Being Mrs. Alcott

by Nancy Geary

  “I’ll come again tomorrow,” she assured him, but he shook his head.

  “It was enough that you came today.”

  Grace knew when the telephone rang at four in the morning that Ferris was dead. Bain answered and spoke to the doctor as she hugged a pillow to her chest to stifle her sobs. Someone had smuggled in a fifth of vodka. He’d drunk the entire thing, then broken the bottle and slit his wrists.

  “How come he hadn’t been monitored? Don’t you have a suicide watch?” she heard Bain ask.

  He wasn’t considered a high risk. He’d been sober for more than two weeks, was an active group participant, and showed no signs of depression. The unanimous clinical opinion was that he was on the road to recovery.

  “How’d he get the bottle?”

  Nobody knew for certain. The only visitor recorded on the log that day was Mrs. Grace Alcott. In fact, she’d been the only visitor since he’d been admitted.

  “What happens now?”

  The director informed Bain that Ferris had left instructions in his room that he wanted neither a funeral nor a memorial service. Nonetheless, the disposition of his remains was Grace’s decision. She was his next of kin.

  Before hanging up, Bain said it was all right for the hospital to dispose of his clothing and toiletries. What remained of his personal effects would be forwarded to Chatham.

  Ferris died intestate with virtually no assets. Despite what he’d claimed to Grace, he had no medical insurance. The hospital would take a lien on what little there was.

  Two days later, a yellow envelope arrived from McLean, containing a copy of Byron’s Don Juan, a well-worn address book, and a brief hand-scrawled note outlining his last wishes. “If, Grace, you could be so kind as to arrange cremation and sprinkle my ashes on the beach, I would be forever in your debt.” In a postscript, he added, “Don’t be sad for me. I had a good run, not as good as it might have turned out, but a good one nonetheless.”

  Part Three

  The Present

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cars were stretched out bumper to bumper. As she stared out at the metallic snake, red brake lights glared back at her. “Suicide Alley”—the single-lane section of the Mid-Cape Highway between Exits 9 and 11—had come to a standstill. The congestion was unusual for this time of year, even for a Friday. If traffic was an indicator of the summer to come, it would be deadly.

  She put the car in neutral. Bain had spoken to her several times recently about not “riding” the brakes. She was wearing out the brake pads, and they would need to be replaced. Idling, the engine rattled. Her brakes might last, but she apparently needed a new muffler. She wondered if she’d done something to exacerbate that problem, too.

  Grace rolled down the window and was greeted by a rush of hot air and the smell of exhaust. There were actually little ripples visible through the windshield, just like in the movies. She pictured herself between Thelma and Louise driving too fast through the desert, the camera offering a panorama of the Badlands in front of them, and the thought made her laugh aloud. Why did intense heat make waves? When Erin and Hank were young they’d asked that kind of question, and she’d never been able to answer. Fortunately for her, neither of her boys had persisted in pursuing the information, and both were easily distracted by other activities.

  She leaned back in her seat. The digital clock on the dashboard showed that it was after four. She’d been absorbed in her own thoughts and didn’t have a clear memory of what had happened in the hour since she’d left the mall. She glanced over at the Victoria’s Secret bag on the passenger seat. Perhaps that was what happened to women who bought red lace underwear. They lost themselves in daily life.

  Or perhaps sitting in traffic reliving the high and low points of life was what happened to women who were given certain medical diagnoses. They stopped being aware of their surroundings and disengaged with the world. They focused on memories both good and bad, the blending of one year into the next, because they had to look backward. When time was running out, they couldn’t think about the next minute or hour or even day. The loss of it would be too devastating.

  She had to talk to Bain. That conversation was to precede anything that was to happen on Wednesday. Dr. Preston had delineated the sequence of events. Talk. Then tests. Discuss medical options, including surgery. Then begin a course of . . . of what? He’d called them protocols. Chemotherapy and radiation, she wasn’t sure which would come first, and he hadn’t been more specific. “It’s too soon to have this conversation, Grace. We need more information.”

