“No. I went there to see my son—”
“Other son,” I said, reminding him of how insensitive he was.
“This would be my cue for departure,” Eric said and dropped his plate and fork in the sink. “Take cover. Incoming!” he said on his way out the door.
“Wait here, Sigmund,” I said to Richard, “I’ll be right back.” I hurried to the door and found Eric waiting at the elevator. “Eric? Don’t mind your father. This is about him and me. Not you. Okay?”
“Sure, Mom,” he said, but the familiar pain was clear in his eyes, “I know that. Every time I get around Harry it’s always that pack-order alpha-male thing with him. He can’t help it. Neither can Dad.”
“I love you, Eric, so very much. Wait, I’ll walk with you.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I’m walking with a million people,” he said and hugged me. The elevator door opened and he all but jumped in. As the door was closing I heard him say, “You’re the best, Mom!”
“So are you!” I said, calling out as the door closed with the bing of a bell.
I turned and faced my apartment door. I should say our apartment door, but at the moment I didn’t want to think of sharing. I went in and closed it, intending to ignore Richard, because what was the point? He preferred his other son. I knew it, Eric knew it, Lois knew it, and dear, precious, and perfect little Harry knew it and worked it too. They all worked it, including Richard. Harry was a tool and loved it. He was like the little brother of Tony Perkins at the Bates Motel. Harry Bates, just waiting to stab someone through a shower curtain.
I will admit that I tried to sneak down the hall, but good old Richard was waiting for me at the door of the kitchen.
“Shall we talk?” he said, motioning for me to follow him to the living room.
I just looked at him. Not a shred of guilt or remorse on his fifty-year-old face. “I don’t have the strength, Richard, to play psychodrama with you this morning. I have a yoga class at ten.”
“And I have a very busy morning too. Caroline, I think you know well that I love both of my sons equally.”
There he was. Receding hairline, gray at the temples, wire-rimmed glasses, camel-colored cashmere cardigan with woven leather buttons, fresh white shirt, and loose gray flannel trousers. The Jungian King of Denial.
“Nope, I know nothing of the sort,” I said, rising to his bait. “And neither does anyone else.”
“I can’t be held responsible for the opinions of others.”
“Of course, but even you’ll admit it is possible to influence them.”
“Perhaps.”
“Would it be out of line for me to inquire where you were until two this morning?”
“Was it that late?” He reached in the humidor on the coffee table and began packing his pipe with tobacco.
“Yep.”
He cleared his throat, tried to look boyish, and said, “I didn’t realize, but with the weather and all, it was impossible to get a taxi.”
“Right. That’s why you came to your marital bed reeking of your ex-wife’s vile Opium. No cabs. Gee, I knew that.”
“Caroline, she merely gave me an innocent kiss on the cheek as I left.” I wasn’t buying that load of malarkey and he saw that when I cocked my head to the side and pursed my lips, blinking my eyes to say, Right, honey. I fell off the turnip truck yesterday. I tried to get past him but he blocked my passage. He grabbed me by the arm in anger and just looked at me. The rage was there, right under his civilized surface.
“Let go of my arm, Richard.”
He jerked it loose, sending it around the front of my body. “I just want to talk, Caroline. I don’t want to fight.”
“Then quit lying to me. Better yet, quit lying to yourself and everyone else.” Why did he get angry with me when he was wrong? I wasn’t taking it this time.
“Just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Look, you want to talk? Let’s talk.” I pushed by him and sat in his favorite chair. Waiting. He watched me, taken back that I’d have the nerve to take his spot. He then took a seat opposite me. Silence. “So, tell me how you happened to come in so late with that rarest of all fragrances clinging to you like a virus. Nothing like a little Eau de Ex to boost a girl’s confidence in her husband.”
“Caroline, I know you’re jealous of Lois and at some point you’re going to have to deal with that. Ever since she moved into the city, you’ve been out of sorts. Of course, that’s perfectly normal, given the circumstances. But I’d like to assure you that you have nothing to be jealous about. In fact, I’m flattered by it.”
