Blame it on Paris

by Lise McClendon

  They had made love and were in the afterglow. She’d forgotten how warm and safe she felt against his body, but in the dream she felt it. His arms around her, sheltering her from harm.

  Then he told her a story. His German grandmother had a word— what was it? As she lay in bed now, looking at the ceiling, she tried to remember. Something very German, one of those long, combination words that English didn’t have, like ‘schadenfreude,’ or Mary Poppins’ supercalifragilistic-expialidocious.

  She rolled over, closing her eyes, willing the dream to come back. What was it? She could feel the stubble on Dylan’s chin, the hair on his chest, his breath in and out. Then his voice came back to her. The word was ‘weltschmerz.’ She’d looked it up later so she could remember how to spell it.

  Weltschmerz meant being world weary, a yearning for things to be different. He said he’d inherited it from his grandmother who had patiently explained it to him. It was a sort of romantic melancholy for the past, like in novels where a character suffers the slings and arrows of the modern world and mopes about, wishing for something else. Like a Woody Allen character, or just some blue, downtrodden person.

  “I suffer it too, my boy,” his grandmother told him. “You must fight it as it will drown you.”

  Dylan told Francie that when she was with him his weltschmerz lifted like the clouds. All was right in the world. Sunshine poured down. Nothing should change. Everything was perfect.

  Francie stared at the ceiling. Was it depression in a clinical sense? Not if it turned off with a good roll in the hay. Dylan implied you had a choice to accept weltschmerz or not. To surrender to its wiles. She didn’t want it but he had somehow thrust it on her. Dylan had given her his weltschmerz and now she was the one to suffer.

  But no, that wasn’t right. She wasn’t depressed, then or now. But she had broken up with Dylan six months later, unable and unwilling to be his reason for living.

  It was all too much. The weight of responsibility for his happiness— for keeping weltschmerz at bay— threatened to break her. So she left, told him he was too intense for her. She wanted to play, to laugh, to explore. To live large and weltschmerz-free. Dance the fandango until the sun came up. Go a little crazy once in awhile. He stared daggers through her that day, cut to the quick.

  But now she had a similar feeling. Not world-weariness exactly but a wish for something different than this reality. That things were not good at all, in fact they were out of control. Greg Leonard was out to get her, bring her down. The freight train was speeding toward her and she was tied to the damn tracks. She felt her heart race.

  Take it back, Dylan Hardy. I don’t want your stupid weltschmerz.

  She sat up in bed and slapped the duvet. To nobody she called out: “I will not be a victim. I do not have weltschmerz. I am not weary of the world. I love the world. This world is beautiful and wild and fabulous. And I am in charge of my life.”

  Then, satisfied she’d slain those dragons, she got up and made coffee.

  Six

  The hedge surrounding Claudia Pugh’s house stood fifteen feet tall, obscuring any view from the road. A white horse fence marched in front of the leafless hedge, a tangle of twigs with green still a promise in the spring. A FOR SALE sign swung from a white post, planted next to the driveway. Francie turned in and caught her first look at the house.

  ‘Traditional’ was the word that came to mind, a two-story clapboard with double front doors and the symmetrical windows of New England. The pale yellow siding shone against the dark evergreens hugging each side of the large, comfortable-looking home. A typical suburban oasis, lots of lawn now touched with frost and the remains of last month’s snow in the shadowy corners. At noon it looked hospitable but stuffy, like hundreds of other Greenwich homes built in the mid-century boom. This one sported a lovely setting at the end of a quiet street, backing up to woods and parkland.

  Before Francie could navigate the long sidewalk leading from the driveway to the front door, a woman stepped out and waited for her in the dappled midday sun. She wore a tight brown pencil skirt, a long-sleeved white blouse, and low heels. She held her arms tightly against her body as if to shield herself from harm or cold. Francie raised a hand and called a hello, smiling, but the woman stood, knees clenched together as if waiting for bad news.

