Freefall

by Robin Brande

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Eliza exited the salon and went next door to the small grocery store where she continued to make her purchases. Hildy might have promised to patronize only the Monarch Walsh’s from now on, but that was her business. Eliza felt the thrill of rebellion as she walked down the cramped aisles of the tiny store, viewing its limited and inferior selections, knowing what Ted Walsh would say if he saw her.

  It wasn’t that she disliked him, she thought to herself, it was that she didn’t want him telling her what to do. Same for Hildy. It was time, Eliza knew, that she seized control of her own choices. She had been in Careyville for a month now, and it was time to start living in the place with the knowledge she would be there a while.

  It was Eliza’s turn to cook dinner. She bought the makings for her special lasagna—as special as any recipe from the back of the lasagna noodle package might be—as well as a bag of prewashed lettuce, and assorted vegetables to cut up on top. Although Hildy could cook gourmet when she wanted to, both she and Eliza preferred simpler meals for just the two of them. When it was Hildy’s turn, she often brought home a quart of Walsh’s soup along with a loaf of fresh bread from their bakery, and made a salad to go with it.

  Before returning to her car Eliza stopped at the espresso counter on the other side of the grocery store. Drink a different flavor of coffee, she reminded herself, and ordered a mocha instead of her standard house blend.

  So far so good, she thought. But this was the easy stuff.

  She waited until after lunch to phone Ted Walsh.

  “Hi, gorgeous.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Okay, I’ll add that to the list.”

  “Ted, I appreciate you setting up that interview at the Tribune. I really do.”

  “Good. My pleasure. You’re not going to try to back out.”

  “No, but I’d like to go alone. I’ve done it before, you know.”

  “I know, but I thought it might be easier—”

  “Like I said, I really appreciate the gesture, but I’ll take it from here.” Worried she might be coming across as too rude, she said again, “But I appreciate it.”

  “I heard you. Okay, no problem. The point is to get you another newspaper, right? So I’ve done my part, and now you can do yours.”

  “Thanks. I—”

  “Really appreciate it. I know.”

  On Thursday morning Eliza rose before dark, ran the little legs off of Daisy, then put her mind to the task of deciding what to wear and what to say.

  Do one thing different.

  In the past, she had pitched her column to new editors either over the phone or by e-mail. They usually wanted to see three or four of her most recent columns, so Eliza kept a file of her favorites and continually updated them.

  She had decided to bring three columns from the past year to her meeting with Leo Pagnozzi, Managing Editor of the Syracuse Tribune. She knew nothing about his tastes, so she chose one each from her three basic topics: world issues (in this case funding and lack thereof for the AIDS crisis in Africa), family issues (the piece on her mother’s breast cancer scare and the reactions among different friends and family), and personal growth (this week’s column).

  Hildy appraised her outfit. “Oh, that’s very nice. I like the jacket.”

  “It’s my Eliza Shepherd, Ace Reporter look. I thought a newspaper guy might like it.”

  She wore black dress pants and a matching jacket that tapered at the waist. The collar of her white cotton blouse lay crisply against the black lapel. She wore black loafers she had taken the time to shine. On her wrist she wore the one piece of jewelry, other than her wedding ring, that Jamey had ever given her. It was a hard gold bracelet she snapped closed like a handcuff. On top was a row of pearls and diamonds that had once been a broach. Jamey had found it at an antique jewelry store and given it to Eliza on their first anniversary.

  “You look lovely,” Hildy said. “Truly lovely.”

  Eliza retreated to her room and removed the entire outfit. One decision down, two more to go.

  She closed herself in the bathroom, removed her glasses, and popped in her contacts. The last time she had worn them was for a yoga class back in Henderson. She had discovered during a class before that that her glasses slipped off every time she did an inversion pose.

  Eliza blinked her contacts into focus.

  “On, or off?” she asked herself. She turned her face from one side to the other, and decided to take the next step before deciding.

