Being Mrs. Alcott

by Nancy Geary

  “Nobody knew anything?” Grace asked.

  “No. They were all sympathetic. A few even brought over some casseroles and a beef stew. I guess they assumed with Marley out of the house, we didn’t practice vegetarianism.”

  “The children need protein,” Grace admonished.

  “Now you’re being a mom,” Erin said, smiling. It was the first glimmer of happiness he’d displayed since he’d arrived.

  “A grandmother,” she corrected, teasing. “I learned long ago that my children weren’t about to follow my advice.”

  “Anyway, yesterday I tracked down a colleague of hers from the Healing Institute. That’s the funky place where she got her degree. I knew there had been this woman named Paula whom she’d kind of befriended. I found Paula and we talked for a long time. I was pitiful, crying and begging for information. It wasn’t pretty.”

  The image of her son in tears, searching for news of his wife, was painful. Why had Marley been so selfish?

  “I think she just wanted to get me off the phone, but Paula finally confessed that there were rumors, rumors about Marley and her guru.”

  “Her what?”

  “Teacher, inspirational leader, I don’t know what you’d call him. She talked about him all the time, a guy named Yogi Far.”

  “What sort of a name is that?”

  “Probably not the one he was born with. He specialized in solar healing.”

  This world was so bizarre, so foreign to everything she’d ever known.

  “A sun-worshipper type. I should have seen it coming. Marley spoke of his power and intensity and conviction, his inner strength and emotional sensitivity. He apparently had all the characteristics that she reminded me again and again I lacked. I met the guy once. He was a lot older and looked like a freak. That gave me comfort. I figured all he could be was a mentor to her. I couldn’t believe anyone would find him attractive . . . sexually, I mean.”

  They were quiet for a moment before Grace spoke. “But you don’t know that anything happened between them. You don’t know that Marley won’t come home. Won’t she miss the children?”

  Erin shrugged and glanced toward the television. “Coincidentally, Yogi the Bizar-ro left on some spiritual journey to Nepal the morning after Marley walked out. I have a feeling the pediatrician visit had nothing to do with it. It was just an excuse, and an opportunity to leave while we were all out of the house.”

  “Did Paula agree?”

  “She didn’t have to openly agree.” He rubbed his eyes. “She did offer to buy Marley’s healing table, though, which confirmed she didn’t think Marley was coming back. I think she felt guilty. She offered me five hundred dollars, and came and got it right away. That saved me. It felt plenty good to get that ugly reminder out of our living room, and it’s cash in my pocket. It covered gas and a few snacks I picked up for the kids on the road.”

  Five hundred dollars. Her son was living on what remained.

  “It’s weird to have nothing at all. Not that Marley and I ever had much. My days of luxury ended when I moved out of this place.”

  Grace wanted to remind him of all he did have, the nonmonetary components that were so much more important than savings accounts or credit cards, but she knew her forced optimism would sound unsympathetic. And she did know how he felt. As she glanced around the living room and saw the packing boxes lined up against the wall, she certainly understood loss. Disappearance, too. There seemed to be no way to prevent such monsters from intruding.

  “I wish you’d told me. You know that the only reason I called the other day was because of Hank? He told us Marley had left.”

  “And he probably also told you that I was better off this way. He’s been telling me that for years. Maybe he was right—I can hardly argue with him under the circumstances—but . . . well . . . how can anyone understand someone else’s relationship?”

  “It’s very difficult,” Grace replied. Her response sounded glib. “No doubt he just wanted you to be happy. We all do.” In fact, that Hank and Erin even discussed each other’s marriages was both a shock and a comfort. She’d never thought of the boys as close.

  “But his version of happiness may not be mine. That’s the trouble we have. He wants a sprawling stone-and-shingle mansion in the ’burbs, a Superbaby son, and . . . Susan.” Erin grimaced, and Grace held back a laugh. “I’m not sure how to characterize her.”

