charles there?” a woman asked.
“He’s not.” Joanna said. “Who’s calling?”
“My name is Bronwyn Pembroke,” the woman said.
Joanna almost dropped the phone.
But it had to be a cruel coincidence. She was probably someone taking a survey. A telemarketer.
“Can I have him call you back?” Joanna whispered.
“Well, no.” The woman sounded dismayed. “I don’t … I won’t really be reachable by this phone. Can you give him a message? I need to change the time that we’re meeting tomorrow. It needs to be nine, not ten.”
Joanna watched her eyes widen in the hallway mirror. The reflection didn’t look like her at all but some other woman, some person she thought she’d never be. She placed the phone back into the receiver.
The kitchen was apathetically still. All the little charging devices for Joanna’s cell phone, digital camera, and laptop blinked red, unfazed. The phone rang again, but she didn’t answer. The machine clicked on. Her voice. Thanks for calling, and then their phone number. Because out here in the suburbs, you didn’t say the Bates-McAllister residence. No one told their last names on answering machines for fear of giving too much away. When it beeped, there was only a dial tone.
When the answering machine clicked off, she grabbed the phone again and dialed Charles’s office number. Voice mail. She dialed his cell phone. Nothing. She listened to his polite, cheerful voice recite his outgoing message. She waited, considering, and then let the phone slip from her fingers. It landed on the floor and skidded toward the fridge. The operator eventually interrupted, warning that the phone was off the hook, and then that grating, pulsing noise began.
Breathing hard, she ran upstairs, opened Charles’s sock drawer and plunged her hands inside, feeling past his socks until she hit the drawer’s fiberboard bottom. She didn’t know what she was looking for. A picture of Bronwyn? A … what, a condom? She ran her hands over his patterned boxers. There was a pair with little dogs on them, a pair with breakfast foods, a pair with paisleys. Finding nothing, she shut the drawer and leaned against it.
A part of her had expected this, and yet she wasn’t ready for it at all. Was this why Charles had abruptly canceled on coming to Maryland? Was this what he was doing after his interview of the people in the nudist colony or whatever it was? He’d probably scheduled the interview in the morning and then blocked off the rest of the day for Bronwyn.
She stopped. Maybe there wasn’t an interview. Maybe the place didn’t exist. Maybe it was a test, something she should’ve seen through. Charles claimed he was staying here because of his job—he’d told her he had something with work that got in the way, and then he’d threatened to quit, and then she said he was being ridiculous. He’d manipulated it around and made it her choice. It was positively Machiavellian. Do the interview, she’d told him. We’ll figure this out later. She’d given him permission.
She had to get out of here. She took Charles’s suitcase because it was nicer. She threw incongruous things into the bag—heavy sweaters, filmy dresses, high heels, a raincoat. Throwing a toothbrush and soap into a toiletry bag took seconds. After a moment, she decided to take some of his things, too—his expensive moisturizer, his Polo cologne, the book he was reading. Then she stood back, both palms on the top of her head. Her mother would be surprised at how early she would be. She might still be asleep, resting up for her big appointment tomorrow. Joanna would make breakfast and coffee. She wouldn’t tell her about this.
The cold outside air made her spasm with shivers. She stood for a moment at the edge of the garage, staring at the houses around her. All the lawns were sickeningly green and even, with the same red flowers in the mulched gardens off the front walks. Why hadn’t just one person planted blue flowers, or yellow? Who lived in these houses?
Joanna squared her shoulders and hit the unlock button on her car key. The door remained locked. She hit it again. Nothing. “Goddamn it,” she whispered, punching every button on the key until the alarm started to sound. The noise was so loud it made her teeth ache. She fumbled with the key chain, desperate for it to stop. Then she noticed movement to her right. Mrs. Batten stood in the middle of her driveway, staring. Her hair was perfectly combed, her trench coat knotted tightly and evenly at her tiny waist, her ballet flats unscuffed. One of her children, the little girl who played in the sandbox, leaned into her, wide-eyed. Joanna hit another button but the alarm kept blazing. Maybe she needed to try it from a different angle. As she stepped around to the other side of the car, her shoe caught on the lip of concrete between the garage and the driveway. Instantly, her cheek smacked the asphalt. There was a gasp behind her.
