by Judy Blume
On Sunday they were wrapping cheese and bread and planning their hike into the mountains, when someone knocked at the door. It was Margo.
“I brought back the book,” she said, handing it to Sara’s father. It was his book, the one he’d written. Sara recognized the cover, without even seeing the title or Daddy’s name. “I can’t begin to tell you how moved I was . . .” Margo said.
“I’m glad,” Daddy said. “But you weren’t supposed to return it. It’s for you.” He walked over to his desk and pulled a felt-tip pen out of a mug. “Here . . . let me sign it . . .”
Sara couldn’t see what her father wrote inside Margo’s book, but whatever it was, when Margo read it, she got all mushy and she looked at the floor, as if she were about to cry.
“I wrote you a note too,” Margo said, shaking the book. A small blue envelope fell out and Daddy and Margo both bent down to pick it up off the floor. As they did they bumped heads. Then they both laughed.
“Sara and I are going on a hike this afternoon,” Daddy said. “Would you like to join us?”
Margo stood up, smoothed out her skirt, and looked over at Sara for what seemed like a long time. Sara just stared right back at her. Finally Margo said, “Thanks . . . maybe some other time. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do today.”
Sara felt relieved. She didn’t understand why her father would have invited Margo to join them anyway. Sunday was their special day. She was glad that Margo couldn’t go with them.
That night, when Daddy drove Sara home, he told her he’d had the best weekend and that he hoped she would come to stay for a week sometime soon.
Sara said she would like that a lot.
When she went into the house, Mom was really angry. She was almost always angry on Sunday nights now, but this night she was angrier than before. And Sara had to answer a million questions.
“What did you do today?”
“We went on a hike. We had a picnic.”
“What did you eat?”
“Cheese . . . I think it was Cheddar . . . and french bread and a grapefruit.”
“Did you go alone . . . just the two of you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see Margo?”
“Just for a minute. She brought a book back to Daddy’s house. But I didn’t see what book,” Sara added quickly.
“And what else?” Mom said. “What did you do on Saturday night?”
“We went to the movies.”
“What did you see?”
“10.”
“10! That’s not a movie for children.”
“I liked it. It was funny.”
“He has no sense, no sense at all.”
“It’s okay, Mom . . . really. I understood everything in it.”
“That’s not the point.”
Sara nibbled at her fingernails.
“Please, Sara,” Mom said, “stop biting.”
Mom looked out the window for a minute and Sara held her breath, hoping that that was the last of the questions. But when Mom turned around again she said, “Did he have clean sheets for you?”
“Yes. They had stripes.”
“What do you do when you’re not at the movies or hiking?”
“We talk,” Sara said.
“About what?”
“I don’t know. We just talk . . . like everybody does.”
“About me?”
“No. We never talk about you.” Sara wasn’t sure she should have added that, but she thought it would please her mother. Also, it was mostly true.
“Why not?” Mom asked. “Why don’t you talk about me?”
“I don’t know. We just don’t.”
“Are you afraid to talk about me in front of him? To tell him how much we love each other?”
“No,” Sara said, “I’m not afraid.”
“Good.”
“I just wish you wouldn’t ask me so many questions every time I come home from Daddy’s.”
“Why?”
“I just wish you wouldn’t . . . that’s all.”
“I don’t understand that, Sara. I really don’t,” Mom said. “When two people are as close as we are it’s only natural for one to ask the other about what’s going on. Aren’t you curious about how I spent my weekend?”
Actually, Sara wasn’t.
“You should be curious and interested,” Mom continued, “because you love me and you care about me. Don’t you . . . don’t you love me, Sara . . . and care about me?” Now Mom had tears in her eyes and her voice had turned to a whisper.
So Sara said, “Yes, Mom. Did you have a nice weekend?”
“No,” Mom said. “I was very lonely. I missed you very much.”
“What did you do?” Sara asked.
“Nothing.”
“Didn’t you go out with your friends?”
“No.”
“How come . . . last weekend when you went out with Lewis you had fun, didn’t you?”
“That was different. Besides, Lewis lives in Minneapolis.”
“I know, but you have lots of friends here. You used to go out with them all the time. So how come you don’t now?”
“I guess it’s because I miss you too much, Sara. I just can’t get myself together when you’re gone.”
“You should try, Mom. Jennifer says that when she goes to stay with her father her mother has a really good time. That’s how it’s supposed to be when you’re divorced.” Sara didn’t get it. Her mother never complained about being lonely when Sara slept over at Jennifer’s.
“Well,” Mom said, blowing her nose, “that’s not how it is with me. But I did go out for a few hours. I went to a party at Clare’s house. She’s back from her trip.”
“Was it a nice party?” Sara asked.
“Yes. Clare’s parties are always very nice. I met Clare’s ex-husband there. They’re thinking about getting back together.”
“Do you think you and Daddy will ever get back together?”
