by Pamela Morsi
They waited only a moment before someone answered.
“William Pressman, please,” she said into the receiver. “This is Irma Landingham.”
“Landingham?” Ellen repeated in a hushed whisper.
Irma looked up at her. “I’m the governor’s first wife,” she explained. “I don’t accept alimony, but I trade on the name occasionally if it suits me.”
Ellen barely had a moment to let that soak in when William Pressman took Irma’s call.
“Uncle Willy,” she said. “How are you doing? How are Celia and the grandkids.”
There was a pause as Irma listened to his answer.
“We haven’t seen you in so long,” she said. “Aunt Sis was by to see Edith a couple of months ago. But we haven’t seen you since Christmas.”
From one side of the conversation, it was apparent that he had an excuse. He also had a question.
“She’s about the same,” Irma answered. “She still talks about you nearly every day.”
Ellen’s jaw dropped open as she made the connection.
“That would be wonderful,” she said. “We’ll be looking forward to it. Actually, I have another purpose in calling.”
She laughed good-naturedly.
“No, I don’t always,” she said, obviously feigning an insult. “I had to find out what on earth your firm is thinking about, persecuting Mrs. Wilma Post.”
Irma was writing something on a notepad as she spoke.
“Yes, I said persecuting. I understand that there is a mediation hearing scheduled for tomorrow, but I’m filing a summary judgment this afternoon. If you want to have any say in this at all you need to call me here at home before twelve.”
That statement led to a rather lengthy response from the other end of the line, to which Ellen was not privy.
“Yes,” Irma said, finally. “Her name is Post, P-O-S-T, Wilma.”
She was tapping her pencil impatiently.
“Thank you, I’ll be waiting on your call.”
Irma hung up the phone and looked over at Ellen.
“I don’t think it will take until noon,” she said. “I expect that the attorney actually handling the case will call me back in twenty minutes or less. It will take a half hour tops to get it settled.”
Ellen shook her head. “I don’t understand this,” she said. For weeks this problem had hung over her head like an ax about to fall. Suddenly, out of nowhere, it was not an ax but an annoying feather pillow. “Is it because you’re the governor’s ex-wife?” Ellen asked her. “Or a law professor? Or because William Pressman is your uncle?”
Irma shook her head. “No, it’s black letter law,” she said. “If your mother was legally married to Mr. Post, she gets to stay in the house until she dies or vacates of her own free will.”
“If that’s the law, wouldn’t the lawyers at Pressman, Yaffe and Escudero know that?”
“Of course they would,” she said. “And they do. The suit was filed just to nudge your mother. To make her think it might be too much trouble to stay put.”
“It would have worked,” Ellen told her. “She was ready to go. I was the one who insisted that we had to stay there. She didn’t think we could win.”
Irma nodded. “It happens to people all the time,” she said. “Filing a suit is not the same thing as defending a suit. Attorneys file them all the time, knowing that if they get to court they get thrown out. You just have to know your rights and stand your ground.”
“But Wilbur Post’s will left the house to his late wife,” Ellen pointed out.
“And upon her death to her heirs,” Irma agreed. “That’s exactly what happens. Except that Article 16, section 52 of the Texas Constitution guarantees that your mother gets what’s called a Life Estate. She can’t sell the property or give it away and you can’t inherit it from her. But she can live there as long as she likes.”
“That’s all we’ve ever asked,” Ellen told her.
20
A well-lit corner of the produce department at Dilly’s Fine Foods had been rearranged to function as a location set. There was a long cutting board counter set against a backdrop of a refrigerated rack of lettuce in a vivid and varied palate of green. There was a camera set up on a tripod and numerous lights and reflectors. Beneath it all ran a web of lines and cables that Wilma found difficult to maneuver the oxygen tank through.
The director hollered at one of the young grips to help her.
“I can take this thing off,” she told the director.
He shook his head. “I think you should go with it,” he said. “It’s not unsightly and it’s defining. We don’t want you to be confused with a half million other old ladies in this town.”
Wilma would have scolded the young man for such a statement, but he’d already turned to something else. And she supposed that she wasn’t all that different from the half million other old ladies in the community. Besides, the director, Kenny, was twenty-eight going on fourteen and undoubtedly a summa cum laude graduate of the Joan Rivers School of Tact.
Homer had been as good as his word. When he got an idea, he went forward with it at breakneck speed. Wilma had hardly had time to even roll the idea over in her mind before he had her shooting a studio test.
Kenny had initially been skeptical, but it seemed that Wilma had one of those faces that worked on camera.
“Did anyone ever tell you, you look like Lauren Bacall,” Kenny had said. “I mean how she looks now, not back when she looked good.”
The guy was not astute enough to pick up on either the icy smile or the thickly layered sarcasm in her “thank you, Kenny.” But he was good at his job. He made her attractive on screen and made her produce beautiful.
Today they would shoot all five of the week’s one minute segments. It was only five minutes of air time, but even with good luck it would take them most of the day to do it. There was no writer, no specific dialog assigned. A board in large, easy to read letters hung beneath the camera. It said: Stop by the produce department of your Dilly’s Fine Foods today. It was the only line that she was definitely supposed to get in.
