Addled

by JoeAnn Hart

  “But what about the members? Aren’t they going to see them and call the police?”

  “I’ve contacted the Rules Committee, sub-rosa, and they authorized the hole to be moved. I’m going to tell a few select members that it’s been moved because of a septic problem, which, because of the delicate nature of repair permits and the Health Department, we want to keep a secret. Everyone will know by sunset, and no one will go near the area.”

  “We’ve got a possible hostage situation on the golf course and we’re going to keep it a secret?”

  He addressed the corner of the room again. “People see what they expect to see. I’ll let Mrs. Wingate in on the truth, since it’s safer than leaving her to her own devices. And I’ll call Madeline Lambert to see if she can’t exert some influence on her daughter. In the meantime, if I could ask you not to let Gerard starve at the hands of Phoebe. Barry says she seems to have stockpiled only water and oats.”

  Vita put her hand to her mouth. Wasn’t that a violation of the Geneva convention? “Of course.”

  “Things could be worse.” Clendenning leaned on the mahogany desk with both hands and studied his knuckles. “When Barry went to collect the pin and cup from Trough, he found a shotgun in the bushes. Ralph Bellows must have left it there weeks ago, which doesn’t say much about standards here lately.” He looked up. “Can you imagine if the Lambert girl had gotten her hands on that?”

  Vita tucked a curl under her toque. Hmm. Gerard, Phoebe, and the gun all in the same place? Maybe Phoebe had used the gun to kidnap Gerard, in which case she would be up for a felony—if someone ratted on her. Vita could pick up the phone right now and get the girl behind bars, which was nothing less than what she deserved.

  But no. Revenge was a dish best served cold, and it was not for her. Right now she had to keep her thoughts pure for the banquet.

  “And, Vita, please, it’s critical that the outside world not get a whiff of Miss Lambert’s exhibition. We don’t want reporters sniffing around, do we?” He lifted one of his eyebrows, indicating that she would be left holding the bag if they found. . .anything.

  Point well taken. She would call Mrs. Suarez to do the plucking to-night, rather than wait until tomorrow. The sooner they got those birds in marinade, the sooner they’d look more store-bought than caught. Stripped and singed, washed and dried, rubbed inside and out with salt, lime, and herbs, the birds would soon be lined up on the metal shelves of the walk-in like a colony of sunbathing nudists. She shivered with anticipation. On Friday she would combine the wing tips and necks with aromatic vegetables to create a culinary potion that, when reduced, would be the fount from which all the sauces and soups would flow, emitting the earthy essence of goose—indeed, of nature itself. She intended to flavor each morsel of food with the stock, for when would she have such splendid excess at her disposal again?

  Next year, God willing, as there seemed to be no foreseeable shortage of geese.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  On the Short Grass

  MADELINE STOPPED to pick a daisy for her hair, in case she decided to go to Labor Day cocktails after the tea. It was Friday afternoon, and she was heading out to the club-house to meet with Ellen Bruner, but instead of taking her car, she walked through the golf course to check in on Phoebe. Poor thing. Her demonstration just wasn’t panning out. She’d been there since early Wednesday. It had rained all day Thursday, but she refused Madeline’s offer of a tent and just wrapped herself in the tarp she’d brought for that purpose. Gerard Wilton had his own green plastic sheet, and together, they looked like two faceless lumps, insignificant disturbances on the earth’s smooth crust. There was not much to do except offer thermoses of hot twig tea and miso soup. Today, though, now that it was nice out again, she brought her a goody: ice cream. It must be a trial for her to sit next to Gerard while he ate. Vita sent him bulging hampers of food and wine, complete with linen and crystal, which he offered to share, but Phoebe would have none of it. She didn’t want a hostage either, but the man continued to press himself on her cause. Humpy had told Madeline that he didn’t quite know why Gerard had tied himself to the tree; maybe it was part of a bigger plan to undermine Phoebe’s plan. Maybe not.