“Richard, we’re not going there, dear. No, we’re not. What we’re talking about is your fidelity. And the hour of your return. And the unmistakable scent of Lois, who’s perpetually on the prowl to get you back, which is why she moved to Manhattan in the first place! And the way you constantly deride Eric. Words hurt, Richard, and so does a lack of them.”
“My fidelity is unquestionable, Caroline. I got home late because I fell asleep on our couch.”
“Our?”
“Sorry, her couch. But, I was sitting on it with Harry. We had just finished reading his application essay to Choate, the fire was warm, I had drunk two cognacs, there was an old movie on . . . I guess I fell asleep. Lois had gone to bed earlier, and then Harry turned in as well. I guess he thought I’d wake up. Anyway, at some point, Lois came out and woke me. All very embarrassing, you know. When I left, she gave me a peck on the cheek.”
“She probably put melatonin in your drink.”
“Perhaps. I wouldn’t put it past her. And as to my remarks in front of Eric. Look, I don’t want to hurt him. I truly love our son. I do. But you must admit that you baby him and I am left in the unfortunate position to be the tough one.”
“I don’t baby him, Richard. I show him that I care about him.”
“Look, Caroline, let’s face facts, darling. Shall we?”
“I’m all in favor of that,” I said, thinking any minute I was going to rise from his chair and strangle him with my bare hands.
“Eric has limits. Harry is rather, well, a superstar.”
“What?”
“Harry is going places in this world, and living with Lois is enough to make him fail and never get anywhere. Boarding school would be a blessing for him. I try to step in when I can and lend a hand. That’s all.”
“No, Richard, that’s not all. Eric isn’t perfect, to be sure, but he’s very bright and happens to have had a fine-motor disability that prevented him from writing all that’s in his head. But he’s been doing really great and you know it!”
“I’ll admit that he is vastly improved.”
“Harry is practically sociopathic. He hasn’t been here once in ten years when he hasn’t tried to hurt Eric and then lied about it until the cows come home. I hope he gets into Choate. Maybe they can teach him how to behave.”
“He probably will. His chances are excellent. I have a colleague on their board.” He could see me bristle at his Old Boys’ Network. “All children lie, Caroline. It’s part of their developmental growth of self-protection.”
“Richard?”
“Okay, I admit it. Harry can be difficult. But you must admit, he’s brilliant.”
“So is Eric!”
Richard lit his pipe and examined my face, saying nothing at the assertion that Eric and Harry were intellectual peers.
“Because we have a screwed-up educational system, a kid like Harry will get to go to one of the best boarding schools in the country and Eric is in special ed! It’s not right!”
“You wouldn’t want Eric to go away to school anyway, Caroline!”
“That’s not the point! Look, maybe Eric’s not a genius, but he’s extremely bright. More importantly, he’s also sensitive, loving, and generous, and your attitude is hurting him. If you can’t see that, I don’t know how you got a license to practice head medicine.”
“If you think I’m hurting him then I will try to be more cognizant o
f that and attempt to be more sensitive. So what else is on your mind? I can see that you’re troubled. You have this provincial puritanical belief that you must bear your burdens alone.”
Cognizant. I love it when he’s cognizant! Provincial? Why was I always wrong? Puritanical? It was one of the most maddening features of his personality—this ability to shift blame. He had done it again. But, maybe he was right.
“Nothing,” I said. I wanted to say, Why don’t you do something provincial like take your cognizant and stick it up your puritanical ass, buddy? Obviously, I’d been watching The Sopranos too much.
“Come on, Caroline,” he said in that voice he usually only used when naked, “tell me what’s bothering you. I don’t want you to carry your sack of stones by yourself.”
