High October

by Elena Graf

  She realized she was now the prisoner of the woman whose heart she had broken forty years ago. How was that for irony? Maggie compressed her lips. Yes, it was strange justice. Yet, how lucky she was to have fallen under the care of the head doctor at Hobbs Family Practice. Another GP might never dare to set the bone in the office. Nowadays, specialists did everything, but Liz had always been a cowboy. As far as she was concerned, rules were made to be broken.

  Maggie remembered sitting behind her friend on her candy-apple red Triumph, terrified as Liz tried to outrun the policeman who’d caught her riding a motorcycle without a helmet, illegal in New York, even in those days. Liz pulled the bike into a field and left the officer yelling and gesticulating at the side of the road. When they were out of sight, they got off the bike and laughed until they fell into the high grass where they made love. Maggie still remembered the sweet smell of the grass and the feel of Liz’s gentle fingers inside her.

  Bad Liz was young Elizabeth Stolz’s secret identity. Otherwise, she was the sort of daughter who would make any parent proud—a whiz kid who’d skipped two grades before high school, volunteer paramedic, Phi Beta Kappa, double-major pre-med student, who was always on the dean’s list. In her scarce free time, Liz tutored poor kids in math and science.

  But Liz had a rebellious streak. It was in fashion then, along with student sit-ins and war protests. Liz never wore dresses or skirts, only fraying bell-bottoms and T-shirts with anarchistic messages. The motorcycle boots had really frightened Maggie’s mother. “Stay away from that girl,” she’d cautioned. “There’s something strange about her.”

  Maggie had tried to keep their long-ago romance lost in the past, written off as a youthful mistake, like some women write off abortions or failed early marriages, but Liz was a secret that refused to be kept. Maggie had been foolish enough to tell Barry about Liz the same day she’d told her mother. Barry was her confidante that summer when she’d felt so alone, terrified of the desire that threatened her carefully planned life.

  Barry was sympathetic. He held her against his hard-muscled football player’s body and reassured her. She begged him, after three years of denying him, to take her virginity. She needed him inside her so that she could be absolutely certain that she was “normal.” After it was done, she bled a little, as a virgin should. He beamed at her from those proud, blue eyes. He had made her his, and now, her stake in the American dream was secure.

  After they were married, whenever Maggie turned away from him in bed, she wondered if he thought Liz was the reason. The anxiety made Maggie receptive even when she felt no desire. In the end, she hated him and hated herself for the trap she had set, a trap ready to snap shut at any moment.

  No, she had never completely escaped that time with Liz or forgotten the possibilities it raised. The thought of Liz returned whenever she refused Barry, and that look of veiled concern crossed his face. Or when Claudia inadvertently dropped information about their mutual friend, then bit her lip like a guilty child for failing to censor herself. The irony and injustice stung Maggie. The more she tried to forget and live the virtuous life of a model wife, the more she thought of that too brief, wonderful year with Liz Stolz.

  If only a child had come. Maybe then the sacrifice would be worthwhile. God knows, they had tried. Their bed stand was always littered with fertility charts and thermometers. Poor Barry. She had used his body like a stud animal, climbing on his penis with only one purpose in mind. When after years of trying and nothing happened, she turned from him. He had given her everything else that she had been brought up to expect—a center-hall colonial in an upscale suburb, financial security and membership in the country club, but he could not give her a child.

  Whose fault was it? That had never been determined absolutely, but Maggie was sure that she was to blame. She was, in that horrible Biblical expression, barren. No matter how hard she tried, nothing would grow in her.

  Maggie shook off the thought as she got up to get cream for her coffee. Opening the refrigerator, she was surprised to see how well stocked it was—full of vegetables in special reusable bags, fruit, expensive Scandinavian yogurt, cheeses wrapped in paper, healthy snacks like hummus. She noticed a pork tenderloin. If she felt up to it later, she’d cook Liz a nice dinner to thank her for her kindness.

