Smart Women

by Judy Blume

  She slit the letter open with a silver and turquoise opener, a gift from a satisfied client. She read it quickly the first time, then slowly, to make sure she understood.

  Dear Francine,

  I plan to spend the next school year in Boulder, writing another book. That way Sara and I can have more time together, which we are both looking forward to.

  I expect to leave here the second week in August and to drive cross-country, arriving in Boulder somewhere around the 20th. I hope that we can work out the arrangements easily when I arrive. I will need to find a small apartment or house, with enough room for Sara. If you have any suggestions I would be grateful.

  Yours,

  Andrew

  She felt herself grow hot, then cold. A pounding began in her temples. And although she rarely sweat, she felt a dampness under her arms.

  She stood and walked around her office, watering her African violets, straightening the Fritz Scholder posters on the walls. She went back to her desk and read the letter a third time. She lifted the phone to call her lawyer, then changed her mind and hung up. She folded the letter and dropped it into her purse. She could not believe that he was serious.

  She took five shallow breaths and did a Lion, one of the yoga exercises she learned last year. Then she grabbed her purse and went to meet Margo and Clare at The James.

  4

  MARGO HAD BEEN SURPRISED by B.B.’s invitation to lunch last spring. Margo and B.B. were not close. Margo could never get beneath the surface, could never connect with B.B.’s feelings, so she had settled for a friendly relationship rather than a true friendship. Clare was really the link between Margo and B.B. and while the three of them lunched together every now and then it was always informal and arrangements were made at the last minute.

  It had been a soft May day, a perfect day to eat outdoors and as they were seated at a table in the courtyard of the restaurant Margo caught the scent of lilacs. They were served by a waitress who was both pleasant and efficient, a welcome change from the sullen crowd usually employed by The James.

  B.B. explained why she had asked them to join her as soon as their salads were served and Margo was flattered that B.B. had chosen her to design the cluster housing and grateful for the opportunity to participate in the joint business venture. If the deal took off it could mean big money. Margo got by on her salary and commissions, had even managed to save a little, but she wasn’t exactly rolling in it. Freddy’s child support payments helped, but she couldn’t count on them after the kids went off to college, nor did she want to.

  Several times during lunch B.B. put her hand to her head and closed her eyes, but Margo did not find that unusual. B.B. often seemed to be someplace else, even when she was talking to you, even when it was business.

  They lingered over their coffee until B.B. checked her watch and said, “I’ve got to get back to the office.” She paid the check and the three of them walked out of the restaurant. But before they reached the corner B.B. put her hand to her head again and swooned, as if she were about to keel over. Too much wine, Margo thought.

  “Are you all right?” Clare asked, grabbing her.

  “No,” B.B. said quietly. And then she broke away from Clare and flung her purse into the street, shouting, “No, goddamn it, I am not all right!” The contents of her purse spilled out, a bottle of Opium smashing at Margo’s feet, lipsticks rolling under cars, a hairbrush, a notebook, a pocket calculator, an envelope, all scattered on the ground. “I wish he were dead!” B.B. yelled.

  “Who?” Margo and Clare asked at the same time.

  “My ex-husband, the fucking bastard!”

  Margo was stunned. Until that day she had never seen B.B. react emotionally to anything. And that was the first she had heard of Andrew Broder.

  FIVE DAYS LATER Clare had called Margo, asking if she knew how to make chicken soup, because B.B. had not eaten anything but tea and Jell-O since climbing into bed on the afternoon of their lunch.

  “She says the only thing she wants to eat is the kind of chicken soup her mother used to make when she was a little girl. Jewish chicken soup. She says her father told her it would cure anything except warts and he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t cure those too. Do you know how to make it, Margo?”

  “I haven’t made chicken soup in years,” Margo said, “but I could call my mother. I think the secret is in the kind of chicken you use.”

  “Let’s try it,” Clare said. “Otherwise I’m afraid she’s going to wind up in the hospital.”

