Whenever You Call

by Anna King

“Tell me,” Alex urged.

  Suddenly I regretted mentioning anything to her. She obviously had to work with Madame Atkins, and when she heard what had been said it was going to be very difficult to maintain professional cordiality. But there was no backing down now. To my astonishment, Alex just laughed.

  “How can you take it so well?” I asked.

  We stepped off the elevator and moved with the crowd down a wide hall towards the cafeteria, finally taking our places at the end of a long line. The smells of food, from pizza baking to a full roasted turkey being carved up by a man in a white jacket and tall white chef’s hat, managed to finally dispel the constant state of anxiety I’d been in since walking into the hospital.

  “Her attitude is such a throwback now that it’s a more of an embarrassment to her than an insult to me. She’s just an idiot—there’s no point in wasting any energy on someone like that.”

  “So where are you on the wedding arrangements?”

  “Number one, Dad’s agreed to pay for fifty percent of the costs, figuring you’d cover the other half.

  I don’t know why I’d never thought about this wedding costing money. Weddings usually do, particularly these days. Unfortunately, my failure to recognize any financial questions could only be a result of my own homophobia, which was rather disheartening in light of the recent interchange with Katherine Atkins. To cover, I said, “Of course.”

  We grabbed trays and utensils.

  “I want to be sensitive to your situation,” Alex said. “Bar tending can’t be bringing in the same kind of money as your books did.”

  “What’s the budget?” I pointed to the turkey man and said, “Dark meat, please.”

  “Me, too,” Alex said.

  “Yes, indeedy, ladies.” He carved swiftly, the knife moving through like the meat was silk.

  “Thirty thousand.”

  Holy shit.

  That meant fifteen thousand dollars as my share. I had the money, and, in fact, I was in solid shape financially, but the switch to bar tending certainly had made me conscious of money, and not without some concern.

  “Gravy, ladies?”

  We both chorused yes.

  He ladled on just the right amount, and I could see it was the real thing, not the gloppy thick stuff that usually passed for gravy in a hospital cafeteria. The plates were passed to us, and we served ourselves from a choice of sweet potato and marshmallow casserole, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, peas and onions, and hot applesauce. It didn’t seem possible that outside we’d find a July day with temperatures in the nineties.

  Alex said, “The hospital is celebrating their 100th anniversary by having a Thanksgiving.” She gave me a wary look. “In case you were wondering.”

  “It looks really good.”

  “Load up your plate, Mom, you’re so thin.”

  “Same for you.”

  I debated what to say about a budget of $30,000 for a wedding. I knew that it wasn’t an egregious amount. Then I had the oddest thought. Since it was a lesbian wedding, both parties were female. Why were we expected to pay for it?

  “And Jane’s parents?” I said.

  “They haven’t got a cent, and they were really upset by her being gay and open about it. Now the marriage thing is freaking them out.”

  “Will they come to the wedding?”

  “Jane thinks that they will, in the end.”

  I glanced at her. “I gotta say, Alex, being in love suits you.”

  She blushed. “What do you mean?”

  “You know how you used to be somewhat argumentative?”

  We carried our trays to the check-out and I told that cashier that I’d pay for both lunches.

  “Me?”

  I heard the giggle in her voice. She never used to be much of a giggler either. At a small table at the furthest corner of the large dining room, we sat across from each other. “Yeah, you,” I said before diving into the Thanksgiving feast.

  “Being in love is a good thing,” Alex said with a full mouth of turkey and applesauce. As if she’d suddenly seen me doing one of my nude dances around the house, her voice changed. “Are you in love with Al?”

  “How do you know about Al?” And why are you asking about my love life for the first time, ever?

  She smiled. “I have my sources.”

  That could only mean Jen. And that worried the hell out of me because I didn’t believe Jen had ever before revealed something about my personal life to Alex. Although she had no children herself, she’d always understood the boundaries. Something made Jen transgress: my revelation about the angel, Ralph, and the argument we’d had. Obviously.

