by Lois Battle
“Are you angling for an invitation?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“They’ll all be here for Christmas, all except Evie, that is. Even Dozier’s kids and their families are coming down.”
“You’re fixing for the whole damn tribe of them?”
“It’s okay. I volunteered. So, just give a call day after tomorrow and if things here have settled down to a dull roar, come on by with Waring and his friend.”
“I might just do that.”
Peatsy’s mention of “her kind of man” hit her. She thought, I’ve been waiting for forty years to ask; if not now, then when? And with the abandon of a fledgling swimmer hurling herself from the high dive, she said, “I’ve often wondered if Bear was your kind of man.”
“Bear was every woman’s kind of man.”
“Yes. He was undeniably attractive. I mean . . .”
They looked at one another. “You know,” Peatsy said slowly, “you’ve changed a lot in the last year or so. You’ve gone and got yourself liberated.”
“Maybe I’ve just gotten so old I don’t care much about what people think anymore.”
“That’s liberated, isn’t it? I didn’t mean you were marching around without a bra carrying a placard.”
“I was asking you . . .”
Peatsy blotted her lips with her napkin, then smoothed it. “You still use linen napkins. And you still iron them, don’t you?” she said, as though this was to be a deciding factor in her answer.
“Always have, always will. So. You were saying . . .”
“Oh, men!” Peatsy sighed, tilting back her head, her eyes hooded but sharp. “I’ve always figured a real man needed two women: one to bring out the best in him, and the other to make him forget it.”
“And I was the former and you were the latter?” Josie asked, keeping her voice calm though she couldn’t control the twitch in her left eyelid.
“Josie.” Peatsy looked out at the garden. “I suppose I always knew that one day—”
The front door slammed, making both of them jump. A man’s voice called out, “Hey, sweet lady, where you hiding? I got something special for you.” Dozier appeared in the archway leading to the sun porch, eyes shining, carrying a sprig of mistletoe. “Well . . . if it isn’t Peatsy Gibbs!” He masked his embarrassment with a look of pleased surprise and, not being able to hide the mistletoe, held it over Peatsy’s head, pecked her cheek, and said, “Merry Christmas.”
Her face flaming, Josie blurted, “Didn’t you see Peatsy’s car in the driveway?”
“Didn’t pull into the drive. Parked at the front of your house because I went and picked up the Christmas tree and I planned to carry it straight into the living room. So, Peatsy”—Dozier sat, dropping the mistletoe onto the table and putting his hands in the back pockets of his jeans—“good to see you. Are you feeling as fine as you’re looking in that pretty purple sweater?”
“It’s magenta,” was all Josie could get out.
Peatsy wiggled her shoulders and raised her eyebrows. “Oh, Josie, you know men never learn more’n the primary colors.”
“Poor, simple souls that we are,” Dozier said with a feather touch of sarcasm.
“Can I get you anything to eat or drink, Dozier?” Josie asked.
“No, thank you, ma’am. I dropped by the Steamer for lunch. Figured you ladies would have finished your game by now.”
“You know how women are,” Peatsy said. “We just love to gossip.”
“I heard more’n an earful from the fellows at the Steamer, but we men don’t call it gossip. We call it an exchange of information and ideas.”
Peatsy laughed and slapped his hand. Josie got up. “Sure you don’t want anything else, Peatsy?”
“Oh, maybe just a splash.” Peatsy handed up her glass. “Then I really will have to be going along.”
I wish, Josie thought.
Dozier said, “If it’s not too much trouble, I guess I’ll have a cup of tea.”
