Don't Cry Now

by Joy Fielding

  “Cross-eyed?”

  “I’m working on a sketch for a new painting.”

  “A sketch? Then, you did these?” Bonnie’s eyes swept across the walls with fresh appreciation. The woman who had done these remarkable drawings was obviously a skilled artist and a very sensitive woman. She could hardly be described as frivolous and superficial.

  “Rod didn’t tell you I’m an artist,” Caroline said.

  “No, actually. He didn’t tell me anything.”

  “So, he doesn’t know you’re here,” Caroline said, in that disconcerting way she had of stating all her questions.

  “I didn’t know myself that I was coming.”

  “That’s interesting.” Caroline handed Bonnie a tall glass of lemonade.

  Bonnie took a long sip of her drink, felt her lips contort into an involuntary pout.

  “Too sour?”

  “It’s fine.” Bonnie returned the glass to her lips, didn’t drink.

  Caroline smiled. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a lousy liar?”

  “Everybody.”

  Caroline’s smile widened. She was very pretty when she smiled, Bonnie thought. Almost girlish.

  “Joan always used to complain that my lemonade needed more sugar. She had a real sweet tooth. Just like you.”

  “I don’t have a sweet tooth,” Bonnie said, uncomfortable at being in any way compared to Rod’s ex-wife.

  “That’s what she used to say.” She smiled. “How are the kids?”

  Bonnie took a deep breath. “I’m not sure. They haven’t exactly confided their feelings in me.”

  “Give it time. It’s a hell of an adjustment to have to make.”

  “Were they very close to their mother?”

  Caroline gave the question a moment’s thought. “Not as close as Joan would have liked,” she said finally. “Sam was something of an odd duck, he kept to himself most of the time, and Lauren was always more of a daddy’s girl. Joan tried, but…what can you do?”

  Bonnie followed Caroline Gossett out of the kitchen and into the art-filled living room. Aside from the large bronze nude, there were several other pieces of sculpture—a woman’s torso, a child’s head, a small figurine of a ballerina. Paintings—some oil, some pastel, some pen and ink—were everywhere.

  “Did you do these?”

  “Most of them.”

  “They’re beautiful,” Bonnie said. “I especially like this one.” Bonnie pointed to an oil painting of a woman staring into a mirror, her older reflection leaping out at her in shades of blue and violet.

  “Yes, I knew you would. It was Joan’s favorite as well.”

  Bonnie instantly backed away from the painting, felt the grand piano at her back. “Do you play?”

  “Not very well.” Caroline plopped down in the middle of the white sofa. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me what I can do for you.”

  Bonnie perched on the end of a white tub chair. “I was curious about a few things you said at the funeral.”

  “You’ll have to refresh my memory.”

  “You were talking to Rod, and you commented that he looked well. He said you sounded disappointed.”

  “Oh yes. I remember thinking that there must be a very ugly painting of your husband hidden at the back of somebody’s closet,” Caroline said, the index finger of her right hand tapping her bottom lip.

  “My husband is hardly Dorian Gray,” Bonnie said. Was the woman implying that her husband had made some sort of pact with the devil? “You said, ‘I guess I keep expecting justice.’ What did you mean by that?”

  Caroline raised her glass to her lips, drank half the lemonade in one long sip. “What is it you don’t understand?”

  “Why you don’t like my husband,” Bonnie replied truthfully.

  Caroline shook her head, her hair coming loose of its ribbon and scattering around her face. “Why does it matter what I think of Rod?”

  “It doesn’t,” Bonnie said quickly, lowering her gaze to the floor to hide her lie, instantly raising it again. “I’m not sure why it matters,” she corrected. “But it’s been bothering me ever since the funeral. I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened between the two of you for you to dislike him so intensely.”

  “You didn’t ask him,” Caroline stated.

  Bonnie said nothing.