  That brought back memories of the communal dorm meals they’d shared in college. The student apartment in the newly constructed dorm off campus was spacious and modern. It had a full, state-of-the-art kitchen, complete with “Harvest Gold” appliances. The four roommates pooled their food money and made weekly runs to the grocery store in the old station wagon Liz’s father had given her so she wouldn’t be stranded on campus. There was a local grocery store, but the suburban supermarket only a few miles away had much better prices.

  Maggie was the budding gourmet cook. Felicia, their Puerto Rican roommate prepared exotic Caribbean dishes. When their turn came, Liz and Claudia cooked more pedestrian fare, edible but uninspired. They had less time for culinary pursuits because they were always busy studying. Claudia was a physics major concentrating on particle theory. Liz was always solving chemistry and physics problems and reading strange things like Hegel’s Phenomenology of Mind for her second major. What an odd, intriguing girl she was in those days. So serious.

  Although Maggie usually wasn’t hungry until much later in the morning, she had missed dinner the night before and was suddenly ravenous. She ate a hard boiled egg and some berries with yogurt. She avoided bread if she could, trying to hold on to what figure she had left, especially now that she’d returned to acting. After finishing her minimalist breakfast, Maggie put the perishables in the refrigerator. She listened to its hum in the enormous kitchen while she figured out what to do.

  The break was in her right leg, so the rental car, parked in the lot behind the Playhouse, would be useless. Later, she’d call Tony to have someone return it. She’d wait a bit to call him. Most theater folk were night owls and would still be asleep at that hour. She’d need to call her agent, of course, to let him know that she couldn’t continue in the production. Her contract still had three weeks to go, including Labor Day weekend. Fortunately, it had an exit clause for unforeseen calamities. Breaking a leg would certainly qualify.

  Maggie rinsed the breakfast dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher. After that, she had no idea what to do. She couldn’t check her messages or email. Her charger was back at the Windward, and her phone was pretty much dead. She fetched the cane from her room and set out to explore.

  She discovered Liz’s office first. It was a large room with a sleek desk and a leather executive chair that looked like it belonged in a modern hospital. Maggie studied the plaques and photos that covered the walls. There was Liz in an elegant evening dress, posing as she received an award. Another showed her in her professional garb, a tailored power suit. Carefully groomed and coifed, she stood in the center of a large group. Liz was tall enough to dominate the photo, but it was more than her height. She had a sure look of authority and confidence in her eyes that clearly announced she was in charge. The caption read: “2007 Department of Surgery.”

  During her visits to the hospital for fertility treatments, Maggie had often been tempted to ask for Dr. Stolz, but she’d always stifled the temptation because she’d promised Barry she’d never speak to her again. Then she saw a tall woman with short, chestnut-brown hair exit the elevator while she was going in and wondered if that could be Liz. She wanted to run after her, but it had been so quick. The elevator door closed, cutting off the view of the departing figure.

  Afterwards, she wondered what she would have said to Liz. I’m sorry? I never meant to hurt you? I had to cut you off because I could no longer bear to hear the pain in your voice? Yes. She would have said all that and more. Now, she would also say, I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved you. Maybe she’d have the opportunity to say those words, if she could only get Liz to listen. S
he seemed so determined to put the past behind her.

  On the top of a file cabinet, Maggie found a scrapbook full of newspaper clippings announcing even more awards and professional events. They stopped around the mid-90s, probably digital after that. As Maggie flipped the pages, she concluded that Liz must have been quite a professional powerhouse, someone Maggie would have been proud to show off to her Connecticut neighbors.

  There was a laptop on the desk, but it was password protected, and there was no guest account. Maggie carefully lowered the lid. She noisily made her way down the hall, where she found a large room dominated by an enormous TV mounted on the wall. There was a carefully placed sound system with high-end speakers. She remembered that Liz liked action movies and classical music played as loud as in a concert hall. Maggie explored her collection of CDs. Being an audiophile, Liz would have CDs, of course, but there were also vinyl records and a turntable. The remaining walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases crammed with books.

