Being Mrs. Alcott

by Nancy Geary

  “You have no right to tell me how I feel, or how I’m entitled to feel.”

  Erin moved to his mother and reached for her arm. His touch was weak, timid.

  She pushed his hand away. “Why did you come here?”

  “Erin came because he needed help, and I’m here to help you move,” Hank answered for both of them.

  “Help? You consider this help? I wouldn’t congratulate myself if I were you.”

  “You just don’t want to accept what I am doing. Every time I’ve tried to help, to offer suggestions, you and Dad just cut me off. You’ve never been willing to listen.”

  “Helping requires recognizing what the other person needs.”

  “I did. I do. You just refused to honor the fact that I’ve made my life in real estate. I know what I’m talking about. I’m experienced. But no, you’d rather consult with some guy in Chatham you’ve played golf with. Do you know how that feels? To be marginalized by your own parents? Meanwhile you’re giving this house away.”

  Grace inhaled, feeling the hot air burn her lungs. Why was this happening? Why were her boys so angry? What had she done wrong? “The Realtor, who, by the way, happens to be a woman, is extremely competent. We’ve known her for years, and she’s done a good job. And where we live is our business. How we spend our money is, too.”

  “That’s not true. We’re your sons. We have the right to know.”

  “Mom, Hank, stop. Both of you.” Erin’s efforts at reconciliation fell on deaf ears.

  “You haven’t shown the slightest concern for either of us,” Grace continued, finding that the words spilled from her lips. “You never have. And maybe that’s all right. Maybe children should never have to worry about their parents. But I can’t remember the last time you called to see how we were, you know, a call for no reason, a call to let us know you were thinking about us.”

  “Why do you want to make this my fault?”

  She looked at Hank, wanting his features to be familiar, his mind to be transparent. Instead she felt as though she’d dug a photograph of an ancestor out of a box, an image yellowed with age. She stared at the face, knowing she was related, that there was a blood connection, but having no idea who the person was.

  “This is a family!” Hank exploded. “When are you going to acknowledge that?”

  Grace felt tears well in her eyes. She didn’t want to cry, not now, not in front of the boys. It seemed too pathetic to weep with her china services and candelabra as a backdrop. “When we all start to act like one.” She took a deep breath to regain her composure. “All of us. Not Dad, not me. All of us.”

  “But a family doesn’t need to act. It just is. That’s what you don’t get. You treat us like we’re some meal you can cook to perfection. And when we don’t respond the way you want, you make us feel rotten. Well, let me tell you something. And perhaps now, at this stage of the game, you’ll finally listen. Erin and I aren’t a soufflé. And you’re not a master chef. We’re your sons, for better or for worse.” With that he threw his package of red stickers onto the table and walked out.

  Bain dismissed the incident. “He’s furious about the house and even more angry that we didn’t list it with him. He’ll get over it. It’s a tense time for all of us.” But Grace felt sick. She tried to reach him on his cell phone, but got no answer. Even Susan seemed reluctant to take a message, although she promised she’d tell him that his mother needed to speak to him.

  “How about a walk?” Erin asked, tentatively. “Please? It’s a beautiful afternoon, and even two rounds of miniature golf didn’t tire India and Deshawn. They’re eager to get out.”

  The children chased each other in a circle. Although she appreciated that they were able to amuse themselves with the most senseless of pastimes, just watching the energy expended was exhausting.

  “I don’t know if I can manage any more conversation, or should I say confrontation. Not with you.”

  “How about we talk about nothing?”

  Grace smiled, feebly. Her nerves felt raw. “So I can report that the Odd Lots is having a sale on cranberry soda, and we can feel like we’re communicating.”

  “Absolutely. We can even pick up a case if that’s what you want. And I promise not to launch into a lecture on the dangers of aspartame.”

  Under those circumstances, she agreed. A walk would do her good.

  The breeze had blown out the humidity. The children took off their shoes and frolicked, skipping stones and chasing seagulls. India brought a bucket and gathered feathers, sea glass, and even a dead horseshoe crab. “Look,” she said, holding it up by its long tail. “Did you know it’s related to the dinosaurs? That makes it a million billion years old. That’s even older than you, Grandma.”

  “Thank you for noticing,” Grace replied.

  As the children played, she and Erin walked along in silence. She stared at the various footprints ahead of her in the sand. One set belonged to a pair of large boots with thick-tread soles. She liked the carefully delineated pattern of grooves left behind.

  Erin carried Namid in a backpack. The baby’s arms dangled, and he made various indecipherable noises, expressing his excitement. Then, pointing, he called out, “Bird.” The word sounded like bud. Grace reached up to hold his hand, enveloping his small pudgy fingers in her palm. He smiled, and the sight warmed her. She wished every relationship were this easy.

  “Can I break our agreement?” Erin asked after a while. “Our agreement not to talk.”

  She’d known he would, known the walk wouldn’t be completely peaceful. It couldn’t be. Not after all they’d been through, the showdown, Hank’s fury. This was new territory for all of them, and having started something, they could not relax now. “Why not?” She rolled her eyes. “Bring it on.”