Joanna groaned and pushed herself up. Somehow the alarm had stopped. Blood was trickling down her knee. She turned around. Mrs. Batten’s eyes were round, but she remained motionless in the driveway, instead of rushing over to see if Joanna was okay.
“What?” Joanna shouted. Her neighbor flinched. “Jesus, what?” Joanna said again. Her neighbor’s eyes averted downward. She hustled her child into her minivan and slammed the door. Joanna hit the key again and the car unlocked, insufferably easily. Then she sat in the driver’s seat without turning on the ignition. If only there was something insulting she could scream out to Batten, safe in the privacy of her car, but the first word she thought of, after bitch, was eggbeater. You bitch, you eggbeater.
A skunk had sprayed in the middle of the night; even the air inside the car smelled of it. Joanna started the engine. It was only an hour-and-a-half drive to her mother’s if she took the highway. She usually avoided I-95, taking the quaint, quiet back roads, but today she didn’t feel like lingering. As she drove, she gnashed her teeth, picturing Charles at work, smiling about his meeting tomorrow with Bronwyn. He was in the clear. When she came to a traffic light, she noticed where she was. To the left of the intersection was the garden center. To the right was the old stone mansion that had been converted into a bedand-breakfast. This was the turn to Sylvie’s house.
Something inside her flipped. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, considering. It was almost 11 a.m. Who knew if Scott would even be there—his meeting at the school was today. Sylvie might answer the door instead, and then what would Joanna say? That she hadn’t been paying attention, that she’d inadvertently ended up here?
But she’d asked Scott if he’d come, and he said he would. The words had popped out of Joanna’s mouth unwittingly, but maybe she’d meant them.
A car behind her honked. The light had turned green. She jumped, and then put on her turn signal. If Sylvie’s car was there, she would turn around and go back. With any luck, Sylvie wouldn’t see her.
The houses got bigger and bigger, old converted barns, enormous structures behind fancy iron gates, rolling properties with horse stables. She’d never driven to Roderick without Charles—she’d never felt like she had the right to. She made the turn at the red mailbox and started up the winding driveway. The tires crackled over fallen twigs and branches. The trees didn’t have all their leaves in yet; her car was easily visible from the second-floor windows. Sylvie would probably already be on the porch by the time she got to the driveway. She would invite her in, saying what a nice surprise. She wouldn’t ask questions. She would make her some tea and probably show her pictures of the vacation house and say nothing, absolutely nothing, pretending like Scott’s meeting wasn’t today, pretending it wasn’t weird Joanna was there without Charles, not at all.
Only, Sylvie’s car wasn’t in the driveway—just Scott’s. Joanna’s heart lifted, and for a shining moment, she was so overcome with a mix of emotions she put her fist in her mouth and bit down hard.
The decision had been made. This was in the hands of something bigger than she was. She parked behind Scott’s car and turned hers off. He probably wouldn’t need a very big bag. It would take him five minutes to put things together, nothing like Charles, who took hours to meticulously iron and fold and pack. She ran her tongue over her teeth,
considering, and then decided not to consider. Whatever. She slammed the door. She knocked and waited. A light came on,
and there he was, opening the door, smiling, as if he knew she was
going to show up here all along.
Part II
………………………………………………………… thirteen
Joanna, Scott, and Catherine sat in the sail club’s dark, square room, smoke swirling above their heads. A plastic swordfish, blood-red crab, and long-armed stingray were snared in a fisherman’s net strung up on the far wall. There was a Day-Glo mural of a giant squid next to the nets, the squid’s tentacles outstretched wide. Across the bar sat a stringy-haired woman in a faded green tank top that showed off her wrinkled, sun-spotted decolletage.
A large, fleshy-armed man plopped on the stool next to Catherine. He had frizzy gray hair, kind eyes, and a scribbled, massive beard. His gray flannel shirt was enormous, and he wore Teva flip-flops with his jeans. “This is Robert,” Catherine said, gesturing to him. “You should hear his voice. He could get a record contract.”
