“Sounds like fruit salad to me.”
But when the director called at the end of a week to appeal to Marjorie as an old trouper and one of the founding members of the group, she agreed reluctantly to do her best with the help of makeup and silver hair spray. “At least it’s an important part. But you’ve got to give me a young one later on,” she insisted.
“I’ll try. But, Marj, it’s time you got out of the ingénue routine.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Well, I’ll see you at rehearsal.”
Rehearsals did not interfere with the sisters’ habit of stopping at their favorite cocktail lounge after work. There was plenty of time for their usual two whiskey sours and a quick meal at home before they had to appear at the playhouse in the old church.
One day, when Audrey stayed home with a mild case of flu, Marjorie found herself seated at their tiny table alone. So accustomed had she become to the routine, she felt neither conspicuous nor promiscuous, as she might have a month ago.
The bartender brought her usual drink and inquired after Audrey. Then he left her alone. Marjorie opened her script and mumbled over Fanny Cavendish’s lines while she sipped her whiskey sour. She was deeply immersed when a hesitant voice disturbed her mood.
“Do you—ah—would you mind if I—ah—sat down here?”
She looked up and saw a lanky gray-haired man bobbing before her like a small boy begging for a cookie. His face was boyish, too, despite its lines, and his mouth was curved in an engaging small-boy smile. She quickly categorized him as “not worth bothering with” and “probably married” and was about to utter a freezing “Yes, I mind very much.” But his smile widened to a grin and his gray eyes crinkled in a most beguiling way.
“Please don’t think I’m trying to make a pickup. I’m new in town, and I saw you studying a script. I used to be interested in theater, a long time ago. My name is Norman Jolly.”
Norman Jolly waited politely for Marjorie’s permission to sit down. After a moment’s hesitation, she gave it and introduced herself. What harm could it do? The Riverside Players were always looking for new recruits.
“The Royal Family!” he exclaimed when she showed him her script. “That certainly brings back memories! I once played Tony Cavendish and thought I was a new John Barrymore. But you’re much too young to play Fanny.”
Marjorie glowed. “I’m only doing it as a favor,” she explained. “There are no older women in the group.”
They sipped their drinks, and Norman Jolly told her briefly of his life—his years as a high-school science teacher, his two children now grown and married, the death of his wife a year ago.
“I moved here to be near my daughter,” he said. “And I opened up a little hobby shop to occupy my time. It doesn’t make much money, but it’s fun. If I want to close up and go fishing, I just put a sign in the window. But I need to get involved in something else. My daughter has her own life. She doesn’t need her old father hanging around all the time. Do you think—?”
“Would you like to come to rehearsal with me?” asked Marjorie.
“Now that’s a fine idea. Maybe I could make myself useful.” Norman Jolly grinned that appealing little-boy grin. “And here’s another good idea. Have dinner with me.”
“All right,” said Marjorie. “All right, I will.”
Marjorie excused herself and went to the telephone. Audrey was better but still weak, and thought she would skip rehearsal. The costumes were being worked on, and there was no urgent reason for her to be there.
“Then I think I’ll grab a bite to eat downtown and go directly to the playhouse,” said Marjorie.
Audrey asked no questions, and Marjorie volunteered no information about Norman Jolly.
When she returned to the table, Norman had paid the bill and was ready to go. He took her arm protectively, and Marjorie felt surprisingly warm and sheltered.
“Where shall we go?” he asked. “I’ll leave it up to you.”
In years past, when asked that question, Marjorie had always chose the most expensive restaurant in town. Now she considered carefully.
“We can’t make an evening of it,” she said. “I have to be at rehearsal by eight o’clock. Let’s go to Maude’s—home cooking and not too expensive. I hope you don’t mind plastic tablecloths.”
“I’ll be too busy looking at you,” said Norman Jolly.
Marjorie was confused by this transparent gallantry. Wordlessly, she allowed him to lead her to the parking lot, and his opening of the door of his battered old car seemed to her a kind of courtly ritual. He insisted that she fasten her safety belt. She did, and felt safe.
