Goldilocks

by Andrew Coburn

  He rose from his desk. She rose too, with tears she had not seen coming, with more emotion than she had allotted for the situation. She felt his hands on the top of her hard stubborn hips; then his arms went around her and her face edged into his shoulder, her hair a crash helmet of tough wiry curls. She whispered, “That’s all I came for Barney. A hug.”

  “It’s what I do best,” he said with only slight irony.

  “It’s a gift,” she said. “Don’t question it.”

  His hand was under her elbow when he opened the door and stepped out with her. She was composed now, her old self, and with a gust of exaggerated emotion she swept toward Marge, who was pulling a legal paper out of the typewriter.

  “Guess what, Marge? Barney says he’ll think about it.”

  Cole stepped forward. “Why didn’t you ask me yourself?” he said, and Marge’s face ignited.

  Emma Goss sat in the den, at Harold’s desk, and began a letter in her neat hand. It was her birthday. “I am sixty years old,” she wrote, “and you are not here to wish me many happy returns.” She was using his gold Parker pen, which she had just refilled with jet-black ink that gave a keen gloss to her words. “I haven’t written you in some time. So much has happened, but it is nothing I want to tell you about. I feel you would blame me.” She took a firmer grip on the pen. “Besides, irrational as this may sound, I feel you know most of it, if not all.”

  Her eyes flickered sideways. She heard a groan from the kitchen, but no approaching footsteps. “I’m using the pen you always feared losing. A few nights ago it could have easily been stolen, but that’s something else I won’t tell you about, for the same reasons, which perhaps makes no sense to you. Let me assure you that nothing makes sense to me anymore.”

  She took a breath, for her mouth had been moving as she wrote, and she clenched her jaw in an attempt to think calmly about matters that had to be said. “You always worried about money, Harold, even though we always had enough. I suppose you are thinking to yourself that I should thank you for leaving me well provided for and I do, but you left me with nothing else. For instance, you never encouraged me to learn to drive. In fact, you discouraged me, though I shouldn’t blame you for that. I should have had more gumption. And sometime during our life together I should have scratched out one of your eyes.”

  Her pen came up quick from the paper. She had not meant to say that, but now that it was there she would let it stay. She shuddered a little in the rereading and then went on. “I don’t hate you, Harold, I could never hate you, but I don’t like you very much, which you shouldn’t take too hard because I don’t like my mother and father either, though I shall always love them, wherever they are. Perhaps they are near you, and you occasionally run into them. If so, please don’t show them this letter. What’s done is done.”

  She had filled the sheet of paper and reached for another, noticing that her handwriting had started small and had grown progressively larger. With the fresh sheet she started off small again. “Mommy and Daddy molded me wrong, and I did not possess the spirit to break out to be somebody bigger. I certainly can’t blame you for that, and I don’t. I’m trying to be very fair. The problem, Harold, is that I never went deep enough into myself. I never went into my tropic parts to get away from the cold. I bet you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m not sure I know either. The words are coming too fast. I do blame you for some things, Harold. You took advantage of my weaknesses. You meant for me never to have a voice of my own. And worse, never to have a child. For that, I can’t forgive you.” She paused. “That is how I feel. I can’t help it.”

  She was not sure she cared to go on, but it seemed a waste to stop now, especially since she knew that once she placed the pen aside she would not write to him again. “All this rage I didn’t know I had frightens me, and sometimes I wish you were here simply so I could beat my fists against you, but it would not change anything. So much is too late.”

  From the kitchen came louder groans from Henry, who was soaking his hand in a heavy salt solution. He cursed. She ignored it all and wrote, “If you were to peek in on me this moment, you might not recognize me. My hair is clean but looks a wreck. I’m not wearing stockings because I haven’t done a wash in two weeks. I’ve lost weight, but in a way you would not like. I have less bosom. The house would shock you. It’s a mess. Pretty soon I’m going to lie down for a while on the bed, which is unmade. I don’t feel all that well today. I’m old, Harold. I wish I had been happier.”

