"But it didn't end happily," Eva said, nettled. How dare anyone tell her what to write?
"Find a way," Bobby insisted, feeling that she knew something Eva did-n't; that she had, in her own way, a better fix on reality than Eva ever would. Granted, it was a different reality and not an especially good one, but it pertained for an awful lot of women. "It's one of the best things about your books: You leave people feeling good. And that's important. People need an ending that leaves them feeling better, gives them some hope."
It was Eva's turn to sit silently for several moments, considering this. "You have a point," she said, wondering if vanity hadn't blinded her to an awful lot of things. She seemed to have less of a fix on this woman now than she'd had before. "I'll think about it.”
Bobby put out her cigarette, saying, "I'm going to go to bed now. I'm really tired."
"Me too," Eva lied. Her brain was racing, ideas jumping around wildly. She'd probably be awake most of the night.
Bobby stood up, holding her cigarettes and matches. "I haven't ever told anybody those things," she said meaningfully.
"I know," Eva said, getting up. "I understand." She knew the truth when she heard it. The problem was, she hadn't enjoyed hearing it.
"I was too ashamed. You know?"
"I understand," Eva repeated, looking at Bobby's diminutive shape in the darkness. "Sleep well," she said helplessly, feeling she'd defrauded this little woman.
"You may not think so," Bobby said, starting toward the door, "but you really are a nice person. G'night."
"Good night," Eva said, reaching for the half-full glass of orange juice on the table.
Bobby left the door open a few inches, and Eva continued to stand there, feeling like a monster. She'd grown up following Alma's lead, and Alma didn't espouse niceness. Niceness was a namby-pamby code of behavior for dishonest people to hide behind. You were nice instead of truthful; it was kinder. Alma had always stated she preferred truthfulness; she insisted on knowing where she stood with people and mistrusted those who were nice.
Nice, Eva whispered to herself, very ashamed. She was anything but, she thought, taking a swallow of juice. She felt like a psychological con artist who'd just pulled off a major scam. And hard as she tried, she couldn't shake the revulsion she felt at the thought of getting raped with a hot curling iron, nor could she shut down the mental image of Bobby on her hands and knees, being sodomized. Thoroughly shaken, she went back upstairs, wishing fervently that she'd kept her distance, that she'd had more respect for Bobby's privacy.
*
He dreamed he was a little kid again, and he was sick. He had a fever so he had to stay home from school, and spent most of the day sleeping. He wasn't hungry and didn't eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwich his mother brought him in the afternoon. She looked mad but didn't say anything, just went back to her soap opera.
When his dad came home he sat on the side of the bed for a few minutes, touching the back of his hand to Joe's forehead, saying, "You're running a pretty high fever, son. Best thing for you is sleep." His dad went away.
He slept, then woke up again when his mother brought him a mashed-up aspirin in a spoon and a glass of milk. He tasted the milk and said, "It tastes funny." He didn't want to drink it. The smell made his stomach heave.
His mother sad, "That's just the aspirin. Drink the goddamned milk."
So he had to drink the whole glass because his mother was standing there waiting. He got it down but right away, before his mother even got halfway to the door, he was vomiting, the spoiled milk spewing from his mouth.
She went to the kitchen, came back with some rags and a bucket and said, "Clean up your stinking mess!"
Shivering, he got down on his hands and knees and did as he'd been told. He was so woozy he kept wanting to curl up on the floor and go to sleep. But he got the job finished, and climbed back into bed.
Then he was out in the back yard with his dad, playing catch. He went chasing after a ball that went way over his head when his dad seemed to fly up into the air, then fall to the ground, his head hitting the cement path—hard. Joe could hear the hard hollow sound it made and was scared. He came running over the grass, got down on his knees and held his dad's hand, saying, "It's gonna be okay, Dad. Just don't move."
His dad's eyes were closed and Joe yelled at his mother to call an ambulance but she kept on standing there. Joe screamed at her and finally she went inside.
