The Engagements

by J. Courtney Sullivan

  But she longed to be back in the classroom, and after Gerald returned from the war she started teaching again for the first time in more than a decade. It was uncommon for a man of her husband’s station to have a working wife. But Gerald understood her better than anyone, and he knew what teaching meant to her.

  The children changed as the years passed. It was strange and enlightening, being the human stopping place for all the fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds in town. The parents changed as well over time, and for the better. She understood that bad parenting came from having a bad childhood. It was just a vicious cycle. But still, she loathed the parents who were cruel, who sent their children into school with bruises on their arms and legs, without feeling so much as a hint of shame. She had never hit her son, or allowed Gerald to do so, even though everyone did it back then.

  Her friend Ruthie was still teaching, and kept her abreast of all the latest changes. She had recently stopped by with a pamphlet the PTA had distributed called “How to Tell if Your Child Is a Potential Hippie and What You Can Do About It.”

  Evelyn thumbed through the pages of warning signs:

  1. A sudden interest in a cult, rather than an accepted religion.

  2. The inability to sustain a personal love relationship—drawn more to “group” experiences.

  3. A tendency to talk in vague philosophical terms, never to the point.

  4. A demanding attitude about money but reluctance to work for it.

  5. An intense, “far-out” interest in poetry and art.

  6. Constant ridiculing of any form of organized government.

  7. A righteous attitude, never admitting any personal faults.

  8. An increasing absentee record at school.

  9. A tendency to date only members of different races and creeds.

  The last page of the pamphlet contained a note from a psychiatrist, which Ruthie had read aloud in a bad fake accent: “Naturally, some of these signs may be observed in perfectly normal adolescents. But it is when the majority of the traits are present that the child is on the way to becoming a ‘hippie.’ There are also the fairly obvious signs like shaggy hair and mod clothing. But those alone do not make a ‘hippie.’ Sometimes it’s just a fad. There must be a great deal of dialogue—sometimes very painful dialogue—to establish a new position of belief for the young people. They will deny they’re hostile until their last breath. Until that underlying hostility is brought out, the children will be keyed to rebel. Have a good understanding and be more tolerant. Adolescence is at best an extremely disturbing time.”

  Ruthie had laughed, but Evelyn thought of her older granddaughter, Melody, how in just a few years she would be confronted by all of it. She feared that this was the hardest time in history to be a teenager.

  Bernadette’s daughter was getting antsy, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Let’s go, Mama,” she said.

  Bernadette kept smiling, as wide and steady as a jack-o’-lantern. She ignored the child. “Are you keeping busy?” she asked.

  “Oh yes,” Evelyn said. “I’ve got two granddaughters.”

  In truth, she didn’t have much to do these days. Before Teddy left, she picked the girls up from school twice a week, and usually watched them on Saturday nights so he and Julie could go out. She always had an activity planned—papier-mâché in the backyard, or cookie baking in the kitchen. She loved to read to them, from the same books she herself had read as a girl. She made up stories, too, and was pleased when they liked one well enough to ask for it again and again. But Julie hadn’t asked her to watch them in two months. When Evelyn invited them over, Julie said they were busy and didn’t have time to come.

  Evelyn let the cleaning lady go, since it seemed absurd to ask someone else to scrub her bathroom and make the beds when she had all the time in the world to do it herself. Gerald’s mother, God rest her soul, would have been appalled, but then she had always thought that Gerald and Evelyn acted far too common. Though they lived a certain way, Evelyn never had any interest in the Junior League or things like that, and while Gerald enjoyed the occasional round of golf, they both preferred the comforts of home to the tedium of social functions. She’d go out only if it was for one of her favorite charities, or with a select few couples from their circle whose company they enjoyed, and one Sunday a month, for lunch with Ruthie.

  Since Julie had begun to keep the children away, Evelyn was alone much of the time, a sad sensation that reminded her of her own childhood in New York. She had been raised by governesses, more or less. The youngest of four children, separated from the second youngest by fifteen years. An afterthought, perhaps, or more likely just a mistake. Her father was always working. Evelyn saw him for half an hour each night while he drank his sherry; she would be whisked in by invitation and then whisked out just as quickly.

