Misfortune

by Nancy Geary

  “I hate for her to spoil what little free time she has coming here. You tell her not to worry about me. She should be with that husband of hers.”

  Frances felt a surge of anger. Blair’s weekly visits in the summer were seen as herculean efforts, gestures of unmatched kindness and loyalty, even though the trip from her house in Sag Harbor to Southampton took no more than twenty minutes. During the winter, if she and Jake came out for the weekend, they could stop by on their way back to Manhattan Sunday nights with only the slightest detour to the house from Route 27. Frances spent almost an hour in travel each way from Orient Point fifty-two weeks a year. Although she wanted to visit, and made the journey out of her own desire to see her father, not a sense of familial obligation, she would have appreciated some recognition. She wondered whether her father praised her efforts to Blair, whether it was easier for him to point out one daughter’s virtues to the other.

  “Is it a party?”

  “What?”

  “Blair’s dinner. Is it just you?”

  Frances smiled. Her father never stopped trying to turn the conversation to her social life or lack thereof. He seized on any opportunity to extol the virtues of marriage, of settling down, and pried her for information on the status of men in her life. Discussion of a dinner party inevitably would lead to whether Frances was bringing a date, a subject Frances didn’t care to discuss. She hadn’t had a date in over four months, unless she counted bingo with Sam or a late night coffee with Detective Meaty Burke, a former FBI man who’d been happily married to his high school sweetheart for more than forty years. Meaty was her friend. They worked together. Socially Frances didn’t spend much time with anyone. She could never explain to her father that she actually liked being alone.

  “I’m sure it’s a party, although Blair knows better than to tell me so.” She paused, then added, “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll go.”

  They sat in silence, staring out the window at the pink light permeating the sky.

  “How’s Clio?” Frances asked.

  “Busy,” he said. “Standing in for me takes up her day, or so she tells me.” Richard’s tongue seemed too large for his mouth, and it drooped over his lips as he spoke.

  “I haven’t seen her in a while,” Frances remarked more to herself than her father.

  A moment passed. “You should.”

  Right, Frances thought, remembering her only impromptu visit to see her stepmother. A month after her father’s stroke, while he was still in a rehabilitation facility, Frances had been in the vicinity of his Southampton home, or at least close enough to Ox Pasture Road that a stop wasn’t too obvious a detour. She had felt especially emotional that day, thinking about her father, Clio, the shock of their leading separate lives after such a long time. There was a difference between building a life alone and having solitude arrive unexpectedly. For a moment Frances forgot her past, her relationship to Clio. She just thought of Clio’s loss.

  Perhaps I’ll be offered an iced tea or asked in for a swim, Frances had thought when she arrived at the house. The round-faced girl in a gray starched uniform with a white collar and apron pinned to her chest answered the door. She took Frances’s name and disappeared into the house. Frances waited on the doorstep, no more welcome than a census taker or encyclopedia salesman. When the girl returned she announced that Mrs. Pratt was not receiving guests at the moment. Frances would have to come back another time. It would be best if she called first. She could leave a message if she wanted. “Just tell her I was thinking of her. It’s not important.”

  Frances had done her best to avoid Clio ever since.

  She could think of nothing to say to her father and searched her memory for pleasantries, news, even gossip, to keep him entertained. Frances admired her sister’s ability to make small talk. Blair always had an anecdote to share, a tale from the glittering art world in which she and Jake mixed, a comment on local politics or zoning issues, an uncanny interest in the weather if all else failed. Unless Richard wanted to hear about larceny trials, a businessman who altered his company’s financial records, a real estate broker who embezzled a down payment, a lawyer who double billed, Frances had nothing to tell. Criminal justice in Suffolk County moved at a relatively lazy pace.

  Frances shifted in her seat, recrossed her legs, and stared at her feet.

  “How are the dogs?” Richard’s speech broke the silence.

  Frances looked up. “They’re good. Bigger than ever, almost ninety pounds. I think maybe too big, but I can’t bear to put them on a diet. I can’t manage to put myself on one, either.” Frances tried to sound funny. She knew her humor was a poor attempt to have her father reassure her that she looked fine, but he didn’t respond. He knew she had at least ten pounds to lose, and he wouldn’t lie even to make her feel better.