  “She’s a very good mother.”

  “Okay, there.” He nodded for emphasis. “That’s my point. You actually see something redeeming in her.”

  “Now, Erin.”

  “No . . . I know you’re right. That’s what I was saying, about coming to terms with, and accepting, each other’s choices. I think about you and Dad. You are another story. Hank and I always thought you were miserable together. You seemed so . . . I don’t know . . . beaten down by him. We fully expected a divorce, or that you’d have a torrid affair with someone who was gallant and kind.” He laughed. “It took me a long time to understand that’s just how you two are together—he’s demanding and you go along with it. That’s part of your connection, your bond.”

  His comment stung.

  “Your father treats me very well. He treats all of us well. And he always has.” Did she sound defensive? “I love him.” It was the first time she’d acknowledged the fact aloud to anyone other than Bain himself.

  “I know. I know that now.”

  There was a long pause. She wanted to get up and walk around. She felt nervous. But the weight of his legs on her lap kept her down.

  “You and Marley have—you had—a very different sort of dynamic.” Should she use the past tense? Was the marriage truly over? Despite Erin’s story, it didn’t seem possible.

  “Maybe. But I don’t think I was prepared for her. What I’d seen and learned was to be reserved, to keep your cards close to your chest, as Dad used to say. That was how you two interacted, as though it was a constant tea party with everyone on his best behavior. I guess it worked between the two of you—that formality—but it didn’t work for me. I held the door open, and Marley thought I was a chauvinist pig. I didn’t want to leave the kids to go on some sexual-exploration weekend with her, and she thought I lacked passion. I compromised, and she accused me of having no conviction. I walked away rather than have a fight, and she thought I was disengaged.”

  The ease with which he recited the list saddened Grace. He’d obviously gone over his perceived failings a thousand times.

  “What she considered romance, I thought was craziness. I didn’t know how to bridge the gap. I couldn’t translate the model of what I’d seen in you and Dad and how I’d been raised into something that could work in my marriage. And yet I am totally drawn to her because she’s so different, so animated, so . . . so alive.”

  The foreign, the exotic; she’d heard it before. Were she and Bain tied inextricably together because they were alike? She’d never thought of them as having the same emotional responses; in fact, quite the opposite. Bain had a temper. She’d struggled to keep everything inside, quiet. But she knew at one level Erin was right. She and Bain had respected each other’s boundaries. That made their relationship seem distant. “Every marriage is different.”

  “But I didn’t know how to be Marley’s lover—her husband—since I’d spent my whole life as your son!” Erin raised his voice.

  “Can you keep it down?” India called. His outburst had interrupted the poignant reuniting of Dumbo and his caged mother.

  “Sorry,” Grace replied. “We’ll try to do better.”

  “We didn’t know about confrontation. You never showed us, and I never understood what it was to invest enough emotionally in someone else. Until there’s been that confrontation and you can see that everyone stays together anyway, that you can scream bloody murder and still love each other, that I could rip Marley’s hair out one minute and still throw myself in front of a truck to protect her, that the love never changes or goes away . . . well . . . that’
s what we never got.”

  “Your father and I were always here for you.”

  “You gave me a roof over my head, the best sporting goods and school supplies, you recognized all the major milestones with appropriate celebration and reward. But you never made the emotional investment.” He turned to stare at his children. Namid flapped his arms with excitement as Dumbo curled up against his mother. An enormous pink tear rolled down the elephant’s face. “I wasn’t Sarah.”

  Grace gasped. “I . . . that’s not . . .” She stammered, searching for words, wanting to say something reassuring or comforting. Sarah had been dead a long time. Erin was her grown son, her family. And yet she still missed her daughter every single day. “What does that mean?”

  “I felt as though you were going through the parental motions, but that your heart wasn’t in it.”

  “Is this how Hank feels, too?” She needed to buy herself time to think.

