“Kentucky,” Gail’s saying. “No, wait, Tennessee. Kentucky’s Daniel Boone.”
“Killed him a bear when he was only three,” Maury says.
“Three?” Gail says.
“Hear that?” Becky tells baby Randy. “You’ve got a year and a half.”
Gail has talked Becky into collecting books for the temple sisterhood book drive; eventually the books will go to an orphanage in Haifa. Every afternoon, Gail gives Becky a list of names and directions, buckles Randy into his car seat, and sends them out to cruise the suburban streets shaped like horseshoes and keyholes, named for developers’ daughters and wives. “Right on Beverly,” Becky says to Randy. “Left on Caroline, left on Lorraine.”
Mostly it’s older women who have signed up to donate books. They all assume that Randy is Becky’s baby, and Becky doesn’t correct them. The women seem glad to see Becky and Randy instead of the man in the truck they were probably expecting. They invite Becky in for coffee and cake, and Randy, who has a winning personality and can be trusted with an inch in a plastic cup, gets lots of attention and juice.
Becky knows these women. Wednesday afternoons they troop through the gallery by the bus load. At first Becky thought they were only into it for the dressing-up and slumming, but after a while she observed how interested they were. Now, seeing their Gropper and Soyer prints, she wonders: Interested in what? Becky’s most successful artist is a twenty-two-year-old German who makes giant pachinko machines. Sometimes, especially when the women boast about their children’s careers, Becky longs to mention the gallery. But personal conversation might lead to her having to admit that Randy isn’t her baby, and it doesn’t seem worth it. This fantasy they are enacting—that she and the women are joined in some sisterhood of mothers and babies and grown children still present in the high-school earth science texts their mothers are giving Becky—is sweeter than whatever satisfaction she might get from chattering about the art world.
Jack has promised to spend these two weeks moving his things out of their loft. Gail promises he’ll come back. Becky has promised Gail that, if he does, she’ll just get pregnant and not ask so many questions. For practice, Becky decides not to ask what the orphans in Haifa will do with boxfuls of Reader’s Digest—condensed Herman Wouks. Not asking lets Becky feel so sincerely appreciative that sometimes tears come to her eyes as she thanks the women for their generosity.
Becky’s truly grateful, though not just for the books. She feels some useful ceremony is taking place here, blessing her days with rhythm and purpose—an astonishing feeling for someone whose husband is, perhaps at this very moment, dividing his books and records from hers. Gail knew this would do Becky good; she says Becky needs to get out of herself and plug into a community. Gail was always an expert at conning her—in this case, into picking up books and babysitting Randy at the same time. Still, Becky wonders if Gail might not be right. Perhaps it’s the weather, the daffodils and forsythia, the fresh air, but often, driving Randy around to the women’s houses, Becky is reminded of the summer she and Jack spent in California, driving their Rent-A-Wreck convertible. She has that same breezy notion that if she just times things well, everything will be all right. And maybe that’s why it always seems a good omen when, at the end of the afternoon, she pulls into Gail’s driveway with Randy so newly and deeply asleep that he can be carried into the house for a long nap in his crib.
Since Becky’s been at Gail’s, she’s taken to mixing herself exotic cocktails she ordinarily wouldn’t touch: grasshoppers, brandy Alexanders, and—silently toasting Darlene—Singapore slings. She can’t drink very many, but is amazed by how easily they go down, and, if she adds enough alcohol, how optimistic they make her feel. Becky takes a pitcher and glass to Gail’s garage and there, among the mulchers and power tools Maury never uses, looks through the books she’s collected.
Becky keeps expecting treasure—illustrated children’s classics, illuminated prayer books, Victorian medical guides. But now, as always, aside from the high-school texts, it’s mostly fifties bestsellers, biographies of World War II generals, reports on megacorporations and the CIA. So Becky is astonished when, halfway through her second mango daiquiri, she finds an old edition of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. The book is covered in navy blue silk embossed with gold letters; it weighs a ton and is full of engravings. Turning back to see how they illustrate the Headless Horseman’s ride, Becky discovers an envelope. Inside is a note. Even before she reads it, Becky feels that the note was meant for her, that whoever wrote it knew what kind of book would attract her. The note says: “Flexner is killing me. My husband, Lou Flexner, is crazy and trying to kill me. Please help.”