  She went to a third sheet of paper. “I hope this letter reaches you, I really do, not to settle a score, but to let you know how I feel. It’s owed you.” She signed her name Emma Robinson Goss and then after some thought added a postscript. “Do you know what I wish with all my heart, Harold? I wish I were Mildred Murphy.”

  • • •

  Louise Baker, looking slim and crisp in a linen suit and tan pumps, pulled the plug from the desk phone in her bedroom and then did the same with the two extensions. “I want no calls coming in on my private line,” she said to Mrs. Mennick. “Any other calls, you’re to simply say I’m away caring for my mother. Any emergencies, you have the number.” She took an envelope from her bag. “This is for you,” she said. “For the extra bother with Ben.”

  “I don’t need to open it to know it’s generous,” Mrs. Mennick said in a curiously flat tone. She slipped the envelope into her apron pocket. “Thank you.”

  “Something’s on your mind, Mrs. Mennick. What is it?”

  “The bonuses you give me are always appreciated, don’t misunderstand me, but I believe I deserve a raise in my basic salary. Mr. Ben has become quite a handful, and I’m not getting any younger.”

  “Are you saying you’re too old for the job?”

  “No, no, I’m not saying that,” Mrs. Mennick said rapidly. “But I feel I should be getting more for all my responsibilities. Mr. Ben is a big part of them, but there’s still this whole house to look after. And you being away so much now, Mrs. Baker, adds to the burden.”

  “Are you giving me an ultimatum?”

  There was a momentary pause by Mrs. Mennick, like that of a poker player with a good hand but unaccustomed to high stakes. “All I’m asking for is fair wages, Mrs. Baker. You can’t expect me to work for less.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to do anything you didn’t want to do,” Louise said evenly.

  Mrs. Mennick’s expression changed subtly, as if she found the situation disagreeable but had no choice in laying out her cards. “You’d be hard-pressed to find somebody as good as I am. I might as well tell you I’ve had offers.”

  “Are you giving me your notice?”

  Mrs. Mennick paused again, longer, too long, and Louise smiled coldly.

  “I’ll make a few points, Mrs. Mennick. Then we’ll consider the matter closed, and you do as you wish. First, your wages are more than adequate. I know professional people who make less. Second, I give you extra money to hire temporary help, but usually you prefer to keep the money and do all the work yourself. That’s your business. Third, you pad the grocery expenses. You’ve done it for years, and your brother overcharges for gardening and lawn care. These are matters I’ve not mentioned because I’ve been satisfied with the arrangement. But if you’re not satisfied, then I advise you to take one of those offers.”

  Mrs. Mennick started to speak, but faltered, the wind sailing out of her words.

  “I will, by the way, give you excellent references,” Louise said, and then seemed to lose all interest. She consulted her watch and snapped her bag shut.

  “I don’t know what to say, Mrs. Baker.”

  “You’d better say it quick. I’m leaving.”

  Mrs. Mennick looked this way and that, as if for a rescue. Then something broke in her face, and her whole jaw sagged, which threatened to bring down the rest of her features. “I’d like to stay,” she said.

  “Be sure.”

  Tears showed. “I am, Mrs. Baker.”

  “Don�
�t cry!”

  Louise left the house by the front door and looked back to wave at Ben, who was in a window. She had had a long talk with him about leaving again and had promised to return soon. He had promised to do what he was supposed to, his lips trembling from the kiss she had given him. When she climbed into the Porsche she waved again, but he was gone.

  She drove to the bank in the quaint center of town. The president was at the country club playing golf, which did not surprise her, but the treasurer, a mild man with a mustache similar to Ben’s, instantly made himself available and ushered her into his office, where she signed a pink withdrawal slip.

  “I’ll be back in a few moments,” he said.

  “Please take your time,” she replied. “I’d like to use your phone.” He left, bowing a little, not quite scraping.

  Seated at his desk, ignoring his confidential papers, she rang up her broker in Boston and, after a short discussion, told him to shift the bulk of her high-yield holdings, which had been doing quite nicely, to safer vehicles. Then she called her lawyer in Springfield and authorized him to handle the sale of her less profitable properties in and around that city.

