“As in the ark?”
“The very same. Greater love hath no actor than that he sacrifice his beard to a fellow thespian. At least I’m trying to think of myself as a thespian, but it doesn’t seem to be working all that well. I did fool Anne, she thought I was Aunt Calpurnia, who lives in Virgin Gorda and sails a sloop. But then Anne’s better at flowers than she is at people. Getting back to Aunt Bodie, I might even drop in on her for a few minutes, just to let her know that she needn’t bother attending my funeral. Uncle Jem said she was quite wrought up about it when she talked with him after that stupid obituary turned up in the paper. Goodness, I’m tired.”
“I should think you might be. Put your hand down between your seat and the door. Can you feel a lever?”
“I think so. I can feel something metal sticking up.”
“Good girl. Push it forward.”
“I can’t, it seems to be stuck.”
“Then pull it back.”
“Done it!”
Sarah found herself semi-recumbent and somewhat more comfortable than she’d felt sitting up. She shut her eyes and left Ira to play with the radio. When they got to the lake, Ira had to wake her up and walk her inside the cottage.
Chapter 21
IT WAS A HALCYON MORNING. Sarah had meant to sleep late, but how could she with the breeze so soft and the songbirds so loud and Davy tugging at her hand and wonderful smells coming from the part of the cottage that had been more or less partitioned off for cooking and eating purposes? Luckily she’d had enough presence of mind to tuck a nightgown and a short cotton robe into her tote bag; she wore them to breakfast. Since the cottage was in an isolated spot, she kept them on afterward and wandered barefoot to the lake, wishing again that she’d brought a swimsuit.
But what did it matter? One could always wade, if one didn’t mind the schools of minnows swishing against one’s ankles and taking tiny sharp nips at one’s toes. One didn’t mind a bit, of course, particularly when one’s small son was getting such a kick out of using his mother for bait to entice them into his minnow net. The heron was not around just now, but an American bittern was, harder to spot among the reeds because its neck was so much shorter and its drab-brownish camouflage so effective, but a sight worth seeing for all that.
The bittern was somewhere between two and three feet tall. There were touches of black on its wingtips and the end of its beak, and a V-shaped black necklace under the place where its chin would have been if birds had chins. But they didn’t, and Davy wanted to know why. The best that Sarah could suggest was to ask Uncle Brooks when he and Aunt Theonia came home, as she fervently hoped they would. She was still tired and the bruises on her leg had turned into something the Museum of Modern Art might have liked to exhibit, but the knee was less bothersome. Checking her own problems, Sarah was reminded of Melanson’s. When Ira came out to see the bittern, Sarah asked if he’d mind keeping an eye on Davy while she telephoned the intensive-care unit. She got an affirmative answer, as she’d confidently expected, and went inside to dial.
The report was nowhere near so positive as she’d hoped but less dire than she’d feared. Visits by members of the family, had there been any family, would have been discouraged. Visits by mere acquaintances were not to be thought of. So Sarah had the day off. She came back outdoors and stretched out in one of the old-style folding canvas deck chairs that the cottage provided and watched her son make sand castles. Miriam sat beside her under a beach umbrella that had seen its best days but still offered shade enough for practical purposes, and worked out a list of how many Rivkin relatives to invite in case Mike and Tracy ever got around to naming the fateful day.
“Sarah, you didn’t really mean that about visiting your aunt Bodie, did you? My God, Tracy’s mother’s going to have fits when she sees this list. Hadn’t you better lie low while you have the chance?”
“I am lying low.” Sarah was in fact waving her wounded leg around in the air, trying a few careful knee bends. “I do think I ought to drop over and see Cousin Anne. Didn’t you say Tracy’s mother was coming to lunch?”
“Yes, and she’s bringing her sister from Rehoboth, I should be so lucky. Jeanne’s a doll, but I have to say I’m glad Iphigenia or whatever she calls herself—Imogene, Iolanthe, Ish Kabibble, who cares?—lives too far away to be dropping in. Not that she would because we’re not classy enough. I was going to suggest that you might like to come down with a migraine about half past eleven, but having lunch with Anne is a much better idea. You could take some of that chicken we had last night.”
