Being Mrs. Alcott

by Nancy Geary

  “Don’t expect us to take solace from that,” Bain had retorted.

  In Brookline, they’d found a small, private school for recalcitrant boys that was willing to admit him midyear. Overlooking the fact that the other students had long hair, dirty clothes, more serious drug problems, and broken homes, they had enrolled him without further discussion.

  She wondered now whether she should save the clothes and report cards and artwork or add them to the growing pile of garbage. Would her sons want this evidence of their past conduct, the tangible reminders of a far-from-perfect record, the unsavory keepsakes? She couldn’t imagine that they would, not now, not with how their lives had transpired. Hank would want to keep his transgressions out of Susan’s sight, lest she arrive at the conclusion that her son might share his father’s propensity for underachievement. As for Erin, he no doubt couldn’t be bothered. Alone with his children, devastated by his wife’s decision, he had no time for perusing memorabilia. He still hadn’t even found the time to call home.

  Quickly and efficiently, she shoved everything into a Hefty bag and cinched it closed.

  It was almost noon and her task nearly completed. She’d organized everything. With Bain’s help, she could drag the overstuffed trash bags down to the car. If he returned soon, they could get to the dump before it closed for the day.

  She paused and wiped the perspiration from her brow. There was little air in the attic, and she needed a drink of water. But almost as soon as she’d made her way to the kitchen, she heard the front door open, followed by an array of footsteps and a mixture of voices. Kay’s was unmistakable, but there were several others that she did not recognize.

  She put her glass on the counter and hurried to the foyer. There stood the Realtor with Robin Marx along with three men and one woman whom Grace did not recognize.

  Kay’s eyes opened wide as she saw Grace. “Grace, what are you doing here?”

  The question seemed to echo, and the thought occurred to her that instead of hours passing, she’d been up in the attic for weeks, undiscovered, and had only descended to find that the house had been sold with her in it. She’d been included in the asking price along with the sconces.

  Grace scanned the row of faces that stared back at her as though she were a creature at a zoo. The unfamiliar woman resembled Robin in type: young, blond, and attractive. She stood with her thin ankles crossed and one hip jutting out, while she hugged several thick files to the front of her fitted jacket. Beside her a man with well-greased hair and a long thin face wore a seersucker suit and green loafers. He held a collection of shopping bags, each of which had fabrics printed on it and the name of a textile designer. His trousers had large cuffs, and Grace wondered what sort of fashion statement he was trying to make.

  The other two men were older, less formal. One wore a baseball cap, a chambray shirt, and construction boots. The other had on a crisp striped oxford with rolled up sleeves, blue jeans, and an alligator belt. She could see the dark hair on his muscular forearms.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied, confused. “Did I forget something?”

  “Well, we did leave a message.” Kay chuckled, nervously. She wore the sort of half-irritated, half-alarmed expression that Grace remembered from the day the Marxes had first come to look at the house, the day that Bain and Grace hadn’t left in time for the showing. That day they’d been delayed making love, but this time she had no such romantic excuse. What Grace wouldn’t give to experience that morning all over again, the tenderness of Bain’s caress and the blissful ignorance of impending buyers.

  “Now that we’re almost at closing, Mrs. Marx was eager to bring in her consultants, you know, to get a jump start on the project. She’s certainly got the best. Bob Miller’s architectural firm is in Boston. Victoria Errancrantz is an interior designer in Wellesley. And you must know Carson Andrews. He builds the best houses here in Chatham.”

  Except for the young man in the seersucker pants, each of the people nodded in turn as Kay doled out the compliments.

  “I see,” said Grace as she studied the entourage, the payroll of people descending upon her home. They had come to assess the problems, clean up the mess of the past decade, and restore this home to its original grandeur. They would redecorate and rearrange, paint and replace and redo to execute the Marxes’ vision. It could become another status symbol in what she guessed was a rather large inventory.

