by Libby Malin
When I call Fred on Monday to tell him I can put in a few more hours here and there, he tells me not to bother. The owner doesn’t want to incur the expense and I did such a good job at the flower shop on Saturdays there’s nothing left for me to do there. Translation: the owner thinks I’m a shirker and Fred agrees, but Gina convinced him to soften the blow.
So I settle into a new routine: one I’m familiar and comfortable with—drifting. Every morning, I go to the Atlantic Food Market five blocks away. Since I don’t have a car, I can only shop for as much as I can carry at one time.
I go in the early morning because the June heat becomes absolutely unbearable by ten and the only people out are émigrés from Mars.
The Atlantic is one of those small city co-op deals where too few goods are crammed into too small a space and where gourmet foods squeeze out staples. You can’t find Campbell’s tomato soup but you can find five different varieties of imported hummus.
I’m sure if I asked where the toaster strudel is they’d start murmuring incantations and sprinkling me with Evian.
The help is leftover hippie and you need a membership card to buy goods. The whole idea, I gather as I pick out plum tomatoes and bulgur wheat, is to create a market that isn’t a slave to corporate culture, that supports family farms and free-range chickens and the sixties politics of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. Note to Atlantic Market owners: Ben & Jerry’s sold out to a multinational corp a few years ago.
One morning when the store is actually crowded, I overhear one of the multiple-pierced cashiers complaining about an odor in the store.
“You know, it smells like something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s like when I went to Disney World last year. That smell.”
Uh, the smell of people, perhaps?
Anyway, I’m learning to cook this haute cuisine stuff and Henry actually compliments me a few times, telling me “this one’s a keeper” as he points to his scraped-clean plate.
I don’t know if it’s the food or living with Henry, but my headaches have receded. The last time I had one, actually, was that day at the hospital.
If ever I come close to riding the headache wave, though, it’s the nights when Henry is late. After a one-week hiatus where Henry was home virtually every evening by seven at the latest, he starts staying out late about three nights a week or so, and each time he says it’s because of a meeting with a prospective client. Yes, he warned me that this would happen. When I was borrowing his car, he told me we’d have to work something out soon because he hoped to get back into some after-work meetings digging up new business. I just hadn’t realized precisely what he’d meant by “digging up new business.”
But I learn to cope. Oh, yes.
I manage to suppress my little-woman urges to throw rapid-fire questions at him on these occasions. In fact, I have developed an actual coping strategy. I watch television, regularly checking the window to see if he is arriving home. When I catch his car pulling in, I head for “my” room and pretend I’m asleep.
Henry is on to this game, though, and it backfires on me. Knowing I’m going to “punish” him by sleeping in my own bed on his late nights, he feels comfortable enough to actually bring one of the clients home with him the next Wednesday!
After I scurry off to my room when I hear his car, carefully turning out the light so he’ll know I’ve been sleeping instead of obsessing about where he’s been, I hear him talking to someone, and a woman’s voice answers!
Yes, I press my ear up to the door—what do you think I am, nuts? And I hear the artificial laugh of a woman trying to impress a man with her good humor, and I hear Henry’s suave deep voice, the one that says “you’re safe with me, baby” when in reality you’re not. I hear him putting ice in glasses. I hear them clinking the glasses together. I hear the ice tinkle as they hoist back the glasses.
Speaking of tinkle, that’s exactly what I have to do, and since I have no bathroom in my room, I either wait it out or embarrass Henry.
Hmm…embarrassing Henry. Not a bad idea, especially since I don’t hear anything at all now. No voices, no clinking, no tinkling.
I grab my robe and open the door, then slam it shut behind me as I head to the bathroom to my right.
When I come out again, Henry’s standing at the end of the hallway, drink in hand.
“Ame, let me introduce you to somebody,” he says with that twisted-lip grin.
So I mosey on out to the living room in my short blue terry robe with the moon and stars appliqués all over it and my hair a ratty mess, and even though I don’t have green cold cream on my face, I’m sure they’ll remember it there when they think of this night. I am greeted by an image of womanly loveliness, a red-haired version of Tess Wintergarten, all sleek styling and fast curves. She wears a skimpy taupe dress with spaghetti straps that might have been a negligee in a former lifetime.
“This is Joanna Wentworth,” Henry says to me, gesturing with the hand that holds the drink. “And this is Amy Sheldon.”
She does not extend a perfectly manicured hand and I do not offer my stubby-nailed ones. We do the quick grin routine.
But Henry’s grin is unambiguously mischievous. He turns to Joanna. “Well, I should be getting you home.” Then back to me, “Hope we didn’t wake you. You can go back to your bedroom now.”
Go back to my bedroom. Notice he said go back to my bedroom. He’s sending signals with that one. Signal to Joanna—Amy has her own bed and therefore we are not involved. Signal to Amy—I know what you’re up to and I can play games, too.
I go back to my bed all right, and I toss and turn until midnight when Henry saunters in, whistling! As he passes my door, I open it.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, loosening his tie.
“What was that all about?” I seethe.
“What was what all about?”
“Joanna. Bringing her here.”