“Would you like us to?” Mom asked.
“Well, if you did, then you wouldn’t be lonely.”
“That’s right. And I wouldn’t have to share you, would I?” Mom smiled, a funny lopsided smile, and Sara couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.
Sara felt very tired. She yawned. “I’m going to get ready for bed now.”
When her mother tucked her into bed she smoothed the hair away from Sara’s face, kissed her forehead, and said, “I love you, Sara.”
“And I love you.”
“For how long?” Mom asked.
“For always and forever,” Sara said, closing her eyes.
“That’s how long I’ll love you too,” Mom said, turning out the light.
When her mother was gone, Sara rolled over in her bed. She felt frightened. One minute her mother was full of anger, the next she was telling her how much she loved her. Sara didn’t know what to expect anymore. She felt like a top, spinning and spinning, waiting to fall, but not knowing where or when she would.
14
B.B. HAD WORN A NEW DRESS to Clare’s party, purple with a red sash. From across the room she looked sensational, she thought, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall of Clare’s bedroom. But up close, her face looked drawn and thin and she had had to use makeup to hide the black circles under her eyes.
She was glad that Clare was back in town. Surprised at the news about her ex, or whatever he was, since they weren’t formally divorced, but curious too. Clare had always said that she and Robin had had an almost perfect marriage, until he’d gone crazy and run off with the Doughnut. An almost perfect marriage. She and Andrew could have had that too. Clare had
asked her once what had gone wrong with her marriage and she had thought about telling Clare about the accident, about Bobby, but she found she couldn’t. She couldn’t risk opening the wound again, couldn’t expose herself to the pain, so she’d said, Oh, the usual . . . we married too young . . . and Clare had nodded.
Robin Carleton-Robbins looked like the photos she’d seen of him at Clare’s house. Tall, angular, with dark eyes, a slight stutter, and a soft accent. He seemed shy and unsure of himself at the party. Clare had told everyone that he had come to town for a visit with Puffin, but B.B. knew the truth. That Clare and Robin were thinking about getting back together.
Maybe that’s what she should do too. Try to make a go of it with Andrew. It wouldn’t be easy, she knew, and she had mixed feelings about taking Andrew back. On the plus side, she would no longer have to worry about sharing, or even losing, Sara. And Andrew was still attractive. She was sure she could get him to trim his hair and shave his beard. And she would buy him some decent clothes at Lawrence Covell’s. Andrew was a successful author now, about to write his second book. He should look like one. Not that she had read his book, or ever would, but she knew that it had been well-reviewed. On the minus side, Andrew was still Andrew. She was never going to be able to change him or trust him. And he would never adore her, never want her the way that Lewis did. And between her and Lewis there was no destructive history. No pain. So she just didn’t know.
Her mother had phoned several days ago, hinting that she was the reason that Andrew had come to town.
“Are you giving him a chance, Francie?” her mother had asked. “That’s all I want to know.”
“A chance at what?”
“Getting back together.”
“What makes you think he wants to get back together?”
“Why else is he in town?”
“To be with Sara.”
“That’s not all of it . . . believe me,” her mother had said.
“Do you know something, Mother? Did he say something to you before he left?”
“I know what I know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That a woman shouldn’t be by herself.”
“Mother . . .”
“Let me finish, Francine. You’re a big-time businesswoman and I’m proud of you. I couldn’t be more proud. But in the long run a woman has to have more . . . a woman has to have a man.”
“Mother . . . I don’t . . .”
“You don’t want to hear it because you know it’s true.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” B.B. said.
“What do you want to talk about, Francine . . . the weather?”
“Yes. How’s the weather down there?”
“Gorgeous.”
“And how’s Uncle Morris?”
“Wonderful. Playing eighteen holes a day and watching his weight. We’re both on low sodium. My pressure’s been up lately. How’s Sara?”
“Just fine.”
“When will I see her . . . Thanksgiving? Christmas?”
“Maybe Christmas. We’re going to Minneapolis for Thanksgiving.”
“Minneapolis? What’s in Minneapolis?”
“A friend.”
“Since when do you have a friend in Minneapolis?”
“Since summer.”
“I see.”
If Andrew was interested in getting back together he was going to have to make the first move and he was going to have to make it before Christmas, because Lewis had already asked her to join him in Hawaii for the holidays and she was seriously considering his offer.
B.B. STOOD IN FRONT of the massive stone fireplace in Clare’s living room. It was a dramatic two-storey glass house, on top of Flagstaff mountain, with an overall view of Boulder, especially dazzling at night when the city was lit. It had been put on the market three years ago by the family of a wealthy alcoholic Buddhist who had driven off the mountainside one night and Clare had bought it, through B.B., a week later.
She looked around at the party guests. Oh God, there was Clint, the politician who called her Red. He spotted her and waved. She looked away. He got the message. If he ever said a word to anyone about her, she’d deny it.
