Mrs. Kimble

by Jennifer Haigh

  He ran outside and pounded on the rear window with his fist. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going in.”

  The room was hot and dark. Charlie flipped on the light, the same kind they had in their kitchen at home, a fluorescent tube bent into a circle. His father fiddled with an air conditioner bolted inside one of the windows. It came to life with a loud rattle. There were two beds covered with flowered spreads.

  “Which one do you want?” said his father.

  “I don’t care,” said Charlie.

  Their father sat on the one near the door. He took off his shoes and lined them up under the bed. He sat back on the bed and unfolded his newspaper.

  “Can we watch TV?” Charlie asked.

  “Sure.”

  The set took a while to warm up. Charlie turned the dial, but there were only two channels. He found the fight the man in the office was watching, then sat on the bed next to Jody, who was curled up small and facing the wall, her thumb in her mouth. When the fight ended he slid under the covers, happy to be in bed without bathing or brushing his teeth. His father went into the bathroom. Charlie closed his eyes and listened to the running water, the flushing toilet. His father came back to the bed. He picked up the phone and dialed a long number. “Hi,” he said.

  Charlie opened his eyes. The room held a greenish light, from the glowing sign outside.

  “South Carolina, somewhere. We stopped for the night. They’re both sleeping now.”

  Trucks whizzed past on the highway, a mighty sound. The air conditioner rattled like a snake.

  “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to let you know we’re on the road. We’ll be there tomorrow around three.” He turned away and lowered his voice; Charlie could barely make out the words.

  “Me too,” he said, and hung up the phone. Through slitted eyes Charlie watched him take off his pants and drape them carefully over a hanger. He wore purple undershorts. He got into bed and turned off the light.

  Charlie opened his eyes. He wasn’t tired at all. In the distance he heard highway noises, crickets. A newscast droned in the next room. He thought of his mother back in Virginia, alone in the big house. She’d been different with his father there: laughing too much, smiling for no reason. He thought of her at the Dairy Freeze, the melting custard, the plastic spoon tipped with orange from her lipstick.

  He listened to the bubbly breathing on both sides of him. Jody and his father had the exact same snore. For a moment he was jealous. He knew he was nothing like his father.

  He climbed out of bed in slow motion, careful not to make a sound. He tiptoed into the bathroom and closed the door before turning on the light. His father’s things were spread out on the counter: toothbrush, Listerine, a bottle labeled “Multiple Vitamins” and another that said “Pierre Cardin.” A gold watch ticked loudly, like a bomb about to explode. Near the sink lay a silver-handled razor. Charlie held it an inch from his cheek. He practiced tracing it over his face the way men did on television.

  He crept back into the bedroom and climbed under the covers.

  Joan sat on the patio, smoking—something she never did when Ken was at home. He had the nose of a bloodhound; if she sneaked a cigarette with her morning coffee, he could smell it on her clothes ten hours later. But that night he was in South Carolina with his children; she was free to do as she pleased.

  For nearly a week she’d waited to hear. The first day he’d phoned collect from a truck stop in Georgia. He had nothing to report, but just hearing his voice had comforted her. After that, three days of silent torment, in which she imagined him alone with his ex-wife. (Vivian, he’d finally admitted when Joan swallowed her pride and asked. She couldn’t say why, but she had to know the woman’s name.)

  Joan butted her cigarette and lit another. The night was damp and moonless, loud with bugs; the smoke seemed to keep the mosquitoes away. He’d called that evening from a hotel, his voice so low she could barely hear him: Charlie and Josephine were asleep in the room. “Why not spring for their own rooms?” she nearly asked, but stopped herself. Maybe, for once, he wasn’t being cheap. The man hadn’t seen his children in four years; maybe he just wanted to keep them close.