  Her mother seemed slightly annoyed by her existence. She had hoped to be on to her own life by then. Evelyn could still see her now, tall and striking, ready for a suffrage lecture in a long, dark velvet dress and white gloves, a sable cape draped across her shoulders, and black boots on her feet. Atop her head, a black hat with a black ostrich plume. Perhaps her parents had been in love once, but the only time she ever saw them interact was when they were arguing.

  As a child, Evelyn found comfort and friends in the pages of beloved books—mostly novels about plucky heroines who possessed great imaginations. Her favorite was Little Women. She must have read it fifty times. She pretended that the March sisters were her own.

  These days she usually managed two books a week. She loved the Victorians, especially Dickens and Eliot. She adored Jane Austen. Her greatest indulgence was to spend an afternoon sitting by the pond, reading the poetry of W. B. Yeats or Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

  When she was pregnant with Teddy, she feared that she’d give birth to a child who disliked reading. It would be like giving birth to a foreign species. Well, that was one of Teddy’s strengths. He did like to read, at least as a boy. He had loved The Secret Garden most of all, a sign, she thought at the time, of his sweet sensitivity and empathetic nature. And he carried around that stuffed lamb, which he called Lambie Pie. He didn’t understand when she wouldn’t let him take it to school. He wept. He had those curls, those blond ringlets, which she could not bear to cut. When had he become so hardened?

  Evelyn hadn’t been listening to Bernadette.

  “How old?” Bernadette asked, clearly for the second, or maybe even third, time.

  “Pardon?” Evelyn asked.

  “How old are the grandkids?”

  “Nine and seven now. Two girls. They live here in town.”

  They chatted a while longer before bidding each other farewell. Evelyn stepped out of the sun, into the crowded market, and made her way to the butcher counter, where four young women stood in line. An older lady up front was taking her time, demanding to be shown each piece of meat.

  “Undercut roast for eighty-nine cents a pound?” she was saying. “Well, is it any good?”

  Evelyn gave a weak smile to the girl at the back of the line, and stood behind her. Gus, the butcher, waved, and she waved back. She checked her watch. Teddy’s flight was supposed to have landed at Logan by now. Despite everything, she said a silent prayer that he had gotten in safe.

  She began to twist her engagement ring back and forth on her finger, a nervous habit of hers. Evelyn had been wearing the ring for so long now that there was a permanent line of smooth white skin beneath the band, as if the ring provided a shield from age and dry weather, sun and wrinkles, and all.

  She had never been much of a jewelry person, but her ring was the exception. She loved it. Even after four decades of marriage, she would sometimes find herself staring. It was a unique piece, with two large, round old European cut diamonds set in what was called a bypass style. The two sides of the band came up over the top of her finger, but instead of meeting to form a circle, they wrapped around the stones, like vines made up of tiny diamonds. There were three small marq
uise diamonds on either side, which to the careful eye resembled leaves. Most engagement rings contained one large diamond, or possibly three. But two were a rarity, and to her it made perfect sense—the two of them, herself and Gerald, set in stone for all eternity, their love strong and solid as a diamond.

  Years ago, she left the ring to Julie in her will.

  It was made by a jeweler in London in 1901, and came from Mrs. Pearsall’s personal collection. She had wanted Evelyn to have it. The diamonds themselves went even further back than that, to at least Gerald’s great-grandmother. Gerald told Evelyn she could choose a ring of her own at Tiffany’s, but wanting to please her new mother-in-law, Evelyn had accepted the gift. The Pearsalls were the kind of people who believed in keeping jewels and art and furniture in the family, and she liked that about them.

  “I think it suits you,” Gerald said the day he gave it to her. “It’s supposed to be a flower, isn’t it? And look, this makes it truly yours.”

  He pointed to the inside of the platinum band. He had gotten it engraved with his nickname for her: EVIE.