  He laughed, no doubt amused by his mother’s colloquialism. “Maybe candor will do all of us a bit of good. I mean, going forward.”

  Grace forced a smile, wishing she hadn’t let Hank leave. She should have followed him out, spoken to him before he got in his car and disappeared. “At the rate we’re going, it’s more likely that we’ll flee to the four corners of the earth and won’t have to put up with one another. An igloo on the North Pole actually sounds inviting. Peace, quiet, and polar bears.”

  “That works, too.” He squeezed the back of her arm and turned to face her. “I just want to apologize. You have a right to be angry. I don’t want the house sale to destroy us. It’s just a building with some bedrooms and a pool. I need to remind myself that the memories don’t get left behind when you and Dad move out.”

  “I wish your memories were happier. I somehow thought your childhood was idyllic, at least a lot of the time. I guess I was wrong. I never, ever meant to be judgmental.” It was hardly a response to his comment, but the word—the accusation—had echoed in her mind for the last several hours. Judgmental seemed the worst possible quality in a parent, a mother, the person who was supposed to love unequivocally and unconditionally. Why had that been so hard for her?

  He took her hand. “I guess I can’t blame you when I’ve been such a fuckup. Excuse my language,” he added.

  “If you were little, I’d wash your mouth out with soap.”

  He paused for a moment and furrowed his brow. The expression reminded her of Bain. “Did you ever do that?”

  “What?”

  “Actually put a bar of soap in my mouth, scrub my tongue with Ivory. I remember you threatening it all the time, but I can’t remember if it ever happened.”

  “Of course I didn’t.”

  She closed her eyes, remembering holding a sudsy white bar in her hand and shaking it at her son. He was in high school, but the language he’d used made him sound like a prison inmate or a gang member. She’d been shocked. As soap and water drops flew around her, he’d glared at her and walked away. “If you’re so into it, wash your own mouth,” he’d called from over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, I guess I would remember,” Erin said. “I probably would h
ave been sick.” He thought for a moment. “Then why did you threaten us?”

  “Why?” She wasn’t sure. She’d tried to assert some control. Manners were important, and part of that was proper language. “I didn’t want you and Hank to curse or swear, or even use slang for that matter, and it seemed the appropriate punishment. But you two won in the end.” The reality was that she couldn’t have wrestled her fifteen-year-old son over the sink and stuffed a bar of soap into his mouth. Even if she’d had the mental fortitude to follow through on her threat, she didn’t have the physical strength. “I was never very good at imposing my will on you two.”

  “Maybe we should have listened.”

  “That’s kind of you to say.” She wondered if his words were genuine.

  “Look, Mom, don’t think I don’t hate myself for still turning to you and Dad for help. I’m nearly thirty. I don’t want to be dependent. I’d like nothing better than to provide for my own kids the way Dad provided for us, give them a great education and a sense of security.”

  “It’s harder now. Things are more expensive, more difficult. I know that. Maybe your father and I were luckier than I realized.”

  “Maybe Dad had more business talent than I give him credit for.”

  “We’re fortunate for that, since he hasn’t written that great American novel we’ve all been waiting for.”

  “Do you think he ever will?”

  Grace looked at Erin, wondering what answer he’d prefer to hear. Would he feel better about himself if he knew his father had failed at something? Or would Erin seek inspiration from the idea that there was still time ahead for a man nearing his sixties to leave his mark on the world? “I’m not sure.”

  “Maybe Florida will inspire him.”

  “God help us if he’s inspired by that culture.”

  “Is it another time zone?”

  Grace shook her head. “Only another universe.”

  “And a plane ride. We’ll have to work harder . . . you know . . . to stay in touch.” His tone and expression were hopeful.

  Erin was right. Real connection—the rarity of what it was and what it meant—was hard to maintain. It was how she’d felt about Ferris, her only sibling, with Prissy, the one friend with whom she’d been completely honest, and with Sarah, the child who transformed her into a mother. And it was the link she had with Bain. Maybe it was because they were similar, or maybe difference had formed their bond. In any event, it was a love that had endured. She knew that without her, Bain would be only partly alive.

  Erin’s comment was more profound than he realized. In a brief period of time, Bain would be alone. He would need his sons and the distraction of his lively grandchildren more than ever. He didn’t have other family, and, in a new environment, he wouldn’t have the attention of old friends. Erin and Hank—both boys—would have to grow up. But she didn’t know how to relay the importance of that message without disclosing the truth. Her truth. The one she wouldn’t give up. “Yes. It’s not going to be—”

  An array of voices interrupted her conversation. Turning around, Grace saw that India and Deshawn had found Emily, hard at work in Prissy’s famous spot across from the town landing. She was talking to them, gesticulating with her rake, and showing off the contents of her bucket.

  “I see you’ve met my grandchildren,” Grace called out.

  “I think we have some clammers in the making. They want a lesson.”

  “A noble profession,” Grace responded. “I’m sure their father would approve. In fact, he may want to join you.”

  “Given the current status of my unemployment, anything that might bring in a buck or two is greatly appreciated,” he said, humbly.

  “And after all, your godmother was one of the very best,” Grace reminded him.

  With that she made the necessary introductions. Erin extended a hand, but Emily only held up her muddy palm.

