Misfortune

by Nancy Geary

  Frances could see Clio’s silver Mercedes sedan parked in front of her father’s house as she turned off Ox Pasture Road into the driveway. Someone must have brought it back yesterday, after Clio’s body had been carted off to the morgue, the Fair Lawn Country Club emptied, and an extra luxury automobile was discovered still in the parking area.

  The front door was ajar, and Frances walked in. A chandelier that hung from the double-height ceiling in the entryway was illuminated in spite of the ample natural light that streamed in through the windows. A silver tray piled with mail, a bouquet of several dozen white lilies in a crystal vase, and a small shopping bag covered part of the top of the ivory-inlaid circular table. Beyond, she could see the sunroom and, through the glass walls, the garden outside. Daylilies were in bloom.

  Frances listened but could hear no sounds. She walked forward until she saw the fragments of a shadow, a distorted profile and torso reflected on the floor. Richard sat in his wheelchair, staring straight ahead. As she approached she could see that dark circles edged his deep-set eyes. In his lap he held a silver picture frame with a photograph of Clio in a wide-brimmed hat smiling and holding Justin, a pudgy toddler. Her azure eyes stared out from the blanket that covered Richard’s knees.

  “Dad…” Frances spoke quietly, not wanting to alarm him. He didn’t move. “How are you?” she asked, realizing as she spoke the absurdity of her question to a man who had lost his wife less than twenty-four hours earlier.

  “We need to discuss something.” Richard’s voice was flat. He spoke slowly, but his speech was difficult to decipher. “Clio’s memorial service. You could help with the flowers.”

  “Of course,” Frances said, somewhat startled by his request. His face evidenced exhaustion, a long night spent thinking about Clio and preparing for a proper burial.

  He glanced toward the wicker chair beside him, and Frances took a seat. “Maybe you’ll need notes,” he said. He lifted one hand and seemed to gesture in the direction of the telephone.

  “I’ll remember,” Frances replied. Then, thinking better of it, she got up, walked toward where her father had indicated, and opened the drawer of a small table in the corner of the room. The inside was filled with sharpened pencils and pads engraved with “Clio and Richard.” Frances removed a pad and waved it toward her father. The gesture felt awkward, and she quickly sat back down.

  Several minutes passed without another word between them, and Frances wondered whether her father had become disoriented and forgotten she was there. She wasn’t used to seeing him in the main part of the house anymore or, for that matter, being there herself. Her weekly visits to her father over the past year had transpired in “Richard’s wing,” as Clio referred to it. Now that distinction was unnecessary.

  The bright sunroom where they sat was filled with white wicker furniture and oversize pillows covered in a green-and-yellow lattice fabric. Orchids in painted pots of varying sizes lined the perimeter of the room. Piled high on and underneath the painted coffee table were Clio’s books on gardening, flowers, and flower arranging. By the door, a basket held clippers, cloth gloves, plant markers, and a frayed straw hat. Next to it was a pair of green rubber gardening clogs, awaiting Clio’s feet. Frances realized why her father had gravitated here. Clio seemed present.

  “What did you have in mind?” Frances asked softly.

  “Clio was so fond of Hemerocallis.” He paused, and his tongue seemed to hang suspended in his mouth. Frances tried not to exhibit her surprise at her father’s use of the formal name for daylilies. “I don’t suppose they do well in arrangements,” he continued.

  “We could use other types of lilies, if that’s what you want. Tiger are pretty. They’re the orange ones with darker spots. Yellow calla are beautiful. Do you have any thoughts about color? That might be a good place to start.” Frances tried to be helpful.

  “For Justin, Clio wanted everything to be white. Different whites. White roses. Some cream, others the color of Champagne.”

  “I remember,” Frances said. Justin’s memorial service had been unforgettable in more ways than the floral palette. Frances remembered all the boys and girls, Justin’s friends and his friends’ siblings, who filled St. Andrew’s Dune Church, a small, wooden-beamed building nestled into the beach. This Episcopal church where the sounds of the ocean rolled into the chapel and sunlight spilled through the brightly colored stained-glass windows, was the site of virtually all the Southampton society baptisms, weddings, and funerals.

