A Dangerous Woman

by Mary McGarry Morris

  She kept looking up at the clock. At six-thirty, she dialed Birdy’s home number. She counted twenty rings before she hung up. Next she called the Cleaners, even though she knew they’d be closed by now. No one answered.

  In the bathroom, she rinsed out the gritty tub, splashing water after a delicate yellow spider until it had swirled down the drain. She laid out two towels and a face cloth for her nightly bath, then set her slippers facing the door. Such rituals were the fretwork of her life. As a child she had discovered that it took 284 steps to get from the start of the driveway to the school-bus stop. The counting of those steps became as vital a part of her school days as packing her lunch, alternating between bologna sandwiches and plain peanut butter. There were always two or three favorite outfits, usually shapeless and dark, and a favorite pair of shoes worn to a soft, floppy comfort, and for a while there had been the scarf, a soft gray-plaid wool of her father’s, which she pulled up over her nose. She grew so attached to the scarf, it began to seem that without it she couldn’t breathe the sharp winter air. Because she was so afraid of losing the scarf, she had to know where it was every moment. She began to wear it tied around her waist. Soon her classmates were trying to pull it away, which sent her into such a frenzy that her teachers insisted she leave the scarf at home. Instead, she wore it under her shirt. The gym teacher called Frances, who sat Martha down and made her watch while she cut the scarf into little pieces. “It’s a scarf,” she kept saying. “That’s all it is, an old scarf. Just an old scarf you don’t need anymore.” Of course Frances had been right, it wasn’t the scarf but the ritual of the scarf: not things so much as the safety their sameness allowed her.

  There were her books on the left of her desk, piled by subject, according to her schedule, and the two pencils and two pens aligned on the right corner with her milk money, first nickels, pennies, then dimes, always stacked the same way under her anxious scrutiny. Boys soon learned that a quick scramble of her desktop symmetry would provoke a spasm of teary gasping and choking, as she tried to rearrange it all before the bell rang for the Pledge of Allegiance, which had its own ritual, a quick three thumps of her heart, and a deep breath with her eyes closed, the only way she could get through it without a stammer, or so it would seem in the scheme of dreaded moments finally made tolerable, endurable. Soon the entire class would be thumping three times, breathing deeply; and yet another teacher would pull her aside, cautioning, “Now, Martha dear. The only reason I mention this …” There had been foot tapping and throat clearing, lip chewing, nail biting, snorting, blinking, and choking, the choking having become, even to this day, the worst. All her tics and rituals were only parts of other things, engine-revving incantations against fear and failure. Without them she would get so dizzy she could feel the earth spinning around and around, and she could see this familiar speck, hair and legs flying, holding on for dear life.

  She looked up, startled by the sound of the buzzer. She ran to the intercom above the square wooden table in the kitchen and pushed the button to listen.

  “I’d like to talk to you before I go out,” Frances said.

  “What about?”

  “I’ll tell you when you come over.”

  “In front of your friends?”

  “They’re gone. Steve’s the only one here, and he’s upstairs dressing.”

  “I’m in the middle of something,” Martha said, repeating what she had been told when she had asked for a ride home.

  “Well, when you’re finished, then. I’ll wait.”

  Frances waited for Martha in the living room. In all her years here, this was the one room Frances had redecorated. And she had only done it this past winter—with both Martha and Floyd gone, she suddenly realized. Again now, as it often did, the room’s airiness struck her as jarring and out of place compared with the rest of the house. She got up and paced back and forth. It wasn’t the room. It was the quiet. The aloneness. She missed Floyd, and yet this terrible insecurity she suffered with every change was her brother’s fault. For forty years he had been the caretaker here. After Horace’s death, Floyd had chafed with every one of her orders. If she had listened to him, she would still be driving the same twenty-year-old Thunderbird. He had kept that car running perfectly without ever once having it repaired in a garage. God, when she thought of how much he had done all those years—the house, the furnace, the garage, his own apartment, the pool and the lawns, and the constant pruning of all the shrubs and trees—it really was amazing. Without him the place was falling apart. Everything. It frightened her … everything sinking into ruin.

