Then Lillian’s announcement—“This is a major candle-lighting event,” ending in a giggle.
Rachel touched the front of her black brocade dress in consternation. “You don’t have to light them all,” she called back. But of course they would.
“We’re in no hurry.” Howard leaned over and touched her shoulder, and for a minute she grabbed his hand before she let it fall.
She looked around—at candlelight glowing on crystal and silver, highlighting the sheen of damask, the gleam of the china, at the bouquet of roses and lily of the valley.
Such treasures her children were. They’d been busy all day, almost ever since they’d arrived yesterday, fixing all her favorite things—poached salmon in parsley sauce, tiny peas, spinach salad with walnuts, her favorite orange chiffon cake.
She settled back to wait.
It wasn’t that she was afraid, being here alone. She’d been alone all those months Will was in the hospital. But it was lonesome. Even though he’d been in the hospital all that time, at least he was in the same world with her. It did frighten her a little, too—this suggestion of the doctor’s that she not live alone any longer. “Why ever not?” she’d wanted to know.
“Because, Rachel, you fainted once. It could happen again, and the fall could be much more serious than an easy topple from the couch.”
For a while, she’d thought him an alarmist, and that she’d be more content here at home than living anywhere else. She had people coming in to help. Her friend Mabel called her every day. She didn’t much care for the idea of an old folk’s home. The children had their own lives to live—though Laura had made that offer when Will first got sick.
Will… He had taken such joy in the family, too. It grieved her that some of the grandchildren were too young to carry any memory of him into adulthood. Lillian’s children would remember him. And Laura’s. Maybe Howard’s oldest. But probably not the baby. Not very well, anyway.
The baby was just the age—five—Laura was when she’d been taken sick. Today that kind of infection could probably be cleared up in no time. But that was before antibiotics. A whole year, Laura had been bedfast—the first perilous weeks, when they thought she was going to die, then months of recovery.
“Ready!” Howard snapped the light switch.
Behind her, the door from the kitchen creaked open.
“Happy birthday, dear Mother,” they were singing. “Happy birthday to you.”
“Thank you, dears. Thank you. Eighty candles.” She lifted her hand, put it back in her lap. “I won’t try to count.”
“Ready? Make a wish,” Howard said. “Need any help?”
She looked up at them. They were all leaning forward, eyes fixed on the cake, lips slightly parted in vicarious expectation. Her dear children.
“Well, maybe,” she said. “One, two, three—” She filled her lungs, leaned forward, and blew, and they all joined in until, with the last circling whoosh around the edges, all the candles went out. They cheered and sat back, triumphant.
“Wait. Time for a toast.” Howard got to his feet and poured the last of the wine into their glasses. He raised his glass, and the others followed. “To Mother, with all our love,” he said, and then, mindful as they all were that this was her first birthday without Will, he raised it again. “And with all our love, and our gratitude, to Dad.”
Her eyes stung, though it was partly from happiness at having them all here.
“Remember the first cake we made for you, Mother?” Laura asked. “The frosting was so thin that it sank into the cake, and Dad brought daffodils from the garden to lay around the edges.”
“You worked on it all day long,” she said.
It reminded them of other stories.
“Remember that time we came home and the furnace had gone out and we made hot chocolate and sat around the fireplace all night until the house warmed up?”
“Remember how Dad used to take us on mystery rides—and they’d always end up at Howard Johnson?”
“Remember the time we got locked out and Dad had to climb to a second-story window while we all watched and cheered?”
Watching them, looking around the circle, feeling the warmth of the occasion, this hallowed room, she thought, It will be hard for them to give this up. It has been a special place for them, for the grandchildren, too.
Last year, on a college-visiting tour—before Philip had decided to go to college closer to home—Laura and Trace and Philip had stopped by. “Hi, Grandma,” Philip said, giving her a hug that all but lifted her off her feet. “We left home a day early so we could be sure and see you.”
