I shake my head. "Thank you," I tell her.
"For what?"
I wave my hand around the kitchen, meaning everything.
"Of course. This is what mothers do."
*
I find Elspa sitting on a chair pulled up to the bed where Artie is sleeping. She's rubbing her bare feet on the carpet, staring out the window at the far trees—the bright sky and green treetops. She's humming softly to herself.
"Elspa?"
She turns to me and reads what must be a worried expression on my face. "Are you okay?"
She looks back to the window. "I'm fine. Just sad, I guess. I'm just trying to figure out what it's going to feel like."
I think of the razor marks on her wrist that she showed me last night by the pool. I'm not sure if I believe that she's fine. And as I watch her, I grow quietly more nervous. "I'm going to go to the accountant's office. But I could postpone it, if you want. I mean, we could have lunch?" I don't know what will happen if she feels this too deeply. I remember her saying last night that she'll die along with Artie, that she couldn't make it through this.
"No, thanks. I'd rather just stay here, if that's okay. I can help Joan. I'll be ready. In just a few more minutes. I can be of use."
"Okay," I tell her. "That would be great."
I don't think, rationally, that she would ever try to kill herself again, but I can't stop myself from taking precautions. Before I leave, I find myself going through each of the bathrooms filling a bag with razors and sleeping pill prescriptions, which I hide in the guest bedroom closet.
My mother and the male nurse, the Toddish one, are talking in the kitchen, preparing medications and Artie's breakfast. They're discussing fiber and arranging pills in little paper cups.
I walk out to my car, and the mattress is gone. Some-one came and got it, just as John Bessom promised.
Chapter Thirteen
Don't Let Your Husband Have His Own Accountant
Munster, Feinstein, Howell, and Reyer is the typical upper-end accounting office—the ferns are real. In fact, they're such an upper-end firm that the only thing fake in the office is the receptionist, though she looks well watered and pruned. I can't remember if it is Feinstein or Howell who's having the affair with the receptionist. Munster is dead, and Bill Reyer plays by the rules, which is why Artie chose him, ironically enough. I've never been here. I only know all of these things because Artie is a storyteller. He was so good that he could make even an accounting firm intriguing.
I tell the receptionist who I am, who I'm here to see.
She says in a kindly way, "Please take a seat."
I glance at a pile of glossy magazines, the water cooler. I'm feeling antsy. I call Lindsay on my cell phone, to check in.
She answers breathlessly. "Hello?"
"Where are you?" I ask.
"Where are you?" She says this a little pointedly, a real edge to her voice that I don't recognize.
I ignore the tone, mainly because I'm not sure what it means. "In an accountant's office—the awful kind," I whisper. This is the kind of accounting firm that would make me insane. I know, I know—stacks of numbers are stacks of numbers to most people, but this place strikes me as tragically dull. In auditing there's always a hunt afoot. I prefer it.
"Is everything okay?" Lindsay asks, easing up a little.
"Yes. For now."
"Well then, screw you!"
"What?"
"You heard me."
This is a complete shock. Lindsay has always been so subservient, so overly agreeable. I turn around a little in my seat and lower my voice, trying to create a little privacy. "I did hear you, but I'm not sure I know what's going on."
"You hung up on me and I had to work hand in hand with Danbury, by myself, and you know how scary he is. He's a giant with giant hands and that big square head of his. He didn't get fired, but there was all this stuff with the SEC."
"And . . . how did it go?"
There's a quiet moment. Lindsay is paying for something. I hear an exchange with a clerk. "Fine," she says. "It went fine."
"Well, then, this is great, Lindsay. It all turned out fine."
"No help from you!"
"That's just it," I tell her. "You handled it without any help from me. Exactly."
"Oh," she says, her tone changing. "And that's a good thing."
"That's a good thing."
"Okay," she says. "Then unscrew you."
"That's okay, too," I tell her. "You don't have to unscrew me."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"I also got this little promotion," she says.
"That's great!"
"It's just little but it kind of gives me a little more leverage, which is important while you're gone."
