By eight thirty, Joscelyn was buckling Lissie in her car seat. They inched toward the John Tracy Clinic on West Adams Boulevard.
Embedded in rush hour traffic, Joscelyn’s warmth toward her husband frayed a little. Malcolm had determined to use the substantial money that had accrued from extra pay and overseas tax advantages for a down payment on a house. Joscelyn had wanted to look in Hancock Park, an island of substantial homes left stranded by the city’s tidal movement westward. The area was not only relatively inexpensive but also convenient to both the big new Ivory complex on Wilshire and to the John Tracy Clinic. Malcolm, however, would settle for nothing less than a Beverly Hills address, a geographical snobbery that saddened and irritated Joscelyn—and inconvenienced them all.
Lissie, fortunately, turned drowsy in a car, sleeping most of the excruciatingly slow forty-minute drive.
As they pulled into the parking lot on West Adams, Lissie’s friend, Carlos, was jumping from a wheezy pickup. The John Tracy Clinic did not charge for any of its services (Ivory was among the generous corporate donors), so the nursery school drew from all income strata. The two children raced into the shade of the enormous Moreton fig tree that towered over the ramble of beige bungalows. Joscelyn followed sedately. This was not her day to help at the nursery school; however she planned to observe from the narrow corridor with chairs and a one-way window.
Mrs. Kamp, a trained teacher of the deaf, had lined five small chairs in front of her, and a group, including Lissie, sat watching intently as she held up a brown paper sack: Joscelyn could not hear through the glass barrier, but it was easy to read the carefully enunciating lipsticked lips. “Can anyone guess what is in the bag?”
One little girl waved her hand in large circles, and the other children all turned to her.
“No, Charlene”—Mrs. Kamp’s mouth shaped the words—“it is not a ball. But ball is a very good guess. Let’s all say ball.”
Small mouths opened. More squirming, each child turning to the other as he or she spoke.
Lissie was holding up her hand and bouncing. The teacher turned to her.
Face intent, Lissie formed a sound.
“A doll. Lissie is right. There is a doll in the bag. Come up here, Lissie and show us the doll.”
Lissie excitedly tore the small, disreputable toy from the brown paper. The teacher was demonstrating the position of her tongue, letting Lissie and each child feel her muscles and breath as she repeated, “Doll.”
Mary Jekyll, a small blonde with a pretty, tired face, was observing, too.
“The world’s most impossible task,” she sighed. Her profoundly deaf little boy had entered the nursery group a month earlier and had yet to say his first word.
Joscelyn, the old hand, said, “We all felt like that at first. Don’t give up the ship.”
“Be here tonight?”
On Tuesday nights the clinic held classes to educate the parents, and there was also a group session with the psychologist where parents could iron out the multifarious family problems connected with having a deaf child.
“Absolutely,” Joscelyn said. “I try never to miss.”
“It holds me together, too.” Another sigh. “Tonight’s Doug’s turn. How I wish we could both make it, but one of us has to hold down the fort and baby-sit.”
Joscelyn’s eye twitched. Baby-sitting was not her problem: Honora and Curt had a room furnished for Lissie, and delighted in taking her. Malcolm, though, always used that quintessential masculine excuse, work, to miss the meetings. On Tuesday evenings his briefcase bulged, his inside jacket pocket held scraps of paper jotted with vital phone calls to make. It was, Joscelyn knew from the group’s sessions, a classic case of denial. If he avoided John Tracy Clinic, it meant that Lissie was not deaf. “Malcolm lets me come,” she said. “He knows how much I need the contact.”
* * *
Afternoons, Lissie napped for a good three hours. Joscelyn was ironing when the phone rang.
“It’s me, hon,” Malcolm said. “I’ve invited the Binchows for dinner.”
Ken Binchow was his superior. When Joscelyn had worked downtown at Ivory, she also had worked with Ken, a well-larded man in his early fifties who was devoutly convinced that the female brain came in a lighter density than the male. In Ken’s favor, he was a good, solid engineer. She felt neutral toward him. She actively disliked Sandra Binchow, whose pointed, reptilian nose sniffed out areas of human dismay.