  She wanted to skip the intervening steps. She thought of the Monopoly game she’d played with the boys over the years, and imagined drawing a small orange Chance card from the top of the pile. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. A direct line. Only in this case, she couldn’t pay fifty dollars of blue, green, or yellow funny money and avoid her jail sentence.

  She didn’t want to spend the summer sick. Fourth of July to Labor Day was supposed to be the glorious time, the ten-week stretch that sustained year-round Cape residents during the cold winter and bleak spring. Invitations to cocktail parties and lobster bakes had already started to arrive. She put them up on the fabric-covered board that hung in the kitchen and looked forward to the chance to pull herself together, select and wrap a hostess gift, and get out of the house. The mood was supposed to change with the arrival of relatives and visitors. Summer was supposed to be festive. Life was supposed to be easy.

  And yet at this moment she dreaded Fourth of July more than ever, dreaded the start of high season, when television commercials would be filled with images of backyard barbecues and summer clearance sales. She couldn’t face the routine, the flag-flying nostalgia, and the mundane conversation about the joy of summer that came with America’s birthday. How many holidays had passed where the day had followed precisely the same pattern? It was part of the Alcott tradition.

  She, Bain, Ferris, and the boys walked to Main Street and found an opening in the crowd from which to view the parade. She preferred the Shore Road end where the parade began, but Bain liked the intersection of Main and Cross Streets. He was convinced that the lawn in front of the Methodist church afforded the best view. The boys didn’t care where they sat as long as they didn’t have to sit with their parents. They searched the crowd for a friend and quickly settled in with his family.

  They watched the clowns throw candy and the Helping Hand dogs-in-training try not to be distracted by the noise and crowd. The gravel and paving company truck pulled the Miss Eel Grass float on which the unsightly princess in a seaweed skirt undulated to a boom box tune. The hook-and-ladder intermittently blew its siren, and the Minute Men dressed in traditional garb marched and played. It was supposed to be the simplest, the best of holidays, a celebration of America’s independence, waving cheap nylon flags and sweating in the sun.

  For the past twenty-eight years, the Alcotts had gone to the same postparade party. Andy and Cindy Briggs with their five children and manicured home on Champlain Road seemed the perfect family, the kind that relished togetherness and tradition. The annual event was something out of a Norman Rockwell painting: egg-toss games and water-balloon fights, dogs nibbling at the hors d’oeuvres laid out on folding snack tables across the lawn, pitchers of Bloody Marys and lemonade, children dressed in red, white, and blue. The Briggses included everyone—the tradespeople they paid so well and the sailing instructors from the yacht club, as well as their friends and family—a democratic affair over which Cindy presided, seemingly effortlessly.

  Each year Grace had brought a platter of cheese cubes and crackers. When the boys were teenagers, she and Bain also contributed a case of beer, or a couple of bottles of wine—something for the collective alcohol consumption. Not that the Briggses needed anyone to contribute anything. It was a gesture.

  The noises of the day were a blur of laughter, shrieks, cheers of encouragement, and more laughter. The occasional newcomers to the gathering were simply absorbed into th
e rituals, so there was little by way of introductions or explanations. The conversation ranged from the weather and the wind to any recent decisions by the zoning board of appeals or the Historic Business District Commission. Everyone was comfortable, relaxed in the knowledge that no particular effort was required unless they were part of a relay or a tug-of-war.

  These were her friends, her neighbors. She was as welcome there as she was anywhere. So why had she felt more and more like an outsider, a voyeur? The last several years, she’d barely mustered the energy to attend, and could well have slept through the parade beforehand if it hadn’t been for Bain’s insistence. He liked the habit. Routine was a huge part of who he was. And he liked that the ever-successful Andy Briggs was one of his oldest friends.

  She’d wanted a change, although not the one that this year would bring.

