Bed & Breakfast

by Lois Battle

  At 1:40, when Ricky still hadn’t come in, she stroked Orrie’s arm and, when that didn’t rouse him, she moved her thumbs up and down his spine, the way her masseuse did to loosen her muscles. “Orrie,” she’d whispered, “it’s almost two. Ricky still hasn’t come home.” Orrie grunted, jerked up, looked at the clock, muttered, “Hey, he’s okay. You know he’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

  “But we agreed that he should be home by one. We both agreed to that. You made him promise.”

  Orrie stuffed a pillow between his legs, pulled farther away, and rasped, “He’ll be home soon. Go to sleep.”

  She said nothing, but she thought, “Typical! Typical of you. Typical of him. You can’t draw a line without blurring it, and he knows it.”

  He slipped back into steady, sinus-clogged breathing, but she lay awake, her body rigid. She considered taking another sleeping pill but decided against it. Drug-induced sleep would leave her even more fatigued, and tomorrow was Christmas Eve day and she’d have to cope with Cam and her mother, as well as Evie and Jasper. Damn them all! And Ricky. Even Ricky couldn’t be so self-involved that he didn’t understand that he was making her miserable. But Ricky was like Cam, like Bear—he just did as he wanted, never caring about anyone else. Listening for the sound of his car, her hearing became annoyingly acute. Orrie’s snuffling drove her wild. She’d reminded him about taking his sinus medication but he’d forgotten, as usual. She could hear the heat rising from the vents, and the intermittent pattering of rain on the windows, and a maddening drip from the drainpipe in the azalea bed. She willed herself to sleep, but thoughts flew through her mind like the contents of a trash can that had been overturned in a high wind.

  When she heard the glass door on the pool side of the house slide back, she sat up as though she’d been shocked with a cattle prod. She looked at the clock. Two-forty-five! In seconds she was up, striding down the hallway, sputtering, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” in a harsh whisper as she reached the living room.

  Ricky stood silhouetted against the pool lights, legs apart, one arm on the wall for balance.

  “You think you can use this house like a hotel? You think you can come and go as you please?” she demanded. “Leave wet towels on the floor and the bed unmade?”

  In the blinking lights of the Christmas tree Ricky’s face, blurred with drink or drugs, turned green, then red. “Jeez, am I s’posed to register or somethin’? I thought it was your mother who runs a B & B.”

  “Let me tell you something, young man: if you keep this up, it’s going to be check-out time.”

  He shook his head. “Oh, Mom,” he said, contemptuous and pitying. “Get a life.”

  “You spoiled little creep.” She advanced on him. “You arrogant little son of a bitch!” She swung at him but missed.

  He laughed so hard he doubled up. “Son of a bitch! If I’m a son of a bitch, what does that make you?”

  This time she connected—Whap!—a stunning blow up the side of the head.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Orrie cut on the lights and stood, bleary-eyed and alarmed, by the hall door.

  “Child abuse!” Ricky screeched, stunned but laughing hysterically. “Child abuse! I’m gonna call the cops!”

  “What the hell’s going on!” Orrie demanded again.

  “Your wife”—Ricky pulled himself up, feeling the side of his head—“is having some kind of hot-flash hissy fit.”

  “Don’t talk to your mother like that,” Orrie warned. But Ricky was already stumbling past him, weaving down the hallway to his room, one arm flapping dismissively behind him, muttering, “Jesus, I’m going to bed. You guys figure it out.”

  “Orrie!” Lila screamed as though she were falling off a cliff. “Orrie!”

  Orrie looked one way, then the other, wondering if he should try to punish his son or comfort his wife, not trusting himself to do either.

  “Do I have to do this all by myself?” she wailed. “Do I have to do everything by myself!”

  “No. No, sugar. Of course not.” He put his arm around her. She wrenched away. He tried again, holding her this time, guiding her back into the hallway. As they passed Susan’s door the stereo was suddenly turned up, but not so loud that they couldn’t hear Susan’s voice screeching, “I am not part of this. I am not part of this. Leave me alone!”

