And Be My Love

by Joyce C. Ware

  "Look at you! Little Miss Responsibility." Beth looked pained. "No, really, I'm impressed," Georgina added. "The meeting starts at eight; you're third on the agenda—say, eight-thirty, eight-forty? You'll have a lectern and a microphone, of course."

  Beth's mouth felt suddenly dry; her eyes widened with incipient panic.

  "Hey, you'll be fine! Would it help to have a dry run?"

  Beth nodded again.

  "The room we'll be meeting in isn't being used for anything this morning—why don't we give it a whirl right now?" Georgina linked her arm through Beth's. She led her down the wide carpeted corridor lined with art works given the college over the years by graduating art majors. "So tell me, what are you planning to wear.…"

  Beth recalled Georgina's question as she slowly turned in front of the angled wings of the three-way mirror in the spacious closet that doubled as a dressing room. The floral pattern of the crewelwork covers on the twin beds in the adjoining bedroom was all but obscured by the garments she had tried on and discarded. This one, she decided, suited both her and the occasion.

  She had bought the silver and blue paisley-print silk at The Barn Shop in Kent the year before at their end-of-season sale. The weather had promptly turned unseasonably cold; the dress had hung, unworn, in her closet since. She had discounted the saleswoman's complimentary remarks at the time, but that shade of blue did in fact complement her eyes, and there was no denying the youthful effect of its style.

  She carefully took it off and hung it together with her slip and new, very sheer pantyhose.

  She studied her reflection, turning her head this way and that. Was the eyeliner too dark? The blusher too bright? Deciding the answer was yes to both, she creamed them off. A grayer line would be better, pinker blush less obvious. She ran her fingers through her hair, still recognizably blonde, washed and trimmed that morning. It fell obediently into place except at the temples where a scallop of silver tendrils wisped becomingly. So far she had resisted her hairdresser's urge to tint out the gray.

  Beth couldn't remember when she had spent this much time on clothes and makeup. No fool like an old fool? Perhaps, but where was the harm in it? She leaned forward to peer at the lines radiating from her eyes and lips. How did that poem go? "It takes a heap of living to make a house a home.…" God knew her face looked lived in—maybe she should wear a plaque like the one on her mother's house. A gold medallion bearing the legend Elizabeth Tomlinson Volmar, circa 1944.

  Smiling at her mirrored image, she pictured the engraved golden oval nestled between her small, neat breasts. Why shouldn't I take an interest in my appearance? For my own sake; no one else's. Her smile faded as her chin lifted. I've been afraid too long. Afraid of what people might think. Afraid of looking like a widow on the prowl. Afraid of attracting attention from men whose interest I don't want.

  As if to mock her, Karim Donovan's image filled her mind's eye. Stunned by her change of expression, she abruptly turned away from her betraying reflection, but she couldn't escape her thoughts. It's for him you're dressing and primping, not the trustees, not Georgina, and certainly not for yourself...

  Beth's distracted gaze fell upon the large illuminated numerals on the bedside table clock. Six-thirty. Where had the time gone? She was due at Peabody by eight and she hadn't yet eaten. She wriggled into her pantyhose, pulled on the lacy slip and began transferring the contents of her daytime bag to the black patent leather clutch she had chosen for the long gold-colored shoulder chain that would allow her to manipulate her notes with both hands free. My God! My notes! Beth searched frantically in the half-emptied leather pouch and found them nestled between her datebook and sunglasses case. Pocketknife? She juggled it, smiling as she recalled Karim's surprise at seeing it among her spilled belongings that day in the parking lot. As she tossed it back into the larger bag, the phone rang. It was Andy.

  "Mom? Thank God! How soon can you be here? I just got an emergency call, but Housa's not home yet, and I can't leave Jamie and Clara by themselves."

  "Can't you call her where she is?"

  "She's not there anymore, Mom. It's her afternoon with Daisy. I guess they got diverted on the way home."

  Housa tried to give each of her children an afternoon alone with her each week, but as Beth well knew, her daughter-in-law's definition of the time span commonly termed "afternoon" was flexible.

  "Andy, darling, I'm speaking to the trustees at Peabody tonight. Georgina's counting on me...I haven't eaten—" Irritation got the better of her. "Surely there must be someone other than me you can call in an emergency."

