by Joan Hess
“She may be beyond help by then,” Joanie said, clearly unwilling to read anything. “After you scurried away yesterday—and in a very cowardly manner, I might add—Maribeth and I discussed the possibility of her trying the Ultima Center. She agreed that it sounded promising, but insisted that she couldn’t afford it and that her husband would be furious if she borrowed the money from me or anyone else. The solution is as clear as the front window of this store.” She winced at the patina of dust on said window. “Clearer,” she corrected herself. “Maribeth must earn the money herself. Here, working part time for you.”
Had my red hair not been so alluring, I might have ripped out great swatches of it in frustration. “I cannot afford her. Maybe in December. Hell, maybe in November, if the professors decide to throw extra reading material at the freshman lit classes. But until that happens, or the borders of hell start icing over—no way. I’m sorry, but that’s all there is to say about it.”
“Then I’ll pay her salary. We’ll just keep that our little secret. You give Maribeth a call and ask her if she can start immediately. That way she can also begin the Ultima program and shake off this dreadful lethargy.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
Joanie came across the room and stuck her face about three inches from mine. “Either allow me to pay her salary or pay it yourself. This girl was a dear, dear friend of my daughter’s, and I am determined to do whatever is necessary to restore her body and her spirit. When the girls were in junior high, Maribeth used to visit us over all the holidays and a good part of the summer. She was a tiny bit plump, but she had a quick wit and a laugh that reminded me of sunlight reflected on a pool of water. She was filled with energy, and she was always coming up with crazy schemes that kept them in mild trouble and me in semihysterics. Now she’s dull and depressed, unable to leave the house or take an interest in anything beyond brownies and daily doses of serialized melodrama.”
I thought of a few debatable points, none of which would have done the slightest bit of good, and ceded with a shrug. “Okay, you can pay her salary for a month or so. I’ve got more than enough for her to do—if she’s willing. Have you discussed this potential employment with her?”
“Of course not. She would be deeply suspicious if I said one word about it. You must call her, or better yet, run by her house and plead with her. Tell her how desperate you are for help, and how perfect she is to handle the counter while you fiddle around in the back. And you must sound convincing, Claire—she’s quite bright and more than capable of spotting any lack of enthusiasm on your part.”
The lecture continued in this rut until Joanie had satisfied herself I could follow her rigorous instructions. I cravenly agreed to drive by the old Farber house after I’d closed for the day but was informed that the issue demanded immediate action. After another round of futility, I left Joanie behind the counter and drove across town and up the hill to Farber Manor, now the Galleston residence.
I’d always been intrigued by the house, which from its vantage point seemed to loom over the local goings-on with an uncompromisingly grim sneer. It was three stories high and painted in an unappealing shade of mustard, with swooping gables, peeling gingerbread trim designed by a leaden hand, and lanky windows that were shuttered to turn away any curious glances from the street. The wrought-iron gates were closed but not locked, and once I’d shoved them aside and mopped the sweat off my face, I drove up the weedy driveway and parked in front of the broad porch. There were no other cars in sight. Wondering if Maribeth were home (or had deduced Joanie’s plot and disappeared), I rang the doorbell.
The noise echoed as if in a bottomless well, as if the sound waves were careening off unadorned walls and swirling through cavernous, empty rooms long devoid of life. After a moment, I concluded no one was home and started back to my battered little hatchback. As I reached the bottom step, the door opened behind me.
“Claire?”
“Maribeth,” I said, turning back without, I dearly hoped, visible reluctance. “I wasn’t sure you were here, since I didn’t see any cars.”
“I don’t go anywhere, so there’s not much point in having a second car.”
Her voice was as flat as it had been the previous afternoon when Joanie was extolling the virtues of the Ultima Center, but her fingers gripped the side of the door with white intensity and her pale blue eyes were glittering with some unfathomable emotion. I would have given anything I possessed, except my keen mind and brilliant deductive powers, to climb into my car and drive away, but I knew that if I did, I’d also have to face Joanie Powell. I ordered myself to smile. “May I come in for a moment? I have a proposition for you.”