In the first spot she would be comparing four kinds of lettuce. The next would show how to peel and seed a cantaloupe. Then she’d demonstrate the best way to thoroughly wash spinach. Next she would compare and contrast different varieties of peaches. And finally, for the Friday spot, she’d present the spotlight produce of the week. This was an opportunity to present some unusual fruits and vegetables. Today’s choice was gobo root.
Surprisingly, Wilma wasn’t nervous at all. She was feeling well and she knew she looked good. They’d worked out a schedule where Amber could stay home with Jet the day that Wilma had to work. Jet liked that a lot. And it also made Amber available to help Wilma with her hair and makeup. Homer sent a limo to pick her up. That undoubtedly perked up the neighbors in Mahncke Park.
The grip, who was about Wilma’s height, stood in her place behind the counter for much of the set up. But when it was time to light the set, it had to be Wilma standing there, her hair, her clothes, her oxygen tubes. Finally it was time. She did her part without a hitch. Then it was back to waiting.
To avoid having the same clothes every day in a week, Wilma started out in a gray suit with a scarf. For the second segment she would lose the scarf. In the third she would have the scarf and not the jacket. The Thursday and Friday spots, she had a pale blue blazer and a neckerchief.
It was a long day for a woman of her age and health, but Wilma stood it well. She spent most of it just sitting around. And she used that time to peruse the produce department and make notes about future spots she might do.
It was afternoon during the taping of the Thursday spot that her attention was inexplicably drawn away from the camera, and she saw Max Roper on the edge of the crowd watching her.
She flubbed slightly, although she recovered quickly enough that Kenny didn’t insist they shoot again. But she wanted to. On the second take, she came through perfectly.
“I’m going to take a minute,” she told Kenny.
He acquiesced, distracted.
Wilma was trying to negotiate the wheels of the oxygen tank over the cables on the floor.
“Let me help you with that,” Max said, picking it up for her and carrying it.
“I love the way you men always want to take charge,” she teased. “Whether it gives you a hernia or not.”
“Not,” he assured her.
“This thing is pretty handy,” she told him, indicating the tank. “But it’s not something that fits neatly in my hip pocket.”
He nodded agreement.
They made their way to the little coffee bar between the produce section and the front entry hall. Max found her a stool at the end of the counter and then dragged one from between two customers farther down.
Wilma watched him. She had missed the sight of him, the tempo of his movements and the road map of lines upon his face. She’d never seen him outside of the Empire Bar, where dark shadows could disguise age and wear. But even in the clearly lit fluorescence of the supermarket, he still looked good to her.
He smiled as he pulled his stool up beside her and took a seat.
“You’re looking well,” he told her.
She laughed, lightly, but her tone was wry. “Yes, I’m one of those glamorous TV personalities,” she said.
He never missed her sarcasm and raised a sardonic eyebrow in response.
They ordered coffees. Wilma got a straw with hers. It was pretty hot to drink that way, but it kept her from messing her lipstick.
“Homer told me that you’d been sick,” he admitted more seriously. “I hope I wasn’t the cause of that.”
“I have emphysema,” she told him. “It may have some links with heart disease, but not, I don’t think, of the broken variety.”
“Did I break your heart?” he asked.
Wilma shrugged. “A lady would never tell,” she said. “And a smart women wouldn’t either. I leave it to you to decide which grouping I fall into.”
“Truthfully, Wilma,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. I’m a sucker for either designation.”
They laughed together.
“It seems I owe you an apology,” he said. “Homer told me that you didn’t know he was my son.”
Wilma nodded. “I had no idea,” she told him.
“I’m very proud of him, but that’s between he and I. I don’t go around boasting that he’s my kid,” Max said.
“You’re not really the boastful type,” Wilma pointed out.
Max shrugged. “That’s not the reason,” he said. “As you can obviously see, he’s very wealthy and successful. A lot of people have come my way trying to use me to get to him with a plea or a deal or a scam.”
“I’m sure,” Wilma agreed.
“So I am cautious about mentioning him unless there is some reason to do so,” he said.
“Some people would be delighted to use their child’s name to feather their own nest,” she said.
“Maybe so,” Max said. “But my nest has feathers enough for me. Homer takes care of his mother, a slew of younger half brothers and sisters and a family of his own. I’m not a big fish, like he is, but I’ve made a place for myself in this pond.”
Wilma wouldn’t have admired him more if he’d told her he’d won the Nobel Prize.
“So anyway,” Max continued. “As soon as you told me about your produce obsession, I knew that Homer would find some really good use for you.”
He hooked one boot heel on the stool railing and crossed a long, lean limb over his knee.
“When you went on and on about how much you admire the stores,” he continued, “I knew you and Homer were a perfect match. He tries to surround his business with very smart, very unique and interesting people. It’s the secret of his success. I knew he’d be crazy about you. But I worried.”
“Because you weren’t sure that you could trust me,” Wilma said.