  "There is, but I don't remember their names and the list's disappeared—you know how Housa is."

  "Only too well."

  "C'mon, Mom. She's ninety-nine percent wonderful."

  "Her wonderfulness isn't at issue here, Andrew."

  "You're right, it isn't." Andy's tone matched his mother's. "I have a very ill, possibly dying patient. How soon can you be here?"

  It's not fair, Beth silently protested, her knuckles whitening on the receiver, but she knew life and death took precedence over fairness. "I'm not dressed, Andy; I'll be there as soon as I can."

  She zipped herself into the silk sheath and slipped her feet into the waiting patent pumps. She winced as her silver earrings, clipped on too hastily, pinched the tender flesh of her lobes. Her nose had to settle for a pat of powder and her mouth for a swipe of lipstick. There was no time for eyeliner or blusher.

  As she roared into Andy's drive, he emerged from the old red farmhouse, the screen door slamming behind him. He trotted up to lean in her car window. "Jamie's fed and down, but he's teething, so I can't promise anything. Clara insisted on staying up to give Grammy a kiss." He opened the car door.

  "You don't have time for that, Andy." Beth said, waving away his helping hand. "Where will you be?" she called after him.

  "I left a note on the kitchen table," he shouted.

  Beth got out of the car and watched him back his jeep out from under the white lilacs. He stuck his head out the window. "You look great, Mom."

  Not for long, she anticipated grimly as Clara catapulted off the wide granite doorstep and galloped toward her with outstretched arms. The odor of fresh squeezed oranges wafted up to Beth's nostrils as her granddaughter's small hands clamped around her waist.

  "Grammy! Mommy and Daisy're lost— c'n we go look for them? Please, please, please?"

  "They're not lost, sweetie, just delayed. Besides, we can't leave Jamie here all by himself, can we?"

  Clara looked up at Beth with a calculating expression. Clearly, the notion suited her. "He won't mind. I'll tell him all about it, after."

  Beth gently detached Clara's sticky hands from her silk sash. "Why don't you show me mommy's garden, instead?"

  Several years earlier, Housa had begun a wildflower garden behind the house along the spectacular plunge of granite that formed the northern boundary of their property. A seep of spring water from above had mossed sections of the rock with a green pelt as sleek as a cat's;

  below, caught in a small, artfully rustic pool of Housa's design, it created a moist habitat for a variety of native ferns and, as Clara enthusiastically pointed out, frogs.

  "That one's mine," she said, indicating a small spotted pickerel frog sheltering under an oak fern blade. "Her name’s Spot."

  "Good choice," Beth said, uncertain whether the feminine pronoun indicated a budding feminist sensibility or a precocious knowledge of biology. She heard a distant wail."Is that Jamie?"

  "Prob'ly. He's an awful crybaby"

  "His teeth are hurting him. When you were his age, you cried, too, you know."

  Clara pouted. "I never did!"

  Warned by the whiny denial that the novelty of her arrival was wearing thin and the toll of a missed bedtime about to be exacted, Beth merely smiled, turned, and walked to the front of the house. Out-maneuvered, Clara soon plodded around to join her.

  As quarter of eight came and went, Beth tried to c
all Georgina at home. I can't come to the phone right now, but... She hung up before the beep she was to wait for beeped, and reviewed her options. The college's administrative offices would be empty at this hour; any phone in the meeting room itself was sure to be an extension she had no way of reaching. Jamie squirmed in her lap and reached again toward the earring shining temptingly just out of his reach. She jiggled her knees automatically, hoping the motion would distract him. He began to drool.

  "Clara? Bring me a paper towel, please?"

  The little girl eyed her mutinously. She scuffed one toe and lolled her head to one side. Beth didn't wait for the complaint the familiar gestures foretold. "A towel, Clara, now.”

  Clara's blue eyes saucered. As she handed the towel to the tight-lipped stranger her darling Grammy had become, the door burst open. It was five minutes to eight.