  She sat down. The water dripped from the kitchen faucet with a steady plink plink plink. She looked up, comforted by the creak of Steve’s footsteps overhead in the bedroom. Thank God for Steve, who was every bit as positive and cheerful as he had been when they first met, in this very room. She had been sixteen and Pearl had just died, leaving Martha with Floyd. Steve had been a new young lawyer joining his father’s practice, the firm that handled Horace’s work. He used to watch her whenever he came here on business, and she in turn couldn’t take her eyes off him. She had been so unhappy up here with two older men and a fussy toddler that Steve’s visits had been all she had to look forward to.

  She smiled, pleased to hear him whistling. Anita’s DT’s had been so bad this morning that it had taken Steve and both of his daughters just to get her dressed and to the hospital. Thank God, they had admitted her. At least he’d get one night of peace.

  Where was Martha? She got up and began to blow the dust off tabletops and shelves and picture frames. She wanted to talk to her before Steve came down. She had become accustomed to the peace around here with Martha gone. Of course, every time the phone rang she would cringe, certain it was John from the Cleaners complaining that Martha was annoying his workers or that she had offended another customer.

  “I feel bad for her,” he had said on the phone the other night, “but now I gotta draw the line.”

  Dreading the answer, she had asked what had happened.

  “Last week she attacked a customer, and now the latest is she got the wrong kinda bowl or the wrong kinda something at this party, and she flipped! Screaming at everybody! She locked herself in the bathroom for two hours. For two hours! People are scared of her. Look, Fran, I been good. You know I been good.”

  “You have been, John, and I appreciate it. I’ll talk to her. But please don’t fire her. She’ll go to pieces.”

  “All right, Fran, I’m gonna give it to you straight. She’s dipping from the till. I mean, give me a break! Flip-outs are one thing, but she’s stealing me blind.”

  “She wouldn’t do that. I know she wouldn’t.” If anything, Martha was too honest.

  “I didn’t believe it either. But then, the two days she doesn’t come in, everything tallies. To the penny!”

  Unable to dissuade him, she had asked if he would keep her on just for two more weeks. At least that would let her down slowly and give her time to find something else and help her save face.

  “No!”

  “Please, John. I’ll pay you the two weeks.”

  “What about the five bucks here, the ten there? It adds up!”

  “I’ll take care of that.” She was already subsidizing the raise he had refused to give her in January, when everyone else got raises. Of course, Martha didn’t know that.

  “All right. Two weeks. God, I must be nuts.”

  Not nuts. Greedy, Frances thought. But, then, leave it to Martha. Instead of staying on with a two-week notice while she looked for another job, she had quit on the spot. Poor Martha, every incident was high drama, every confrontation a disaster, every slight a blow. Such an exhausting life, without subtleties, propelled by fear and anxiety. Frances sighed; well, she was home, and in a way it was a relief. At least she would know where Martha was now and what she was doing. Those first few nights last fall after she had stormed out of here, Frances had lain in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, wondering if she had gone o
ff with some total stranger, if she lay dead in a ditch somewhere.

  Heavy footsteps trudged down the hallway, and this soft room, with its pink-tinted walls and pale upholstery, its brass and glass and pastel porcelain, grew coldly stark. Her eyes darted from corner to corner, and instinctively her hands flew out as if to reshape this formlessness back to its dull oak floors and woodwork, its heavy mahogany tables, and all the dank-smelling upholstery, dark-green and old-rose velvet, that had been Horace’s.

  Martha came to a dead stop in the doorway, glancing around the room, obviously startled by the change. Like a child, Frances thought, with her unkempt hair and her mouth cresting with every surge or quiver of emotion. It was a face of alarm, its flesh too pliant, too easily shaped for concealment, or secrets. Of course she hadn’t stolen John’s money.