  “We haven’t even signed a purchase and sale agreement,” she mumbled. “And Bain isn’t here. He’s meeting with our lawyer now, but he’s been gone quite some time. I’m not sure what’s taking him so long. Perhaps there are complications.” Her speech was hurried, and as she spoke she wanted the words to be true. Complications meant the deal might fall through, or delay the transaction long enough. Maybe Robin Marx wouldn’t get this house after all. But she caught herself. All that a postponed sale would really mean is that Bain would be left with the responsibility of moving on his own. Whether she was with him or not, he couldn’t afford to stay.

  “An all-cash offer isn’t likely to fall through, so don’t you worry.” Kay forced a second chuckle, louder this time. “We just need to get inside. Bob and Victoria need measurements. Don’t worry, Grace, nobody’s going to start tearing walls down.”

  “You’re no bother to us,” Robin added cheerily.

  “You must be very excited about having a fresh start,” piped up Victoria, uncrossing her ankles and taking a step past Grace.

  Grace glared at the decorator. She knew it was rude, but for once she didn’t care. The Alcotts were still the owners of record and the inhabitants of this house. An accepted offer—even one with no contingencies—hardly constituted a transfer of title. The closing was less than three weeks away. Robin and her team could hold off for another twenty-one days until the property was rightfully hers.

  She wished Bain were home. He’d know how to handle this crowd. Although no doubt Bain would try to excuse her misconduct after the fact—It’s a stressful time for her, she could hear him say—she wanted to call the police and have an officer come to arrest the trespassers. But she couldn’t risk jeopardizing the sale.

  The man in the construction boots removed his cap and smiled. Even in her rage, she had to admit he had a nice face, with broad cheekbones, walnut eyes, and white teeth. “If you can, Mrs. Alcott, pretend we’re not here. We’ll try to stay out of your way.”

  “Shall we, then?” Kay said, extending her hand in the direction of the kitchen.

  The group fell in line.

  Somehow Grace found herself following. She felt drawn to the caravan. She wanted to know what they were going to say, what judgments they would pass on her home, and whether they would show any signs of appreciating all that had transpired, the lives that had been lived, within these walls.

  Victoria stopped the group. “Alan, are you sure you’ve got both the Nina Campbells?”

  The young man glanced down at his shopping bags. “Absolutely, Vic.”

  The decorator waved one arm overhead, a gesture that appeared as though she were about to throw a lasso. “I’m getting a feeling . . . I’m sensing that the damasks will work after all. It just goes to prove that you can’t experience feng shui based on photographs alone, right?” She smiled at Robin. “I think the salmon-and-sage motif we discussed will work. Yes . . . Yes,” she said as she twirled in a circle. “Sea and earth, fish and herb, it’s perfect!”

  “Do we want to start here or the kitchen?” Carson, the builder, asked, ignoring the unfolding drama. “Isn’t that where you were talking about the addition?”

  “Isn’t this the library?” The architect looked confused.

  Kay nodded.

  “Bookshelves, Bob, remember? We’re certainly not keeping these,” Victoria explained. “We’re wanting warmth. Think English, you know, moldings, detail. Think Professor Higgins.” Then she reached for Robin’s arm and squeezed it. “Oh, I forgot to tell you I found the greatest place for leather-bound books, a
ll gently worn of course to give that great patina to the spine. Some are real novels—I think they’re sold in batches of mixed classics—and others actually hold VHS cassettes. You can hide your movies.”

  “Perfect,” Robin replied. “I’ve been dying to get rid of Jay’s ratty volumes. Would they work for the Wellesley study, too?”

  “I’m not touching Jay’s Wellesley study,” Victoria said, feigning horror. “He’ll see to it that my design work for you ends quickly.”

  “He’d never dream of doing such a thing. I’d divorce him in a heartbeat. Who wouldn’t take a perfect library over a husband any day?”

  The two women laughed, sharing a conspiratorial moment.