I was suddenly aware of the light behind him. It came streaming down through the window and the bleak grayness of the late February morning like razor-thin shards of spring promise. For some reason I believed that he was not fooling around with Lois and that he did truly love Eric as much as Harry. At least it was what I wanted to believe—what I needed to believe. I wanted to tell him everything to lighten my heart and ease my mind.
“It’s Trip,” I said.
“Ah,” he said.
“Exactly,” I said, shaking my head back and forth, acknowledging his instantaneous understanding. “And, it’s Mother.”
“Ah, well,” he said, arching his eyebrows and looking way too amused for my money. “What bit of naughtiness has my mother-in-law found her way into now?”
“Trip is such an asshole,” I said.
“True,” he said, waiting, as if to say, But that’s not the answer to my question.
“He thinks she’s sleeping with Jenkins.”
“That’s absurd. Interesting, but absurd.”
“He thinks she’s losing her marbles.”
“Who knows? He may be losing his.”
“As if he ever had any,” I said. “But here’s the kicker. He says he’s going to have her committed to an institution.” I went on to explain how it was possible for him to actually get away with it and Richard was visibly horrified.
“Good God, Caroline,” was all he said for what seemed like a long time. “Well, you simply can’t allow that to happen. Plain and simple.”
“What am I supposed to do about it? I live a thousand miles away, I have a husband, a son to care for, and a business to run!”
He looked at me like the doctor again. “It’s perfectly normal for a daughter to resent this kind of imposition, especially given your relationship—or lack of a relationship—with Lavinia through the years. But, Caroline, she is your mother and you are her only other child. You can’t stand by and watch her be robbed of her independence without at least looking into it.”
I got up and opened the rest of the curtains, continuing the morning rituals, trying to avoid Richard for a moment, trying to anticipate what he would say next. “What are you thinking?” I said.
He got up from the chair and smiled at me. “I’m thinking that you have to go see for yourself,” he said. “Besides, you haven’t been down there in almost a year.”
“Eighteen months,” I said.
“A lot can happen in eighteen months,” he said. “I can keep the boy . . .”
“Eric,” I said.
“Eric,” he said with emphasis and a suspicious smile. “Look, it would be good for the two of us to have some time and it would be better for you to be free to spend your time with Lavinia.”
“Well, I know you’re right. I’ll think about it.” At least Eric can keep an eye on you and that tramp ex-wife of yours while I’m gone. Thank God he couldn’t read my mind. “Maybe, just for a few days.”
MISS CAROLINE’S JOURNAL
I am so worried about Mother. Something is definitely off-kilter and I know it. I’m haunted that Trip is up to no good and Mother is his target.What can I do even if she is? Sure, I talk to Mother a lot on the phone, but if I try to bring up something unpleasant in the slightest, she doesn’t listen to me! She’s so stubborn and bullheaded. She won’t hear that Eric is anything short of perfection and if she knew half the things I think about Richard, she’d pitch a fit. If she knew about the night at Lois’s, she’d burst into flames! Thank God I’m like my father. I’m pretty calm by nature. And, I don’t want to get involved in a bunch of sibling junk with Trip. I have enough issues to handle as it is. I’m just gonna go for a look-see and then come home and ask Richard to help me figure it all out.
Eleven
Miss Lavinia Says Her Piece
I gave life to two children in my lifetime and there was never doubt, not even a tiny shred of doubt in my mind, that they both would be the cause of my death. Death by Annoyance and Frustration. That’s how I would go. Let’s get one thing straight. I did not try to kill Trip with my grand-daddy’s Parker Old Reliable. I was cleaning it, he was yelling at me from across the yard, and it fired. The shot landed in the live oak tree next to the house, flushing out a flock of pigeons and wrens. I will admit that the girls and I had been out on the courses, killing clay birds, and perhaps we had imbibed a bit of something to ease the glare of the sun. All right. I know I should never drink and handle a shotgun. But this would’ve happened if I’d been drinking lemonade. An accident, you hear me?
