by Marge Piercy
“Talk to Dorothy, please. I don’t know anything about it.” She was slightly ashamed to play dumb, but she was not about to sign his deeds.
He paced around the living room, frowning. “If they do bother you, call my office and let me know.”
“Why would they?” She did not sit but stood in the doorway to the hall. She tried to understand what she was afraid of: that he would question her, that they would have a dreadful fight, that he would figure out her strategy? She feared more pain from him.
“It could be dangerous, you know. You can’t tell what they might do, with you here alone.”
She felt ashamed for him. “Ross, forget it. They have no reason to be angry with me.
“Once you sign those papers, of course not. In the meantime, you’re vulnerable to them.” He was trying to sound friendly. “I don’t like to think of you here alone dealing with them.”
She could not even summon up the irony to congratulate him on his concern. She found herself embarrassed by what she saw as his willingness to lie not only to her but most overwhelmingly to himself.
He was sitting in his old chair, so that she almost expected him to turn on the television and start watching a game, but for once he was looking directly at her. “It’s sad that it came to this,” he murmured. “We had a lot between us, old darling.”
“Do you think you could manage just once to address me with some phrase that did not include old in it? I’m younger than you are, old boy.”
He tsk-tsked, as if her folly depressed him. They both seemed to feel the other had lost a grip on reality. He said then, as if suddenly struck, “You remember my fortieth birthday? When you gave me that absurd party?”
“Nobody but you thought it was.” She started to sink in her rocker, then rose as if stung. She would not encourage a long conversation. She remained standing, her arms folded across her breasts. “It was a lovely party.
“For you! Everybody fussing about you. Look what Daria has done!” He mimicked falsetto voices. “What cakes, what cookies, what hors d’oeuvres. Daria! Daria! Daria!”
She had rented (at special price to her) a restaurant where she had several times run cooking classes. There she had staged a surprise party. Ross had been feeling depressed about turning forty, and she had sought to buoy him up. It had been a great success for everybody but him.
“Ross, I really don’t want to have a long conversation now.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“You’ve gone to some lengths to avoid me. You moved out.”
“That was for the best, can’t you see?” He glared. “I’m not made of money, if that’s what you told that fat little shyster who’s working for you. Things are tight. Very tight. I need my capital out of this house, I’m warning you.”
“I need this house to live in. So does Tracy when she’s home. This is my office as well as my house, and I like it just fine.”
“If you drag me down, you’ll go down too,” he said darkly and retreated to his study, slamming the door.
Ten minutes later, she banged on it. “Would you please take what you want and clear out? I have company coming.”
“Who?” He opened the door a crack.
“No one you know.” She crossed her arms, facing him. “I’d like your stuff out of that room completely by next week. I need the room.”
The door flew open. “You need the room! For what? The cat box?”
“I live here. You don’t. You live in a condo and with your girlfriend. I don’t want your office effects in my house any longer.”
“It isn’t your house.”
“It isn’t all my house yet. It will be.”
“Damn you, you’re coming out a complete bitch.” He pushed past. As he dragged on his overcoat he turned with a scowl. “Remember when I had heatstroke, how you made fun of me in front of my mother?”
“Ross! I didn’t make fun of you. I just knew you weren’t dying.”
“Mother was right about you. If you want war, you’ll have war, but it’ll ruin both of us.” He ran down to his car.
Dorothy called the next day. “We have his financial statement. I’d appreciate your coming by to take a look at it. Ross appears to be a pauper.”
“How can that be?”
“Oh, planning for divorce is as tricky as planning for taxes. I expect he’s hidden his assets away in some of those trusts you mentioned. He doesn’t list that bank account your accountant uncovered. I’m going to send a copy of Ross’s statement to him and have him compare it with the tax returns. I think we’ll turn up a lot of goodies that have disappeared.”
“But what can we do?”
“Hit him with some facts, give him another chance to make a correct statement. We can require him to make a legal deposition. Lying on that is perjury. We have a lot of moves, Daria.”
That evening she had supper with Gretta at Mario’s. The relationship remained cordial, and she could count on a reduced-price meal with wine on the house. She had not been there, she realized, in a year. Ross claimed to think the restaurant had gone downhill, although she suspected what he disliked was the fuss around her when she walked in. Usually she went with Gussie and Don, to give them a treat on birthdays or anniversaries.
Gretta loved the fuss and the free wine. They worked through two carafes in the course of a relaxed and bountiful meal—hot antipasto, including the zucchini with anchovy-flavored stuffing she had invented a decade before, seafood cannelloni, a crisp salad of endive. Over espresso Gretta dipped into her huge leather purse and began to spread out brochures. “Now what you need, darling, is to busy yourself. Join things. Meet people.”
As Daria hefted the catalogue from the Cambridge Adult Education Center, a harsh sigh rose from her. “I taught a course there. I don’t think—”
“Surely there are dozens of things you always wanted to learn. French? Plant identification. Then you won’t always be having to ask Alice.”
Envisioning herself taking earnest notes in a classroom, she felt more depressed. “I didn’t love school. I prefer learning on my own.”
“But the point is to meet people.”
“I do meet people.”