  Grace looked at the simple white bookshelves filled with worn hardcovers and paperbacks that she and Bain had read over the years. These novels, biographies, histories, and memoirs comprised a road map of what had caught their interest at various stages in their life. She wondered what Bain would want to do with them. It hadn’t occurred to her before this moment that they wouldn’t be with him in his Florida condominium, reminders of the journey he’d had with her.

  “I don’t mean to rain on the parade,” said Bob, “but you’re talking about finish carpentry. That’s probably months away. If we could focus big to small, I think it would help streamline this process.”

  “Absolutely.” Robin smiled. “Believe me, Jay wants streamlined. This way.”

  They passed through the library, then the dining room, and moved into the kitchen. Robin and her team congregated around the island while Grace hung back by the threshold. Bob opened his briefcase, removed a clipboard and measuring tape, and began to note various dimensions. Carson put down his pad and pen, and knocked on the walls, commenting periodically about load bearings.

  Victoria removed a leather-covered organizer from her purse. She also produced several tiles, which she laid on the island. Grace took a step closer so that she could look at the squares of yellow, purple, and green vegetables.

  “French Provincial,” Victoria remarked. “Isn’t the aubergine divine? I’m thinking splashboard, splashboard, splashboard. It’ll capture a country feel and add some color.”

  “Mrs. Alcott, you don’t have the original blueprints, do you?”

  Only when Bob repeated the question did she realize he was addressing her. These people had been so oblivious to her feelings that, standing alone, witnessing this invasion, she’d almost forgotten she was visible.

  “No,” she said, “we don’t.” Then she added, “I’m not sure we ever did.”

  Carson made a note to himself.

  “What are you thinking of doing to our kitchen?” she asked. Her voice was timid, and she didn’t expect the reaction she received. All stopped what they were doing, turned, and stared at her. Was her question improper? Perhaps it was the phrasing. Certainly the person who’d lived her whole life in this house was entitled to ask, now, wasn’t she? She looked at Kay for help, but none was offered. She felt perspiration on her forehead, but she didn’t dare move to wipe her brow. Wishing she could disappear, she tried to think of a way to extricate herself. The effort was a failure.

  “What aren’t we doing may be a better question,” Robin finally said, and the group chuckled nervously. “European appliances are a must. New cabinets and countertops are, too. We want to blow out that wall, and build a proper breakfast nook with a banquette and bay window. And I want to rip off that mudroom and make a family room—someplace for Jay’s billiard table where I won’t have to see it.”

  You need a mudroom, Grace wanted to shout. Don’t you understand about a house on the beach, about life on the ocean? It’s different. You don’t need high heels and matching handbags, fur coats or Palm Pilots. You need rubber boots and rain slickers and canvas hats, and a place to store the croquet set and the badminton. The Marxes had no business in Chatham. They didn’t belong.

  Her home was big enough, bigger than any family of three needed. The Alcotts had been four and done just fine. If these people wanted a mansion, why buy an old shingled home? In fact, if they wanted to play billiards and wear leopard print, why bother leaving Wellesley at all?

  “I’m trying to convince my husband that we need all-new windows.”

  “There’s charm here,” Bob said. “We don’t want to lose the feel.”

  “Believe me, I can recognize charm when I see it, but nothing’s operational. And Jay likes things to work.” Robin walked over to one of the windows, unhinged the lock, and tried to pry it open. It wouldn’t budge. “See?” She emphasized her point. “Whether Marvin or Pella are better, Carson, that’s your call. Just don’t give me Andersen. I want true divided light.”

  “The lady’s a pro,” Carson said, somewhat sarcastically.

  “I’ve been through this before.”

  Bob nodded. The supplicant. Grace wondered whether he was paid by the hour.

  Carson made a sweeping gesture toward the far wall. “You may be better off blowing the whole thing out and redoing this entire space. Then you’ll get what you want.”

  “Easier to do from new than renovate,” Victoria sang.

  Robin nodded in agreement.

  “What kind of permit approvals would we need for that?” Bob asked.

  “The process is definitely a factor,” Carson replied. “Especially given your timetable.”

