Musical Chairs

by Amy Poeppel

  “I don’t understand,” Bridget said. “What pledge?”

  Will drank half his martini in one sip. “It was a long time ago. We were young.”

  “So, wait,” Bridget said, incredulous, “you and Molly hadn’t…? You were a virgin when you got to college?”

  “Until I met that girl at the ballet school during orientation.”

  Bridget remembered her, a dark-haired dancer with a mousy squeak of a voice. “You had sex with her?”

  “It was clumsy,” Will said, shrugging, “but yes.”

  “And this whole time, Molly thought—? I mean, what did you say on your wedding night?”

  “I pretended,” Will said, head down, trying not to smile.

  “To be a virgin?” Bridget couldn’t help laughing. She signaled to the bartender for another round. “What happens now?”

  “All hell breaks loose. We’ll get a divorce. She called my parents.”

  Bridget gasped. “Oh God.”

  “I’ll never be able to show my face in Shreveport again.”

  “That’s okay,” Bridget said, remembering the bridesmaids’ bouquets of pink carnations and baby’s breath. “You belong here now.”

  “I’m a bad person,” he said.

  Bridget was feeling the martinis at this point and wanted Will to know he was loved. “You’re a good person,” she said. “That’s why you married her. And Molly will be fine. She has her family and church and friends.”

  “I have nothing.”

  “You have me.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Molly wasn’t right for you anyway,” she scoffed. “She couldn’t tell Telemann from Stockhausen.”

  Will laughed. “Most people can’t. Most people don’t even know who they are.”

  Bridget tried to think of a better example. “She couldn’t tell Mozart from Messiaen.”

  Will dropped his head. “I’ve known her longer than anybody.”

  For some reason, that hurt Bridget’s feelings. She was jealous. He and Molly might have known each other longer, but she and Will knew each other better, had more in common, were more honest with each other.

  “I lied and cheated,” he said, “and I broke our promise by sleeping with, like, ten women before we got married, and I feel like a real piece of shit.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” Bridget said, patting him on the back. Ten was at least six more than she’d known about. She wasn’t sure if that omission counted as deception or not, but she made note of it. And she wondered: Did it follow that she didn’t have to tell him everything either?

  “No more,” he said.

  “No more what? Sleeping with women?”

  He looked appalled. “I’m not dead, Bridget,” he said. “No, no more marriage.”

  That was a pledge he’d kept.

  * * *

  Since Gwen had confiscated her sweatpants, Bridget put on jeans and went to see if Isabelle and Will were up. The coffee was already made and still hot, and her new laptop was on the island, but the kitchen was empty. There was a note:

  Gone shopping! Back soon.

  —Will

  She could hear Hudson barking from up in Will’s loft and was sorry she hadn’t stocked up on everyone’s favorites before they’d arrived. And then she remembered that the whole family was coming over later, and she hadn’t planned a menu. She texted Will: Forgot that we’ll be six for dinner tonight!

  I’m on it, he answered.

  Bridget hoped he wouldn’t get pulled over, a concern when Will took her car because his Louisiana driver’s license had expired over thirty years ago, and he’d never bothered getting a new one after he moved to New York.

  Bridget slid on flip-flops and went outside, stepping into the overgrown, dewy grass to go find out if Isabelle was in need of a strep test. “It’s like swallowing glass shards,” she’d said the night before, which sounded overly dramatic but worrisome.

  There was Kevin. He was sitting comfortably in an Adirondack chair in Bridget’s yard, admiring the view, it seemed.

  He stood up when he saw her coming. “Morning,” he said. “I rang, but no one heard me.” He’d changed quite a bit since she’d last seen him; he’d thinned down, muscled up, and had a nicely groomed beard. He wasn’t wearing the thick glasses of his childhood, and without them, his eyes were bright and greenish. But that he hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone to let her know he was coming was annoying. She hadn’t even showered yet and wasn’t ready for a conversation about the house.

  “The bell’s broken.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I figured. My granddad mentioned—”

  “Sorry, Kevin, can this wait? Isabelle got in last night, and…” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder.