  Maggie noticed a Martin acoustical guitar standing in the corner. Maggie strummed it. Out of tune. She wondered if Liz ever played it now. In college, she had played very well. Maggie tuned it and played a few chords. It had a nice warm tone conducive to the music Maggie liked to sing, mostly folk and Broadway.

  As Maggie continued her exploration of the first floor, she was surprised to find a small elevator at the end of the hall. She toyed with the idea of going upstairs and looking around. No, that would be an invasion of her hostess’s privacy. Let her invite me…if she wants me to see.

  Instead, she went back to the media room, found the remote, and after a few false starts, figured out how to turn on the giant television. She found a cable news program and stretched out on the sofa to listen. The leather was cold against her skin, so she pulled up the Hudson’s Bay blanket.

  Chapter 5

  Liz walked her last patient to the front desk and leaned over the counter to speak confidentially. “Ginny, can you close up today? I have an errand to run in Webhanet.”

  “Sure, Liz. Right behind you.” Ginny inserted Mrs. Landon’s credit card in the machine. When it had processed, she handed it back with a genuinely warm smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Landon. Have a nice weekend.”

  Ginny kept the practice running like a well-oiled machine. She argued with the insurance companies on behalf of their patients. She banished the pharmaceutical reps trying to peddle their wares despite the sign on the door that banned them. Most of all, she made sure Liz stayed on schedule and got her paperwork done.

  “You’re the best,” called Liz over her shoulder as she headed down the hall to her office.

  Liz unlocked her office closet and grabbed her bag off the shelf. The distressed buffalo-leather shoulder bag was one of Heat Packing Mama’s latest offerings. It was heavy for its size because there was a 9 mm pistol in a hidden compartment.

  Liz had never considered carrying a gun until some yahoo in a pickup truck flying a Confederate flag had followed her right to the door of the supermarket. It wasn’t as if she’d flipped him the bird or said anything to provoke him. Waiting in the left turn lane for the light to change, she’d glanced over at him with a frown. Evidently, looks of disapproval were now considered insults.

  The experience was enough to scare her into buying a pistol. She did it by the book like everything she did, signing up for the gun safety class and applying for a permit, even though it was no longer required. Now, she was a certified safety instructor herself. Liz never did anything halfway. Some of her friends, especially the women, were horrified when she told them she carried a gun, so she’d stopped telling them. To those who continued to lecture her, she made excuses about being alone in an office where they kept controlled substances.

  As Liz pulled into southbound traffic, she despaired of ever getting to the Windward by one o’clock. Lorna had left a message that she needed to leave by then to do a store run for breakfast items. Liz cut over on 9B to Route 9 in the hope of making better time. It was the long way, but in midday, bumper-to-bumper traffic, it was the fastest, if not the shortest, route.

  She just missed Lorna, but the front desk clerk, one of the many “guest workers” who did much of Webhanet’s seasonal work, unlocked the closet where Maggie’s bags were stored. “Mrs. Grayson hopes that she packed everything,” the young woman said in heavily accented, but grammatically correct English. “There were things everywhere. Do you wish to check the room to see if anything remains?”

  Liz shook her head. She wasn’t surprised to hear Maggie had left a mess. Apparently, that aspect of Maggie’s personality hadn’t changed. Liz remembered the layers of clothing that accumulated on every surface of their dorm room. Maggie slept under the pile of clothes on the bed. Yet she always looked perfectly put together and unwrinkled when she went out on a date with one of her many male admirers.

  Liz handed the clerk two twenty-dollar bills. “Please give this to Mrs. Grayson for her trouble.” The clerk carefully put the money into an envelope under the cash register tray while Liz watched. Liz fished a ten out of her wallet and gave it to the young woman. “Thanks for your help.”