The name sounds familiar, but Becky has been to eight houses that afternoon. She goes to the car, where the list of names is still on the front seat. Flexner, Irene, is third from last. Irene Flexner, Becky finally remembers, was the doyenne of a Larchmont Tudor castle, its gray stucco facade so chilly and forbidding it made the interior—the thick white carpeting, the white sectional couches massive and serpentine as the Great Wall—seem doubly lush and inviting. Mrs. Flexner, in a pale linen suit, her platinum hair pulled back in a neat, curled-under ponytail, was perhaps sixty but looked forty-five, like a grandmother in one of those ads with three generations of women all looking terrific.
Mrs. Flexner had gazed at her coolly till Becky mentioned the books. “Of course!” she said. “Cutie pie!” she said, leaning close to Randy. “How old is he? She?”
“He,” Becky said. “Eighteen months.”
“That’s the best age,” Mrs. Flexner said, “They just love you.” Then she said, “Come on,” and took off across the living room at a speed Becky found particularly impressive because the carpet was so thick and Mrs. Flexner was wearing such thin high heels. If you could balance on pencils over three inches of wool, you could do anything! Like so many of the women Becky has met this week, Mrs. Flexner projected competence—the energy and nerve to drive the Hutchinson River Parkway from a book-discussion group to a grocery clear across Westchester for some treat for a visiting grandchild. If anyone Becky knew moved that fast, she’d assume they were on drugs.
Mrs. Flexner paused in the kitchen where a large, middle-aged black woman was unloading the dishwasher. “This is my friend Mrs. Nelson,” she said. Becky was embarrassed by this loose use of the word “friend,” but Mrs. Nelson nodded pleasantly and looked past her at Randy, whom she focused on, cooing musical, Jamaican variations on “Nice little boy.” Randy smiled back at her, quizzical and sweet.
“Mama’s big little man,” Mrs. Nelson said, and Becky thought: Mama? If she could fool Mrs. Nelson, she could fool anyone. She knew this was racist and probably untrue, but still a rush of good humor stayed with her till Mrs. Flexner, leading her out of the kitchen past the gleaming Queen Anne dining room, whispered, “She’s been with us forever. She’s terrific.” Flexner sighed, a sigh rich with knowledge of the injustice that makes some women unload others’ dishwashers, and with faith in the human nobility that transcends all that. Becky was relieved when, pleading a late lunch date, Mrs. Flexner showed her the books, then called Mrs. Nelson in to hold Randy while Becky loaded the car.
Becky can hardly believe that stylish, efficient Irene Flexner could have written that note. She doesn’t know what to do about it, or if she should do anything at all. Rereading it, she decides that the whole thing depends on how you take the word “kill.” “This is killing me,” Becky’s mother used to say about everything, though what did kill her and Becky’s father—a drunken teen’s ’68 Dart—she never even saw coming. Becky opens a book on Jewish law, and skimming a chapter on medieval doctrinal disputes, finds a reference to a Talmudic ruling that it is criminal to know about, and not expose, a crime. Becky takes this as a sign, and though she knows no crime’s been committed, has only to imagine a short newspaper item about a Larchmont housewife found dead in the woods near her home.
Becky tiptoes into the house, making the wide boar
d floors squeak. Otherwise it is so quiet she can hear Randy snoring and Gail’s potter’s wheel whirring in the basement. Standing at the kitchen phone, Becky finds Flexner on Gail’s list and dials. When Mrs. Flexner picks up, Becky explains that she was the one who came for the books. Does Mrs. Flexner have any more? There is a silence; Becky is certain that Mrs. Flexner knows she’s found the note. “Maybe,” Mrs. Flexner says. Then, “Yes. Can you come back tomorrow evening at eight?”
Eight seems like an odd time to pick up books until Becky realizes: dinnertime. Mr. Flexner will almost certainly be home. Is Mrs. Flexner asking Becky to serve as witness and protection?
“All right, eight,” Becky says, feeling as if they are speaking in code, two spies out of Mission: Impossible.