  As she walked toward old Hole #11, she waved at a foursome trudging across the fairway looking for the new hole. They were passing Phoebe’s demonstration, but because she was in a low spot, protected by a steep rise on one side and the island on the other, she was effectively erased from the collective consciousness of the Club. And even if any member did, by chance, notice her down there, why would it ever occur to anyone that she’d been left by Humpy for the crows to peck at her entrails? The golfers would wave, as they waved now, ignoring any difficulties, and keep moving. Even if Phoebe were to shout for help, the members would never, ever call the police. If they thought to tell anyone at all, they would report the mess to Humpy, and he already knew.

  Madeline sighed. She could have told someone on the outside—she could still—but she just couldn’t bring herself to rally the general public and bring attention to her daughter’s wacky crusade. Even as a child, Phoebe had pursued her goals with a passion, first collecting stones, then feathers, and later, silly rubber toys for Ben, their old dog. But those obsessions were condoned by society, so it wasn’t until her attention turned to saving the world that her persistence smacked of the mentally unbalanced. She cared too much about what she cared about, and that was a dangerous thing. A person could get hurt that way. When Madeline ran over to the encampment after Humpy called on Wednesday, Phoebe had sent her to tell her buddies at the gate the exciting news. But they were all gone, off to Maine for a concert according to the security guard. Madeline had wished there were some way to absorb the blow herself. All that enthusiasm, all those good intentions. Squashed.

  She came to the edge of Trough and waved at her daughter. The geese opened a path, shuffling out of the way without looking at her, and she stepped down the incline with difficulty in her sandals and short sundress. With nothing much else to do lately, and no one to do it with, she’d been shopping, restlessly picking things up and putting them back down again. She craved the order of the small shops, the attentiveness of the saleswomen, the newness of the clothes. The solitude of the dressing rooms. And when she looked in the mirror, all she had to do was examine the merchandise, not herself. She could choose, and she could discard. And no matter what she did, the saleswomen loved her for it and encouraged her in her whims. Which is how she ended up wearing this retro-pop daisies-on-turquoise minidress, bought that morning to make herself feel young and carefree. But now that she wore it out in the world, it was having the opposite effect. She felt exposed and vulnerable.

  “Whoa, Mom.” Phoebe stood up. “You look. . .different.”

  “It looks terrible, doesn’t it? I’ll go home and change.”

  “Mom, chill. You look fine. Has anyone called from the media yet?”

  Madeline sighed with exaggeration. “Not a word. How are you doing?” Her baby looked somewhat grubby, still in the same shorts and T-shirt she started out in. And that hair. One good thing about the dreads, there was never any way of knowing if they were dirty. She looked around. “Any progress?”

  Gerard Wilton stood up, careful not to disengage himself. Barry had brought him his own chain, as requested, but had refused to bring a padlock, so Gerard was only loosely tied to both tree and ankle and could walk away at any time with a good shake of his foot. He held his hand out to her as if he were greeting a guest in the dining room. “Mrs. Lambert,” he said. “You look beautiful today. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree in your family, does it?”

  Madeline smiled uneasily. Phoebe glared at him.

  “No progress,” she said to her mother. “All because Mr. Clendenning moved the hole. These people, they sure know how to step over shit. I’ll show him, though. I’ll stay here forever if I have to.”

  “Right on,” said Gerard, raising his fist.

  “I wish you’d
just go!” Phoebe shouted at him. “This is my scene! You want to be a help? Go get a news team.”

  “No,” he said. “I can’t be free while you’re in chains.”

  Phoebe made fists with her hands and turned to her mother to make it stop. Madeline wondered where Phoebe found the energy for so much indignation. “Honey,” she said, “you’ve got to understand. No one wants to make any trouble. Just come home and we’ll figure out some other way of bringing attention to your cause.”

  “No, you’ve got to call the TV station again and tell them what’s going down, okay?”

  “Going down?”