“Tonight?” Joscelyn said, sucking in her breath. “But Malcolm, it’s Tuesday.”
“I don’t have time to argue,” he snapped. “They’re coming at seven thirty. How about that beef Wellington you did last week—and the St. Honoré?”
“Why not? After all, you’ve given me more than adequate time to market and whip up a three-star feast.”
“That’s one thing I can always count on—sarcasm from my wife when it comes to helping me,” he said, and the phone went dead.
Joscelyn folded the ironing board and went to wake Lissie from her nap. Beef Wellington and a St. Honoré it would be.
43
When Malcolm opened the back door at six twenty-five, Joscelyn was drizzling caramelized sugar over a pyramid of small cream puffs. Propped open on the table was The Art of French Cuisine. She never extrapolated a pinch of this or altered ingredients; she followed every recipe with mathematical precision. Her gourmet company meals were not to satisfy herself but to conform to Malcolm’s exacting standards.
Lissie stood on a chair, watching. Cookie crumbs and a long drizzle of milk adorned her blouse and pink overalls.
“Want me to put her down?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he scooped the child into his arms.
Joscelyn continued drizzling the caramel, twin furrows between her eyebrows. Another sore spot. When they entertained, Malcolm preferred Lissie asleep. He would lead guests into the child’s night-lit, beruffled room, beaming at the whispered praise of the beautiful, black-haired little girl sleeping in her youth bed.
Joscelyn was setting the St. Honoré on the top shelf of the refrigerator when she heard the unmusical monotony of Lissie’s sobs. She darted into the smaller bedroom. Malcolm sat on the low bed, his daughter clasped between his thighs as he fastened the buttons of her too-short, apple-print Lanz cotton nightgown.
Mucus oozed from Lissie’s nose and tears ran down her cheeks. What was she rejecting? Bed? This faded nightie? Malcolm’s clamping knees? Lissie had a mind of her own and no means of communicating it.
“I’ll finish her,” Joscelyn said.
“The Binchows’ll be here any minute.” He picked Lissie up, flipping her onto the mattress, yanking up the yellow sheet and blanket, pressing down on the squirming child.
Lissie turned to gaze up with tear-reddened eyes. “Mah-mah.”
“You’re hurting her!”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Joscelyn. I’m not hurting her. Firmness isn’t hurting. She’d be a damn sight better off if you taught her that she can’t get away with murder. Now you get yourself the hell ready!”
Having vented his anger on his wife, he rested his cheek next to Lissie’s, smiling at her.
Joscelyn retreated to their bathroom, hastily brushing on mascara, penciling eye liner. Maybe she did let Lissie get away with a lot—memories of those domineering, decrepit nannies plagued her still. Malcolm also indulged Lissie. It was only when his anxieties bubbled over that he became a zealous disciplinarian. If he really takes it out on her, if he ever . . . Joscelyn thought.
She often went through this litany but had never yet concluded it.
* * *
Ken Binchow was wolfing up seconds of pastry-encased beef and duchesse potatoes when Lissie came to the entry of the dining room, half hiding behind the arch. Thumb at her lip, she stared at them with huge, dark blue eyes. Crystal’s eyes, Joscelyn thought, knowing that Crystal never in her life had gazed with such timid, nakedly yearning beseechment.
“If that isn’t the most gorgeous thi
ng,” boomed Ken Binchow. “Come on in, little sweetheart.”
“She’s meant to be asleep,” said Joscelyn, her long black hostess skirt rustling across the shag carpet.
“I can’t take my eyes off her,” cooed Sandra Binchow. “Can’t she stay a minute or two?”
“Joscelyn’s the strict guy in the family.” Malcolm grinned engagingly. “Me, my motto’s it doesn’t hurt once in a while to let the mice play.”
Joscelyn swooped up Lissie.
“Mah-mah?”
At her odd little voice, the Binchows admiring smiles grew stiff.
“Our Lissie has a minor impediment.” Malcolm made his routine explanation.