Will had been so touched. After Philip had looked at his favorite location of ant lions under the back steps, tried unsuccessfully to fold his six-foot frame into the “secret closet” that led off the upstairs linen closet, given the pulley line a few revolutions out over the backyard, recalling how he or Bart or Annie would attach a basket and send messages back and forth, and after they’d had a round of Will’s homemade root beer and her applesauce cookies, they’d left, waving from the car until they drove out of sight. Then she and Will had sat on the glider on the side porch, in a kind of wordless contentment, relishing the lovely September day.
“Well…” She picked up the knife. “I’d better cut the cake before the ice cream melts.”
“I’ll hold the plates”—Laura moved a plate close to where her mother was lowering the knife and Rachel slipped a piece onto the flower-glazed surface. “Who gets the first piece? Lillian—you’re the oldest.”
“Don’t remind me.” Lillian laughed, accepting the plate her mother handed her.
After the cake and ice cream, they had coffee. In the silence, a question hovered. Lillian broached it. “How are you, Mother?” she asked.
They’d asked it before—a quick, for-the-moment question when they came in.
“I’m doing fine,” she said. “I haven’t fainted again, not since the first time. I’ve gotten along well. My friend Mabel calls me every day.”
“Is she still in her house next to the high school?” Howard asked.
“No. She moved to the Cramer Retirement Home.”
“Does she like it?” Laura asked.
“She says she does. I wouldn’t like it. Alarm buzzers and handrails everywhere. Only old people. I don’t need that. I’m pretty healthy for someone my age.”
“Are you sure?” Lillian asked again.
“Let’s not talk about it now,” she said. “Let’s just enjoy my birthday.” There was no hurry. They’d be here for several days.
The first thing Trace did when he got to his office was call Stoddard. “Good morning, Ben. Trace here. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you yesterday. I took my car down to get the tires rotated for our summer trip. By the time I got back, you’d gone.”
“Yes.” Stoddard’s voice was cool. He was obviously not interested in small talk about the Randalls’ trip. “We missed you at the meeting.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I told you I’d do what I could about the welcome for David Ignatius.” Stoddard did not like people missing department meetings, and that Trace had been gone at noon evidently made it worse.
“Since you’ve come most recently, you’d have the freshest memory of what it’s like, being a newcomer….”
Was this a put-down, an additional reproof about missing the meeting? But then Stoddard went on.
“We’d like you to do the welcome speech. Just a few minutes—five or ten. Can you do that?”
“Well, yes, that’ll be fine.” He was pleased, told himself to forget the paranoia. He was a good after-dinner speaker. He’d had a reputation for that at Duke. Since he’d come here, no one had asked him. A short speech. Some dry, witty remarks. A gracious welcome. “Yes, sure.”
“So you and Laura will be there?”
“Not Laura. She’s up with her mother. What time Saturday?” He flipped through his black book. Uh-oh. Annie’s prom. There it was. “A’s prom. Eight o’clock.
Take pictures.” No mention of the reception for Ignatius, though he’d known it was likely to be this Saturday. He should have written it down. Now what? He wanted to be there for Annie. He’d promised Laura. But this was important, too. Maybe if worse came to worst, Gordon’s parents could take the pictures. “What time Saturday?” He dreaded the answer. These things were usually at seven-thirty or eight.
“Not till late. We’re doing it as a reception after the string-quartet concert. Both Ignatiuses play in community orchestra, so they think this is a great idea.”
He felt almost giddy with relief. “Terrific. Sounds wonderful.” Stoddard might think his enthusiasm a bit much, but who cared? “What time, then, do you figure?”
“We’re estimating the reception will start at nine-thirty. We give everybody a chance to get something to drink. I introduce you. You talk. Ignatius responds. Then we eat. Any questions?”
It was Stoddard’s hallmark—“Any questions?” He closed department meetings with it, always in a pompous tone, as though addressing a congressional inquiry instead of a collegial group. It usually annoyed Trace. This time, he was amused.
