He looked over her way, his long face and his large blue eyes as sweet and trusting as a puppy’s. His face blossomed into a smile of such relief and love at seeing her, she almost expected him to wag his tail. She wanted to weep. In one fluid movement of his long, lanky body he was on his feet, crossing the room and holding her hands. His face was lit like a boy’s at Christmas.
“Well? How’d it go? How far along are you?”
“Let’s go home,” she said in a tight voice.
The light in his eyes dimmed in a blink. It killed her to know that, in a few minutes more, she’d extinguish it completely.
* * *
On a sunny afternoon in April, Midge found herself standing before her easel dressed in paint-splattered jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, painting behind a makeshift barricade of boxes, chairs and canvases designed as a fortress against one small poodle. Ever since that first commanding outburst, Prince had taken Midge on as his new master. He was mad in love with her, following her around the loft, waiting for her at the door when she left, whining. Prince’s slavish devotion to Midge was driving Edith crazy, as well as Midge.
“You own this whole building, don’t you, dear?” Edith asked Midge.
“You know I do, Mother. Why?”
“Oh, I was just thinking. I’ve been here for quite a while and I’m sure I must be overstaying my welcome.”
Midge glanced over her shoulder. Edith was sitting at the counter polishing her fingernails. The ever present cup of coffee was but an arm’s length away. Edith was wrapped in a fluffy, pink, quilted bathrobe and the most ridiculous pink terry slippers that had enormous bows on the front.
“What could possibly make you think that? It’s only been, what, five, six weeks?”
“Don’t be a smart aleck. You know I’m grateful, darling. But as I was saying, I like it here, and as I’m in no hurry to get back and I don’t want to be a burden, I was wondering... Isn’t there a nice little apartment available in your building? I don’t need anything too big. It’s just little ol’ me. And Prince, of course. And think! Won’t it be fun living close together again? Just like old times!”
Old times were exactly what she wanted to avoid and felt sure her face expressed this. Midge could feel the walls of her big, spacious loft closing in on her. There wasn’t enough room in this city for the two of them, let alone the same building. And her building! My God, that would make her her own mother’s landlord! That would mean contracts between them. Demands. Money would cross hands. The other tenants would lump them together. She shuddered with the thought that Edith would make a pass at handsome Mr. Lyon, the gay French tailor. No, no, no, she groaned inwardly, this would never work out. It was suicide. Or murder... She’d end up killing her mother for sure—or her little dog.
She set her jaw and dug in. This was a familiar impasse between them, sadly enough. Midge had always, even as a young girl, had to stand up in her own way to this tiny powerhouse, to match her will against Edith’s like two iron fists wrapped in velvet gloves.
“How can you? What about your condo in Florida?”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” she said, her voice hedging. “You see, expenses were getting very tight and I’m living on a fixed income. It doesn’t amount to much, certainly not enough for me to keep up two places.”
Midge set down her paintbrush and faced her mother squarely. “You sold it.”
Her mother licked her lips, set down her nail polish brush and nodded. “I’ve only just heard from my broker that he’s found a buyer. I’d like to sell it, but it’s all a bit nerve-racking, moving about at my age. I can’t just bounce back and forth. I’d like to stay in Chicago if I could, but I wanted to talk to you first, of course.”
Midge stared, speechless, across the room at Edith. All her life, her mother had never wanted to talk about her decisions, much less ask Midge’s permission. It was far more likely the condo was already long sold. Midge squinted, expecting to see the familiar flash of determination in her mother’s eyes.
So she was surprised to see instead that Edith’s eyes were soft and vulnerable. The afternoon sun was not kind to her face. Her skin was soft and sagging, and her wrinkles carved deep lines in her makeup. Midge caught a fragility about her mother that she hadn’t noticed before. Those tiny hands were trembling, her legs looked like matchsticks and her auburn hair was thin and gray at the roots.
Midge saw with a bolt of shock that her mother was old. Really old. She felt dizzy with the realization that, sometime during the past year or so, her vibrant mother had become frail.