  “Hank?” Erin asked, as if the reference was foreign. “Hank is . . . I can’t speak for him. He’s certainly got his share of demons.”

  “I loved you. I loved your brother. I did everything I could . . .” She let her sentence drift off. Had she? Maybe he was right. Maybe her emotional intensity had disappeared down the drain with that fatal bathwater. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how I can make it up to you if that’s the way you feel.”

  Erin reached for her hand. “What you’re doing now . . . for all of us . . . is amazing. As for Hank, I’d bet his only issue with you and Dad at the moment has to do with the sale of this house.”

  “I’m not sure whether that’s a curse or a blessing.”

  He squeezed her hand. “That’s one I can answer.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “But I don’t want you to.” She squeezed back.

  The next morning Bain offered to take the children to the diner for breakfast.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why not?” he asked, as though it were a daily occurrence. “Maybe then we’ll play a round of miniature golf. It’s about time we get those children adept at using a putter.”

  She didn’t object, although she knew what was truly motivating him. The telephone had rung late the night before and had woken everyone up. Erin had answered, hopeful that it was Marley. Instead it was Hank. He’d been at a party. Someone from Chatham had been there, too, and relayed the information that Erin and his children had moved into the house on Sears Point. Hank was instantly—and not subtly—suspicious. He’d also obviously had too much to drink.

  “Did you decide to let him take what he wanted before I appeared?”

  “This is insanity. It’s nearly midnight. And Erin’s arrival had absolutely nothing to do with any objects,” Bain explained when he got on the line.

  If that was the case, Hank insisted that furniture, antiques, and art be divided in his presence. “I’ll be down first thing in the morning.”

  Bain had hung up and pulled the pillow over his head with a sigh. “Maybe the Sagamore Bridge will collapse in the night,” he muttered.

  Now, with Hank’s expected arrival less than an hour away, Bain preferred spilled orange juice, sticky syrup, and gooey scrambled eggs.

  “We’ll keep Namid with us,” Erin offered.

  “He doesn’t like pancakes anyway,” India said, slipping her small hand into her grandfather’s palm. “Come on, let’s go. You said if we didn’t get there early, they might run out of doughnuts.”

  Bain laughed and patted her on the head. “This one doesn’t miss a trick.”

  Erin and Grace watched the car drive away. “Do you think they’ll be all right?” he asked as it disappeared around the bend.

  “They’ll be just fine. I’d say of the three adults here, he’s got by far and away the best deal.”

  Hank and Erin busied themselves in the dining room, examining the silver candlesticks, several china sets, sterling napkin rings, crystal goblets, chargers, and other valuable tableware that Grace had arranged on the table. Despite the tense atmosphere the division caused, it made sense to give heirlooms to the boys now. Hank and Susan entertained. They could use the formal services. As for Erin, he could take his share to the nearest consignment shop.

  After the dining room, they could move into the library, where an assortment of other objects awaited their perusal. There was even Bain’s collection of lead soldiers. His one instruction was that the armies stayed intact.

  In a morbid tribute to the article she’d read, she purchased round labels in red and blue. They could color-code what they wanted. That way she could pack and ship their new belongings so that nothing would break in transport. Both boys had been duly impressed with her organizational scheme.

  Leaving them to make their decisions, she’d put Namid down for his nap. He’d fallen asleep before she’d finished Goodnight Moon, and so she sat in the rocking chair staring at his favorite page, the blank one. “Goodnight nobody,” it said. She liked that page, too.

  As she descended the stairs, she heard Hank’s voice.

  “This is mostly crap. Silver plate I think.”

  “I’d be surprised,” said Erin. “I suspect in their heyday, they were buying up the best.”

  “Heyday? That era has come and gone. They sold off the good stuff. Look how they’re liquidating this place.”

  “It’s too big for just the two of them. This move makes sense.”