  “Let me guess.” Caroline pushed the stray hairs behind her ears, looked toward the ceiling. “He said that I was a silly busybody who was part of an unfortunate past he no longer wanted to think about.” She looked directly at Bonnie. “Close?”

  “Close enough.”

  Caroline laughed. “I like you. But then, that’s not too surprising. Rod always had great taste in women.”

  “What happened between you and Rod?” Bonnie repeated.

  “Between the two of us? Nothing.”

  “Then why the ill will?”

  Caroline finished the rest of her lemonade, put the glass down on the red-and-black hand-painted coffee table beside the sofa. “You’re sure you want to hear this?”

  “No,” Bonnie conceded. “But tell me anyway.”

  Caroline took a deep breath. “How can I phrase this gently?” She paused, obviously searching for just the right words. “Your husband is a philandering, insensitive prick. How’s that?”

  Bonnie winced, thought of leaving, didn’t move. “Can you be more specific?” She almost laughed. The woman sitting across from her had just called her husband a philandering, insensitive prick, and Bonnie’s response was to ask her to be more specific. Good one, as Diana would say.

  “You want examples,” Caroline said.

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’m not sure you will.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “No, you tell me. What’s the story he’s given you all these years? That he was the long-suffering husband of an irrational drunk?”

  Bonnie tried to keep her face blank, failed.

  “I thought so. It’s the story he tells most people. Maybe he even believes it. Who knows? Who cares?” She stood up, walked to the piano, stopped. “Did he happen to mention that one of the reasons Joan drank was because he was never home? That he was an irresponsible husband and a disinterested father? That he was too busy playing around with other women to be much of either? No, I can see by your face that he neglected to mention that.”

  “Joan told you these things,” Bonnie stated, adopting the other woman’s habit of asking questions in statement form.

  “If you’re suggesting that I simply believed everything Joan told me, you’re wrong. I saw Superman myself one night when he was supposed to be working. Lyle and I were having dinner at the Copley Square Hotel, and there he was just two tables away nibbling on the ear of a stunning brunette.”

  “It was probably business, for God’s sake. My husband is a television director. It’s not like he doesn’t come into contact with gorgeous women every day.”

  “And night,” Caroline added, with infuriating calm. “Trust me, this wasn’t business.”

  “Be that as it may,” Bonnie said, “my husband didn’t leave Joan for another woman.”

  “And why did he tell you he left?”

  Bonnie took another sip of lemonade, felt it bitter on her tongue. “He said that after the baby died…”

  “Go on.”

  “He just couldn’t bear to be around her anymore.”

  “Yes, he was a big help after Kelly died,” Caroline said.

  “You’re being very judgmental.”

  “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “How can you know what my husband was feeling, what he was going through?”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “And what was that?”

  “A man who cheated on his wife at every opportunity, a man who was never there when she needed him, a man who walked out on her when she needed him the most.”

  “He couldn’t stay,” Bonnie tried to explain. “Every time he looked at Joan, he
saw his dead little girl.”

  “Then that was more than he saw of her when she was alive,” Caroline snapped, leaving both women temporarily speechless. “I’m sorry,” Caroline said quietly, after a long pause. “That was pretty crass, even for me. Your husband obviously brings out the best in me.”

  Bonnie felt herself dangerously close to tears, held them tightly in check. “You don’t know my husband very well.”

  “Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know him,” Caroline responded.

  “My husband is not the one who let a fourteen-month-old baby drown in a bathtub,” Bonnie reminded her.

  “Now who’s being judgmental,” Caroline observed.

  “Facts are facts.”

  “And accidents happen. And people make mistakes. And if they’re lucky, they get a little help and understanding from those around them. Two people died the afternoon Kelly drowned,” Caroline said quietly. “Joan’s funeral was just a little late.” Tears threatened the corners of her eyes.

  “You said something else at the funeral,” Bonnie ventured.

  Caroline shrugged, waited for Bonnie to continue.

  “You said that you wouldn’t be here today, if it weren’t for Joan. What did you mean?”