She had met him at a party at the mayor’s house several years ago. She’d had too much to drink and had flirted with him. He was going to run for Congress in the next election, he’d told her proudly, letting his hand rest on her ass. He was young and very good-looking and when he offered to drive her home, she accepted. He took her to his place and fucked her quickly on the living room floor. She couldn’t remember much about it except that while he was pumping her he’d whispered in her ear in Spanish.
She’d seen him a few times after that. Once she’d had a flat and had taken it into Big-O to be repaired and he had been there, buying a new set of tires for his Jeep. He had greeted her warmly. “Hey Red . . . how’re you doing?”
“Excuse me?” B.B. had said.
“It’s me, Clint . . . don’t you remember?”
“No,” she’d told him.
“The mayor’s party . . .” he’d said, reminding her.
“Oh, yes. The mayor’s party. Nice to see you again.”
She had read about him in the Daily Camera recently. He wasn’t running for Congress, but he was a candidate for the state legislature and had a good chance of making it.
And there was Margo, across the room, talking to Caprice, who owned an antique shop in town. Margo was wearing the suede suit that B.B. had helped her select. Margo looked up, saw B.B., said something to Caprice, then headed toward her.
“Hello . . .” Margo said. “How are you?”
“I’m all right,” B.B. answered.
“How do you like the suit?” Margo asked, turning around for B.B.’s inspection.
“Maybe you should have gotten the next size,” B.B. said. “It looks a bit tight across the chest.”
“Really?” Margo said. “It’s very comfortable . . . I’m sure it will give as I wear it.”
“I suppose so.”
“Have you met Robin yet?” Margo asked.
“Yes. Now the only ex-husband who’s missing is yours.”
Margo laughed. “It’s not likely that Freddy will come to Boulder. He thinks it’s the end of the universe.”
“Speaking of ex-husbands,” B.B. said, “I hear you’re pretty chummy with mine.”
Margo looked into her wine glass. “We run into each other . . . we live next door . . .”
“He can be quite charming, can’t he?”
“I suppose so.”
“But thoroughly unreliable.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Have you, by any chance, seen Sara this weekend?”
“I saw her for a minute,” Margo said. “She seemed to be having a good time.”
“I don’t like her spending too much time over there.”
“I know how hard it is,” Margo said. “Every time my kids fly east to visit Freddy I’m convinced I’m never going to see them again.”
“How would you feel if Freddy moved into town and expected to have the kids every weekend?”
“I wouldn’t mind the every weekend part as much as I would having him in town. But I’d adjust. I’d have no choice.”
NO CHOICE. That’s what Clare had told B.B. at lunch earlier in the week. “Face up to it,” Clare had said. “He’s here . . . Sara wants to see him . . . there’s no point in setting up an impossible situation. Let her go . . . let her spend the night . . .”
“Why should I give in to his demands?” B.B. had asked.
“Because they’re reasonable. Because if you don’t it’s going to tear you apart. I can see it alread
y. I can see it in your eyes. What do you have to lose by letting her spend the night?”
“Everything,” B.B. said.
“I know you love her,” Clare had said, “but you can’t control her whole life.”
B.B. had nodded, biting her lower lip. “All right. I’ll let her spend Saturday night.”
“Good,” Clare had said. “That makes sense. And you’ll come to my party. I want you to meet Robin.”
“Do you really think getting back together can work?”
“I don’t know. But in four years I haven’t met anyone I’d rather be with . . . and God knows, I’ve tried.” Clare had laughed then. Her laugh echoed through the restaurant. “Let’s have some outrageous dessert. How about sharing a piece of coconut cake.”
“I’ll have one bite,” B.B. had said.
15
SO HOW WAS CLARE’S PARTY?” Michelle asked Margo on Sunday night. They were having cheese omelets with parsley and sautéed potatoes.
“Very nice,” Margo said. “I met Clare’s ex-husband.”
“He’s not ex,” Stuart said. “They were never officially divorced.”
“Well, whatever . . .” Margo said.
“And?” Michelle asked.
“And what?” Margo said.
“What was he like?”
“Shy, but pleasant,” Margo said.
“Pleasant is such a blotto word, Mother. It has no meaning . . . none whatsoever.”
“I didn’t get to know him,” Margo said. “I barely said hello.”
“Puffin hates his guts,” Stuart said. “He ran off and left them, you know . . . with some bimbo who worked in his bank.”
“At least Clare had plenty of money,” Michelle said. “Some women and children are left without a penny.”
“That’s why you have to prepare yourself for whatever life dishes out,” Margo said to Michelle, “so that you’re never economically dependent on anyone else.”
“Let’s face it,” Stuart said. “It doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman. What’s important is money. You can knock it if you want to, but you can’t change the hard facts. Money is power and money is living well and living well is the best revenge.”
