by Viqui Litman
“These girls just wanted to apologize, didn’t you, girls?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kim said.
“Kelly?” Della prompted.
“Yes, ma’am, we didn’t mean …”
“Didn’t mean … well …” Barbara shook her head to clear the confusion.
“What we mean,” Kim took the lead, “is we shouldn’t have been carrying on a private conversation while I waited on you. You didn’t get our full attention, and I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” Kelly said quickly, ducking out from under Della’s hand. “Bye now.”
“Bye,” said Barbara, studying Della. She waited until Della was back in the car before asking what that was all about.
“Kids with no manners piss me off,” Della said, adjusting the air vent to blow directly at her face. “They were making fun of us, and I don’t think we should put up with it.”
Barbara shrugged. “I’m so used to it, I never noticed.”
“Well I noticed,” Della said fiercely.
They rode without speaking. Barbara was a good driver, and the Thunderbird had a quiet, cushiony feel to it that made Della sleepy. Outside, the green had faded a little as summer rolled in and at places where there were no trees, the grass and the sky met in a white band.
Della felt shaky from her encounter with the two girls. She hadn’t been afraid when she confronted them, but now she wondered what she would have done if they hadn’t come with her. What if she had called the manager and the manager had asked her to leave? What if they had called the police?
She imagined Barbara bailing her out of jail, or, worse, calling Tony or Kat to bail her out. Worst of all, she could remember thinking the same thing as those girls—that she’d prefer death to being a middle-aged fat woman—and laughing aloud about it because surely a middle-aged fat woman would never get the joke.
And, of course, she and Kat had been just as tacky about Barbara in conversation just a few days ago. It’s not the same, though, Della thought. I know better now.
Those girls know nothing, she fumed. Barbara has more wisdom in one fat pinky than they have in their entire cellulite-free bodies. She stared at the landscape, only slightly hillier now, but broken by stands of cottonwoods along the Nolan and groups of live oaks near small, neat houses.
“So where are you and Tony going for dinner?”
Barbara’s voice jolted her back to the soft leather interior. Della shrugged. “Who knows? He’s got something planned, I’m sure. I didn’t ask.”
“What are you wearing?”
“I don’t know.” Della shifted in the seat so that she was facing forward instead of out the side window. “I’ve got a silk pantsuit that I can wear. It’s dressy, but okay if we end up getting barbecue or something.”
“You should wear a dress,” Barbara advised. “Men always prefer dresses.”
The woman who had seemed so wise a second ago suddenly appeared dense. “I might do that if I were interested in encouraging Tony,” Della said.
“You don’t have to encourage him,” Barbara said. “Just see if you like him.”
“Like him? I was married to him! I already know everything there is to know about him.”
“You didn’t know he didn’t run after other women,” Barbara countered.
“I did know that,” Della argued. “I just didn’t think it was … important. No, not important, exceptional, I guess. Look,” she offered, “let’s not argue about this. I’m going out with him and I’m more comfortable in a pantsuit. Okay? Let’s change the subject. Where were you all morning?”
“Oh, here and there.”
Della felt her annoyance growing. “I know it’s none of my business, but could you be a little more specific?”
“I had to see the doctor.”
“For what?” Della knew it was rude to ask but it was rude of Barbara not to volunteer answers to the obvious questions. “Are you sick?”
“No.” Barbara shook her head. Then, “Yes.”
Must be menopause, Della thought, though she would have guessed Barbara would be through it. She herself had sailed through menopause; it had resembled a special project that she attacked with a fitness program and a new set of vitamins, and it had left her with an altered internal clock that roused her earlier in the morning and a dread of leaving things unfinished.
Barbara didn’t say any more, and Della glanced at her companion, but Barbara was studying the road ahead. Maybe she thought Della wasn’t interested. “What do you mean, yes?”