  That night Margo phoned her mother in New York. Her mother was on her way to the ballet at Lincoln Center, but she was delighted that Margo wanted to make chicken soup and she explained how to do it, step by step, reminding Margo to use only a pullet, enough dill, and not to forget the parsnip.

  On Saturday morning Margo shopped early. She came home and set the ingredients on her kitchen counter. The house was quiet. Stuart was at work, churning out ice cream, and Michelle was still asleep. Margo washed her hands at the kitchen sink, dried them with a paper towel, rolled up her sleeves, and soon the aroma of her childhood filled the house.

  When Michelle came up to the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she sniffed around and asked, “What are you doing, Mother?”

  “Making chicken soup.”

  “Chicken soup?”

  “Yes. B.B. isn’t feeling well. It’s for her.”

  “You never make soup for me when I’m not feeling well.”

  “I thought you don’t like homemade chicken soup, Michelle. I thought you said the little particles of fat floating on top make you nauseous. That’s why you always ask for Lipton’s when you’re sick.”

  “I like it fine when it’s cooked with rice,” Michelle said. “The way Grandma used to make it.”

  “Which Grandma?” Margo said. “Grandma Sampson or Grandma Belle?”

  “Grandma Belle,” Michelle said. “Grandma Sampson used to make vegetable soup for me and she always strained it so I wouldn’t gag on the vegetables.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Margo said and she laughed.

  “So what’s wrong with B.B.?”

  “She’s depressed. Her former husband is coming to town unexpectedly.”

  “You mean the Brat’s father?”

  “Sara’s not a brat, Michelle.”

  “You don’t know because you never babysat her.”

  “Well, that’s true. But she’s older now.”

  “I doubt that makes much difference.”

  “Michelle, you’re so hard on people. Why can’t you give them a chance?”

  “Me . . . hard? Come off it, Mother.” She grabbed a carrot from the refrigerator and stalked out of the kitchen.

  “Is that all you’re having for breakfast?” Margo called.

  “Carrots are extremely nutritious.”

  Late that afternoon Margo tasted the soup. She wasn’t sure if she had put in enough dill, but it certainly wasn’t bad. She was pleased. She had sworn off everyday cooking when she’d left Freddy, but now she found that cooking could be fun if nobody pressured her. And her kids had learned to cook too.

  That night Margo and Clare arrived at B.B.’s house with supper. Margo brought the chicken soup and Clare brought a salad, french bread, and a bottle of white wine. B.B. was sitting up in bed, wearing a white eyelet robe, her hair pulled back and tied with a ribbon. She looked as fragile and beautiful as Camille on her death bed. She made Margo feel shlumpy in her jeans and plaid shirt. Everything in B.B.’s house was as white and delicate as she was. There were fresh flowers in every room, even the bathrooms. Her house made Margo want to go home to clean, scrub, and redecorate.

  B.B. laughed over the chicken soup. “It’s delicious,” she said. “It’s just like my mother’s.” She finished her
first bowl and asked for another. “I’m going to get out of bed tomorrow,” she told them. “And on Monday I’m going back to the office. I may even go to see Thorny Abrams . . . just for advice.”

  Thorny Abrams was one of Boulder’s many shrinks. Margo had worked on a solar addition to his house last year. His wife, Marybeth, could never make up her mind about anything, so plans for the addition had to be reworked seven times. Thorny would say, It’s up to Marybeth. Marybeth would look forlorn and say, You know I can’t make decisions, Thorny.

  “And Richard Haver is looking into the law for me,” B.B. continued. “It may be that I don’t have to let Andrew have Sara at all. We’ve got an agreement, you know . . . and it calls for two weeks at Christmas, Easter vacation, and one month every summer. That’s it. So if he comes to town and isn’t allowed to see Sara, then surely he won’t stay.” She looked from Margo to Clare. “I mean, why would he stay under those circumstances?”