"It's a step up! You deserve it."
The receptionist is standing in front of me now. She says, "I'll take you back." But I think for a disoriented second that she means she's going to take me back to the past. She's going to return me to some earlier, happier time—wishful thinking. I look at her for a moment then say my good-byes to Lindsay and snap the cell phone shut.
"Follow me," she says.
My eyes bounce along with the floofy ruffle at the hem of her impossibly tight, impossibly short skirt. When we reach Bill Reyer's door, she asks me if I want coffee, but her tone is so insincere that I can't even take this simple offer seriously. "No thanks," I tell her.
She opens the door and Bill jumps up to greet me. He walks skittishly, as if spooked by the shadow of his mammoth tax-code books. He takes my hand. "It's so nice to meet you finally. Artie has always said such wonderful things about you."
"He has?"
"Of course," Reyer says, but his "of course" is too chipper or defensively chipper or somehow off. He coughs to recover a somber tone.
Uncomfortable silence. Accountant silence.
He walks to his desk, motions for me to take a seat. The leather chairs squeak.
"Yes, and I'm sorry we've had to meet under such difficult circumstances. How's Artie doing today?" He says it like he's just read it out of the chapter on "How to Console a Grieving Widow-to-Be," from the book How to Be a Personable Accountant. The formality, the professionalism, is incredibly soothing. I'm in a business meeting. I sit up.
"We had a scare last night. But he's okay today," I say. "I'd like to get on with this, if that's all right."
"There are separate accounts, which makes it a little tricky, but Artie made it clear that everything should be turned over to you. The death certificate will take about nine days and then the insurance policy—"
"I don't really need the money. I make enough myself," I cut in for no good reason.
"Well, it's yours anyway. To do with as you see fit. Except . . ." He rummages through some papers. I don't like the pause, nor his acting. I can see this is the part he's dreading. He's also been seeking advice from the chapter called "How to Dole Dicey Information to Soon-to-Be Widows" but it hasn't helped him much. Now he is stalling, worrying, trying to give me the idea that he isn't so organized. Please. He's an accountant, a really good one, too. He doesn't need to be shuffling these pages. He needs to just spit it out.
"He actually took on some financial responsibilities— though they're not necessary legally his anymore."
"Payments?"
"Well, he sends a check to Rita Bessom monthly, from a specific fund, and has for thirty years. He started doing it as a very young man, really, sending what he could, and, as you know, that amount has been able to grow."
John Bessom's mother. Rita Bessom. He's been sending checks all these years? I try to picture Rita Bessom, cashing her checks, giving the money to her grown son. Or not. Maybe she keeps it all for herself. Rita Bessom. I try to imagine what she looks like, where she lives. "Bessom? Still?"
He coughs again, uncomfortably.
"Why didn't he send them to his son?"
"I think he tried once to contact his son, but the boy, John Bessom, didn't
want anything from him. Well, he isn't a boy anymore. I mean I suppose he's your age by now . . ." And then Reyer realizes that he's made a faux pas. That he's suggested that Artie is old enough to be my father. And I realize that John Bessom is a man my own age. I had immediately put him in a more disarming category, that of Artie's son, and tried to keep him there—as if he goes into the back office of Bessom's Bedding Boutique to play with small green plastic army figures. This reminder from Reyer doesn't help. He recovers from his blunder quickly. "But Artie believes that support for a child doesn't end when he reaches eighteen years of age. He wanted it to be ongoing."
"Does the money reach the son?"
"The checks reach Rita. She cashes them. That's all we know."
I sit there, soaking this in. John doesn't think there's anything between him and Artie now, but was he still okay with taking the money? Has he been receiving an allowance all this time—enough to start up his own business? Or does his mother hold on to it all for herself? What kind of family is this?
"You know, Artie's estate is quite large."
"Sure," I say. "He started up a restaurant chain. Of course it's large."
"You're an auditor, aren't you?"
I nod.
"Don't you want to know all of the figures?"
"No."
