by Nancy Thayer
She was going mad. But there was something about rabbits that suggested family, and home and hearth and familial love. Peter Rabbit, and then the book by Margaret Wise Brown, The Runaway Bunny, in which the baby bunny says he’ll run away and the mother bunny tells the baby she will always find him and bring him back. The mother hopes to keep her child safe no matter how far he ventures into the world. This seemed to Daphne the truest book ever written. Cynthia had loved the book as a child. But of course Cynthia was not a child anymore. As Pauline had said, sooner or later all children left their parents. It was just that for Daphne it had happened sooner. And mother love might feel bigger than the world, but in truth it was never as strong.
Daphne put the Jeep in gear and started home. Always before she had thought of herself as a survivor, as a triumphant person, no matter what life threw her way. Even buying her tiny ramshackle cottage had been an act of courage and of spunk, she thought, but lately she had lost her energy. There were times, Daphne thought, when Life ought to give you something. When there ought to be something given, unexpected, free of charge, a gift not even thought of or wished for, a surprise. Now she couldn’t think what it would be for her, but still she wished it would happen. It was what she needed. She was working as hard as she could to make her life come out all right, but now it was time for Life to make a contribution. For it couldn’t be possible that, now that she was so old, forty-six, Life would do nothing but just take and take away?
The Jeep rattled and crashed down the lane, destroying the rural peace. Daphne parked and went into her house. Cynthia was lying on her stomach on the living-room floor, surrounded by photo albums.
“Hi, Mom, how are you, God, you should look at these!” Cynthia said, smiling up at Daphne.
Daphne hung her coat on the rack near the door, and pulling her red cardigan around her for warmth, sat down next to her daughter. “Listen,” she said, “a bunch of us are going into Greenfield to see that new slasher movie. And we’re going to a Chinese restaurant first. Want to come with us?”
“Oh, Mom, I can’t. I told you. I want to spend the night at Donna’s. She’s expecting me anytime. Can you drive me down?”
Daphne ran her hand through her thick hair. “Oh, Jack is going to take me to Greenfield so I don’t have to take the old clunker. But we can drop you on the way.” She looked at her watch. “He should be here any minute.”
She started to get up, but Cynthia said, “Wait a minute. I really want you to look at these. I’ve made a collage. I’m going to take it back with me.”
First Daphne saw only that the photo albums had been ransacked and rifled. Here and there pages had been stripped bare. She started to protest, then saw what Cynthia had done. On a large piece of construction paper she had attached pictures of almost every birthday cake she’d ever had. There was the famous Doll Cake: a Barbie doll in the center, the cake the doll’s tiered dress, covered with pink ruffles of icing. The famous Train Cake, when Cynthia had insisted on having ten friends to her party, and Daphne in a fit of creativity had taken small bread-loaf pans and made eleven little chocolate cakes, iced them, laid them on a track of red licorice, and given each boxcar its own special load of candy: root-beer logs, M&Ms, jujubes, jelly beans, chocolate balls. The wheels were Oreo cookies and the steam from the engine was made of marshmallows stuck together with colored toothpicks. All the children had gone crazy on seeing it. What a work of art it had been. And there were the horse cake, the flower cake, the balloon cake.
“These are all just so fabulous, Mom! You were so clever!”
“I know,” Daphne agreed. “They were wonderful. I always thought that if you ever went to a psychiatrist and said I had never loved you, I could take him the photographs of all these cakes to prove otherwise.”
“Oh, Mom,” Cynthia said impatiently, “I’d never think you didn’t love me. God.” With one quick fluid motion she pushed herself up off the floor. “I’ve got to get my overnight stuff packed.” She went out of the room.
Daphne sat looking at the mess on the floor, photo albums and magazines and nail polish and tissue boxes opened and piled every which way, a Diet Pepsi bottle under the coffee table, an apple core on the rug. She started to call Cynthia back, then thought: No. It wouldn’t take long to clean it up tonight, and why risk a confrontation when Cynthia was going to be here only a few more days?