  Nausea floated through my chest and up my throat so that I could barely swallow the food in my mouth. I peeked at Alex. She didn’t appear to be perturbed. Maybe I was overstating the risk.

  “I’m not in love with Al,” I said. “No fear that your Mom is planning another wedding, other than yours.”

  “So, we’re thinking of having the wedding in Dad’s garden.”

  “I didn’t know your Dad had a garden.”

  “It’s gorgeous—he hired a landscape designer two years ago, and now it’s really taking off. We can probably fit 150 people under a tent.”

  “Won’t it be a little chilly for a tent in October?”

  “I forgot to tell you. Jane and I figured out that if you want to have a big wedding, you really need more time to plan, so now we’re aiming for next Spring. It’ll give her parents time to adjust, too.”

  And for the two of you to break up. I was disappointed that a thought like that would go through my head. I, therefore, nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  “I have a favor to ask, Mom.”

  Her brown eyes hooked mine. “Ask,” I said.

  “Could you talk to Dad about how just because we’re having the wedding at his house, it doesn’t mean he has any say in the details.”

  “Just like I don’t.”

  “I’m not worried that you’re going to start insisting on a bunch of New Age mumbo-jumbo. Dad’s gone off the deep-end with that stuff, and I think he’s under the impression that because it will be a lesbian marriage, we’ll be ready to invoke the Goddesses Minerva, Diana and Gaia, plus who knows what else.”

  “Why can’t you talk to him?”

  “I have, but I don’t think he’s paying attention. I need your higher authority. We know you gave him total shit at the end of your marriage. You cowed him.”

  What a different perspective this offered me. My marriage to her father had seemed to me to be all about my failures. No one had ever made me feel as useless as Trevor. Yet here was my daughter telling me that I’d been, well, not useful, exactly, but effective.

  “You know I’ve tried to avoid getting into the middle of things between you kids and Trevor. And, frankly, I think I’ve been right to be so careful.”

  “It hasn’t been easy for us, having you renege on all the responsibility when it comes to dealing with Dad.” Her expression dared me to argue.

  I didn’t.

  She kept on. “Noah really could’ve used your help when he was talking to Dad about financial support this year—you’re both our parents and you could occasionally come to a joint decision.”

  “Okay, I understand. I’ll call him and discuss it.”

  We continued for another twenty minutes, discussing details like two white wedding gowns versus gown-and-tux combo, possible appetizers, and a color scheme of either black-and -white or lilac-and-green. By the time I was walking out of the hospital, my head throbbed and I’d had the second ignoble thought in a mere thirty minutes: if Trevor would drop dead, maybe they’d decide to have a small ceremony at City Hall and I’d treat the twenty guests to dinner at The Ritz.

  I called Husband Number Two, father of my children, as soon as I got home. Get it over with.

  His second wife, Genevieve, answered right away, as if she’d snatched the receiver. “How did you know?” she yelled.

  �
�I don’t know anything,” I said, “Genevieve, this is Rose Marley.”

  “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she wailed into the telephone.

  Ralph appeared, floating about five feet away from me, his fists raised to show me two thumbs pointing and jerking upwards. Then he disappeared.

  Genevieve said, “Trevor is dead—they told me three minutes ago. He’s dead, Rose!”

  10

  DURING MY MARRIAGE TO Trevor, we’d bought only one house, where we’d lived for ten years. Located in Lexington, Massachusetts, it was a Victorian, painted white with glossy black shutters and surrounded by such green grass that it appeared to stay green through the cold winters. That’s how absurdly in love I was. In love with Trevor’s elegant body, in love with the house’s six fireplaces, in love with having babies and publishing novels, in love with drinking too much and, finally, in love with me, me, me. My beauty, my breasts heavy with milk, my clever fingers typing funny novels, my tongue on Trevor.