"Why not? I have people come in here who want to know the numbers but don't have any real idea what it all means. You would know. Exactly. Why don't you want to?"
"Because I am an auditor." This response makes sense to me, but I can tell it's lost on Reyer. What I mean is that it's too much, too personal. Aren't there some doctors who don't want to know all the details of their own illness, even when it's their specialty? I want Artie to be Artie— that's enough to deal with. I don't want him to become his estate. "You have more to tell me, though, besides numbers," I say. Reyer still looks terribly uncomfortable. "What is it?"
"Artie wants you to give a lump sum to John Bessom."
"Did he say how much?"
"No, he didn't specify. He wanted you to decide how much so you could feel comfortable with it."
"He wants me to choose? So I'll be comfortable?" I'm not comfortable, and I don't think I can become comfortable.
The accountant coughs again. He shuffles papers. He isn't finished. "There's more?" I ask.
"One other monthly check supports an art fund. He would like these checks to continue on a monthly basis."
"An art fund?"
"The E.L.S.P.A. Do you know it?"
At first, hearing the name spelled out makes Elspa sound like a governmental agency. It takes a moment to register. Then it does. "The ELSPA," I say. "Yes, I know it." I look to the bank of windows. Is this what he was afraid he'd muddle if he had to tell me himself? Is this what he didn't have the nerve to tell me? Fine. He's been giving money to Elspa. Now that I know Elspa I could see why he'd want to do that. It's infuriating that he's kept another secret from me—how many are there?—but okay. Fine.
"Artie and his charities," I say flatly, but then my mind starts moving quickly. What does Reyer know? Probably more than he's letting on. Now I do want some specifics, some details. "Look, tell me what you know. There's more. I know that the E.L.S.P.A. isn't a registered nonprofit. These payments aren't tax deductible." And then I know exactly the one question that I need an answer to: "When did these payments begin?"
"Artie said she needed to turn her life around. He wanted to provide her that opportunity and so, graciously, he opened this account." Bill Reyer looks down at his hands. He folds them together.
"When did these payments begin?"
He fiddles with some papers, but I know that he knows. "Hmmm," he says, as if this bit of the conversation has so little relevance that it's slipped his mind. "Ah, here it is. Two years ago. July." He keeps his eyes on his hands.
"The payments began two years ago? Two years ago?" Artie and I had been married when they met, when the payments began? Elspa assured me that her relationship with Artie happened before Artie and I had gotten married. Is Elspa one of Artie's three? But, really, does it even matter anymore, if there were three other women or four or eighteen? Artie betrayed me, and Elspa lied to me. "Nice," I mutter. "Very nice."
Reyer looks at me pleadingly. "I told Artie that it would have been better to explain all of this himself," he says. "I was hoping that in his time remaining he would have . . ."
I lean back in my chair then quickly gather my things. Did Artie want someone younger than I am? Did he prefer her more delicate features? Is she better in bed? I see Elspa's face in my mind—the innocence, the sweetness. Springbird is just a name and my imagination, but Elspa is real, undeniably real. I think back on the sculpture—abstract and blue—from her imagination! "I have to go." Something has cracked in me. I thought I had dealt with the brunt of the betrayal, but this is a deeper pain.
"We aren't finished . . ." I hear Bill say as I stand up and head out the door. "We haven't worked out any details, come to any conclusions."
Things are blurry, sizzling, and a hiss is rising in my ears along with the dull thud of my footsteps down the hall.
"Ma'am?" the receptionist calls after me. "Is something wrong?" I wave my hand like a flag of surrender. "I'm sorry," I tell her, barely pausing. "I have to go."
Chapter Fourteen
Don't Breathe Water
I pull jaggedly into the driveway, rip the key from the ignition, and stride across the lawn. My mother's car is gone. She must have headed out to tend to some of the endless details. I unlock the door and let it swing open behind me. Maybe this is the way grief will arrive—through anger.
"Elspa!" I shout. The house is quiet except for my voice ringing through it.