Joe stroked his dad's hand, more scared than he'd ever been. He saw blood starting to spread under his dad's head, and Joe knew he'd cracked his head wide open, but he still couldn't understand why his dad had fallen.
"It'll be all right," he kept repeating, wanting someone to come help, but knowing no one would. The blood was spreading, thick and very dark, and his dad wasn't moving at all. Joe sensed his mother at the back door looking out. He was scared she hadn't called anybody, scared his dad was going to die.
He awakened feeling murderously angry. He fired up a smoke and went into the kitchen to fix a cup of instant coffee, adding extra crystals to make it strong. He drank it sitting at the kitchen table, his head propped on one hand.
The house was cold but he didn't hike up the thermostat. No way was he paying out his good money to heat this dump. Sitting there sipping the coffee, he decided this was it. Tonight after work he was going over to Helen's place to find out where Bobby was at.
He stowed the rifle and the handgun and a couple of boxes of bullets in the trunk. Then, while he waited for the Firebird to warm up, he flashed again on that dream of his father. Was that the way it had actually been? He couldn't remember. But it sure as shit felt as if it had been.
Twenty-Seven
Penny came bouncing off the school bus and flew to her mother with her lips pulled back to show the gap in her front teeth.
"My tooth came out!" she crowed. "The tooth fairy's gonna come tonight."
Bobby said, "That's great, Pen," but for a few seconds she was stricken, realizing her daughter had taken another step forward, that she was less of a child than she'd been even that morning.
"Yeah," Penny said, enormously gratified. "It's great. I'm gonna go tell Granny." She threw down her backpack, pulled off her coat, and went running up the stairs.
Bobby carried the backpack down to their apartment, making a mental note to leave a little surprise under Pen's pillow. She could remember finding a pair of quarters under her own pillow years ago, and being ecstatic at the discovery. These things meant so much to little kids.
She sat down for a minute, wanting to give Pen some time with Alma, and considered what a momentous day this was. Most likely it wouldn't have seemed anything special to a lot of people, but to her it was highly significant. Pen was going to lose all her baby teeth now. She'd begin changing every day in small but important ways. Before she turned around, Pen would be a teenager, spending hours on the telephone and going out with boys. And where would the two of them be then?
She looked around the room. Probably not here, she thought, and felt saddened. She wanted them to be able to stay; she imagined herself taking courses and learning new skills, using them here, in this house, with these people. She wanted to go on reading Eva's books and doing up Alma's hair in different ways; wanted to maintain the routines they'd established. But she couldn't help feeling it wasn't going to be that way. Things never stayed the same, no matter how much you wanted them to.
Eva was sitting in the armchair in the office, looking out the window and wondering how to take what had been a tragedy and give it a happy ending. In order to do that, she'd have to make Deborah's story a secondary theme, shifting the focus. What initially had seemed a good idea had become, with Bobby's suggestion, very complicated.
The linear narrative she'd been considering was simple and straightforward. Shifting Deborah to a lesser role would entail much more plotting, not to mention the development of additional characters. All for the sake of a happy ending. Why was she letting herself get turned around by Bobby? Guil
t, she thought tiredly. She was fussing over Bobby's suggestion in order to avoid the larger issue of her culpability.
She knew that for Bobby the night before had been a tremendous breakthrough. She'd confided the long-secret details of eight years of horror. Eva wanted her to feel secure, to believe that she hadn't placed her trust unwisely. It had been a great show of faith on Bobby's part, telling the things she had, and Eva felt an obligation to honor that. But she hated knowing as much about the woman as she now did, hated the too-graphic images that kept popping into her mind. So, in an effort to ease her guilty conscience, she was actually attempting to appease Bobby by planning an upbeat ending for the book. The effort was heightening both her self-disgust and her profound distaste for what she'd learned of Bobby's life. She found herself wishing the woman would pack up and go away. The thought of continuing to see her every day was driving Eva to despair. She was furious with herself for having willfully, intentionally encouraged Bobby to confide in her, and furious with Bobby for having told her far too much. For the first time in her life, she truly disliked herself.
