Superstition

by David Ambrose

  As they pulled in through the gate the car's headlights swung over the shrubberies, herbaceous borders, and plant-covered pergolas that surrounded the rambling clapboard house. The garage door swung open automatically, and closed behind them with a comforting, familiar thunk. Skip was already out of the car, turning in circles and yelping to celebrate their arrival.

  Joanna hurried down the short passage to the house proper. Her mother opened the connecting door before she reached it, and they threw their arms around each other. Joanna closed her eyes and let it all flow over her-the warmth, the rich smells from the kitchen, a Mozart flute concerto coming from the radio somewhere in the distance. It was all as it should be, as she remembered it, as she always wanted it to be.

  Moments later she was watching her mother check the slowly roasting chicken while her father handed her a glass of wine. The three of them drank to each other, to being together, to being who they were.

  Her parents talked some more of where they'd been and what they'd seen and done. “We took some wonderful videos,” her mother said. “We'll show you them after dinner.”

  “Come back and watch our vacation movies-we'll pay you!”

  Her father shot the words out of the side of his mouth. It was an old joke in the family, and Joanna whooped with laughter-perhaps too loudly in her anxiety to embrace all that was familiar and reassuring, because her mother stole a quick glance in her direction. She didn't break the rhythm of what she was doing or change the expression on her face, but Elizabeth Cross had sensed something, and Joanna knew it.

  When they sat down to dinner, candlelight flickered on silverware and the polished tabletop, and the whole dining room was reflected in the long window that looked out upon impenetrable blackness, but where tomorrow would be visible the well-kept lawn, the flower beds, and the bank of trees that dipped toward the river below.

  They ate and drank with nonstop companionable chatter, enjoying being together in a way that Joanna knew few families were lucky enough to share. Despite that look of her mother's in the kitchen, there was no obvious strain, no sense of certain subjects being carefully avoided while guesses were made and conclusions discreetly drawn under cover of a blameless conversation. She knew that there would be a moment tomorrow, probably in the morning when she went shopping with her mother as she usually did, when questions would be asked and she would have to deal with them. But she was ready for that. She'd worked out a strategy. Nothing was going to spoil these precious few days.

  “I'm sorry…?”

  The apology came from Joanna's mother. She hadn't noticed Joanna's purse lying flat at one end of the sideboard, and had knocked it to the floor as she pushed the cheese board to make room for an empty salad bowl.

  Joanna was also on her feet, clearing away plates. “I'll get it,” her father said, sliding from his chair and down on one knee. Joanna thanked him, but didn't give the incident a second thought. There was nothing breakable in the purse, nothing of value to be lost or damaged.

  Then she became aware of her father holding something that he was looking at with a troubled frown. She took a step closer, and recognized the folded white card with the unmistakable black border. Her heart missed a beat. Like a fool she'd left the printed funeral service from that morning in her purse.

  “Somebody you know died?” he asked. “It's today's date.” He looked up at her, concerned. “You been to a funeral, Jo?”

  “Oh, Daddy!” She felt a burst of anger, banged down the plates she was carrying and snatched first the card and then her purse from him.

  He was taken by surprise, a little shocked. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. It just fell out.”

  “I know, it's all right,” Joanna tried to sound contrite, but her manner was too brisk. She was trying to brush the incident aside, move on to other things.

  It was not going to happen.

  “Darling, who died?” Her mother's voice was full of sympathy, but the question was impossible to ignore.

  Joanna gave her head a little shake, as though she didn't want to talk about this but was deferring to their interest.

  “Drew and Barry Hearst,” she said, avoiding their eyes, “two of Sam's group that I was working with. They were killed in a car crash a few days ago.”

  “How awful! And here we are chattering about our vacation…” Elizabeth Cross moved a few steps toward Joanna and took her daughter's hands in her own. “I'm so sorry, darling, I feel awful.”

  “You shouldn't. That's why I didn't mention it. I didn't want to spread a cloud over the evening.”