Max nodded. “From the beginning you were mysterious,” he pointed out. “You just showed up out of nowhere. You were short on purpose and details. And long on those melt-a-cowboy smiles. I knew that you were up to something. You had to be. It all fit so well that it made me suspicious.”
He hesitated, eyeing her speculatively.
“When it was obvious that you’d checked up on me, that you knew a lot more about me than I’d told you or that you’d revealed about yourself, I immediately thought that I was being set up,” he said.
Wilma nodded slowly and made no comment.
“There are men, I suppose, who could just leave it at that,” he told her. “They could just admit that they jumped to the wrong conclusion and move on. But it seems that we still don’t have the whole story straight here. And until we do, I don’t think I can just let it go.”
“All right,” Wilma said. “I’ll tell you the whole story.”
Max folded his arms across his chest as if ready to patiently hear her out.
She took a deep breath.
“Well, it’s true that I didn’t know that dear Homer, whom I adore, by the way, was your son,” she said. “I’m sure that you are very proud and rightfully so.”
Max nodded.
“I was somewhat mysterious and evasive with you,” she said. “And that was not accident. I did it because I didn’t want you to find out about my daughter.”
Max looked puzzled. “You told me that you had a daughter,” he pointed out. “You had some rather nice things to say about her. And made it clear that you don’t think she’s much like you.”
“She isn’t like me,” Wilma said. “And yes, I did tell you about her. But I didn’t say that she worked in your office.”
Max’s eyes widened.
“Ellen Jameson is my child.”
“Well, that’s certainly a surprise,” he said. “But, you know, I thought there was something strangely coincidental about her and you.”
“I’m glad you never caught on,” Wilma said. “I think that maybe she has, but I haven’t revealed a word to her.”
“So Ellen told you about me?” Max asked.
“She talked about you from time to time. Just enough to make me interested,” Wilma said. “And she’d also mentioned what a fount of information your receptionist, Yolanda, can be. I got the complete lowdown scoop on you from Yolanda, including the detail about your ranch in Uvalde. She didn’t mention Homer Dilly.”
“Because she’s been specifically told not to,” Max said. “Yolanda’s a talker, there’s no getting away from that. But when you work among people’s financial records and their personal papers, you have to be able to keep a confidentiality. When something is not to be told, you couldn’t pry it out of that girl with torture.”
Wilma nodded. “An interesting twist to her character,” she said.
“I could never have kept her at my office,” Max said, “if she wasn’t one hundred percent trustworthy and discreet about the things that matter.”
That certainly was true.
“So Ellen is your daughter,” Max said. “What I don’t understand is why that had to be a secret?”
“Well, you might not want to get involved with someone connected to your office,” Wilma said.
Max raised an eyebrow at that. The answer wasn’t particularly convincing.
“More than just you finding out about Ellen,” Wilma admitted. “I didn’t want Ellen finding out about you.”
“Why not?”
She took another sip of the hot coffee through the straw as she formed her answer.
“I told you that my life had been a lot like a game of musical chairs,” she reminded him. “What I probably didn’t make clear was that at every pause in the music there was a new man in my life. I’m sort of the Mommie Dearest version of the Old Woman in the Shoe. I’ve had so many husbands my children didn’t know wha
t to do.”
Max shrugged. “At our age, a lot of folks can have a checkered history.”
“For me, I think, it was more than that,” Wilma answered, honestly. “As I told you, I never really had any kind of career or goal or even any real dreams for myself. I had my kids by accident and raised them basically on automatic pilot. I just kept moving from man to man. That was all I knew to do with myself, with my life. Whenever things got bad, I’d find me a new fellow, figuring that would make things better.”
Max was listening intently.
“When my last husband passed away,” she said. “I had a little house and my social security. I just figured that I’d sort of retired from the love-em-and-leave-em lifestyle.”
Wilma hesitated.
“I guess you know some of the trouble my daughter has been having lately,” she said. “She’s a really fine woman. She’s a much better daughter than I have ever deserved. Her husband’s death and the bankruptcy and most recently the threat of losing my little house, is a lot to put on a woman who’s been through so much in the past few years. I wanted to fix things for her. I wanted to help.”
Wilma gestured toward the set in the produce section. “It never occurred to me that I might be able to bring home a paycheck to put in the kitty. The only way I knew how to get money was to marry some.”
She sighed heavily.
“So the long and short of it, Max Roper, is that I wasn’t being sneaky, conniving and underhanded because I was trying to get hooked up with a job from your son. I was being sneaky, conniving and underhanded so that I could get you to fall for me.”
Max slowly shook his head and chuckled. Disbelief evident in the sound of his voice.
“Wilma, Wilma, Wilma,” he said. “You are really something else.”
“I guess,” she admitted. “Seduction isn’t quite as straightforward as it used to be.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Max told her. “It worked, didn’t it?”
The lovely old iron bridge had been built in the 1890s with elaborate cresting and finials to span the San Antonio River at St. Mary’s Street. It served that purpose for more than forty years, when it was abruptly removed from that busy crossing and relocated in Brackenridge Park to allow picnickers to drive their cars on either bank of the river.