“Oh, Miriam, I meant to tell you the sandwich I took to Melanson last night may have saved his life. That’s what the intern said. He hadn’t been able to eat anything until I managed to get him soothed down a bit, then he went after it like a starving wolf. He said thank you. That’s about all he did say before he passed out. Well, if I’m going to Ireson’s Landing, I suppose I’d better stir my stumps. I’ll try to see Melanson tomorrow but I’ll have to go as myself. He’s had shocks enough already. I don’t know what’s to become of that poor soul if Turbot stays on the board and won’t give him back his job.”
“You really think Turbot could be that mean?”
“Oh yes,” Sarah assured her sister-in-law. “He’s mean enough for anything, he’s proved that already, but he’s cutting his own throat. With Melanson gone, there’s nobody on the staff who actually knows how the museum should be run. Vieuxchamp’s a cipher and the rest are all zombies.”
“You don’t suppose that’s the real reason why Turbot fired Melanson?”
“Good heavens, Miriam, I hadn’t thought of that angle. It seems bizarre that anybody could ever see Melanson as a threat, but everything’s crazy about this situation. I do wish I could take Davy home with me, but Anne’s not much interested in children and I’m feeling awfully skittish about letting anyone see him and me together, as you must be sick of hearing by now. He’s having the time of his life here with you—oh, look, quick. The bittern is flying. I must fly too.”
“I’ll make you and Anne a little lunch while you’re getting dressed. I’ve got to fix something for Jeanne and Her Highness anyway. You’re not wearing that god-awful blouse again, are you?”
“I have to stay in costume, but I do think I’ll put on a less depressing blouse and my old walking shoes instead of those holey sneakers. I might as well stick with the hat, it’s no uglier than the one Aunt Bodie’s been wearing for the past umpty-million years.”
“Do you need help with your bandage?”
“No, the knee’s pretty well scabbed over by now, a Band-Aid or two should serve the purpose. I’m going to wear those gray stockings again, I wish I’d had sense enough last night to wash them.”
“That’s okay, I rinsed them out and dried them in front of the oven. They’re on your bed.”
“Oh, bless you!”
Sarah took a quick and chilly shower, the plumbing in the cottage being adequate but only just, and put on the by now thoroughly antiqued gray flannel suit. She didn’t try to do much about her face, the hat brim and the sunglasses would hide most of it. She’d got away just in time; as she switched on her blinker for the turn onto the highway, she spied a far grander car than the one she was driving, waiting to make the turn into the narrow road that led to the lake. In it were Miriam’s likeable sister-in-law-to-be, whom Sarah had met once or twice, and a regally upright blonde with an impressive hairdo and a hoity-toity expression.
Thanks to Davy’s early rising call, she’d had time to do the things she’d wanted and still make it to Ireson’s Landing within a reasonable span for a picnic lunch. As she’d expected, Anne was right out there among the chrysanthemums, wearing the relatively new blue jeans that she’d bought after having donated her old ones to the unfortunate man in the rhubarb leaf. She had this pair pretty well broken in by now; after a few good soakings in detergent and bleach she might even be able to get the smell of fish entrails out of them.
Hearing the car com
e up the drive, Anne stripped off her canvas gloves and came over to Sarah. “How nice, I was hoping you’d come again. What would you think of massing white, yellow, and rust-colored mums in separate little free-form plots among those birch saplings down by the road? Just a sort of natural effect, but enough color to make a statement.”
“What a marvelous idea!” Sarah replied. “If you keep on at this rate, we’ll have tourists lining up to buy tickets. I hope you haven’t eaten your lunch yet, Miriam packed us a basket.”
“How kind of her. It’s too bad she wasn’t able to come with you.”
Anne didn’t mean what she said, she was just being polite. Miriam was too intellectual and far too liberal for Anne; neither of them actively disliked the other but they had virtually nothing in common. Miriam was not a whit interested in horticulture but wouldn’t have minded talking about cooking as a fine art. To Anne, food was merely fertilizer for the human plant. All one had to do was administer the correct amounts of the proper mixtures at appropriate times. How the mixtures tasted was a matter of no great importance.