  Somehow, I remembered Friday nights best. Because Trevor was tired at the end of week, we never made plans. It was family night. The kids caught my pleasure, and they’d get excited when they woke from their afternoon naps. In the winter, I’d bundle them up, forcing them outdoors and into the frigid dusk. They often played house beneath a huge white pine in the front yard by hauling branches and logs around, sweeping old leaves into beds, and piling pine cones to make furniture. By the time they’d come trailing to the back door, with Noah usually in tears and Alex wearing a high-falutin’ smirk, I’d already be halfway through a Jack Daniels. We always had spaghetti on Friday nights, and my pseudo-homemade sauce was simmering on the stove. The kitchen was large and old-fashioned. We didn’t have the money to turn it into anything fancy, but I wouldn’t have wanted to, even if we had. The wide fireplace had an ugly wood stove stuck inside, and the place smelled of smoke, tomato sauce, and hot chocolate. The farmhouse table was so pocked and stained that it no longer mattered what the kids did to it.

  Despite his high-stress advertising job, Trevor got home on the early side, as if our pull had reached all the way into town and yanked on him. The kids heard the crunch of his car wheels on the gravel driveway and they’d yell, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” with high-pitched squeals. I, too, was eager to have him come through the door, after a long day with the kids, especially since the day began at four a.m. when I got up to write. Also, Friday night invariably ended in lovemaking. With his arrival, the suggestion of sex now joined all the other good smells (except, perhaps, for Noah’s underpants, who resisted potty training in the worst way).

  I let the kids have him first, but he always came to find me quickly. Usually, I was at the sink, washing vegetables or loading the dishwasher with the hot chocolate mugs. Wrapping his arms around my waist from behind, he lifted my thick braid and kissed my neck. I pressed backwards into him.

  I said, “Can you start the fire in the living room?”

  “It’s cozy in here.”

  Meaning, he didn’t want to bother.

  “I’ll do it then.”

  “Is there wood?”

  I nodded.

  He squeezed my butt. “Who’s going to help Daddy make the fire?”

  “My turn,” Noah screamed.

  Elliot yelled, “Alex did it last week, so it’s my turn!”

  “Noah, you can be the Trainee for next week—,” Trevor said.

  “Taineeeee?” Noah said.

  I said, “Very important job.”

  “Okay, Elliot, show Noah where to get the newspaper and bring it to me in the living room.”

  “No fair, I don’t want him,” Elliot said.

  Both Trevor and I stared at him. Though he hadn’t resorted to a total shit-fit/meltdown, it was certainly possible that he would. At the age of four, he’d already become famous for his tantrums.

  Noah’s thin arms suddenly clutched my legs. I reached down and hefted him into my arms. We all knew that Elliot might erupt momentarily. If it intimidated me, I could only imagine how terrified Noah must be. I whispered, “Want Mommy to read to you?” His head dropped heavily onto my shoulder and he nodded.

  “Noah and I are going to read a story in the living room where we both hope there will soon be a fire,” I said.

  “You got it,” Trevor said.

  Elliot scurried to get the newspaper while Trevor, Noah and I headed for the living room, which left Alex at the kitchen table, oblivious to everything. She’d learned to read to herself two months earlier, and she crouched over her book.

  The house was a little under-decorated, due to a lack of funds, so I’d decided to make a virtue of it by having nothing on the walls in the living room. Instead, I painted the room a rich red color. It was probably my most successful decorating feat. Covering the floor was an old persian rug I’d bought at an auction, whose holes didn’t bother me. After all, a beautiful old pine floor glowed through the holes. Two mismatched couches in gold, red, blue and green designs, one a stripe and the other a paisley, balanced on either side of the fireplace, like arms reaching out in a hug of welcome. A cherry reproduction coffee table stood between the couches. And that was it. Nothing else. It wasn’t a good room in the summer, but then, in a house like that one you didn’t go into a living room in the summer because you would be out on the porch. Even so, for the room to truly come alive, in the fall, winter and early spring, a fire was essential.

  Noah and I cuddled into a corner of the striped couch, close to the fireplace. Then I realized we needed a book. “Can you go pick a book from your room?” I said to him.