At this revelation Sandra Binchow’s nose twitched. “The sweet booful,” she cooed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, really,” Malcolm said. “A little thing with her inner ear that the doctors’ll fix when she’s old enough.”
Joscelyn carried Lissie to her room, sitting on the bed, gentling the overtired child with long, tender strokes down her back. “Pretty, pretty, pretty,” she murmured in the unhearing pink ear that no doctor could fix.
“Joss,” Malcolm called. “She isn’t sick, is she?”
“A bit feverish,” Joscelyn lied.
At this loud parental exchange, Sandra Binchow vowed that a hearing disability could be a blessing: their Scottie had awakened at the least sound.
Over the St. Honoré, Sandra said, “I don’t see how you manage a fabulous gourmet meal like this. When Scottie was little, I had my hands full. And it must be so much more time consuming to have a handicapped child.”
Joscelyn said, “I loathe the word, handicapped.”
“Sandra didn’t mean it as an insult,” soothed Ken. “But while you were in there with her, Malcolm was telling us how you take her downtown almost every day.”
“She goes to John Tracy. A nursery school.”
“Sure, but having a kid like Lissie is tough, young lady,” said Ken with mock severity. “Tougher than any assignment you ever got handled at Ivory, and don’t you ever forget it.”
“And I do admire how you’re raising her,” Sandra put in. “I was rotten on the discipline, wasn’t I, Ken? Not that Scottie needed it. You’re so normal with her.”
“Lissie’s hardly a freak.”
“I didn’t say—”
“She’s extremely bright.”
“Now, Joss,” Malcolm said, turning to Sandra Binchow. “You’re right, Sandra, it’s a full-time job and I personally don’t know how Joscelyn manages everything. Thank God she gets one day off. Honora takes Lissie every Wednesday after school.”
At this invocation of the Big Boss’s wife, and her relationship, the Binchows both sipped their coffee with chastened expressions.
* * *
“God, Malcolm, after you brought up Honora, they tiptoed through dinner. I almost felt sorry for that bitch.”
“Christ, what else could I do?” he said morosely. “Your charming habit of insulting everybody I work for.”
The Binchows, pleading a weeknight early bedtime, had left less than five minutes ago. It was not yet ten and Malcolm was putting the liquor away in the low cabinet while Joscelyn gathered the dirty glasses and crumpled cocktail napkins on a tray. Although she had been momentarily aggravated at the method of his solidarity against the Binchows, his unexpected alliance had erased her animosity, returning her to this morning’s sensuality.
“Malcolm, I was thanking you.” She came up behind him, massaging his tensed shoulder muscles. “What did you think of the new potato recipe?”
“Who could notice the food with that kid of yours giving everybody an ulcer? All that blathering you do with her—can’t you train her to stay in bed?”
Joscelyn moved away. “If she knew how she embarrassed you, she would never emerge from the covers.”
“Can’t I make a suggestion without you flying off the handle?”
“So Ken Binchow knows your kid’s ‘handicapped.’ Does that make you a rotten engineer?”
Malcolm took a long drink, his deep-set eyes appearing yet more sunken. “Deaf or not, she’s got to learn bedtime means bedtime. If you can’t do it, I will. She’s going to have to learn to toe the mark.”
“Quaint expression, toe the mark. Did you get it from your father?”
“Knowing who’s boss never hurt a kid.”
“It fucked you up for life. Malcolm, I’m warning you. You so much as touch her, I’ll . . .”
“You’ll what, bitch?”
Without thought, the response came to her. “Tell Curt and Honora.”
* * *
Among Malcolm’s never spelled out yet rigorously enforced husbandly privileges was the sole right to conclude their arguments—not necessarily in an unbenign manner. He might refer to a knock-down-drag-out by kissing her bruises and mumbling sheepishly, “Got a little rough, huhh?” However, let her bring up the bout—even with a humble apology—and he would reopen hostilities. Usually by the time Malcolm extended the olive branch she was too wild with relief for any further sparring. Filled with adoration and irrational hope for the future, she would melt against his strong, perfect, younger body.