Della saw Barbara’s expression change. It seemed both softer and harder at the same time, with her chin raised slightly and her mouth in a tight line, but her eyes totally round and accepting. “I have ovarian cancer. They removed my ovaries in Dallas, but it had already spread and I’m starting to have other symptoms.”
Her voice was filled with kindness, as if her greatest fear were frightening Della.
“Cancer! Are you sure? Did you get a second opinion?” Della realized how insulting it sounded, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking.
“Dickie sent me to someone. He insisted.” She sighed, but now her voice sounded light, almost gay. “But the diagnosis is the same. One recommended chemo, one didn’t, but even the one who did admitted it would just keep me alive longer. There isn’t enough chemo in the world to stop this.”
“Are you saying you’re dying?” How could they be riding down the road to the Ladies Farm, how could Barbara be shopping and driving and worrying about what Della would wear on her date with Tony?
“Well, yes,” Barbara said. “That’s why I came to the Ladies Farm.”
“To die?”
“Yes.”
“Stop the car,” Della said.
“Why?”
Why! “Because I can’t talk to you about this while you’re driving.”
“Why?”
“I want to know why you lied to us,” Della said finally. “There’s a rest stop just past Foley Road.”
Barbara pulled over.
They rolled to a stop at the center of a semicircular asphalt drive, next to which sat a picnic table, a metal trash can, and a sign proclaiming maintenance of the rest stop a project of Explorer Post 1053. The Explorers were doing a good job, Della thought as she opened the car door and walked over to the picnic table. She didn’t want Barbara to drive off before they were finished and, as she seated herself, she watched the realization cross Barbara’s face that she, too, must get out of the car.
She doesn’t look sick, Della thought, but that wasn’t really true. What she looked was fat and overly made-up. Della had attributed her pallor, her slow gait, even the creakiness that indicated pain, to Barbara’s obesity.
She watched Barbara’s earrings swaying as she approached. They were beaten copper and brass, and they glinted in the sun. The Explorers hadn’t planted much in trees, and except for the shade provided by a green ash that overhung part of the picnic table, most of the area was in full sun.
Barbara was sweating by the time she reached the bench, and she sat down without trying to hide her exhaustion. “How long did you think we’d go without noticing?” Della asked.
Barbara looked at the empty road. “I would have told you this week anyway. But first Pauline died, and I had to push back my doctor’s appointment; and I had to wait for Dickie.”
“Dickie?”
Barbara met Della’s gaze. “Dickie had that offer in Houston, but he wouldn’t take it because he didn’t want to leave me here. So I concocted this story about what close friends we all were, and how nobody could care for me better than Pauline and you and Kat.”
Della started to speak, but Barbara waved her off.
“What do kids know about their parents’ friendships? I just didn’t want him hanging around Dallas waiting for me to die, and I didn’t want him insisting I be shipped to Houston.”
“Anyway,” she proceeded smoothly but without speed, “I had to make sure he had accepted this arrangement before
I told you all. Otherwise, I’d get you upset for nothing.”
“And we might back out.” The words escaped before Della had time to consider them, but the concept obviously was not new to Barbara.
“And you might back out. Particularly after Pauline died. And you still could. I wouldn’t blame you. But you could wait until Dickie moves.” She smiled tentatively, catching her lower lip with her teeth but holding a look of mild triumph in her eyes. “He accepted the offer yesterday. He’ll be moving in the next month, and I promise I won’t be any trouble until then. You know, Richard always wanted to be a doctor, that’s why he started the business. So he could at least work with doctors.”
Della let out her breath. So this wasn’t about me at all, she thought. It was about Dickie. And Richard, who had always joked about not getting into medical school. And Barbara, Della conceded, silently. It’s mostly about Barbara doing what she could for the two of them. For Della had no doubt that she considered Dickie’s medical career Richard’s greatest legacy.
“And you’re going to die at the Ladies Farm?”
Barbara nodded. “If you’ll let me.”