Dinner at Maude’s was plain and nourishing. Norman, it seemed, was fond of lemon meringue pie, and Maude made her own. He had two slices, and complimented Maude graciously on its lightness and true lemon flavor. Maude beamed on both of them, and Marjorie felt something she had not felt for a long time—pride in her companion.
At rehearsal Marjorie was swept immediately into scene blocking and left Norman on his own in the small auditorium. Once or twice, when she glanced from the stage, she saw him chatting with the director. Another time she caught a glimpse of him backstage, studiously examining the lighting board. When the rehearsal was over, she found that Norman Jolly had become a member of the group, had paid his dues, and was going to be the lighting technician for the show. She felt an odd satisfaction, and an even odder anticipation.
It was the habit of the group to gather after rehearsals at an all-night coffee shop where they pushed three or four tables together and spent an hour talking over the night’s work and relaxing. Marjorie noticed how easily Norman fitted into the group.
In the ladies’ room, one of the young girls, the one who had got the part Marjorie had had her heart set on, said, “Norman is really nice, isn’t he? Where did you find him?”
Marjorie felt a flare of something that could only be jealousy. “He is nice. Finders keepers,” she replied, and smiled to show she was joking.
“Oh, don’t worry,” said the girl. “He only has eyes for you.”
Marjorie went back to the table with a lighter heart than she could ever remember.
Later, when Norman drove up the winding drive to her apartment building, Marjorie debated whether or not she should ask him in. Audrey would probably be in bed, but if she weren’t she wouldn’t be in the right mood to meet Norman. But Norman forestalled her.
“Thank you for a grand evening,” he said. “And thank you for bringing me to the Riverside Players. It’ll be good to have something to do with my evenings. Who knows, I may even tread the boards again, although it’s been over thirty years, and I probably won’t know upstage from down. May I meet you again tomorrow night?”
“But there isn’t any rehearsal tomorrow night.”
“I know. We can have the whole evening to ourselves.”
Marjorie thought quickly. If Audrey were well tomorrow, she would be back on the job and ready to resume their cocktail routine.
“Call me at work tomorrow. Here’s my number.”
Norman took the scrap of paper and tucked it into his billfold. Marjorie noticed how slim the folded leather was, and her heart constricted. He took her hand, patted it, grinned, and got out of the car. Again the ritual with the door, and Marjorie felt as if she were wearing hoop skirts as he helped her get out. He escorted her to the door of the building, and from the vestibule she watched as he waved, blew her a chaste kiss, and drove away.
The next morning, Marjorie rode the bus alone. Audrey was still weak, and since it was Friday, she thought she might as well take a long weekend to rest up. The sisters had seniority at the travel agency, and never worked on Saturdays.
Marjorie hummed little tuneless hums softly to herself as she made out itineraries and wished customers happy traveling. Each time the phone rang she picked it up, expecting to hear Norman Jolly’s voice. When she realized she was impatient for his call, she stopped humming and began belatedly to take stock.
He wasn’t handsome, although he had a winsome charm. He certainly wasn’t rich. And he was much, much older than she. How much? Fifteen years, twenty years? It was hard to tell. His eyes were so young.
Suddenly, Marjorie realized it didn’t matter. None of it mattered at all. This was certainly a day for realizations. She began humming again as she sent a honeymoon couple to Montreal.
When Norman finally called, Marjorie had already eaten her lunch—cottage cheese and fruit salad which she’d had sent in. She didn’t want to take the chance of being out when he called.
“Hi,” he said. “Sorry to be so late, but I’ve been babysitting.”
“Baby—?”
“My daughter had to go to the dentist, and her usual sitter got sick. That little hellion of hers certainly kept me hopping. I took him over to the hobby shop and let him run the trains, but I had to watch him every minute.”
“How old is he?”
“Three. Now about this evening. I’d like to pick you up after work and take you out to meet my daughter and her husband. You’ll like them. Susie’s already cooking up a storm.”
