The Angry Woman Suite

by Lee Fullbright

  I was loath to let go of my indignation. “So he just left,” I reiterated, as if Matthew hadn’t stepped outside the town hall in time to see the embarrassing fiasco for himself. “Elizabeth tells Lear when to jump and he asks how high! What was he thinking, leaving? He’s supposed to oversee Festival, not go home! He was supposed to stay till the end!” Matthew and I were back at the mill house, under the oak, Matthew in a lawn chair looking reflective, and I pacing.

  “You’ve never married,” Matthew mused.

  “So?” I demanded. “What’s that to do with anything?”

  “Elizabeth is angry at a situation, but not the one you think. When you’re married, it’s never the one you think.”

  “I’ve no idea what—”

  “Of course you don’t. Think, Aidan. What’s the one thing Lear never talks about?”

  I knew immediately. His progeny with Elizabeth: the monster named Stella. The one who couldn’t speak. The one no one ever saw. The freak. The freak who had to be someone else’s fault because something freakish is invariably someone else’s fault—Stella was the one subject that Lear never brought up, even when he’d too much to drink.

  “It’s the Stella child! It is, isn’t it, Matthew? She’s real! Did Lear tell you? I’m always the last to know … well, just never mind. What’s Elizabeth going to do, punish Lear his whole damn life because Stella’s real—and he spawned her? And Lear’s just going to let Elizabeth?” Even as the words jutted out of me, another part of me conjured up Lear’s alternatives. Divorce was unthinkable. Nobody ever got divorced; no one but real losers; fast, easy people, but there was no one like that in three, maybe four counties. No, divorce was unthinkable. I leaned in toward Matthew. I had to know.

  “Is it true? Is the child real? Is she a monster?”

  Matthew sighed. “You know, Aidan, you think you have the right answers to everything, but you don’t even have the right questions.”

  I pulled back, stung.

  “Never mind. I have hope for you. Unlike some people, you at least know you’re not engaged … not with your mother, not with me, not Lear, not with anybody. Not really. Because if you were, you’d know things. Simple things. But you’re happy as a clam puttering away on your museum and your music and this festival, which is all well and good—but until, and if, you’re ever truly engaged with someone who’s real and breathing and inconsistent, and I mean someone over twelve years old, Aidan, you’re missing some frames for reference—in other words, you know nothing, my friend.”

  I was sluiced into major offended dignity. There’d been no call to slam me, and although Matthew’s tone hadn’t been truly unkind, the words hurt because he’d hit pay dirt: I was critical. Plus, I’d never had the desire to become better acquainted with reasons for my reactions, as in recognizing that my annoyance with Lear that day had little to do with him leaving Festival early, so much as it did him leaving me, us, Festival, for Elizabeth, who’d been so rudely dismissive of me during my first visit to Grayson House.

  So there we were. Back to me again.

  Whoever it was that said lies hurt is full of shit. Fact is, reality hurts, especially when delivered by icons. I went straight home to Washington’s Headquarters after Matthew passed judgment on me, to my relics, to my long-suffering mother, and in my sleep, half-waking, half-dreaming, I hugged myself against the reality coming out of and around me, against what I didn’t want to see and against what I thought I’d seen—and not the least of that had been the murderous look in little Lothian Grayson’s eyes.

  ELYSE

  Sacramento 1955

  One night, back in those lovely Sacramento days before Francis and the horror of Biloxi, I got to feeling unusually put out over all the different sorts of men visiting our house and patting Aunt Rose’s butt and making so much noise and music I could barely think. Papa saw my bottom lip sticking out a foot and said mildly, “It’s viel besser not to go through life showing your underwear, Elyse.”

  I’d been pacing—we were out on the patio, smoked out by Aunt Rose’s company—but that stopped me. “What?” Terrified the elastic on my underpants had given way, I looked down.

  “It’s a Hüllwort,” Papa said with a slight smile.

  “English,” I said, automatically, just like Mother.

  “A euphemism.”

  I thought this over for just a second. “Well, I don’t like those,” I fumed. And then, “What are they?”