“I’d really like to live near you,” Edith continued in an uncertain tone of voice. “And if I had my own little place, I wouldn’t be such a bother with all my stuff. And with Prince.” Her eyes shone a little too bright, as though nervous, perhaps afraid that Midge might say the No forming on her lips.
In a mind-bending turnaround, Midge knew that she was the strong one now. The roles had reversed. And her mother knew it.
Midge’s shoulders lowered as all fight fled. Looking at her crazy mother who she loved despite everything, her lips eased into a hesitant smile and the word Yes slipped from her mouth.
* * *
Eve’s next few weeks were filled with the kinds of busy chores that she excelled at and she felt the stirrings of her old confidence returning. She acquired a new phone number, notified friends and relatives of her new address, shopped for necessities for the condo and generally fussed over everyday details. All small steps, she knew, but in the right direction. With the children, she was meticulous in her care, driving them to and from school, packing special lunches with cheery notes tucked in the brown paper bags, driving them to and from their friends’ houses that they could no longer walk or ride bikes to. She hated driving and felt glued to the car, scrambling to get work done between chauffeuring, but prided herself on never once complaining. Once again, she was supermom.
In her heart, however, she knew that it was just a matter of time before the anvil hanging overhead fell. It did on the first of May. Annie called to invite her to lunch.
They met at La Bella, Annie’s favorite Italian restaurant, which served the fresh porcini risotto she claimed she’d kill for. When Eve arrived, Annie was already seated and looking at the menu. A bottle of white wine waited on ice. Eve kissed her cheek, thinking that Annie looked thinner, more pale than usual.
“Are you feeling all right?” she asked when she took her seat.
“Is that a social pat phrase that I should reply to with, ‘Yes, dahling, I feel wonderful!’ or are you really interested in the sordid, boring details?”
Eve unfolded her napkin and dabbed at her lips. “What do you think?”
“Okay, then, I feel lousy.”
“Lousy in the body or lousy in the spirit?”
“Both.” Annie rested her forehead against her long fingers for a moment, then made a quick, brushing movement with her hand, as though to sweep away the pesky malaise. Eve watched her closely, her ears perked.
“I’m anemic,” she announced with an inappropriate brightness. “It’s the new chic problem, don’t you know. And I’m taking all these horrid green iron pills that make me ill to my stomach and cranked-off. What kind of justice is it to have morning sickness and not be pregnant? And John...” she said with a tone clearly indicating her frustration. “He’s the very picture of health and robustness. Apparently he’s got loads of strong, healthy über-sperm in search of an egg. Which apparently I can’t provide.” Her face twisted and she quickly looked down at her hands. “Which explains the lousy spirit part. So, there it is.” She raised her chin in a staccato movement, ending the conversation with a clipped nod to the waiter, who promptly approached to pour out two glasses of the chilled Vouvray.
Annie tasted the wine, muttered, “That’s fine,” to the waiter and imme
diately studied the menu, effectively cutting off any more discussion of babies.
Eve understood the signal and reluctantly let the topic slip by. She knew Annie never liked to dwell on her private life, preferring to discuss others’ lives, business or some juicy gossip and a good laugh. She was a hard worker, reliable and respected by all. Yet she allowed very few people close. Eve knew that she was probably Annie’s best friend, next to John, yet even to her she rarely opened up about her problems. Annie considered it whining, and as she once told Eve with a shudder, she had enough of that in her practice to ever indulge in it herself.
Eve admired the confidence with which Annie did everything, even ordering wine. Eve knew a lot about wine but Tom had always ordered for them. He studied the list and took great pleasure in selecting the correct wine to go with a particular food. It was never discussed, but the man’s role was always understood. Annie just naturally assumed the role, and Eve let her. Annie was a woman comfortable in a man’s world. Eve sometimes wondered how John endured his wife being the dominant one in their marriage. Tom never could have tolerated it. But who was to say which was better? Each couple worked out their own arrangements. Still, she suspected John had his own iron strength somewhere, deep and quiet, or Annie wouldn’t have been able to stick with him.