The next day, when Randy asks Becky for his juice bottle, she spends five minutes staring into his diaper bag. She gets lost twice and comes down from an old woman’s barricaded Yonkers flat to find she’s left Gail’s car keys in the ignition. At six, Gail, Becky, and Randy eat an early dinner. Maury is working late. Becky is dizzy from the three White Russians she’s drunk, but doesn’t want Gail to notice as she asks to use Gail’s car. Still Gail could hardly refuse when Becky tells her it’s about getting more books.
“Hey,” says Gail. “Aren’t you working this a little hard?” Becky looks at her but can’t quite focus, and Gail, misreading her blurry look, says, “Don’t tell me. You met someone. You want the car for a tryst behind the pizza joint at the Mile Square Mall.”
Has Becky met anyone? She goes through the faces she saw that day, then the faces of men she thought were attractive when she was with Jack. But Jack’s the one she wants to see, wants to tell about the Flexners. As a teenager, she used to imagine boys she liked, dropping in miraculously on cousins’ weddings and boring waits at the dentist. Suppose she drove to the mall and there was Jack, signaling her with his lights? He’d only tell her not to go see Mrs. Flexner. What if the husband turns out to be a real psycho?
It’s funny, how thinking of Jack has made Becky start feeling afraid. Probably Becky should tell Gail where she’s going, just in case, but some part of her refuses to include Gail, to let her have security and vicarious adventure. Becky’s problems aren’t Gail’s fault, yet for a moment she resents and envies Gail the safe, dull life she’s chosen; Gail doesn’t even have to wonder if Maury might not really be working late, if he might be the one trysting behind Mile Square Pizza. Becky is on the point of suggesting this possibility or something equally venomous and undeserved, something that will wound Gail and stay between them for months. Could this be the moment for her to bring up a fact they have never discussed: that Maury designs software for a company Gail and Becky both picketed during the Vietnam War? They can be cruel to each other in ways someone else might not register. How does Gail think Becky feels when Gail describes holding newborn baby Randy and wishing time would just stop?
Becky looks out the window; it is already dark. She doesn’t see well at night and could easily get lost and drive some cul-de-sac till she runs out of gas. Imagine the relief of calling up and canceling! But this, Becky thinks, is what people mean when they say: I couldn’t live with myself if I did. At this hour, there is no way of taking Randy; though Becky will miss his company, she is glad that time has decided for her. If Randy were her child—if she had a child—she probably wouldn’t go. Her sense of what risks she could take would change. Perhaps it’s better to be unencumbered, to have the freedom to be brave, Becky tells herself, and is instantly demoralized by how small and pitiful her consolations seem.
“Where’s your baby?” cries Mrs. Flexner the minute she opens the door. This is the moment for Becky to explain that Randy isn’t, strictly speaking, hers. It’s like those times when she’s forgotten someone’s name and hedges, waiting for it to come to her and suddenly there’s no turning back; if she doesn’t tell the truth, she never can. “My sister’s taking care of him,” she says.
Becky looks past Mrs. Flexner into the kitchen; Mrs. Nelson isn’t around. She wonders if Mrs. Flexner confides in Mrs. Nelson; if Mrs. Flexner is so afraid, how she must hate to see Mrs. Nelson leave! Becky’s imagination is spinning. She reminds herself: This is Westchester, not some misty manor house in Gaslight or Rebecca. Still, Becky’s throat feels tight as Mrs. Flexner ushers her into the living room.
There’s a part of the room Becky overlooked this afternoon—a corner where the pastels give way to polished woodwork, bookshelves, gentlemen’s club leather chairs. Becky has noticed how little in these houses seems to belong to the men—men tucked away like secrets in dressers full of clean, razor-creased shirts. At least Mr. Flexner has his corner and fills it, just as he completely fills the wing chair in which he sits, reading.
Becky has met dozens of guys like him: sixtyish, slightly overweight, handsome in a way that has less to do with beauty than with confidence, with getting your way in the world. The light from the reading lamp shines on his thick clean white hair, but he also seems lit from within—an aura which makes Becky think it possible to literally radiate success. There’s something a little hard about him, an edge of the street smart and tough, but—Becky recalls newspaper photos of suburban execs indicted for putting out contracts on their wives—Flexner isn’t a killer. That note must have been metaphorical. Flexner looks up from the Barron’s he is reading but doesn’t stand up.
“This is the young lady from the book drive I told you about,” Mrs. Flexner says. “She has the most beautiful baby.”