Anne did not balk, however, at eating the lioness’s share of Miriam’s excellent chicken salad, enhanced with chopped apples, celery, walnut meats, and Miriam’s own special hand-whisked mayonnaise dressing, the recipe for which she intended to give Tracy as a wedding present. The corn muffins were from a mix, but Miriam allowed herself some latitude when on vacation.
They ate out on the deck overlooking the ocean. Even here, Sarah kept on her wig, her purple hat, and her sunglasses in case somebody might wander around behind the house; she didn’t even want Mr. Lomax to know she’d been home. She was wearing the heavy old walking shoes that she’d got thoroughly banged up walking along the stony beach; she’d dropped the horrible blouse in the hamper, put on a cotton shirt that buttoned up almost to her chin, and added a scarf to hide the fact that her neck wasn’t wrinkled.
Sarah even had Theonia’s purple gloves handy to put on if anybody came, but nobody did. The cousins lingered over their meal, ate the sweet grapes that Miriam had put in for dessert, and drank big glasses of iced tea instead of hot, the day having turned out warmer than the weatherperson had predicted. Even Anne was in no hurry to get back to her chrysanthemums.
“I must remember to put in some mint for you, Sarah. Perhaps down by the carriage house. Mint’s awfully grabby about nutrients, though. Maybe Mr. Lomax wouldn’t mind bringing us a few more fishheads.”
A person might have thought Anne was drinking something other than tea; this sudden burst of sociability was going to her head. Sarah wondered how Percy was taking it, then decided he wouldn’t mind, particularly if Max should prove amenable to signing on with Kelling, Kelling, and Kelling as a client. Which brought her, by a somewhat circuitous route, to Elwyn Fleesom Turbot. She chose the obvious opening.
“Those stodgy flower beds of the Turbots’ would look awfully sick beside what you’re doing here. I don’t suppose you’ve ever tried to drop a hint that there are better ways.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of it.” Anne was deadly serious. “Elwyn would go up like a rocket if anybody ever criticized anything he’d done, no matter how stupid it was.”
“Lala must have a hard life of it then. Though she certainly didn’t act afraid, from the way she was talking to him.”
Anne permitted herself a chuckle. “I don’t think Lala’s afraid of anything, she’s been through too much of that. Her first husband committed suicide. He told her he was going to kill himself, then deliberately ran his car into an abutment and smashed it all to pieces, himself with it. A brand-new Porsche; Lala was dreadfully upset for a long time. She told me the insurance company was quite nasty about settling, she never understood why. But they finally came through after she’d got a really mean lawyer, so she went on a round-the-world cruise and met this nice older man who owned a chain of furniture stores. Jules, his name was. They got married aboard the ship in Yokohama Harbor and just traveled around wherever they felt like going until one night in Venice when he’d had a little too much to drink and decided he’d go out for a walk to clear his head.”
“Good heavens!”
“As they say, every street is Canal Street in Venice. I suppose the servant who opened the door thought Jules was just going to sit on the steps and have a smoke or hail a gondola or something. Jules was always inclined to be impetuous, Lala said. His real name was Julius, but she thought that was too stodgy for a man like him. Lala told me what attracted her to Elwyn was that he reminded her of Jules, but she didn’t know then about the polled Herefords.”
“How long has Lala been married to Mr. Turbot?” Sarah asked, not that she really wanted to know.
“About three years, I believe. Lala confessed to me in private that she’d had one or two little flings on the side when she was between husbands. I suspect it may have been more than one or two but there’s no sense in trying to be judgmental these days, is there? Of course I’d never mention Lala’s little flings to Percy, particularly since she doesn’t seem to have got much of anything out of the extras. She made out very well with her settlements from Lambert and Jules, but she’s inclined to be extravagant. You did notice all that gold jewelry, I expect, Sarah.”
“How could I not? She was clanking like Marley’s Ghost every time she moved her arms. Which she did very gracefully, I noticed. I wonder if perhaps she’s been a model or a showgirl somewhere along the line.”
Anne shook her head. “Nothing would surprise me about Lala. What did you think of that outfit she had on?”