  Frances remembered the tears, some sniffling, some crying loudly. For many of these children, she surmised, it was the first tragedy in their lives. Justin’s death had robbed Richard and Clio of their only child and had robbed a whole generation of Southampton children of their naiveté. An accidental death, a disastrous sailing excursion, such a tragedy was not supposed to befall a healthy fourteen-year-old boy. In Frances’s memory the entire episode had an air of unreality.

  “Clio did it all herself. The arranging. She didn’t trust anyone else to do it right. She wanted bouquets all over the church, all over our house. Did you see Justin’s room? No. Nobody did, but it was covered in hundreds of flowers, the bed, Justin’s desk, covered in a canopy of roses.”

  “It sounds beautiful.”

  “An altar. It was her way of showing respect.” Richard spoke to himself, conjuring up the memories of Clio’s labors to honor their son. “That work helped her. There’s nothing like work to help forget pain.” Without looking down, he caressed the picture frame in his lap with bent fingers. “She loved flowers, the color, the texture, the perfume, but most of all she spoke of the miracle that they came from the soil, just grew up to surprise her. She was pleased that you loved flowers, too.”

  “My garden is nothing compared to hers.”

  “She told me once that it was the only thing she had been able to give to you.” He spoke operosely, with heavy breaths between pairs of words. “As a child, you sat and watched her arrange flowers in a vase, or work in the garden. She told me many times how she explained things to you. She said it enabled you to share something with her that you didn’t with your mother. Your mother was never a gardener, but I suppose you know that.”

  Frances did have vague memories of watching Clio assemble a pile of newly cut stems in a vase. Sometimes she used a metal frog to hold each stem in place. Other times she was able to balance the flowers against each other. That Clio had considered this time with Frances special came as a revelation. Frances’s only recollection of any discourse between them was Clio’s brief instruction not to touch the flowers. “The dirt on your palms will wilt the petals,” she had said.

  “I suppose Clio had a difficult time feeling close to you. You and Blair are so like your mother.”

  Frances didn’t know quite how he meant this last remark and wondered if she should respond. Was the suggestion that Clio couldn’t like them because they were their mother’s daughters a justification for the way they had been treated? Perhaps she would never understand, but that excuse seemed irrational. In any event, Frances didn’t want to explore the subject of her relationship with her stepmother, especially now, when there was no hope that anything would change. “Do you want white flowers for Clio as well?” Frances prompted, hoping to direct the conversation back to funeral preparations.

  “I don’t think she would think it appropriate. She had lived through too much.” Richard turned his face away from Frances. She wondered if he was crying, but she couldn’t tell. “Peach, pink, yellow, pale colors would be best. No orange, no purple. We don’t like purple.”

  Frances noticed the “we.” She wondered how long it took someone who had been part of a couple for so many years to begin to think as an individual again. It had been a struggle for her after her breakup with Pietro, and they had never married.

  “Roses?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about lilies?”

  “Her lilies are here. They’ll always be here. Even after I’m gone
.” He looked down at the photograph in his lap and ran his index finger over the glass, as if to wipe away a drop of spittle, or a tear, that might have marred the surface. “Have bills sent to the house. Blair will pay them.”

  Frances leaned forward slightly. “You’ve spoken to Blair?”

  “She came last night. It was late, but I wasn’t asleep. She brought Clio’s car back from Fair Lawn.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “She came in by herself, but someone waited outside. Lily could tell you who it was.” Richard closed his eyes and swallowed. Frances could see his Adam’s apple move up and down his thin throat. “Blair will be back later today. To take care of the checkbook. She’s offered to help me get organized.”

  Frances recalled her conversation with Blair the previous evening. She had given no indication that she planned to visit their father late that night. In fact, she had said otherwise, that she would wait until the morning. What had made her change her mind?

