by Sofia Grant
And there was something else: she felt guilty. Which was ridiculous, because it was hardly her fault, but it wasn’t just her who was made to suffer because Arthur was queer—it was the children too. How could Margie ever explain it to her children? What if Jimmy’s boss found out? And she couldn’t even be angry at Arthur for choosing to be so self-indulgent and reckless, because according to an article she’d found in a medical journal that she’d furtively read in the library, as many as one man in ten were homosexuals, and most of them were born that way.
“I’m sorry that your father is like this,” she said stiffly. “Obviously, if I’d had any idea, before we married—”
“Mother! Please don’t say it. If you hadn’t met Daddy, you wouldn’t have any of us.”
“I didn’t say I wished I’d never met him. Only that he was—different. Normal.”
There was a pause, and then Alice said quietly, “Normal? Just like you’ve always wished I was normal?”
“Alice! It’s hardly the same thing—”
“Isn’t it? All my life you’ve never let me forget that I was different. Do you wish you hadn’t had me either?”
“Stop it! Alice, it isn’t the same at all, and you know it,” Francie said, wondering how this conversation had gone so far off the rails. “You’re just upset and you’re looking for someone to take it out on. But if you must blame someone, blame your father—I’m not the one who’s behaving scandalously when Vi isn’t even in the ground yet!”
There was a long silence, and then Alice said, “Anyway, we should be there by noon.”
“Good. Then we can have a nice lunch,” Francie said, anxious to put the ugliness behind them. “And I’m sorry for . . . whatever I said to make you so upset.”
“I’m not upset,” Alice huffed—and hung up without another word.
Chapter 29
Francie got to the little house early the next morning. She hadn’t slept well, and there was only so much coffee she could drink in the dining room, especially since she had become something of a curiosity to the other guests because of her friendship with the woman who had drowned. She was wearing her bottle-green shirtwaist, the only dress she’d brought besides yesterday’s navy suit that seemed suitable for mourning, but she wished she were back in last night’s blue jeans.
She’d never gone out in public in them before, but she’d taken to wearing them around the house. It was so much easier to do housework when one didn’t have to worry about dirtying one’s skirts. Plenty of younger women had begun wearing trousers—Harper’s Bazaar had even done a feature and the department store windows were full of them—but among Francie’s friends, it was still considered poor form.
She went through the house again, savoring the chance to try to see it through Vi’s eyes. She imagined her iron bed made up with quilts, her closet filled with dresses her mother had sewn for her. She wondered if there were any keepsakes stored in the attic. There would be time to check later, as long as Harry didn’t get in the way. Francie wondered if Harry even remembered the house. He’d probably sell it just as soon as he could, so she’d have to get there first. Don’t worry, Vi, she silently promised; she’d make sure to save anything Vi would have wanted the boys to have, even if she had to steal it and sneak it home.
The house had been scrubbed before the last tenant left, but a layer of dust had settled on everything. The dishes and glasses in the cupboards were mismatched and many of them were chipped; she’d have to remember to tell June to order some from the rental place. In a kitchen drawer she found a much-washed tea towel clumsily embroidered with Vi’s initials. She pressed it to her face, imagining Vi as a girl sewing at her mother’s knee, and then she stuffed it into her purse.
She was checking the built-in cupboards to see if anything had been left behind when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” Francie called.
Helen let herself in, looking around curiously. “Sweet little place, isn’t it? Oh, look at that.”
She went straight to the piano and ran a hand along the plain-finished cherry cabinet before lifting the dust cover. “A Price and Teeple! And in such good shape too. They don’t make them like this anymore, do they?”
The piano seemed bulky and inelegant to Francie, its only decoration a series of square wooden adornments at the juncture of the panels. At home in her dining room was an intricately carved Brazilian rosewood Steinway that she had inherited from her grandmother; the man who came to tune it every year was outraged that such a fine instrument was almost never played. She’d tried—Margie and Alice both had lessons, but neither took to it.
“It’s rather . . . plain, don’t you think?”
Helen looked at her incredulously. “This is quarter-sawn oak. Look at the grain! And the fittings—pure copper. Someone should polish them.”
She played an experimental arpeggio; as the notes hung in the air, she sighed with pleasure. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
Helen sat down on the bench, tapped the foot pedals, adjusted her skirt, and played a mournful phrase, a simple series of notes that was vaguely familiar.
“What is that?” Francie asked.
“Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A Minor,” Helen said with her eyes closed.
She played the same phrase once more, and while the last note hung in the air, she took a deep breath and lifted her hands from the keys, sitting motionless until it faded completely.
And then her hands touched down and she began to play—for real this time, as though, once introduced, she and the piano had discovered that they were related. She bent her head low over the instrument, eyes still closed, playing by feel; her hands danced and flew as though they were disconnected from her body. The phrase repeated itself as though it were chasing its tail, a trill of high notes followed by an echo from the bass, the notes thundering through the floor and up through Francie’s feet until she could feel the piece all through her body.