  “I just wanted to know what you need me to do.” He looked past her out to the field. “You want me to tackle that?” he asked. “Get the grass and weeds under control?”

  “Sure. That would be great.”

  “You’ve got some pretty bad invasives out there,” he said. “I was sitting here and thinking I could maybe—”

  “Yeah—”

  “Because in the end—”

  She wanted Kevin to get things done, but she really didn’t care how he did them. “Absolutely, whatever you think is best. Thank you so much!”

  “Okay, then,” he said happily.

  Bridget turned and walked along what used to be the path to the guesthouse and turned the doorknob, thinking maybe she should start a to-do list. Busted guesthouse lock and broken doorbell could go at the top. Isabelle had a big duffel bag open on the couch, and a bottle of Cetaphil cleanser, a pair of sandals, a tube of Bobbi Brown cover-up, a box of tampons, and a Jennifer Weiner novel on the floor beside it. On the coffee table, there were tissues, a glass of water, and a tangled knot of chargers.

  Bridget knocked and then opened the door to the small bedroom, assuming she would find her daughter asleep. The bed had been tossed and turned in, but it was empty.

  She stood in the middle of the bedroom, taking in the underwear, pair of jeans, sweater, and socks scattered at her feet. There was a wet towel on the bedspread and a half-eaten package of Ritz crackers on the night table, crumbs on the carpet below.

  She went back to the living room just as Isabelle came in the house in running shorts and a tank top. “Amazing,” she said, panting and wiping the sweat from her face on her shirt. “I can’t remember the last time I went running when I didn’t spend the whole time obsessing about work, or feeling stressed about being late to work, or worrying about some problem at work. I feel so free.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “I’m great. Why?”

  “How’s your throat?”

  Isabelle looked confused and then put her fingers on her neck, swallowing hard. “It’s all better,” she said. “Yay!”

  “No shards of glass?”

  “I just needed a good night’s sleep and a run. I’m cured.”

  “Your grandfather, Marge, and Aunt Gwen are coming for dinner. Will took the car to get groceries.”

  “Fun,” she said happily. “How’s the Maestro?” Edward Stratton was not the kind of man to whom you could give a cute nickname, like “Gramps” or “Grandpa.”

  “He’s fine. You’re really all right?”

  “I woke up feeling so happy, like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be for the first time in years.”

  Bridget looked around the house. “This place, it’s a lot to deal with, you know?”

  “I’ll clean it up. I’m still unpacking.”

  “No, I mean the whole property. Kevin’s here doing some yard work.”

  “Kevin?” said Isabelle. “Ugh, he’s such a lump.”

  “I just saw him, and he’s looking a lot less lumpy. I’ve got an electrician coming tomorrow, too, but in the meantime, be really careful if you use any plugs in the main house, like wear rubber-soled shoes. Don’t charge your computer over there.” The floors under her feet were badly stained from a pipe that burst la
st winter. “You know you can move over to the main house, if you want. This place is pretty shabby.”

  “I figure we could both use a little space, no?” Isabelle seemed to remember the new circumstances, and added, “Unless you want my company.”

  Bridget was fine with a little space as well and said so. She walked into the outdated kitchen and opened the pantry. It was full of old cereal, tea, cans of soup, and mouse poop. The refrigerator didn’t seem to be working, and the house’s hot water heater, long left alone, was making angry noises from the utility closet.

  Isabelle got a glass from the cabinet and filled it with tap water, waiting out the initial brownish sputter and letting it run until it came out clear.

  “Maybe it’s time to say good-bye to all this,” Bridget said, surprised to have shared the thought out loud.

  “What do you mean?” Isabelle said. “Sell the house?”

  Bridget hadn’t meant to start Isabelle’s day by dropping a bomb. She wished she could take it back. “Just thinking about it.”

  “Wow.”

  “You’re upset.”

  “No, surprised,” she said, sitting at the round table, one of the first pieces of furniture Bridget had bought after college for her studio apartment. “It’s not a crazy idea.”

