Freefall

by Robin Brande

  “He’s a brilliant businessman,” Livia said, smiling in her smooth way, “but as you can see, not a very social creature.” She leaned toward Eliza and added conspiratorially, “He’s definitely a work in progress.”

  Although David Walsh was definitely not one of her favorite people, Eliza couldn’t help resenting Livia’s comment on his behalf. A work in progress? Eliza knew women like that—ones who viewed men as fixer-uppers, waiting to be molded into something more “acceptable.” Eliza preferred people with a come-as-you-are attitude. She could at least meet a standard like that. And she knew Jamey used to feel the same way.

  She didn’t have many choices for conversation, but she was tired of the one with Livia. Instead, Eliza turned toward her hostess.

  “This is delicious, Mrs. Walsh.”

  The woman slowly turned to face her. “Hm? What?”

  “I said the dinner—delicious. The soup, the crab cakes...”

  “I didn’t make them,” Mrs. Walsh informed her.

  “I understand,” Eliza said, blushing. She wished she’d never opened her mouth. But now she was in it. “They’re still...good.”

  “Hm.” Mrs. Walsh turned to Sue and reminded her not to eat with her elbows on the table. Sue dutifully removed hers, and Eliza did the same, wondering if the remark had really been intended for her. Eliza and Sue exchanged guilty smiles.

  As the meal wore on, Eliza felt more and more the divide between the climates at the table. To the south were all the fun people—Hildy, Ted, Sue, Danny, Uncle Herbert, and a collection of other laughing, joking guests.

  To the north were David Walsh, Livia Keane, Eliza, and a dozen others suffering under the same cloud of civility and dullness. Eliza wondered what could account for the difference in the two ends of the table. She decided there must be toxic waste buried beneath the chairs on her side, playing havoc with all of their nervous systems.

  Eliza gave up trying to talk to either of the women on each side, and instead gazed idly across the table.

  Into the waiting eyes of Ted Walsh.

  He offered her that half-cocked smile of his and a sympathetic shrug. Eliza couldn’t help smiling back and subtly rolling her eyes. At least someone understood.

  It wasn’t until the end of the main course—duck in a sauce so weak Eliza knew Hildy must be howling inside—that Mrs. Walsh turned to Eliza to engage in the least civilized of all conversations.

  “So, I understand your husband died quite suddenly.”

  Eliza froze. The buzz of conversation seemed to fade away, and Eliza imagined all ears had rotated toward her.

  “Yes, he did,” she said simply.

  “Jamey was always a wild boy.”

  “You knew him?”

  “No. My sons did.”

  Eliza considered what she should say next, and decided it was best to say nothing. She went back to eating food she didn’t want.

  “How did he die, exactly?” Sibylla Walsh persisted.

  “Mother—” Ted warned.

  Eliza smiled politely. “I’d rather not talk about it, thank you.” She knew every eye in the room, including the ones in the portraits, must have been trained on her at that moment as she chewed a tasteless bite of duck.

  Sue laid her hand on her mother’s wrist. She leaned over and whispered something.

  The old woman shook her off. “I’d like to get to know Teddy’s new girlfriend.”

  Eliza felt the heat rush to her face. “I’m not his—”

  “It was a climbing accident,” the nephew, Danny, offered up. “Remember, Grandma? I told you that.”

  “What kind of accident?” Sibylla Walsh asked.

  Eliza’s stomach felt hard as granite. She couldn’t eat another bite. She couldn’t look at her hostess, either. Clearly Mrs. Walsh understood that Eliza didn’t want this spotlight, but just as clearly, the woman didn’t care. She intended to keep shining the light right in Eliza’s face.

  “Remember?” Danny tried again. “He fell while he was climbing. A bolt broke off the mountain.”

  Eliza stared at the boy. “How did you—”

  “I read that article you wrote about it. In Outside Adventure? Uncle David still has—”

  Both David and his sister jumped in to cut him off. “Danny—”

  The boy looked at his mother. “What? I was just going to say—”

  “That’s enough,” Sue said. “Mother, can we talk about something else? I’m sure Eliza would like that.”