  When the treasurer saw that she was finished, he tapped on the glass door and came in with a small briefcase of simulated leather. “Would you care to count it?” he asked.

  She stretched up from his desk with a smile that lightly mingled affection and amusement. She knew from a reading of the town history that the seventeenth-century forebears of this tame little man had lived by their considerable wits in the woods and had found more comfort in warm caves than drafty cabins. She patted his hand, which felt much like Ben’s, and said, “Certainly not.”

  The offices of Pullman & Gates comprised an upper floor in a historic building in Boston’s financial district. Kit Fletcher’s office, though hardly grand in comparison with those of the senior partners, had its own distinctive carpet, a window, and enough wall space for a large painting by a local artist whose craftsmanship exceeded his art. Her desk was neat but busy-looking. She was reading a letter when Chandler Gates, whom she had been expecting, peeked in on her. “Glad you’re back,” he said, a smile evincing perfect teeth. “I missed you.”

  She tossed aside the letter. “I wasn’t away that long.”

  “Long enough,” he said, advancing upon her, fit and tanned in his British tailoring, his hair styled to give his aging face a younger meaning. “I won’t ask any embarrassing questions.”

  There was an answer on the tip of her tongue, but she kept it to herself.

  “I’ve missed you at tennis,” he said with sweetness. They were occasional partners in doubles at a private court in Cambridge, where later they usually had drinks at a table overlooking the Charles.

  “Yes, I must get back to it,” she said.

  His eyes dawdled on her, no surprise to her. He lusted for women he saw on the street, in the dining room of the Ritz, behind the steering wheels of open cars, and he had lusted for her since her first day with the firm.

  “By the way,” he said suddenly, “your new office should be ready in a week. It has a Pollock on the wall.”

  “I don’t like Pollock.”

  “Clients do. Their eyes widen when they see the signature. Besides, it’ll grow on you. It did on me.”

  “I see. It was the one in your office. What have you replaced it with?”

  “An Andy Warhol. Since his death he’s become more valuable.”

  “How nice for him.”

  “No, dear. How nice for us. We just happened to have one.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “When do you tell the world I’m now a senior partner?”

  “Soon, dear, soon.”

  “Not having second thoughts, are you?”

  “Heavens, no. We plan to do it in style. You’ll be the first female senior partner in our esteemed history. Quite an honor, no?”

  “It’s quid pro quo, Chandler.”

  “Yes, certainly,” he said, his teeth shining. “The firm’s grateful, you know.”

  “I would hope so.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You’re being a little snippy, Kit. Not nice.” Then his smile flew back. “Dinner tonight?”

  “Not tonight. I’ve a lot of work to catch up on.” She waited for him to leave. When he did not, she said, “How’s Agatha?”

  “Fine. Very heavily into aerobics.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Yes. Still a fine-looking woman for her age. We’re doing Italy in August. Would you like to come?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never been much interested in that three-in-a-bed business.”

  “Don’t be gross. How about coming along for half the month? I’ll pick up the expenses.”

  “I make quite enough to pick up my own.”

  “I know that, but I like to do things for people I consider special.”

  “Yes,” she said. “That was some necklace you gave your secretary. Agatha got wind of it, didn’t she?”

  He nodded with momentary regret. “Impossible for people not to hurt each other. It’s the nature of things, Kit.”

  “Is that what it is?” she said. “I knew it must be something like that.” She moved her hands over the papers on her desk. “Forgive me, Chandler, but I must get back to work.”

  “Yes, work. Some of us do more than others. I’ve noticed that.” He backed off in a little dance as if someone were playfully pulling his strings. “You will at least think about Italy, won’t you?”

  “No, Chandler, I won’t even think about it.”

  At the door, he said, “Tennis tomorrow?”

  “Probably,” she said.