  Richard slumped forward in his chair. Frances watched his eyes droop, his head fall forward from his shoulders. Often drowsy, he could fall asleep only to awaken moments later. Perhaps a few minutes of peace was all he needed. She did not want to move, did not want to disturb him.

  When he opened his eyes, he looked startled. “Was I asleep?”

  “No, Dad,” she lied. The urge to embrace his frail body overwhelmed her, but she remained still for fear her unexpected touch might startle him. Since his stroke, her father seemed uncomfortable with physical displays of affection. She couldn’t remember the last time she had hugged him. “How about a few pages? See if we can figure out who did it.”

  “All right.”

  Frances removed the P. D. James volume from her knapsack. “Do you remember what’s happening?” she asked, wondering whether her father would like a synopsis.

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Okay, then. We’re at chapter fourteen…”

  Her voice echoed against the walls of the empty room. She had spent so much time over the past year reading aloud that it hardly required concentration anymore. She let her mind drift away from the words on the page to images flicking before her like a slide show. She saw her father’s smile as he stood knee deep in water, supporting her round belly to keep her afloat, advising her to keep her mouth shut. She was three and just learning to swim. She felt his firm grasp, tasted the salty ocean, heard his encouragement, “Kick, keep kicking, don’t stop, you can do it.” Excited, she ignored the cold, until her lips turned blue and her teeth chattered. “That’s enough for a while.” Back on the beach, as her mother wrapped her in a towel and rubbed her dry, her father praised her efforts. “Well done. She’s a born seal.”

  She stopped reading. Her father had fallen asleep. His head fell over to the left, and his mouth was open. Frances dog-eared the page, tucked the book back into her knapsack, and replaced her chair where she had found it against the wall. She looked at her father. Drool ran from the corner of his mouth and down the side of his cheek. Gently, so as not to disturb his slumber, she wiped the moisture from his face with a tissue. Her hand trembled slightly, but he didn’t stir.

  Frances watched his eyelashes flutter. Satisfied that he remained asleep, she held her breath and bent over to kiss the translucent skin of his right cheek. It felt cool on her lips. She lingered no longer than a moment, then turned hastily toward the door.

  The luminaries on the verandah added a subtle light to the evening sky. As Beverly Winters steadied herself on the arm of an oversize wicker couch, she watched through the rows of French doors. People moved about the chintz-covered furniture, gathered in clusters of three and four for conversation, sipped glasses of wine or tumblers of gin and tonics. The cool air had driven most of the partygoers back inside to lean against the white marble fireplace, sit on plush cushions, and immerse themselves in the glow of votive candles arranged on tables throughout the living room and adjacent library. Only Beverly remained outside, along with two heavyset men smoking cigars and interrupting each other, arguing over Alan Greenspan’s latest pronouncement on inflation. Beverly hadn’t said a word in over twenty minutes. Her neck hurt from nod
ding her head in feigned attention.

  Beverly watched Clio Pratt enter the room and dole out kisses, greetings to acquaintances aimed more at the air than anybody’s cheek. Beverly admired Clio’s style, the pale blue silk dress with a similarly colored cardigan sweater draped casually over her shoulder. Beverly compared herself, inevitably, with Clio, who seemed comfortable socializing without her husband in a world where singles, especially single women, were not exactly welcome. They were the same age. Beverly was a widow, Clio soon to be one, according to what Beverly had heard of Richard’s health. While Clio exuded charm, Beverly found herself wanting. She knew she could be crass, even vulgar, when she drank. Years of cigarette smoking had left her with yellowed fingertips and a permanent hoarseness to her voice. A pack a day, probably more, she had lost track since she started buying her cigarettes by the carton. Varicose veins wove their way through her thin thighs. Several liver spots dappled her hands, and a bunion on her left foot prevented her from wearing high heels.

  Beverly swallowed the remainder of her Chardonnay and made her way back inside to the bar for a refill. She watched Clio settle into conversation with a couple she didn’t recognize.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

  “White wine. Thank you.” Relieved of her glass for a moment, Beverly searched through her sequined clutch for her cigarettes, removed a Marlboro from the box, and looked about for a light.