“Gerald will be home for lunch any minute. He usually brings papers to grade or a book to read, and he doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
“I promise not to lie on the dining room table,” I said, intending to insert a note of levity but realizing I’d managed to sound like an escapee from a state institution. “I’ll discuss this with you as quickly as possible and try to be gone by the time your husband arrives.”
“I suppose it’s all right,” she said, then stepped back and gestured for me to enter the oppressively dark foyer that brought to mind the House of Usher.
I followed her down a corridor to an enormous kitchen. It was somewhat lighter, but still shadowy and unnerving, as were the massive black fixtures and faded brown wallpaper. She sat down at a dinette and said, “Can I get you coffee or anything?”
“No, I’m in a hurry myself. After listening to Joanie’s remarks about hiring a part-time person, I decided she was right. Every time I sit down to do the accounts or sort through invoices, a customer wanders in and forces me to put down whatever I’m doing. By the time I get back to it, it’s as if I’d never seen it before. I wondered if I might persuade you to come in for a couple of hours each afternoon and basically hold down the front of the store for me.”
She clasped her hands together and gave me a look that hinted of fear. “I couldn’t. It’s out of the question.”
“It’s not a difficult job, Maribeth. You’ll have to familiarize yourself with the basic layout so that you can help customers on occasion, but most of them are regulars who know what they want and where to find it. My cash register’s only a few years older than the American Revolution and easy to operate. Ring up the sale, put the book and receipt in a bag, and that’s all there is to it.”
“I couldn’t.” She looked as if she were going to continue, but flinched as a door slammed in the distance. With another frightened look in that direction, she struggled to her feet and went across the room to an oversized refrigerator of my cash register’s era.
“Is that Gerald?” I asked brightly, if not brilliantly.
“I haven’t even started his lunch. He’s only got an hour, and he’s upset if everything’s not on the table the minute he walks into the kitchen. But I’m out of almost everything, and he hasn’t done any grocery shopping for more than a week.” Her voice was becoming increasingly shrill as she began to grab containers from the interior shelves. “He doesn’t like leftovers; I eat them myself and prepare something fresh for him. Oh, damn. I’ve got a slice of ham in here somewhere.”
The kitchen door opened and a black-haired man came into the kitchen. He wore a conservative suit and a dark tie, and his shoes shined as if they’d been coated with enamel-based paint. His body was the antithesis of Maribeth’s; it was obvious he was the Jack Sprat who scorned fat. Everything about him was thin, including his lips and hooded eyes. Because of his pronounced cheekbones and concave cheeks that converged on a rather weak chin, his face had an element of felinity about it that I found unappealing. I suspected I was in the minority.
“Gerald,” Maribeth said in a startled voice. “I’ll—I’ll have your lunch in a minute. This is Claire Malloy. She owns a bookstore near the campus, and she—ah, she came by for a brief visit. I’ll show her out and fix something for you.”
He crossed th
e room to examine me. After a moment, he produced a smile and said in a voice that would have worked well in a Pennzoil commercial, “How nice of you to visit Maribeth. Please don’t leave on my account; it’s rare that anyone can endure her company.”
Maribeth’s shoulders twitched, but she kept her back turned. Mimicking his oily voice, I said, “I appreciate your concern for my well-being, but I enjoy Maribeth’s company.”
“There’s always a first,” he murmured, managing to imply he felt sure I was a likely candidate for a lobotomy. “Well, I certainly don’t want to interrupt this cozy little chat, so I’ll pick up a sandwich on my way back to school. Maribeth, do you need anything from the market? In that I’m forced to eat junk food for lunch, I would appreciate a decent meal this evening.”
“I made a list yesterday. It’s in my purse in the front room.” He crossed his arms and stared at her until she began to fidget.