  “In this case, a nice way of saying the world could use a little more truth.”

  He was on his truth train again.

  “Well, Papa, I just don’t see the point to all these people here. Grandma’s got the night off—”

  “And you think it’d be nice if we could have an evening at home by—”

  “Now shut the fuck up,” my grandmother said nicely to Papa, taking a drag off her own cigarette. “Let the girl talk.”

  Mother was out for the evening, so we weren’t on what Aunt Rose called “Diana behavior.” Aunt Rose was getting her fanny pinched, Grandma was talking the way she couldn’t when Mother was around, and I was working myself up into a whale of a snit—and Bean, already fast asleep despite the racket, didn’t count. Papa, though, was more or less his everyday self, sizing up all of Aunt Rose’s drunk friends.

  “Yes,” I answered Papa. “I want everybody to go home.”

  “There are three rules to this game,” Papa announced out of the blue.

  My mood lifted considerably. “What’s the name of the game, Papa?”

  “It’s called ‘Speak Your Truth’—but the goal is not to tell too much, otherwise you’re showing your underwear. And the rules are that you cannot tell an outright lie, you cannot be insulting, and you cannot manipulate by way of a snit to get your point across, understand?”

  “Yes,” I said, suddenly uneasy.

  “Good. Now go in the house and ask your aunt if you could speak to her for a minute, in the kitchen. Then ask her politely if she would send her friends home so we can have some nice family time, think you can do that?”

  I looked through the patio sliding glass doors, heart sinking. “You do it,” I whispered.

  “Ah, and was this not the point of the snit all along? Why did you not just ask me direct?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered, nearing tears.

  Papa’s arms opened. “Mein liebes,” he murmured into my hair. “Don’t ever be afraid of the truth … and never pretend you don’t feel anything, because that’s when you will make a wrong move. But remember, as much as the world needs truth, it also needs a little mystery now and then to keep people like me happy. Too much telling is when you start showing the underwear, but being smart is speaking the truth while keeping the underwear where it’s supposed to be: underneath. Verstehst du?”

  “Not exactly,” I sniffled, though I knew exactly where Papa was going with this.

  “A good game player,” Papa reminded me for what had to be the thousandth time, “is all about keeping the balance.”

  Papa told me he was ten years old the first time he fell in love, and that was the truth.

  “You loved someone before Grandma?” I accused him.

  Papa said somberly, “I have loved many times, and so will you, Elyse.”

  I had a hard time believing I could ever love anyone as much as Papa. The thought felt out of place, like a cornerstone of my perfectly constructed world, the way I understood things, had been moved.

  “I don’t know,” I said doubtfully.

  Papa stopped his hammering. We were in the garage building shelves to hold my growing collection of picture books. Papa looked at me over his glasses.

  “Which of these picture books here do you love best?” he asked.

  I glanced at the stack on Papa’s workbench. “I love them all, Papa. That’s why we’re building the shelves, so I’ll have a place to keep them together.”

  “Precisely,” Papa said. His blue eyes were watery. “You love them because each is a li
ttle different, but all are a comfort to you, nein?”

  That was it exactly.

  “Well, people are like these books here, Elyse. The people you will love in your lifetime will give you certain things, different things. And those different things will shape you, and when you are older, if you are lucky, thinking back on what those people gave you will bring you a measure of contentment, for one reason or another—which is love.” Papa smiled. “And now then, let us talk again about me and the love. When I was ten, the love of my life was Maria.”

  “Does Grandma know about Maria?” I asked, still suspicious.

  Papa’s eyes cleared and he laughed. “Your grandmother knows everything about love,” he said. “And me. She even knows that Maria taught me to catch Max Seitz’s crazy, spinning hard ball.”

  “A girl did that?”

  Papa handed me sandpaper. “Girls are much handier than boys,” he said. “Now, after Maria, I fell in love with Claire—she taught me chess. And after Claire I fell for a skinny little thing named Zeta who made up amazing stories.”

