Rewriting Rita

by Kristy Tate

  This wouldn’t do.

  Rita stomped out onto the stage. “No!”

  Ivan stood abruptly, as if shaken from a trance.

  “I mean—that sort of music is not appropriate—” She took a deep breath and started again. “Jouez quelque chose d'approprié pour le théâtre, s'il vous plaît.”

  Christian nodded and broke into an emotional ballad. Clarisse tripped across the stage and leaned against the piano, eyes growing misty and soft.

  Rita felt her own eyes turning red…or green…or whatever hue eyes turned when forced to witness something they did not want to see.

  Rita studied Ivan. His affair with Clarisse was a barely controlled secret. Not that Rita minded, because Clarisse being occupied with Ivan kept her out of the room she shared with Rita, and out of her way

  Rita had more than one good reason for keeping Clarisse away from Christian, but watching Christian play while Clarisse simpered and Ivan glowered, Rita could think of nothing but the storm building inside her.

  Ivan tapped his cane on the stage and then pointed it at Pierre, who stood stage left. “Let’s take it from the top.”

  Pierre moved to center stage and primped under the bright lights before clearing his throat and summoning his best orator’s voice. “Welcome, my lords and ladies, to a show that will both astound and—”

  “Stop!” Ivan bellowed. “Where is the music?”

  Clarisse, who had sat beside Christian on the piano bench, twittered into her fan. She nudged Christian with her elbow and wiggled her fingers in a mock concerto.

  The heat that had begun in Rita’s belly moved up into her throat, burned in the back of her mouth and eventually reached the tender spot behind her eyes. When Christian started playing, Clarisse watched his face, lips parted and eyes dreamy.

  “Clarisse!” Ivan called.

  Clarisse started.

  “Clarisse!” Ivan repeated even louder. “You’re on!”

  “Oh, of course.” Standing, Clarisse threw Christian a parting smile and glance before launching into her lines. “This is such a busy place.” Clarisse threw her arms wide, encompassing the empty stage. “Everyone has somewhere to go and people to meet, but alas, I have no one.” She looked at Christian as she spoke and then took a deep breath.

  Rita recognized the look in Clarisse’s face as she remembered her other role—actress. “If I cannot extend the mortgage on the farm, I shall be forced into the city to work in the factories and then who shall care for my poor, ailing grandmother?” Clarisse batted her eyelashes, and her shoulders drooped in self-pity.

  Phillip bounded onto the stage and, walking backward, he bumped into Clarisse. The two parted, like opposing magnets. They didn’t speak, but their gazes locked and their eyes grew wide in mutual attraction.

  Rita blew out a frustrated breath and worried a string on her glove. Clarisse had always caught and held the attention of any man within sniffing distance. The girl seemed to collect hearts the way Rita’s Aunt Monique collected teacups, which sat on the mantel and gathered dust. What did Clarisse hope to do with her many male conquests?

  Rita had hoped Christian would see through Clarisse’s machinations, but he was playing the piano with a stupid grin on his face.

  The music shifted into a minor key as Pierre, playing Mr. Dastard, took the stage.

  Rita tightened the shawl around her shoulders, touched the curls of her gray wig and tightened her fingers around her prop. She wanted to take the cane first to Clarisse and then to Christian, but as the elderly grandmother she could do little but walk with a stoop and growl.

  The lights dimmed when the scene ended. Phillip and Pierre hauled the rocking chair to center stage and Rita, after a final twitch of her shawl, took her place in the rocker. Clarisse stood beside her.

  “Wait! Stop!” Ivan yelled.

  Rita couldn’t see what had caused the delay, but she heard scuffling backstage.

  Clarisse lifted one lovely pale shoulder and looked bored. Rita followed her gaze to Christian, who smiled broadly. Rita couldn’t tell if he was smiling at her or at Clarisse. A sickness in her belly told her he was smiling at both of them. Rita rocked the chair over the toe of Clarisse’s boot.

  “Ow!” Clarisse took a step backward.

  “Sorry,” Rita said, striving for a sympathetic tone.

  Clarisse threw her a dark look and stepped back.