“I’ll go get it,” she mumbled and trudged out the kitchen door.
Gerald snorted. “She’s hardly a beacon in the night. You, to the contrary, seem to have a functional mind inside your admirably sleek and attractive body. Which bookstore is yours?”
“The Book Depot on Thurber Street. It’s a handful, but I enjoy it most of the time,” I said, determined to be civil while secretly envisioning him floating face down in a sewage ditch. “Maribeth mentioned yesterday that you’re writing a textbook.”
“It’s nearing completion, and I’m quite pleased with it. I hope I don’t sound too much like a proud father, but I feel it will be the definitive text on the development of international trade regulations in the late nineteenth century.”
“It sounds fascinating,” I lied. “And you teach international law at the college, Maribeth said. Where did you take your law degree?”
“Back East,” he said vaguely. “What in God’s name is taking Maribeth so long? I’ve got a class in less than forty-five minutes, and I’m already off schedule because she couldn’t bother to fix my lunch. Now it seems she can’t find her purse.” He frowned at his watch, which I noticed was of double-digit carats. “Listen, Claire, be a doll and tell Maribeth I’ve gone back to school. She can waste the rest of the day searching for the list, should she run out of more important things to do. Perhaps one of these days you and I can get together and discuss the publishing business over a drink. I’m sure it would be an intriguing conversation.”
He gave me a smile that implied we’d discuss other things, too, and went out of the kitchen. I heard his voice in the hall, with pauses during which Maribeth must have spoken, followed by the slamming of the door and seconds later the sound of a car engine.
The man was a bully and as much of a jerk as any opinionated member of the sophomore football team. However, when Maribeth came into the room and sat down across from me, I merely said I hoped my presence hadn’t caused too many problems.
“He’s always like that,” she said dully. “He gets so impatient with me that I end up flustered and helpless. He’s right when he says I’m incapable of doing anything except adding pounds every week. I suppose one day I’ll explode and he can find some skinny little coed with a major in nuclear physics, a minor in microbiology, and a shelf full of racquetball trophies.”
She was attempting to sound flip, but her face crumpled like a punctured soufflé and she began to cry. I patted her hand and made ineffectual noises until she stopped crying and blew her nose resoundingly. I then said, “That’s why you need to take a part-time job at the Book Depot, Maribeth. I’m confident you’ll make enough money to enroll at this Ultima diet place and start doing something about your weight problem. If you don’t do something, you’re going to have some serious medical complications, not to mention emotional ones. Joanie said you were bright. Why don’t you act like it, for pete’s sake!”
“Gerald won’t allow me to work. He says it’s inappropriate for a professor’s wife to have a job, because everyone would assume his salary is inadequate to support us. It’s vital that publicly we look as if we’re in the same financial bracket as his colleagues, even if it means scrimping along in private. Maybe I’ll try this diet place next year, when I come into some money.”
“I could talk to Gerald. He’s surely concerned about your health, and I don’t think helping out at a bookstore is equivalent to mopping someone’s floors or clerking in a convenience store.”
She rubbed her forehead, sighed, and said, “He’ll never allow me to have a job, even if it’s respectable. Thanks for the offer, Claire … and tell Joanie thanks for me.”
“Joanie has nothing to do with this. I need help at the store and you need the money. You’ve had jobs before, haven’t you?”
She gave me a blank look. “No.”
“Didn’t you baby-sit or something?”
Her cheeks turned pink and she found something of interest to gaze at in her lap. “My family was well off. If I wanted pocket money, all I had to do was ask. The money’s tied up now, but I’ll assume control of the bulk of it next year on my birthday.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Maribeth. On the other hand, it’s no excuse to sit in this dreary house all day because your husband doesn’t want you to get out and do things. You’re not a scullery maid. You’re young and intelligent and capable of taking charge of your life.” I was frothing by this point, but for a good cause.