  I paused in my sanding. “What did Zeta teach you?”

  “Zeta,” Papa said, “taught me not to be taken in by skinny little things who tell stories. And then, after Zeta, there was Nellie …” Papa’s voice trailed off.

  “And what did Nellie teach you?” I asked, tingling a little because Papa was actually talking about Nellie: a first. When there was no answer I looked up. “Papa?”

  “Ah, Nellie,” Papa said, suddenly intent on his work. “Nellie is a story for another day.”

  After Papa and Daddy and then Aidan, the first three men I loved, I loved someone named Michael. Francis of course ended up disappointing me so much, but it was only after Michael disappointed me that I recalled what Papa had said about love’s many faces teaching us needed things—and now, after being married so long, and mostly happy, I gauge how far I’ve come and I remember Papa’s words again, and I think of him telling how Zeta’s lying had taught him to be ever-vigilant, so he wouldn’t be easily taken in again, but that he never did tell me about Nellie teaching him that what some people say and do is often not their true selves, but what they think we want them to be instead.

  And I know that’s because sometimes people and things can leave behind so much hurt you can hardly give the right voice to it, regardless that they might’ve left you something needed to make your life count for something. And that sometimes if you do try to talk about hurts too soon, it’s a little like showing your underwear, and that’s a pitiful thing to watch someone do: lose their underwear before perspective’s been allowed to take hold. Which is how it could’ve been with me and Francis, and Aidan too, because it is now, just now, that I’ve found my fullest voice—and a smidge or ten of the contentment Papa promised when I was a little girl—and I know that’s love.

  But of course I believe I’ve garnered so many moments of contentment because I’ve handled myself pretty okay, thanks to Papa’s lessons; sharing what should be showed and keeping stashed what should be kept underneath, but it is oh so long after what happened our very last night together; the night I found out about Jamie, and then Daddy, too. It’s not only cliché, but also a fact of life that perspective needs the nourishment of time in order to take root and thrive. And it doesn’t hurt to have someone like Aidan Madsen on your side as well.

  AIDAN

  Pennsylvania 1916–1917

  And now back to the summer of 1916, Francis. The one with your mother, my student for over ten years, newly out of my hair, and Matthew Waterston newly returned to Chadds Ford.

  I was delighted to see him, and we laughed and joked in our old way, talking of another reunion, the one with Matthew’s students, many of them repeats from previous summers. I envisioned the cigars, more gin-pouring, the back-slapping. The plans for Festival: Lear’s new plans, instigated by some well-timed, well-placed remarks of mine. I could almost hear the chink of cracked ice against frosted glass. I could almost hear the swilling of gin.

  “When will the boys arrive?” I asked, referring to Matthew’s students. We expected a dozen this year, give or take.

  “Another week,” Matthew answered. “I wanted some time here first, to get settled in. Lear’s down off his mountain. He’s waiting for us at the mill house.”

  “Has he told you … everything?”

  “About the additional attractions for Festival? Some. Look, Aidan, I’m not really alone. I’ve brought someone with me. Lear and Jamie are with her now.”

  “Her?” I frowned in the direction of the kitchen. Mother was making a racket, dropping things left and right. My golden summer felt suddenly cooler. The mind-picture of us drunken, laughing men was darkening, losing its sharp edges.

  “Mother,” I called out sharply. “Would you stop that infernal clattering about?”

  “Sahar,” Matthew said quietly. “My wife Sahar is with me. At the mill house.”

  My mother poked her head around the corner and asked if something was needed. I waved a hand dismissively, but Matthew smiled her way, as if to apologize for my boorish behavior, which was when I should’ve felt shame.

  But in the end, there was plenty of shame to go around. There were lies, even murder. But, right then, that first day of Matthew Waterston’s return, how could I have known I was about to meet a woman who routinely turned reality so inside out that even her husband and son had been reluctant to speak her name? How could I, experienced with only inconsequential women, have known I was about to meet the sort of woman who easily, and forever, changes everyone’s safe and predictable world?