  Ivan returned to his perch on the stool in the wings and thumped his cane twice. “Scene two.”

  Music filled the stage.

  “Oh, my beloved grandmother, what shall we do? Where can we go?” Clarisse wailed.

  “We must invite that lovely man from the bank to dinner,” Rita said. “I know that after one bite of your apple pie he will gladly extend the mortgage.”

  “But for how long?” Clarisse wrung her hands and addressed the ceiling, as if pleading with the stars. “You must know that mortgages cannot be paid with pies, or the bank would be a bakery.”

  “Stop! Wait!” Ivan stomped his cane. “Clarisse, move in. She’s your grandmother, not a grizzly.”

  Frustration flashed over Clarisse’s face, but she stepped closer.

  “Better.” Ivan pointed his cane at her. “Now, put a hand on her shoulder—act as if you love her.”

  Rita smiled. If she timed things right, she would be able to rock over Clarisse’s toes more than once before the end of the scene.

  ***

  Paul’s mother still lived in the yellow bungalow on the tree-lined street where he’d grown up. After the last world war, the neighborhood had been plotted and constructed in perfectly square blocks with identical houses. The years and residents had been kinder to some of the homes than others. Paul’s house, with its pruned-to-the-edge-of-their-lives rosebushes and neatly trimmed boxwood hedge, had changed little since Paul had first brought Addison there twelve years ago, and if she closed her eyes, Paul would bang out of the side gate, surfboard under his arm, flip his long blond hair off his forehead and grin at her. The image made her catch her breath, and ask for the hundredth time, what went wrong? How had they gone from there to here?

  Addison understood the aneurysm. The doctors had said what they could, and what they couldn’t or didn’t say, Addison had found out on the internet through accounts from others who had loved ones suffer from the same condition. The medical information she knew how to process.

  But LeAnn? Addison didn’t know what to make of her. She wondered if Maureen knew. Even though LeAnn had been at the funeral, Addison had never told Paul’s mother about LeAnn and her child, Paul’s child. Was that cruel? To deny her the knowledge of the child that could very well be her only grandson?

  But Addison was stalling. She hadn’t driven all this way just to sit in front of the house and rake over painful memories. She put the car in park and shut off the engine, grabbed the flowers, card, and box of chocolates, and climbed out. She smoothed down her dress. She’d intentionally chosen a sedate sundress that skimmed her knees and covered her shoulders. Once she’d overheard Maureen tell someone that Paul had only married Addison for sex, as if that could be the only possible attraction. She’d had a hard time being around Maureen ever since.

  Her steps faltered, and Addison had to remind herself that this trip was about forgiveness. It wasn’t about her…although, according to Lauren, it totally was. To be whole, she needed to forgive Maureen. And Paul.

  Addison stepped up to the front porch, only half-aware that something was missing. Other than Paul, of course. She tried to remember if she had ever visited Maureen without him and she came up blank.

  It was quiet. That was it. Where was Mitzi? She must have died. She hadn’t been a puppy twelve years ago, and how long did Pomeranians live?

  Her hand froze as she reached for the bell. Maybe Maureen had died. Would Paul’s sister Margaret have told her? Since her feelings for Margaret and Maureen were pretty much tied, she couldn’t say for sure.

  Forgiveness.

  Righ
t.

  She pressed the bell.

  Footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor. Margaret pulled open the door. She’d changed little in the past two years, but she had a blond, curly haired baby on her hip. She was new. Did that mean LeAnn had been pregnant when Paul died?

  They stared at each other for a moment. Addison didn’t know what Margaret saw as she looked at her, but Addison tried to come to grips with the fact that the teenager she’d known had transformed into a mom.

  Margaret spoke first. “Addison?”

  “Margaret, hi. How are you? I came by to wish Maureen a happy birthday. Is she home?” Her words, laced with nerves, tumbled out in a rush.

  “That’s so sweet!” She held the door open. “Do you want to come in?”

  Addison stepped inside, taking note of the ever-present lace curtains, floral sofa and loveseat combination, and the framed photographs of Maureen’s children on the fireplace mantel. Addison’s wedding picture was there as well.