  “But were you close to them? Had they become good friends?”

  “Not really. I was fond of them, of course, but I didn't really know them. I'd only been to their house one time.”

  Her father stood by awkwardly. “I'm sorry, Jo. It was thoughtful of you to keep it to yourself, but you don't have to hide things from us, you know-not anything.”

  Joanna felt suddenly ashamed. She should tell them the truth. She owed them that much. “I know,” she said. “I'd have mentioned it later.”

  Another lie, and her mother sensed it. Behind the genuine concern in her voice Joanna detected a note of suspicion. Something didn't sound right to Elizabeth Cross and she wasn't ready to let the matter drop.

  “But why didn't you say anything on the phone yesterday…?”

  “You were so excited and full of your vacation, it just seemed somehow not the time.”

  Her mother moved her head to one side without shifting her gaze. It was a gesture that said, “All right, what's really going on?”

  Joanna felt a flutter of irrational panic, like a child caught in a lie. Then she thought angrily, I'm too old for this. I can do whatever I want. I don't have to answer to anybody.

  “It was such a shock, especially after losing Maggie McBride, I just didn't want to talk about it.”

  Why had she done that? She heard the words as though she hadn't spoken them. What strange combination of emotions had made her say that?

  “Maggie McBride?” her mother echoed.

  Too late now. She must go with what was happening, defy her own fears, drag them out into the open, expose them to the cold light of common sense. Her parents had made the dragons in her closets and the monsters under her bed disappear when she was a child, why shouldn't they do the same now?

  “You remember-that lovely Scottish woman I told you about, I'm sure I did.”

  “She's dead?”

  “While you were away. Apparently she'd had a heart condition for some time.”

  “When did she die?” This from her father, putting things together in his masculine, engineer's way, and looking at the bottom line.

  Joanna glanced at him briefly, then tried to pretend she hadn't. She was caught. There was no way out now.

  Her father repeated the question. “When did Maggie die?”

  “Last week. Friday.”

  There, it was said. It was out of her hands now.

  The frown of concern deepened on her father's brow. “My God, Jo, that's three out of a group of…how many?”

  “Eight.”

  “Three…in one week?”

  She suddenly realized it was still up to her. They weren't going to make it go away. She'd been right in the first place-she was the one who would have to protect them. The thought renewed her confidence, the way knowing that the worst has happened can give you strength because there's nothing else to be afraid of. What she had to do now was clear, simple even.

  “Obviously we're not continuing it. I mean we could, but out of respect-and we're all too upset.” She spoke boldly, in charge, putting everything into a sensible perspective. “Of course, we weren't getting very far. We were about to call it quits anyway.”

  The lie was growing easier and more fluent as she developed it. She hated the feeling of driving a wedge between herself and the two people in the world whose closeness and support she most wanted at this moment, but she knew she had no choice. There just wa
sn't any other way to handle this.

  “You say you weren't getting very far…?” Her father asked, wanting more detail.

  Joanna made a gesture-open, dismissive, suggesting that the whole thing had turned out to be no more than a frivolous enterprise.

  “Nothing aside from a few bumps and table knockings-which are actually far more common than you'd imagine. I've got enough for an article-at least, enough to work up into something readable. But I'm afraid it won't amount to anything very spectacular.”

  That was a lie that would be brutally exposed when her article was eventually published, whether it was under her own byline or somebody else's. But she would worry about that later. For now all she cared about was protecting the brief sanctuary of these few days from the madness that surrounded her.

  They stood facing each other across the room, she on one side of the table, her parents opposite.

  “All the same,” her mother said in a voice filled with unspoken disquiet, “three people dead…in just a few days…”

  “Oh, come on, Mom…!” Joanna managed to force a kind of shocked, dismissive laugh that didn't sound too artificial. “You're not trying to make something sinister out of that, are you? I mean, a heart attack and a road accident. It's a coincidence, and tragic-but nothing more.”