  There were two large suitcases, a duffle bag, and a smaller bag that was surprisingly heavy. “What the hell!” Liz exclaimed as she slung the strap of the small bag over her shoulder. She remembered from vacations with Maggie, that she never traveled light, whereas Liz could spend two weeks in Europe and live out of a carry-on.

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, so Liz opened the tailgate and tossed the luggage into the back of the pickup. The traffic on Route 1 looked a little better now, so she decided to chance it with the idea of picking up some chowder along the way. She debated whether it should come from the Webhanet Deli or Shelly’s Clam Shack. The Deli sold the creamy, thick soup that tourists called chowder. Shelly’s offered the real thing—thinner and milky, but chock full of diced potatoes and coarsely chopped quahogs. There was a long line at the window at Shelly’s. Although Liz was impatient to get home, she waited because she wanted Maggie to have the authentic experience. Even though she’d had a lobster roll just the night before, she ordered two chowder-and-lobster-roll specials.

  ***

  “Where have you been?” asked Maggie, looking anxious when Liz came through the door at nearly two o’clock.

  “Traffic,” explained Liz, bringing their lunch into the kitchen. “Let’s eat. Then I’ll bring in your luggage.”

  Maggie made a little face.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “There are things in my bags that probably shouldn’t sit out in the sun.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Liz grimaced.

  “Liz, please don’t swear. I don’t like it.”

  Liz stared at her. “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “Well, shit.” Liz turned around to get Maggie’s bags. She brought in the big suitcases first, then the smaller bags. Liz dropped the bags in the hall outside Maggie’s door. “What’s in this one? Rocks?”

  “Makeup,” replied Maggie in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Figures.” Liz rolled her eyes. “Come on, let’s eat before our chowder gets cold. Or chowdah, as we say up here.”

  Maggie followed her into the kitchen. “Forget it, Liz. You’ll never be a Mainer. Even I can do a better Maine accent.”

  “You’re an actress, so that doesn’t surprise me. But can you say, ‘heayuh’s the beeyah?’”

  “What does that mean?” Maggie looked puzzled.

  “’Here’s the beer.’” Liz opened the refrigerator. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks. I’m not a beer fan.”

  “More for me.” Liz snatched a beer off the door of the refrigerator and grabbed the bag from Shelly’s. “Come on. We’ll eat out on the screen porch.”

  Liz enjoyed Maggie’s look of wonder at her first sight of the cottage garden behind the h
ouse. In mid-August, it was in full bloom. The old-fashioned hollyhocks, bee balm, coreopsis, cone flowers, and butterfly bush created a riot of color. The plants in the raised beds were heavy with tomatoes, peppers, and eggplants. There was also a densely planted herb plot.

  “Do you have a gardener?”

  “No. That is, none except me. A landscaper built it, but I keep it going.”

  Liz distributed the sandwiches and handed Maggie a plastic spoon. She hated reusable plastic utensils, but they kept giving them out, so she figured she might as well make use of them. She flipped the lid off her chowder container and dug into it.

  “I see you found the elevator,” Liz said between mouthfuls.

  Maggie looked up quickly. “How did you know?

  Liz tapped her phone to launch the security video of Maggie staring curiously at the elevator door. A ghostly, gray image of her face came close to the camera, then moved away.

  “But I didn’t go upstairs,” Maggie quickly explained.

  “Yes, I know. If you’d tried, it would have set off the alarm.” Liz showed Maggie a fob on her key chain. “This sets the security system automatically when it leaves the perimeter. I doubt you’d enjoy having six Hobbs police cars in the driveway and an officer pounding on the door.”

  Maggie stared at the key fob. “I admit I was tempted, but I decided you’re entitled to your privacy.”

  “That’s nice of you.” Liz shrugged. “I don’t care if you go upstairs. I have nothing to hide. No Gretchen doll under the bed. However, there might be a dildo or two in the night stand.” Maggie’s eyes widened, which made Liz laugh. “Come on, Maggie. Don’t give me that shocked look.”