But the next morning she was less patient. "Just go," she ordered, wanting to be alone, when they dragged their feet after breakfast. "Daddy will come back, or not, whether you're here or at day camp. We have to keep going; we can't sit around like run-down toys, waiting for Daddy to come along and wind us up."
TTiat made them giggle and she was able to send them off to catch their bus, leaving her alone in the quiet rooms. Craig
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seemed to be everywhere—papers with his handwriting, pictures he had hung on the walls, the banister he had sanded and varnished to silken smoothness, the dent he'd made in the dishwasher when he threw a coffee mug at it in a fit of anger. What had he been angry about? Katherine couldn't remember. Maybe she had done something that reminded him of the Hay-wards.
If that was it, she could understand his anger. A closed private club, the Haywards. If Craig felt as uncomfortable with them as she had, no wonder he left.
But she still didn't know why he left. Sitting at Craig's desk, she knew she had bungled the evening. She hadn't been clever enough to get past their barriers, and so she lost the chance to learn more about her husband.
She shuddered, remembering how inferior they had made her feel. Forget about them, she ordered herself. Think about now. Especially about money. The top of the desk was covered with bills for roof repair, gasoline charges, summer clothes for the whole family, overdue bills, "last notice" bills, a card from a collection agency, mortgage, utilities, and at least a dozen others coming due the first of July. Tomorrow.
Craig always insisted on paying the bills. Sometimes Katherine had teased him, asking what dark secrets made him so protective. Now she knew. She wondered how long he had been juggling accounts to keep them from being canceled. Your house set him back more than he expected, Carl Doemer had said. Why didn't you tell me? Katherine silently asked Craig. Didn't you trust me?
Don't think about Craig; think about the bills. Two thousand dollars for the mortgage, due the first of the month. Fifteen hundred dollars in other bills due at the same time. Cash on hand: four hundred dollars in the checking account; one thousand in savings. Think about that. Thirty-five hundred dollars in bills. Fourteen hundred dollars on hand.
But she wasn't even sure of that. How much did he take with him? She picked up the telephone and called the bank. And was told that the checking account contained five thousand dollars.
"How much?" She repeated the account number.
"Five thousand four hundred thirteen dollars, Mrs. Fraser," the voice chirped. "A deposit of five thousand dollars was made
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at ten-thirty a.m. on June 16 at the Park Royal branch. Would you like us to send you a duplicate deposit slip?"
"No. Thank you." June 16. Two weeks ago. The day Craig stood with her at their front gate at ten fifteen in the morning and kissed her goodbye before taking a taxi to the airport. Only he hadn't gone straight to the airport. He'd stopped off at the bank in die Park Royal shopping center and made a deposit. To keep his family going for a while.
He never intended to be home on Friday.
He wasn't dead; he wasn't hurt. He was looking for money to pay back Carl Doemer. That was the whole story: no sexy young girl, no mugging and murder, no heart attack. He'd gone away because things got too much for him and he'd come back when he got them straightened out. And that wouldn't be long. He knew Katherine had only enough money for two months. By leaving five thousand dollars, he was telling her he would be back in two months.
Or he'd decided that in two months she'd be able to manage alone.
Or that was all he could spare.
The telephone rang and she snatched it up. It was a policeman, asking if she had heard from her husband.
"No—"
"Or anything about him?"
"Yes." All of Craig's secrets were becoming public. She told him about the Haywards. "Well, now, ma'am," he said doubtfully. "That's a very strange story. But we'll check with the San Francisco police. And you keep in touch, now; don't forget about us if you hear anything else."
Don't forget about us. Idiots, she thought, slamming down the telephone. All of them—Carl Doemer, the police, the Hay-wards—saw Craig's disappearance as a personal insult or challenge. No one seemed interested in her, or what she was discovering: that Craig Eraser didn't trust his wife to share his troubles, or his thoughts. He just disappeared and left her to clean up the mess.
No one seemed interested. A few friends had made perfunctory calls, duty calls, offering, not sympathy (after all, the newspapers said her husband was a criminal) but—"Help if you need it, Katherine; if things really get bad ..." (How bad, she wondered, is "really bad"?)
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For the first time, Katherine recognized how fragile were her friendships of the past ten years. Craig had kept people at arm's length, insisting he and Katherine needed only each other. And Katherine had gone along. Through letters and phone calls, Leslie remained her only confidante; her friendships in Vancouver were casual and pleasant, but never intimate.
Now that had come to haunt her. Most people shy away from those in trouble, as if they might catch it by coming too close, and none of Katherine's and Craig's acquaintances were close or affectionate enough to hold out a supporting hand. Well, she'd do without them; she didn't need them. She didn't need the Hay wards, either, or any of her neighbors, whom she had been avoiding because she found herself feeling ashamed of being Mrs. Craig Fraser.
She didn't need Carl Doemer, either. He should have known Craig was in trouble at the company, and done something about it. Anyway, he was out of town, his secretary told her, for two weeks.