  Bridget felt a need to clarify. “I’m only considering—”

  “I get it,” Isabelle said, sounding positive. She finished her glass of water and got back up to fill it up again. “You need to do what’s right for you and your life.”

  “I’m not rushing into anything,” Bridget said. “It was just a thought.”

  Isabelle was nodding encouragingly. “You should talk to a Realtor.”

  Bridget thought she might cry. She’d anticipated pushback. Didn’t all kids hate the idea of losing their childhood home?

  Somehow, being told by Isabelle that she could sell made Bridget not want to, and she wondered if that had been the strategy. “I’m going to go take a shower,” Bridget said. “Want to help me cook later, after Will gets back?”

  “Sure,” Isabelle said. She was looking at her intensely and said, “Let’s have the best, brightest, most awesome summer ever.”

  Bridget liked her attitude but thought she’d need a bit more time before she could embrace the awesomeness of being without Sterling, especially since Sterling’s Dutch publisher and her family had usurped her condo. She was on a detour now that didn’t seem to have a clear direction, and how “awesome” it would be was not immediately obvious.

  Walking back to the main house, Bridget focused on the literal brightness of the day, hoping it would catch on, hoping she could enjoy being with her family tonight.

  She noticed, as she walked the path, that neither Kevin nor his truck were anywhere to be seen.

  She went back to her room, took off her clothes, and stepped into the shower. The shower head, encrusted with whitish lime deposits, caused the water to shoot out in all different directions; Bridget held up her hand to find the most concentrated spot. The second the hard water soaked through her hair, she heard loud knocking on the bathroom door and Isabelle calling her name.

  “Be right out,” she called back.

  “Hurry,” said Isabelle. “It’s important.”

  What now? thought Bridget. Was it her throat again? Her tooth? In a matter of minutes, she washed her hair, dried off, and threw on the same jeans and a sweater. With wet hair, she opened the door to find Isabelle standing right on the other side of it. She was dressed now, too, with her phone in her hand, waiting impatiently.

  “What?” Bridget asked.

  “We have to go. Edward fell.”

  * * *

  Bridget had six missed calls, four from Gwen, one from Isabelle, and even one from Oscar. It was like being transported back to those busier, noisier days when her kids would call from school, sounding desperate: Mom, I left my homework on the kitchen counter. I forgot money for lunch. I lost my MetroCard!

  Although maybe not all that much had changed after all: I think I have a cavity. Hot compresses or cold? I feel like I swallowed glass.

  Will had the car and wasn’t answering his phone for some reason, so she called Frank to come and get them. As they headed quickly down the long driveway in the backseat of his car, they saw Kevin coming up in the other direction. Frank had to do a complicated maneuver to get by Kevin’s pickup, which was filled with wooden posts and was towing a trailer of some kind. He had two guys in the cab of the truck with him.

  “What the hell is he planning to do with all that?” Bridget said. “Start a bonfire?”

  Kevin smiled and waved as they passed each other. They all waved back.

  “I agree,” Isabelle said. “Kevin looks a lot less lumpy.”

  * * *

  Bridget couldn’t believe she was back in the Sharon Hospital so soon, standing next to the same pastel room divider and the same peach walls.

  Even the same nurse who had taken care of Bridget before was there, now attending to Edward while she and Gwen stood nearby. With the help of an orderly, the nurse wheeled Edward in from radiology and positioned his bed in the room. She took his vital signs, while Edward, his eyes closed and his glasses folded in his left hand, did not stir.

  “How’s he doing?” Bridget asked quietly. The nurse didn’t seem to recognize her. She bustled around, arranging Edward’s bedding.

  “No concussion, no broken bones,” she said. “Does he live alone?”

  “Sort of,” said Bridget. “He has Marge.”

  “And that would be his caretaker or…?”

  “The nanny,” Bridget said. “I mean, she was our nanny. And then she was my children’s nanny. And now she’s his summer housekeeper.”