  Stop now, she told herself, leave it there, you've said enough, any more will simply fan suspicion.

  “Why don't I go make the coffee?” she said. It was something she often did at the end of a family dinner, her inestimable contribution, as she jokingly put it, to the evening. “Then we can watch those videos. I really want to see them-and I swear you won't have to pay me!”

  They sat in near silence as the bridges of the Seine, the Thames, and the Tower of London drifted before them, and the intricately woven streets of Rome opened into their sudden, unexpected vistas. Joanna gave a whoop of recognition every time one parent or the other appeared on screen, applauded every well-framed shot, recalled some anecdote or character whenever a place she had visited with her parents in the past came into view.

  It was a good performance, but a performance nonetheless. And she knew that her parents, from their own subdued response to her enthusiasm, recognized it as such.

  But there were no more questions, and no awkwardness. Just a moment, alone with her mother, as they kissed good night, when Elizabeth Cross looked into her daughter's eyes with the intense and loving tenderness that only a parent can feel for a grown-up child out in the world alone, independent and beyond protection.

  “You are all right, darling, aren't you?”

  “Of course I am, Mom. I'm fine, truly.”

  “Because if anything happened to you, I don't think I could bear it.”

  35

  Joanna was surprised in the morning to realize how well she had slept. She opened her eyes just after eight, and pulled her blinds to reveal a perfect late-fall day. She and her mother drove into town and parked by the farmers’ market at the end of the main street. The bare branches of the trees around the parking lot were bleached almost white against a clear blue sky.

  Inside the covered market Joanna sensed something festive about the crowd that morning, although it wasn't yet the holiday season. She followed her mother through the busy shoppers and the strolling couples and the family groups on their weekly outing.

  Elizabeth Cross was brisk and businesslike, darting from vegetable to cheese to fruit stall, loading the cart that Joanna pushed. They only had a light lunch to think about because that evening they were dining with friends. There had been no mention of last night's conversation by either of her parents, for which Joanna was deeply grateful. It meant that she didn't have to put on a performance anymore; the subject had been aired and gotten out of the way. She was beginning to feel that maybe she really could put these last weeks behind her and get her life back on track. Was that all it took? A change of air and some home cooking? It was hard to believe, but maybe if she tried hard enough to believe it…

  “Why don't we save time?” her mother said, interrupting her thoughts. “I can finish here while you go over to Clare Sexton's and pick up a couple of cushions I've been having made up. They're paid for, you just have to ask at the desk.”

  Joanna relinquished the shopping cart to her mother and they agreed to meet in the parking lot in twenty minutes. Clare Sexton's was a fabric store that had been there for as long as Joanna could remember. She walked the three blocks to it, passing several people she knew well enough to exchange a friendly smile with or wave to through a window. It was a small town, in a way just a village. Nobody famous or fashionable lived there, but it was comfortable and well cared for. It wasn't a life that Joanna wanted, but she was glad that she came from it. These were decent people who wished no one any harm-on the contrary, who would help out if they could.

  Clare Sexton's was in a row that had a couple of craft shops, a bookstore, and a new place decked out to look Victorian and selling imported soaps, perfumed candles, and aromatic potpourri. The fabric store had a single bow window with fake antique glass, behind which materials of every land and conceivable color were arranged in a display of flamboyant theatrical flare.

  Inside, the place was as bustling as everywhere else seemed to be that morning. The girl at the desk was busy wrapping several lengths of material for a couple who seemed thrilled with what they'd found. Clare Sexton herself, a slim, capable-looking woman with short blond hair, waved at Joanna from a corner where she was occupied with another customer. Joanna mimed back that there was no hurry, and prepared to spend a few minutes looking around.

  “What do you think?” said a man's voice over her shoulder, so close that it almost made her jump. She turned to see a dark-haired man in his mid-thirties, wearing green corduroys and a stylish wool jacket. He was holding a piece of painted cardboard in one hand and a length of material in the other. “Do these match, or am I color blind?”