  “Here you go.” The bartender held her filled goblet toward her. He watched her scan the room, her unlit cigarette dangling precariously from between her thickly painted lips. “Can I get that for you?” He smiled as he reached into his pocket and produced a pack of matches. Beverly leaned toward him, accepted the light, and drew a long inhale.

  As she exhaled she looked again for Clio, who had moved to the bar and stood beside their host, Jack Von Furst. Clio ordered a glass of Perrier with lime and smiled appreciatively at the bartender. Then she turned her attention back to Jack. Beverly could hear the spirited conversation about an author whose book was a New York Times best-seller, someone Clio had met recently at a benefit for underprivileged boys in New York City. “After reading his book, all of that obsessive detail about Hindu ritual, I didn’t know what to expect, but he couldn’t have been more normal.” Clio laughed and rested her hand on Jack’s arm.

  “I’ve heard his book is quite good.”

  “It’s educational, certainly, if you’re interested in Eastern customs. I’m not particularly.”

  “All I know is that the Hindi are missing out on one of life’s great joys, a steak dinner at the Palm.” Jack chuckled at his own humor.

  Clio smiled. “I suppose it should interest us, make us more worldly.” She cocked her head.

  “Why? Why should I be driven by some need to understand other cultures? I have a hard enough time understanding our own,” Jack said.

  “Jack, I haven’t had a chance to say hello, or to compliment you on another wonderful season opener,” Beverly interrupted, trying to sound witty. “Clio…” She nodded and forced a slight grin.

  Jack greeted her with a loose embrace. “Getting something to drink, I hope,” he said with a smile.

  “Beverly always manages to find the bar, don’t you?” Clio’s sarcasm seeped through her ostensibly sweet tone.

  Beverly gripped her glass, willing herself not to throw it. Why waste such a good wine? she thought. Courton-Charlemagne went for $32.99 a bottle the last time she checked. “I see you’re on the wagon,” Beverly said, nodding toward Clio’s sparkling water.

  “Oh yes.” Clio’s laughter seemed forced. “I guess you could call it that.”

  “That, my dear, is why you’re the picture of health.” Jack put his arm around Clio’s slender waist and gave her a slight squeeze.

  “What a wonderful outfit,” Clio exclaimed as she pulled gently away from him. She stood back and surveyed Beverly’s taupe pantsuit. “You know, I think I saw that in Paris. I can’t think now when, it must have been when Richard and I were last there.” The obvious reference to outdated fashion was not lost on Beverly. “It suits you.” She smiled.

  “Thank you.” Beverly decided to treat Clio’s remark as a compliment in the hope that Jack would do the same. He did not appear to be listening.

  “Have you been over to Fair Lawn yet?” Beverly asked. “I hear the bar was redone over the winter.”

  “I didn’t notice,” Jack remarked casually. “Yes. Gail Davis did it. There’s a Scottish pub feel to the place. It’s cozy,” Clio said.

  “Gail’s a great decorator,” Beverly added, realizing as she said it that she hardly knew what homes Gail had done.

  Then, as the conversation came to a standstill, Jack turned to Clio. “How’s Richard?”

  “Well, all right, I suppose. His spirits are good, as always, but that’s just the way he is. Never a complaint.”

  “I must visit,” Jack remarked.

  “He would love that.”

  “Has he improved?” As she said this, Beverly regretted her choice of phrase. Richard’s condition interested her. He had been a friend. She was concerned for his health, but her motives were selfish as well. She wondered how long before Clio, like herself, would be a middle-aged woman in search of a mate. Nervously she twirled the Bakelite bracelet on her left wrist.

  “I don’t know that I can honestly say improved, but he doesn’t seem worse, thank God. He’s an avid reader. I buy him books all the time and he just absorbs them, seemingly overnight. It’s deceptive, really. At times his mind seems as engaged as ever.”

  Beverly thought for a moment that she could see tears forming in Clio’s eyes. It must be the wine, she decided.

  “His physical therapy is slow, though. He’s discouraged, but he can’t see the progress he has made. The therapist loves him, as you might expect. Says she has never seen anyone more determined. That’s Richard, I guess. That part of him will never change.” Clio looked wistful.