  Matthew escorted me into the great room of the mill house. I saw Lear first, cup and saucer in his big hands—no gin. I glimpsed metal and wood behind him, then wheels, the tips of shoes, the drape of a skirt. Matthew strode ahead. Lear stepped aside, and I saw the wheelchair. I adjusted my spectacles and followed Matthew across the room, hand outstretched to take the woman’s welcoming one. She had pale-blond hair tied back at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were gray, large and luminous, her voice warm and throaty. She was beautiful, almost patrician-like.

  “You must be Aidan. I’ve heard so much about you, all good, and I so appreciate everything you’ve done for my son. Will you sit?” I sat on the chesterfield opposite her. We all sat.

  “So happy to meet you, Mrs. Waterston.” I wasn’t happy at all. I was off-kilter.

  “Everyone calls me Sahar—and I go by Witherspoon, not Waterston. Witherspoon is my birth name and professional name. I’m also an artist—though not as well known as my husband.”

  She’d mistaken my smile for genuine enthusiasm. I waited, debated, then pointed at the wheelchair. “An accident?” I registered Jamie’s frown.

  “It was—” Matthew began.

  “Polio,” Sahar supplied while smiling up at him. “But I’m well now, and very happy to be in my new home.”

  So Matthew’s wife was an invalid and no one had told me! Then it hit me.

  “Your new home?” I looked at Matthew. His eyes shone oddly.

  “Our new home, Aidan. All of us together, year-round. My entire family.”

  “Well, you could’ve told me,” I said, walking back across the road with Lear to Washington’s Headquarters.

  “Matthew wanted to tell you himself.”

  “But you, knowing all along. I’m always the last to know—”

  “Stop,” Lear said. “Stop this very second.”

  I stopped in the middle of the road.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Aidan. Look, Matthew’s agreed to all our Festival expansion plans, tying everything together: the shuttle between East Chester and Chadds Ford, tours of Washington’s Headquarters museum and the Waterston Art Institute, fireworks, even the dinner dance afterwards. And what sweetens the pie is Matthew’s here fulltime. Now he can help us implement some of these things that have his name stamped on them. What I’m saying, Aidan, is I’d have thought you’d be pleased as punch—”

>   “I am pleased as punch.” I took my hat off and threw it on the ground. Then I stomped on it. “No, make that delirious with joy! I am delirious with joy that Jamie and Matthew have moved here for good.”

  Lear walked away.

  “You hear me, Lear? I am delirious with joy!” I threw my head back and shouted at the treetops, “I am delirious with joy!”

  Lear turned back around. “What you are is a lunatic, Aidan. And you’ve had too much to drink.”

  “Don’t you get it?” I yelled. “It’s her! She’s a … a usurper!”

  Lear’s stare sliced through the black night separating us. “Get used to the idea. I got used to it a long time ago. Women run the show. Elizabeth runs the Grayson House show, and Sahar will run the one here. Just get used to the idea, Aidan. Things have changed.”

  Early the next morning I crossed the road bearing a basket of hot-cross buns and marmalade, courtesy of my mother. Lear and Matthew sat at the lawn table, Lear’s face hidden by the morning paper. Matthew smiled at the basket I put on the table.

  “Thank you,” he said. “By the way, Aidan, I ordered a piano for your schoolroom.”

  “Wonderful,” Lear said, his tone facetious. “More problems over there.”

  “Yes, wonderful,” I said, glaring at Lear—a wasted glare, as he never even looked over his paper. “And thank you for the piano, Matt. Right kind of you. I’ve been looking forward to trying Jamie on one.”

  Now Lear glanced over his paper. “Morning, old boy. You’re looking a bit bleary-eyed. No, I wasn’t talking about the piano. The problems are over there.”

  I resented Lear’s tone. I wasn’t stupid. I was hungover. I knew he’d been talking war. Everyone was talking about the war.

  “The stage has been set,” Matthew said.

  “It’s been set for some time,” Lear agreed. “Germany’s told Russia to butt out of her business. Told France and Britain, too. Troops are on the move.”