She went to the dining-room liquor cabinet to pour another—very small—shot of vodka. Interruptions like this only happened in plays. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, shaking her head as she went into the kitchen, dumped ice into the glass, and cut off another slice of lime, nicking her index finger in the process. Filling the kettle, she heard Peatsy’s trilling laugh (the one reserved for men) and Dozier’s answering chuckle. She slammed down the kettle onto the gas ring. Flirting . . . at her age! And Dozier lapping it up like a puppy. She crossed her arms over her breast and sucked her finger, waiting for the kettle to boil. And jealous . . . at her age! It was just too pitiful to think that she could still be in the grip of such a humiliating emotion. But, she’d read somewhere that when jealousy went out the window, Eros went out of the bed. So be it. It was part of the human condition, and unless you were a saint, you were doomed to suffer it until the very end. On the other hand—she poured the boiling water over the Constant Comment and waited for it to steep—she didn’t have to indulge it and make a fool of herself. She could maintain at least a modicum of dignity, even if she was churning inside. Chin high, her lips forming a slight smile, she carried the tea and Peatsy’s vodka tonic to the sun porch.
Dozier and Peatsy had fallen silent, both looking through the archway as though they were strangers on a platform looking down the track for a late train. Dozier got up, excusing himself and saying he was going to untie the Christmas tree from the roof of his car and would call when he needed help to carry it in. Peatsy, conspicuously checking her watch and saying that maybe she didn’t have time for the drink after all, got up, too. Putting her bag over her shoulder, she walked without speaking through the archway and the kitchen, reaching for the knob on the back door.
“Peatsy?” Josie put her hand on her shoulder. “Is anything—”
Without turning, Peatsy said, “What you were asking me about . . .” She put one hand on the doorjamb and rested her forehead on the glass. “Bear would never have left you.” She turned slowly, giving Josie an enigmatic and not totally friendly smile. “He really loved you. And now . . .” She raised her chin and shrugged. “It looks as though you’re going to be the woman who brings out the best in a man and makes him forget. Congratulations.” Josie’s mouth opened. “No, I mean it. Congratulations. And good luck.” Peatsy’s smile showed just a shadow of a smirk as she opened the door. “Because when you make this public, the shit’s really going to hit the fan. Give me a call when you can, dear heart. I left your Christmas gift on the table.”
Josie sank down into a chair, biting her injured finger. She didn’t hear him come in, but suddenly Dozier was behind her, massaging her shoulders, saying, “I hope you don’t mind that I told her. I just felt it was time to cut to the chase.” She nodded, grabbed his hand, and held it to her cheek.
Nineteen
AS LILA STARTED to turn her car into her mother’s driveway a black Cadillac backed out, swung around—almost hitting her—then took off at such speed that it seemed its driver hadn’t heard her horn. Looking after it she realized it had been Peatsy Gibbs. If the police could take away Ricky’s license for reckless driving (for which she’d been more than grateful) then they ought to be able to keep wacko senior citizens like Peatsy Gibbs off the roads.
Shaken, she pulled into the drive, cut off the motor, and turned to look at the presents that had tumbled off the backseat when she’d slammed on the brakes. She closed her eyes. Almost a year to the day since he’d stood here, leaning into her car, asking her what was on the tape deck. Almost a year since she’d fallen madly in love for the first, and surely the last, time in her life. Her emotions had the uncontrollable force of a natural phenomenon, like the storm at the beach. But if the storm had been over within an hour, it had taken the better part of a year for her affair with Bedford to play itself out.
The first time he’d made love to her—no, she corrected herself—the first time he’d had sex with her, she’d fallen back onto the bed, panting, wild-eyed,
trembling as though she’d survived a minor earthquake, and he’d said—she would never forget this—“Gotcha!” That should’ve warned her that his ego was more involved than his heart, but she’d believed, because she’d wanted to believe, that it was a passionate cry of possession because he was as crazy about her as she was about him. And, no doubt about it, he had got her as she’d never been gotten before. From that first afternoon in early January, through the spring and summer and into September, she’d gone to him whenever he’d asked her to come. She’d taken chances that even at the time she’d known were on the other side of madness. But the adrenaline rush of danger had only increased the excitement of going to bed with him.