  It was a lot to process. Her husband had deceived her, had kept his children—their names and ages, their very existence—a secret. “Why?” she’d demanded that day in his dressing room. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”

  At first his explanations made no sense. Vivian wouldn’t let him see the children; he thought it best to withdraw from their lives. For weeks Joan cross-examined him; then, finally, he told her the truth. Vivian had left him for another man, and he’d lied to Joan to hide his humiliation. It didn’t excuse his deception, of course; but she forgave him on the spot. She pitied him; more than that, she recognized a blessing when she saw one. They had lost their own child, their Ava; but they would still have a family together. She would be a mother after all.

  At first he had balked when she suggested custody. “I can’t,” he said. “She’s their mother.”

  “Some mother,” said Joan. “What kind of mother keeps her children away from their father?”

  “We can give them a wonderful life,” she told him again and again. “It was meant to be.”

  She stood and stretched, longing for a swim; the pool glowed invitingly with underwater lights. After the miscarriage she’d lost interest in swimming. Now, five months later, she could no longer squeeze into her mastectomy suit. She glanced around. No one could see her. The oleanders had died soon after the wedding; now the pool was surrounded by a brick wall.

  Why not? she thought. The neighbors’ windows were dark. Ken was far away, her greatest fear—that he would see her mutilated chest—no impediment.

  She slipped off her caftan, the wet air gentle against her skin. Naked, she dove into the water and broke into a fast crawl. It was a strange feeling, swimming without her prosthesis; she felt a drag on her left side, the weight of her healthy breast. She rolled onto her right side and tried the sidestroke. Breastless, her body cut cleanly through the water; she felt curiously light. This is what it would be like, she thought, to swim as a man.

  She climbed out of the water, slightly winded; she’d been sneaking cigarettes for months. Her body felt warm and loose. She wrapped herself in a towel and went upstairs.

  The room was nearly finished. The day Ken left, the paper hangers had come; the next day Burdine’s delivered the bunk beds. She’d bought colorful curtains to match the new wallpaper, special child-size hangers for Charlie and Josephine’s small clothes. (Josephine, she marveled. What kind of woman names a child Josephine?) The children were ten and six, still young enough to share a bedroom; they’d need their own rooms eventually, but she supposed that could wait. She knew from her attorney that custody hearings were complicated, that fathers rarely won; but Ken would be the exception. Getting the children to Florida was the first step.

  A warm breeze blew through the window, a child’s good-night kiss. Naked, Joan stretched out on the bottom bunk. For once she fell easily asleep.

  Hello,” Ken called. His voice echoed through the big house. “We’re here.”

  Joan got to her feet, her heart pounding. They were two hours early. She’d just sat down to lunch on the patio, Rosa’s seafood salad and grilled pineapple.

  “Coming!” she cried, her stomach seizing. For weeks she’d waited for the children to arrive. Now, somehow, she wasn’t ready.

  She rushed inside, through the kitchen and dining room and into the foyer. Ken stood in the doorway holding a scruffy cardboard suitcase. His pants were wrinkled, his shirt collar gray with sweat. He looked exhausted. The children were bigger than she’d expected, skinny and strikingly pale.

  “Well, hello there,” she said. “I’m Joan.” She’d given a lot of thought to what they should call her; this seemed like the best solution for now. “Welcome to Florida.”

  She swooped across the room and gave them each a hug, nearly tripping over her caftan. Josep
hine offered her cheek politely, but Charlie was stiff in her arms. She ought to have known better, she realized that; no little boy wanted to be mauled by a grown woman.

  She turned to kiss her husband and found him halfway up the stairs. Panic rose in her throat. No, she thought. Don’t leave me alone with them.

  “I’m going for a run,” he said. “I’ll be back in an hour.” He had left the suitcase in the foyer.

  She took a deep breath and turned to the children. Josephine’s hair was carrot-red, her skin white as chalk. Charlie’s hair was curly and red-gold. They must take after Vivian, she thought. Nobody would ever mistake them for my children.

  “Well,” she said brightly. “What a long journey you’ve had.” Journey? she thought. What am I? A fairy godmother?

  “I’m hungry,” said Josephine.

  “Didn’t you have any lunch?” Joan smiled. Lunch was easy enough. “I was just sitting down to eat. Rosa always makes extra.”