“Girl or boy?” Mr. Flexner says. “Not that it matters these days.”
“Boy,” Becky says, and Mr. Flexner nods. Becky thinks: Well, at least she has the right kind of baby. Then she realizes, with a small shock: she’s almost convinced herself Randy’s hers.
“We have three,” Mrs. Flexner says. “A boy and two girls, all grown. No grandchildren yet.” She makes a little pout, then, including Becky, says, “I thought we could all have a bite of dinner. Then I have some more books for you. Come. Keep me company in the kitchen.”
Mrs. Flexner won’t let Becky help but tells her to sit while she checks the thermometer in the roast and begins cutting iceberg lettuce into chunks. “What does your husband do?” she asks. Briefly, Becky’s confused: If she’s claimed Gail’s baby, should she pretend to her husband too, and talk about Maury’s job? “We run an art gallery,” she says.
“How fascinating,” Mrs. Flexner says. “My husband is a developer. Or anyway, he was. Now he can just sit in his office and play with figures. Well, if that’s what makes him happy….” Mrs. Flexner smiles; she could be talking about a toddler playing with pots and pans, or maybe Becky just thinks that because that is what Randy may be doing right now. If Becky had stayed at Gail’s she could be getting ready to bathe Randy. If only Randy were here! Randy is the one—not Gail, and not Jack—who could get her through this meal. Becky feels a stab of longing, a nearly physical pain. How remarkable that she should miss Randy’s body more than Jack’s! “Well,” Mrs. Flexner says. “Better figures on paper than on girls.”
Is Becky supposed to laugh? Is this the moment to mention the note? But now Mrs. Flexner is carving the roast; the whine of her electric knife prohibits conversation. “That meat is done perfectly,” Becky shouts above the noise. Again, Mrs. Flexner smiles, and as she picks up the platter and lets Becky bring in the salad, the atmosphere is warm and faintly conspiratorial, as if they are children bringing mud pies to Mom and Dad, or concubines bearing delicacies for the shah.
“Food’s on!” Mrs. Flexner calls. Her husband lumbers toward the table and takes his seat at its head. Irene serves out the food and suddenly Becky grows dizzy with the sense that she is sitting down with her parents. It has been ten years since their deaths, long enough for Becky to be taken by surprise when she is—as she is now—overcome with missing them.
After a while Irene says, “Lou, Gail’s husband has an art gallery in Manhattan.” Becky thinks: Gail’s husband?, then realizes h
ow mixed-up things really are. Gail was the one who first contacted Mrs. Flexner. And Becky has never introduced herself by name.
“Where?” Lou Flexner says. “Art gallery where?”
“SoHo,” says Becky. “West Broadway.”
Lou Flexner leans back in his chair. “It’s all corporate,” he says. “More and more. Pretty soon your only customer’s going to be the corporation.”
“Corporazione,” Becky says. “Corporate Milan.”
Lou Flexner raises one eyebrow; he seems impressed that she can pronounce a five-syllable Italian word. She doesn’t even know if it’s a real Italian word, but that doesn’t seem to matter. He looks at Becky and she looks back, aware that in some funny way they are flirting. Becky concentrates on her plate, and so has her mouth full of roast beef when Lou Flexner says, “So that’s where the art money is?” Becky smiles and points to her mouth, turning to Irene as she does so, offering this awkwardness with the food as proof that she is no threat.
“Right,” Becky says. “Italians and forty-year-olds who’ve just inherited the family Honda lot.”
“That’s my son, any day now,” Mr. Flexner says. “Except, with him it’ll be the construction business.”
“Not any day now,” says Mrs. Flexner, and knocks on the wooden table.
“Art’s not a bad investment,” Becky says.
“Bullshit,” says Lou Flexner. “It’s a bullshit investment. I’d only buy the stuff if I liked it. You think I’d like it?”
“Sure,” says Becky, though it’s hard to say what Lou Flexner would make of Rainer’s pachinko machines. Liking wouldn’t even come into it. “Sure,” she repeats, this time with more conviction.
“Maybe I should come down and take a look at it,” Lou Flexner says. “Have you got a card?”
“Her and her husband’s card,” says Mrs. Flexner, stopping Becky, who’s reaching into her purse. She does have a card, with her name and Jack’s. How would she explain that?
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