  This year Ferris was gone. By the Fourth of July, Bain and everyone else would know that she was sick. Their friends would look at her with pity, not knowing what to say. Someone would offer to bring over a casserole, some concoction of noodles and canned soup with Ritz crackers crumbled on top to add crunch, a dish that could serve a double purpose if she happened to experience a glue shortage. Maybe the minister at St. Christopher’s would quietly pull Bain aside to ask if he wanted to talk about planning. The floral designer might slip him her card, and casually mention how beautiful hydrangeas are in August.

  Perhaps the teller from Wachovia Bank would call the next day to see if they needed anything. Employee-of-the-month for the past six, she was an attractive woman in her midforties. From her perch on her stool behind the counter, it was easy to look down her low-cut blouse and see her lacy brassiere underneath. No doubt if she called the Alcott residence, she’d mention that her husband, the owner of a local waste disposal business, had run off with the hospitality manager at Ocean Edge. She was now an eligible divorcée. And under the terms of her settlement agreement, she had free trash removal for as long as she lived in Chatham.

  Grace cringed. The last thing she wanted was to have her health, their circumstances, and Bain’s future the subject of cocktail-party gossip and speculation.

  When he was a widower, there would be plenty of attention. She’d read in the obituaries column of the Harvard Alumni Bulletin that Art Walters, class of ’67, had died, leaving behind his widow, Eileen Baker, Radcliffe ’68. The name had jumped out at Grace. Although they’d lost touch, Grace remembered Eileen’s interest in Bain from the night of that first Crimson party. Had nearly forty years passed? Perhaps Eileen and Bain could reconnect, empathize, and share each other’s loss.

  Bain would need attention when she was gone, and she wanted him to have it. She hated to think of him alone. But until she died, she’d prefer to think she might have his undivided attention, or at least as much of it as she’d always had.

  That thought—the quantity of Bain’s attention—made her laugh aloud again, and she felt lucky to be on a single-lane highway. Otherwise someone stopped in traffic beside her might have looked in, seen her intermittently chuckling to herself, and thought she was insane. Precisely the kind of person who shouldn’t be given a license, she could almost hear the fictitious driver think.

  The line of cars had barely advanced. Up ahead, she could see the sign for Exit 11—Chatham/Brewster, Route 137. Her exit, the one she’d taken time and time again, the road she knew so well that she could drive off the ramp with her eyes closed.

  But the numbers on the digital clock flipped and she wasn’t getting closer.

  The rearview mirror showed a line of sedans and wagons and SUVs that extended back into the distance. Wedged in the middle, she was trapped.

  She turned on her blinker, twisted the steering wheel as sharply as she could, and inched her way over to the right. As the tires rolled over the drains on the edge of the pavement, the car vibrated. Then she was onto the grass. She drove another several feet forward, rolled up the window, and cut the ignition.

  This car is neither abandoned nor broken. Please do not tow, she wrote on a piece of notepaper. It is not stolen, either, she hastily added. She stuck the makeshift sign in the window and illuminated the hazards, but then turned them off. She didn’t want the battery to die and didn’t know how long it would last with the lights flashing. Then she grabbed the Victoria’s Secret bag and pushed the power-lock button behind her.

  As she walked away from her sedan, it occurred to her that she might not return, although at some point Bain would decide he needed it back even if she didn’t.

  “Where in God’s name have you been?” Bain shouted as she opened the door. Before she could answer, he continued. “Do you realize what time it is? We’ve got a showing tomorrow morning.”

  Grace glanced at her watch. It was nearly seven. She’d been walking for three hours, covering a distance of more than eight miles from where she’d left the car. Her feet, legs, and back ached. Her hands were swollen.

  “Kay stopped by briefly this afternoon. She wanted to speak with you. I don’t know why you won’t get a cell phone.”

  So that it can be disconnected, too? Grace thought. She didn’t want to raise the issue of the American Express card. Perhaps she’d leave the two halves on the breakfast table and see if he noticed.

  “What did Kay say?”

  “She’s bringing a couple who have been looking for property in Osterville for more than a year, but they haven’t found anything and are willing to consider Chatham. Kay says they’re very qualified. My guess is he’s some sort of finance person, hedge funds maybe, or a trader. They’ve got a child.”