  Mrs. Walsh directed her next cruel question at Sue. “I’ve always wondered why wives let their husbands do such dangerous things. Do they want them to be killed?”

  “Mother!” three voices sang out.

  Eliza jolted to her feet. She knew she should say something, but her lips seemed frozen shut.

  “That’s a wicked thing to say,” Hildy snapped. “You have no right!”

  Mrs. Walsh pretended to be perplexed by the reaction around the table. “One wants to know these things. I meant no offense, I’m sure.”

  “I’m sure,” Hildy repeated sourly. “Lizzy, you sit down and enjoy your meal.”

  Eliza continued to stand. She knew everyone was watching her, but for the moment she couldn’t do anything but stare at her accuser.

  “Of course I didn’t want him to die,” she told Mrs. Walsh. “That’s a terrible thing to say.” She felt the tears coming, and fought as hard as she ever had in her life to keep them from running out.

  Mrs. Walsh smiled wanly. “I’m certainly sorry if I offended you, dear. I had no idea you’d be so sensitive.”

  Sue glowered at her mother.

  “Come on, boys,” Ted said, breaking the tension. “Let’s bus the table.”

  His nephews rose and began clearing the table. Over Sibylla Walsh’s protests—“Sit! Sit! I’m paying people for that!”—Eliza joined them.

  When she was safely in the kitchen, Eliza sank against the counter. Her hands shook with unspent rage and humiliation. She understood now that impulse someone could feel to throw dishes against a wall. Or to shoot a hole in the ceiling with a shotgun.

  Ted stood beside her and wrapped his arm around her waist. “I’m so, so sorry,” he said. He pulled her hip up against his and kissed her on the cheek. Eliza felt too numb to resist.

  “I don’t know why she did that,” he said. “No, I do know—it’s because she’s an evil, bitter, heartless, bi—” He glanced over at his eavesdropping nephews. “Not that we don’t love her, right, boys?”

  “Right, Uncle Ted.”

  “Get back to work, swabbies. Eliza and I are talking.”

  He drew her off to the side of the kitchen, into a corner where no one could hear.

  The caterers bustled around the room, scraping dishes, packaging leftovers, and putting the finishing touches on a dessert tray to rival anything Eliza had seen at the Walsh’s opening. At least this, she thought, would impress her mother-in-law.

  Ted stood close enough to her she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “If I had any idea she’d do that,” he said, “I swear I never would have asked you here.”

  Eliza nodded. She could still feel the tears trapped and ready to escape. She swallowed hard to force them back.

  “So,” Ted asked, “is this almost better than having a root canal?”

  Eliza laughed, despite the feeling that her heart at that moment looked like raw meat. “That was pretty rough.”

  “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what else to say. We’ve tried to have her knocked off, but she keeps getting away.” Ted reached down for Eliza’s hand, and cupped it between both of his. “You’re cold.”

  Eliza gently pulled away. She stood up straight and tried to compose herself. “So,” she said, hoping she sounded normal, “your sister’s nice.”

  “Yeah, we’re all nice, except for—you know.”

  “Right.”

  Ted reached forward and sifted the ends of her hair through his fingers. “I meant to tell you, you lo
ok beautiful tonight. I like your hair this way.” He gazed warmly into her eyes and bent forward as if to kiss her.

  Eliza gently held him off. “Please. Don’t.”

  He sighed and let his shoulders slump. “You’re never going to forgive me for tonight.”

  “Probably not,” she said in a tone that let him know she already had.

  Eliza noticed the nephews watching with intense curiosity. “Show’s over, boys,” she said as she brushed past Ted. “I think it’s time I went home.”

  “Had about all the fun you can take, huh?” Ted asked.

  “Just about.”

  “So does this seal it once and for all? My mother is a shrew, so you never want to see me again?”

  “You’re mother isn’t a shrew,” Eliza lied politely. “She’s just nosy—a lot of people are. I’m highly exotic, didn’t you know? Young widows always are. We’re so...tragic.”