  "Andy! I know we're dreadfully late, but you'll never guess what—" Housa stopped short at the unexpected sight of her mother-in-law. "Beth? I didn't expect—. The thing is, on the way home we took sort of a roundabout route, past this construction site? Well, we saw this incredibly gorgeous colony of maidenhair fern—"

  "Just below where this big ol' dozer was parked, Gram," Daisy broke in, "and by tomorrow—" As her shoulders lifted in an expressive shrug the trowel she held clenched in one grimy hand sprinkled dirt on the kitchen table.

  Beth thrust Jamie into Housa's arms. "Your husband had an emergency." She snatched up her purse. "He couldn't find your list of sitters."

  Housa's startled eyes drifted toward the telephone. Above it, half concealing it, was a large sheet of paper covered with bright squiggles. "Jamie did it," she announced proudly. "I wanted to be sure Andy saw it first thing." She took down the drawing, revealing the list of names tacked beneath it.

  Just then Fuzzy bounced in, tongue lolling, golden paws clogged with dirt exuberantly dug as his contribution toward the rescue of the fern patch. He stopped short at the sight of Beth.

  "Grab him, Daisy!" Beth cried as the big dog prepared to launch himself in greeting.

  Daisy dropped her trowel and threw her wiry arms around Fuzzy's neck, forcing him to the floor where he struggled, yelping, before finally collapsing with her in a sprawling six-legged heap at her grandmother's impeccably shod feet.

  Clara hooked her finger in her mouth and stared; Jamie chuckled down from his mother's arms, his discomfort temporarily eased by this entertaining spectacle.

  Housa blinked. "Why Beth! You're all dressed up! That shade of blue is great on you. Listen, why don't we—"

  "I really haven't time for a chat about color, Housa. I'm way overdue for an important meeting." She snatched up her purse. "Andy left you a note on the table." The screen door banged behind her.

  "Beth? Shouldn't I move the van?"

  "No time!" Beth hurled over her shoulder. She scrambled into her car, reversed in a gravel-spewing half-circle and gunned forward around Housa's van, groaning as a branch protruding from one of the swamp maples along the drive screeched across the Saab's pristine blue hood.

  Georgina lay in wait, pacing, just inside the building's entrance as Beth trotted in, breathless. Had she locked her car? She couldn't remember. Georgina's smoldering fury drove all other concerns from her mind. Glowering in a cream linen suit, long scarlet-enameled nails furrowing her fine cashmere shawl, she looked like an angel from hell.

  "What in God's name happened to you?" she hissed.

  "Housa happened," Beth said simply.

  "And?"

  Beth gaped at her. Surely there wasn't time for details now.

  "Your dress, honeybunch." Delivered through clenched teeth, the familiar endearment was like a slap across the face.

  Beth looked down at herself. As she watched, a large damp stain widened darkly, inexorably, like a tidal bore in miniature. Oh God. "Jamie. He's teething. I was holding him in my lap.…" Beth recalled the foolish fear about her slip showing she had voiced to Karim; this was so much worse. She stared helplessly at her friend.

  Georgina sighed, whipped off her shawl, tossed it around Beth's shoulders and pulled it down across the stain, adjusting the drape as one would on a department store mannequin. She stood back, eyeing the effect. "There. No one will ever notice." She led the way down the hall.

  Beth trailed after her, unconvinced. "Won't I look odd wearing this like a toreador's cape?"

  "You'll look odder without it, trust me." She stopped outside a pair of mahogany double doors. Through them could be heard the rumble of a deep voice, appreciative chuckles, a cough. Georgina grabbed Beth's hands. "Donovan's been ad-libbing for a good ten minutes," she whispered, "so put on a happy face, go in there, and take the poor fellow off the hook. Got your notes handy?" Beth nodded. "I'll make the introduction—1 haven't decided what excuse I'll make for you, but don't you dare give me one of those surprised looks of yours."

  Georgina's mouth widened in a practiced smile as she opened the doors and pushed Beth in. Karim stood at the lectern. Seeing them, he paused in mid-sentence, his shoulders visibly relaxing. There was a faint scraping of chairs, as the assemblage turned to follow their progress up to the podium.

  As Beth surreptitiously eased the rubber band from her notes, Theresa Miller's name leaped out at her from the first card. Good heavens, the radio! Her promise to find one like the old model Theresa's children had spirited away resounded in her mind, drowning out Karim's concluding words and the bulk of Georgina's introduction. She looked out over the small audience. Three women and seventeen men, the majority of them still years away from the inevitable descent from their present career peaks; light years away from the Theresa Millers of the world.

