The Real Mother

by Judith Michael

  “So could you get me a gallery show?” Doug asked as Reuben turned the rabbit around in his fingers, admiring it.

  “A gallery? I doubt it. Gallery owners are a cautious breed; they almost never take a new artist.”

  “Everybody’s new in the beginning,” said Carrie. “Even Picasso.”

  “Even Picasso,” Reuben agreed. “But he studied for years in art schools and the Royal Academy in Spain, and was poor and unknown before people began to buy his works. And some of the world’s most famous artists exhibited first in bars or shops or restaurants, wherever they could find an owner willing to display a painting or sculpture— often in exchange for meals—and if they couldn’t find that, they held sidewalk shows. Then, when a few people started buying their works, and word got out that something special was happening, gallery owners ‘discovered’ them. Most gallery owners like to be the second or third on a bandwagon, not the first, in case they guess wrong.”

  “What happens if they guess wrong?”

  “They feel foolish and they’re out some money. If you call yourself an expert in art, both of those are unacceptable.”

  “I know somebody who can get me a gallery show,” said Doug.

  Reuben’s eyebrows lifted. “A gallery owner?”

  “No, but…he knows people.”

  “Then I think you should take him up on it. I’ll be at your first show.”

  After a moment, Doug nodded, almost reluctantly.

  “As if,” said Sara that night on the porch with Reuben, “he doesn’t want to put this miracle person to the test, for fear it won’t work.”

  “Do you have any idea who the person is?”

  “My guess is Mack. Filling Doug’s head with fantasies so that he can be the big daddy. Admired. Loved.”

  “And is he admired and loved?”

  “Carrie and Doug love him, I think, or maybe it’s just excitement; he’s always churning things up. I have no idea what Abby thinks of him.” She shook her head ruefully. “I’m doing this again; I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear about Mack, or hear me agonizing about him, but somehow it always comes up. Let’s change the subject.”

  Reuben put his arm around her. “Has it occurred to you that it always comes up because I make sure it does?”

  “It has occurred to me, but even if it’s true, I shouldn’t let it happen. You have enough on your mind without taking on my family problems. What will you do about the demonstrations at your site?”

  “Talk to the leaders. I’ll meet with Ted, then Isaiah and I will meet with him and any others.”

  “Do you think perhaps the neighbors have a point?”

  “You mean a legitimate gripe?”

  “Legitimate concerns.”

  “Yes. I know they do. But we sent flyers to every mailing address, outlining our plans, and how we’d avoid some of the problems they’re complaining about now. Everything was in the open; they’ve had months in which to respond, and no one’s said a word.”

  “Are you sure they read the flyers?”

  “I assume they did; it’s their neighborhood, why wouldn’t they? And what else could we do? Go up and down the streets holding their hands, making sure they read every word? That’s not our responsibility; it’s theirs, at least to pay attention to what’s going on in their front yard.” His anger was building, or he was allowing what had been simmering all day to come to the surface. “They’re so wrapped up in their own lives they shut out the world: it’s big and complicated and ambiguous, and they don’t like that. They like small and simple. The rest they ignore because it might tax their little brains.”

  Sara moved away from his arm. “Then why are they out there in the fray, demonstrating and worrying about what’s going to happen?”

  “Someone stirred them up.” He was so absorbed he barely noticed Sara’s unmistakable distancing herself from him. “They’re malleable, and someone used a lot of buzzwords, got them excited, and out of their easy chairs. More than once, evidently; Charlotte said they were already planning the next one. So we have to deal with them. Start from scratch, speak in short paragraphs, maybe use a sledgehammer, and somehow get through to them.”

  “I once thought,” Sara said after a moment, “that you liked people.”

  Surprised, he turned to her. “I do like people.”

  “Always? Or just when they’re not in your way?” There was a long silence. “Has your life been so easy you’re not used to opposition?”

  “No. Yes. In fact, for a long time it was easy, far easier than most people’s. My family was strong and loving; it still is. We never went hungry; we never lacked clothing or books or toys. When we were kids our parents took us to the theater, concerts, museums, movies, the circus… every place that made the city our universe. Even after my mother couldn’t go anymore, my father took us, and when we were grown, we took him, and my mother when she could manage it. I never thought about it when I was young, but I had everything I wanted, or could want.”

  “And then?”

  “Oh, the usual struggles to get started, nothing surprising or unusual. We never really expect them because we’re so sure we’re ready to conquer the world and reach some kind of pinnacle… fame, I suppose, and admiration and, of course, money, though I never saw myself as a particularly wealthy man; that was never the goal.”

  “What was the goal?”

  He leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. “To build communities where people could live in harmony with the land and their neighbors. I wanted people to be able to experience the earth, whether it was a forest, a prairie, a lake, an ocean, or a mountain range. I wanted their lives to mesh with a living environment, not concrete rectangles filled edge to edge with brick and steel, and only photographs to show them what had been there before they arrived. And I wanted, as much as possible, to build houses far enough apart that each family had privacy but still was part of a community, so they could reach out to others, or retreat into the intimacy of their homes, whichever they needed at any given time.”