  She led them through the house. “Rosa,” she called into the kitchen. “Can you bring out some lunch for the children?”

  They went outside to the patio.

  “Look!” Josephine whispered.

  The children stared at the swimming pool. It shimmered blue in the sun, the water striated with light.

  “Can we go swimming?” said Charlie. It was the first he’d spoken.

  “Sure,” said Joan. “After lunch. You can swim every day, if you want.”

  Charlie knelt and felt the water, frowning thoughtfully; his concern appeared almost scientific.

  “We can make it warmer,” she said. “Or colder, if you like.”

  “How do you do that?” said Josephine.

  “With a heater, stupid.” Charlie splashed her legs; she squealed loudly, a sound that could shatter glass. “Or you add cold water to make it cold.”

  Rosa appeared and placed two more plates at the table.

  “Come have some lunch,” said Joan.

  The children sat. They peered suspiciously at their plates.

  “What is it?” Josephine asked.

  “Seafood salad.” Joan took a bite from her plate. “It’s delicious.”

  Josephine wrinkled her nose. “It smells funny. Ow.” Charlie had kicked her under the table.

  “What about you, Charlie?” Joan asked. “Do you like seafood?”

  “I don’t care for it,” he said.

  Just like their father, Joan thought.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “Rosa can make you something else.”

  JOAN SAT in a lawn chair at the edge of the pool, watching the children splash in the water. Sweat streamed down her back; the sun had risen high overhead. Charlie dove headfirst in cut-off blue jeans. Josephine followed in a pair of shorts, her bare chest as flat and featureless as her brother’s. She held her nose and landed with a splash. They had each eaten a cheese sandwich; too late, Joan remembered some rule about swimming after eating. I have children now, she thought. I have to learn these things.

  Charlie was a strong swimmer, his skinny little body long and luminous underwater. His sister turned somersaults like a baby seal. They didn’t talk to Joan; they seemed completely occupied with the water and each other. She recalled how she and Ben had played as children, inventing games and stories, speaking in a language all their own.

  She checked her watch. They’d been at it for only an hour; she’d never imagined time could pass so slowly. She watched them intently, fearing that at any moment Josephine would disappear underwater and not come back up. Her jaw hurt from smiling. She wondered where her husband was.

  “Watch me!” Josephine cried.

  Joan sat up in her chair; it was the first time either child had acknowledged her presence. She watched Josephine dive beneath the surface; a moment later her legs shot up into a perfect hand-stand. Joan applauded loudly.

  “Big deal,” said Charlie. He climbed out of the pool and jumped back in, hugging his knees to his chest for a tremendous splash.

  “That was wonderful, Josephine!” Joan called.

  Charlie snickered loudly. “Yeah, Josephine. Good job.”

  “Shut up!” she squealed.

  “What’s the matter?” said Joan.

  The child squinted at her, shading her eyes. “Nobody calls me that. My name is Jody.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Joan. “I didn’t know.”

  Finally Ken appeared, showered and red-cheeked after his run.

  “How are you holding up?” he called to Joan; but instead of sitting at the foot of her chaise longue as he usually did, he pulled a chair over from the table and sat at the edge of the pool.

  “So far, so good,” said Joan. Then she noticed his hands.

  “Ken,” she said. “Where’s your wedding ring?”

  He looked down at his hands.

  “I was going to go for a swim in the ocean,” he said. “It was too choppy, though.”

  Joan frowned. “You never take your ring off when you swim.”

  “Sure I do.” His eyes followed Charlie as he bobbed beneath the water and surfaced with Jody on his shoulders.

  “What are they wearing?” he asked.

  “Shorts. They don’t have swimsuits.”

  “Oh.” Ken shifted in his chair; his discomfort was almost palpable. He’s embarrassed, Joan thought—embarrassed to see his seven-year-old daughter swimming bare-chested with her own brother, her small pink nipples as innocent as violets. It was ridiculous.

  “Silly old dad.” She leaned over to kiss him; suddenly he got to his feet.