  ".…in addition, the Volmars are Eastbury people and loyal Peabody people," Georgina was saying.

  In addition to what? Beth wondered.

  "Earlier today I painted my proposal for an invention workshop in broad strokes; Beth Volmar will now etch for you details of particular interest to her and the community at large. I hope you will listen carefully to what she has to say. Beth?"

  To the accompaniment of polite applause, Beth made her way past Georgina, tripping once, not too noticeably she hoped, over the trailing end of the cashmere shawl. From the lectern she again surveyed her audience; self-assured, their upturned faces regarded her blandly, complacently. What was it Karim had said that night on the lake? "Speak to people, Beth, not at them." Ignoring the carefully worked-over phrases on the cards still clutched in her hand, she began.

  "I do not have an inventive turn of mind. I'm too conventional, too ruled by habit to be able turn the familiar on its head—to 'make it strange', as one inventor said—in order to find new ways of dealing with it. Creative thinking: isn't that what a college education is all about? Sometimes, however, the breaker of traces creates new problems in the process of improving on past solutions. Take the case of Theresa Miller...."

  As Beth talked, she became aware that here and there notes were being taken; a woman nodded her head in recognition of a point she made; no one coughed. Make it human, Karim had advised. She glanced briefly toward him to smile a silent thank-you. On turning back, she noticed a tall young woman slouched against the doors at the back of the room, crossed arms hugging her frail body as if to hold it upright. Her streaming red hair, in brilliant contrast with the ivory paint, identified her as Amity Donovan. Unnerved to realize she was the focus of the girl's frowning regard, Beth faltered. Karim is right: she's not a happy camper. Forcing a smile, she picked up the loosened threads of her talk.

  "Ms. DeLuca told you this afternoon about the potential an invention workshop has for developing new technologies. I've tried to acquaint you tonight with the need for a new look, a caring look, at some we already have. Why should we care? Our population is aging—" She paused to survey her audience. "We're aging, and our needs are a potential and lucrative growth industry. Peabody should be preparing its students to meet that challenge."

  Beth sat down to a round of applause longer and
louder than mere courtesy required. Georgina leaned toward her.

  "The speech you rehearsed for me was good," she whispered, "but this one— strictly home run stuff." She squeezed Beth's hand. "Thanks."

  ".…my daughter's appearance at the back tells me refreshments are waiting for us in the next room," Karim was saying. "It's been a long day and I know you'd all like to get out of these chairs, stretch your legs and chat with old and new friends. We'll meet back here tomorrow morning at ten for our wrap-up meeting. Coffee and breakfast pastries will be available for churchgoers and late risers. We still have a few hard decisions to make, but I promise a noon adjournment."

  A scattered, faintly mocking, cheer greeted Karim's concluding optimistic statement. "If you pull that off," a trustee called, "this job is yours for life."

  "Hear, hear," an attractive fiftyish woman seated in the rear echoed in soft cultured tones. She rose, smoothed the skirt of her elegant suit, and made her way through the exodus to Karim's side. "I'm impressed, Mr. Donovan," Beth heard her say. "I fear I've been remiss in my duties as a trustee these past few years—to tell the truth, I never found Merrill Longyear very.…" Her shoulders rose and fell in a dismissive gesture to refined too be called a shrug. "But hearing you, your ideas for the future of the college—it's all very exciting."

  Beth suspected what she really meant was that Karim Donovan was very exciting, a suspicion confirmed by the coquettish smile that curved her lips as she looked up at him with wide, artfully shadowed eyes. "Anything I can do, feel free to.…"

  Uncomfortably aware of her own lack of polish, Beth sidled towards the refreshments, nodding greetings, smilingly acknowledging compliments on her talk. She felt a tap on her arm. A tall, robust white-haired man handed her a glass of wine.

  "My associates are lined up in there like drought-stricken cattle at a trough. I'm Reuben Berger, Mrs. Volmar." His heavy jaw jutted forward in a smile of alarming intensity. "Your husband and I did some work together on experimental techniques at Yale-New Haven. A great loss."