  A movement behind Ted caught her attention. In that moment of distraction, Ted laid his hand against Eliza’s hip, pulled her toward him, and kissed her softly on the lips. Eliza stepped back in surprise.

  “I know what I promised,” Ted said, “but you just seemed to deserve a kiss right now. Besides, you’re never going to see me again, so what do I have to lose?”

  Eliza gazed into eyes that were unmistakably kind. And unmistakably inviting. She needed the first part, but the second had her pulse racing.

  Why was she so resistant? she asked herself. Why make up these rules about what she could and couldn’t do? Here was a nice man, friendly and warm, someone who was obviously interested in her. Why wouldn’t she allow herself to be comforted? To have companionship? To stop insisting on being alone?

  Because you had a nice man once, and once was enough.

  Because you’re terrified.

  Because you’re a fraud, pretending you can inspire other people to take risks when you can barely do it yourself.

  D, all of the above.

  “I have to go,” Eliza choked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m sorry.”

  Ted studied her face a moment longer. “Can I call you?”

  Eliza nodded. She didn’t trust her voice.

  “So tonight wasn’t a complete disaster?”

  “Oh, it was.”

  Ted reached for her hand, and this time Eliza decided not to resist. She could let him touch her that much—the world wouldn’t crumble.

  She dreaded re-entering the dining room, but Ted stayed at her side and made her apologies for her. “Terrible headache, maybe food poisoning—you all understand.”

  Eliza smiled despite herself. She forced herself to remember the forms of polite society. “Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Walsh. You have a lovely home.”

  Sibylla Walsh extended her hand. Eliza considered kissing it, just to see a smile on the old woman’s face. Instead she shook the limp hand and repeated her thanks.

  Livia Keane whispered, “I’ll call you.”

  Eliza agreed without enthusiasm. What did Livia Keane have to say to her?

  Safely outside the doors of Sibylla Walsh’s house, Hildy said, “I could have strangled that woman with my bare hands.”

  “Next time,” Eliza promised.

  “Did you see Teddy’s face? He looked ready to tackle her.”

  Eliza sighed. “I need a hot bath. Let’s go home.”

  As they drove out of Monarch, Eliza replayed the whole evening. What a nightmare, she thought. She never should have agreed to go.

  “At least the sister is nice,” she said out loud.

  “Suzy’s a lovely girl,” Hildy agreed. “Kind as they come.”

  “Ted can be kind himself,” Eliza added.

  Hildy glanced over at her. “So, does that mean you like him a little better now?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.” Eliza was beginning to believe Ted’s lie to the group—she really did feel a headache coming on. “I guess he isn’t so bad, in comparison.”

  “In comparison?” Hildy snorted. “To who? That mother?” She turned onto the road to Careyville. “You like him,” she said to Eliza. “I told you.”

  “Just a little,” Eliza conceded.

  “We’ll start with a little, build up to a lot.”

  “Easy there,” Eliza warned. “One step at a time. I’ve had a rough night.”

  Hildy let her look out the window in peace for a few moments before asking, “So, did he kiss you?”

  “What?”

  “When you were alone.”

  “Maybe,” Eliza said. “It’s none of your business.”

  “Then he did.”

  “No.”

  “If he didn’t you would have said so.”

  “Then I’m saying,” Eliza told her. “He didn’t.” She paused and added, “If he did, it’s still none of your business.”

  Hildy laughed her deep, throaty laugh. She reached over and patted Eliza’s leg. “Have I ever told you how happy I am you came to stay with me? It’s like having a sister.”

  Eliza smiled, despite the horrible evening. She gazed out the window at the approaching signs: Careyville Cleaners, Careyville Community Church, The Careyville Independent.

  It wasn’t Henderson, any of it. These weren’t her people, her stores, her haunts. Eliza leaned back and closed her eyes, and replayed one particular scene from the night.

  It was when she was in the kitchen with Ted. The nephews were behind him, watching, grinning while their Uncle Ted worked his magic on yet another woman.

  David had entered just then, carrying a few plates. He stopped, a look of—what? Disgust? Disapproval?—on his face. Ted had leaned forward and kissed Eliza, and David’s expression had darkened even more. He turned and left the room.

