“Oh, just little things. Chet's a very affectionate, very open person, and he's just a little disappointed that Bobby's so—so reserved.”
Disappointed that Bobby's a sullen jerk who treats you like shit, Jane thought. Well, good for old Chet. "What about Chet's sons? What do they think of Bobby?"
“Everett lives in London and handles all the European part of the business. He's never met Bobby, but John—Oh, Jane, you must know John and Joannie, don't you?"
“I don't think so, but Shelley does."
“That's good. I mentioned you to John, and he said he knew you. Something about a ball game. Basketball? Volleyball?"
“Oh, that John Wagner!" Jane suddenly remembered him. Boy, did she ever remember him! She and Steve had belonged to a neighborhood volleyball team for a mercifully short time the autumn before Steve died. John Wagner, the captain of the team, was a good-looking, athletic man in his mid-forties who played volleyball as if the future of the human race depended on the outcome of each game. He was a Type-A personality run amok. People had told her he was quite nice if one didn't presume to engage him in competition of any sort, but she'd never believed it.
Jane had looked forward to the first game, buying a cute, sporty outfit and new sneakers. Her game plan had been to stand around looking smashing while other people yelled cheerful things like, "Heads up," and "I've got it." But John Wagner had disabused her of this concept within the first five minutes. His remarks to her had included, "If I'd known you couldn't hit an elephant in a closet, I'd have gotten that ball," and "You've never heard of spiking, then?" and "If you'd quit carrying on like that it would stop hurting.”
She never went back, and Steve lasted only three more weeks before coming home in a rage, muttering about neighborhood bullies.
John Wagner and Bobby Bryant trussed up together by family ties was impossible to imagine. "Yes, it was volleyball," she said to Phyllis and, refraining from rubbing her hands together in glee, asked, "How does John like Bobby?”
Phyllis looked troubled. "It's odd, Jane. They don't get along at all. John was quite rude to Bobby both times they met. I suppose it's jealousy. All men are just grown-ups boys, aren't they?"
“Jealousy? Of what?"
“Chet's affection, of course.”
Or Chet's money, Jane thought. As Phyllis's son, Bobby might have a financial claim on her and, therefore, on Chet. John Wagner wasn't a model person, but it wasn't unreasonable that he might fear and dislike Bobby even more than most people would.
Aside from Phyllis, did the boy have a friend in the world?
Sooner or later, she was going to have to hear about Phyllis's marital problems, so she decided to get it over with. Jane asked, "Why didn't Chet come with you to Chicago?”
Phyllis paused a long time before she answered. "I—I really don't know. I thought it would be wonderful to have a good old-fashioned Christmas here—a nice dinner with John and Joannie and all Bobby's adopted family. But Chet never liked the idea. I kept bringing it up, and I guess it irritated him, because he finally said—”
She stopped, as if choking on the next words.
With a sort of funny hiccup, she suddenly got up and ran to the guest bathroom. Before Jane could figure out what to do, Phyllis came back, dabbing at her eyes with a folded piece of toilet paper. "I'm so sorry to act silly, Jane. I want to tell you the truth and get it over with, but it's so hard for me to say. You see, Chet finally said I should just take Bobby and go to Chicago—forever, if I wanted.”
She started sniffling into the toilet paper. "I didn't want that. Not in a million years, but he kept insisting, and then one day I had a terrible headache—not that that's a good reason—and I snapped back and said I'd be glad to go away from him. I didn't mean it, Jane. You know I didn't mean it. But the next morning, Chet was gone. He'd flown off on a business trip without even letting me say I was sorry. On the bedside table were two one-way plane tickets and a checkbook. Jane, I should have just torn them up, but I got mad instead. And after that—I don't know. It just got worse. Bobby even tried to find Chet to talk to him and explain that we didn't want to leave—"
“I'll bet he did," Jane said, thinking what a shock it must have been for greedy Bobby to find he was about to be out of a life he'd just discovered suited him so well. "I mean—”
But Phyllis had accepted the remark at face value and plowed on, still sniffling. "I've seen things on television about men having middle-age problems. Male menopause, I think they call it, although I think that's a peculiar term. Still, I think that's what Chet must be going through. I know he didn't really want me to leave, but I did go so that he'd have the time and freedom to rethink our marriage. He's just being irrational. I'm praying he'll come to his senses. We've had the most perfect marriage in the world, and nothing's changed, but Chet has turned into a different person for no reason."