  At times, the ring had made her uncomfortable. It was beautiful, but so opulent that she was afraid to wear it to school, or in front of her students’ parents. She didn’t want to give the wrong impression. Of course, there was only one impression a ring like that could give: that she and Gerald were well-to-do. It was made for a much more delicate woman, the kind who had a staff and never made a bed or wrote on a blackboard. The stones sat so high on the band that she was forever snagging them on things, and getting fibers from her sweater or a strand of hair stuck beneath a prong.

  For years after she married Gerald, the engagement ring from her first marriage hung on a chain around her neck. But on a trip to the Greek Isles when Teddy was a boy, she took the necklace off to go swimming. When she returned to her towel, it was gone. In that moment she felt as though her first husband, Nathaniel, had died all over again. People were funny about certain possessions. That ring was just a simple gold band with a tiny emerald—her birthstone—yet she had cherished it as if it were worth a million dollars.

  Eventually, she reached the front of the line and paid for the six-pound rib roast she had ordered a few days earlier. Gus wrapped it in butcher paper, and placed it in a brown paper bag.

  “That’s usually a Sunday thing,” he said, as he gave her the change. “Is it a special occasion?”

  “We’re retired now. Sunday, Tuesday, it makes no difference to us!” Evelyn was trying to sound jovial, but her own words struck her as depressing.

  At the flower shop, she tried to cheer herself by buying dahlias, orchids, and roses, spraying forth in a bouquet almost too large for her to hold in one arm. She would have to drop off her loot at the car before heading to the bakery. She had ordered a coconut cake from Ohlin’s. Usually, she would just make it herself, but she had been so conflicted about this lunch that every time she thought of it she decided something else was far more urgent—the summer clothes needed to be put away, and the winter ones taken out of storage. The windows needed a thorough cleaning.

  She reached the car and placed the flowers and the roast on the backseat. On the floor, she spotted a shiny pink bow, one that she had seen her granddaughter June wear in her hair on countless occasions. Evelyn sighed and picked it up, running her fingers over the fabric, even lifting it to her nose to see if she could catch a trace of June’s sweet scent. After a moment, she slipped the bow into her purse. Best not to think too much about it now.

  She planned to make an avocado dip to have before lunch, since that’s what all the young people seemed to like these days. And she would serve her usual cheese balls and stuffed celery, and a Waldorf salad. She was going over the ingredients in her head when she passed by the bookshop, turning her face toward the window for a glimpse at her reflection.

  There, on the other side of the glass, stood Julie. Their eyes met. Evelyn smiled and went toward the door.

  Julie turned away and walked to the back of the store.

  Evelyn felt stung, but she pressed on, approaching Julie from behind and putting a hand on her shoulder.

  “Hi.”

  “Evelyn, please go,” she whispered.

  “Julie. Darling.”

  Now Julie swiveled back to face her. Evelyn could see she had been crying.

  “Do you know he’s coming to town?” Julie demanded.

  Evelyn nodded.

  “And what he’s asked of me?”

  She cringed. “No.”

  “He wants a divorce.”

  Evelyn could feel her heart crack like a thin sheet of ice.

  “There have to be grounds for it,” Julie said. “Someone has to have committed adultery or desertion or be impotent or perpetually intoxicated or cruel and abusive.”

  Adultery, Evelyn thought, but Julie went on: “He hasn’t seen his children in five months, or even called them, and when he finally does call, it’s to say that his lawyer suggested the abuse approach. Apparently, it’s the easiest to prove because whatever you pick, there has to have been a witness. He said they’d do me the courtesy of not making me say that I’d caught him in bed with someone. The courtesy! He wants me to get on the stand and say he gave me a black eye, punched me in the face, and threw me up against the wall. I’m supposed to have a friend or a neighbor testify that they saw the whole thing. He even suggested you might do it.”

  “That would be perjury,” Evelyn said.

  “He said people do it all the time.”