I’d taken a deep breath and prepared myself for round two (or three—I’d lost count), when she said, “It would be nice to see someone once in a while. I was going to join the Law Wives Auxiliary, but Gerald wouldn’t let me. He said it would embarrass him.”
If I’d possessed a lethal weapon and a propensity for violence, I would have driven straight to the law school and gunned Gerald down in front of the class, thus provoking a lively and informative discussion about justifiable homicide. Instead, I said, “If you’re willing to work every afternoon from two until four, it would be a tremendous help to me. At least promise me that you’ll think about it, okay?”
“I’ll think about it,” she said morosely and without any discernible conviction.
I told her to call me later. She walked me to the front door and was still standing in the doorway as I got in my car and drove down the driveway. She looked as despondent as I felt.
THREE
I drove back to the store and repeated the conversation I’d had with Maribeth, mentioning that I’d also met Gerald. Joanie was not impressed with my efforts. After a few minutes of communicating as much, she announced she had not yet abandoned all hope and that she was going to the Ultima Center to pick up information about the program and its cost. I warned her not to sign anything she couldn’t read without a magnifying glass and, with a small sigh of relief, watched her drive away.
As predictably as the 1040 forms arrive the week after Christmas (ho, ho, ho), Caron and Inez stormed the store at four o’clock.
“We have been to that health food store,” the former announced. The latter blinked in support.
I closed the checkbook and aligned my pencil (red) beside it. “Were they running a special on kelp?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mother,” Caron said in a tone meant to convey there were More Important Things on the agenda than obtuse remarks from her mother. “Do you know how much they want for one little packet of yellowish-green stringy stuff that looks like dried dog hair?”
“Your firstborn child?”
“This is not funny.” Caron glowered at Inez; Inez nodded her head, realized that might not be the requisite response, shook her head, and finally gave up and stared at the floor. “They want an absolute fortune. I pointed out that it was just icky seaweed and that no one in his or her right mind would eat it unless going on a macrobiotic diet, and the guy got all snooty and said he ate it every morning for breakfast. On rice cakes. And drank goat’s milk.” She stopped to roll her eyes as she relived the repugnant scene. “Well, I told him that his store was a total rip-off and that he ought
to be arrested for public indecency for having pornographic food right there on the counter where innocent children might see it.”
I held up my hand. “And he threw you out of the store, and therefore you have no way to go on the macrobiotic diet. How am I doing?”
It was obvious I wasn’t in contention for any popularity awards, or even a nomination. Caron mentally ran through her repertory and settled on the role of martyred teen-saint. “I was only trying to improve myself,” she said as her eyes filled with tears. “Today Rhonda told Inez that Louis Wilderberry, who’s so stupid he wears his IQ on his football jersey, said the guys were making me a cardboard crown and one of those stupid sashes. I could just die.”
“It’s terrible,” Inez added in a sepulchral voice.
Caron covered her face with her hands, either out of despair or a desire to win an Oscar. “When I grow up—if I decide to—I’ll probably end up like that Maribeth person. I’ll have to wear clothes made out of polyester bed sheets and no one will let me sit on wicker furniture. I might as well call it quits while I can still fit into a prefab coffin.
At this point whatever patience I had evaporated. “Now listen here,” I said angrily, “Maribeth has a legitimate problem, and she doesn’t whine nearly as much as you do. If you don’t want to be grounded for the next five years while you ponder the value of compassion, cut out that kind of thoughtless remark and stop this self-indulgent moaning and groaning. Give up pizza and sodas and chips and cupcakes for two weeks and you’ll lose a few pounds. Take the money you were going to use for seaweed and send anonymous boxes of Twinkies to Rhonda Maguire so she can be Miss Fabulous Flab or whatever.”
“Miss Thunder Thighs,” Inez corrected me politely.
Caron’s eyes narrowed to slits and her lower lip popped out like the plastic doneness indicator in a roasted turkey. “Come on, Inez, there are half a dozen more diet books at my house. We didn’t even look at the one where you mix up things in a blender.”