Eve sipped her wine slowly, watching with worry while Annie helped herself to another glass. There was a new recklessness to Annie’s behavior, a come-what-may attitude that she suspected hid some deep hurt.
“This isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about,” Annie said after they received their orders. “At least not before I down this bottle of wine. I’ve been waiting for that phone call telling me you found a job....”
“Bronte’s graduation is around the corner,” Eve replied, suddenly losing her appetite and pushing the risotto around the plate. At some level, she knew that the search for a job was going to be pure torture, that she would have to face her demons. “Surely there’s more time. There’s so much to do and Bronte needs me now. And I’m on so many committees for graduation.”
Annie would have none of it and spoke bluntly. “Cut the crap, Eve. That delay tactic won’t work again. You’ve lost your cushion. Go get your skinny butt out there. It doesn’t matter if you go back to teaching or be a checkout girl at the grocer’s but you need the money. Unless, of course, you plan to rope yourself some old millionaire.”
Eve paled at the thought of dating again, much less marrying. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m still married in my mind to Tom. And in my heart. One doesn’t just toss over twenty-three years of monogamy.”
Annie’s face clouded and she looked off. “Yeah, well...whatever, Eve. The well is dry, sweetheart. I’ve done my best to boost you along bit by bit, but I wouldn’t be a good friend, or a good advisor, if I didn’t warn you now. And that’s what I’m doing, Eve, in the firmest, strongest way I know how. Get a job. Any job. I mean now. Not after Bronte’s graduation. Or you’ll end up on skid row.”
Eve clenched her hands in her lap and thought how it was easy for Annie to tell her to hurry up and go get a job. It was no big deal for her. She was a professional, used to dealing with people—strangers—every day. To Eve, that part of the world was “out there” somewhere, far beyond the gates of her garden. It was a very big deal.
“Bronte’s had a tough semester. She’s fallen off the honor roll to barely pass. She came home with a warning last week. She’s getting an F in math. An F! The counselors said it was to be expected after the trauma of her father’s death and that she needs time to heal. But Porters don’t get Fs!”
“In an ideal world you could stay home and hold her hand, except that this isn’t an ideal situation. There isn’t any more time. Just as there isn’t any more money. Here, let me show you a few classifieds I pulled for you. They’re legitimate, close to home, and they draw on your background.” She spread the ads on the table between them. “Go on, don’t pull that face on me. Just take a look.”
One ad was for a receptionist in a doctor’s office, another was for a secretary in the English department at a local college.
“Thank God you have computer skills or you’d be compelled to do retail.”
Eve read the ads slowly. As the words swam before her eyes, she felt her back stiffen.
“Annie,” she said, slowly raising her gaze from the ads to her friend’s eyes, “Why would I want these jobs? I’m a teacher.”
“No offense, Eve, but is your certification up-to-date? I didn’t think so. Honey, you haven’t been inside a classroom in over twenty years. No one is going to hire you as a teacher without updated skills and experience.”
“But I have a master’s degree in English.”
Annie snorted and shook her head. “That and a buck will get you a cup of coffee.”
Eve felt something harden in her gut even while her body quivered with waves of anger. She had long since taken over her own finances, such as they were, but she still relied heavily on Annie’s advice and guidance. As grateful as she was—and she really and truly was—she sensed that the balance between them had tilted. Independence had changed her. She was feeling chafed that Annie somehow had gained the upper hand in their relationship and was becoming a bit of a bully.