  “Here, let me put those in a vase.” Margaret took the flowers with her free hand and headed for the kitchen, leaving Addison standing in the living room.

  Her thoughts went back to her first visit to Paul’s house. Maureen had made brownies—Addison’s favorite food—covered in nuts—to which she was allergic.

  “Here,” Maureen had said, taking her plate. “I’ll just scrape those off.”

  But Addison still couldn’t eat them. She had to sit holding a plate of naked brownies and answer questions about her life. Her absent father. Her mother’s bookshop. Her liberal arts major.

  “What are you going to do with that?” Maureen had asked.

  “Work in my mom’s bookshop,” Addison had replied.

  “Well, knowing Paul, you’ll never need to work,” she’d said, sliding him an adoring glance.

  Now, Margaret and baby returned to the room. “Sit down,” she said, waving at the sofa. “Mom’s at the senior center. She should be home soon. She’ll be glad to see you.”

  Margaret settled on the loveseat and put the baby on the floor at her feet.

  “She’s beautiful,” Addison said. “What’s her name?”

  “Babbs.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Addison repeated with a hitch in her voice.

  “Thanks, but I can’t take much credit. She looks just like her dad.”

  “He must be beautiful, too, then, but actually, I thought she looked like your side of the family.”

  “We would have invited you to the wedding, but it was so close to Paul’s death, Nick and I decided to get married in Vegas,” Margaret said. “We thought it would be easier on my mom, but nothing has been easy for Mom since, you know…” She gave a small laugh. “Although I’m sure our living here doesn’t help.”

  “You and your husband are staying here?” Addison didn’t know why this surprised her. After all, here Margaret was in Maureen’s house acting like she owned it. Maybe because it was something that Addison knew she would never have been able to do, it surprised her that another would even consider it, let alone do it.

  “Nick is in construction and since the downturn…” She shook herself. “It’s not so bad. He’s been able to get a bunch of roofing jobs since all the rain started.”

  “He’s in construction? I’m going to need some construction done.” Addison told her about the plans to convert the garage into a bookstore. It felt good to have a topic of conversation that didn’t revolve around herself, or worse, Paul, and she latched onto it like a life-preserver. The more she and Margaret chatted, the more excited Addison became about the garage conversion. Margaret pulled out a pad of paper and began making sketches.

  “I’d forgotten how good you are at this,” Addison said, waving at the rough drafts.

  “I would have loved to have been an architect.”

  “I should hire you to draw up my plans.”

  “I’ll do them for free if you’ll give Nick the contract.”

  Addison opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of what to say. After a moment, she stuttered, “O-of course.”

  “But you’d have to check his referrals, natch’, and get other bids, but I know he’d give you a great price and do smashing work.”

  Margaret’s phone interrupted the sell-job.

  “It’s my mom,” Margaret said before answering. “Do you want me to tell her you’re here?”

  Addison nodded and Margaret put the phone to her ear.

  “A date?” Margaret’s voice squeaked. “You have a date? Like with a man?”

  “Of course with a man,” Maureen’s voice floated from the phone.

  “But Mom--”

  “What?” Maureen asked.

  “Huh, never mind?”

  “Why does that sound like a question?” Maureen asked. “You can’t have a problem with my seeing Will Cleaver.”

  “Will Cleaver? That guy at church who sings really loud?”

  “You’d sing really loud, too, if you had a crumb of his faith.”

  Margaret sighed and rolled her eyes. She pointed at the phone and mouthed the words, do you want me to tell her to come home?

  Addison shook her head.

  “Have a good time, Mom,” Margaret said.

  Addison stayed and chatted for another hour and hugged both Margaret and Babbs goodbye when she left. Babbs was warm and smelled of honey and vanilla baby shampoo. Her soft blond curls tickled Addison’s chin when she pressed the baby against her chest.

  She wondered why she’d stayed away so long or why she and Margaret hadn’t been better friends. She decided she needed to fix that. Even if it meant hiring Margaret’s husband.

