The right thing to do. I wonder how he so easily determines what “the right thing to do” is.
He points to a shot of Gavin and John Wayne. “So you even knew the Duke?”
“Oh yes. He came to our house quite a bit. That shot was taken on the set of The Searchers.”
“Your husband directed The Searchers?” His brown eyes are huge now.
I chuckle. “No, no… John Ford directed that one. But Gavin helped a bit on it. He and John were friends.”
Tom just shakes his head in wonder. “Wow, this is the closest I’ve been to anyone famous.”
Then I do something that surprises even me. I remove the photo from the wall and hand it to him. “Here. You keep this.”
“No way, Mrs. Fioré. You can’t be serious.”
“I am serious. I want you to have this for helping me tonight.”
“But it’s your husband and—”
“I have many, many photos of my husband. And to be perfectly honest, John Wayne wasn’t my favorite. I suppose I never forgave him for that time he threw my punch bowl into the swimming pool.”
“He what?”
I laugh. “Oh, it’s foolish, I know, and I really shouldn’t hold it against him, but we were having a very nice cocktail party, and John was enjoying quite a bit of Tequila Conmemorativo—his favorite drink—and he got a little carried away with a story he was telling. And the next thing we knew, he had slung the punch bowl, along with the punch, right into the swimming pool.”
Tom laughs, then tries to hand the framed photo back to me. “I can’t take this.”
I hold up my hands. “Yes, you can.”
“But why?”
I consider this. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
He thanks me for the photo, then goes out to check on my car. After he’s removed his equipment, he knocks on my door again. “I’m not sure if that charge’ll hold till morning, Mrs. Fioré. You might want to take your car out for a little drive to keep the battery going.”
“I really don’t like to drive at night. What happens if I don’t?”
“Could be dead in the morning.”
“Oh…”
“I could take it for a little spin, I mean, if you trust me. I don’t blame you if you don’t. But if you want to make sure the car’s charged up good, it’d be the best thing to do.” He grins. “And I’ve never driven a Jag before.”
I wave my hand at him. “You go ahead, Tom. Your truck will be here. If you don’t come back, I shouldn’t have too much trouble tracking you down.”
“That’s for sure.” He laughs. “My wife would kill me if I stole a car. We’re expecting our first baby in February, and I don’t think she’d appreciate having a felon for the daddy.”
So I watch as an almost complete stranger drives off into the freezing, foggy night with my car. I’m sure some people would call me incredibly naive or simply stupid, but I trust Tom.
I feel strangely empowered now. As if I have a smidgeon of control over my recently disrupted life…or perhaps, as Michael suggested, someone more powerful is watching out for me.
With authority and purpose, I open more heater boxes, placing one unit in my bedroom, one in the bathroom, and one in the kitchen. Then I put my other hardware store purchases away and plug in my new telephones. I place the black one in the living room and the white one in the bedroom, testing them to make sure they both work. I’m fully aware that this is an everyday thing for most people, but when I hear the dial tone, I feel as if I’ve just climbed a mountain.
Unfortunately it’s probably too late to call my accountant. Just the same, I try Jackie’s number. When I get his answering machine, I leave a message, asking him to call me at my new number. “At your earliest convenience, please.”
I feel quite pleased with myself when I hang up. Although I felt like screaming and demanding that he send money immediately, I was actually rather polite. Hopefully that will get his attention. Then I call Michael.
“Hello, darling! It’s so good to hear your voice. How is everything in Silverton?”
“It’s been interesting. But I think I might survive.”
He laughs. “Oh, you are a survivor, Claudette, if ever there was one.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Well, I’d love to chat, but we have guests. Richard’s sister and her husband and kids came out for Thanksgiving, and we were just about to head down to the beach for a sunset picnic.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“Oh, it is. I wish you could join us. It’s been glorious weather.”
“I wish I could too. It’s freezing cold here.”
“Well, stay warm, darling, and have a good Thanksgiving.”