  He smiled at Sara. “I didn’t mean to give a lecture. That actually is what I say when I talk to community groups, but tonight it sounds like a lecture.”

  “Did you say all those things to the Carrano Village neighbors?”

  “Everything was in the flyers.”

  “Which I’ll bet most of them never read.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “It may have looked like an advertisement, so they tossed it. It may have looked like a fund-raising pitch, so they tossed it. It may have resembled flyers they’d gotten during political campaigns, and people aren’t too pleased with politicians these days, so they—”

  “Tossed it.” He nodded. “I’m sorry I came across as a Neanderthal. I don’t dislike people, and I don’t look down on them as if they’ve just crawled out of the sea.” Sara raised her eyebrows. “It seems I’m exaggerating again.”

  She smiled. “I’ve heard far worse from those who truly dislike people. And there was no question of my disliking you.”

  “That would be the worst. But I don’t want to disappoint you, either.”

  “No, don’t say that. I’m not some superior being who passes judgment and has to be placated. I just want you to be you, and I’ll like some things and maybe dislike others, but that’s not unusual, is it? Or unexpected?”

  “No.” He put his arm around her again and felt her move closer to him, and wondered at how little he had been able to say to her. In all his talk of his youth, and what he had called the usual struggles to get started, he had left out Ardis. Even now, after a magical day, with a perfect opening for intimacy, for revelation, he could not be honest with her.

  And she had not asked anything that might have opened other doors. Was it that she did not care whether he was married or not? Whether he ever had been married? Whether he had children? Whether women, or just one woman, shared any part of his life? If she was truly indifferent to all that, how serious could she be in
her feelings for him? He would have to ask her. But the minute he did, those doors would fly open to all he had so far kept to himself. I will ask her. But not yet.

  They sat quietly, gazing at the river, gleaming ripples of silver in the moonlight, bordered by black, rustling trees. The night was still. Abby had gone to her room, to read or write in her diary or brood; Doug and Carrie had left their books and game of Scrabble to stand on the back balcony, identifying constellations from a book Sara had given them the night before. “There’s a jillion stars,” Doug had breathed when full darkness had come. “A billion. A gazillion. And…look! The Milky Way! It’s real!”

  On the front porch, Sara and Reuben became part of the night, still and silent, so close each warmed the other as chill air drifted up from the river. “Abby says we’re old-fashioned,” Sara murmured.

  “Not a bad way to be sometimes.”

  “No. I like it.”

  “As long as it’s only for tonight.”

  She smiled drowsily, feeling his heartbeat pulsing with hers. “What I liked best was that we both knew this was the way it would be, without even discussing it.”

  “The manager was as surprised as Abby; did you notice?”

  “I did. Does everyone expect every two adults to be sleeping together? What if we were brother and sister?”

  “With three kids in tow?”

  “No one would think that,” she murmured, smiling. “Or that I’m their sister and not their mother.”

  He knew her well enough to understand—even, he fancied, to hear—the conflicted feelings that lay behind those words: the gains in love and family, the losses in an independent life and career. Now was the time to share gain and loss, to open the door on his past and present so that she could respond with her own secrets, and they truly would become a part of each other’s life.

  Because that was what he wanted. He knew it. He would kiss her now, and tell her he loved her, and then be as open with her as he was with no one else.

  He kissed her. They clung for a moment, and then Sara murmured, “Is it very late?”

  “Almost two.”

  “I hope the children are asleep.” She sat up. “I think we should be, too. They’ll make sure we’re awake when their day starts, not when we think ours should.” She leaned forward and kissed him lightly. “Good night.”

  Reuben stood with her, and took her hand. He started to say, Wait, there are things I want to tell you—

  But he did not. Tomorrow was a better time, when they weren’t so sleepy. Or the day after, when they were back home, and alone. Or the day after that, when…

  “Good night,” he said, and let her go.

  EIGHT

  Don’t flutter,” Lew Corcoran snapped at Pussy’s reflection in the bedroom mirror. But, in fact, he was focused on himself, perfecting the knot in his tie, adjusting the triangle of his matching silk handkerchief, buttoning two buttons of his suit jacket. Inspecting his image, he released one button and stood sideways, contemplating his girth. “I might lose some weight,” he said to Pussy, who, fluttering, did not answer. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he barked.

  “My shoes …the black ones… I’m sure I put them…”

  “You’ve got twenty fucking pairs of black shoes.”

  “The Escada ones, satin with the little button thing. Decoration.”

  “For Christ’s sake, wear anything. Who the hell do you think is going to care what you look like? Or even notice?”

  Pussy flinched. “I care,” she whispered.

  And you used to care, or pretended to, she thought bitterly, trying to remember which closets she had searched. How many closets did she have? She didn’t know. She didn’t even want to know. There were too many; she knew that much. And they were too big. Everything was too big. Lew liked big. Lew liked monstrous. Why had Sara shown them this apartment with huge cold rooms that, even with furniture, looked like hotel lobbies? Well, she had to. Lew insisted on big rooms and a big view, and Sara did her job and found it for him. For him, not for Pussy. All Pussy cared about were separate bathrooms so she didn’t have to look at Lew first thing in the morning.