  Francie had called her this morning. Claudia Pugh wasn’t terribly surprised, or happy, to hear from a lawyer looking into her son’s legal trouble. Perhaps it had a ring of familiarity. An early morning call to Reece’s father, Harlan, had gone to voicemail with no return call. That message was clear. Harlan wanted nothing to do with his son’s problems. Claudia’s message was still to be decoded.

  As Francie approached the woman standing guard on her front stoop, she couldn’t help but take her measure. Claudia was tall and slender, with a short bob of light brown hair. Her face was pale and drawn, with dark, receding eyes surrounded by bluish circles. She looked, in a word, unhappy.

  This was the woman who Tom Ramey had chosen, perhaps unwittingly, to bear his child. It was before Francie and Tom met, 24 years ago, when they were still strangers. Tom and Francie had met at a bat mitzvah for one of her partners’ granddaughters, a cheerful, loud, girly affair that Francie had attended out of professional duty. The chance meeting of a dashing pilot made it all worthwhile.

  What year was that? Fourteen or fifteen years ago, she figured. Their courtship was fast and crazy, flying to Venice then Morocco then Tahiti, all the most romantic places on earth. The gondola they floated in, the camels they rode, the remote huts on stilts in the water: they made for great stories. If only the marriage itself had such happy memories.

  Francie felt the woman’s eyes on her, measuring her up as if they were rivals. In a way they were, both old lovers of Tom Ramey. Her mouth was drawn in a tight line as her eyes flicked up and down. Francie felt self-conscious for wearing jeans and boots and an old sheepskin jacket that she loved. It made her feel warm, and just a little adventurous.

  Unlike a chilly New England divorcée.

  Claudia greeted her with a nod and a handshake, then ushered Francie inside. A cavernous central stairwell offered nothing, not even a rug to wipe your shoes. Claudia pointed the way to the living room, another over-large room with at least an oriental rug to warm it. They sat on facing blue sofas next to a gas fireplace, lit for the occasion. No tea or coffee or cookies: message received.

  Francie got out the letter from Reece to Dewey. She sat forward, trying to project sympathy.

  “Dewey Framingham contacted me,” she began. “He gave me this letter from Reece. From the prison.”

  Claudia’s face twitched ever so slightly. “And what is your connection to Dewey?”

  “He apparently saw my name in some of the letters to Reece from Tom. That’s all.”

  “And because you’re a lawyer you just leapt into this mess?”

  “I haven’t leapt, Mrs. Pugh—“

  “Call me Claudia. I haven’t been Mrs. Pugh for years.”

  Francie nodded. This wasn’t going well. What exactly did she want from this woman? Focus.

  “I work at Ward and Bailee, in Greenwich.”

  “So you said on the phone. I am acquainted with the firm. They represented my ex-husband in the divorce.”

  Oh, shit. “My apologies then. I hope it didn’t go too badly.”

  “Does divorce ever go well?” Claudia sighed and sat back a little. “I got the house and all the expenses related to it. It was fine for awhile but the taxes just keep going up. At least when it sells I get the proceeds.”

  “How is that going? Any offers yet?”

  “Not yet. It’s only been nine months,” she added bitterly. “Would you like a tour? There’s an open house tomorrow and I’ve been dusting all the corners.”

  Francie opened her mouth to decline but Claudia was on her feet, heading for the foyer again. She guided Francie through the house professionally and quickly, pointing out highlights like the oversized re
frigerator, the solarium, the screen porch, the en-suite bathrooms, the many bedrooms. Along the way Claudia mentioned she was a real estate agent these days, the implication being she knew what she was doing even though the house was taking forever to sell. There was no time for chat, just a rush tour as if Claudia was doing her duty, however distasteful.

  They returned to the kitchen, a vast space stretching from front to back, with an eating area and a range the size of a Volkswagen. Claudia crossed her arms and leaned a hip against the island. There was nothing on the counters anywhere, as if no one lived here. The space was starkly white, almost too clean. Francie shivered, touching the marble. Had there ever been love here?