“Nice to meetcha,” Robert said, reaching out his hand. He had a deep, James Earl Jones voice.
Joanna shook hands, barely feeling his skin. Robert held a pitcher of beer in his left hand, seemingly ordered all for himself. “Well, I’ll be back later,” he said. “You probably have lots to catch up on.”
Then he waddled away toward the octopus mural. Catherine watched him go, patting her hair. “Robert is modest, but he really does sound just like Tom Petty. It’s quite a sight to see.”
Joanna tried to smile, though she felt uncomfortable and embarrassed. When her mother pulled into the parking lot of this place, Joanna had thought it was a joke. sail club, said the squat, windowless building. It was next to a burrito shack called Viva La Mexico! There was a line of Harleys parked crookedly by the door and a piece of paper posted over the handicapped parking sign that said, shoes must be worn at all times. The sign said nothing about shirts.
Inside the close, yeasty-smelling room was a small stage at the front of the bar meant for karaoke. Catherine had marched up to the bar and greeted the sinewy bartender with a big kiss, and a Tom Collins had appeared before her. To say Joanna had been aghast was an understatement. Where was the dockside country club? Where were the aloof men in yachter’s caps? Where were the international glitterati? People stood at the pinball machine and dartboard without irony. In the hall to the bathroom was an old cigarette machine, the kind where one had to insert quarters and pull a knob. Joanna wanted to ask her mother why she frequented a place like this, a place so unexpected for her, but she didn’t know how to phrase such a question. Maybe her mom did have something wrong with her—a brain tumor.
A petite girl in a denim miniskirt was belting out the chorus to Like a Virgin. She pranced up and down the narrow bar area, her limbs wobbly and loose. Scott watched her, sipping his Guinness. “She’s good.”
“Oh, I know,” Catherine said. “She sings all the time.”
“What do you say?” Scott looked at them. “Should we sing something?”
“You sing?” Catherine cried. “I bet you’re good. Joanna and I will sing backup.”
Scott thought for a moment. “I’ll sign us up for something.” He winked at them and slid off the stool, strutting to the front of the bar to signal the karaoke MC, who doubled as the bartender. Several women turned and watched Scott walk the length of the bar. Joanna’s mother set down her drink and breathed in.
“He looks very handsome today,” Catherine remarked. “That was nice of him to come while Charles is away.”
Joanna could feel her mother’s eyes on her, waiting. When they’d arrived at Catherine’s house a few hours earlier, her mother had done a double take in surprise. “Scott?” she’d asked, as if she didn’t know precisely who he was.
“You haven’t forgotten me?” Scott bantered.
“Of course not, of course not,” Catherine said, ushering him in. “You look wonderful, darling.” She turned to Joanna, beaming with curiosity.
“Charles is out of town,” Joanna had explained quickly, loudly. “He had an important writing assignment that came up unexpectedly. Scott was nice enough to keep me company.”
Scott glanced at her, startled, but for once he had the good sense not to say anything.
This was the first time Joanna had brought anyone to her mother’s new house. Catherine welcomed them in unabashedly, yet another departure from how she used to let Charles reluctantly into their house in Lionville, making excuses for the ragged carpet in the den and the pineapple wallpaper in the kitchen. Just like Sylvie, Catherine had inherited this house scot-free from a relative, her great-aunt Marjorie. There was this house, and then there was Roderick. It was something Joanna always thought about whenever she visited.