  Robin had moved away from the island, joining Carson as he continued to knock on walls. She used her long, painted nails to tap, the pattering simulating mice. Bob stared out the small window to gauge what kind of a family room could be built between the house and the lot line. Victoria and Alan riffled through several different fabric books.

  A wave of nausea washed over Grace, and she held on to the Formica countertop for balance. What was going on? Why were these strangers in her house, discussing blasting through walls and tearing out appliances? How could they be so unconcerned about her? Robin Marx was planning to move into a redefined space, one crafted without regard to expense. She would eliminate the shabbiness, the mildew, and the peeling paint. The premium was efficiency. History was ignored, legacy discarded. Everything would function with precision. Artificial book covers and after-the-fact moldings would define reality. This woman, her successful husband, and her healthy daughter would enjoy a multitude of impeccably decorated rooms and a magnificent view. No grapefruit-size lump ate at her flesh. Her million-dollar bank account could purchase as much underwear as she wanted. She would stay a member of American Express with all its attendant privileges.

  Never before had Grace hated someone so completely.

  What had happened to her? Grace admonished herself. She hated the venomous sensation of jealousy, the hot, acidic feel of envy. Was it only the house, or was it that Robin had everything she wanted, plus the health to enjoy it?

  She wished at that moment that she’d followed Dr. Preston’s advice. He’d wanted her to do tests, to find out information, to talk to Bain, and she’d refused, convincing herself that she had no future. She hadn’t allowed herself to learn the truth because she was too fearful to find out. She hadn’t been able to face the reality of bad news, or the public pressure that would attend it. Acknowledgment of cancer meant that conversations would have to take place. There might be confrontations, even arguments. Everyone would start some frantic search for closure, and she didn’t want to end every telephone call as if it might be the last. So instead she’d blinked, closing her eyes to avoid seeing the possibilities. Ignorance, the shroud of mystery, was easier than mustering the courage to face her mortality.

  What she hadn’t anticipated was this bitterness. She’d never expected that she would resent others’ happiness, health, or success. And she hated that more than anything. Her emotions were destroying her more quickly than the disease.

  This all had to change.

  She coughed to clear her throat. “If you’re planning to tear off the kitchen, I’d recommend you put in a proper basement, at least under this portion o
f the house.”

  Everyone turned to stare at her. Was it disbelief frozen on their faces?

  “I mean, if you’re doing so much work already, you might want to think about the added benefit. There have been some problems over the years with just the crawl space.”

  Bob quickly scribbled something on his pad. “That’s a great suggestion. We haven’t even been thinking subterranean change.”

  “Let’s put in a wine cellar!” Victoria shrieked. “Jay will love me for that idea.”

  Robin clapped her hands. “Brilliant.”

  Grace smiled. She’d made her contribution. It was just as well that the house be transformed into something different. It should move on, too.

  Bain reported that the paperwork was in order. In a matter of weeks, ownership would change hands. He’d contacted a real estate office in Palm Beach about a golf-course community. Actually, it was in West Palm, but the Realtor had assured him that the distinctions were disappearing. Highly desirable one- and two-bedroom units were still available, some with distant water views, and there might be some flexibility on the price since the development hadn’t sold as quickly as anticipated. The Realtor promised to send brochures.

  His announcements over, he’d gone upstairs to read.

  Grace’s fingers trembled as she dialed the Vermont exchange and counted the rings. After six, the answering machine picked up. Marley’s voice on the greeting surprised her. It was a long recording, and contained something about a daily wisdom that was no doubt outdated. For a moment, Grace wondered what would happen to such calendar-specific, inspirational thoughts when the day ended. Then she tried to formulate a message to leave after the tone. Sorry to hear your life has fallen apart. Mine has, too. But at least you’re young. You’re healthy. You’ve got great children. That’s more than I can say.

  “Erin . . . it’s your mother,” she said tentatively when she heard a beep. “Hank told me about Marley. I’m sorry. I’m very, very sorry. I’m here . . . we’re here if you want to talk.”