  “Tell them I’m here! Tell them it’s a story!”

  Madeline nodded to avoid an argument but knew she wouldn’t call. That would only encourage Phoebe and maybe excite Charles. He still didn’t know she’d taken siege of Trough, since he hadn’t come out of the garage all week. The last time she saw him, opening and closing kitchen cabinets past midnight, she’d asked is this what he wanted, to be living in the garage, foraging for food? And he’d said that a man was not what he wanted to be, but what he had to be. Then he’d grabbed some bananas and retreated to his smoky lair.

  There seemed, now, no chance of him getting better. She could only learn to be less afraid of his madness, and with this grim thought, she burrowed through her bag and pulled out a pint of Cherry Garcia. “Here, Phoebe,” she said. “Your favorite.”

  Phoebe cocked her head toward Gerard. “Mom, you know I eat lower on the food chain than dairy.”

  Madeline stared at her. It was such an innocent food. No cow ever died giving milk, but from the guilty look on Phoebe’s face, ice cream still must be against the rules. Which meant, from the empty containers she found in the trash over the summer, that she’d struggled with her principles and sometimes failed.

  Madeline felt a surge of relief. Phoebe wasn’t perfect, and what a comfort that was. She might be extreme in her actions, but she was going to be okay. Madeline wished she had some smattering of maternal wisdom she could pass on to her daughter to keep her going, but what? Her own mother was always sending her self-help books, all about running with wolves or dancing with anger, but she’d never read them. Oddly enough, she’d never thought she needed the help. And from Arietta, she’d learned the power of good posture and fresh lipstick, but that seemed irrelevant here under the tree. What had she ever learned on her own worth passing on?

  She put her arms around Phoebe and kissed her on the forehead. “I love you,” she said. “I’ll come check on you later.”

  As Phoebe hugged her mother’s neck, Gerard gently lifted the container from Madeline’s hand. “I’ll take that. Vita only included one dessert at lunch today.” He held up his palm to Phoebe, who had released her mother to turn on him. “I know, I know,” he said. “Your pamphlet says that dairy consumption is linked to impotence, but I can assure you, I have no worries in that area.” He opened the pint and took a nibble from the edge of the container, sighing with pleasure. “I am just loving this radical lifestyle.”

  Madeline looked at her watch and threw a kiss to her daughter, who didn’t catch it, too completely engaged in glaring at Gerard as he chewed. The geese grudgingly moved out of Madeline’s path as she picked her way up the incline.

  Phoebe leaned against the tree and sunk to the ground. Her mom was right, she really could use a treat right now, even if it wasn’t totally vegan. But maybe it was for the best. Cheating made her feel so guilty, and besides, whenever she gave in, she heard Eric’s voice harping about the connection between dairy products and phlegm. That might have been his last word to her. Phlegm. A crow squawked, then another. She looked up and counted. Eleven of them, heads bobbing, clawed feet shifting impatiently along the branches, all staring at Gerard to see if he really meant to finish the job.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Tee Time

  ARIETTA WAS in the library idly turning the antique globe. The varnish on the planet had bubbled and a crack ran down Antarctica, but all in all, how much had changed over the years? A few names? A handful of national boundaries, always arbitrary at best? Continents had not budged, nor mountains shifted; neither had the oceans dried to deserts. The world was as recognizable today as it was a century ago, as it would be a century hence. She wiped her hands on her handkerchief, then, on a rare virtuous impulse, used it to dust the world clean. If Gerard Wilton insisted on devoting all his energies to overseeing Phoebe’s rather pathetic demonstration, then it was every member’s duty to pick up the slack.

  Madeline coughed at the open door and waved away a dark cloud of backdraft. “Do we really need a fire, Arietta? It’s ninety degrees out there.”

  “Don’t question me.” Arietta deported herself over to the fireplace and, with the brass tip of her cane, poked at the damp logs and brought them to life. “If it weren’t for a little heat in this room now and then, these books—our book—would have rotted from mildew long ago.”