“Yes. You too.”
I hang up and look out the window in time to see headlights pulling into the driveway. I meet Tom at the door, and he hands my keys over. “She’s a great little car, Mrs. Fioré.” Then he gives me a business card as well. “I hope you don’t mind, but I stopped by my brother-in-law’s house and showed off your car. I told him you might be in the market for a garage to keep her in. He sent you his card.”
“Thank you.”
“Thanks again for that photo of the Duke. I can’t wait to show my wife.”
“You are very welcome, Tom. Thank you once again for all your help tonight.”
I close the front door and walk through my living room, looking at the photos and various pieces of original art that grace my walls, studying them closely as if seeing them for the first time. I suppose I have taken these things, as well as their monetary value, for granted. I remember Melinda’s challenge to me earlier today, that if I could part with some of these pieces, I might be able live a bit more comfortably. I consider Tom’s suggestion of a garage. Surely, a garage might be more useful to me, not to mention my car, than one of these paintings. And yet how does one go about selling a valuable piece of art? I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
I decide to be like Scarlett O’Hara and just think about that tomorrow. Right now, I am hungry. And I have a load of wet laundry that needs to be placed in the dryer. I hope it hasn’t gotten smelly with mildew yet. To my relief, the clothes seem fine as I take them out piece by piece and place them in the dryer with one of Michael’s magical dryer sheets.
“There.” I close the door and turn the dial to sixty minutes, just like Irene showed me. And then I hear the dryer running, and I figure I must’ve done something right.
After fixing myself a light dinner, I am exhausted. I should wash the dishes, but I’m afraid I might break more than I clean. They will have to wait until morning. And yet it seems too early to go to bed. I wish I could sit down and lose myself in front of an old movie, but the television is still not connected to cable.
I wander back to my bedroom, which is still rather messy. That too will have to wait until tomorrow. When I would get impatient about something not getting done, Gavin used to remind me that “Rome wasn’t built in a day.” Of course, I was usually impatient with someone else’s lack of initiative…not my own. Nevertheless, the saying probably still applies.
Thinking of Gavin reminds me of that box of letters my mother saved over the years. From a glance I could see that a number of them were written by Gavin. I know he and Mother got along wonderfully—sometimes so much so that I would become jealous. But, really, what could he have possibly written to her?
I retrieve the box of letters, take them to the living room, and begin to sort through them. It might make more sense if I read the older ones first, a bit like reading someone’s journal. I separate Gavin’s letters from the occasional postcard or greeting card sent by me. I feel slightly embarrassed to see my brief notes…not even complete sentences, and many times I simply signed my name. How personal.
I start with the oldest letter I can find. It was written in 1981, shortly after we returned from Mother’s seventy-fifth birthday party.
Dear Mother,
It feels a bit odd to call you Mother, but
since you so sweetly asked me, I will comply. It was fantastic to meet you last week. I had no idea that Claudette’s mother was such a lovely person. I know, from what little I manage to dredge from my wife, that you’ve had more than your share of struggles. And yet when I met you, you were so gracious, so kind—I didn’t see a trace of bitterness in you. And I have to say that impressed me. It impressed me a lot. But not only impress me, it gave me a new sense of hope for my wife. I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining, but I’m sure you must know: Claudette can be difficult. And I suppose, in all fairness, I have spoiled her some over the years. I feel that I can trust you, Mother, when I admit that my marriage hasn’t been all roses. We’ve had a few thorns. And yet I am committed to do my best by your daughter. And despite these moments of emotional betrayal, I do believe she loves me—in her own way. But I would appreciate any sage advice, any motherly bits of wisdom you might share. And if not, I remain yours just the same.
Gavin
As I attempt to slip the pages back into the envelope, my hands are actually trembling. So Gavin did know about my relationship with Phillip. Yet he never said a word about it to me. In my defense, I never slept with Phillip. Of course, I wouldn’t have slept with anyone by the time I was past my midfifties. I just didn’t have that kind of confidence. But Gavin was right; I was involved in an emotional affair.