  “When is the memorial service?” Frances asked.

  “On Wednesday morning. At the Dune Church. You know, it’s easier to be the one to go than the one left behind,” Richard said. “We both learned that when Justin died.”

  Richard’s words hung in the air. Frances shifted in her seat. He seemed more comfortable with their silence than she, or perhaps he was simply consumed by his own thoughts. She looked down at her hands and tried to think about floral arrangements.

  A freckled-faced girl with warm green eyes and a turned-up nose appeared, carrying a tray. Her pale pink uniform stretched tight across her ample bosom. The sunroom suddenly smelled of chicken broth and toast.

  “You must be Frances,” the girl said. Frances thought she recognized an Irish accent. “I’m Mary. I fill in for Lily. It’s her day off today, but she won’t be taking it. She’s just gone for a bit on some errands. We’re both awful sorry about Mrs. Pratt.” As she spoke, she held the tray in one hand while, with the other, she opened a small folding table in front of Richard. “Would you care for something? There’s plenty.”

  “No, thank you,” Frances said.

  Mary placed the tray in front of Richard, then checked the brakes on his wheelchair. She ran her finger along his forehead, gently pushing a hair out of his eye, then leaned over him and added, “Shall I stay?”

  Richard didn’t respond audibly but shifted his head toward the door.

  “If you change your mind about lunch, then, you give me a holler,” Mary said to Frances. She turned and walked out, her rubber heels squeaking on the marble floor.

  Richard ignored the food in front of him: cubes of potatoes and broccoli florets afloat in yellow broth, neatly cut and buttered rectangles of toast, thin slices of cheese. Frances watched the steam rise from the porcelain bowl.

  “Why didn’t you marry Pietro?” Richard asked.

  The question punched Frances, and for a moment she struggled to catch her breath. After seven years she wasn’t prepared to explain why she had called off her engagement to Pietro. The passage of time had dulled the intensity of her emotions, making the ostensible reason for their breakup—that Pietro wanted her to convert to Catholicism—now seem insignificant. Frances hadn’t had a religious upbringing, never attended church and rarely gave religion of any kind a second thought. Pietro’s benign request should have been treated as what it was: an effort to have her share something that was a crucial component of his family life; but as the months wore on and their nuptials approached, what had seemed relatively simple evolved into an insurmountable barrier. She had felt betrayed. That he made this demand to control her, that he placed conditions on their marriage, that he insisted that she become something she was not, these were the issues that had torn them apart.

  “It was a long time ago,” she said finally.

  “You never told me why.”

  You never asked, she wanted to reply, but she stopped herself. “We weren’t well suited.” Frances hoped to dismiss the conversation with an easy answer.

  “Was he upset you weren’t Catholic?”

  She didn’t have the emotional energy to figure out how her father knew or why he had decided to wait until the day after Clio’s death to ask her about it.

  “Pietro alluded several times to something that made me assume religion was the reason,” Richard mumbled in response to her silence. “I just hope he never hurt you. I never want you or Blair to be hurt.”

  That he had chosen this moment to display paternal concern struck her as ironic. How many times, over the years, had she wondered whether her father had ever given a thought to her well-being? He had never even bothered to explain why he allowed Clio’s mistreatment of his daughters. Frances had been left to imagine how he felt about their familial situation. As a child in search of answers, she had invented a conversation with her father. Now she allowed herself to remember the imagined dialogue.

  I want you to know, Frances, that just because I’ve remarried, it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about my family, about you and Blair.

  But it seems that way.

  I know it must, but I want to change that. This is your home. You are always welcome here. I want you to feel safe.

  But why does Clio hate us?

  She doesn’t hate you. Being a stepmother is hard. She’s not your mother, but she feels constantly compared, and that can be threatening. It threatens her that I had a bond with your mother that produced you two girls.

  What have we done wrong?