“Just a minute. I have to answer the other phone.” Marjorie pressed the hold button and took a deep breath. Norman Jolly was a grandfather! Why hadn’t she thought of that possibility? If she—if they—could she face being a grandmother before she was a mother? Suddenly she felt like laughing. After all the years of having no family but Audrey and no security but what she could grab for herself, here she was being plunged up to the neck in a complicated tangle of relationships.
What if she and Norman did get married? What if they had a child? It wasn’t impossible. That child would be the uncle or aunt of Susie’s child. Susie who was cooking up a storm to lavish on the new lady in her father’s life. Oh, it was funny! Funny and warm and very, very appealing. Marjorie punched down the button that reconnected her with Norman.
“Norman? Are you still there? Of course I’ll come. Meet me in the same place. I think I’ll need a little reinforcement.”
“Okay. I told Susie and Bob all about you, and they’re dying to meet you. They think it’s wonderful that you were kind enough to take me along to rehearsal. And so do I. See you later.”
But, Marjorie reflected as she hung up the phone, you didn’t tell them all about me. You don’t know about Audrey yet. You’ll have to meet Audrey, and I can just hear her now: “A retired schoolteacher! Living on a pension, I suppose. What a grand life you’ll have. And he’s so old. Well, at least we can be thankful you’ll be a young widow. A poor young widow.”
Marjorie straightened her back and did her best to forget about Audrey. She really ought to call her and tell her she wouldn’t be home for dinner. But not right now.
Marjorie hummed through the rest of the afternoon and at closing time hurried blithely down the street and around the corner. Norman was waiting for her at their table. Hers and Norman’s. Hers and Audrey’s? It flitted through her mind that she had not yet called Audrey. Later. Right now Norman was rising and bending over her, smiling in his crinkly way and wrapping her in the warmth of his welcoming words.
Later, there was no time. Norman was bounding with eagerness to take Marjorie to his daughter’s home. They each had one drink—Norman gulped his down—and off they went, Norman full of anecdotes about his grandson, Brian. Marjorie was caught up in his enthusiasm, and laughed wholeheartedly at his enjoyment. Somewhere small doubts niggled. What if Susie doesn’t like me? What if this Brian child is a pest and I don’t like him? But she brushed the doubts away in the extraordinary pleasure of Norman’s company, in his undisguised joy in having Marjorie by his side.
The evening was a huge success. Susie was a tall awkward girl with fly-away hair, a face full of freckles, and a wide full-lipped grin. She took Marjorie into the kitchen—“for company,” she said—and put her to work shredding lettuce. She spoke seriously of her mother’s long illness and gaily of the fun Brian had with his grandfather.
“Dad was lonely up there all by himself. I think he’s done the right thing moving here. And I’m glad he has his own place. Much as we love him, it wouldn’t be good for him to live with us. He needs to make new friends. I can’t tell you how excited he is about the Riverside Players. And about you, Marjorie.”
Marjorie blushed with pleasure. How absurd, she thought. I haven’t blushed since I was seventeen.
At seventeen, Marjorie, in her last year of high school, had been wakened one morning with the news that her parents had been killed in a highway accident. The memory was a dim one, hardly ever dredged up, of a gruff-voiced state trooper standing in the gray dawn at the door of the house. He wouldn’t come in, but he stated his message and asked if he could call someone to help her.
Aunts had taken over, arranged things, sold the house, and Marjorie and Audrey were taken to live first with one and then the other until the insurance money ran out. Then it was politely suggested that they find other accommodations. Marjorie had gone to work for the travel agency by then, and when Audrey finished school a place was found for her too. It was all so long ago, so numbed by time. When had it not been numb, and why should it come back so painfully now?
“—been carrying on like a moonstruck puppy. Marjorie this and Marjorie that. And I’m glad for him.” Susie laughed. “I guess I sound like a matchmaker, don’t I? It’s just that I haven’t seen him happy in a long time. And I want you to know that however it turns out, I’m grateful to you for bringing him back to life.”
