She recalled the great care and concern her aunt had displayed that day, the patient manner in which she'd answered all of Eva's questions. They'd sat together for quite some time and then, evidently satisfied that Eva understood, her aunt had gone off to make a number of telephone calls that had to do, Eva had gathered, with her mother and father not ever coming back from their holiday.
For Eva their deaths had been too abstract. She'd been unable to take in the full meaning and so had interpreted her aunt's words to mean that she'd simply be staying somewhere longer than originally intended. And even though she attended the funeral, sitting between her aunt and her grandfather, both of them holding her hands, she'd clung to the idea that she'd soon be going home. In the meantime, she'd been put into a class at Auntie Alma's school and had to wear a uniform every day. She didn't get to see any of her old friends, and she missed her old house. She also began to miss the way her mom did things, which wasn't at all the way Auntie Alma did them. The strange meals started to bother her. So did the continuation of her freedom to lose hair ribbons and to come into the house after exploring down on the beach with sand and grit under her fingernails.
And so one evening, five or six weeks after she'd been told she'd be living with Auntie Alma for good, she got out of bed and went downstairs to the living room, where her aunt was sitting at the desk, and said, "I want to go home now, please, Auntie Alma. Okay?"
Her aunt looked up at her and started to say something, stopped, started again to speak, then dropped her head into her hands and began to cry, Eva felt terrible then because she loved her aunt and didn't want to make her unhappy, but she really wanted to go home. She went around the desk and patted her aunt on the back the way grown-ups always patted her when she was upset, and waited for her aunt to stop crying. And that was when Alma took her on her knee and explained in more graphic terms why she couldn't go home. Then Eva cried, still not really able to understand what dead meant, but convinced finally that she was going to be staying with her aunt forever.
The only other time she saw her aunt cry had been, for all kinds of reasons, far more devastating. At fourteen, Eva had grown accustomed to Alma's unemotional way of dealing with most situations and was at a stage when she was determined to provoke her into what she believed to be more honest reactions. She'd come to view Alma's self-control as a pose, an attitude that masked her true feelings. In point of fact, she was suspicious at that stage in her personal history of the behavior of the majority of adults, as were her friends. And it was particularly stressful having to attend a school where her aunt was the head mistress, not to mention coming home every day to find little or no difference between the head mistress and her guardian. Alma's consistency was something Eva depended upon on the one hand and found suspect on the other. So she'd taken to saying and doing things intended to push her aunt over the edge.
They were in the midst of a fairly heated argument about Eva's right to date on school nights when the telephone rang. Fuming, but secretly enjoying this contest of wills, Eva sat slumped in the armchair by the fireplace, arms folded across her chest, waiting while her aunt went to answer the telephone.
But when, a few minutes later, her aunt came back to the living room, she looked so distressed that Eva completely forgot the argument. Alma walked over to the fireplace and stood with one hand on the mantel, gazing down at the fire, her demeanor so altered that Eva was immediately frightened.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Your grandfather died," her aunt said, and then, without making a sound, began to cry.
Initially, Eva couldn't absorb it. She was so unnerved at seeing Alma this way—even though it was what she'd been angling to accomplish—and so guilty for having behaved badly, that she didn't know what to do. With anyone else, Eva's automatic response would have been to offer an embrace. But this was her aunt, and the usual rules of behavior didn't apply. Not that Alma wasn't affectionate, because she was. All her life she'd run to her aunt for hugs and kisses, for approval. Yet this time Eva was uncertain. They'd been battling for weeks. What if she went to put her arms around her and her aunt pushed her away because Eva had been such a bitch lately? But if she didn't do what her every instinct told her was right she knew she'd regret it. So, cowed by this view of her aunt's basic humanity—which, in her heart of hearts, she'd known all along was there—Eva got up and embraced her. And then she became so upset that Alma ended up consoling her, thereby reestablishing the balance in their relationship. It marked the end of Eva's brief-lived rebellion. It seemed pointless after that to pursue it when she'd known from the outset that she was provoking her aunt purely for the sake of proving she could.
If Alma had wept over the stroke, she'd done it in private. All she'd shown Eva was her anger, and that had subsided considerably over the months. Until Bobby and Penny became part of the household, Alma had been disinterested in almost everything. She still kept abreast of world news and had spent most of the summer watching the Yankees on television and groaning over their losses. She'd been rough on the nurses, quick to criticize, and had managed to discourage her friends from coming to visit. She didn't, she insisted, want anyone to see her looking like a gargoyle. She'd retreated deep inside herself, only occasionally revealing her old personality. Perhaps that Alma was gone for all time and never would return. The idea worried Eva.
But Alma was responding to Penny, and to Bobby, too. As a result, regardless of Eva's own conflicting responses to Bobby, it felt as if the air in the house was daily growing lighter.