“Phyllis, there has been a change. Bobby."
“But that's a change for the good!" Phyllis insisted. "Chet is crazy about Bobby. He offered to send him to college or on a nice long trip to Switzerland for the skiing—”
—Anything to get him out of his hair, Jane thought. Surely even Phyllis couldn't fail to see the truth in this. And yet, it was amazing what people could fail to see if they put their minds in it, she realized with a sick feeling. She herself had managed to be completely blind to her own husband having an affair right under her nose. When Steve had announced that he was leaving her, it had been a hideous shock. She'd never suspected, and even if someone had tried to tip her off in advance, she probably would have refused to believe it. Just like Phyllis was working so hard at not understanding the trouble.
Should she try to make Phyllis see? There were so few really good marriages in the world, and it was a terrible pity to see one sacrificed on an altar as unworthy as Bobby Bryant.
“Phyllis, let me ask you something—what if you had to choose between Bobby and Chet?"
“Jane! What a terrible thing to think of. Why would I have to choose?"
“I don't know, but suppose you did."
“Why, I'd stay with Bobby, of course. As much as I love Chet, Bobby needs me more. Aman can have many wives, but a boy only has one mother. You know that. You wouldn't abandon your children for anybody."
“But my children are young. Bobby's an adult, and he's managed without you all these years," Jane said, knowing she might as well try to reason with a geranium.
“He's still my baby. My only baby—" Phyllis said, making another dash for the bathroom.
I can't do her any good, Jane thought with a sense of sadness so profound it brought tears to her eyes.
Seven
The phone rang, cutting the conversation '. short. Jane picked it up with relief. Even somebody trying to sell her bronzed baby shoes would be a welcome break. But it wasn't a salesman, it was Fiona Howard.
“Jane, I hate to disturb you, but I have a bit of a problem. I didn't realize that Albert had scheduled the exterminators to come this afternoon, and I'm worried about any food that might be in some of these bazaar boxes. I know about the gingerbread men and the hard candies, but several people have dropped things off since you were by here this morning, and some of the cartons appear to have different things in them. I'm afraid there could be something in the bottom of one that we might be poisoning. I know Shelley isn't available to help, but I want to have all the food items safely out of the house before they start spraying—"
“I'll run over and see if I can figure out what's what," Jane offered. Phyllis had come out of the bathroom again and seemed to have a grip on herself. She was puttering around, cleaning off the kitchen table.
“I hate asking you when you have company," Fiona was saying. "I tried to ring Shelley first, just in case she'd changed her plans, but there's no answer at her house. Do bring your friend along, and I'll make us a lovely tea. No, I guess I can't even do that with the bug people here."
“We'd love to come, tea or not. We could all go out fo
r Cokes at McDonald's.”
She hung up and told Phyllis. "I've got to run over to a neighbor's house to take care of a crisis with the church craft bazaar. You don't need to come along if you'd rather rest, but I'd be glad to have you. We can talk more about this later," she added, knowing there was little else she could say.
“Jane, we don't need to talk about me anymore. I just felt I owed it to you to explain. You have problems enough, I'm sure, without mine. I'd love to help if I can," she said. The way her face lit up, it was obvious that she was sincere. As she mopped her eyes a final time, she said, "Chet's so sweet and generous, and I don't ever mean to sound ungrateful, but if there's anything I've missed all these years, it's that sort of thing—church bazaars, other women who like crafts and things. Of course, a lot of real artists used to come to the island, but they weren't interested in things like Christmas ornaments and knitting and Easter egg decorations.”
Jane had sudden vision of Phyllis fluttering around a modern-day Picasso, trying to interest him in styrofoam wreaths.