  You used to care what I looked like, she thought again, rummaging on her hands and knees. Or said you did. Before we were married. You said I was a pretty little thing. And I was. Pretty.

  Over the intercom, the chef said, “Mrs. Corcoran, you did not specify the serving dish for the crêpes.”

  Pussy turned around on her knees and looked at Lew.

  “Go choose one,” he said. “Probably copper.”

  “He knows more about those things than I do.”

  “Take care of it.”

  The dinner guests were all men, smooth-shaven with smooth hair and smooth suits. Greeting them, Pussy repeated each name as she was introduced, and promptly forgot it. (Thankfully, the young one wasn’t there, the good-looking one who somehow scared her, she never knew why. She couldn’t remember his name, either—Dick? Nick? Zack?— even though she’d seen him with Lew in New York, too. He was in and out all the time, getting orders; she couldn’t hear much because they always shut the door of Lew’s office, but she caught a few words when they were walking to the front door. The truth was, when she really came down to it, she didn’t like either one of them, but she had to live with Lew, so she didn’t let herself think that very often.)

  She sat at the opposite end of the table from the confident bulk of her husband, sweating lightly in her black satin dress, a fixed smile on her lips as she watched the servers to make sure wineglasses were refilled and rolls replaced instantly on bread-and-butter dishes. She ate almost nothing (though it seemed to taste fine and she told herself to remember to thank the chef, who was intimidating but seemed to like praise) and drank steadily.

  She hated being there. Lew Corcoran entertained frequently, but usually at his club, or in a restaurant’s private dining room. He never told Pussy why some dinners were held at home; he simply announced the date and the number of guests, and then it was up to Pussy to consult with the chef, direct their two maids, and hire additional kitchen help or servers.

  A long time ago she had dreamed of beautiful dinners, years ago, when she was thirteen, fourteen… up to the time she was seventeen and lived with Fred, who had talked so nice until she moved in, and then beat her and drank and was killed when he drove into a wall just before dawn on a blizzarding night when, even sober, a driver would have had trouble navigating the streets. Before Fred, though, she had spent hours posturing before the long mirror fastened to the inside of her closet door, narrowing her eyes at her fat, sweaty image, until she saw herself losing width, gaining height, and wearing black velvet sexily curving over her willowy form. Through hot summer afternoons she would stand there, in front of her full-power window fan, dreaming of dinner parties, of supervising a cheerfully obedient staff, charming her elegant guests with witty aphorisms and bons mots as bright as the chandeliers sparkling above, and basking in the smiling admiration of a husband (tall, dark, muscular, his face as yet a blur) at the other end of the table who glowed with love and gratitude for her beauty and skills, and barely could disguise his impatience for everyone to be gone so he could sweep her to their bed.

  Beyond the mirror, what really happened was Augie and then Bob and then George, followed by two or three others she could not remember. None of them mentioned marriage, but they all promised to take care of her and then did not. Left alone each time, she flailed about for a plan of action. She knew she was not stupid, though she recognized that she was behaving stupidly, but, hating herself for her weight and the clumsiness that came with it (when she had dreamed of grace and elegance), and feeling she had no control over events that whipped her about, and men who manipulated her, she took whatever came along, almost as punishment for being Pussy. And then what came along was Lew Corcoran, who bullied her into a starvation diet and an exercise regimen all the more exhausting because she was weak with hunger, but she achieved plumpness, and obeyed Lew�
��s dictates on hairstylists, clothing boutiques, and makeup experts and when not to speak (most of the time), and then he cuddled her and called her a pretty little thing and married her.

  Four years ago. When she was forty. All her dreams had come true.

  She gestured to a server that her wineglass was empty. When he hesitated, she knew Lew had told him not to give her any more. “Dominic,” she cried gaily—she thought that was the server’s name; if not, he could use it for a few minutes—“we’re positively parched for wine at this end of the table.”

  And without hesitation, to avoid an emotional eddy disrupting the flow of his evening, Lew nodded at the server, who served her. And served her again when she gestured, ever so slightly, so that Lew would not notice. She sipped and smiled, and sipped and recalled the past, and in between caught fragments of the conversation around her.

  “…a thousand acres?”

  “On a rise, about a quarter mile from the river.” Lew’s voice, explaining in that patient way he used with Pussy, when he was about to explode with rage because she wasn’t understanding something. “There’s a three-hundred-foot-wide swath cutting down to the river where we’ll dock the boat. The town is a mile and a half upriver, River Bend—”

  “Name of the town?”

  “That’s it: River Bend.”

  “Not exactly clever.”

  “They’re not clever people out there. Small town, slow, don’t even know Chicago exists.”

  Through the rumble of male voices, Pussy recalled Sara’s voice telling her to get to know Chicago, to make friends, to join some boards of directors, to shape her days. And I tried, she thought. It’s just that I need somebody to tell me what to do—I always have; every man I’ve known has told me how incompetent I am—and those people Sara introduced me to are so far ahead, they know so much, they do and they go and they take charge. Why would they be bothered helping me, when I can’t do anything?