  She removed her makeup bag from under the sink, and began what had once been a familiar routine. Everything was old, much of it dried up or crusted away. She wished she had thought of looking in there the day before so she could have ordered something from Delia. She would have to make do.

  She applied a thin layer of foundation, patted on a little powder, and swiped the blush brush up high on her cheekbones. So far, not too frightening, she decided, so she continued.

  She drew a line beneath her eyes with a thin navy pencil. The green of her irises immediately intensified. She drew another line on her top lid, then muted that one with a swipe of brown shadow. Finally she curled her eyelashes and brushed on two layers of mascara from a nearly dried up tube.

  “Make up—yes or no?” she asked herself.

  In the spirit of her column, she could not refuse to take this risk. So the answer was yes.

  Which also informed her third choice—contacts, yes.

  Eliza returned to her bedroom to dress again, and emerged looking much like the woman she had been two years ago. The black pant suit had come along only with the Widow’s Wardrobe, but other than that—and the hair that now brushed against her neck and fell to her shoulders instead of to the middle of her back—she looked like someone she once used to know very well.

  “Oh, Lizzy,” was all Hildy could say, but it was enough. Eliza hoped that if she couldn’t bring herself back from the inside out, she might be able to do it in reverse. Perhaps if she started looking like the old Eliza again, she would remember how to act like her, and some day to feel like her once more.

  “Lipstick,” Hildy reminded her before Eliza headed down the stairs.

  Eliza returned to the bathroom and smeared a thin layer of dark red across her lips, blotted it, then added her cola-flavored lip gloss on top to keep her lips from feeling too dry during an interview in which her mouth surely would.

  “Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need it,” Hildy assured her. “You’re brilliant.”

  * * *

  The photos on Leo Pagnozzi’s wall confirmed what anyone would know from looking at him: that he had been a wrestler in his former life. He was nearly neckless, with a broad chest and slightly broader belly, forearms as unrealistic as an action figure’s, and fingers that might have been as thick as hot dogs.

  “It’s a little soft, don’t you think?” Leo Pagnozzi asked after reading her column about her mother. “I got a lot of men reading my paper.”

  Eliza smiled politely. “I assume women, too.”

  “Look,” said Pagnozzi, handing back her file, “maybe later.”

  Eliza had heard “no” many times before. She was used to second tries. “All right, when shall I check back with you?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said maybe later, so when would be a good time...?”

  “Look, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings.” Pagnozzi scratched his nubby fingernails against his opposite palm. He turned both hands up plaintively. “We’re not your market.”

  “The Tribune, or Syracuse?” She smiled pleasantly. There was nothing to gain from arguing with the man.

  “Maybe one of the town newspapers would be better,” Pagnozzi suggested.

  “All right, can you give me a few names?” She pulled out her pen. “I’m new here.”

  Obviously irritated, but no doubt remembering she was a friend of one of his biggest advertisers, Pagnozzi rattled off a few names. “You
’re living in Careyville? There’s a paper there—a weekly. Guy’s Frank Sawyer. Monarch has a weekly, guy’s Marty Plank.” He listed five more small newspapers in the surrounding area. “That’ll get you started.”

  Pagnozzi stood, signaling the interview was over. It had lasted all of ten minutes.

  Eliza offered her hand. Once more Pagnozzi only took the fingertips. Eliza hated men like that—ones who pretended women were too fragile to shake a man’s whole hand.

  “Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Pagnozzi.”

  “Yeah, sure. So, Teddy got you all set up?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re his new girlfriend, right?”

  Eliza reddened. “No, I’ve just met him.”

  Pagnozzi grinned. “He’s a smooth one.”

  Eliza’s voice deadened. “I’m sure he is. Again, thank you.” She spun toward the door before Pagnozzi could say any more, but she was half a beat too slow.

  “Watch out for him,” Pagnozzi advised with a chuckle. “He’s an animal.”

  Eliza smiled coldly. “Thanks for the advice.”