“I needed to pick up some papers about the firm. Faster to stop here for them. She’s a client. Getting a divorce. Her husband’s a lawyer. Very tricky case. I told you I’d be doing more of this.”
“She didn’t look dressed for a business meeting.” Maybe some kind of business.
“I met up with her at a fund-raising event. Hopkins Club.” He’d asked me to go to that event with him, but I’d begged off, still fearful of running into the old Squires crew.
Hopkins, need I remind you, is where Sam teaches. Hopkins is the university that abuts Tess’s neighborhood. Case closed.
“Why do you have to wine and dine all these women clients? Isn’t it unprofessional?”
Henry’s amused mood vanishes. “I’ve brought five new clients into Squires in the past six months alone. They are already considering me for partner. And I’ve only been there two years.”
I remember what he told me at the shore—how intensely he’s worked all his life. Old habits die hard.
“But still…”
“When these women are going through a divorce, they like to speak to their lawyer confidentially. Alone.”
“Well, why does all that confidential talking take so long?”
“She asked me in for a cup of coffee.”
“A cup of coffee?” I sputter. “Will you send her flowers tomorrow thanking her for her incomparable cup of coffee?”
His lip twitches upward. “No. I’ve decided that’s overkill.” He yawns. “I’m tired. I have to get up early.” His voice turns serious. “Let me remind you. You were the one who wanted the ‘business relationship.’ I’m just trying to play by your rules.”
He closes the door behind him and I’m left standing in the hallway. Trixie, who had been observing this exchange, shoots down the hall toward the kitchen and her food dish. Thanks, Trix.
Play by my rules, huh? What the hell made him think I knew what I was talking about when I made those rules? What is he—crazy?
To make matters worse, when I tell Wendy about this to-do, she takes Henry’s side. On the phone wit
h her the next day, she repeats what he said.
“You were the one who moved into the spare bedroom,” she says. “What did you expect him to think? You’re unwilling to commit. Why should he?”
Has she been speaking with him, I wonder suspiciously, sharing “talking points,” perhaps?
“But,” I sputter, “bringing a woman home! That’s, that’s outrageous!”
“He said it was business,” she counters. “Would he bring a date home to see you? I think not. I think Henry Castle knows something you don’t want to admit.”
Uh-oh. Dangerous road ahead. I don’t say anything, but that doesn’t stop her from continuing.
“You told him about Rick, right?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah, that I was engaged,” I mumble.
“Well, he probably figures you’re not over him yet. So he’s being careful. Can you blame him?”
Of course I can blame him! And I do! Why should I have to be the first one to take a chance? Doesn’t the accident qualify me for some kind of pass in that department? Some kind of immunity totem from this special challenge?
That Sunday, I have another argument with Henry. The Fourth of July is around the corner and Gina and Fred invite me and Henry over. Gina even invites Wendy, but she’s headed to Connecticut for a long weekend. Her morning sickness is gone and she’s experiencing that glow I predicted—a kind of serene shine and great complexion. She still hasn’t told her parents, but she’s laying the groundwork for the resolution of her problem.
She’s taking lots of money from them now—in fact, they have started giving her a monthly allowance. The payback? She visits at least once a month with the promise to move to Connecticut in the fall. That’s right—she’s emigrating. She has a scheme worked out for how to handle the pregnancy and child part but more on that later.
When I tell Henry about my sister’s invite, he is at first very interested.
We’re watching television in his room and both in good spirits. Henry cooked tonight—lamb chops and mint jelly, baked potatoes and salad. And dessert was served in bed. It was me.
“Sounds good,” he says after I give him the news on the cookout at Gina’s place. Then he frowns. “No, wait a minute. Can’t do it. I have to work.”
“Work on the Fourth? Who works on the Fourth except fireworks coordinators? It’s unpatriotic.” I gently jab him in the stomach, which makes him smile but doesn’t dent his resolve.
“No can do. I’m driving to the Eastern Shore to meet with a client. It’s the only time…”
“Henry, how many fucking clients’ hands do you have to hold to get their business? Maybe I should become a client and then you’d spend more time with me!” Yup. I actually say this.
“We live together. That’s a lot of time.”
“Not when you’re out a couple nights a week.” I sulk. Where am I getting these lines? Out of a black-and-white movie? I look down to make sure I still have color. Yup. Blue robe.
“You need a job.” He stands abruptly and heads for the kitchen. I follow him there.
“I had a job! You said it wasn’t good enough for me. Besides, I do my part!”
He stands in front of the open fridge. “You sit at home all day and you don’t have enough to think about.” He pulls out a beer, thinks better of it, puts it back and grabs a water.
“I’m plenty busy. I send out résumés, I cook, I clean. I can’t help it if no one wants to hire me!”
“You need a positive attitude.” He swallows some water. “An employer can see a bad attitude coming a mile away. It can creep into your cover letters.”
So what starts as an argument about Henry’s working the Fourth turns into an argument about my lack of job-search skills.
“That job at the Air Freshener College is a good example of what I’m talking about,” he continues. “You took that because you were desperate. You can’t feel desperate. You have to feel confident. Maybe you should go to a career counselor.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Fred,” I groan.