At first they’d met only at his cabin, then she’d met him in towns where he was speaking on environmental issues, and they’d end up in motels or the apartments of his friends. Once they’d even gone to his mother’s. And several times, when the House was in session and she’d gone up to the capital with Orrie, they’d risked a hotel right in downtown Columbia. At last she’d understood that desire could come on you like a sickness and you had no more chance of controlling it than you could control your temperature when you had the flu. The sexual experimentation she’d found ridiculous with Orrie seemed wonderfully liberating with Bedford. She lived from meeting to meeting, wild memories of the last encounter spilling over into anticipation of the next. Her daily life, even deaths in the family, were no more than a backdrop to her secret life with Bedford.
At times she’d been sure that Orrie knew. Even though he was wrapped up in his own life, how could he not know? He’d taken his responsibilities as a representative far more seriously than she’d thought he would, had told her that though his motives hadn’t been the best (indeed, he’d run more to satisfy Jasper’s ambitions than his own), now that he’d taken the oath of office, he was going to work to be worthy of the people’s trust. But even though he was away from home much of the time and, even if, after twenty-four years of marriage, he thought of her more as an appendage than an individual, how could he not see her as different when she even looked different—skin tighter, eyes brighter? How could he overlook the whispered phone calls, the absences that couldn’t reasonably be explained as shopping trips or committee meetings, the new sets of Victoria’s Secret underwear?
There had been times when she’d thought Caught!, shuddering but strangely relieved, her confession already in her mouth: the time he’d dropped her off at the beauty salon but she’d ducked out for an hour with Bedford and had arrived late at the reception at the governor’s mansion, hair pulled back into a headband. Or the time she told him she’d been playing golf and he’d hung up her jacket and found shells in the pocket. That had been touch and go for a while, but she’d turned his questions around and, borrowing heavily from Bedford’s lectures, made a speech about the unique beauty of the coastline and urged him to take a more statesmanlike attitude toward preservation. Since Orrie hated confrontation of any kind, the whole thing had blown over. They’d bumped along as usual, actually better than usual, because she had more time to herself, and when he was home she made sure that the sex was regular and the comforts constant. Ironically, she’d even increased his constituency because people who saw her at environmental meetings cast her as the concerned wife, forced to keep a low profile because of her husband’s conservatism but likely to pillow-talk him into more liberal views.
Sometimes she and Orrie had run into Bedford at various functions. The polite and casually friendly way she and Bedford related to one another gave her a secret sizzle, but the sizzle was often doused by watching other women come on to him and, worse, seeing him come on to other women. When she’d first questioned him about these flirtations, he’d tease, “Why would I bother with other women when I’ve turned a virtuous, socially upstanding matron into my love slave?” That should have been a red flag, but she’d ignored it. Later, when she’d first started to notice the signs of his disinterest (the increased speed with which he took off her clothes and put his own back on, the excuse that he hadn’t bought her a birthday present because he couldn’t think of anything that Orrie wouldn’t discover, even though she’d given him some expensive Indian pottery it had taken weeks of creative accounting to hide), she’d asked, her gut churning, knowing it was a mistake, if he was seeing other women. Of course he was “seeing” other women, but that was part of his social life, superficial, didn’t mean anything at all.
Sometime in July “I only have eyes for you” had changed into “For Chrissake, Lila, you still sleep with Orrie, don’t you?” But it was early August before he’d stopped calling when he was supposed to, and well into September before he’d failed to meet her at the cabin as promised. Later that night, when she’d told Orrie she was out of Tampax and had driven to a gas station to call him, he’d said, irritably, that something unexpected had come up and, damn it, he couldn’t call her because he knew Orrie was home. When she’d reminded him of the code they’d used in the past to warn one another of a change in plans, he’d said, “Oh, Lila, please” in an irritated voice. Panicked, she’d apologized, saying she’d cancel all appointments so they could meet the next day and he’d said—her stomach still turned at the humiliation of it—“When a woman’s hot for a man she can come up with more opportunities in an hour than he can come up with in a month.” He didn’t know if he could juggle his schedule, but he’d call her in the morning.
It was over and she knew it. But she couldn’t accept it any more than a patient could accept the first announcement of a fatal diagnosis. She’d had to play it out, to put herself through the final rejection.