Marjorie searched for words, and was saved from answering by the entrance of Bob and Norman.
“It took a while, but Dad said it had to be a whiskey sour. I hope it’s all right. We collaborated.”
Bob presented the tray with a flourish and Marjorie took the glass gratefully. She sipped and pronounced the drink very good, but everyone laughed at the involuntary pucker that belied her words.
“Well, it is a bit on the sour side,” she admitted.
“If you’re going to hang around with us plain folks, you’ll have to say what you mean.” Norman put his arm around her shoulder and tipped her face up to meet his twinkling eyes. “And mean what you say.”
The evening passed swiftly. When it was over and time to go, Marjorie could not have said what had happened to make her feel so different, so vulnerable. They had eaten Susie’s fine meal, talked, laughed, and teased each other. Brian had appeared in his pajamas and attached himself to his grandfather’s leg. He’d nodded solemnly at Marjorie and handed her his “Bun-Bun,” a bedraggled rabbit with droopy fleece ears.
“Even Brian thinks you’re special,” announced Norman. “Back to bed, old man.” Norman and Marjorie had tucked him back into his crib, and slipped “Bun-Bun” into the small curve of his arm.
A perfectly ordinary evening, with perfectly ordinary people. Yet never before had Marjorie been so relaxed, so much at ease. With other men, there had always been a tension, a sizing up, a fear of losing out on a good thing, or, worse yet, of encouraging a hopeless entanglement. With Norman, there was only a warm acceptance and an ever-increasing feeling of well-being. Either Norman was different from anyone she’d ever known, or Marjorie had changed. Perhaps a little of both.
In the car going home, Marjorie suddenly sat bolt upright out of her peaceful reverie.
“My God! I forgot to call Audrey!”
“Who?”
“Audrey. My sister. I meant to tell her I wouldn’t be home for dinner, and I forgot.”
“Will she be worried?”
“I don’t know. She must be sleeping now. She hasn’t been feeling well.”
“You never told me you had a sister.”
“I haven’t had a chance,” Marjorie evaded. “Please hurry, Norman. I’ll feel terrible if she’s waiting up for me.”
Norman’s old car sped through the deserted streets. Marjorie sat silent and worried beside him.
When they neared the apartment building, Norman said, “Would you like me to come in with you an
d help you explain?”
“No,” Marjorie answered quickly. “If she’s upset, it wouldn’t be a good time for you to meet her, and if she’s asleep I don’t want to wake her up. She’ll probably be at rehearsal tomorrow.”
Marjorie glanced up at the front of the building. There were no lights showing from her windows. She felt enormously relieved that she would not have to invent an explanation.
“I feel like a teenager out after curfew,” she said.
“You look about sixteen right now,” said Norman as he stopped the car.
Marjorie laughed a small self-conscious laugh. “It’s the dim light. It’ll do it every time.”
Norman smiled and looked straight into her eyes. Marjorie tried to look away, but was held by what she read in his gaze—peace, a safe harbor, honest affection, love. Love? She shivered.
Norman reached for her, and Marjorie sank into his arms. He kissed her gently, and tears welled behind her closed lids. “I’ve come home,” a voice within her exulted. “At last I’ve come home.”
“Tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock.” Marjorie could say no more.
“I’ll be there.” Norman leaped out of the car and opened the door for her.
“Good night,” she said.
Norman seemed about to say something more, but instead he smiled, shook his head, and got back into his car.
Marjorie tried to open the apartment door quietly, but the key sounded like the crack of a pistol. She tiptoed into the dark apartment.
Audrey’s voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Are you doing social work for senior citizens these days?”
“What?”
“Who’s the ‘ancient mariner’? I sincerely hope he’s a wealthy old eccentric who drives a beat-up old car and keeps all his money invested in gilt-edged stocks. Just be sure he’s not too tight to spend some of it on you.”
“Audrey, it’s not like that. Norman is—”
“Norman! What kind of name is Norman? The only Norman I ever knew was a cross-eyed kid who delivered newspapers.”
Women's Wiles Page 2