  “Maybe you could take them shopping,” he suggested. “Get her a bathing suit. Whatever else they need.”

  His reluctance to kiss her in front of the children surprised her. Her own parents had been affectionate with each other; she’d assumed all parents were.

  “Sure,” she said. “But what will you do?”

  “I’ve got to go to work.”

  It was the light that woke him, the clear early light, at once paler and hotter than the sun in Virginia. His sister snored softly in the bottom bunk. In the distance he heard a quiet rushing, the squawk of unfamiliar birds. The air was filled with sound.

  Charlie climbed down the ladder and dressed: T-shirt, shorts, the plastic sandals Joan had bought him. His sister stirred but didn’t wake. He crossed the hall and went down the strange staircase. His father sat on the marble floor, legs stretched out in front of him.

  “Good morning, son,” he said.

  “Morning.” Charlie watched him bend forward and grasp his ankles with his hands. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m about to go for a run.” His father stood and stretched his arms overhead.

  “Can I come?” said Charlie.

  “If you want.”

  The morning air was damp, as if it had just rained. They crossed the road and climbed a wooden staircase. Tall grass grew all around, waving softly in the wind. At the top of the stairs they stopped.

  “That’s it,” said his father. “The Atlantic Ocean.”

  He broke into a run, across the soft sand to where the ground was firmer, packed wet from the waves. Charlie followed, clumsy in his new sandals. His father moved at an easy pace, breathing evenly. He didn’t seem to be working hard, but his legs were very long. Soon it was impossible to keep up.

  Finally Charlie stopped. He took off his sandals; the water was stunningly cold. It wasn’t blue as he’d expected, but gray and silver; it rolled violently toward him, then back out into forever.

  Nothing was the way he’d imagined it, the way his mother had told him it would be. His father hadn’t asked them to pray or do anything else; since arriving in Florida they’d barely seen him. After swimming, Joan had taken them shopping. All afternoon they had walked through a maze of interconnected, air-conditioned stores, more stores than Charlie had ever seen in his life. His father hadn’t appeared at dinner—he was working late, according to Joan. Charlie wondered what type of work a preacher did on a Friday evenin
g. It seemed impolite to ask.

  He watched the man grow small in the distance, running along the darker sand where the ocean met the shore. Charlie had never seen an adult run before. He thought of himself and Terence, racing through the woods that connected their two houses. He’d give anything to show Terence the big Cadillac, the swimming pool. They’d left Virginia so quickly; there had been no time to say good-bye.

  He turned and looked back at the massive house, pale pink in the morning light. The front door opened; Joan appeared on the step and picked the newspaper from the lawn. Besides the sandals, she’d bought him an ice cream at the shopping plaza, and a mask and snorkel for swimming underwater in the pool. He couldn’t remember the last time an adult had bought him something for no reason. Unlike his mother, Joan stayed with them every minute; not once since arriving in Florida had they been sent outside to play. Charlie supposed she’d been hired to look after them—like Dinah, the baby-sitter they’d had in Richmond.

  “Joan loves children,” his father had said as he parked the Cadillac in the driveway, a path of crushed seashells leading to the house.

  AFTER BREAKFAST they drove to Disney World, just her and the kids. (Ken had three properties to show; Saturday was his busiest day of the week.) It was nearly dusk when they got home from the park. Ken still hadn’t returned.

  “Can we go swimming again?” said Charlie.

  “Not just now.” Joan’s legs ached; all afternoon she’d raced back and forth between the roller coasters and the teacups, the merry-go-rounds and the Ferris wheels. Charlie loved the bloodcurdling rides; Jody preferred the gentler ones. Joan would have preferred a stiff drink and a comfortable sofa. Her head ached from Jody’s piercing squeal. She hadn’t been so tired in years.

  At seven they sat down to dinner. At Joan’s request Rosa had made pizza. Already they’d eaten hamburgers twice. Joan wasn’t sure what else a child would like.

  “Where’s my dad?” Charlie asked.

  “He’s at work,” she said.

  His brow wrinkled. “Maybe we should wait.”