  “It’s a beautiful house,” she said. “If I needed this much space I’d be interested myself. I’m sure you’ll find a buyer soon.”

  Claudia raised an eyebrow in reply.

  “So what do we do about Reece, Claudia?”

  She rounded on Francie, eyes ablaze. “I have no money for lawyers, Ms. Bennett. Nothing. I can’t hire you or anyone else.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” She turned away again, staring at the frosty front yard. “Reece was so wanted, so loved. And he’s turned into— what? A drug dealer. A criminal. It is so shameful. He’s lost to all of us. I’m done with him. He’s made his bed.”

  So it wasn’t the money.

  Claudia was just getting started. “He frittered away his education money. He leaned on his grandfather then his grandmother. Both sides of the family have helped him and coddled him. They—we— felt sorry for Reece. His poor broken family. We’re done, Ms. Bennett. All of us are finished with Reece.”

  “I see. Are you sure he’s guilty?” Francie asked. “I mean, it might be some misunderstanding.”

  Claudia gave a sour laugh. “If only you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “He lies, Ms. Bennett. Constantly, about everything. He would just lie to a lawyer, and how would that help? Let him figure it out for himself, that’s what I say. Do some soul-searching. Let him grow up in that French prison if that’s what it takes. Let him feel the consequences for once in his life.”

  Francie was taken aback. Claudia’s words stung. Her voice dripped with contempt, even hatred. Was this what happened to mothers of wayward children? Did she know what atrocities took place in that prison? Did she care? She wouldn’t even read the letter. “The conditions there seem pretty bad.”

  “He won’t stay there forever. He’ll get transferred somewhere else. That’s what people say.”

  “Have you consulted someone about his case?”

  “No.” She glanced guiltily at Francie. “Not formally. I told you, I can’t afford legal advice.”

  “So, a friend told you this? Because I’m not familiar with the French justice system either.”

  “Yes, it was a friend. She googled it. If you don’t know anything about the system over there, why are you even here? How can you help? What possible do-gooder impulse led you here?”

  Francie almost blushed. It had been awhile since anyone called her a ‘do-gooder’ and she sort of liked it.

  “It was just Dewey. And Tom.”

  “Tom. Ha. If only he’d stayed out of Reece’s life.”

  “Do you blame him for what happened to Reece?”

  “Blame him? He’s dead. He’s been dead for what— a year?”

  “More or less.”

  Claudia set her face and put both hands on the marble counter. “I think we’re done here.”

  Francie met Elise for lunch in the all-salad restaurant the youngest Bennett sister liked, not far from Claudia’s house. They ordered chopped salads with all sorts of extras that made no sense if you were watching your weight. But Elise felt righteous about this place and she and Francie had standing Saturday lunch dates every two weeks if they both were in town.

  Elise had come from the gym, in her workout clothes with a long down coat thrown over her tights. She looked rosy and healthy no matter what she weighed, and Francie told her that.

  “I’m down four pounds,” Elise said.

  “Good for you. Still you look good, don’t worry so much.”

  “If I don’t worry I eat chocolate.”

  “Which is good for you. I eat chocolate too.”

  Elise looked over Francie quickly. “Not much.”

  Francie pulled out her tablet, clicking through to the photos of Tom’s letters. “So here they are. There are eight letters from Tom, and one from Reece, that’s the son.” She scrolled through to the one that mentioned her. “There’s a lot of boring stuff, like what he had for dinner. Here’s something he said about me.” She flipped the tablet around so Elise could read it while she munched on her salad.

  Her eyes moved across the screen. She looked up at her sister, somber. “Wow. He wanted kids with you?”

  “He never said that to me. In fact he was adamant about not having kids.”

  “But he knew about whatshisname— Reece— when you were married, right?”

  Francie shrugged. “No idea when he found out. It could have been right away, when she got pregnant. Or she might not have told him because she was married.”

  “That seems more likely. She has an affair while she’s married and pretends it’s her husband’s child. Did she tell her husband about Tom?” Francie shrugged again. Elise touched the tablet. “Probably not. Are there more?”

