by Anne Tyler
It meant something, she supposed, that she hadn’t thrown away his number.
He answered after several rings, just when she was starting to think he might be asleep. But his voice was alert. “Dr. Allenby speaking.”
“Hello, Will. This is Rebecca.”
But of course he already knew that, if he had looked at his Caller ID. So when he said, “Oh! Rebecca!” in a voice spiked with stagy surprise, it made her smile. She said, “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, no! Goodness, no! No, I’m just . . . I was just . . .” There was some kind of scrambling sound, a rustle, a clink, something falling over. “I was just sitting here,” he said, out of breath. “Gosh, thanks for calling back.”
“Well. That’s okay.”
He cleared his throat.
“Actually,” he said, “it occurred to me that you might have misinterpreted my question.”
“Your question?”
“What I asked on the phone last time. About why you broke up with me. See, it wasn’t a . . . reproach. It wasn’t meant rhetorically. I really did want you to tell me where it was I went wrong.”
Rebecca said, “Will—”
“No, no, never mind! I withdraw that. I realize I’m being tedious. Don’t hang up!”
She started to speak, but then stopped. Anything she could think of to say seemed a mistake. In fact, speech in general seemed a mistake. It struck her all at once that dealing with other human beings was an awful lot of work.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said finally. “Let’s start over.”
“Start over?”
She said, “Maybe you would like to come here for dinner some night.”
She heard a caught breath, a kind of exclamation point in the airwaves. Then he said, “I would love to come to dinner.”
“Are you free, um . . .” She cursed tomorrow’s engagement party—the first Open Arms event in over a week. “Are you free Wednesday?”
“Wednesday would be wonderful.”
“Fine, let’s say six p.m. Now, here’s how to get to my house.”
She gave the directions with such assurance that she probably took him aback, because he responded with a meek “All right . . . all right . . .” And after she had finished, there seemed nothing more to talk about. “Till Wednesday, then!” she told him.
“Yes, all right . . . goodbye,” he said.
She tried to remember, after she had hung up, whether in the old days he had said goodbye at the end of telephone calls. He surely couldn’t have avoided the word altogether, could he?
Then she went on to try and remember their first meeting, since recently, first meetings had begun to seem so significant. But it was lost in the mists of childhood. They had probably met in kindergarten, or perhaps some play group in the little park by the river. Really, Will had just always been there.
Which had its own significance, she thought.
Outside, a wind was blowing up, buckling the warped black screens and wafting the gauze curtains almost horizontal. The air smelled of rain and damp earth. The room took on an eerie, greenish glow. A door slammed somewhere downstairs, and Rebecca felt almost afloat with the sense of possibility.
Seven
You’ll never in a million years guess who I’ve asked to dinner,” Rebecca told her mother on the phone.
“Who’s that, dear?”
“Oh, nobody but Will Allenby.”
“Will Allenby! Are you serious? My stars! How did this come about?”
“We just happened to talk on the phone a little while ago.”
“My Lord in heaven! Tell me everything,” her mother ordered. “Every last detail.”
“There’s nothing to tell, really. I had supper with him a few weeks back, and tomorrow night he’s coming to my house. He’s living in Macadam. He’s head of the physics department.”
“Is he single? Or what.”
“He’s divorced.”
“Divorced! Poor Will; who’d have thought? Though divorced is much better than widowed, of course.”
“How do you figure that?” Rebecca asked.
“Well: if they’re divorced, they’re mad at their ex-wife and so they put her out of their minds. If they’re widowed, they go on mourning. They feel guilty about remarrying.”
“Who said anything about remarrying?” Rebecca asked. “We’re just having a meal together.”
“Yes, but, you never can tell. One thing leads to another, you know! And you and he have all that shared past. It’s not as if you’re strangers. Oh, I’d love it if you married Will!”
“Mother,” Rebecca said. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. I’m sorry now I mentioned it.”
Why had she mentioned it, in fact? Almost the instant she woke up this morning, she’d had it in her mind to call her mother and tell her the news. It was like some kind of offering—a mouse she could lay at her mother’s feet. See there? I’m still the old Rebecca after all!
“What does he look like?” her mother was asking. “Is he as good-looking as he used to be?”
“Yes, but he’s older, of course. His hair is white.”
“That’s okay! What do you care! None of us is getting any younger. Oh. Rebecca. Do you want to hear an amazing coincidence? Would you believe I ran into his mother’s sister-in-law just last weekend at the Kmart? And this is not someone I see every day. Or every year, even! In fact, I’m surprised I recognized her. You must have known her. Katie, or Kathy; something like that. Was it Katie? No, Kathy. No, Katie. She was married to Will’s mother’s brother, Norman, before he died, and they used to live on Merchant Street in this darling little cottage that always made me think of a doll’s house. Do you remember that house?”
Rebecca sighed and said, “No.”
“Well, it was next door to the Saddlers’ place. You remember the Saddlers’ place, the one with all the chimneys.”
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“You must! It had two chimneys in the middle, and one more at each—”
“I remember.”
“You just finished saying you didn’t.”