After Pen had been put to bed that evening, Alma and Eva each gave Bobby five dollars to put under her pillow.
"We'll use it to buy her a new book. She'll like that," Bobby said. Touched by their generosity, she went to each woman in turn to give them a kiss. Eva hugged her rather awkwardly, without the warmth and ease she'd demonstrated in the darkened kitchen the previous night, and Bobby thought she was probably a little uncomfortable with her own good instincts. Like Bobby, she was able to do things in darkness that were difficult, if not impossible, in the light.
Alma said, "You're too sentimental," and shooed Bobby away, saying, "Go find the Rachmaninoff second piano concerto and put it on for me."
Bobby went to do as she asked, anticipating Pen's excitement when she awakened in the morning to find so much money under her pillow. After adjusting the volume on the stereo, she sat down with her knitting, noticing that Eva seemed fidgety. When the telephone rang, Eva jumped up to answer it and Bobby could tell from the smile that came over her face that she'd been waiting and hoping Charlie would call.
Sure enough, Eva announced, "I'm going out for an hour or two."
"Now there's a surprise," Alma said, working her way through the Advocate. "I'm sure our office visit this afternoon merely whet your appetite."
Eva laughed and said with mild sarcasm, "That's it exactly." She crossed the room, put a hand on either arm of the wheelchair, bent until her nose was touching her aunt's, and said, "You're turning into a genuine curmudgeon." She kissed the tip of Alma's nose, ran a hand over her aunt's hair, then straightened, saying, "I'll see you both later," and went to get her coat. So great was her relief in being able to escape that she was actually able to smile at Bobby on her way out. "Hypocrite," she whispered to herself as she opened the hall closet.
When the front door had closed behind her, Alma said, "They're good for each other."
"They seem to get along really well." Bobby smiled over at her, then looked back at her knitting.
"They'll get married," Alma said with certainty. "It's time."
"Maybe they're fine as they are."
Alma sniffed and folded the newspaper in her lap. "Speaking of marriage, what are you going to do about that husband of yours?"
"In what way?"
"I assume you'd like to be rid of him," Alma said. "You might want to start thinking about consulting a lawyer."
"I'm kind of scared to do that. I mean, if I file papers or something, Joe will find out where I am." Her fear came rushing back, then, and she wondered if Eva had locked the front door on her way out; she also wanted to run downstairs and check on Penny.
Alma saw the way her expression changed, saw the fearful alertness darken her eyes, and tried to imagine what it must be like to be so afraid. It was alien territory. There'd never been anyone she'd feared, and she wondered if perhaps she hadn't been exceedingly lucky. "Sooner or later you're going to want to take legal steps to be rid of him," she said, wishing she hadn't raised a subject Bobby plainly found so distressing.
"I had this legal aid lawyer tell me I could get a restraining order," Bobby said, "but I couldn't see the point of bothering, because no piece of paper would ever stop Joe. Nothing would stop him." Her hands had turned damp and the wool wouldn't slide smoothly through her fingers. She put the knitting down, wondering if these past weeks had been nothing but an illusion, like an extended dream. Because it was true: Nothing would ever stop Joe. She could hide, but he'd find her. Someday, somehow, he'd find her.
"What about Dennis?" Alma asked.
"What about him?" Bobby responded, thinking she'd dragged everyone into this mess with her. She was filled with Joe's poison and was spreading it around, like a virus. "We're just friends. I'm not interested in getting seriously involved."
"Don't be dishonest, Barbara," Alma said in her schoolteacher's tone. "It's obvious you're fond of Dennis. Don't you want to be free?"
"You don't understand," Bobby said softly. "Even if I went to court and got divorced tomorrow, Joe wouldn't care. So far as he's concerned, I'm his property."
"Perhaps he's found someone else."
"Don't I wish!" Bobby said with energy. "But he doesn't want anyone else. He has to have me, like I'm his perfect wife or something, even though I couldn't do one thing right, where he was concerned."
"Perhaps," Alma suggested shrewdly, "you're his perfect victim."