  Because of Babbs, Addison drove to the park that bordered the townhome complex where LeAnn and her child lived. She didn’t know what she hoped to accomplish, but seeing that there were only a handful of people at the park and not one of them was LeAnn, she grabbed the manuscript, got out of the car, and found a bench.

  ****

  “Why do you let her bother you?” Christian asked from his side of the train berth.

  Rita stared out the window, watching the barren Eastern Oregon countryside flash past.

  “Is it because she has the lead?”

  Rita straightened her shoulders but refused to make eye contact with Christian. “She does not bother me.”

  “You are a very good actress.”

  She flashed him a quick smile. “Thank you.”

  “I meant that as more of an observation than a compliment.”

  “But I have chosen to take it as a compliment. I have to take my compliments wherever I can find them.” She nodded to the newspaper in Christian’s lap.

  Christian’s lips turned up into a smile. “You mustn’t let the critics bother you, either.” He picked up the paper and shook it out. “Their review did not mention the grandmother but ragged on poor Cordelia-Clarisse.”

  “Who already has so many concerns!” Curiosity stirred. “But that is not the dreaded Oregonian you are reading.”

  Christian opened up the paper and disappeared behind it.

  Curiosity drew her in. “Why are you reading the Matrimonial News?” Rita fought the temptation to rip it out of his hands.

  “I would think that obvious.”

  “Are you searching for a companion?”

  “Why should I search when I have one so amiable beside me?”

  Rita sat back with a huff. “I wish you wouldn’t tease me so, Mr. Roberts.”

  “Please, call me Monsignor Didier.”

  Rita shot a quick glance at the closed door. “We are quite alone and no one can hear us above the train’s clatter.”

  “You do know how improper it is for us to be sharing this berth without a chaperone.”

  “Why do you care for such archaic mores? But more importantly, why are you searching the Matrimonial News? Are you looking for a bride?”

  “Ah, here’s one. ‘I am a jolly little girl of seventeen, with black hair and eyes and a fair complexion, weigh one hund
red and fifteen pounds, am fond of company and would like to form the acquaintance of a nice gentleman or two—” Christian lowered the paper so she could see only the top of his head and his light blue eyes. “Maybe this jolly little girl should head to Utah.”

  “Perhaps we will see her there.”

  “No, she says here that she ‘wishes to become friends with proclivities tending ultimately to the great ambition of women.’”

  “Friends with proclivities?”

  “The real question is what is the nature of the great ambition of women?”

  “No, the real question is—why are you reading the Matrimonial News?” Rita pulled the paper from his hands, and her gaze landed on the instructions for placing an advertisement. Fair and gentle reader, can we be useful to you? Are you a stranger desiring a helpmate or searching for agreeable company that may in the end ripen into closer ties? If so, send us a few lines making known your desires.

  “Hey, I was reading that!” Christian slid off his bench and onto hers. His eyes followed hers. “They want our desires made known.”

  Rita rolled the paper into a weapon and rapped him on the arm with it. “How could you spend a penny on this drivel?”

  “Hardly drivel.” Christian captured the paper from her and smoothed it out. Turning away, he read: “’To cultivate the noble aim of life and help men and women into a state of bliss is our aim.’ I think that’s nice.”

  “I find nothing nice about women selling themselves into matrimony to men of the likes of Kidrick.”

  “I quite agree, but not every man is a Kidrick. See here, I have found one for you. ‘A widower, merchant and stockman, lives in Kansas, forty-six years old, height six feet, weight two hundred and ten pounds, black hair and eyes, wishes to correspond with ladies without encumbrances and with means, must move in the best society and be fully qualified to help make a happy home.’”

  “Why do they always state their height and weight?”

  “I think it’s a requirement of the newspaper.”

  “It makes one think of a cattle auction—or the slave trade.”

  “Come now, you are being much too harsh. Did you know that in the Pacific Northwest men outnumber women by about four hundred to one?” He turned a page. “How about this one? ‘Wanted: A nice, plump, healthy, good-natured looking domestic and affectionate lady to correspond with. Object: matrimony. She must be a believer in God and immortality. She must not be a gadabout or given to scandal.’”