  She waited until she was clear of the building before muttering everything she really thought. She hated that kind of men’s club behavior—the back-slapping, whiskey-swilling camaraderie of men joking about their conquests. Eliza had no intention of adding her name to some list.

  Ted Walsh was just a friend—someone she owed some gratitude toward now, even though the lead had turned into nothing. She would do the polite thing and square her account with a thank you card, and leave it at that.

  Eliza sat in her car for several minutes, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. Now that the steam was starting to clear from her ears, she realized the meeting hadn’t been a complete waste. Not if she made good use of the information Pagnozzi had given her.

  She pulled out her phone and looked up the number for the Careyville weekly. She was still dressed the part, she figured, so she might as well make the most of it.

  “Hi, is this Mr. Sawyer?”

  “Yes,” the gruff voice answered.

  “My name is Eliza Shepherd. I’m a nationally-syndicated columnist and freelance writer—”

  Frank Sawyer chuckled. “Afraid you got the wrong place. We don’t pay squat.”

  “I’ve just moved to Careyville,” Eliza continued. “I’d like to talk with you about carrying my column in your newspaper.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me—”

  “I did, sir, but right now it doesn’t matter to me. I’d still like to talk with you. I’m leaving an appointment now, and can be there in half an hour if you tell me where you are.”

  “You’ll be disappointed.”

  “Maybe, but you won’t.”

  11

  “How’d it go?” Ted asked when he phoned that afternoon.

  “I’m too girly for your friend Pagnozzi.”

  “He said that?”

  “We arm wrestled for it, and I didn’t get the job.”

  “Want me to call him?”

  “No,” Eliza said, “I’m on to bigger things. I have to go.”

  “Wait—”

  Eliza held her hand over the mouthpiece. “What, Hildy?” she said to the dog. “Okay, I’ll be right there. Ted, I have to go.”

  “Let me talk to Hildy.”

  “Can’t. She’s busy right now,” Eliza lied. Her mother-in-law was nowhere to be found.

  “I want to ask her something.”

  “She’ll have to call you back.”

  “When can I see you again?” he asked. “I still owe you an ice cream.”

  “What, Hildy? Sorry, Ted, I have to go. Hildy needs something. I’ll talk to you later. Bye!”

  Eliza hung up, ignoring the sound of his voice still coming through the receiver.

  When Hildy did arrive an hour or so later, Eliza reported the day’s failure and success in quick, unemotional details, and she passed along Ted’s message.

  “Good,” Hildy said. “I called him earlier. I had a question.”

  While Hildy returned Ted’s call, Eliza retreated to her room to read. She always felt relaxed and leisurely on a day when she had already sent out her column. She had nothing more to do for the next week or so than read and think and develop her next ideas.

  And she’d actually convinced Frank Sawyer to give her column a try. That felt like a feat all by itself.

  Hildy knocked on her bedroom door. Eliza had changed out of her suit as soon as she returned home and had washed off all her makeup. She was wearing her glasses again, too—the transformation from ambitious professional writer back to quiet bookworm was complete.

  Hildy sat on the edge of Eliza’s bed. “What’re you reading?”

  “King Lear.”

  “Hm. We’ve been invited somewhere.”

  “By?”

  “Teddy.”

  “You go,” Eliza said. “I’m staying home.”

  “But it’s a good one.”

  “I’m off the meat market right now. Afraid I won’t be going on any dates.”

  “Why do you have to say it like that?” Hildy asked. “Teddy’s a nice man.”

  Eliza shrugged.

  “Did he do something?” Hildy asked. “Something you didn’t want?”

  “No, he’s been perfectly gentlemanly,” Eliza answered, thinking of Pagnozzi’s smirk and the “Watch out for him. He’s an animal.” “I just don’t feel like seeing him for a while.”

  “He got you that nice interview—even if the man didn’t know quality.”

  “I’ve already written Ted a thank you card. See? It’s over there.”

  Hildy patted Eliza’s leg. “Just hear me out. For me.”

  Eliza rolled her eyes. “Yes, mother-in-law, dear.”