"I can always talk to myself," Katherine said aloud, but the sound of her voice in the empty house made her feel even more alone and she turned on the radio, spinning the knob until an announcer's comforting baritone filled the rooms. With his company, she sat at Craig's desk and paid the most urgent bills, putting the others aside. Signing the checks, she felt a brief surge of accomplishment, until she checked the bank balance. How had it shrunk so quickly? She might not have enough for another month. One emergency could wipe them out.
She paused, her hand halfway to the envelope she was about to stamp. He had no right to do this to us.
Quickly she shoved the thought away, with all the others she couldn't face, and when Todd and Jennifer came home, she was ready to think of dinner. "Not that stuff again!" Todd groaned as she took cold cuts and cheese from the refrigerator. He dropped his knapsack on the floor. "Why can't we have lamb chops or meat loaf or something real, like we used to?"
"You don't like to cook when it's just us, do you?" Jennifer asked. "When Daddy's on a trip, you never cook a whole dinner."
"You're right," Katherine said after a moment. "I haven't been very creative." She returned the food to the refrigerator. They'd never seemed like a family when Craig was away and
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those were the times she used up leftovers or made picniclike meals. But Craig had been gone for two weeks. We're the family now, she thought. It's about time I begin cooking for three. "Why don't we go out for hamburgers tonight?" she suggested. "And tomorrow we'll buy groceries for the rest of the week."
'The kind Daddy likes," Jennifer said. "So when he comes home he won't think we changed everything while he was gone."
Katherine turned away. There had been changes every day since he left: little ones, hardly noticeable at first, and big ones, like paying the bills herself. The longer Craig was gone, the less recognizable home was—as if they lost him a little more each day.
"How are we going to buy hamburgers and groceries?" Todd asked. "Daddy has all the money."
"Don't be silly," Jennifer scoffed. "Mother goes shopping every week."
"She gets the money from Daddy," Todd insisted. "So if he's not here, she doesn't have any."
Uncertainly, Jennifer asked, "We don't have any money?"
And Todd said, "Who's going to
take care of us?"
The wall clock hummed, the refrigerator clicked on, a sprinkler watered the roses on the terrace. The house was sdive: solid and familiar. But as if a strong wind had made it sway, the children were afraid. And so am I, Katherine thought, but that idea, too, she had to banish.
"We're going to take care of us," she said firmly. "We do have money; we just have to be careful how we spend it."
"How long will it last?" asked Jennifer.
"Until I start to earn our living." The words came out on their own. Katherine repeated them silently, wondering when she had made the decision. Writing checks, she thought; when else? Another change: the biggest so far. "I'm going to get a job," she said. "As a jewelry designer."
On Dominion Day, July first, Ann Hay ward called. "We want to see you, Katherine, before we go back to Maine. We can be there this afternoon."
"Here?" Katherine asked. "Why?"
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'To apologize, of course. Such a dreadful evening, and even though you can't really blame anyone—"
Oh, yes I can. "I'm sorry," she said. "We're busy all day; I promised to take Jennifer and Todd to the parade and then the fireworks—"
"Today?"
She thinks I'm lying because I don't want to see her. "Dominion Day. It's something like the Fourth of July, but not quite the—"
"Well, we'll go with you. Katherine, we want to get to know you. We certainly didn't have a chance the other night."
Katherine hesitated. They were Todd and Jennifer's grandparents. But then she remembered Jason's harsh questions. "Does Jason want to come?"
After a pause, Ann said, "I may come alone. He's needed at home—we have a shop, you know, for pottery and things." She fumbled for words. "And it's taking him a while to get used to the idea that Craig is alive—"
"That would please most fathers," Katherine said coldly.
"Yes. Of course. But it's hard for him to think that Craig abandoned us, let us mourn . . . It's very difficult. We've started quarreling again, all the old quarrels about whether Victoria and I spoiled him too much, or Jason expected too much of him . . . But that isn't why I called. I want to see you and I'm sure Jason won't mind if I come alone."
I don't want to be involved with your family, Katherine thought, and said, "Maybe some other time."
"But we're in California," Ann pressed. "Much closer than Maine. And I'd be representing the whole family."
"Some other time. I promised Jennifer and Todd the whole day."
"Katherine, you have no right to deprive me of my grandchildren!"
For a moment Katherine was tempted to say all right, to pretend Ann was the mother she'd never had and she was the daughter Ann had lost, to let Ann spoil Todd and Jennifer as her only grandchildren, and perhaps at last to have someone to talk to. But she couldn't do it. Ann was a member of the Haywards' private club; she had been silent, deferring to her husband and the others when Katherine asked for help.
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"Fm sorry/' she said reluctantly. "Maybe some other time."
"Well." Ann sighed. "If you refuse to let us be friends . . ."
Katherine said nothing. "I'm sending you some money. Not a
lot, I'm afraid, but after I've talked to Jason I can send more."
"I don't want it. We're fine; we don't need it."
"It's already in the mail. Katherine, you should be more
gracious; we're not as bad as you think and we can be very
helpful to you and the children. It's true that we were confused
when we met you; we'd had no time to get used to—"
Katherine listened as Ann repeated everything she had said before, but the evening at Victoria's had convinced her that she had her own life—hers and Craig's and the children's— and she had to hold it together by herself until Craig came back; she wasn't sure why, but she knew it was important. The only promise Katherine would make, because Ann begged her, was that she would not tear up the check when it arrived.