Now Della looked out at the road, looked at the heat shimmering off the asphalt, studied the gravelly shoulder and the stunted grass along its edge. This is an unforgiving spot, Della thought. It’s hot and dry in summer, probably cold and windy in winter. You can’t even sit out at a picnic table in any comfort. What a place for a rest stop.
In her secret thoughts, Della had wanted Richard to leave Barbara, had wondered why he didn’t. I’m prettier, she would think. I’ve got a much better body; I’m smarter; I work instead of sitting home all day. Now, though, the unthinkable occurred to her: It wasn’t just loyalty to the mother of his child; it wasn’t just respect for her position as his wife.
“How much longer—” Della kept staring at the highway, but she shook her head and started over, “What do the doctors say lies ahead for—”
“Three months,” Barbara said. “Maybe less. But I’m not taking any treatments, and it’s already moving into my bones. And my stomach. The oncologist I saw this morning says he’s seen cases like this where the patient didn’t last two weeks.” Her voice was level. “But he thought three months.”
“Why, that’s not even into next fall.”
“No.”
Della turned and saw Barbara shaking her head. Don’t cry, she started to say, but stopped herself. Of course we should cry.
Chapter 10
Barbara didn’t cry long. As if she had been waiting for just this moment, she filled Della in on her medications, on the pain management session she would be starting in the next week, and on her discussions with the home-health people who would be able to care for her at the Ladies Farm.
Della listened and thought about how to convince Kat, about how little choice they had anyway, considering Barbara’s ownership, about how lucky they were that the first-floor room was already so accessible. She imagined pushing Barbara onto the back patio, a plaid blanket tucked around Barbara’s lap and a shawl over her shoulders as they blinked at the early autumn sun. She pictured Kat, Rita, and herself lifting spoons full of broth to Barbara’s dry lips. She saw them hovering at the door as the doctor emerged, shaking his head.
Meanwhile, Barbara spoke calmly about catheters and oxygen, meditation and pain management.
Slowly, afghans and fortifying soups yielded to the chores of fulfilling Barbara’s wishes as they dealt with erosion of her bowel and bladder. Fury at Barbara, for her duplicity, for her use of them to promote her son’s career, vied with fury at Richard for visiting this woman upon them.
She’s dying, Della reminded herself. You wouldn’t wish this on anyone.
Finally she held up a hand to halt Barbara’s monologue. “I want to hear all of this,” she said. “But you’ll just have to repeat it to the others.”
This time Della drove. Inside the air-conditioned bubble, the sunlight conveyed cheer without heat, and she managed a smile at the Castleburg cows, who congregated at the roadside.
Kat was in the office when they arrived home, and Della wasted no time. “We need to get Rita,” she told Kat. “Barbara has something to tell us.”
Rita was in the middle of perming Mrs. Hutto, which gave Barbara time to change her clothes and enabled Della to clear her desk and return calls to the printer and Hugh Jr.
Hugh Jr.’s secretary informed her that he would like to meet with Barbara, Della, and Kat. Della repeated the request to Kat, who shrugged and was checking her calendar when Rita walked in. “What’s up?”
“Where’s Barbara?” Della asked. “This is her show.”
“I’m here.” Barbara walked up behind Rita and looked at them sitting around what had been Kat and Pauline’s office. At her appearance, Flops abandoned her post at Kat’s feet and advanced, tail wagging. “Doesn’t anyone ever use the living room?”
“Guests,” Rita reminded her. “Liable to bounce in at any second.”
Barbara motioned them out the office door with one hand and scratched Flops’ head with the other. “They are all with the pottery lady. She assured me they’ll be at least another hour, and this won’t take that long.”
So the three of them—Della, Kat, and Rita—sat together on the sofa and Barbara, from the upholstered chair opposite, told them she was dying of ovarian cancer.
“Oh, honey!” said Rita, rising and rushing immediately to her. “Honey, that’s so sad.” She leaned over the chair, stretching an arm behind Barbara to gather her in a hug. “Does the doctor say how long?”