“Mother. What difference does it make?” Rebecca asked. “This is a house next to another house that I don’t remember either, where somebody I never met used to live before her husband died.”
“I’m sure you did meet her, dear. She must surely have been at the Allenbys’ many a time when you were visiting.”
“All right,” Rebecca said, “I met her. What did she say?”
“What did she say about what?”
“About anything. When you ran into her at the Kmart.”
“Oh, we didn’t actually speak. I was afraid she wouldn’t know me. I just swiveled my eyes in another direction and made like I didn’t see her.”
Rebecca began massaging her left temple.
“So who did he marry?” her mother asked.
“Who did who marry?” Rebecca asked, contrarily.
“Will, of course. My goodness! Who have we been talking about, here?”
“He married an ex-student of his.”
“Was the divorce his idea, or hers?”
“Hers, I believe,” Rebecca said.
“Oh, dear. Well, never mind. We’ll just hope for the best.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Rebecca asked.
“Never mind! What are you planning to wear, do you know?”
“I hadn’t thought,” Rebecca said.
“I was reading somewhere just the other day that the color brown is the most flattering to any type of figure.”
“I don’t own anything brown,” Rebecca said.
“You still have time to go shopping!”
“I have to hang up,” Rebecca said. “Talk to you later, Mother.”
* * *
It wasn’t true that she’d given no thought as to what she would wear. Throughout the night—even in her sleep, it seemed—she had mentally reviewed her wardrobe, and she had settled, finally, on the eggplant-colored caf
tan. By midafternoon Wednesday, she had already put it on. She had already set the table, placed candles around the dining room, and added the finishing touches to the food—everything cold, so that she wouldn’t have to be off in the kitchen for any length of time. In the front parlor, the cushions were plumped and more candles stood about in groups. She had opened all the windows, even those on the street side, to whisk away any trace of cooking smells.
Absurd to make such a to-do. Absurd.
Promptly at five-thirty, Zeb arrived to pick up Poppy. He had promised to keep him occupied for the evening. “I thought we’d try that new steakhouse,” he told Rebecca, “and then maybe go to a movie. That would put us back here at, oh, nine-thirty or ten. Is that okay with you?”
In fact, it seemed a bit early. What if she and Will were to linger over coffee? What if they returned to the parlor after supper and started . . . Well, not that they’d be doing anything very private, of course, but what if they just wanted to talk without other people listening? She couldn’t say this to Zeb, though, because he’d already rearranged his schedule to help her out. “That’ll be fine,” she told him. “It’s good of you to take him, Zeb.”
He said, “Jesus, it’s the least I can do. So. Is this a . . . what. Is this an actual date you’re having?”
“No, no! Mercy,” she said. “I’m much too old to be dating.”
“Is that right,” he said mildly, and then he called, “Poppy? You ready?”
Poppy emerged from the rear of the house, patting all his pockets with the hand that wasn’t holding his cane. Every pocket rustled. He had taken to insisting, lately, on bringing a supply of candy bars on his outings. Evidently he feared being caught in some emergency situation with no source of sweets. “I’m all set,” he announced. “Going to have a boys’ night out,” he told Rebecca.
“Good, Poppy. Enjoy yourselves, you two.”
As soon as she had closed the door behind them, she raced up the stairs to her bedroom. She had decided that the caftan was too informal. It might even be mistaken for sleepwear. She changed into a silk blouse and a floor-length hostess skirt, and she switched her clunky leather sandals to daintier ones, high-heeled.
Her room looked ransacked. Cast-off clothes littered the bed, and half a dozen pairs of shoes were strewn across the floor. In the mirror, her face had the bright-eyed, hectic expression of someone who’d been nipping at the sherry.
Well before six, the doorbell rang. It was so early that she feared a drop-in family visitor. But no, when she opened the door, there stood Will, practically invisible behind a gigantic plant of some kind. “Oh! You shouldn’t have,” she said.
“I know I’m early,” he told her. “I allowed a little extra time in case I got lost.”
“That’s all right! Let’s see, maybe you could set that here on the floor by the . . . Isn’t it unusual!”
In fact, the plant was bizarre. Three feet tall, at least, with monstrous, lumpy, dark-green leaves speckled a sulphur yellow, it loomed from a red-rimmed white bowl that reminded her of a chamber pot. Once Will had set it down, it blocked nearly all the light from the foyer window. “What is it called?” she asked.
Will spread his arms helplessly. “I don’t know,” he said. “They told me it was impossible to kill, was all.”
“Oh, good.”
His white curls and lined forehead shocked her all over again. (In her mind, she seemed to keep returning him to his youth.) His palms were dusted with potting soil. He was wearing faded jeans with a short-sleeved, gray plaid shirt, and on his feet were mammoth jogging shoes. He must have seen her glance at the shoes, because he said, “I guess I should have dressed up more.”
“Nonsense! I’m not dressed up.”
She led him into the parlor, walking as quietly as possible so he wouldn’t notice her heels. “Have a seat,” she said. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
He sat down on the sofa, first carefully tweaking the knees of his jeans as if they had a crease, which they didn’t. Then he gazed around him at the crystal chandelier, the damask draperies, the Oriental carpet. “This is really very . . . This is quite a place,” he said.