  A WEEK AFTER THAT B.B. had phoned Margo, asking her to meet for a drink after work at the Boulderado.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” B.B. said as soon as they had ordered Perriers. “Do you know if the Hathaway apartment is available?”

  “I haven’t seen anyone in it lately,” Margo told her. “They usually rent it to university people for the summer.”

  “I’d like you to find out if it is available,” B.B. said, “and if it is, I’d like you to secure it in the name of Andrew Broder, for three months beginning the third week in August, at say three hundred and fifty dollars a month.”

  “You’re going to find him a place to live?” Margo asked.

  “I’ve decided that’s the best way to deal with it,” B.B. said.

  “It sounds tricky to me. Are you sure you want to get involved? Why don’t you let him find his own place?”

  “Because if Sara’s going to spend any time with him I want her in a decent neighborhood. If I leave it up to him he’ll rent some place off Twenty-eighth Street.”

  “But you’re in the business . . . surely you could . . .”

  “Do it for me, Margo . . . please . . .”

  “Okay. If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

  “It is . . . yes . . . it’s what I have to do.”

  Margo knew that there were times when you could feel so desperate that just making a plan helped. It gave you a feeling of control. Following her separation from Freddy, Margo had experienced that kind of despair, until she’d mapped out a plan for the next year in her life, and then, even though she eventually changed her mind, that sinking feeling disappeared. So that evening before dinner Margo called on her neighbor, Martin Hathaway, to see about the apartment.

  “What were you doing talking to Mr. Hathaway, Mother?” Michelle asked later at the dinner table.

  “Do I need an excuse to talk to Mr. Hathaway?” Margo said. God, she sounded as hostile as Michelle. If you lived with it long enough it became contagious.

  “I thought you said he was a sniveling old fart,” Michelle said.

  “Did I say that?” Margo asked, trying to laugh.

  “On several occasions,” Michelle said. “And it’s true, Mother . . . he is a sniveling old fart.”

  “I was discussing the apartment over his garage,” Margo said.

  “What about it?”

  “Well . . . B.B.’s ex-husband is coming to town . . . I told you that, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah . . . so?”

  “So, she’s trying to find him a place to stay.”

  “Go on . . .”

  “She asked me to find out about renting the Hathaway apartment for him.”

  “For how long?” Michelle asked.

  “About three months.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Michelle said, holding her fork in the air. “You’re saying that B.B.’s ex-husband is going to live here . . . next door to us?”

  “Yes,” Margo said.

  “God, Mother!” Michelle said, plunking her fork down on the table. She stood up, grabbed a deviled egg and shouted, “I just can’t believe you!” She shoved the egg into her mouth, charged out of the room, and stomped down the stairs.

  Margo stood up and called after her. “Why don’t you ever say what you mean, Michelle? Why won’t you communicate?”

  But Michelle did not answer. Margo sat back down at the table, feeling very tired. “Why won’t she communicate?” Margo asked Stuart. “Why won’t either of you commumicate?”

  “Give me a break, Mom,” Stuart said. “I’m eating my supper.”

  5

  PROBABLY SARA SHOULD HAVE told her mother about Daddy’s plan to come to Boulder. Then Mom wouldn’t have been so surprised by his letter. On the day that the letter arrived Clare had been at the house when Sara got home from school.

  “Where’s Mom?” Sara had asked.

  “She’s in bed,” Clare said.

  “What’s wrong . . . is she sick?”

  “She’s having a bit of a crisis,” Clare said.

  At first Sara hadn’t understood because Clare was talking very West Texas and when she did every word melted together, making it sound as if Mom had a Bitova Cry Cyst, which sounded serious. “What should we do . . . should we call a doctor?”

  “No,” Clare said. “There’s not much you can do. It takes time, that’s all.”

  “It’s not catching, is it?” Sara asked.

  “No,” Clare said.

  “That’s what I thought,” Sara said. “How long do you think it will last?”

  “It has to run its course,” Clare told her. “Don’t worry. She’s going to be fine.”