The remark rang with truth inside Bobby's head, and she nodded slowly, saying, "Maybe so. Maybe that's it. I never thought of it that way."
"But you didn't enjoy the role. You ran away. You're no longer willing to play the victim."
"No, I'm not," Bobby agreed.
"Then it's time to take the legal steps to validate your emancipation. Granted, it is only a piece of paper. But it's also a declaration, my dear, of your refusal to play out the role he assigned you."
"I guess that's true," Bobby said, drawing strength from the older woman's dogged insistence on holding the truth up for her viewing.
"I spoke to my lawyer about you this morning," Alma said. "He'll be more than happy to discuss the situation with you at any time."
"You talked to your lawyer about me?"
"Primarily, we discussed Penny," Alma explained. "I'm making provision for her education."
"You'd do that for her?" The fear was displaced by loving gratitude. No matter what happened to her, Penny's future was secure.
"I will do that for her," Alma stated, "because she deserves it. She's a child with a fine mind. I want her to have the opportunity to grow to her full potential."
Bobby was temporarily speechless. She could only stare at the woman in the wheelchair, marveling at how fate had brought them all together. "You make me believe in God," Bobby said at last.
"Please don't make religion an issue here," Alma said impatiently. "I believe in doing what's right, at least when it's within my power to do so. And, naturally, Penny's education would be of concern to me. I was a teacher, remember."
"I remember," Bobby said, humbled.
"So, that's that," Alma said with finality. "End of discussion." She picked up the newspaper and pretended to read, anxious to avoid any further display of gratitude on Bobby's part. Making provision for Penny was purely a practicality. She had no interest in gratitude, didn't want or need it. Her fulfillment was derived from putting her wishes into effect.
Bobby got up and moved from the sofa to the armchair next to Alma. She worked at what she wanted to say, sorting through variations and discarding them one after another. There was really only one way to say what she wanted, and yet the words felt like lumpy little pellets in her mouth, so unaccustomed was she to airing her true emotions.
She studied Alma, able to see very clearly the tall, handsome woman she'd been not so very long ago; able to feel the power Alma had wielded then and now, picturing dozens of schoolgirls awed and intimidated by her height an
d authority; and able, too, to feel the underlying anger that shaped so much of what Alma had to say now.
"Pen loves you," Bobby said, her voice even huskier than usual.
Alma looked over.
Bobby wanted to add, I love you too, but knew this wasn't the time. Determined not to cry, because she also knew Alma would be angry if she did, she looked directly into the old woman's clear blue eyes and waited. Alma gazed at her for what felt like a long time. Bobby smiled and said, "You hated me saying that, didn't you?"
"I told you," Alma said, trying and failing to sound irritated. "You're too sentimental." Then she smiled, and for Bobby it was like that moment in the middle of the night before, when she'd told her secrets to Eva. They'd connected in a very important way. "Go do your knitting," Alma said gruffly, slapping the newspaper down in her lap to refold it to another page.
Bobby nodded and went back to her knitting. * "So how's it going, cupcake?"
"I'm getting there," Eva said, propping her feet on the coffee table. "I'm revamping my original concept, expanding it, because Bobby said the book should have a happy ending." She wanted to tell Charlie the truth but couldn't. If she did, she'd be as guilty as Bobby of saying too much.
"I'm all for happy endings," he said, one arm extended across her shoulders. "When she said it, I was unbelievably offended," she admitted, deciding this was a reasonably safe area.
"Why?"
"It struck me as so profoundly presumptuous. What does she know about writing, after all? Who is she to tell me what to write? But then, when I really thought about it, I decided perhaps she does know something. It has to do with making people feel better about the human condition, and she was right about that—much as I hate to admit it."
"I told you I'm all for happy endings," he said with a smile.
She punched him lightly on the upper arm. "Don't patronize me, Charlie." She was in an extraordinary state of mind, had never felt quite like this: madly anxious mentally, and physically highly agitated. She wanted desperately to make love, to engage in a lengthy sexual tussle that would occupy all her senses and ease some of the pressure on her brain.
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