  “Easter. We’re invited.”

  “We’re already going to Carolyn Jackson’s.”

  “That’s for brunch. This is for dinner.”

  “Have a lovely time.”

  “It’s going to be at Sibylla Walsh’s house—the mother’s. Wouldn’t you like to see that?”

  Eliza kept her eyes on her paperback. She had reread the line, “And thou, his yokefellow of equity,” four times since Hildy came in. “Sorry, but I have no interest in that at all.”

  “Come on, Lizzy, it might be fun. Or maybe not fun, but at least interesting, don’t you think? I’ve never been inside any of the Walshes’ houses except Teddy’s. I never got invited when the Walshes lived so close.”

  “That’s a very sad story,” Eliza said, “and I can see why you’d like to go now, and I wish you nothing but happiness with your new friends.”

  “You sound awful.”

  Eliza laughed and set down the play. “Why? Because I’m not falling all over myself to be Ted Walsh’s new girlfriend, or to see his mother’s house? I’d rather hear about it from you—you always do a place like that justice.”

  “Are you mad at Teddy for something?”

  “Only for giving me the full-court press when I’ve made it clear I don’t want that.”

  “The full what?”

  “It’s basketball. The point is, he’s pursuing me awfully hard, and I have no idea why.”

  “Because you’re beautiful and smart and fun and kind...I can think of lots of reasons.”

  “You’ve known me a decade. He’s known me a few weeks.”

  “People fall in love—”

  “Love! So now it’s love?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  Eliza leaned forward and clasped her mother-in-law’s hands with more force than she intended. She loosened her grip to restore Hildy’s circulation.

  “I don’t know how else to say this,” Eliza told her, “so I’m just going to say it: I don’t want a boyfriend. I don’t want Ted Walsh for a boyfriend. He’s moving too fast, and it makes me uncomfortable. So I told him last Sunday, and I’m telling you now, I don’t want to see him for a while.”

  Having gotten some of it out,
Eliza let go of Hildy’s hands and slumped back against her headboard.

  “Look,” she said, “I’m sure he’s a nice man, and I know you like being friends with him. You should go ahead and do that—I absolutely don’t want to interfere. But Hildy, you have to understand: Jamey’s dying was the worst thing that’s ever happened in my life. It’s not the kind of thing you get over—at least not the kind of thing I get over. I might never fall in love again, and that’s okay with me. I already had the best. You gave me the man who was the best.”

  Hildy stared at her for a moment, then her face crumpled in grief.

  Taking Eliza completely by surprise.

  Hildy rarely cried. At her husband’s funeral, she maintained a kind of sad dignity, brushing away her few tears and holding her gaze steady.

  Even at the funeral of her only child, she didn’t wail the way Eliza did. Eliza’s grief had been so raw and bottomless that day, she thought she’d never climb back out. Hildy had held her hand—hard, so hard Eliza’s fingers felt sore and swollen for days afterward—and stared straight ahead while Jamey’s friends got up one after another to memorialize the man they couldn’t believe was gone.

  “Best friend I ever had...”

  “Luckiest bastard I ever saw...”

  “Saved my ass on that climb up the Thumb...”

  “Damn it, Jamey—” Then a wrenching sob from the sunburned, scraggly-haired, wiry-muscled climber who had flown a day and a half from Australia just to say goodbye to a friend he expected to meet up with later that year. “You screwed up, bro. You were supposed to outlive all of us. Remember? That’s what we said.

  “Sorry, Eliza,” he added, pausing to release another room-shaking sob. “We thought he was immortal. Guess we got it wrong.”

  Eliza’s heart had wanted to burst. Wanted to go up in flames and burn itself to ash. She couldn’t feel any more—couldn’t bear it. But the pain just went on and on.

  So to see Hildy cry now—when she’d forced herself to stay so controlled at Jamey’s funeral, saving all her tears for the hearse ride home when it was just her and Ron and Eliza—it was such a shock it took Eliza a moment to realize it was really happening.