  “You’re his father,” Lila shrieked as they reached their bedroom door. “Don’t you know what that means? Don’t you have the balls ...” The second the words passed her lips she realized, like a child who’s run into traffic, that she’d done something dangerous and punishable. She almost wished he’d hit her, but instead of becoming enraged, his face crumbled. “Oh, Lila.”

  “I’ll sleep in the other room,” she snapped, pulling away.

  “Listen, sugar . . .”

  “Don’t ‘listen, sugar’ me. Sleep by your goddamn self.”

  His jaws stretched into a yawn, a reflex that even he knew was damningly inappropriate. “Sorry.” He wiped his hand over his mouth trying to hide it, smiled his most engagingly boyish smile—the smile the photographer who’d taken his campaign pictures said would win him the election—and said, “Lila, you know that when you’re in a mood like this, no one can satisfy you.”

  “Least of all you,” she screamed, striding down the passageway. She got to the living room, saw the Christmas tree, balled up her fists as though she wanted to punch it down, turned, and moved to the front door, flinging it back. Dammit, she would leave! She would walk out on all of them. Make them notice, finally, all she did for them. Sure she had all the labor-saving machines, she even had help. No one was going to feel sorry for her. But let them see what the drudgery of going through the same routine day after day was like. Let them feel the monotony of repeating the same endless chores. How long would they survive without her restocking the refrigerator, fixing their meals, doing their laundry, answering their phone calls, making their damned dental appointments? She would walk out on all the committees and volunteer services she worked at—with much grief, and no pay. She would even walk out on her mother—stop being taxi driver, confidante, companion, the only dutiful daughter. And when she left, they would—finally— understand that she had feelings, too. She even took a defiant step outside.

  The rain was soft, but the porch light she’d left on for Ricky made it seem like an impenetrable curtain. Her breasts, heaving in her nightdress, looked flaccid and yellow. Where could she possibly go? She couldn’t even drive over to her mother’s because Cam was there. She turned, closed the door, and crept back down the hallway. No sound from Susan’s room or Ricky’s. But no, goddammit, she would not crawl back into bed with Orrie.

  The door to the smaller guest room was ajar. She closed it quietly behind her, realizing that the palm of her right hand was stinging. She had hit her son. Hit him in the face. The same face she’d wiped free of baby food and thought was the most beautiful thing in the world. But, dammit, he’d been pushing her for weeks, he’d been asking for it. Someone had to straighten him out. A couple of years in the military . . . What was she thinking! She hated the military. If it hadn’t been for the military . . .

  She wiped tears she hadn’t known were there from her face and stood in the dark, panting. It had stopped raining and in the soft light coming through the window she saw the bottle of Joy she’d bought for Cam that afternoon sitting on the desk in a mess of ribbons. She grabbed it and hurled it against the wall, then flung herself into the wing chair, sobbing and hiccupping like a three-year-old having a temper tantrum.

  When the fumes from the perfume threatened to overwhelm her she got up, opened the window, thought, Seventy bucks’ worth of suffocation! and started to laugh. The laughter dovetailed into tears. She grabbed the lap rug from the end of the couch and stuffed it into her mouth. The couch was loaded with presents, but she shoved them aside, not caring when some fell onto the carpet, and lay down, balling up in a fetal position.

  She woke up, feeli
ng as stiff and chilled as if she’d slept on the floor, when she heard padding feet—most likely Susan going out for her morning run—in the hallway. She waited a few minutes, closed the window, and crept into the guest bathroom to shower.

  She turned on the cold faucet and stepped into a spray of icy needles that made her gasp, stood under it until she was numb, then turned the faucet to a punishing heat that misted the mirrors and scalded her skin. She shaved her legs and armpits, even gave herself a cucumber and sea-kelp mask. Not wanting to disturb Orrie, she wrapped herself in the white terry-cloth robe she left for guests.

  By the time Orrie appeared at the kitchen door, his left eye still matted with sleep, barefoot but with his hair combed, dressed in his chinos and lime-green J. Crew shirt, she already had the coffee brewing. Without looking up, she asked, “Toast or croissants?,” and she heard the relief in his voice as he said, “Ah, toast is fine.” So. It was business as usual. Whatever had happened was better ignored than explored. Any choices to be made came down to toast or croissants, L.L. Bean or Lands’ End, red, white, and blue, or just white and blue on the campaign posters. And part of her didn’t mind that Orrie was willing to act as though nothing had happened. She had behaved badly, and if he wanted to he could call her on it. “Wheat or rye?” she asked, opening the bread bin.