Della and Kat still sat on the sofa as Barbara, dry-eyed and factual, recounted what she had told Della earlier. Rita settled onto the floor next to Flops, but continued holding on to Barbara’s hand as she spoke.
Della didn’t need to look at Kat to feel her rigidity, and she didn’t have to ask to know what Kat was thinking.
“Have you told Dickie?” Kat asked.
Barbara nodded and her eyes moistened. “He’s such a good kid. He has a hard time accepting, you know, that treatment isn’t … that there really isn’t anything … that all his training is no help at all.”
“So Dickie understands,” Kat continued, as Della squirmed, “how much care you’ll be needing, what it will take while you’re,” she paused, “while you’re in the later stages of your illness.”
“Oh, of course,” Barbara said.
“So you’re planning on living with Dickie and Marcy in Dallas?”
Barbara looked at Della a second, then returned to Kat. “No. That is, I thought, if it’s all right with you, I want to stay here.”
“Here? Not with your family?” Kat’s voice was amazingly level.
“Well, we’re family!” Rita objected.
“I only meant—”
“Dickie is moving to Houston. He has accepted a fellowship there for post-graduate training.”
“But he’s a doctor!” Kat said. “I would think he and Marcy would be perfect … would want you to be with them, so they could look after you.”
Barbara shook her head and Della noticed how her eyes had grown clear again. “Doctors all over the country would kill for this opportunity; he’ll be working with the best heart surgeons in the world.”
“How can he go now?” Kat asked. “When you’re … so sick?”
“Because I told him to,” Barbara said. “I told him that his father had provided a place for me as perfectly as if he’d foreseen the future. That I would be cared for by people who love me and that I could die at home. It’s the only reason he feels comfortable leaving.”
“And he should!” Rita said, rising once more to hug Barbara. “We will take care of you. He won’t have a thing to worry about.”
Kat’s expression had not changed. Cautiously Della reached a hand out to Kat’s arm. “Barbara thought she might move down into the Babe Didrikson,” said Della.
“I’ll pay for any equipment, of course,” Barbara said. “And there’s ple
nty of insurance; you know how Richard was.” Barbara closed her eyes for a second and leaned toward Rita, who still sat on the floor at her feet. When she looked at Della and Kat again, her gaze was resolute. “And you understand, of course,” she said to them, “this … the Ladies Farm … my interest … that passes to you.”
The Ladies Farm! Della felt the muscles in Kat’s forearm tense, but her unblinking expression remained unchanged.
“Barbara,” Della murmured. “Shouldn’t Dickie be the one—” Barbara shook her head. “He doesn’t want it and he’ll never miss it.” She smiled. “What … how much can one person want … in a lifetime?”
A person could want more than this, Della thought. More than dying of cancer and having to depend on the women with whom your husband was unfaithful. “Well, maybe we’ll just spruce up the Babe Didrikson before you take up residence,” Della said with a heartiness she did not feel. “Paint it, change out the drapes.”
Barbara demurred with a soft shake of her head while Rita merely stared at Della’s sudden gusto for décor.
Kat, meanwhile, remained wooden.
“Zaharias,” Kat said finally, and they all turned to look at her. “Babe Didrikson Zaharias.”
“If she had planned this,” Kat said, “if she had plotted this for years, she couldn’t have devised a better revenge.”
She and Della had returned to the office by themselves, with Barbara at the barn to start a jewelry class and Rita back in the salon. “I know this is hard,” Della began, but Kat cut her off.
“Hard! Slitting your wrists is hard! This … this … you don’t … can’t possibly understand!” She ended with her hands before her in the air.
Oh yes, I understand it all. The fury that the one he cared for more than you was fat and selfish and aside from a few years in the business never worked a day in her life. I understand it all.
But Della thought Kat had enough shock to absorb. And she ached once more for Pauline’s forgiving ear.