She went into her bedroom and lay on the bed a moment, just resting. She was tired so often these days. She supposed she should change, but her gray flannels, white shirt, and red cardigan were so warm and cozy, and what would she change into anyway? It was a casual night, she didn’t have a date, they were all just going to a Chinese restaurant, which wasn’t formal at all, and a slasher movie. Oh, this is the way to become an old lady with ringworm curls and dried food on your bodice, she told herself, and heaved herself up. She put on a long, oversize, stylish black sweatshirt-dress and her high gray suede boots. No jewelry except for dangling gold earrings.
“Oh, wow, dude, sexy!” Cynthia said from the doorway. She came into the room, walked around Daphne, scrutinizing her. “You know, you don’t look thirty-two. All my friends say they can’t believe you’re thirty-two. Are you really that old?”
Cynthia’s affectionate teasing pleased Daphne. She put out her arms and drew her daughter next to her. Side by side, they stood looking at themselves in the full-length mirror on Daphne’s closet door, the black-haired mother, the honey-haired child.
“What can I say?” Daphne said. “We two Miller broads are lookin’ pretty good these days.”
Cynthia snaked her arm around her mother’s waist and pulled her closer. “It’s true,” she said. “We’re a pair of jewels.”
This time Jack got Carey Ann on the phone.
“Hi, sweetie pie,” she said, her voice little-girlish and light. “How are you?”
“All right, I guess. How are you?”
“Oh, Jack, I’m just having the time of my life! So’s Lexi! Everyone just adores her. All my friends say she’s just the prettiest baby they’ve ever seen, and everyone wants to run out right now and get pregnant! Everyone says if there are a lot of little baby bastards in Kansas City in nine months it’s going to be all my fault! And, Jack, Daddy and Mommy gave me so many fab presents for Christmas! Jack, Daddy gave me a white fox coat! Jack, wait till you see me in it, I look so beautiful you’ll just drool! ’Course they have loads of presents for me to bring back to you too, honey.”
“Well,” Jack said, trying to get some enthusiasm into his voice, “that’s very nice of them. What are you doing tonight?”
“Oh, just the greatest thing! A whole bunch of us are going out to the club for dinner. Beulah and Mommy and Daddy will take care of Alexandra, of course. She’s having so much fun she won’t even know I’m gone. I’m afraid she’s getting dreadfully spoiled here.”
“Who all’s going to the club?”
“Oh, you know, Sharon and Trish and Christie and Pattie, even though I don’t really like Pattie, I never did, you know, but she’s still part of the group, and some of their boyfriends, and, Jack, some of my old beaux will be there too, but promise me you won’t be jealous—I mean, you know I won’t flirt with them or anything. They’re all fellows I’ve known forever, and I just want to hear about what they’ve been doing with their lives and what’s going on. There will just be a pile of us out at the club.”
Jack was silent. “The club” sprang up before his eyes—he had been there many times, and he knew the private banquet room the group would probably be given. There would be one long table, or two, if there were enough people, and the room was done in a glittering Art Deco style that made you feel slightly time-warped and disoriented, free of responsibility, as if anything you did in that room had no connection with real life, as if once you walked out of that room, everything you had done there vanished from all memory. He bet the waiters there had seen some sights. Instead of candles on the table there were small lamps, the bases metal statu
es of naked ladies or naked men, their arms raised to hold up the light, with the shades in stained-glass patterns of grapes and leaves and flowers that threw crazy-quilt shadows on the tablecloth. Similar lamps hung against the walls, with fringed shades hanging down. The chairs were a decadent tarty red velvet on gilded wood, and the room was thick with Oriental carpets. The waiters, their long hair slicked straight back and greased down, wearing tuxes, all handsome and probably gay, stood at the doors with their hands crossed at crotch level, white towels hanging from their arms, always alert for an empty wineglass. It was at this club, in this room, that Jack had been served, for dessert, a concoction of chocolate and booze named “Satan’s Breakfast.” The club was about as midwestern-native as Al Capone.
“You’ll probably be there all night,” Jack said.