  Grace stood perfectly still. Talk to Bain, Dr. Preston had insisted. How was she to do that? He had been obsessing all day about some family he didn’t even know. He hadn’t bothered to ask how her doctor’s appointment went. He hadn’t noticed that she’d come up the driveway on foot.

  “What time?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “What time are they coming? What time is the showing?” She forced her mind to concentrate on the source of Bain’s agitation.

  “Nine.”

  “On a Saturday morning?”

  “Look, these people are Kay’s clients so she wants to accommodate them. If they buy it, she won’t have to split a commission. Which means maybe she’d take less from us. In any event, it’s a good development. We need to keep the pressure on.”

  “But we don’t even have an offer.”

  Bain reached into his pocket and produced a scrap of paper. Staring at the felt-tip scrawl, he appeared puzzled by what he’d written down. After a moment, he handed the note to Grace. “Here’s what she wants us to do. Flowers, cleaning. I’m sure you can decipher it. I didn’t know who to call.”

  She glanced down at the note, which Bain must have scribbled as Kay issued instructions. There was something about removing the dead Christmas tree that they’d thrown behind the garage, filling a vase or two, disposing of the empty boxes they’d piled on the back porch, turning on the heat overnight to get rid of the mildew, and emptying the dishwasher.

  “Oh, and here,” Bain said, handing her a bottle of what appeared to be cologne. “Kay said to use this in all the rooms tonight and again tomorrow morning before eight. She said it makes the place smell like summer, whatever the hell that means.”

  Grace looked at the label. Parfum d’ambiance. It had come from 34 Boulevard Saint Germain. She held it in both hands as if she were rubbing a genie bottle, wishing to be transported to that precise store in the middle of Paris instead of left in her Chatham kitchen holding a bottle of imported room freshener.

  Bain’s car keys lay on the island in the center of the kitchen. He picked them up and spun them on his finger. “We’re out of vermouth. I’m going to the Epicure before it closes. Maybe you can get started on that list.”

  Suddenly Grace didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to be stranded while her husband went to town to replenish his liquor cabinet. She didn’t want to be left behind to try to pat
ch up the mistakes in the house. An astute buyer wouldn’t miss the water damage, the peeling paint, or the leaking toilet just because there was an arrangement of delphiniums on the dining room table or because the air smelled of tuberose.

  “We haven’t seen each other all day.”

  Bain raised his eyebrow. “Look, we’re running out of time. Nine o’clock will be here before we know it. I’ll be right back.”

  He let the screen door slam behind him.

  She wondered how long it would take him to notice her car was gone.

  Grace slipped out the back door and cut behind the side of the house. The salty air had made the steps to the beach slick, and she held on to the railing as she descended. She didn’t want to face Bain’s return, his inevitable questions, and her feeble explanations. She wasn’t losing her mind; she’d just lost her patience in the traffic. Kenny, the nice man from the Mobil station, might not even charge to give him a ride back out to the Mid-Cape to retrieve the sedan.

  But she knew Bain when he got in this state. He wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t find an ounce of humor in the blisters on her heels or the note she’d left on the dashboard. The fact that he was out of vermouth wouldn’t help.

  And she wasn’t in the mood to have Dr. Preston’s talk at this moment. Not tonight. Not until after the showing. No, she wouldn’t talk to Bain until after they knew whether an offer was coming, and if it was, maybe she wouldn’t say anything until after the house closed. But by then it would be too late to make any real difference. So perhaps she wouldn’t have the talk at all.

  Maybe Bain and Dr. Preston could talk later, after she was gone. They could recap.

  At this rate, she’d be able to convince herself of anything.

  The sand soothed her feet, each step massaging her sore arches. At a surprisingly brisk pace, she headed toward the town landing. The sky was turning a deep pink rimmed in purple as dusk settled over the Oyster River. She looked toward the tide line, expecting to see Prissy hauling wire baskets of clams up to her truck.