  “I think ...” He looked at her, smiled, then reached for the remote control, and turned on the TV. “I think rye for a change. With cream cheese.”

  She put the bread into the toaster, pressed down the button, and held her hand on the top of it, almost wishing it would burn her. They’d coast through another day—another week, another year. Well, denial was, if not better, then at least more comfortable than confrontation. Especially during the holidays.

  As she walked through the garden toward Josie’s back door she could smell the pungent aroma of onions and celery being sauteed, could hear the whir of the sewing machine, and her mother’s voice in conversation with a woman’s voice she didn’t recognize. She really didn’t feel up to dealing with a stranger. She stood still, feeling like a child eavesdropping on adults, because she could tell by the tone that it was an intimate, not to say, secret, conversation. But she could catch only a few words and phrases: her mother saying, “No, I didn’t know . . .,” then trailing off, the other voice rising to, “You know Cam wouldn’t want... ,” then dropping. Then, either because they’d come to some revelation that caused them both to contemplate, or because they sensed that someone was listening, there was a long pause, and when the conversation resumed, Josie said, in a cheerful sing-song, as though she were reciting a list, “White gloves. Yes. And calling cards. Whenever we had a new posting I’d put on my white gloves and drop my calling card at the commanding officer’s home. I don’t know if they do that anymore.”

  “And aprons. Seeing you in an apron really takes me back. My grandmother always wore housedresses and aprons.”

  “And did you get milk delivered to the door? Now that’s something I really miss.”

  “And radio instead of television.”

  “I still prefer radio. I guess I’d rather imagine something than actually see it. Last time I went to the movies with my friend Peatsy, I liked to die of embarrassment. Just can’t get used to seeing people naked in bed. Makes me feel like a Peeping Tom.”

  “My favorite radio show was Gang Busters.”

  “Gang Busters, The Lone Ranger, The Shadow, Fibber McGee and Molly. Lila liked Let’s Pretend but of course she was younger. Cam preferred Inner Sanctum.”

  “I loved that show. Even Stephen King can’t send shivers down my spine the way the sound of the creaking door on that show did. Oh, and what else? Girdles! Can you believe my mother tried to get me into a girdle when I was only fifteen and had thirty-four-inch hips?”

  Josie laughed. “I confess I did the same thing with Cam. Silly when I think about it now, but those days a wiggle in the fanny was just not acceptable. My husband, Bear, hated them. Whenever I’d wear one he’d call me ‘Old Ironsides.’ Oh, and I remember Lila nearly had a hissy fit when Cam wouldn’t wear a girdle at her wedding.’Course Cam and Lila have always been as different as chalk and cheese. Even when they were little.”

  Lila waited to see if any more was going to be said about her, but when she heard the other woman say, “Yes, I will have another cup,” she knocked once, called, “Anybody home?” then opened the door.

  Josie was at the stove, crumbling cornbread into a large pan of onions and celery. A woman with wild hair and oversized earrings sat at the kitchen table chopping pecans. A little black boy with eyes like a lemur’s had just wandered in from the other room. “Oh, Lila,” Josie said, gesturing toward the woman, “this is Cam’s friend, Reba Golden, visiting us from New York. Reba, this is my daughter, Lila Gadsden.”

  Reba smiled, put down the knife, and extended her hand, but Lila, damned if she was going to make nice and say pleased-to-meet-you when she wasn’t, nodded and said a cool “Hello.”

  “And this is Cuba’s grandson, Antoinne,” Josie jumped in. Antoinne eyed Lila suspiciously, shrinking closer to Reba, who put her arm around him and whispered, “If you wash your hands, you could help me break up the pecans.”