  Frances could tell she was on the brink of tears. But, typically, she appeared to be smiling. Her foot tapped, impatiently, as if she were in a hurry, on her way somewhere, as if SHE had more important things to do.

  Frances’s teeth clenched.

  “What?” Martha repeated, rubbing her arm. “What do you want?”

  All patience vanished. Obdurate and dull … “What do you want?” Like a knife blunt at the bone. “What do you want?”

  “Well? Do you like the way I’ve done the room?”

  “It’s all right. I liked the old room better, though.”

  Frances smiled. “I knew you’d say that.”

  “Then why’d you ask me?” Martha snapped.

  “All I meant, Martha, was that I know you don’t like change,” Frances sighed. “That’s all I meant.”

  “I don’t mind change. Don’t start putting words in my mouth!”

  “Oh God,” Frances sighed, closing her eyes.

  “I’m sorry I’m bothering you. You’re the one who called me over here. Is that all you wanted to know? If I like the room? Yes! I do, I like the room!”

  “Martha!”

  “It’s beautiful! Everything you do is beautiful!”

  “Martha, stop it!”

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” Martha warned.

  “All right. Okay. The reason I called you over here is to ask you if you’re here for good now,” she said, as gently and yet deliberately as she could. “Because, if you are we have to get a few things straight.”

  “I said, don’t talk to me like that.”

  “All right. What I’m trying to say here is, you must watch your temper. And you must make every effort to be friendly to people. I don’t want any of that peeking out windows or listening behind doors and lurking.…”

  “I don’t do that!”

  “Good. That’s good.” Frances took a deep breath. “Now, there are two very important things I want you to keep in mind.” She lowered her voice. “There’s Steve’s surprise party in July, and I’d like to be able to count on your help with it. And … and the apartment. You can live in it this summer, Martha. But come winter, you’ll have to move in here with me. It just doesn’t make sense to heat two places. Money’s too …”

  “Don’t worry,” Martha interrupted. “I won’t be here.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I’ll have my job back,” Martha said, her glasses slipping, her gaze just that fraction shifted so that there was no way of knowing what she was looking at.

  “All set?” Steve asked with a hesitant tap on the door frame. He was straightening the knot on his plaid tie. Thin, wet strands of hair had been combed from above one ear across the pate of his sunburned head. She was pleased to see him wearing the new blazer and linen pants she had bought him. But she was surprised at how shapeless his loafers were getting, and they weren’t even that old. She would call Wickley’s tomorrow and have a new pair sent to his office.

  “Nice to be back, isn’t it?” Steve said to Martha with a quick smile. He handed Frances her purse, eager as always to smooth out any discord. “Always good to come home,” he crooned, easing her out the door.

  From the hallway, Martha muttered, “This isn’t my home.” Quietly adding, “And it’s not yours either.”

  Steve chuckled softly. “She doesn’t miss a beat. I’ll say that for her,” he said as they stepped into the dark heat.

  She waited while he opened the car door for her. She slid onto the plush seat, then glanced up, surprised to see him looking down at her through the open door. “I think being on her own’s made a real difference,” he said hopefully, and when she didn’t respond, he closed the door.

  As she stared out at the huge brick house, she was consumed by the strange thought that this was no one’s home. Not really.

  At eleven-thirty Martha tried Birdy’s number one more time before going to bed. Birdy answered on the first ring, her voice so hoarse Martha apologized for waking her up.

  “Actually, I just got in,” Birdy yawned.

  “Oh.” Martha bristled at the thought of Birdy out partying while she had been dialing her number every fifteen minutes all night long.

  “So! How’re you doing?”

  “Okay.”

  “You all settled at home now?”

  “I guess so.”

  “The reason I know you’re home is, you left your raincoat. If that’s why you’re calling, it’s up at the boardinghouse. Claire Mayo’s got it.”

  Martha grinned. “That was awfully nice of you, Birdy. You’re so thoughtful. You’re probably the most thoughtful person I know, and I mean that. I really do.” She couldn’t stay mad at Birdy.