  She felt overcome with shame, as if she herself were to blame for what he had asked. How could her son want his own wife to lie about something so horrible? Had Evelyn really believed he was coming here to make amends? He had robbed her of her family. Robbed his children and his wife. Evelyn was aghast at his selfishness. Almost forty years old, and Teddy could not fathom that this decision was about all of them, not just him.

  “Julie, this is absolutely crazy. Teddy has lost his mind.”

  “I’m taking the girls to Eugene to be near my parents,” Julie said.

  Evelyn nodded. “I think a visit would be wonderful for all of you. While we sort this out.”

  Her daughter-in-law looked her in the eye. She thought she could make out a faint hint of tenderness on Julie’s face.

  “We’re leaving for good, Evelyn.”

  Evelyn felt like she had been struck.

  “Don’t leave,” she said. “It’s not too late. You can tell him you won’t accept a divorce. He doesn’t get to make all the rules.”

  “I know you mean well, but please. I am begging you. Go.”

  “But—”

  “Please,” Julie said again. “There are lawyers involved. I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

  Evelyn wanted to say that she would testify on Julie’s behalf if it ever came to that. She wanted to say that later this afternoon she would convince her son to come home for good, through whatever means necessary.

  Instead, she just nodded and made her way toward the door. She managed to pick up the cake at the bakery, and back the car out onto the road, but once she was driving and at a safe enough distance, she began to cry. Long, sorrowful gasps, the sound of which only made her cry more. She let herself keep going until she reached home.

  1987

  The thermometer by the back door read fourteen degrees.

  It was five a.m. on Christmas Eve, and pitch black out in the yard. James had switched the porch light on, but he could barely see a thing. The darkness put a knot of fear in his chest, which he knew was childish, but that’s how he was lately—anxious, hyper-alert. He locked the door behind him, something he hadn’t bothered to do in the morning until recently. Upstairs, Sheila and the kids were still asleep.

  The driveway was slicked over with a fresh sheet of ice. Two days earlier, he had thrown salt down here, and at his mother’s place, but already he could tell they’d be needing more.

  The dog pulled, and he choked up on the leash, since falling
on his ass seemed like a less than ideal way to kick off the day.

  “Slow down, buddy,” he said. “Jesus, Rocky, take it easy.”

  The nine-year-old basset hound let out a groan, but he did as James said, slowly shuffling toward the curb. Once he got there, he took a giant piss on Sheila’s holly bush at the edge of the property. The orange glow from the streetlamps brought the neighborhood into view.

  They lived at the very end of a residential street, full of houses crowded in together like teeth. Their house stood on the corner lot, facing a busy intersection. Headlights shone through the downstairs windows after dark, the glare making it impossible to see the TV during the evening news and Johnny Carson. They watched in the bedroom instead, on a thirteen-inch black-and-white with a dial switch.

  James turned his face up toward the sky, rolling his neck. His back ached. He rubbed the lower part of it with his fingers through his coat. He was getting too damn old to be lifting stretchers all day.

  A week-old snow covered the front lawn. The weatherman predicted that another foot might fall by evening. It would probably make for a quiet workday, but when he got home tomorrow morning he’d have to shovel the steps and pathways. An old buddy of his, Dave Connelly, worked for the town and always plowed him out during a storm. Plowed his mother’s driveway, too. James brought him a six-pack of Buds to repay the favor each time, leaving it on Dave’s screened-in porch without a note.

  Now, he watched as a guy in a van sped through a red light and into the drop-off lot of the North Quincy T station.

  “Asshole,” James muttered to the dog. They started walking.

  There was a gas station a block away, and across from that a car dealership, a McDonald’s, a Dunkin’ Donuts. There was always trash on the ground, which he spent most Sunday mornings picking up while he raked the lawn, or mowed it. Chip bags and soda cans and candy bar wrappers and occasionally, to his disgust, a condom. They lived three blocks from North Quincy High School, and sometimes he thought of this as his penance for all the shit he must have dropped on the street or thrown out a car window as a teenager.