“I read about this wonderful thing you do with Easter eggs that makes them look batiked. I'm dying to try it," Phyllis went on.
“I tnink Fiona does that. You can ask her about it."
“This Fiona isn't Fiona Howard, is she?”
“Why, yes. Do you know her?"
“No, but we know some people who know her, and they mentioned once that she lived in the same suburb as you do. You can't have many neighbors named Fiona. Such a pretty name."
“Then you must know who she is—"
“Richie Divine's widow. Yes. That was so terrible the way the newspapers and magazines were so mean to her when she got married again. I'd like to meet her, and I really want to help with your bazaar." As she spoke, she was putting the leftover food in the refrigerator.
Jane suddenly felt a great wave of guilt for not liking her better. Silly as Phyllis might be, she was also very sweet and down-to-earth. There was something innately good about a woman who probably hadn't so much as lifted a dirty dish in fifteen years, but who pitched right in, clearing the table without a second's hesitation. There were good reasons Chet Wagner had stuck with her for so long. If only Phyllis could see the one excellent reason he got fed up.
Jane was quiet all the way to Fiona's house, mentally chastising herself. Wasn't part of the reason she got irritated with Phyllis a matter of simple jealousy? She'd mentally accused John Wagner of being jealous over money, but maybe she was, too. After all, Phyllis was an extraordinarily wealthy woman. Jane, who wasn't exactly poor, still had to carefully monitor every penny.
Steve's life insurance and his share of the family-owned drugstores had left her with enough money to comfortably afford the necessities and a precious few of the less expensive luxuries. But while Phyllis was ordering up a Jag for Bobby to drive around without even needing to ask what it cost, Jane was driving a four-year-old station wagon and would have to drive it to death—either its or hers.
Was it Phyllis's money that was getting under Jane's skin? Jane thought not. Lots of people had more money than Jane did. Almost everyone she knew, in fact, either had more or lived as though they did. And she'd never been particularly aware of resentment before. Fiona Howard, for instance, was certainly in a financial class with Phyllis. She must have been her husband's heir, and Richie Divine records were still played on the radio all the time. Just last summer Jane had bought a tape of his old stuff. They hadn't had children, so all the royalties must be going to Fiona. And yet, Jane had never felt jealous of Fiona, only mildly curious about how she lived.
For that matter, the Nowacks were absolutely loaded, but she never felt jealous of Shelley. Shelley's husband had started and owned a nationwide Greek fast-food franchise that was nearly as common nationally as any of the hamburger or pizza places. But Shelley still bought her sneakers at K Mart and saved grocery store coupons and was always complaining about telephone bills. Of course, if Shelley had been renting a car, as Phyllis did a short time ago, Shelley would have found out the price of everything on the lot and would have demanded a discount if the tires had more than a thousand miles on them.
No, it wasn't a matter of money or lack of it. It was a basic difference in mentality or outlook or something that made Phyllis rub Jane the wrong way. No point in analyzing it, Jane told herself as she steered the old station wagon into the Howards' hedge-lined drive. Phyllis and her hideous son would be out of her life pretty soon, and she wouldn't need to worry about it. In a day or two, she'd just have to tell Phyllis in the nicest way possible that they were going to have to move into a hotel. And if she couldn't find a nice way—well, she'd worry about that later.
Fiona met them in the driveway. "Jane, I've been calling, but I missed you. I'm so sorry I put you to this trouble. Just after we hung up, the exterminators called and said their truck broke down, and they won't be here until tomorrow. I've dragged you out for nothing."
“It's fine. It still has to be done by tomorrow, and we might as well do it now. Fiona, this is my friend Phyllis Wagner, who's visiting me—for a few days," she added. "Phyllis, Fiona Howard.”
The two women greeted each other, subtly summing each other up as women do. A flickering glance to assess hair, clothes, manners then—recognizing they were nominally equals—the warmth of tentative acceptance passed between them. "Fiona, you and Phyllis have some friends in common."
“Oh? Who is that?”
Phyllis looked confused. "I'm not sure. I mean, I told Jane I knew about you living herebecause someone mentioned it, and I recognized the name of the suburb because of Jane. But I can't remember who it was."