  “I went through a rather difficult time myself a few years ago,” Caroline began, speaking in a lower register than before. “Sparing you the gory details, I learned I could never have children.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bonnie said, genuinely.

  “Joan was there for me every day. She made sure I ate, that I got out, that I had someone to talk to. She didn’t tell me everything was going to work out just fine. She didn’t tell me that I’d get over it, that I could adopt, that it was God’s will, that it was for the best. She knew how unhelpful, and downright hurtful, those handy little clichés really are. She’d heard them all herself. She knew that what I needed was someone to talk to, someone who would hold me and listen while I cried and moaned and bitched and railed against my fate. And it didn’t matter that I said the same things day after day. She was there to listen, to agree that it was unfair and a goddamn shame. She didn’t try to minimize my feelings or ignore my anger. Even after months, when my sisters and everyone else were telling me it was time to get on with my life, Joan didn’t abandon me. She told me I’d get on with my life when I was good and ready.”

  “She was a real friend,” Bonnie agreed.

  “Yes, she was. I couldn’t have gotten through those months without her.” Caroline took a deep breath, forced a smile. “There’s more,” she said.

  “More?”

  “Just when I was starting to get back on my feet, my mother fell and broke her hip, had to be hospitalized. My father is dead; my sisters both live out of town. It was up to me to make all the arrangements. My mother had to go into a convalescent hospital, and then a nursing home, because she couldn’t really take care of herself anymore. Joan just took charge. She talked to the doctors, made all the arrangements, made sure my mother got the best care. She was amazing. I guess, again, because of what she’d been through with her own mother after Kelly died.”

  Bonnie felt a sudden chill. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t know about Joan’s mother.” Another question disguised as a statement of fact.

  “Just that she’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Caroline looked astonished. “Who said Joan’s mother is dead?”

  “She isn’t?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Bonnie realized she was holding her breath. She tried to release it, but nothing came. It was as if she wasn’t breathing at all. “What happened after Kelly died?”

  “Her mother began behaving very irrationally. She’d forget things and go outside in her underwear, stuff like that, and she was talking pretty crazy. She’d had a problem with alcohol for years. It just got worse. Joan finally had to have her committed. More guilt for her to deal with. Naturally, her handsome hubby was nowhere to be seen.”

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  “Melrose Mental Health Center in Sudbury. It’s a private facility, relatively nice as far as mental hospitals go.”

  “Who paid for it?”

  “Joan’s inheritance,” Caroline replied, sardonically. “At least that’s what Rod used to say.”

  “Do you think her mother knows that Joan is dead?”

  “I don’t think she knows much of anything anymore. From everything Joan told me, she’d pretty much retreated into her own little world.”

  “Do you know her name?” Bonnie surprised herself by asking.

  “Elsa,” Caroline said. “Elsa Langer. Why?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bonnie said honestly. The truth was that she wasn’t sure of anything. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

  “Shoot.” Both women looked aghast. “Sorry. Unfortunate choice of words.”

  “You said at the funeral that Joan spoke highly of me.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What sort of things did she say?”

  Caroline raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Let me see…that you were a nice person, that you were a good mother, that she admired you.”

  “Did she seem obsessed?”

  “Obsessed?”

  Bonnie told Caroline about the scrapbook the police found in Joan’s bedroom.

  “Really? I’ve never known her to be that organized.”

  “Anything else you remember she might have said?”

  “I do remember one thing,” Caroline told her after a pause.

  “Yes?” Bonnie asked, waiting, curiosity building.

  “She said she felt sorry for you.”

  Tears sprang immediately to Bonnie’s eyes. Don’t cry, she admonished herself silently. Not here. Not now. “I really should get going.”

  “It’s been an interesting afternoon for you,” Caroline observed, leading the way to the foyer.

  “Thank you for your time,” Bonnie said, opening the front door, grateful for a strong gust of wind that blew some much-needed air into her face. She opened her mouth, gulped at it, like water.