  “I'd say,” she said, stepping back to evaluate them in a better light, “that they match very well-assuming that's the color you're painting your walls and you're looking for curtains.”

  “Right first time,” he said with an amiable, slightly self-deprecating grin. He had a nice face, she thought: intelligent, like someone you could talk to.

  “While we're on the subject, would you call this a yellow or an ocher?” He pointed to a stripe in the fabric. “Silly, isn't it? I know they're different, but I never know where you draw the line between them. I think it's the visual equivalent of being tone deaf.”

  “Definitely ocher,” she said firmly. “Far too rich for yellow.”

  “Okay,” he said, “if you've got this in something plain, no pattern, I'm going to need quite a lot. I'm not sure how much, but maybe you can figure it out if I tell you…” He broke off because he could see she was waiting to interrupt him with an amused look on her face.

  “I'm afraid I don't work here,” she said. “I'd be very happy to help you, Clare's a friend of mine, but I don't know what they happen to have right now.”

  Coloring slightly from an embarrassment she found oddly endearing, he stuttered an apology. “I'm sorry…silly of me…I don't know what made me think…”

  “It's all right. I wish I could help.”

  “Oh, you have. At least now I know what color I'm looking for.”

  “Where's the house you're doing up? Somewhere out here?”

  “No. I rent a place out here, just a cabin really. But I've just bought a house in Manhattan, a brownstone. Far too big, really, but it's the first place I've owned and I'm kind of enjoying myself.”

  Looking past his shoulder she saw that the girl at the desk was free. Also, seeing the clock on the wall, she realized she would have to hurry if she was to meet her mother. “I have to go,” she said. “I hope you find what you're looking for.”

  “Thanks, I'm sure I will. By the way, I'm Ralph Cazaubon.”

  “Joanna Cross.”

  They shook hands automatically.


  “Cazaubon? Is that a French name?”

  “Huguenot.”

  He thanked her again for her advice, then she hurried to the desk before anybody else got there. Her mother's cushions were ready, and in a moment they were wrapped in tissue and slipped into dark green plastic bags. Clare came over just as Joanna turned to go. They kissed cheeks and exchanged greetings.

  “It sounds like your parents had a fabulous time in Europe-how I envy them!”

  “You're not the only one-but we can't all work for an airline.”

  “Promise you'll call me before you come out next time-I want to arrange a dinner party.”

  “I will. Got to rush now-Mom's waiting. By the way, there's a rather nice man over there, needs help with his curtains.”

  “Oh, where?” Clare turned to look, bright with anticipation.

  But the man Joanna had been talking to was no longer there.

  “He was just…” She looked around among the shifting groups of shoppers, but there was no sign of him.

  “I guess he slipped out when my back was turned. You must've seen me with him-woolen jacket with a shawl collar, dark hair.”

  Clare shook her head. “Of course, on mornings like this it's all a blur.” A woman across the shop fingering a silvery brocade caught her eye. “Got to go. Don't forget-call me.”

  “I will.”

  As Joanna reached the car her mother finished packing things into the trunk. They drove home chatting happily about nothing in particular. In the kitchen Joanna made another pot of coffee while her mother prepared a salad. Bob Cross returned from a game of golf full of stories about old friends he hadn't seen in a while. Lunch was pleasant and relaxed, after which Elizabeth Cross disappeared to a committee meeting for a fund-raising event she was involved with. Joanna left her father puttering in the garden and went over to see Sally Bishop, whom she'd gone to school with and who'd just had her third baby.

  Shortly after seven-thirty that evening she and her parents arrived for dinner at Isabel and Ned Carlisle's house, which was only a short drive down quiet lanes. Two other couples were already there, which made Joanna the odd one out, ninth in the party. The idea didn't trouble her at all, though when she glanced into the dining room she saw that the table was set for ten.