  “How are you holding up?” Jack laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s hard, impossible, really, not to have what we had.” Clio stopped, looked up at Jack. “What am I saying? I’m fine, absolutely fine. You must think me a terrible person to complain.”

  “Not at all, my dear. It’s an unfortunate situation.”

  Clio nodded knowingly at Jack. “The addition is a huge improvement,” she said.

  Beverly had heard of the Pratts’ recently completed construction project, a separate wing designed for Richard that had nearly doubled the size of the already opulent Pratt residence. Rumor had it that Clio had hired a construction team of nearly forty and over-seen personally every detail.

  “Because of the ramps, Richard can get everywhere,” Clio continued. “The architect did a wonderful job. He actually got in a wheelchair himself to make sure that Richard’s access would be perfect.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “It’s a much better setup. His nurses even seem happier now that they have their own living space. I guess everyone needs privacy.” She paused and sipped her water. “I must confess I sleep better knowing they are right near Richard. I’d lived in such fear that something would happen, something that I wouldn’t know how to handle. I’m sure you would understand.” Clio addressed this last remark to Beverly.

  “I’m sure I would.” Beverly regretted her defensive tone. Dudley Winters, her only husband, had been dead for nearly three years. He had committed suicide while she slept in their bed. Clio’s thinly veiled reference made her uneasy.

  “Any exciting summer plans, or will you be here like the rest of us, puttering around?” Jack, ever the perfect host, turned to Beverly to change the subject.

  “I’m renting the house for August. Otherwise, I’ll be here.”

  “Do you mind having strangers in your home?” Clio tossed out her remark.

  “Oh, it’s not that bad.”

  “I just couldn’t imagine it.”

  Beverly wished she had the luxury of staying in her h
ouse all summer. Accepting renters was tantamount to erecting a “Cash Needed” sign for all to see. Worse than an embarrassment, it was a humiliation, but the month of income paid most of the house expenses and property taxes for the whole year. She could not manage without it.

  “Who are you renting to?” Jack asked.

  Clio laughed. “Since when did you take an interest in the transient population around here?”

  Beverly ignored her. “A nice couple from Manhasset. He works for an investment bank, Morgan Stanley, I think. They have several small children and an au pair.”

  “Good. Sounds good.” Beverly couldn’t tell whether Jack had paid attention.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” Clio said. She squeezed Jack’s hand. “A dreamy party, perfect as usual. I would love to stay, but I’m already late for the Bancrofts’ dinner.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry we can’t make it, but people are bound to hang on here,” Jack replied, glancing at Beverly. “Give my best to Marshall and Beth, won’t you?”

  Clio smiled. “Of course. Love to Constance. I’ll call her tomorrow.” She embraced Jack.

  “She’ll want to know all the details, I’m sure.”

  Beverly watched her depart. Her lithe body slid across the polished hardwood floor. She knew without looking that Jack was watching Clio leave, too. Clio inspired such glances from other women’s husbands.

  Beverly imagined Clio’s call to Constance Von Furst at nine the next morning, the earliest civilized hour to start phoning. Clio would sit at the antique farm table in her sunny breakfast room and gaze out over her expansive lawn as she finished a bowl of raspberries and sipped iced cappuccino. Beverly could hear their polite chatter, Clio thanking Constance again for a lovely cocktail party, filling her in on the details of the Bancrofts’ intimate dinner for thirty-eight of their nearest and dearest, the menu, the seating arrangement. “The Bancrofts are such lively hosts, even at their age.” Then Clio would reassure her, “You were positively missed.” Constance, relieved that her absence was noticed, might ask whether cigars were offered after dinner or who wore “Oscar” or “Calvin,” shorthand references to designers so patronized by these women that there was no need for formality. Clio and Constance shared criticisms of unsuspecting people, women mostly, who could never have imagined that their actions and appearance were monitored so closely. Constance, listening, would sip herbal tea sweetened with one teaspoon of clover honey out of a hand-painted porcelain cup. Beverly wished that she could start her day this way, wished that she could be included, once again, in the inner circle.