  “You’re gonna have to thank Mercy for that one. She dropped it off on her way to bingo.… You still there? Mart?”

  “Yes. I’m here.” She covered the mouthpiece and tried to clear her throat.

  “Mart? What’s up? You still there?”

  “It’s about Getso. I know you don’t want to believe me, but I saw him take two bills out of the cash drawer and stuff them down the front of his pants. It wasn’t me. I swear to God it wasn’t. Please believe me, please, Birdy. In my whole life I never had anyone be as good to me as you. I never had anyone to talk to. I never even talked to anyone the way I talk to you. You … you made me feel so, so real, Birdy! Like I was there! Like you could touch me and I’d be there. Oh, I don’t know how to explain it. Do you know what I mean?” She paused, wincing. “Birdy? Birdy, I love you so much!”

  “Yah, well, listen, umh—this isn’t such a good time for me. I’ve got, uh, company here, if you know what I mean?” Her breathy laugh told Martha she meant him.

  “Can I call you back?”

  “Sure,” Birdy said.

  “When? Tonight?”

  “Umh. No, that’s not such a good idea.”

  The thought of him sitting there, listening, turned her stomach. But maybe Birdy wanted a private conversation so she could hear the truth about him. “Tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Birdy said.

  “Okay! I’ll call right before you leave for work. I’ll call at six-thirty. You don’t leave until six-forty-five, right? That way, if I call at six-thirty, we’ve got fifteen minutes.”

  “Sure.”

  “And I won’t make you late. I promise. I’ll time my …” She was talking to the dial tone.

  She had set her alarm for six, but from five on she lay in bed wide awake. At six-thirty sharp, she called, but Birdy’s line was busy. She kept dialing, her eye on the clock. Whoever it was, Birdy wouldn’t let them talk too long, not when she was expecting Martha’s call. At seven o’clock, when the line was still busy, it came to her like a slap in the face. Someone had taken Birdy’s phone off the hook.

  Five

  Ever since Billy Chelsea’s arrival at eight, the bright warm morning had been filled with the squeal of wrenched-out nails followed by the landing whack of tossed boards.

  Arms folded, Frances watched from the driveway, her agitation growing with the pile of boards. “Oh my God!” she called out. “You said just a few boards, Billy. You never said the whole deck!”


  In the kitchen, Martha checked her watch. By now all Birdy’s setup tasks at the Cleaners would be completed and she’d be right by the phone. Martha held her breath and dialed.

  “Cleaners!” It was Mercy.

  Martha hung up. A few minutes later, when she called again, Mercy answered.

  Martha pinched her nose. “I have to speak with Birdy Dusser, please.”

  “Oh.” Mercy paused. “She won’t be in today.”

  “Is she sick?” Martha asked, alarmed, forgetting to hold her nose.

  “I’m not allowed to give out personal information about employees,” Mercy said.

  She hung up and quickly dialed Birdy’s home number, but it was busy. She waited a few more minutes. Still busy. But at least now she understood. The phone was off the hook because Birdy was sick and trying to sleep.

  She returned to the window and, through the sheer curtains, saw Billy Chelsea toss aside his crowbar. Now, in the planks nearer the house, the decay was so pervasive he yanked out the boards by hand.

  His T-shirt hanging from the railing, he labored bare-backed and sweaty. Parked nearby was his truck, where his daughters played dolls in the back. Every now and then, wiping sweat from his eyes, he went over to check on them. The younger girl whined after him now as he walked back to the deck. “I’m thirsty, Daddy.”

  “There’s soda in the cooler,” he called, bending to the deck again.

  “I don’t want soda,” she called back, her arms slung over the tailgate. “I want milk.”

  “Annie,” he ordered the older, reddish-haired child. “Get CeeCee a soda.”

  “She don’t want soda,” Annie hollered back.

  Billy turned and walked back with the crowbar, which he laid in the truck bed as pretext for talking to the little girls. They both leaned toward him, their hot pouting faces threatening tears.

  “Now, you just better mind,” he said, his face at the younger girl’s.