  He scampered off. Since he always took an inordinate amount of time choosing, I had about eight minutes. The future writer already understood the importance of any decision about reading material.

  “Noah, honey, maybe you could go potty when you’re upstairs?” Without a bathroom on the ground floor, potty training had been challenging for all the children, but Noah must have decided that going to the toilet was beneath him in some essential way. I used to think he was simply offended by the whole peeing and pooping rigamarole, as if he consciously said to himself, This is an absurd system and one that should be remedied.

  Elliot ran in with the newspaper, threw it down on the floor, and maniacally began crumpling it into weak balls.

  “Make ’em tighter,” said Trevor.

  He’d taken off his suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and tucked his tie away in the space between two buttons. The smell of old ash wafted out of the fireplace as he leaned forward and fiddled with the flue. An upsurge of terrible love filled me. Terrible, terrible love.

  He’d always made me feel that way. That it was a terror-filled love, wild and implacable and great. Surely, therefore, a good love. How certain I’d been then. By its very nature, it must be good.

  I leaned my head against the cushions and closed my eyes. I’d slept for about forty-five minutes while the kids napped, but four a.m. was still a long time ago.

  “How did the writing go?” Trevor said.

  “Okay, I think.” I opened my eyes and looked at him, unseeing.

  Elliot said, “Daddy, I want to light the match.

  “No can do, buddy. Too dangerous.”

  “You let Alex last week.”

  “She’s two years older.”

  Trevor glanced at me, searching for approval that he was doing the right thing. I smiled.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  At the top of his voice, Elliot yelled, “Give me the match, give me the match!!” He threw himself toward his Dad, snatching at the box of matches.

  Trevor held them high over his head, out of reach, which made Elliot react more strongly. He began to climb his father’s body, as if it was a mountain. Both small hands gripped the belt, hauling himself upwards until he reached with the right hand to grab the tie. Left hand followed and I watched, amazed, as it looked like Trevor would be strangled right before my eyes.

  I jumped up, grabbed Elliot from behind
and pulled him off Trevor. Obviously, he didn’t let go right away, but the most disconcerting part was Elliot’s shouts and screams. He sounded like he was being murdered, even while he was perilously close to killing his own father.

  I yelled, “Stop it, Elliot! You’re hurting him!”

  Trevor dropped the box of matches, so that he’d have two free hands and arms to wrestle with Elliot, forgetting that only one thing mattered to Elliot. The matches. Elliot let go of his father and tumbled to the floor, grabbing for the matches in a swift movement. I still had hold of his shirt and I yanked on him, so that he quickly lifted off the floor and dangled there by the shirt, both hands clutching the matches.

  His Dad leaned over and took the matches out of his hand, placing them high on the mantel surrounding the fireplace, then reached with one arm to encircle Elliot. He hauled him up to his left hip, and lodged him there, beginning to stride out of the room. In a calm voice, he said, “I am going to beat the living shit out of you.”

  I trotted after them. “Trevor, no, that’s not the way to do it.”

  He turned to glare at me and spoke between clenched teeth. “I’m going to teach him that this kind of insane behavior is unacceptable, which is something you, as his mother, have failed to do.”

  I reached out a hand, ready to grab his shirt, but then I stopped. I didn’t believe in hitting a child. But was it possible that I was wrong? Or, let’s say that generally I could disapprove of hitting a child, except, rarely, when a child simply needed to be hit.

  By this time, we were in the entrance hall and Trevor was heading out the front door.

  “Okay, I agree with you.”

  “Good.”

  “Just take a deep breath and know what you’re doing.”

  I saw his shoulder bones shudder with the inhale. Then he was lugging Elliot across the front porch and I deliberately closed the door.

  Alex appeared in the dining room, eyes wide. “What’s going on, Mommy?”

  “Elliot is getting punished.”

  “Time-out?”

  “No, a spanking.”

  Her eyes grew gigantic. “We never get spankings.”