Since moving in, Catherine had replaced Marjorie’s stuff with the things from her old house in Lionville, the leather furniture, the farmhouse chairs, and the media center that had been such a point of contention between her parents—because of the price, no doubt—when Joanna was a teenager. All of it looked so shabby in the small, square living room with its royal blue carpet and lace curtains. Joanna had never met Great-aunt Marjorie, but she was mystified about who she might have been by the items of hers that still lingered around the house: a one-thousand-piece Eiffel Tower puzzle stacked in the coat closet. A whole drawer full of Hallmark cards featuring a cranky old lady wearing cat-eye glasses and spouting curmudgeonly good tidings. An assortment of Garfield cartoon and joke books on the small, white bookshelf in the upstairs bathroom and stacks of records of pasty-faced crooners Joanna didn’t recognize in the moldy basement. And in a cabinet under a bathroom sink, a small, zippered case full of lubricants, edible body gel, even a pair of padded handcuffs. Catherine had been with Joanna when she’d found the case and had seemed just as shocked as Joanna was. They’d left the case under the sink where they’d found it, not sure what to do with it.
Scott had walked right into the house as comfortable as he was at Roderick. He allowed Catherine to make him a drink. Although he widened his eyes at Catherine’s various medications that were lined up on the kitchen counter and piled in the cupboard above the sink, he didn’t say anything nasty. He didn’t seem appalled to be here, instead sinking onto the couch and accepting a beer. Joanna felt so ambivalent. By this point the high had worn off, and she wasn’t sure if bringing him had been a good idea. But then she thought of the phone call from Bronwyn, feeling justified all over again. Moments later her emotions finished their orbit, and she was back to feeling terrified. What the hell was she doing? What did she want to happen?
Scott returned to his bar stool. “The bartender says we’re sixth in line.”
“What did you pick?” Joanna asked.
“It’s a surprise.” He grinned.
“Great.” Catherine rubbed her palms together. She was wearing dark red lipstick, and her hair was its same ash blonde. She was fiftyfive, but men often thought she was younger. It had been a theory of why she thought she wasn’t 100 percent accepted in their old neighborhood: because all the husbands secretly wanted her and all the wives secretly resented her.
“So did Joanna tell you they’re doing a biopsy?” Catherine said to Scott. “My doctor found a lump, and at first I couldn’t feel it, but now I think I can.” She prodded at the skin right under her arm, not exactly on her boob but close. “The nurse I spoke to on the phone when setting up the appointment told me it was probably nothing and that I shouldn’t panic, but they have to say that, don’t they? I have this wonderful doctor, though, and when I pressed him, he admitted that based
on my age, profile, and condition, it’s most likely cancer.”
“Cancer.” Scott whistled. “Damn.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Catherine said, and then gazed longingly at her boobs, as if they were already gone.
Joanna flexed and pointed her toes. A gray-haired old seabird across the bar lit a cigarette. Then Catherine leaned into Scott. “So Joanna told me about the trouble at school. With that boy.”
Joanna widened her eyes. “I didn’t tell her anything,” she pleaded to Scott. “Honestly.”
“Yes you did.” Catherine coolly sipped her drink. “You told me everything.”
The neon Budweiser sign across the bar blinked on and off. Joanna aggressively pulled off a chunk of her place mat. It felt satisfying, so she pulled off another. “I’m sorry.” She looked at Scott.
Scott shrugged. “It’s all right. Whatever.”
“So?” Catherine leaned on her elbows. “What were the boys doing to one another?”
“I think we should talk about something else,” Joanna said loudly.
Catherine’s mouth was a square. “Come on. Like no one has asked him this already?”
Joanna looked away. Everything about her mother was startling her today. The old Catherine, the one she’d finally begun to figure out, wouldn’t have asked something so indelicate. Maybe it was the sail club’s influence. Maybe it was the case of Marjorie’s sex toys under the sink.
The metaphorical elephant had been lingering the whole drive to Maryland. First Scott volunteering to take his car instead of hers, then following Joanna back to her house, then Joanna climbing into his car, and Scott speeding the whole way down I-95 in the passing lane for the pure, aggressive enjoyment of it. The unanswered question hung between them. Had Scott gone to the meeting at Swithin today, or was he missing it by coming with her to Maryland? He’d answered the door dressed in khakis that almost fit. His hair looked different, and after a moment, Joanna realized it was clean. Clearly going to the meeting had crossed his mind. Scott’s phone had rung a few times on the drive, and Joanna saw Sylvie’s name in the caller ID window. Scott had clapped it shut, expressionless.