There's a fresh vase of flowers on the lowboy. I despise the flowers, the vase, every manipulative impulse Artie's ever had. I look into the living room, jog to the kitchen, the dining room.
"Elspa!"
I circle back to the stairs and run up them. My mind is flashing back to the accountant's office, Reyer's folded hands, his cough. I know the looks that accountants give their clients when they're trying to avoid the truth. I'm supposed to decide how much money to give John Bessom? I'm supposed to feel fucking comfortable? Artie has been supporting Rita Bessom and Elspa? Elspa lied to me?
I turn down the hallway and barge into the bedroom.
"What?" Artie shouts out. "What's wrong?"
The nurse is in the chair by the window, hunched over a handheld video game. He startles, but tries to pretend he hasn't been startled.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Artie sits back. "You talked to Reyer. I'm assuming he didn't break it to you with the necessary finesse. He lacks—"
"You should have told me to wait until after you were dead," I shout. "Then killing you wouldn't be an option! The E.L.S.P.A. Fund? I have to decide what your son is worth?"
The nurse quickly shuts down the game and shoves it into his backpack, trying to pack up and sneak out.
"Now that you've met her, you can see she's deserving," Artie says.
"Yes, I hear that she's quite a sculptor! We really should support the arts in just this way!"
"Okay, okay, I see why you're mad about Elspa. But you can see that my son, John, deserves something, doesn't he? What kind of a bastard doesn't leave something to his own son?"
"A completely different kind of bastard, I suppose."
"I'm a very specific form of bastard," he reminds me.
I walk to his bed and lean in. My mind flashes on one of my mother's never-cross-stitched sayings: When dealing with a belligerent hairstylist, you must embrace your inner bitch. "You know, I could smother you with a pillow in the middle of the night and who would think I'd done it?"
"He might," Artie says, pointing to the frightened nurse zipping his backpack.
"Maybe I'll let Eleanor help. She'd appreciate that. For that matter, I wonder how many of your other goddamn girlfriends wouldn't mind taking their turn offing you!"
"And don't buy me any more fucking flowers!" I scream.
I walk to the bathroom, where I recall Elspa drawing Artie's bath. Empty. And that's when it hits me.
"Elspa," I say. A jolt of panic shoots through me—has Elspa felt too much, is she bleeding somewhere in the house, is she already gone? For some reason, this only makes me angrier, although the anger is tinged with fear.
"What is it?" Artie asks from bed.
The nurse freezes, his backpack tucked under his arm.
I race downstairs, calling her name even more loudly than before. "Elspa! Elspa!" I turn the corner at the lowboy so wildly that I tip the vase, which thunks to the floor, cracking wide open so that the water soaks the rug and the stems are exposed. On its tipping way, it chips a lamp—a lamp that I bought, finery that my mother would have suggested that I hide. I run through the kitchen again, where my mother has stacked the chocolate-slathered biscuits. I open the French doors and clatter across the patio. I stare into the corners of the yard and then into the pool.
There at the bottom, I see a blurred shape in the deep end—the slow underwater billow of a shirt, the glistening of a wet head. Elspa. No. I take a deep breath, a running start, and dive in—fully dressed, shoes and all. The water is cold. I swim to the bottom of the deep end, my clothes heavy each time I glide forward. My strokes seem too slow, the water too thick. I worry that I will never get to the bottom.
But then, finally, Elspa is right in front of me. Her startled face, her eyes a little wild, her cheeks puffed. I wrap one arm around her ribs and yank her toward the surface. She twists in my grip as if she's trying to pull me down with her, but I tug her back sharply. Soon we are both paddling upward.
We break the surface at the same moment, each gasping. I still have Elspa by the ribs.
"What?" she says, sputtering, trying to catch her breath.
"What?" I ask, completely confused.
"What are you doing?"
I loosen my grip and she swims to the wall. "I thought I was saving your life," I tell her. Elspa is alive and well. I should feel relieved, happy, but instead the anger returns.
My Husband's Sweethearts Page 8