Still, I am stunned to think that Gavin told my mother about this. Oh, certainly, he didn’t go into detail, but he did tip his hand. I couldn’t be more surprised. I hurry to read the next letter. It’s dated a few months later.
Dear Mother,
Thank you for your wise words in regard to our Claudette. I must agree with you that despite that tough veneer she so cleverly reveals to the world, there is a scared, insecure girl underneath. I appreciate that reminder. On a happier note, I do believe she has tired of her game. And, in her way, I think she is trying to show me she’s sorry. To be fair, I must blame myself a bit for some of the problems our marriage has suffered. Early on I was more married to my work than to my wife. I neglected her. And of course, my payoff was always monetary. I felt that things, expensive things, could make up for what I was unable to give. I also blame myself because of our age difference. When we married I told myself that sixteen years wasn’t so much…but in so many ways Claudette has always been young for her age; whereas I have probably been old and stodgy. Still, I look forward to my remaining years with her. I hope to help make up for previous years, perhaps to build something solid and honorable.
All my love,
Gavin
P.S. Please, don’t mention the gift to Claudette. And please know that I enjoy being able to help you financially. I sometimes feel there is little I can do to help anyone personally. It gives me great pleasure to make your life more comfortable. So much so that I’m setting up something permanent with my accountant.
I read over the part about where Gavin regretted being married to his job. I do remember when this realization seemed to hit him. At the time I worried that it was because he had gotten some grim diagnosis and was dying. He was, after all, in his seventies then. For all I knew, our time together was limited.
Things did begin to change between us in the eighties. It was as if we truly became friends. We had good times on vacations. We willingly spent time doing things together. He talked me into taking up golf. Despite the fact that I was getting older and more obsessed over the whole aging process, those really were the golden years. And whenever I wanted the latest procedure, insisting I would only be happy if I could remain young, Gavin never argued. No matter the cost, he never balked. All he would say is, “I think you look lovely as you are, darling, but the choice is up to you.”
Still, I don’t think he minded having a somewhat youthful-looking woman on his arm in those days. Oh, certainly no one would’ve called me a trophy wife at that stage of the game. But I don’t think he was ever ashamed to be seen with me either.
I look at the stack of letters and wonder how much I can take. Already I am filled with a mixture of feelings. A part of me is slightly chagrined that Gavin was so open and honest with my mother. But another part misses Gavin more than ever, regretting how much I took for granted…how much I completely overlooked. Gavin really was a good man.
I read through a few more and am relieved that they don’t delve too deeply into personal or painful things. Oh, there are glimpses of his sorrows and disappointments, things he tells her that he never told me. Or maybe he did tell me; maybe I just wasn’t listening. The next letter fills me with both anger and guilt.
Dear Mother,
I have finally come to accept the fact that Claudette is an extremely jealous woman. Did you know this about your daughter? As you’re aware, I was married to Gala Morrow before I met Claudette. We were married less than ten years and then Gala died in 1940. She was only thirty-seven, and I was devastated and never expected to remarry. In fact, I didn’t date for several years. Then, six years after losing Gala, I married your daughter. I told myself that I was over Gala, but I don’t think that was honest. Gala was my first love. How do you get over that? So I’ve insisted on keeping her photos in our home. Today Claudette threw a horrible fit. She accused me of loving Gala more than her. Of course, I denied this. But now as I sit at my desk, late into the night with perhaps too much Glenmorangie flowing through my veins, just staring at a photo of my dear Gala, I know that it’s true. I did love Gala more than Claudette. But what am I to do about this now? Should I confess my falseness to Claudette? Should I remove Gala’s photos from our home? I have come to trust your wisdom, dear Mother, please advise me now.