  “How about we dispense with formalities?” he offered.

  “They don’t do much good around here, anyway,” Grace replied, as she took Namid from Erin’s back. Together, they settled in the sand to watch Erin, India, and Deshawn learn the basics of digging, finding, and measuring a Chatham clam.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Grace checked her list again. She’d ordered flowers—peonies were in season—five pounds of Wellfleet oysters, a case of champagne, a box of plastic flutes, and three dozen toile-print cocktail napkins. The card table that didn’t sell at her yard sale would serve as a bar since the dining room table would be packed onto a moving truck. The day before, she’d sent out laser-printed invitations that the local stationer’s store had done since there had been no time for engraving. Hank and Susan’s included a handwritten personal note urging them to come. Five days of silence was too long.

  All that was left was for her guests to RSVP, and for the movers to take away the furniture that remained. Then they could have a party.

  Despite the Realtor’s insistence that West Palm was the place to be, Bain had signed a lease on a two-bedroom apartment in Palm Beach. “A rental is better. We’re not locked in,” he’d explained. It was a modern high-rise, but it had a decent view of the Intracoastal and a balcony. Grace was relieved. Although she found herself more and more tired with each passing day, the end of this limbo was near. At least she would be able to help him get settled.

  She looked up from the writing table and noticed him standing in the doorway. His eyes were red. She wondered how long he’d been there.

  “I suspect we’ll have about fifty people,” she said, her voice cheerful. “It will be a wonderful chance to say good-bye.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “I’m only wondering about renting some chairs. Our friends aren’t getting any younger. Do you think people can stand the whole time?”

  Still he said nothing.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Is that what you’re concerned about? Where guests are going to sit? What is this party anyway—a memorial service? You don’t have to be like your mother. I’m perfectly capable of honoring you on my own. I could give you a thousand tributes, Grace.”

  Her heart pounded. She clenched her pen in her hand. “Why are you talking like this?” Her efforts at concealment sounded as pathetic and flimsy as they were.

  Bain rested his hand on the doorknob. “Dr. Preston called me. He was apologetic, said he normally wouldn’t speak to me, not directly, but apparently he’s been calling you for weeks and gotten no response.”

  I did respond. I left him a message. I told him to stay away. She wanted to defend herself but no words came out. The room started to spin.

  “He’s worried. Very worried. I asked him why he was worried about my wife?” Bain reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and then blew his nose. His gaze wandered beyond Grace and out the window at the still-covered pool. They hadn’t bothered to open it for the summer, another effort to cut back on costs. The Marxes could bear that expense after they moved in. They were no doubt going to remodel it anyway, spend thousands on a complex mosaic tile pattern, or at least repaint the bottom. “Am I the last to know? Were you ever going to tell me?”

  “Bain,” she said, feebly.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Then why?” Half lunging and half falling, he kneeled at her feet. “Is it cancer?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” As she spoke, the three small words made her gag.

  “Dr. Preston says you refuse to have any tests. He can’t even confirm the diagnosis or ascertain the severity. He says you’re giving up for no reason.”

  “No, not for no reason.”

  “Then why?”

  She looked into his tear-filled eyes. He hadn’t cried since Sarah’s death. His businesses had collapsed; their home had fallen into disrepair; he’d been hurt and mistreated by his two sons. And he’d simply barreled ahead at full throttle, leaving no wake of emotions behind him. Now he looked shattered
.

  How could she possibly explain everything that had gone through her mind in the last several weeks? How could she articulate her realization that she’d made so many mistakes without seeming to blame him—fault him—at the same time? Maybe that was what she wanted to do. Because, after all, weren’t they both responsible? Weren’t their failures shared?

  “I love you,” she said.

  He looked momentarily confused.

  “I always have and I always will.”

  “That’s not the point. Grace, you need to follow Dr. Preston’s advice and do what needs to be done. You can’t will this to go away,” he pleaded.

  “But I want you to understand that.”

  He paused, looked directly into her eyes, and gripped her knees. “I do. And it’s more important to me than anything in the world.”

  She wished at this moment that she could draw on a higher power for guidance. She needed strength. She had conviction, but she wasn’t at all sure she had the fortitude to convey it. Every ounce of her wanted to pick herself up out of her chair, excuse herself, and hide in her bedroom, ending any further discussion. That was the pattern she’d followed for the last fifty-eight years; it was the coping mechanism that worked, that made sense. And now she wondered if that avoidance had kept them together. If so, what would happen when she explained, asserted her own decision? This very conversation was what she’d been desperate to avoid.

  “I don’t want chemotherapy or operations or radiation. I don’t want to be in the process of dying.”

  “You’re not.”

  “No, Bain, don’t dismiss this. I need you to listen. Really listen. Not just hear the words. Can you do that, do that for me?”

  He nodded.

  “I want to be me, here, alive, and then gone, with nothing in between.”

  “But if you’re sick—”

  She touched his lips with her finger to silence him.

  “I’m fifty-eight. I look at my life and wonder what happened. I’ve accomplished almost nothing. I’m a mother and my children resent me. There probably isn’t time to change that. Hank won’t even speak to me.”