  Josie waved a slotted spoon in the direction of the dining room. “Cuba’s sewing machine’s broken, so she’s here doing some last-minute alterations on a choir robe. Y’all are coming to the service tonight, aren’t you? I still haven’t decorated the tree. After dinner tonight, I thought we might do that, then open the presents, then go to hear Cuba’s choir. Is that all right with you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Cuba’s such an unusual name,” Reba chimed in. “Do you know where she got it?”

  “Her grandfather named her. He was with this all-black unit called the Buffalo Soldiers during the Spanish-American War and he liked Cuba so much he always wanted to go back there, so he got Cuba’s mother to name her that. Caused her no end of trouble when Castro took over.”

  “Where’s Cam?” Lila asked, unwilling to be drawn into the small talk.

  “She’s napping. Looks like she’s come down with some sort of virus, or maybe it’s just a cold,” Josie explained. “We just thought we’d let her sleep.”

  Typical, Lila thought. Wasn’t it just like Cam to loll around, play sick, and escape the chores? “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Just pull up a chair and relax. Reba and I were just talking about . . . ah, old times.” Josie’s slight hesitation confirmed Lila’s suspicion that something of importance was being discussed when she’d come to the back door. “It’s remarkable to think of all the changes we’ve lived through,” Josie went on. “Even more remarkable when I think about Mawmaw being able to talk to her grandparents about the Civil War, and now here we are with helicopters, computers, and this thing called the Internet.” Sensing that her efforts to lure Lila into the conversation were foundering, Josie asked, “Where’re Orrie and the kids?”

  “They’ll be here by suppertime. I don’t know if they’re driving together or separately.” She picked up a pecan, looked at Reba, and said, “My kids don’t like to ride with me anymore, but I guess it’s okay since we’re a four-car family.” She’d meant to express the frustration of being rejected by her teenage kids, but it came out all wrong, as though she were bragging.

  “Do you like to cook?” Reba asked, pulling back another chair and making room for Lila at the table.

  Lila shook her head. “Uh-uh. I’m like a Jewish princess. The only thing I like to make for dinner is reservations.” And that had come out wrong too. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Oh, I give the lie to that one.” Reba’s look was more curious than offended. “I make my bread and butter by making bread and butter.”

  “Reba has a catering business,” Josie explained, red-faced at Lila’s rudeness.

  “That you, Miss Lila?” Cuba called. Lila moved to the dining room. Cuba was bent over the sewing machine, shoulders hunched like an ox in h
arness, ripping through a voluminous pile of yellow, green, black, and red Kente cloth. “My machine’s broke an’ I’m fixin’ this for Betty Halsy. She so fat”—Cuba shook her head—“when she raise her arms she like to split the seams of a choir robe.”

  A girl of perhaps eight, her hair braided into cornrows decorated with green and red plastic beads, was sprinkling lemon oil on a cleaning rag and rubbing the sideboard. “Be careful,” Lila said to the child, “you might knock something over.”

  The girl brought the rag to the chest of her JESUS LOVES ME T-shirt, her eyes sullen.

  “Don’t worry ’bout her,” Cuba said, snipping threads. “Shalalla not gonna hurt nothing. Shalalla know how to dust, ’n’ make beds,’n’ I’m teaching her to iron. All my grandchildrens know how to pick up after theyselves.” Lila couldn’t tell if this was bragging or a subtle rebuke of those, like herself, whose children did not pick up after themselves.

  Cuba shook the garment and smiled. “You all cleaned up after your party, Miss Lila? That was some fine spread you had.”

  “Yes. It was.” But she’d heard Cuba whispering to Josie that she’d paid too much for the caterers. “Oh, Cuba,” she apologized. “I forgot to bring your check.”

  “That’s okay. Can’t cash it till after the holidays. See Shalalla’s hairdo? That’s her Christmas present.”

  “It looks lovely,” Lila told the girl. “Did Grandma take you to the beauty parlor?” Shalalla, knowing when she was being condescended to, stared back without answering.

  “The lady’s talking to you, Shalalla,” Cuba warned, but took her off the hook by answering for her. “Sure. She went to the beauty parlor for the very first time. Wanted to have her nails done too, but we put a stop to that.”

  Shalalla lifted her chin, picked up a pepper mill, and asked, “What’s this, Grandma?”