“Men, silly. Pick out a sport. Did you ever play tennis? Ski? Ice-skate? There are always lots of men at political events. Work for a candidate. Join something environmental.”
“Gretta, it sounds like being in college again. All that’s lacking are freshman mixers. No, really, I don’t crave male company.”
“But you will. You must! You can’t just rattle around in that house talking to your cats and making yourself elaborate soufflés. He’s retired you to the shelf, but I want some fighting spirit before rot sets in.”
It was nine when they finished and rose wavering. On the sidewalk, Gretta clutched her arm. “Ross lives around here, doesn’t he?”
“Actually, I have the address. On Commercial.”
Gretta poked her. “Let’s go look his scene over.”
“Suppose he sees us?”
“Darling, he’d be nonplussed if he did.”
“I’d be mortally embarrassed.”
“Besides, you don’t imagine he sits at the window all evening looking at his view? It’s Friday night—he’s out with her. As I would be with my dear young man, if he wasn’t in Vermont skiing. Frankly, escape is nice now and then. He’s dear in the obvious respects, but he has a sweet tooth you could drive six sugar horses through, and he watches far too much telly.”
Daria found herself-giggling as they picked their way over the ice-rutted narrow sidewalks of the North End, rivulets of ice between the tall old brick tenements, past bakeshops and noodle factories, past butcher shops where furry rabbits hung.
Commercial Street bounded one of the harbor edges, a broad heavily potholed thoroughfare where the small winding streets came out suddenly to windswept space, old brick and granite wharf buildings, the grey water beyond. In her childhood those massive wharf buildings had still been warehouses, but n
ow they were luxury condominiums with expensive restaurants, decorators, architects and lawyers on the ground floors.
“I bet it’s that one.” Gretta pointed over to Union Wharf. The granite slab was refurbished and the double row of brick town houses had been erected farther out on the old wharf.
“Wrong address. It’s got to be on the land side.”
They clambered over hills compounded of dirt, ice and solidified exhaust fumes. Some of the narrow brick buildings on their side had already been renovated into dim and woody restaurants called Chez this and Aux that, realty offices, Scandinavian design shops, homemade ice-cream parlors with long lines even on a freezing night. On the corner stood a six-story functioning cold storage warehouse that doubtless would blossom out soon as a luxury condominium.
Ross’s building stood farther along, facing a still active warehouse that blocked the water view. Some buildings on his block had already undergone their transformation; others were untouched; some had dumpsters in front receiving the rubble from surgery in progress. Ross’s was in the final stages of renovation, although most of the apartments looked inhabited.
“Reklaw Reality.” Gretta chuckled, reading the sign. “What a name.”
“He owns it,” Daria breathed in amazement.
“This? It’s a little pricy, isn’t it?”
“But look, that name is Walker spelled backward. And the phone number is his office.”
“You’re kidding.” Gretta squinted at the sign. “You’re not kidding.”
Which would number five be? She stood out in the street but could not guess the interior layout. A man crossing the street stopped beside her, following her gaze to the building. “Are you one of the other poor suckers who bought into this mess?” The man asked.
“Not yet. I was considering it,” Daria said. “Is something wrong with the building?”
“Is everything wrong?” He pointed to the unfinished floor. “It was supposed to be all done last September. I’ve moved in but they’re still building around us. Think of the suckers who thought they were moving in six months ago. I’ll tell you, for the last three months, nothing’s happened. The workmen haven’t been back. No wonder people are selling out already.”
“What reason do they give for not finishing?”
“They don’t give any reasons. You just try and get them on the phone.”
“But the man who owns the building lives in number five, didn’t you know?”
Gretta giggled audibly.
“Are you sure?” The man stared. “Number five?”
“Mr. Ross Walker. Don’t you know him?”
“The one with the dogs? He’s never there. But I’m going to lie in wait for him. Number five. Thanks, I mean it.”
Daria felt chilled by the blast of the wind off the cold waters of the harbor, but quite pleased with herself. “You want to stop and have a cannoli on Hanover?” she asked Gretta. “We deserve it.”
Saturday Daria interviewed women she had not screened out on the phone. She knew she could not live with a twenty-year-old. She wanted somebody her own age, give or take ten years.
Her first visitor would have been fine, without child. The boy in question within twenty minutes broke a cup and saucer, pulled the books from the bookcase in the corner of the living room and peed on the braided rug while his mother sat beaming. She didn’t believe in breaking a child’s spirit, she told Daria.
Number two chain-smoked. Daria thought perhaps she could try to get used to that. After all, the woman’s son seemed housebroken. However, the woman turned out to be a strict and proselytizing vegetarian who, while smoking furiously, lectured Daria on the carcinogens in meat. Seeing anyone cook it sickened her and Daria must be careful to leave no meat scraps visible; they would use the kitchen at different times on a fixed schedule. Daria did not point out that the cats and the dog were carnivores.
Number three was sweet but obviously distraught. She kept glancing out the window as if watching for someone. Daria could not decide if she were paranoid—perhaps just released from a mental institution—or if she had a husband she was escaping, whom she expected to drive up with a tommy gun. Daria did not want to find out which possibility was the bad news in question.