  That afternoon Sara heard her mother crying and saying things like, He has no right . . . he can’t do this to me. And then, I’ve always known I couldn’t trust him and this proves it, doesn’t it? So Sara knew the crisis had to do with her father.

  She called Jennifer for advice, but Jennifer told her to just stay out of it. That parents have to learn to solve their own problems. Then Jennifer reminded her to eat lightly because of Arts Night. Sara and Jennifer were both in the dance program at school.

  Sara was disappointed when her mother said she couldn’t get out of bed to go to Arts Night and disappointed again when Clare said that she wouldn’t be able to take her either because she had to go to some business dinner in Denver. So Clare asked Margo Sampson if she could take her and Margo said yes. Sara did not want to go to Arts Night with Margo. She hardly knew Margo. She would rather have gone with Jennifer’s family, but everything was arranged before she had a chance to say a word. Margo came by with her kids, Stuart and Michelle, and took Sara to Beau Jo’s for pizza. Stuart ate a whole pizza by himself, with pepperoni and extra cheese. Margo, Michelle, and Sara shared a large veggie supreme with whole wheat crust. Sara picked the onions and the mushrooms off her slice and Michelle picked off the olives. Margo said, “Maybe veggie supreme was the wrong choice.”

  When Sara was younger and Michelle babysat her, Michelle never let Sara stay up late like babysitters are supposed to do. Sara’s first babysitting job was coming up soon and she was going to be really nice and let the kid stay up as late as he wanted, even if he fell asleep on the floor.

  Sara didn’t finish her pizza. She was afraid she’d get gas.

  When Sara came home from Arts Night she tiptoed into her mother’s room. Her mother was asleep. Her mother’s necklace, the one that Clare had given to her for her fortieth birthday, lay on the bedside table. It spelled out friendship in tiny gold letters. Sara thought it was very pretty.

  Mom opened her eyes. “How was Arts Night?”

  “Pretty good,” Sara said. Her mother’s eyes were all puffy from crying and her face had red blotches on it. “Are you feeling any better?”

&
nbsp; “A little . . . but my head still hurts.”

  “Do you want a cold cloth?”

  “That would be nice.”

  Sara went to her mother’s bathroom and held a blue washcloth under the faucet until it felt very cold. Then she squeezed it out and brought it to her mother. Mom lay back against the pillows and Sara placed the cloth on her forehead. “Better?”

  “Much.”

  Sara sat on the edge of the bed holding her mother’s hand. She loved the feel of her mother’s hands. Her skin was so soft and her fingers were long and thin, with perfectly polished nails. She wore two delicate gold rings, one on the ring finger of her right hand and one on the middle finger next to it.

  As Sara tiptoed out of her mother’s room she saw the letter from her father lying face up on the dresser. She read it quickly, while pretending to be arranging Mom’s perfume bottles in a row. It was a friendly letter. It didn’t say anything bad.

  Mom’s crisis lasted five days and when she finally got out of bed and went back to work she was really tense. When Mom got tense she yelled at Sara. Then Sara would start biting her nails, which only made her mother yell some more. For weeks after that Sara’s stomach felt queasy and she took Pepto-Bismol every day. She was glad when it was time to leave for summer camp. She figured that by August her mother would be used to the idea of having her father in town.

  6

  ANDREW HAD CALLED B.B. on August 20 to say that he was in Hays, Kansas, and expected to arrive in Boulder by eight p.m. It had been six years since she had heard his voice. Six years since they had seen each other. She was a wreck all day, knowing that he was on his way. She gulped too many vitamin C’s and washed them down with too much cranberry juice. Her stomach tied into hard little knots, giving her spasms of pain. She had just rye toast and camomile tea for supper. Then she showered and tried to get dressed, but she couldn’t decide what to wear. So she sat on the edge of her bed in her robe for an hour, gnawing on the insides of her cheeks, until they were swollen and sore.