“Probably,” Carey Ann agreed. “I just can’t wait. It’s going to be so much fun to see everybody together again. ’Course, I’ll miss you, Jack, I wish you could be here too. But don’t worry, I’ll talk about you all the time. If you feel your ears burning tonight, you’ll know why. Listen, sweetie, I really want to talk to you forever, but I’ve got to go get ready. I haven’t showered or anything.”
“All right,” Jack said, not very graciously.
Carey Ann heard the tension in his voice. “What are you doing tonight, sweetie?” she asked.
At least she did that much, Jack thought. At least she had the sense to spend a little time paying attention to him, at least she had cared. He felt soothed. She did love him.
“A bunch of us are going down into Greenfield. To a Chinese restaurant and then to a slasher movie. Lady-Killer.”
“Oooh,” Carey Ann squealed. “I’m glad I’m not there! I hate that kind of movie. Imagine a bunch of college professors wanting to see a thing like that! Who all’s going?”
“The Whites. The Johannsens. The Petries.” Jack paused. “I’ll probably drive Daphne down and back.”
“Now I’m really glad I won’t be there. That old hen,” Carey Ann said. “Listen, Jack, I’ve really got to go.”
A tornado of fury boiled and spun inside Jack: he was jealous of her with her old friends, why wasn’t she jealous of him driving around at night with Daphne?
“Can I speak to Alexandra?” he asked.
“Well … she’s eating now.” There was silence while Carey Ann put down the phone and wandered off. “Here she is,” she said.
“Hi, Lexi!” Jack said.
Silence from the other end.
“Lexi, this is Daddy!” Jack said.
“It’s Daddy!” Carey Ann whispered at the other end of the phone. “Say hi to Daddy, Lexi!” Then laughter, and Carey Ann’s voice came on. “Jack, she’s the cutest thing. When I said, ‘It’s Daddy,’ Lexi took the receiver and looked into the little holes!” She went back to her daughter. “Lexi, say hi to Daddy.”
“Hi, Daddy,” Lexi said. Her voice sounded far away, and dubious.
“Hi, Lexi. I love you, honey.” Jack felt as if he were calling out over the miles, trying to reach his small daughter with the drift of his voice. Over the phone the miles of air between them intersected and carried who he was away, he knew, before he could get to Lexi.
“Sorry, Jack, she ran off back to Beulah. Beulah was giving her cinnamon toast. You know it’s hard for her to understand how the phone works. Don’t worry, she won’t forget you. We’ll be back before you know it. I’ve got to go.”
“Wait!” Jack said. He was angry, lonely, desperate, he was spurned again by the two females he loved. He was so overwhelmed with emotions, but not one of them could he speak aloud now. If he said any of this to Carey Ann, she would laugh, or get mad and think he was trying to spoil her fun, or, worst of all, she would try to appease him in a voice that made it clear she thought he was being a real baby about all of this.
“Well, what?” Carey Ann was saying impatiently.
He couldn’t think of anything to say: Do you miss me? Do you love me? Do you think of me when you go to bed at night? Are you glad you married me? Do you wish you were back in Kansas City for good with all those dumb hunks your father approves of?
“What are you wearing tonight?” he asked. Carey Ann always liked to talk about her clothes. This would keep her on the phone a little longer.
Carey Ann broke into peals of laughter. “Imagine you asking me that!” she said. “You never know what I’m wearing! You never know what I’m wearing when you’re looking at me!”
“That’s not true!” Jack protested.
“Oh, honey, yes it is. You just don’t care about clothes, but that’s all right. Anyway, I’m wearing a new dress tonight. You haven’t seen it. An off-the-shoulder sequined, slinky sort of thing. A real drop-dead kind of dress, the kind I could certainly never wear at your old college ‘functions.’ Functions—don’t you just love it? That’s what I tell people here. Back east they don’t have parties, they have functions. Honey, I just have to go now!”
“All right. Call me tomorrow, why don’t you? I love you, Carey Ann.”
“I love you too. You know I do! ’Bye, now!”
The receiver was buzzing in his ear before he had a chance to hang up. The buzzing seemed to be the sound of all those miles of space mushrooming like a black cloud, expanding the distance between him and his wife.