“I thought it must have cost old Elwyn a pretty penny, since you asked. It did seem a bit much for a luncheon in the country; you looked just right in that daisy-print dress, Anne. But then, you always do.”
“Why, thank you, Sarah. Percy told me so too. At least he said he was glad I didn’t have foolish notions about dressing up like a circus horse to go and look at some cows. Percy can be quite witty, you know, though he doesn’t care to have it mentioned outside the family. One knows what to expect with Percy, which is a great comfort. Can you imagine what it must be like for Lala, having to train one husband after another—oh, Sarah, please forgive me. I’d forgotten about poor darling Alexander.”
“That’s all right, Anne. Aunt Caroline had Alexander trained long before he married me.” Not that theirs had been much of a marriage, but Sarah was not about to go into that. “And Max didn’t need any training, it’s been more a case of his training me. But getting back to Lala, can that be her right name?”
“Now that you ask, I have no idea,” Anne confessed. “We don’t see a great deal of each other, actually, and when we do get together she never mentions her family. I have the impression that she comes from around here somewhere even though she looks and acts so New Yorky, and I know darned well she’s a lot older than she lets on. Even Percy admits that. To tell the truth, he’s not exactly crazy about Lala and I can’t say I am, either. She’s—oh, it’s hard to say. Different. I shouldn’t be talking like this about a client of Percy’s, but I know you won’t repeat a word to anybody and I must say it’s a relief to let one’s hair down once in a while.”
“I’m glad you mentioned her age, I was wondering too. I’m also wondering how much longer that marriage is going to last. Have you any thoughts on the subject?”
“Why, I really can’t say, I’ve never thought about it. I’m so used to people who stay married, you see. I don’t recall a single one of the Kellings ever getting divorced. Even that silly business of Cousin Lionel’s wife and that crazy woman she paired up with petered out fast enough once he’d made it clear that Vare wasn’t going to get another cent of his money as long as she stayed with—Eeyore, was it?”
“No, Tigger,” said Sarah. “Tigger’s in a mental health care facility now and Vare’s helping Lionel and their ghastly children spend Aunt Appie’s fortune. Getting back to other people’s marriages, what about Elwyn Turbot? Surely he must have had a previous marriage if he and Lala
have only been together for three years. I can’t picture him not wanting somebody around to browbeat.”
Anne was giggling again. “I don’t think Elwyn browbeats Lala much. I do remember Percy saying something about the first Mrs. Turbot’s being drowned, but he didn’t elaborate and I wasn’t all that interested anyway. It wasn’t as if I’d ever known her. If I remember correctly, she’d been dead awhile before Percy got the Turbot account.”
“How long ago was that?”
“I’d have to ask Percy. I’m a National Landscape Judge for the Federation, you know, and have had to do quite a lot of traveling from time to time. What with that and trying to keep our own garden in some kind of shape and Percy in clean shirts and socks and underwear, not to mention Emily’s two youngest having all those visits to the orthodontist, I’ve never given much thought to what was happening at the office. I mean, Percy doesn’t come and help me judge the gardens, so why should I interfere with his adding machines? He understands. I can’t say he’s thrilled about coming home to an empty house and a TV dinner sometimes two or three nights in a row, but he does understand. Emily’s good about inviting him over to dinner once a week or so, and Percy enjoys his grandchildren, in small doses.”
“But you’re not judging this year?” Sarah asked her. “I hope you didn’t give it up for me.”
“Oh no. I’ve done a little, mostly at flower shows. I do prefer to judge the landscaping but it takes a lot more out of one, so I thought I’d let some of the other judges fill in for a while. I wonder who’ll get to judge this place.”
Anne cast a wistful glance at some flats of barely opened mums that needed to be got into the ground. Sarah took the hint.
“I must be getting back to the lake, Anne. It should be safe enough now, the ladies from Rehoboth will be on their way home. That’s quite a drive, you know, almost to Fall River. And I do want to get in some more time with Davy because I’ll probably have to go back to Boston tomorrow. Oh, one thing I forgot to ask. Who was that young fellow in the colonial getup who served the luncheon on Sunday? He wasn’t the cook, was he?”
The Odd Job Page 22