“No questions. I’ll be there.”
That evening at dinner—by now they were working on the casserole—he told Annie of Stoddard’s invitation. “I was really pleased,” he said. “They haven’t asked me to do anything like that before.”
“Saturday night?”
“It doesn’t start until late. I’ll still be here to see you off and take pictures.” He smiled at her fondly. “I want to see Gordon’s face when he sees you in that dress. And your mother’s pearls,” he added brightly.
Annie’s eyes narrowed. “How late?”
“Not till after the concert. Nine-thirty or so.”
“Dad!” She flung her fork down on the table.
“What’s wrong? The prom’s at eight.”
“Dad”—her voice registered scorn—“nobody goes to a prom at eight.”
“When do they go? Eight is what I wrote in my book. That’s what you told me.”
“That’s what the ticket says. But nobody goes then. First, there’s hors d’oeuvres. Then there’s a barbecue. Then everybody has to change. Then you go to the prom.”
“So what time is it by then?” His mind was jumping ahead. How could he explain a second defection to Stoddard? Besides, he wanted to be there to welcome Ignatius. He’d already made notes for his talk.
“We meet at Celia’s at five-thirty. Her mom is fixing hors d’oeuvres. Then we go to Jeanine’s for the barbecue at six-thirty. The girls are all taking our stuff to Jeanine’s, to change there. The guys go and change and pick us up at about eight-thirty. Then we stop by our folks’ houses so they can see us. Then we go to the prom.” She was explaining it laboriously, as though to a child.
“So what’s the problem?”
She sighed, as though only a total idiot would ask such a question. “It puts me under pressure, and it’s an important thing in my life. I don’t want to have to worry.”
He recalled her acerbic comments about proms and how superficial they were. He did not remind her. “I’m skipping the concert. I can get to the reception from here in five minutes. That’s time enough, surely.”
“Who knows? It might be. It might not.” She sighed. “It’s just that you promised to be here, and now you’ve taken on work stuff. It’s the same old story.”
Now he was irritated. “Hey, wait a minute. You told me eight o’clock. I’m committed to do this talk. There should be plenty of time. In a pinch, I suppose you could even get Gordon’s folks to take pictures.”
“Sure, Dad, sure!” She burst into tears, flung her napkin on top of her unfinished food, and ran from the table.
He put his head in his hands. “Jesus Christ,” he said.
*
After a while, she came back downstairs. He was in the living room, reading. She sat in a chair across from him, her clipboard and geography book in her lap.
“Honey,” he began.
She looked up. Her eyes were red and swollen.
“I’m sorry, dear. It’ll probably work out fine.”
“Mmmm,” she murmured. She didn’t protest further, and they each went back to their books.
Saturday night came. At 6:30, he ate a light supper. After that, he dressed for the reception—his good suit, the red paisley tie Annie had given him last Christmas. By now, it was 7:30, and the girls were probably putting on their finery—Annie the loveliest of the lot, he was sure. He smiled benignly at his fatherly pride as he pulled the tie through the loop at his neck.
At eight o’clock, he put his light raincoat by the door in case the evening turned cool, studied the camera to be sure he knew how to work it, and went over his brief notes once more.
By 8:30 he was feeling a little edgy. Surely she’d get here in time. He went over his notes again. He scarcely knew this man, Ignatius, but he came with good credentials and seemed pleasant. He’d probably be a fine colleague, and it would be nice to have someone else be the junior member of the department, take some of the committee assignments.
By ten of nine, he was pacing the floor. She could still get here in time. He thought of calling Jeanine’s, but Annie would never forgive him. Besides, according to the schedule, she should already have left. It wouldn’t take him long to snap the pictures. The reception was only five minutes away. He didn’t like to rush in at the last minute, though. He’d need a little time to collect himself. And Stoddard would be frantic if he didn’t show up a few minutes ahead of 9:30.