Two weeks later, she took it from the drawer where she had tucked it out of sight, and deposited it in the bank.
Her hand shook as she endorsed it and she wrote briefly to Ann, telling her she would repay it as soon as she found a job; as soon as she was earning her own money. The trouble was, she had almost no money, no job, and no prospects for one.
"Sorry, not now," said most of the jeweliy store buyers whom she called for an appointment. "We're full up with orders. Try us in six or seven months; sometime after Christmas." Others told her to send in sketches or color slides of her jewelry. "However," they added, "we buy very little from unknown designers." Three agreed to see her.
And all three turned her down. "What is missing," they all said in one way or another, while inspecting the necklace and earrings she had brought in, "is the meticulous touch of the professional. This has been your hobby, is that right? It shows, you see. Your technique is very basic, not complex and original; there is no touch of the artist. Truly fine jewelry should make you say, 'This would be less beautiful if the design, materials and technique came together in any other way.* One cannot say that of your pieces. Lxx)k here, at this necklace . . ." And, like the teachers who had criticized her in grade school, each of them found fault with some part of her jewelry.
None of them suggested she come back another time. They
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dismissed her and turned their attention elsewhere even before Katherine was gone.
There is no touch of the artist. Katherine huddled in the comer of the couch where she sat every night, waiting for Craig amid the shadows cast by the porch light's glare. Your hobby, is that right? It shows . . . Craig had said she was good. Everyone said, "You're so clever, Katherine; so talented." But it wasn't true; they'd said it to please her.
I'm not talented or clever, she thought. I'm not even good.
A wind came up, slamming the screen door back and forth. In the living room, shadows swayed, creating new shapes. Everything was changing but Katherine felt bogged down. People spend years becoming jewelry designers, but I expected to walk in and find stores, customers, a salary, all waiting for me. I thought it would be easy because I love doing it. But people don't pay you for doing something just because you love it. You have to be good; you have to be professional. And I'm not.
Leslie might have some suggestions, but Katherine still hadn't been able to reach her. And she wasn't sure she really wanted to talk to Leslie. All my failures compared to her triumphs. No, she thought, I'll manage. She walked through the swaying shadows to Craig's desk and put her samples and sketches into a bottom drawer. And the next day she went job-hunting.
"Ah ... no experience, Mrs. Eraser," said one personnel director after another, looking at her application. "Clerk in a jewelry store ten years ago. And since then—nothing?"
Only running a house, she answered silently. Bringing up two children. Being a wife.
"Skills, Mrs. Eraser?" They all skimmed her application. "No typing. No shorthand. No data processing. No computer experience at all?" She shook her head. "No accounting. No bookkeeping. Not even general office experience. You've never worked in an office?" Again she shook her head. "Or sold real estate?"
"No," she said.
They shrugged. "Nothing we can offer you. No skills and you haven't worked for ten years. No track record. The recession, you know; we're cutting back. The only people we might hire would be ones with experience. Sorry. Good luck."
Good luck. While all around her, doors were closing.
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She curled up on the couch, tighter each night. What will I do if I can't find a job? I could borrow on the house. No I couldn't; not without a job. And anyway, how would I pay it back? What will we do if I don't find a job? Fear spun a web inside her. Of course I'll find a job. I just have to be patient, ril find one tomorrow.
Two days later she swallowed her pride and called the friends who had offered help if she needed it, to ask if they knew
of any jobs. Some worked in offices in the city; all of them were married to men who did. But they all said, "Oh, Katherine, there isn't a thing. The economy, you know; nobody's hiring. But I'm sure you'll find something; you've always been so good with your hands. And, listen, we should get togetiier for lunch. Not this week or next—things are so busy—but one of these days we certainly will get together."
None of them said a word about Craig.
The last name on Katherine's list was Frances Doemer, and she sounded as friendly as ever. "Of course I'll talk to Carl, Katherine, and I'm sure he'll find something for you; every company needs efficient people, don't you think? He's still out of town but as soon as he calls, I'll talk to him and get back to you."
Not as friendly as ever, Katherine thought as they hung up. Once she would have invited us to dinner. But it doesn't matter. Carl will find me a job.
Still, whatever she earned would be far less than Craig had brought home. If they had been living beyond Craig's salary, how could they live on hers? She sat at the desk, adding and subtracting numbers, thinking of wild schemes that dribbled away to nothing. And the next morning, at breakfast, with no solution in sight, she forced herself to explain their finances to Jennifer and Todd, as honestly as she could. "So what we have to do," she concluded, and without warning began to cry, "is sell the house."
They stared at her, sitting stiffly in their chairs. "We can't sell the house," Jennifer said. "We live here. And we have to be here when Daddy comes back."
"We can't, we can't," Todd chimed in. "Daddy won't know where we are; he'll think we forgot him; he'll think we don't want him anymore."
"He's smart enough to find us," Katherine said. She wiped 66
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away her tears and swallowed the unshed ones. "We're going to rent an apartment in Vancouver and he'll call Information to get our new address and telephone number."
"What apartment?" they asked.
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