  “Maybe that would have been for the best,” Madeline mumbled. She placed her bag on the faded window cushion and stared out at the lengthening shadows of the course. Golfers were still on their journeys, but everyone always returned, for better or worse—everyone but Charles. She cranked the casement window open, and the handle came off in her hand.

  “Enunciate.” Arietta straightened herself and ran both hands down her summer-weight gray crepe skirt. She touched her hair to check that all was in order as she peered at Madeline. “You look positively peaked. If you’re going to wear such a skimpy outfit, you should have the tan to go with it.”

  Madeline tugged at the hem of her sundress and studied her bare arm. Where was that bronzing gel she used to keep for emergencies? “Not everyone can stay covered up like some British missionary in this tropical weather.”

  “You needn’t be snippy,” said Arietta. “I’m concerned about your welfare. Go out on the courts and play a few sets. Get some color.” She inched closer and lowered her voice. “Just because Charles has been holed up in his dark cave all summer doesn’t mean you have to stay home. You’d think women’s lib never happened, the way some of you behave.”

  Madeline screwed the window hardware back on. “I don’t have anyone to play with. Just right now, as I was walking up the driveway, Holly Quilpe slowed down in her BMW X5 and looked like she was going to say hello, but she must have reconsidered. She sped off so fast her tires spun pebbles.” Madeline rubbed her shoulder. “One hit me. I don’t know what hurt more.”

  Arietta took her hand and patted it. “I’m sorry, Madeline. This will pass. Everyone will come around when Charles gets back into the swing of things. You shouldn’t take it so personally.”

  “I am a person. How else am I supposed to take it?”

  Arietta raised both hands in defeat and turned away, checking the door to make sure it was locked. “Can you blame anyone for steering clear of you with that haunted expression on your face?” She stopped and rested her hands on the back of a pierced chair. “If things are so bad you can’t put up a good front anymore, then you will just have to make some changes. I told you earlier this summer you should get away. Have you thought of going to a spa? Ariel Weber retreated to Canyon Ranch when Peter was going through a rough patch last year, and she came back fresh as a lemon. She was able to move forward, and the problems worked themselves out on their own. They always do.”

  “Do they?” Madeline looked at her watch. She remembered Peter Weber’s “rough patch,” as Arietta called her. His office manager. “I’ll call for the tea tray.”

  “You’re too late. I had to do it myself.” Arietta grabbed the chair by its peak and dragged it closer to the hearth, refusing Madeline’s offer of help. “After the weekend, you and I will have a talk about all this, but for now, we’ve got to make haste.” Arietta arranged the chair just so in front of the fire, sat, and reached for her cane against the fireplace. She unscrewed its handle and pulled out the brass key, letting it sway by its silky cord.

 
; Madeline looked away. The fire seemed to be casting more shadow than light, and she rubbed her eyes. “We don’t know that we’ll need the book. Maybe Ellen just wants to socialize.”

  “Unlikely. She has her friends, and we have ours, and we are all quite content with that situation.”

  Yes, they ran in totally different sets. Or had, until Madeline was reduced to a set of one. But today, no matter what the reason for the visit, she would make up for any former aloofness to Ellen and reach out to her. She would start over.

  “Go on.” Arietta pressed the key on her.

  Madeline took it by the cord and held it from her as if it were a dead mouse, then trudged to the cabinet to retrieve a book that recorded and protected the most dire secrets of women who no longer even looked her way. Her dress bunched up when she knelt, her bare knees hard on the wooden floor as she opened the cabinet. The yellow barrier of ancient National Geographics faced her, helping to conceal the true nature of the Club.

  “My guess is Bruner lied the first time around.” Arietta came up behind Madeline, directing the action with a small flashlight as Madeline emptied the shelf of magazines, letting them drop heavily to the floor before removing the false back. “Now she wants to set things straight. It can take a while for these newer members to come around and realize the importance of the truth.”