  What was wrong with all of them? Eliza wondered. With her, with Sibylla Walsh, with David Walsh, with any of them? Why couldn’t two people find each other and decide it was all right to feel good when they were together? Why couldn’t Eliza decide once and for all to get on with her life as it was, instead of wishing she still had what was gone?

  “I’ll try,” Eliza said to herself and to Hildy.

  “You will?”

  “Yes. I’ll try and see.”

  “That’s my girl. I’m proud of you.”

  Why couldn’t Hildy have stopped there?

  “And,” she added, “Jamey would be proud, too. I know he would.”

  The tears she’d fought so hard to keep back found their way into her eyes. Eliza rolled down the window to feel fresh air against her face. To feel the life rushing past her. To feel something new, instead of more of this constant old.

  Will it ever be easy? she wondered. Can I ever feel happy the way I used to?

  Maybe not easy, she told herself, but wasn’t it at least time to make a start?

  13

  “Hey, Frank.”

  Frank Sawyer, editor of The Careyville Independent glanced up from his computer screen. He was a lean seventy-five-year-old with a head full of fading red hair. “Liza, dear, how are you?” He didn’t wait for her answer, but went back to work.

  It was nearing the end of June, and over the past two months Eliza had become accustomed to Frank’s particular quirks, including the fact that he hated reading her submissions electronically, and always preferred that she deliver them in person. In part, Eliza guessed, because he enjoyed the company every few weeks.

  She slipped her two pages onto Frank’s desk and came around the other side to read what he was writing.

  “Oh, that’s not good,” she said.

  The old man grinned. “You bet it is.”

  “I guess the libel laws in New York are pretty lax?”

  “It’s the Op-Ed page—I can say whatever I want.”

  Eliza sank onto Frank’s ancient leather couch and waited for a break in his tirade. When he finally finished, he leaned back in his chair and considered the only columnist The Careyville Independent had ever had.

  “So, how’s tricks?”

 
; “Tricks are good,” Eliza replied. “Did you go to the game?”

  “I did. Seven-zip. My grandson’s a wonder.”

  “I thought they didn’t keep score at that age.”

  “I keep score.”

  “I was thinking of checking out a lacrosse game myself,” Eliza said. “Suzy Walsh invited me. Do you think I’ll like it?”

  “Never seen one?” Frank asked. “Don’t you Nevada kids play?”

  “No, we’re more soccer and basketball.”

  “Suzy’s a good girl,” Frank said. “You tell her I said so.”

  “I hope you mean it, because I actually will.”

  “So,” Frank asked, “how’s that boyfriend of yours?”

  “Not my boyfriend.” Eliza knew from previous experience that a sure way of deflecting Frank’s attention from her own love life was to redirect it to his. “When are you going to ask Hildy out?”

  Frank scowled. “That woman’d eat me alive and you know it.”

  “How can you say that? She’s the sweetest person I know.”

  “Then you pal around with some real killers. Hey, tell me what you think. I want to sponsor some big event for Fourth of July. Got any ideas?”

  “Yeah, first make some money so you can afford it.”

  “Sales are picking up,” Frank said. “It must be all the women buying it for your column.”

  “Men read my column, too.”

  Frank snorted. “Sure.”

  Eliza pointed at him. “You know, that’s just how Leo Pagnozzi acted.”

  “Except Pagnozzi didn’t see you were golden—I did.”

  “I’m going to write a column just for men next time,” Eliza said. “You’ll see.”

  “Give it a try. Doesn’t hurt me.”

  Eliza stood. “Oh well, on to my next thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “I told you—going to my first lacrosse game.”

  “Let me give you a hint,” Frank said. “You’re gonna want to stay well back from the mothers.”

  “Why?”

  “Vicious. Some of the dads can be pretty bad, too, but watch the moms. I think there might be a column there.”

  “I need to write things people in Henderson and Anchorage and Alamosa can all understand,” Eliza said. “I don’t think they play lacrosse in Anchorage.”