“Yes, well, don’t let it fool you,” she told him. She chose to settle not on the sofa beside him but in the wing chair to his left, to her own surprise. Then she tugged her skirt up a bit so it wouldn’t seem floor-length, but when she remembered she was wearing knee-high nylons she lowered it again. “Any minute now,” she said, “I expect the roof to fall in.”
“Is that picture above the mantel an ancestor of your husband’s?”
He was referring to a portrait of a woman in a hoopskirt, with an obstinate, thick-necked look to her. “No,” Rebecca said, “I think they bought it at a garage sale.”
“Well, still, it’s . . . the whole place is very impressive.”
“Tell me, Will,” she said. “Have you kept in touch with any of our old college friends?”
She had thought up this topic ahead of time. It seemed a neutral one, and certain to fill several minutes, at least. But he just said, “No, not really.”
“Your roommate, for instance? Don Grant? Or Horace what’s-his-name?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, me neither,” she said. “But I was assuming that in my case, it was because of . . . you know. Because of dropping out and getting married and all.”
“I’ve never been very sociable,” Will told her. He didn’t seem to have his mind on what he was saying; he was still gazing around the room. He said, “This house must have quite a—”
The doorbell rang. He looked at her. “Quite a history,” he said. And then, when she didn’t move, “I believe your doorbell rang.”
“Oh,” she said. “Right.”
She rose and went to answer it.
Mr. Quint, from Second Eden, scraped his perfectly dry feet on the mat before he stepped into the foyer. “Just wanted to let you know I’ve set my men to working out back,” he told her. “I did say we’d be—What is that?”
He meant Will’s plant. He drew back as if he thought it might bite.
Rebecca said, “I’m not sure, exactly. Wouldn’t that be your department?”
“Mine? Lord, no. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He kept on staring at it in a perplexed and worried way even as he picked up where he had left off. “I did say we’d be here by noon, but we’ve been running a tad bit late today.”
“That’s okay,” she told him. To be honest, she had forgotten he was coming.
“We can finish up before dark, I’m just about certain. You want to take a peek at them azaleas I was talking about?”
“No, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
“Not that they’ve got any blossoms this time of year anyhow, but there’s these little hang tags, you know? With color photos on them.”
“It doesn’t matter. Really.”
“Or why don’t I just pull off a tag and bring it in to show you? I’ll go round back right now and fetch it.”
“I don’t care about it!” she said.
“Oh.”
“I have company.”
“Suit yourself,” he said. “As long as you don’t come running to me after you see them in bloom.”
He still had his eyes on the plant as he turned to leave.
In the parlor, she found Will standing at the piano. He pressed one chipped, crackled key until a note plinked out.
“I know it’s a little flat,” she said. (In high school, Will had been famous for having perfect pitch.)
He said, “Oh, well.”
“Our guests seem to like that sort of honky-tonk sound—that dance-hall, tinny, plunky sound. At every party, just about, someone will sit down to play.”
Will closed the piano lid. He said, “You used to be so shy at parties.”
Probably this was just a meaningless remark, but she read it as an accusation. How could she have changed so much when he had remained the same? he
might be asking. She said, “I’m no different now! I promise. It’s just, you know, when parties are your livelihood—”
The telephone rang.
She said, “Why don’t we let the machine get that.”
There was a second ring. A third.
Too late, she recollected that the machine was not turned on. The telephone kept ringing, and Will kept looking at her.
“So!” she said. “I should go see to our supper. Would you like to come out to the kitchen?”
“Certainly,” Will said. “Can I help?”
“No, no. Just keep me company,” she said.
The phone shut up, finally. Rebecca led the way through the rear parlor and the dining room, where Will began to lag behind. She turned to find him studying another portrait—the one that hung over the sideboard. “Was this your husband?” he asked her.
“Why, no,” she said. Was he joking? The man in the portrait wore a frock coat and fitted trousers, and he carried a shiny top hat in one gloved hand. “I’ll show you what my husband looked like,” she said. “I’ve got an old snapshot on the fridge.” And they continued down the passageway to the kitchen.
What she hadn’t realized was that the snapshot she had in mind—Joe on some long-ago beach trip, holding up a fresh-caught crab and laughing in the sunlight—had gradually become buried beneath a shingling of later snapshots. Photos tended to live in the imagination, she thought; she hadn’t actually looked at this one for years, although she could still visualize every detail. She had to weasel it out from under the others, and once Will had seen it (“Ah, yes,” was all he said), he went on to peer at the rest. “That’s Dixon in the cap and gown,” she explained. “My grandson, at his high-school graduation party. And this . . .” She pointed toward a picture partly obscured by a magnet shaped like a bagel. “This is NoNo, my youngest stepdaughter, at her wedding. Doesn’t she look beautiful? Biddy is the oldest; that’s her standing next to LaVon, my former son-in-law. They were celebrating Lateesha’s baby-welcoming, I think. And then Patch, she’s our athlete. A gym teacher; can you imagine? I believe this must have been taken when her girls’ lacrosse team won the—well, listen to me, rattling on! And I bet you must be starving to death.”