“Look, don’t get me wrong,” Annie continued in a pressing tone. “I respect your skills and more, I respect your intelligence, your work ethic, your compassion. Whoever gets you will get a gem. I know that. But they won’t know that. They’ll just see...” She paused, twiddled the stem of her glass and pursed her lips. “I’m sorry, Eve, there’s no nice or easy way to say this. I’m just going to be blunt. They’ll see an attractive, middle-aged woman who played house for years. It’s cruel, I know,” she said quickly, holding up her palm against the flame in Eve’s eyes. “Unjust, unfair, un-everything, but that’s the way it is. You can build on your background in time,” she said softly now, sympathy entering her voice. “Take courses at night and get what you want. In time. Consider these as transition jobs.”
“I’m going to get a teaching job.” Eve sat in a stubborn silence and saw the frustration Annie barely kept back, a look she felt sure she wore herself. There followed a tense impasse.
“So, now I’m the evil friend, am I?” Annie said dryly, attempting to deflate the tension with sarcastic humor.
“No,” Eve replied, relieved but holding firm. “You’re my dear friend. But this is my life, not yours. My decision. I’ve got to try.”
Annie nodded, more with resignation than conviction. “At least let me help pad your résumé a bit.”
“No.” There was no compromise in her voice.
Annie surprised Eve by laughing then. Laughing lightly, without scorn or derision. Eve felt buoyed by the sound, carried away by it in a wave of helium delight.
“I love it,” Annie said, reaching across the table and taking Eve’s hand. “Love the attitude, love the grit, love the dream.” She squeezed the hand. “Love you, babe.” Their eyes met and the gaze cemented their friendship. “It’s tough out there, as I fear you’re going to find out. But go for it if you must. Just know I’ll be here for you one way or the other. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Yep,” Eve replied, squeezing back. “Me, too. Whenever.” She meant it, hoping someday she’d be called on to be strong for Annie.
Annie shifted back in her chair and picked up her tableware, attacking her risotto with gusto. “But since you’re going for broke here, literally, I’m picking up the tab for lunch. No discussion.”
“Okay,” replied Eve cheerfully, gratefully. Then, readjusting the balance between them again she added, “But I’ll get the next one.”
* * *
The next day while the kids were in school, Eve polished up her résumé, dug out her credentials, dry cleaned her old navy Armani suit, pulled out her classic Ferragamo pumps and telephoned the two
small colleges located in town for appointments. She didn’t want to travel too far from home, she reasoned.
Her first wake-up call came when Saint Benedict’s College wouldn’t even make an appointment. The secretary coolly informed her over the phone that an application would be sent to her address, which she should complete and return.
“We’ll notify you if an interview is requested,” the secretary said with dismissal, hanging up before Eve had the opportunity to utter a polite goodbye, much less a thank-you. Eve’s hand shook on the receiver after she’d slammed it down. No one had ever talked to her that way before! It knocked her self-confidence a few rungs down the ladder.
Lincoln College granted her an appointment, but only for the position of substitute teacher. The pay was minimal, but after Saint Benedict’s rejection, Eve was eager to get anything in hand.
As she walked through the halls of the small, private college, clutching her fine leather briefcase, her heels clicking on the polished tile, she felt surrounded by youth.
Babies, they’re just babies, her mind screamed out! Girls and boys, not much older in appearance than her own Bronte, brushed by her at a clipped pace. Some gathered in groups, books tucked under their arms, laughing with that loud, carefree boisterousness she could no longer bring herself to do. Here and there, standing alone or slumped in a chair, an individual was engrossed in a book, oblivious.
Eve was universally ignored.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the window as she passed. The reflection was that of a small, trim woman, smaller than many of the girls around her. Her long dark-brown hair was upswept in a smooth twist and clasped with a tortoise clip she’d borrowed from Bronte. If she glanced quickly at the reflection as she passed, she saw an attractive, stylish woman. A professional woman. Perhaps even a young woman. But in the eyes of the truly young around her, she was old. She’d crossed some line. She’d become invisible.
What was it, she wondered, pained? Her clothes? Certainly her suit, pumps and pearls marked her; she was one of “them.” But if she removed the pearls, kicked off the pumps, slung her jacket over her shoulder, swung her hips and smiled... What then?
The Book Club Page 12