Before this, though, Lissie had never been entangled with Malcolm’s violent episodes. Oh, certainly the child figured in their scrapping: Joscelyn might try to prove a flaw in Malcolm’s character by citing his avoidance of their child’s problem, or he, in order to highlight Joscelyn’s maternal inadequacy, would bring up one of Lissie’s small shows of will. Now for the first time Malcolm’s meanness had been directed specifically toward Lissie.
That night Joscelyn slept in the child’s room.
At breakfast she served Malcolm his eggs and poured his coffee, otherwise ignoring him. She sat talking to Lissie.
Malcolm sipped the steaming coffee. “This sure hits the spot,” he said in a false, buoyant tone—she could actually feel the waves of conciliation flowing from him. “God, I had a load on last night.” He looked at her, waiting for her to pick up on his overture, as she always did.
She nodded coldly and continued enunciating. “. . . and—today—is—Wednesday. After—school—Lissie—goes—to—help—Auntie—Honora—with—her—gardening.”
Lissie wiggled, smiling. “Oo-noo.”
“She understands everything,” enthused Malcolm.
“Oo-noo,” Lissie repeated.
“Hoonoo,” Joscelyn said, “is exactly what I used to call Honora when I was a baby. And I had hearing.”
“Our kid’s got real brains.” Again that phonily upbeat tone.
He was afraid. After their fights Malcolm was tender, repentant, sometimes self-castigating, but never frightened. Abruptly it came to her that his fear was connected to last night’s threat to spill his home behavior to Curt and Honora. That she had the means to punish her husband came as a jolting shock to Joscelyn. Intolerable, she thought. It was intolerable for her to possess the power to degrade and diminish him.
“A genius from both sides,” she said, putting her hand on his sleeve.
He smiled at her. “I was thinking. Haven’t been to the school in ages.”
It flashed through Joscelyn’s mind that he had never visited, unless one counted sitting on the coarse grass to watch the annual fund-raising show that Walt Disney put on. The negative thought vanished.
“Oh, Malcolm she’d adore it,” she said, beaming. “Whenever you can find the time.”
“Today,” he said.
“Today?”
“Why not?”
He called in sick.
* * *
At the nursery school, Joscelyn watched from the one-way window, chuckling for almost the entire three hours. The other two observing mothers in there were laughing, too. Lissie, her black hair whirling, alternated between clinging to her daddy and shoving the other kids away from him. “Malcolm’s a fabulous father,” said Marlene Leisen. And buxom Kyla Kent said, “Gorgeous, too. Like a black-haired Steve McQueen. Do
you fend off poachers with a baseball bat or what?”
After school, the family Peck lunched alfresco at a cement table of a McDonald’s, Lissie’s favorite eatery.
She held up her hamburger. “Gur.”
“Yes, hamburger,” Malcolm said.
“Gur,” Lissie repeated louder.
The inordinately obese woman at the next table turned, peering with avid curiosity at Lissie. Malcolm, who usually looked in the opposite direction when the child’s speech attracted attention, stared down the fat lady until she went back to her malt.
They drove up to Bel Air, depositing a ketchup-smeared, happy, tired Lissie in Honora’s arms.
Joscelyn expected Malcolm to drop her off at home and get back to Ivory. As he pulled into the drive, though, he turned off the ignition. “Alone at last,” he said meaningfully.
“Hey,” she said, her voice catching, “McDonald’s must’ve added Spanish fly to the ingredients between the sesame seed bun.”
* * *
“Go on, more, deeper,” he gasped.
She was kneeling, naked except for the thin platinum chain with the tiny diamond that nestled in the hollow of her exerting throat. He, panting on the redwood patio bench, sat fully dressed with his fly open. Déjeuner sur l’Herbe had struck powerful, erotic veins in both of them, and in memory of their Paris trip they had emerged onto the patio for love in the afternoon. A beige-painted, cement-block wall hid them from the alley and neighboring yards; the nearby houses were also bungalows, so nobody could look down on them; yet there was an aphrodisiac element of risk, of danger, doing it en plein air and Joscelyn, ashine with sexual sweat, sucked with electric bliss.
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