This was nothing like the music Helen had played last night. It seeped inside Francie and reflected back the feelings she’d worked so hard to keep hidden, echoing the mournful theme, building to a frenetic crescendo only to fall back in a receding wave of minor-key chords in the lower registers, then built again. Over and over the music repeated the simple theme, but it was different each time, as though filtered through a range of emotions, as if the composer had been arguing with himself one moment and berating himself the next, then comforting and threatening and—and oh, there was joy, trickling in and then out again, but there nonetheless.
And then, abruptly, the music stopped.
Helen remained still for a moment, her fingers resting lightly on the keys. When she turned to face Francie, swinging her legs around the stool, she was wearing a mischievous grin. “Don’t ever let anyone sell this piano,” she said, “or its soul will hunt you down.”
“It’s not mine to sell,” Francie said. “Why did you stop?”
“Well, that’s not what we’re here to do, now, is it? It’s hardly funeral music—at least, not the type your average crowd of mourners would appreciate. So where’s this sheet music you were talking about?”
“It’s, ah, underneath you. In the bench.”
Helen lifted her bottom from the seat and pulled out the sheaf. She handed half of it to Francie.
“Best thing to do, probably, is pick a dozen or so of her favorites. Folks’ll end up asking for things once we get going—they always do.”
“At a funeral?” Francie asked dubiously. “You really think so?”
“Well, we’ll see, but I expect people want music that reflects how they feel.” Helen started flipping slowly through the stack. “Like at Gwin’s last night. Willy picked ‘Skylark’ because most of the women there, no matter how hard they try to pretend otherwise, their hearts are broken.”
“Then you choose,” Francie said impulsively. “You’re the expert. Though I suppose her boys should have their say . . .”
“
I’ll be glad to pick,” Helen said, plucking a sheet out and setting it on the bench next to her. “Don’t worry about her boys. Who knows a woman’s heart best? Not her husband . . . not her sons. It takes another woman to know what she’s keeping for herself, the thoughts she doesn’t share. Don’t you agree?”
“Sure—I suppose,” Francie said. “I mean, no, actually. I think my husband knows me better than anyone. I used to tell him everything.”
Helen gave Francie an intent look. “And yet, here you are in Reno. And somehow I doubt you’re here for the gambling.”
What kind of comment was that? Francie wondered if she’d made a mistake. Last night, asking Helen to play had seemed like a marvelous inspiration, but now that she was here in Vi’s house, she seemed a little too familiar, asking questions that were none of her business.
Francie leaned over and took the stack of music and thrust it into Helen’s hands. “I’m sure whatever you pick will be fine. I should go now.”
Helen accepted the stack, smirking. “I’ll give you a chance to approve,” she said. “Give me a call and I’ll come by. Or if you’re feeling adventurous, come on over. I’ll be around until at least four in the afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Francie said stiffly. Helen had started to make her feel distinctly uncomfortable. “And there is the matter of your payment. What do you ordinarily charge for an event like this one?”
“Tell you what,” Helen said, lifting her skirt and throwing her leg over the bench instead of simply walking around it. “Why don’t you see how I do and then you can decide what I’m worth.”
And with that highly unsatisfying answer, Helen strode to the door, letting the screen door slam behind her and leaving Francie wondering what Vi would make of her.
Chapter 30
Charlie had left a message at the desk that he’d gotten a late start and wouldn’t arrive until the afternoon. Francie was writing a note to leave for him, in case he arrived while she and June were out, when a voice cried, “Mother!”
She spun around and held out her arms as Alice hurried toward her in the uneven, wobbling gait caused by the orthopedic shoe with the four-inch sole that compensated for her shortened leg and deformed ankle.
“Darling!” she whispered, closing her eyes and burying her face in Alice’s soft auburn bob. “I’m so sorry we quarreled earlier.”
“Me too. I’ve just been so upset about Vi—but I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” She pulled away and tried to smile, her eyes red from crying. “Daddy wanted to know if we could have dinner—just the three of us,” she added hastily. “He got us rooms at the Mapes and he’s there checking in now. He said to call when I want to be picked up.”
“That sounds nice,” Francie said. Maybe dinner with Arthur was a good idea, if only to prove to Alice that they could still treat each other civilly. “June and I are going to the mortuary to pick out a casket and discuss the burial—I was hoping Charlie would be here in time. It does seem that he and Frank should have some say in all this.”
“Are Frank and Harry coming this afternoon too?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Francie said, and sighed. “When I spoke to Harry, he behaved as though Vi’s death was a terrible imposition. And I haven’t heard from Frank, but I suspect he’ll come with his father. I can’t help thinking the only reason Harry sent Charlie—”
“—is because he still acts like Charlie is ten years old and being picked last for gym. Well, it’s true, Mother, don’t make a face.”
Alice certainly knew about getting picked last—during her childhood she’d endured snubs and being passed over, and it wasn’t just in gym class, either. Some people seemed to look at her leg and special shoe and see a mental deficit. Francie had spent most of Alice’s school years demanding that her daughter be given the same attention as everyone else . . . and academically, at least, she had succeeded.
Charlie hadn’t been so lucky. Vi, who would have moved the world for her younger son, could do nothing to convince Harry, who considered Charlie a do-nothing dreamer despite his valiant efforts to please his father. When Charlie returned from the war and joined the company, he initiated an overhaul of the books that saved the company thousands, and still Harry had continued to take only Frank with him on sales calls, leaving Charlie at home.