She wondered suddenly if the house seemed as enormous to Penny as it had to her as a six-year-old, and felt a pang, remembering how Alma had read her to sleep every night, endless wonderful stories. When she had bad dreams she'd climb into bed with her aunt. And when she'd been sick, Alma had always let her stay in the big bed. Her aunt had never left her to go on vacation but had always taken her along. Alma didn't start traveling until after Eva was married. She'd stayed close by, in case Eva needed her. It was an incredible thing to have done for someone else's child. Now, Eva knew—she'd heard Penny knocking at Alma's door in the early morning—her aunt was once again playing a special role for another child. And, setting aside her own mixed feelings about the child's mother, Eva was glad.
They had paratha—heated soft chewy flatbread, and raita—a cucumber and yogurt salad, a biryani, which was rice with vegetables and raisins, and a mild chicken curry. Bobby loved the food and ate hugely.
"I knew you'd like it," Dennis said when, with a small groan, she put down her knife and fork and leaned back in her chair. "It's the best food I've ever had." She gave him a smile so he'd know she wasn't just being polite. "Now I know for sure you'll like Mexican, too."
"Probably," she said. "You mind if I smoke?"
"Nope. Go right ahead."
She got a Marlboro from her bag and lit it, then, overcome by curiosity, had to ask, "Why'd you ask me out?"
"Why not?"
"No, really. Why?"
"I don't know," he said, looking uncomfortable, as if she'd pushed him into a corner. "It seemed like a good idea."
"That's it?" she asked. "That's why?"
He thought for a time, then said, "Well, I'm kind of impressed by the progress you've made with Alma, and I was curious to know what sort of person you are. And now that your face is healed up and you had your hair done, you look really good. You've got great eyes. I would've thought you'd say your girl had your eyes, not your chin or your forehead."
"Pen's got great big eyes," she said, her inflection indicating that she, by comparison, had much smaller ones.
"So do you."
"They don't look so big to me," she said, made uneasy by his compliments.
"You and your girl both have great big deep blue eyes," he insisted. "I guess most of all I was curious."
"What about?"
"About who you were and how you came to be working for Alma. What's the story kind of thing, is what I mean."
"Oh!" She looked around. No one was paying them the least attention. "I took Pen and ran away," she said, all at once aware of the pulse beating in her throat. For some reason, perhaps to scare him off or perhaps to test the depth of his interest, she wanted to tell him about Joe. "Joe, my husband, he's real mean."
"I figured that much out."
"He hit Pen real hard a few weeks back. I couldn't allow that."
"No," Dennis said quietly.
"It didn't matter about me," she explained. "But it mattered about Pen." Her throat was starting to choke closed. She coughed to clear it, then took a puff of her cigarette. "There's nothing to know about me. I was just a housewife, worked part-time at the Burger King. I'm nobody."
"Of course you're somebody," he said, echoing Alma so that she had to smile a little.
"No," she disagreed. "I'm nobody. I'm happy to be left alone. It's all I want."
"You must've been married pretty young."
"Nineteen."
"That's pretty young."
"Yeah." She sighed. "It seems like a hundred years ago now."
"I'll bet."
"I'm not too good at this," she said apologetically.
"At what? Eating, talking?"
"Talking to men," she elaborated. "It kind of sets me on edge."
The waiter came to remove their plates and Dennis asked her if she'd like coffee. She said she would and he ordered two cups. The waiter left, and Dennis said, "It's just talking. What's your name anyhow, Roberta?"
"Barbara."
"Barbara," he repeated. "It suits you better than Bobby."
"That's what Alma said. I don't see what difference it makes. I'm the same, whatever you call me."
"Now, see, that's where you're wrong. A name establishes you, in a way. For example, I'm Dennis. That sets you up for the Irish red hair, the pasty skin, and orange freckles." He smiled at her. "Bobby had a whole lot of wild blond hair and a black eye, a lip out to there. Barbara has nice brown hair and two big blue eyes."
"Are you a Catholic?"
He laughed and shook his head. "Protestant. You?"
"My grandpa used to take us to the Episcopalian church. But since he died, I'm not anything anymore. I guess I wasn't anything then, but I liked going. It was kind of peaceful. I liked the church air. It was … bigger sort of than regular air. And I liked the music, the hymns. I'd get kind of swollen in the heart when they'd sing 'Jerusalem.'"
"That's nice," he said. "Myself, I like Christmas carols."
"Yeah," she agreed. "Me too."
"That's a nice sweater," he said. "I meant to tell you that before."
She looked down at herself, at the royal blue cashmere pullover that was softer than anything she'd ever felt, and said, "Eva gave it to me. She gave me a whole bunch of things."
"Good deal."
"She's real … really complicated. One minute I think she can't stand me. The very sight of me seems to get her riled. And the next minute she's giving me a load of expensive clothes that're like new." Again she wondered if Eva was planning to get rid of her. She hoped with all her heart that wasn't going to happen. She wanted, more than she'd ever wanted anything, to be able to stay. The thought of moving on, trying for anoth
er job, made her feel a bit sick.
"I know what you mean. She's tricky," he agreed. "But I think it's because most of the time her mind's somewhere else, on her work, I guess." "I'm reading one of her books. She's a wonderful writer." "Yeah?" "Wonderful," she repeated. "Maybe writers are like that." "Maybe. So, what d'you think? Want to go to the zoo or something one
weekend? We could even take Penny into the city to see a show." "I don't know," she said, at once nervous again. "I'm working seven days a week." "Alma will let you have the time off. Wouldn't you like to see New York?"