  The nurse did not seem interested in the details. “If you want the names of services that provide home help aides, let me know.”

  “He has plenty of help,” said Gwen. “And he has us.” Gwen was dressed like she’d just stepped off the court at Wimbledon.

  The nurse turned back to Bridget. “The doctor will be in soon,” she said. “Does your dad want a snack? Some crackers maybe?”

  “For the record,” said Edward, blinking his eyes open, “I’m conscious. I’m alive and of sound mind, so if you have any further questions, you can direct them to me.”

  “I thought you were sleeping,” said the nurse, turning to him. “Are you hungry? I can have something brought up. A cup of Jell-O?”

  “Jell-O? Well,” said Edward, shifting to make himself more comfortable, “that is a lovely offer. May I ask your name?”

  Here we go, thought Bridget.

  “I’m Stella.”

  “Stella. Stella? Ah, like the nurse from Rear Window. Lovely. I’m in very good hands then. Thelma Ritter not only played the role of Stella in that well-loved Hitchcock film, but she was nominated many times over for her various roles as a supporting actress. And here you are, Stella, supporting me. Thank you. You are doing the hardest work there is.

  “Now, I’d like to respond in the negative to your kind offer,” he went on, “but I’d hate to think that by saying ‘no’ I’d be indicating a lack of appetite, making you suspect I’m overcome by some sort of plague. So, I’ll state for the record that although my appetite is perfectly healthy, I’m simply not interested in hospital cuisine at this point in time.”

  Bridget noticed that Gwen, who had taken a seat in the room’s only chair, was smiling, fist covering her mouth.

  “No Jell-O,” said the nurse. “Got it.” She began hooking up an IV. “We’re gonna give you some fluids, though, all right, hon? What’s your name?” she said, double-checking his identity with the order for the IV bag.

  He cleared his throat. “Sir. Edward. Stratton.”

  Stella snapped to attention. She looked at Edward, then at Bridget. At Edward and then back at Bridget again. She raised her eyebrows and wagged her finger, saying, “No relation, huh?”

  Bridget shrugged. “I was going incognito.”

&
nbsp; “How’re you doing?” Stella asked her, looking concerned. “Did you hire an electrician?”

  “I made an appointment for—”

  “Excuse me,” said Edward, “but am I not today’s featured guest at this fine institution?”

  The front of Edward’s hospital gown was exposing too much of his chest for Bridget’s comfort, and she wanted to pull it up to his throat or wrap a scarf around him. His bluish, skinny ankles were sticking out from the white blanket, and his veiny wrist was sporting a plastic hospital bracelet. Bridget didn’t like seeing him diminished like this. It was such a departure from how he usually appeared: standing tall and strong, in black tie.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry,” said the nurse, focusing her attention back on him. “Date of birth?”

  “Date of birth. Let’s see. March thirty-first. Seventeen thirty-two.”

  The nurse looked up.

  “You didn’t specify whose date of birth. That was Franz Joseph Haydn’s. Bach was also born on March thirty-first, but in the year 1685. And the birthdate of yours truly, me, that is, Maestro Stratton to some—but you, Stella, can call me Edward—was also March thirty-first, but if you make me state the year in which I was born, I’ll report you to the local authorities for impertinence. Suffice to say, it was eons ago.”

  He used the bed adjuster to bring himself to a seated position and then put on his glasses. “You know, you remind me of someone,” he said, studying her face. “A young Maria Callas.”

  “Who?” said the nurse, as she connected the IV.

  “Maria Callas. You’re the spitting image. She was a highly distinctive soprano with extraordinary eyes. Look her up when you get home, and you’ll see the likeness.”

  “Thanks,” said the nurse, sounding delighted.

  Edward used this line often, varying the musician depending on whose face he beheld.

  “I can only hope you have a more satisfactory relationship with your mother,” he said.

  Bridget reached for the bottom of the blanket and covered her dad’s feet.

  “You’re feeling okay?” said Gwen. “Because for a while there, you weren’t yourself.”