“So? Fred could be right. Something’s not clicking. How long’s it been—two, three months since you started looking?”
“Not if you count the job I just had,” I protest, but Henry shakes his head.
“You’re still not into it.” He returns to the bedroom, flops on the bed and switches channels.
“I am, too!” I follow him and sit on the corner of the bed so he has to look at me if he wants to see the television. “I’ve sent out maybe fifty résumés in the past month. And only two—count ’em, two—people called me. One to tell me they knew my sister in high school and another because they mistook me for someone they did want to interview! Fred’s right. It’s like I’ve been out of work for two years. I can’t help it if I had an accident. It’s not my fault!” Now I’m in trouble. Mentioning that accident gets me weepy and before you can say “it was your fault” I’m really crying.
I’m dripping fat tears onto his black duvet. He scoots over and puts his arm around my shoulders. “Let me take a look at your résumé,” he says after kissing my forehead. “Maybe I can help.”
And he does help. He takes my résumé with him to work the next day and calls me at lunch to make a few suggestions. I should rewrite the flower shop job to make it sound as if I worked on full-scale marketing strategies instead of what I really did, which was just to, well, market the flowers in terms of selling them. I should punch up the ad agency material to more accurately reflect the full scope of responsibilities I handled. I should include the Air Freshener College job but make it sound as if I was brought on just to handle the “downsizing.” And he also interrogates me about any award I ever won or had a hand in winning and tells me to put those on it, too.
“I’ll put a few feelers out for you, conchita,” he says in his bedroom voice. “We’ll find something. Don’t worry.”
By the time the Fourth rolls around, I’ve forgotten how miffed I was originally that he couldn’t make my sister’s party and I’m getting dangerously close to uttering the L word. Maybe it’s a good thing he’ll be gone for a few days.
chapter 17
Purple lilac: First emotions of love
A wall of lilac bushes enclosed a small portion of yard just outside the Squires’s kitchen door, bringing to my mind the great Walt Whitman poem about Lincoln’s death, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” Rick and I met in March. In April, he invited me to “his place”—his parents’ house. They were traveling, he told me, which suited me just fine since I wasn’t ready to “meet the folks.” Even at the front door, I could smell the lilacs’ heady perfume. Perhaps we were both intoxicated by their scent that night. Sipping chardonnay in the cool evening, listening to Puccini, he reached over and squeezed my hand. “You’re good for me, Amy,” he said, a broad grin on his face. “I love you.” The accident was in late April. And now lilacs make me think both of that first rush of requited love, as well as the finality of death, of Whitman’s lines: “I mourned, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.”
My parents come to my sister’s cookout, and everyone asks where Henry is, and when I explain he’s away on business they all raise their eyebrows as if they’re in some synchronized eyebrow-raising competition. I have no trouble interpreting their meaning. Hmm…away on business, eh? Tsk, tsk.
Fred grills teriyaki chicken and salmon, which Gina serves with roasted corn on the cob with rosemary butter, a fennel-pasta salad and homemade cheddar-herb rolls. For drinks there’s iced green tea with fresh mint and wine spritzers with fresh strawberries.
Gina’s dressed in a loose gauzy white dress and my mother and father come in red, white and blue. Blue shorts, white shirts, red baseball caps. I am not making this up.
It’s a curiously sad affair because the Fourth of July is the type of holiday that is best celebrated with hordes of strangers—at parades or fireworks or symphony concerts that end with the William Tell Overture and live cannons shooting off.
To enhance this lonely feeling, Gina’s neighborhood is quiet as a tomb. There’s a faint smell of charcoal in the air so I know someone is out there, but they’re well camouflaged behind pruned boxwoods. No children’s voices cut the silence and I wonder if Gina would even be allowed to have a kid in this neighborhood. Maybe there’s some covenant agreement all homeowners have to sign before moving in: children will be sent immediately to boarding school upon arrival on this earth.
Dad badgers Fred most of the afternoon about the stock market. I think Dad thinks that Fred has insider info that he won’t reveal, and it makes Dad a little surly. Gina is careful not to serve him any wine. When Mom reminds Dad that Fred’s an accountant, not a stockbroker, Dad growls at her.
“Arthur Andersen,” he mutters at her like a curse.
When Gina goes to get the blueberry-strawberry-vanilla ice cream trifle for dessert, Mom pulls me aside to the corner of the patio away from Dad.
“I haven’t told your father you moved in with that Henry,” she says.
“Why not?”
“I don’t think he’d be happy about it.”
“Why not? I lived with Rick.”
“You were marrying Rick.”
“I didn’t know that when he moved in with me!”
She just frowns, her mouth outlined by little pieces of corn. I point to her mouth and she wipes it off.
“You should be careful. Look at Wendy.”
“How’d you hear about Wendy?” I look over at my sister, who is coming out of the house with a tray loaded with fancy dessert dishes and a trifle bowl. I’d just told Gina today about Wendy’s pregnancy—a sort of makeup confidence for the fact that I don’t tell her much about Henry (because there’s not a lot to tell). So when I’d arrived and spent some time in the kitchen helping her get things ready, I’d spilled the beans about Wendy’s situation.