  “Who’s that?” Caroline asked, stepping outside, directing Bonnie’s attention across the street.

  Reluctantly, Bonnie’s eyes traveled toward Joan’s house, watching as a dark green car pulled into the driveway and stopped. The door opened and a pair of well-shaped legs swung slowly out of the car, hands adjusting the hem of the narrow beige linen skirt before stepping onto the pavement. The woman had beige hair to match her beige skirt, jacket, and shoes. She looked around, aware she was being watched, and smiled pleasantly in Bonnie’s direction, before starting up the driveway to the house.

  “Nobody’s there,” Caroline called after her.

  “That’s all right,” the woman called back, not bothering to turn around. “I have a key.” She waved it into the air.

  Immediately, Bonnie was across the road, Caroline at her side. “Excuse me,” Bonnie persisted, “but you can’t go in there.”

  The woman turned around. Her makeup was the same color as the rest of her. Put her up against a beige background, Bonnie thought, and she would likely disappear. “I’m sorry. Is there a problem?” the beige woman asked.

  “The woman who lived here died,” Bonnie told her, not sure what else to say. There was something vaguely familiar about the woman. Bonnie had seen her somewhere before.

  “Yes, I know. I’ll be very careful not to disturb anything.”

  “Who are you?” Bonnie asked. Instinctively, she knew she wasn’t with the police.

  “Gail Ruddick.” The woman extended her hand, displaying a small white card.

  Bonnie extricated the calling card from the woman’s manicured beige nails, aware that Caroline was reading it over her shoulder. “Ellen Marx Realty,” Bonnie read. From behind her, Caroline made a slight whistling sound. “I saw you at Joan’s funeral,” Bonnie remarked, suddenly aware why the woman looked familiar. The back row with the hair, she thought.

/>   “That’s right.” Gail Ruddick looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Awful thing that happened. Just awful.” She swiveled toward the house, then back, as if she were on a rotating stand. “We’ve been asked to have a look around, determine what the house is worth.”

  “The police asked you to do that?”

  “No,” Gail Ruddick answered. “Not the police.” Clearly she was reluctant to volunteer any further information.

  “Who then?” Bonnie demanded.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I really don’t think I should be discussing this with strangers.”

  “I’m hardly a stranger,” Bonnie qualified. “This house belongs to my stepchildren. And my husband,” she added, unease tickling at her throat, causing her words to tremble upon contact with the air.

  Gail Ruddick broke into a large expansive smile, the white of her teeth something of a shock next to all that beige. “Well, then there’s no problem. Your husband’s the one who asked me to have a look-see. In fact, he’s the one who gave me the key. If you’ll wait just a second, I’ll open the door and give it right back to you. It’ll save me having to return it later.” She proceeded to the front door, opened it, then returned with the key. Bonnie added it to her key chain, trying to keep her hands from shaking. “Tell your husband I’ll get back to him with an estimate as soon as I can.”

  Bonnie nodded as the woman continued up the walk to the front door. “Tell me,” Bonnie said over her shoulder to Caroline, her eyes never leaving the woman from Ellen Marx Realty, “did Joan ever tell you she thought my daughter and I were in any danger?”

  “No,” Caroline answered. “Do you think you are?”

  Bonnie said nothing.

  “Take care,” Caroline said. “Remember I’m here if you ever need to talk.”

  Bonnie watched as Gail Ruddick disappeared inside Joan’s house. Behind her, she heard Caroline’s footsteps retreating, turned to see her closing her front door after her. Bonnie stood alone on the sidewalk, a little girl lost, waiting for someone to take her hand and show her the way safely home.

  13

  The Melrose Mental Health Center was located on over one hundred acres of land in the adjoining suburb of Sudbury, close to the Sudbury River and only a short drive along Route 20 from Weston Heights Secondary School. Bonnie drove there directly from work the next afternoon.