All the next day she’d stayed home, waiting for the promised phone call. Desperately wanting to keep busy, she’d gone through her closets, selecting clothes to donate to the Junior League, shaved her legs, balanced her checkbook, watched the men from Water-world clean the pool, followed the gardener around while he mulched and dead-headed the flowers. In the afternoon she went through the laundry hamper and instead of bundling Orrie’s shirts to go to the dry cleaner, washed and ironed them herself. In the late afternoon she cooked, which she rarely did of late, fixing chicken pot pie, one of Orrie’s favorites. Knowing it would just be the two of them for dinner (Susan’s psychiatrist had said they shouldn’t make a big deal and insist she eat with them), she set the table with candles and flowers, and after the meal, when Orrie was leaving to go back to Columbia, she hung the fresh shirts in his car and kissed him good-bye.
She watched television with Susan, resisting the impulse to ask her what she’d eaten that day, not even questioning her about how things were going with the psychiatrist they’d taken her to after her weight had dropped to 105. She let Susan have control of the remote and suffered through Beverly Hills 90210, MTV, the ten o’clock news, and David Letterman. “Am I the only one in America who thinks this man is insufferably smug and totally unfunny?” she’d asked when she’d felt she was about to scream. Susan, yawning, had said, “You’ve never had much of a sense of humor, Mom.” She said, “Bedtime.” Susan bristled but acquiesced. As soon as she was sure Susan was asleep she called Bedford’s cabin, and hung up when he answered. She took a hot shower, changed out of her robe into jeans and a sweatshirt, and got into her car. Driving over the bridge to Hunting Island, she looked out at the moonlit water and wondered what it would feel like to have it close over her head.
She knocked until her knuckles stung. A light came on. Blinking, irritable, wearing only his jockey shorts, Bedford threw open the door, saw her, said, “Oh, shit!” then stumbled back into the living room, one hand flapping behind him, motioning for her to follow. She stepped in, feeling as though she was going to throw up. Ignoring her, he moved to the kitchenette, opening the refrigerator, drinking from a carton of juice. After wiping his mouth, he scratched his chest and asked, “What time is it anyway?”
She couldn’t speak. He rolled his eyes in a show of boredom. “I guess you want to talk. Women always want to talk. Especially
when there’s nothing to talk about.”
“I thought ...”
“That it was going to go on forever?”
“I thought ...”
“No, Lila,” he cut her off again. “You didn’t think. You never did think.”
His brutality literally stunned her. She felt dizzy, unable to catch her breath. “You mean, cold-hearted bastard. At least you could have had the decency to—” She choked.
He extended his arms and hung his head to one side in a parody of crucifixion. “All right. Pound away. But you can only do it for a little while because I really do have to get some sleep tonight.”
If she’d had a gun she would have shot him. She took a step toward him, mouth open, hand raised—and then the miracle happened—she could only describe it as a miracle: suddenly she saw herself and despised what she was doing even more than she despised him, and that restored her dignity. She turned and went out the door without bothering to close it behind her. He called, “Lila, Lila, come back,” coming to the top of the stairs as she kept moving, slow motion, down them. As she got to her car he cursed and slammed the door shut.
She couldn’t get out of bed or keep anything in her stomach for days. She cried, took tranquilizers and slept, slept and cried, until Susan told her, “I’ve always known you were the one who really needed a shrink.” Orrie, though he put it more gently, thought so too. Wouldn’t she get up, wash her hair, get dressed, go “talk” to someone? And did she want to see a man or a woman? Sex, she said, smiling weakly at her private joke, was unimportant. Orrie took the initiative, made an appointment, and drove her to Dr. Dareher’s office. She sat through her first session staring at the seascape behind his head, saying next to nothing. At the end of the fifty minutes he asked if she would be willing to try an antidepressant. She grunted assent. He cautioned that it would take several weeks for the medication to kick in, but chemistry was no substitute for insight and he expected to see her twice a week.