  “Oh, please.” Hank sounded dismissive. “You think they want a condo in Florida? We both know that Mom would be buried in the backyard if there were any way to hold on to it. Dad’s run through his money with no regard to us, our families, his legacy. He hasn’t done squat for his grandchildren. Now he’s just trying to save face.”

  “But if they’re broke—”

  “Selfish is a better word. Dad could get a job, something in town selling ties at the Puritan or bait at the tackle shop. Mom could, too. She’s never worked a day in her life. But they’d prefer to wander around this broken-down place, marking their turf and waiting for a five o’clock cocktail hour.”

  “At their age, it’s not easy.”

  “Oh, please. They’re not so old. They’re both mobile, healthy. Why not try to earn a living instead of wasting the few assets they’ve got? Plus it would be good for them to see how the real world operates. It might make them a little more tolerant.”

  “I’m not sure anything could take the need to be judgmental out of those two.”

  Grace strained to hear, but there was no discernible response. Then, after a moment, she could make out Hank’s voice again. She leaned against the wall, knowing that her eavesdropping was wrong and yet unable to tear herself away or announce her presence.

  “Remember the Elliott kids? Marcy and Cal?”

  “On the corner of Battlefield?”

  “Yeah. Cal lives up near me now, has a private investment business, gets to work out of his house. Susan and his wife have become friends. According to the wife, old man Elliott subdivided the property, and they’re looking at millions. He did it for them, you know, to provide for the kids, the grandkids. No one will ever have to worry.”

  “Yeah, but the property is ruined.”

  “And with the proceeds they’ll collect, they can buy something else.”

  “Maybe. But they won’t have their family home, the home they grew up in.”

  “Neither will we.”

  “That’s true.”

  She heard shuffling on the table.

  “And I could sure use a million right now.”

  “Don’t hold your breath. By the time they’re dead, there’ll be nothing left.”

  Grace stepped across the threshold as if a strong gust of wind had propelled her into the room. She felt a surge of anger, and she glared first at her younger son and then his brother. Even while picking over their parents’ carcasses, they’d still managed to criticize, resent, and want more.

  “How dare you,” she said, softly. Adrenaline rushed through her, and her arms and hands star
ted to tingle.

  They both turned in her direction. “What is it?” Hank asked. He squinted slightly.

  She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  “What?” he repeated, looking at Erin, then back at his mother.

  “She heard us,” Erin said, the confession of a co-conspirator.

  Hank turned back to Grace but didn’t say anything.

  The color had drained out of Erin’s face as though he was going to vomit or collapse. He took a step back from his brother, obviously trying to distance himself. She knew how much he hated to be caught.

  A memory of Erin as a five-year-old flashed into her mind. A friend from his preschool had come to play, and, after lunch, she’d heard peals of laughter from his bedroom. When she’d gone to check, she discovered both boys with their size 4T pants down around their ankles. Before she’d said a word, they’d scrambled to pull up their underwear, embarrassed even at such a young age, instinctively knowing that she wouldn’t approve.

  “What are you doing, Erin?” she’d asked, shocked.

  He’d hesitated before responding. “It’s a butt club. We show our butts.” Then he’d smiled with pride. “Mine’s bigger.”

  She’d called the other mother and confessed her mortification, but the woman laughed and dismissed it as normal. “They’re just being little boys.” The pediatrician did, too. But a part of her had been unwilling to accept that this behavior was commonplace, and she’d resented that for years afterward she’d had to watch his every move when other children came to play.

  Now Hank and Erin stood frozen, each still holding a sheet of colored labels. “I’m disgusted by both of you.” There, she’d said it. The words couldn’t be taken back even if she wanted them to be. With everything that she’d done for Erin and his children, he hadn’t had the decency to come to her defense. “I’ve a good mind to give this all to Goodwill. At least it’ll find someone who appreciates it.”

  “Don’t make us into the enemy, Mom,” Hank replied. His voice showed no hint of nerves or anger. It was flat. “I’ve told you how I feel before. You can’t pretend to be shocked now.”