Trip left the house this evening to drive on back to Walterboro where he lives with that wife of his and three of the most squeaky clean and insipid children I have ever seen in all my days—and just how many days I’ve seen is nobody’s damn business. He has been fussing around here like I don’t know what—F. Lee Bailey or some detective looking for evidence, digging into my business. Well, I am going to put a stop to it for once and for all. I just have not yet figured out the course of action to take. But I will.
Why, just this afternoon he started up with me again. We were sitting on the back porch drinking a tall glass of sweet tea in my beautiful water glasses I brought home from Ireland years ago. I remarked to him that it was a lovely South Carolina day and that soon the Confederate Jasmine would be in bloom and how I dearly loved the smell. I knew damn good and well he was itching to put his boat in the river and go fishing but I was determined to make him stay and visit with me for a few minutes. I would not be treated like the harbor captain of a marina. So I decided that he would just have to sit for a short spell whether he liked it or not. He did not.
He was particularly contentious in that he declined to split a brownie with me and I knew they were his favorite. I tried to make light conversation and to be pleasant. So I said to him, “Son, what do you plan to catch today?”
“Nothing if I keep sitting here,” he said.
Well! I thought that was extremely rude and unnecessary so I said, “Darlin’, I would never dream of holding you here or anywhere against your wishes. I am so sorry if there’s someplace you’d rather be. Truly, I am.”
Well, that got his goat. He got up and walked the full length of the porch, expelling a sigh from his nose, which by the strength of it, in my mind seemed like a fire-breathing dragon. Gave me a good giggle, but I held my peace. When he came back to where we were sitting he leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“Sorry, Mother. That came out wrong.”
“Of course it did,” I said. “It’s all right.”
“So, Mother? Would you like to share with me just how you managed to scrape your knees, hands, and face?”
“It is the height of all rudeness, Trip, to comment on another’s misfortunes.”
“Why did I know you’d say something like that?”
“Sweet boy, I don’t mean to frustrate you, but I don’t wish to discuss it.”
Don’t you know that he sat with me for five more minutes and then went straight inside to Millie and she told him the whole story? In all my days! Such impudence! Such betrayal! And no conscience about it either! I never should have allowed him to become a lawyer! It only served to encourage him to be the unfortunate way he had
become and allowed him to justify his most ungenteel behavior under the guise of caring about his poor old—so old she’s half dead—mother.
They say I am irascible, but I was well within my rights when I called him last night and read him the riot act. He still wants me to consider moving into a retirement community! Oh, yes! He made a grand speech! He went on and on about how beautiful they are and how I’d make new friends. Then he pussyfooted around about how inconvenient it was for his poor pregnant wife to be constantly burdened to check on me and how they would soon have four children and their house was too small. Did he think for one split second that I couldn’t see through him? I told him he was completely insane. And that where I lived and how I spent my time was none of his affair. And for good measure I reminded him that it wasn’t my fault Frances Mae was pregnant! Again! What nerve!
And this money-borrowing thing of his has simply got to stop. He wanted another ten thousand dollars! I said to him, Dear boy, you must think Mother prints it in the basement! He did not even smile at my clever remark (as we do not have a basement), but, in fact, looked slightly annoyed. When I asked him again what it was for, he became visibly anguished. I don’t give a toot. I’m not giving him any more money until he tells me what’s going on.
Don’t think I didn’t take care of Millie’s bahunkus either. When I realized she had blabbed on me and the girls, I went straight to her in the kitchen. She was just as calm as could be, humming a little tune and polishing my mother’s Strasbourg silver flatware, which had been given to her mother before her by a dear family friend descended from Robert E. Lee himself on the occasion of her marriage. Well, alright, I got it through Neiman Marcus online, but who needs to know that?
“Millie?” My voice sounded shrill. Her eyebrows shot up. There was nothing more offensive than a lady with a shrill voice unless, of course, it was a natural, God-given sound. And then it honestly could not be helped.
“Yes’m, Miss Lavinia?” She continued to work without raising her eyes to meet mine.
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