  • • •

  Louise Baker sat in Rita O’Dea’s immense living room, where the length of one wall was sheer glass and seemed to allow the lush outdoors to creep in. Sheepskin rugs were scattered over the gleaming hardwood floor, which smelled of polish. Rita, her enormous white knees flung apart, reclined in a chair that was a sling of black leather attached to African wood. Louise, whose chair was more conventional, said, “You have a lovely house.”

  “You haven’t seen the latest addition,” Rita said, and within seconds an extremely handsome young man in an open shirt and poplin pants appeared with a tray in one hand. He placed two frosted tumblers of fruit punch on the cocktail table. Rita cast her huge eyes on him. “This is Mario. Isn’t he lovely? Say hello to Mrs. Baker, Mario.”

  Mario, no more than nineteen, flashed eyes dark and intense, almost hypnotic in their pretended innocence. “Hello,” he said.

  “He doesn’t speak much English,” Rita said.

  “I speak a little.”

  “He’s my houseboy,” Rita said. “I got him here on a five-month visa. He behaves, maybe he can stay longer. He makes me mad, back he goes. Isn’t that right, Mario?”

  “That is right, Rita.”

  Louise said easily, “How do you like the United States?”

  “I like,” he said in a voice deeper than his age. “People live good here.”

  “Only the smart ones,” Rita said. “Same as in Palermo. What do you think, Louise? You see a family resemblance?”

  “Yes, I do,” Louise said. “Especially the eyes.”

  “He’s a distant cousin.” The leather seat creaked under Rita’s weight. “You should see him in shorts. He’s got a perfect body. Fact is, you should see him with nothing on. He’s the only guy I know with an ass you could call elegant. Look at him smile! He loves compliments, but don’t give him too many, he gets aroused. Don’t you, Mario?”

  “I get what?”

  “Ci verra un caso duro.” To Louise, she said, “Only thing is, he could be a little taller.”

  “You can’t have everything,” Louise said.

  “Sure you can. Far as I’m concerned, everything is only just enough, and I’m a big woman. I need more.”

  Louise had a vision of Rita in bed, the bed full of her, no man able to extend his arms around her. She said, “Is
he good in the kitchen?”

  “He’s learning.”

  Mario said, “Will you be wishing more?”

  “I do, I’ll call you. Say good-bye to Mrs. Baker.”

  “Ciao.”

  Louise tipped her head. “Ciao, Mario.”

  Alone, the two women tasted their punch. Rita listed the ingredients, which included a heavy dose of St. Raphael, which had been her brother’s favorite aperitif. “The kid reminds me of my brother at that age,” she said. “In looks, nothing else. There was only one Tony.”

  “You loved him very much, didn’t you, Rita?”

  “Like a woman. He was here, he’d hit me for saying it, but that’s the way I felt.” She pushed a hand through her heavy hair, the growth luxurious. “With Tony gone I hate holidays, like Christmas and Thanksgiving. I don’t like places closing up, people pulling in.

  That happens, the whole world seems to shrink. I don’t mind Sundays because supermarkets stay open now. I go to DeMoula’s because the aisles are wide and it takes my mind off things. And now I’ve got Mario to push the carriage. Only problem is he likes to look at the women. He thinks I don’t see.” Suddenly she waved her hand. “Enough of me. What’s doing with your problem? Have you taken care of it yet?”

  “Most of it,” Louise said.

  “You happy so far?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. What’s left of it?”

  “A small matter, which I’ll handle.”

  “I see.” Rita rocked her knees. “I got this feeling you want to drop something else on me. What is it?”

  “I want to retire. I want to turn my business over to you or whoever you think should have it. I’ve made good money, it’s bought me what I want, and now I just want to enjoy what I’ve got.”

  Lines crowded the brow of Rita’s otherwise perfectly smooth face. “You just want to walk away?”

  “If it’s possible.”

  “Getting shot give you the jitters?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “A friend of my brother’s, Louie Feoli, hairy like a bear, three hundred pounds, got shot twice and never knew it. He thought he had bug bites under his arm. He used to scratch himself there all the time, which drove his wife crazy when they went out to eat. Doctors found the bullets when he died of an unrelated cause, a crowbar across the head. What else is bothering you?”