  Francie searched for another letter to show Elise. “I’ll read this one to you. See what you think.”

  “Dear Reece,

  I’m sorry to hear things are bad between you and your dad. I never meant to come between you. I was just trying to help you get on your feet. I feel some responsibility toward you, as you know, even though I haven’t been there for most of your life.

  Listen to your mother. I know that’s hard for men. I never listened to mine, that’s for damn sure. Women want to keep us small, in our short pants, for as long as they can. Even if you’re grown up, they see you as a child who needs help and guidance. But sometimes you do. So listen to her.

  My wife tried to keep me down, just like my mother did. That’s the way I always felt. Francie was too smart, too good. Everyone loved her. It made me want to scream sometimes. Like she was so perfect she had the right to criticize everything I did. She—”

  “Wait. Stop.” Elise held up a hand. “This is too personal.”

  “It’s kinda fascinating though. How often do you get to hear what your spouse actually thought about you, as crazy as it is?”

  “But he’s blaming you for his failures.”

  “He could never blame himself. Accept responsibility? That’s a laugh. He—”

  Suddenly she pictured Tom, drunk and crying on the sofa, his face wet, blubbering about his affair with that cocktail waitress in Fort Worth. How much he cared about her, truly loved her, and she loved him. In fact she adored him in a way that Francie never could. She would always find fault with him, he said, so he had no choice but to find women who cherished and admired him just as he was. It wasn’t his fault— it was hers for being so critical.

  Her eyes welled up. Elise reached over and squeezed her hand.

  Francie brushed away the tears. “That pathetic shit.”

  “He’s not worth your tears, Francie.” After a lull to let her regroup, Elise asked: “What about the mother? You met her?”

  “A cool customer, basically your ice queen. I wonder what she was telling Reece here, that Tom mentions. She basically has disowned him. She won’t help him at all.”

  “No sympathy for him being in prison?”

  “Zero. Plus she’s broke and not happy about that either. She’s selling her house to get out from under property taxes. I looked her up. She’s five years in arrears.”

  “Is she in foreclosure?”

  “Not yet. But close.”

  “So she couldn’t pay for a French lawyer anyway.” Elise smiled. “Dang, I was hoping you would go over to France and find so
me cutie like Merle did.”

  “Nobody is as lucky as Merle.”

  “Harry was a bastard, remember.”

  Francie nodded. “Good thing the bastards are dead now.”

  “Oh, there are always more to fill in for the dead ones. I work with a couple.”

  The mention of workplace bastards brought Greg Leonard to mind. Francie chewed on lettuce, deciding whether to bring it up with her sister. The complaint hadn’t even been filed yet. Maybe it would miraculously disappear over the weekend.

  “What?” Elise said. “You were making that funny face you get when you’re debating something in your head.”

  Francie set down her fork. “If I tell you, it has to be secret. Just you and me.” Elise nodded. “Something happened at the firm. This dick is filing a sexual harassment claim against me.”

  “What?! Who?”

  “An associate. He says I’m mean to him and won’t let him get promoted unless he performs favors for me.”

  Elise sat back in the noisy café, stunned. “You’re kidding.”

  “I am not.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “Well, since I wrote the guidelines I can tell you that it will be investigated thoroughly by Human Resources which is overseen by the managing partner, my mentor Brenda McFall. She will have to recuse herself because of our friendship and one of the male partners will probably take over. It will be a case of he said/she said. And I will probably be forced to resign, or at the least take a leave of absence while they promote Greg and demote me.”

  Elise put her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh, Francie,” she whispered.

  “I will no longer be assistant managing partner because that’s what I was doing when all this supposedly happened. So there goes the promotion.”

  “And your reputation.”

  “And my reputation, and the money, and my career probably. All because of a little twit who didn’t get his promotion.” Francie leaned in. “He confronted me in the parking lot Thursday night. He asked me to go for a drink with him. I told him I was too tired. He scared me, Elise. He jumped out from behind a truck.”