At ten after nine, he went out onto the front porch, leaving the door open in case the phone rang. Outside, the night was clear and starlit—perfect for a prom. Clusters of fireflies flickered near the big tree. A car approached, went by. Would they be in Gordon’s car, or someone else’s? Annie hadn’t said. Two more cars turned at the corner, came toward the house, went by. Where were they?
His jaw felt wired. He went inside, brought his coat out, and laid it over the porch rail. He’d already pulled the car out of the driveway, parked it in front. He’d brought the camera out, too—clutched in his hand, his fingers like a vise.
Once more he looked at his watch: 9:20. Where was she? Damn it, where was she?
*
Gordon gunned the motor. “Get in!”
Annie was already in. Jeanine and Bill climbed in and slammed the door. The car pulled away.
Annie clutched in her hand the envelope containing her mother’s pearls, the half-empty string trailing across her lap. “I told you we should go to my house first,” she said. “My father will be berserk.”
Gordon bent over the steering wheel, intent on the road. “If you hadn’t busted the beads, or if you’d let my folks pick them up later, we’d have been okay,” he said, his voice dark.
“Oh, sure,” she said. “By the time they got back from the movie, your cat might have eaten the pearls.”
He snorted. “Cats don’t eat beads.”
“Well, scattered them all over. My mother would kill me if I lost her wedding pearls. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry, I wouldn’t have broken the string.”
The car cut around a corner. “Hey, watch it,” Bill muttered. “You made me mush my corsage,” Jeanine complained.
“I should have called my father,” Annie moaned. “I bet it’s already too late. I told him we’d go there first, then to your folks,” she snapped at Gordon.
“There should have been plenty of time,” he muttered, “if you hadn’t broken the pearls.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said, her head craning as they turned the corner. The house came into view. The porch light was on, and the light in the front hall. But the car was gone.
Just a minute, dear. It’s cool for May, isn’t it?” Rachel stopped partway through her midafternoon walk and pulled her blue sweater more tightly around her.
“Need some help?” Laura leaned over, fastened one of the buttons at her mother’s waist. “There. That better?”
“Yes, thank you.” She steadied herself on her daughter’s arm and they continued on their walk.
In the several days her children had been here, they’d taken turns accompanying her on her walk—past Will’s garden, then the Hollisters’, the MacDonalds’, the house where the new people lived. Up to the corner, then across the street, and back.
She wanted to tell Laura first—about her decision not to stay.
She had wakened early this morning, remembering the conversation last fall, when Will first got sick. Howard and Lillian had made general comments about caring for her, helping her with whatever arrangements she chose. But it was Laura, that first time she came after Will was hospitalized, who’d spoken of her going to Woodbridge to live with them.
It would be quite a role switch, Laura caring for her, after all those months she’d cared for her daughter. Five years old. Six by the time she was able to go out and play like a normal child, and even then they had to be careful—extra rests, no competitive sports. For years afterward, when she was out shopping with Lillian and Laura and they would run into a friend and stop to chat, the question would come up: “Which is the one who was sick?”
She would nod toward Laura. “This one.”
The listener’s gaze would follow hers. “She certainly doesn’t look sick now.”
Once, she had observed Laura roll her eyes skyward at this, and had cautioned her afterward, “You mustn’t let my friends think you’re impatient at their questions. A whole lot of people prayed for you for a long time. Of course they’re interested.”
Her daughter’s face flushed. “That’s all I ever am,” she said, “the one who was sick!”
“Darling! You’re fine now. It’s just that you came so close to dying. If you hadn’t had good care…” She didn’t finish the sentence, but it hadn’t been easy, those weeks of terror and then months of convalescence—trays, bed baths, all the rest of it.
Back then, forty years ago, she’d not anticipated she’d be the one needing care.
They had reached the corner, crossed, started back. In front of the Lewis house, she said, “Jane Lewis says they’re going to put the house up for sale and move to Florida.”
Such Good People Page 5