"I never thought about it. I don't know. Maybe."
"Why did you say you'd come out tonight?" he asked.
She shrugged, knowing she couldn't tell the truth, which was that she'd been afraid to say no. He was a man. When a man said to do something, you did it. It's what scared her more than anything else: the helpless knowledge that she couldn't say no. "I don't know," she answered, thinking she sounded every bit as stupid as Joe had always said she was. "You seemed real nice." That, at least, was true. "You like to have a good time. I mean, you like to laugh."
"That's true. Don't you?"
"I don't know what I like," she admitted. "I'm going to have to find out."
"Maybe I can help you do that."
"I don't know," she said plaintively. "I'll have to see."
"Don't make any hasty decisions," he teased.
"I told you, I'm not good at this."
"There's nothing to be good at," he said reasonably. "You get used to people, spend some time with them. It's called socializing." "I've never done any of that." "So I gather. Maybe it's time to start." "We'll see." "Sure," he said, backing down. "We'll see how it goes."
She scrambled out of the car before he had a chance to get halfway around to the passenger side. "Hey, slow down a minute," he said, hurrying to catch up as she all but ran toward the door. "What?" She was scared he'd try to do something, touch her or kiss her or something. And that was the second scariest thing she could think of:
someone wanting to fold her body into painful positions in order to make
himself feel good.
"I just wanted to say good night," he said, keeping his distance.
"Oh. Yeah. Thanks for the dinner, Dennis." She managed a quick smile. "It was really good."
"You're welcome. I'll see you Thursday."
"Yeah, okay," she said, desperate to get inside the safety of the house.
He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but didn't speak, and after a moment he said, "Well, good night, then," and headed back to his car.
With the door open at her back, she waved as he went down the driveway. The horn gave a brief toot, and then he was gone. She was exhausted, and it was only twenty after ten.
Alma and Eva both looked up as she came into the living room.
"Have a nice time?" Eva asked.
"Very nice," Bobby said, like a polite child, Eva thought. "Pen wasn't any trouble, was she?"
"Not a bit," Alma said.
"Good. I'll go check on her, then come help you upstairs."
"Take your time," Alma told her. "I'm not going anywhere."
Penny had kicked off the blankets. Bobby covered her, then went to sit in the apartment living room for a few minutes, reviewing the evening. It hadn't been anywhere near as awful as she'd imagined it might be. And the food had been fabulous. But what she didn't understand was why this man was so eager to spend time with her. Couldn't he see she had nothing to offer? Or did men only see what they wanted to see, and not things the way they really were? Women weren't like that. Women saw things pretty much the way they were. But a lot of the time they had to pretend they didn't, because men said they didn't know what the hell they were talking about.
I'm not going to be that way anymore, she decided, getting to her feet with a sigh. It was time to help Alma up to bed. Maybe, she thought, climbing the stairs, Alma knew the truth and said it straight out because she'd never been married, had never had to keep it in a secret place in the back of her head in order to keep some man from getting riled. As she walked through the kitchen, she was all at once filled with admiration for Alma, impressed by the fact that she'd made the choice to live alone and be able to talk about true things. It seemed like an incredibly smart and brave thing to have done.
Fifteen
Bobby was so worried about what Eva's failure to pay her might signify that she couldn't even think about going to bed. On top of that, she kept going over her dinner with Dennis, fretting that she'd been poor company and probably hadn't thanked him properly. It shamed her to think she was so ignorant, that she knew so little about how to deal with people. Well, he'd probably back away now, and maybe that would be for the best. To take her mind off e
verything, she decided to sit down and finish reading Eva's book. It was so good she didn't want it to end; but she was also dying to know how things wound up. So she went on reading even though she was so tired the words were blurry.
When she got to the bottom of the last page she sighed, tremendously satisfied. She stayed on the sofa for a time, reluctant to put the book down and be parted from people she'd cared so much about. She wondered how Eva knew the things she did, and if she'd written about people she'd actually known, or if she'd just imagined everything.
It must be wonderful to be a writer, Bobby thought, at last setting the book aside, to be able to use words to create such fascinating characters, to have them say and do the things they did. Sometimes books were so much better than life, made so much more sense of things. She looked at the two paperback novels, tempted to start one of them right away. But it was after one, and she really was too tired.
Wait till she told Aunt Helen she was living in a house with a famous writer. Her aunt would be impressed, although Eva didn't act at all the way Bobby had always imagined famous people did. She wasn't especially glamorous, didn't drive a big expensive car, or wear a lot of jewelry. Her clothes were good, and she always looked nice enough, but to see her, say, in a supermarket, you'd never go thinking she was a famous author.
It was pretty incredible, she thought, already sinking into sleep. Evangeline Chaney and Eva Rule. Somehow, they were different people. And while she really liked the author, she was fearful of the changes the day-to-day woman might bring about in Bobby's life.
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