When Edith finished her perusal she raised one brow, made the OK sign and winked. Midge felt her breath release in a slow sigh. Then, after an air kiss on both cheeks, Edith waved her dainty fingers goodbye and went to claim her friends. The older women were clustered together staring agog at a series of life-size male nudes. Midge watched them leave, basking in the glow of her mother’s approval.
Shortly after, Paul Hammond walked in. The room seemed to swell with his presence. He had a ferocious, focused energy that drew attention and made people wonder who he was, probably mistaking him for a critic. Midge was very touched that he had actually come to her show. He looked around the room, as though searching for someone, and she caught a brief, pained expression in his remarkable blue eyes. Their eyes met and his expression immediately became impassive. He was very good at masking his emotion, she thought as she smiled in welcome. They chatted briefly, but long enough that she walked away impressed with his extensive knowledge of art. Long enough, too, to make her wonder why he never once mentioned Eve’s name.
Before Hammond left, he bought Ample Knees.
By eight o’clock Midge knew that the Book Club wasn’t coming. Her disappointment went beyond pique to real hurt that her dearest friends couldn’t find the time to attend such an important occasion for her. The gallery was clearing out and most of the artists had already left for private parties or to the Rose Bud for dinner. Midge gathered her things and was about to leave when she heard Susan’s voice behind her.
“Are you going out with your friends?”
She turned to face her. Susan had stopped by every hour on the hour during the show as promised. At five o’clock, just to ask, How are you doing? At six, to bring her a glass of wine and the admonition, Drink up—doctor’s orders. At seven, to meet her mother. And now, at closing, she had to know that Midge’s friends hadn’t shown.
Midge shook her head, hating the sympathy on Susan’s face. Susan didn’t overreact. She appeared calm and professional in her severe style of dress. She wore plain linen pants and a black silk shirt buttoned low revealing her flat, tanned chest. On her feet she wore her inevitable flat-heeled shoes.
“I think I’ll head for home,” Midge said, picking up her bag.
“Don’t do that,” Susan said. “It’s been a keyed up evening. You’re all wired. You can’t go home yet.”
“I don’t want to go to the Rose Bud. I can’t stand the thought of having to endure any more of that steady talk, talk, talk. It’s so boring. I’ve had enough of that to last me a long while.”
“I thought you looked ready to bolt a few times,” Susan said with a laugh. “How about we go somewhere else? I’m hungry. Do you like sushi? There’s a great sushi bar just a few blocks from here. We could walk.” She waited and when Midge didn’t immediately reply she added, “Come on, Midge. I don’t want to go alone. Be a friend.”
Midge looked at her and understood unequivocally what the invitation could lead to. This was more than just the possibility of another friendship.
But, did she really want another friendship? Tonight’s disappointment in the Book Club triggered a knifelike reaction that cut through the shoulds and should nots imprinted on her consciousness. Sure her friends were special to her. She loved them, and she would forgive them, she knew, in time. Yet who was she kidding? Annie, Eve, Doris, even Gabriella—they would never provide for her what was missing in her life: touch, emotional and physical closeness, true intimacy. They all had someone to love in their lives. Someone to hold them. Midge wanted to love someone, too. She wanted to be held, too. She was through with this lonely life of celibacy. She was done with being cold and alone night after night. She was tired of waiting for the phone to ring.
She looked into Susan’s face. Her pale eyes gazed back, watchful, waiting, expectant. A half smile hovered on her full, sensuous mouth. More arresting, however, was her sense of physical certainty. She had a bearing and directness that was not unlike Paul Hammond’s, an aura of intelligence and potency that was very attractive in both men and women.
Susan tilted her head, her eyes sparkling, and with a bright smile, she put out her hand.
Midge felt the light of that smile crack through her icy composure. She tightened her shawl around her shoulders, lifted her chin and, returning the smile, took Susan’s hand.