Number four had three children and needed more room. She wanted Daria to move into the downstairs study and give her the whole upstairs.
Number five was a darling, an older woman who worked as a bank teller, loved gardening, seemed literate with no striking oddities. However, she was allergic to cats. They parted in mutual regret.
“Yeah, I was in the old neighborhood last week eating with a friend, at Santarpio’s,” Daria said. She was chatting with Gussie cradling the phone between ear and shoulder while doling out catfood. Ali had climbed on the counter to eat from the can. Then Sheba leaped up behind him and batted him in the rear. As he swung to retaliate, Sheba lunged and they tangled among the dishes and opened can.
“Susie said she thought it was you, but she wasn’t sure. Susie Croto, used to be Calacitto when you were in school together?”
“Susie Calacitto! I didn’t even see her. Where was she hiding?”
“You wouldn’t know her. There’s twice what there used to be, you know how it is. Shut up, Bobbie! She said she’s seen you on TV a couple of times, so she knew it was you for sure.”
“I wish she’d said hello.”
“You know how people are. So who was the guy?”
“Him? He’s a carpenter.”
“Doing some work for you?”
“No, he’s a representative of this tenants group who are mad at Ross.” She carried the phone on its long cord to the trestle table in the dining room.
“Is Ross really trying to screw you over, or what? Tony won’t talk about it. Our sweet brother. You know he’s siding with Ross. Tony and Ross are tighter than ever. Proving money is thicker than blood.”
“Ross and I are fighting about a settlement.… Gussie, you know how when we got back from Florida I took some of Mama’s things to her old friends, Liz and Patsy?”
“I would’ve done it. But you were the one who went through everything.… The kids love having that afghan Grandma knit.”
“When I went to see Patsy, she wasn’t friendly. She had a grudge against me, something about what happened next door.”
“Jesus, sissie, what do you expect? She’s still living there. Why wouldn’t she be pee-oed!
“Gussie, why? It wasn’t our fault the house burned down. Was it?”
“That’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it?”
“How come?”
“Daria, why rake over these old issues? Patsy remembers because she lives right next door, but nobody else cares anymore.”
“But, Gussie, what did people get angry about? What do they think happened?”
“You guys let the house run down. You didn’t put one cent into it. It made me feel lousy when I went by. You know how nice Mama kept it. With her garden out back and his arbor and all.”
“The tenants beat it into the ground. It’s not fair to blame us.”
“You picked the tenants. You didn’t keep it up. Every year it looked crummier. You just milked it for what you could get out, subdividing it, letting it rot. Okay so maybe it was the boiler, who will ever know?”
“I thought it was supposed to be a tenant smoking in bed. What do you think it was?”
“Aw come on, Daria. You know what everybody says.”
“I don’t know what everybody says, or I wouldn’t be asking. I’m begging now. What are you talking about?”
“Like they say, go sell it to the insurance company. You know. Instant Parking Lot.”
“That’s the same phrase Patsy used.”
“So what did you think she meant? Honestly, Daria, sometimes you like to play dumb! It’s been that way since you were a kid. You pretend you don’t catch on to things you don’t want to notice.”
“That’s not fair, Gussie!”
“Oh, yeah? Yo
u must have known, really known for months that Ross had a girlfriend.”
“Gussie, do you believe what you’re saying? That Ross and I burned Mama’s old house?”
“Ross and you and Tony and Cesaro. You all had money tied up in it. You know how parking is near the Square. That lot does a good business for local parking and for the airport.”
“I can’t believe my own sister is saying this about me!” Daria’s eyes began to water.
“Daria, come off it! What do I care? You’re still my sister. But don’t be so innocent about why Patsy isn’t your friend no more.”
“Gussie, you’re wrong. I know how close together the houses are. In a strong wind they could all go up. I’d never do anything like that, and neither would Ross or Cesaro.… On Tony, I wouldn’t care to place any bets.”
“We’re used to it here. You look around some time and see what’s happening. But honestly, Daria, you’ve been the same way all your life. I remember when Pops left us for two months and he was living with that Panzini woman, you pretended to believe he was off working in New York. When your girlfriend Maureen was knocked up, you were the only one around who went through the motions of believing she got a job in summer camp, ha-ha. You’re the only person I ever met, who if I told you I ran into a doorknob and that’s how I got a black eye, you’d believe me. Or you’d pretend to. I think you just like to avoid trouble.”
After the phone call, Daria felt roughly shaken, as if Gussie had picked her up like a kitten and rattled her bones. She was still feeling confused through and through when Ross called. “Daria,” he crooned, “I wanted to talk to you. How are you?” he asked unctuously. “How are you doing? Are you really all right?”
“Fine,” she said shortly. “What do you want, Ross?”
“I don’t want anything, except to know how you’re doing. I don’t want us to be enemies. We were married for twenty-two years. I want you to know, Daria, I mean the best for you. All this business of lawyer calling up lawyer and accountant screaming at accountant, it has nothing personal to do with us.”
“Of course not,” she said sweetly.
“Trust me, Daria. I want what’s best for you. That’s the only reason I worry so much about your failure to act on signing those deeds. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”