All my love,
Gavin
I refold the letter, return it to its envelope, and wonder how my mother reacted to this confession. How did she answer his questions? Still, based on history, I’m sure I can make an educated guess as to her response. Gavin never did confess to me that he loved Gala more than me. Not that I didn’t know this already. And yet he didn’t remove her photos either. Somehow I’m sure this was upon the advice of my mother. Suddenly I feel enraged at her. What right did she have to interfere with my marriage like this? What had ever made her an expert in marriage? or relationships? or even love, for that matter? And why on earth did Gavin turn to her for marital advice?
I am too angry to continue reading. Instead, I go to my room, and upon seeing the mess that’s still there, I start throwing clothes and shoes and magazines and things around until it looks even worse. Then I just stand there, staring at the chaos of my creation, and I begin to cry. What is the matter with me?
Slowly, I go around, picking up the items I have so carelessly slung about. I throw some things away, hang some things up, fold others, make a pile of clothes that need laundering. I even remember the laundry baskets and put them to use. Eventually, other than my unmade bed, which has not been made since Michael left, the room is back in order. I feel pleased with my efforts, so I take it even one more step. I will change the linens on my bed.
Naturally this takes much longer than expected. And it is thoroughly exhausting. But finally, close to midnight, I am done. My bedroom looks almost as nice as it did the first time Michael showed it to me. The only thing missing is the vase of pink rosebuds he had placed on the bedside table. Proud of my work, I carry the used sheets to the laundry room and set them on the washer. That can wait until tomorrow.
Hungry from this evening’s unexpected exercise, I decide I should make myself a late-night snack. I look in my refrigerator, trying to decide what to have…and then I remember how sometimes, back in the earlier years of marriage, Gavin and I would have a late-night snack. Usually it was much later than this, more like three in the morning. Gavin would whip up what he called a “scrambled omelet,” because he didn’t know how to make an official omelet. He would take out a bowl and stir up a bunch of eggs, adding things like shredded cheese and chives or mushrooms. Then he would melt butter in an omelet pan and stir them over the heat until t
hey were done. I think it’s time for me to attempt something like this.
I slowly go through the steps of chopping and shredding and breaking eggs, thinking of how Gavin did this and that. And it’s odd, but it almost begins to feel as if he is here with me. Perhaps he’s looking over my shoulder as I stir this yellowy mixture in the pan, unsure as to whether it’s actually going to turn out to be edible or not. And then, presto, it begins to cook and slowly gets thicker until finally I can tell it’s done. I’m so excited at this success that I feel like a child. I giddily spoon some of my scrambled omelet onto a plate. And then I remember seasonings. Gavin always added salt and pepper, and so do I. Then I pour myself a goblet of orange juice and sit down.
I hold up my glass in a toast, saying, “To you, Gavin,” and then I eat. To my delight, it is rather good, and I eat every bit of it. Perhaps not as good as Gavin’s, but it’s a beginning. I’m just finishing up my juice when I smell something burning. I look over to see that the stove is still on and the omelet pan is smoking. I turn off the element and move the pan. Oh well, at least I didn’t go to bed with it like that. I didn’t burn down the house. Not yet anyway. As I get ready for bed, I wonder how long it will take for me to get good at this. Or is it even possible?
I sleep in quite late, but I believe it’s the best I’ve slept since moving to Silverton. Perhaps one of the best night’s rests since Gavin died. It’s almost noon when I get up, and I feel surprisingly refreshed as I put on my dressing gown and slippers. Then I go check to see that the other heaters are still running. While it’s not as cold in here as yesterday, it’s still a bit nippy, and I can tell that the oil furnace is going to be a necessity if I am to survive this winter.
Thinking of the oil furnace reminds me of my suspicions regarding my sister yesterday—my What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? theory. It seemed very real to me at the time, especially considering my dire straits and Violet’s antagonistic attitude toward me. However, I am not so sure today. It’s possible I overreacted. Still, I don’t mind if the police look into it.
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