“What a pity. Where are you from?"
“Originally Philadelphia, then Chicago. But for the last thirteen years, my husband and I have been living on a little island in the Caribbean.”
She made it sound like she had a Quonset hut on somebody else's beach.
“Phyllis and her husband own the island and the hotel on it," Jane couldn't resist saying.
Anybody else might have goggled at this; Fiona was unmoved. "How interesting that must be," she said with friendly blandness. "I've always liked the Caribbean, but I can't stay there long, because I sunburn so badly. Albert and I went to Jamaica once, and I got a horrible burn, in spite of the fact that I slathered on so much suntan lotion I couldn't sit on a chair without sliding off. Do you miss the seasonal changes?”
This, of course, was one of Phyllis's favorite topics and elaborations took them into the house and into the ground floor guest room where the church bazaar cartons were stored. Jane studied the array of boxes for a moment, wondering where to start. They were stacked everywhere with only a narrow aisle between them. Fiona had said a few people had dropped things off since this morning, but it looked more like an army had looted a small, holiday-oriented country and left all the spoils here.
As Jane stood, gazing with bewilderment, she heard Phyllis saying, "... And it will be so nice to be back permanently."
“Back permanently?" Jane asked, roused from her stupor by these chilling words.
“Yes, I was telling Fiona about moving back. We haven't had time to talk about it yet, Jane. Chet told me to find a nice house here, and he'd buy it for Bobby and me if I wanted."
“You're going to live in Chicago?" Jane tried to sound bright and cheerful but felt like she had a mouthful of mud. Having Bobby Bryant around permanently would be about as much fun as having a car wreck in a Pinto. She had to suppress the urge to run to the nearest phone, call Shelley, and scream, "Help me! Help me!"
“Maybe you'd be interested in the house next door?" Fiona asked, obviously as a conversational gambit, not as a sincere suggestion. "I was telling Jane about it just this morning." She went on to explain chattily about the old lady, the nursing home, and the son's anxiety to get a tax break by selling before the end of the year.
“That might be very nice," Phyllis said. "At least it would give me time to look around for something else wit
hout imposing on Jane. And we'd be so close. Wouldn't that be fun, Jane? Just like the old days.”
Please don't do this to me, God. I'm a good person, and I don't deserve it, Jane thought.
Eight
Jane held up a pinecone wreath and pretended she hadn't heard the question. "I wonder who made this. It's awfully nice work, isn't it? It's got these little peppermint sticks woven in, but they're not meant to be eaten anyway—"
“Would you really like to take a look?" Fiona was asking. "The man left us a key in case I wanted to show it to anyone."
“That would be fun, but we should help Jane—"
“Why don't I have Albert run over with you, while I—"
“Did I hear my name being taken in vain?" Albert had apparently come down the hallway just as Fiona referred to him.
“Oh, Albert—you know Jane Jeffry, she was here earlier. And this is her friend Phyllis Wagner," Fiona said.
He looked at Phyllis, at Jane, and at the room full of cartons and was struck dumb.
“It's not as chaotic as it looks," Jane assured him. The man had actually paled at the sight of what had happened to his home. "I pretty well know what all this stuff is, and it'll be out of your house in another week ' or so, after the sale.”
Fiona explained to Albert, who still looked stricken, what she wanted him to do, but he obviously didn't want to be bothered acting as somebody else's real estate agent. "I'm expecting the accountant any minute. He's bringing some forms over that need to go in by midnight."
“I'll keep him entertained if he shows up," his wife assured him. "It'll only take you a minute.”
“But Fiona—”
Jane glanced up, aware of the tension growing in the room. Albert was on the verge of digging his heels in. Phyllis was looking at him with undisguised fascination, as if he were some sort of museum exhibit: "The Nerd Who Married Richie Divine's Widow." Jane suddenly understood why Phyllis couldn't think of the name of the friend they had in common. There wasn't such a person. Phyllis had just kept up with the fan magazines and had been curious about Fiona and her husband.
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