  I’m not sure I can make you understand, but perhaps one day, if you fall in love with someone who’s been married before, you’ll know how Clio feels. You must realize that people aren’t perfect, and if they do things that are less than considerate, it doesn’t mean they’re bad.

  You don’t see how she is.

  If I haven’t seen, that’s my fault, and I’m sorry. I should have paid better attention. Clio and I spoke about the situation, and it won’t continue. She’s sorry she hasn’t been nicer. Things will be different, I promise. Come here, sweet Fanny. Let me hug you. You must understand how truly sorry I am.

  She never had the courage to challenge her father, and this dialogue remained a fantasy. Unlike her sister, Blair, who was better able to demand her father’s attentions, Frances had forged a relationship with him characterized by formalized respect and aloof fondness. She admired her father, but they had never been close.

  “Did Clio have any health problems?” She wanted to change the subject, but her voice sounded more timid than she expected.

  He shook his head.

  “Was she taking any medication?”

  “She was a strong woman, although nobody can be that strong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She had experienced too much pain, been forced to live with too many fears. My stroke, my condition, was the last straw. She wasn’t prepared to be prematurely old.”

  Frances stopped herself from asking anything further when she noticed that her father’s body had begun to twitch spasmodically. His shoulders shook slightly. Then his elbows and hands did, too, as the impact of his emotions worked its way down his frail body. He grasped the armrests of his wheelchair, as if to steady himself. Frances wondered whether she should call for Mary but decided against it. He was entitled to his grief without professional intervention.

  Frances wished she could understand her father’s relationship to Clio, the intensity of their bond, the mysterious place that two people share where their identities become so intermingled that they truly can think and act as one. She wished that she could put aside the distance she felt and actually empathize with his loss. Instead she felt empty.

  After what seemed an interminable time, Richard spoke again. “Marriage is a precious gift that I wish you could have.”

  “You needn’t worry, Daddy. It’s not what I want,” she lied. Then she leaned toward him and, trying to sound efficient, remarked, “I’d better get in touch with the florist. We don’t have much time.”


  “It should have been me,” Richard said without looking at her.

  Frances didn’t respond. As usual, her father was right.

  Rocking back and forth in a creaky chair, Frances watched the flames flicker in the half dozen mismatched kerosene lamps placed randomly around the porch. The afternoon had disappeared in a blur of activity: a visit to St. Andrew’s Dune Church to see how many arrangements were needed, a meeting with the minister to ensure there were no pastoral restrictions on types of flowers, or size of bouquet, then several discussions with area florists to see what could be designed on relatively short notice. Throughout the day Frances felt oddly disconnected, a planner in charge of decorations with no particular attachment or investment in the event, but by the end of the afternoon her orders had been executed successfully. Then she walked the beach in an effort to make the exhaustion in her body equal to that in her mind.

  Now, as the chair’s gentle movement lulled her, Frances tried to recall times spent alone with Clio over the years. Such memories were few—a trip to Bloomingdale’s one Saturday afternoon to find what Clio called “appropriate school shoes,” leather Oxfords with tight laces; several theater matinees, Grease, The King and I, where Frances sat next to an empty seat because her father had an unexpected meeting or important conference call that prevented his attendance. She couldn’t conjure up any of the flower arranging scenes that apparently held some significance to Clio.

  “You’re going to rock that chair right off its rockers,” Aurelia said as she came out onto the porch. She held a plate piled high with cheese, crackers, olives, slivers of prosciuto, and roasted peppers and extended it toward Frances. “Here, have a little antipasto.”

  “No thanks.” Frances looked up at her mother and thought she caught disappointment drift across her face.

  “What about something to drink?”

  “I’d love a glass of wine if you’re offering.”

  Aurelia smiled rows of large white teeth. She set the plate on the porch, wiped her hands on the checkered apron tied over her loose denim dress, and disappeared back into the house. Frances could hear her humming, then the sound of a cork unplugged. She returned with two filled glasses.