“I wasn’t going to argue.”
“I’ll be glad to see Charlie—Harry has been keeping him so busy that he’s barely been home in weeks. I hope he’s finished The Disenchanted—I can’t wait to find out if he thinks it’s as good as Schulberg’s other work.”
Francie felt that old, familiar pang. Charlie and Alice had grown up best friends and stayed close through the years. If things had been different . . . how lovely it would have been for the two of them to have found love together. Instead, the series of girlfriends Charlie’d had tended to be extremely jealous of the childhood friend he spoke of so often—until they met her; then their envy turned to pity, and they tried to befriend her. Alice was always perfectly sweet about it too and never gave up hoping that each new one would make Charlie happy.
“Let’s go up and introduce you to June. I just know you’ll like her; she’s been so helpful to me.”
“Oh, Mother, I’d be jealous of your new friend if she didn’t need your help as much as you need hers. It must be awful, what she’s been through . . . Perhaps I could help too?”
“Absolutely. Oh, look—here’s someone else you must meet.”
Virgie had been walking down the steps with a book open in her hands, her eyes on the page.
“Who does she remind you of?” Francie winked.
Alice laughed delightedly. “Remember when Charlie ran into that tree and got a black eye? And Harry wouldn’t let him go to the library for a month?”
“Virgie,” Francie called. “Come here, sweetheart, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter.”
Virgie looked up, her face registering surprise. “Good morning, Mrs. Meeker. How are you today?”
“May I present my daughter, Alice Meeker? Alice, this is Virginia Swanson, daughter and assistant to the owner of this lovely hotel. She’s a very clever girl.”
“How do you do?” Virgie said, offering her hand.
“Very well, thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet another book enthusiast, Virginia,” Alice said. “May I ask what you’re reading?”
Virgie showed her the cover of her book.
“The Sign of the Twisted Candles. Oh, I love Nancy Drew!” Alice exclaimed. “Would you believe I’ve got nearly the entire set? They’re quite antique, of course—nearly as old as me.”
Virgie regarded her unblinkingly. “You’re not old,” she said seriously. “You’re lucky to have them. I have to buy them one at a time when I can afford them. I can get them from the library too, but the best ones are always checked out and I need them for reference. I’m going to be a sleuth myself, see.”
“What a marvelous idea,” Alice said. She had always been good with children; for a while she’d tutored students from the local elementary school. “It’s a fascinating career choice.”
“Mother says girls should be able to do whatever job they want. And detective is a good job because you just have to get a certificate and then you can open up your own office. I’m going to have mine on Court Street, with a view of the river.”
“I’ll be sure to look you up if I ever need a mystery solved.”
“What happened to your leg?” Virgie asked. “Does it hurt?”
Francie winced; the child meant no harm, but hadn’t her mother taught her not to ask people rude questions? Twelve was certainly old enough to learn that lesson.
But Alice didn’t seem to mind. “I was born this way,” she said. “My right leg is shorter than my left. My father says that I’m one in a million. And it doesn’t hurt a bit, not when I wear my special shoe. See? It helps me walk better so I don’t end up hurting the other one.”
“Interesting,” Virgie said.
“V
irgie, sweetheart, I’m afraid we need to be on our way. We’re going to collect Mrs. Samples from upstairs and have lunch. Would you care to join us?”
“I can’t,” Virgie said. “Mother’s finishing the activities program for next week and I have to deliver them to all the rooms.”
“Important hotel business,” Alice said gravely. “What sort of activities are coming up?”
“Well, Mother lists the movies and shows, and Clyde drives the ladies if he’s not busy doing something else. On Tuesday night there’s dancing with the Three Sharps at Buddy Baer’s. Wednesday night is the ring toss, Thursday there’s a matinee of The Nevadan at the Granada, and Saturday Harrah’s is hosting a slots tournament.”
“What on earth is the ring toss?” Alice asked. “It sounds like a carnival game.”
“No, it’s a tradition here at the Holiday Ranch,” Virgie said. “Once a month, interested ladies meet in the lobby at nine o’clock, and a chartered bus takes them down to the Virginia Street Bridge. Whoever wants to can throw their wedding ring into the river, and afterward everyone goes out for pie and coffee.”
“My goodness,” Alice said, raising an eyebrow. “How . . . dramatic. Are you planning to participate, Mother?”
“Much as I’d love to, I don’t think so,” Francie said, holding up her hand to show her diamond band. “At least, not until I have the diamonds removed and made into something else. They’re quite nice—it would be a shame to send them to the bottom of the river.”
“You don’t have to use your real one, ma’am,” Virgie said. “Lots of ladies use fake ones. And we do it every month during the full moon, so you can do it next month if you want.”
“Well, then—you’ll be the first to know should I decide to join in.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Good day, Miss.”
“What a delightful girl,” Alice said as Virgie walked away, absorbed once more in her book. “And what an intriguing practice. But it’s also quite sad, don’t you think? When I get married, I don’t believe I’ll ever take my ring off.”