Jack and Daphne were at ease with each other at the beginning of the evening. At first, leaving Plover for the drive down into Westhampton, Cynthia had been in the car with them, so full of high spirits that she leaned over from the back seat, looking from one to the other so fast her flying beaded earrings nearly hit Daphne in the face, snapping her gum with exuberance, saying, it seemed to Daphne, “like,” or “you know,” or “excellent,” with every breath. They dropped her at Donna’s, and as Jack pulled away, the car filled with silence. Jack and Daphne looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“You wait!” Daphne said. “You just wait!”
And talking about children—Cynthia, Alexandra, and then their own childhoods—kept them occupied until they reached the Chinese restaurant, where the Whites and the others were waiting. Then they were engulfed in the general noise and gossip of academics on holiday.
The Chinese food was wonderful. In the way of good parties, everyone seemed terribly clever. But Lady-Killer was so trashy that after a whispered vote, which caused some of the others in the audience to yell, “Shut up!,” the group of eight filed out of the theater to the cries of the third doomed woman in thirty minutes.
The group stood around in the lobby, a regular committee, incapable of decision, until Hank and Ellie Petrie announced that they were all going to a local bar where there was dancing on weekend nights. It was a good place, dark but clean, and slow old rock-’n’-roll favorites pulsed through the room hypnotically. Daphne and Jack danced, but only once, and the rest of the time they sat at opposite ends of the table, separated by all the others.
It was only at the end of the evening, in the car on the way home, that a sense of awkwardness fell between them. Perhaps it was the silence in the car after the noise of the bar; and the air was so cold it seemed hostile after the bar’s smoky warmth. The moment she sat down on the icy car seat, Daphne had the strangest urge to slide across and snuggle against Jack for warmth. It was just a quick welling-up of animal need.
But of course she wouldn’t do that. Daphne could tell Jack was nervous now—she was older than he was, and had been a divorced woman long enough to notice the signs of a nervous man. Jack kept fiddling with things, the heat gauge, the radio, the backwindow defrost, and the bright lights: every now and then he switched the wrong thing and the windshield wipers, which were unnecessary, came flashing across their vision. “Sorry!” he said each time, almost yelling.
Oh, dear, Daphne thought, how am I going to make him comfortable? The drive back to Plover would take the better part of forty-five minutes, and most of it along dark country roads. The bright streetlights of Greenfield were a help; it made them f
eel as if other people were still around, but once they hit the long black stretch of Route 2, they were as stranded with each other as two astronauts on the moon. Or two teenagers on their first date.
Daphne had not forgotten his kiss during the fall. Well, how could she? It was the only real kiss she’d had in about two years. She said to herself: Jack is thirty-one. You are forty-six. You could truly be his mother. She said to herself: Jack is married. You know what you think of women who mess with married men.
Still. The mind by nature is made to fade when faced with the powers of the body, like the moon fading in the sky when the great sun rolls over the horizon. What has seemed rational and clear by silver light in a black sky suddenly is impossible even to find when the sun takes over so completely, blazing through the senses. This was what Daphne was feeling within her body now, a sunrise. Gently a heat came rolling up inside her body, spreading its rays to every part, so that her limbs and fingers and skin, which for a while had seemed numb to her, now tingled with life. Desire, quick and dense and pervasive, streaked through her abdomen and legs.
Men’s bodies. Women could talk all they wanted about liberation, but they would never be free of the love of men’s bodies, and no liberation could ever be as sweet as union with a man one loved. David had been older than Jack when he and Daphne became lovers, and although he played tennis and golf, he had developed an alcoholic softness around his chest and belly. Still, the hair on his chest and abdomen had pulled her gaze down his torso like a summons every time, another one of nature’s tricks, pointing the way to that magical package between the legs. The vulnerable balls. The cunning penis, shaped like the arrow that pierces the heart. When David had been drinking a lot, he was impotent, and they came to accept this and not attempt anything. Then his penis would hang, a tough useless weed in his crotch. But when he hadn’t been drinking, it swelled up like steel, and this was why Daphne loved David, why women loved men, because they were soft and hard at once, silk skin over brick muscles, rampant penis over fragile balls, rigid prick thick with cream.