* * *
Eve awoke the following morning feeling depressed and lonely, though she didn’t know quite why. Then she remembered Paul and the confrontation with the children and it all came back to her in a disappointing rush. It was Saturday, so she didn’t have to rise early and prepare breakfast for the children and dress to go to work. She could lie in bed a while longer, perhaps rise and lazily brew some coffee, even take the time to grind the beans for a richer taste. The radio clicked on automatically and she mentally flogged herself for forgetting to turn off the alarm last night. The Star-Spangled Banner was playing as a backdrop to the disc jockeys’ mindless banter about fireworks mishaps they’d had as boys.
Eve’s hand held back from turning off the radio, recalling with mild surprise that, oh yes, it was the Fourth of July. Of course she knew the date, but with all the emotion of last night, she’d put the holiday out of her mind. The Fourth—surely the children would have a hard time of it today. Eve’s mind began darting from one idea to the next fending off the panic of how to handle a holiday that had always been a family affair, chiefly stewarded by Tom. This was his favorite day of the whole year, preferred even to Christmas. He spent days, weeks, in preparation.
She rose and dressed quickly, choosing blue denim shorts, a white T-shirt and, though cringing a bit, red cotton socks. For the pièce de résistance, she pulled out from her jewelry box a pair of enamel earrings of the American flag that Tom had given her years ago. It had been a long time since she wore anything so blatantly holidayish. When the children were little she liked to dress up for their sakes: red and hearts on Valentine’s day, Christmas sweaters, a witch hat on Halloween. When they grew older, however, they also grew embarrassed to be seen in public with her when she wore anything that drew attention, so she ceased with the holiday getups. Slipping the flag earrings onto her ears, she thought that today they could all use a little cornball humor.
She prepared a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon, cut up some oranges, and calling out, “Rise and shine!” roused the children for breakfast. They came tumbling out of their bedrooms like clumsy puppies, rubbing the sleep from their eyes and wondering aloud why they had to get up so early on a Saturday. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Finney dressed only in his long, cotton boxers. His chest and arms were still so thin but his shoulders were gaining in breadth and his neck and jawline were more strongly defined. Even his hair was becoming a richer, darker brown. Her son was losing his little-boyishness. Hints of the man he would someday become were more and more evident. He was becoming a remarkably handsome young man and he resembled his father more and more each day.
“I have a wonderful idea,” she announced, turning to the stove and serving breakfast onto plates. There was little response other than a few yawns and groggy gazes, but she was gratified to see that they shuffled to the table and sat obligingly without further complaint. “We haven’t been to visit your father’s ashes in a long time. Seeing as it’s the Fourth, I thought we might do just that. Together. Then afterward we could go straight to the lakefront and spend the day at the beach. We could just lie around till dark, then watch the fireworks from the shoreline. We’ll make a day of it. What do you say?”
They looked surprised by the suggestion, especially Bronte whose face, unlike Finney’s, appeared more vulnerable and childlike this morning. She was an utter failure at masking her emotions and Eve witnessed a myriad of thoughts and feelings flitter across her face, most likely a war between memories of her father and her current ambivalent feelings about her mother.
“Sure,” Finn
ey said with a slight shrug, diving into his eggs. “I want to go to the cemetery and all, but I can’t go to the fireworks. I’m going with Nick back to Michigan, remember? He invited me last week. A bunch of us are going. Remember? You said I could go.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” she replied with a flush of disappointment. She had readily agreed last week when the invitation first came up. With Finney in Michigan, she planned on Bronte staying with Sarah which would then open up Saturday night for her to stay with Paul. It had all worked out so beautifully, she had thought. Now, of course, all those plans had changed and she’d completely forgotten about Finney’s plans.
Eve turned back to her daughter. Oh please come with me, Bronte, she thought to herself. This would be exactly what the two of them needed. A little time together, mother and daughter. She’d make it a special holiday. They’d go to the lakefront festivities all day and stroll arm in arm like friends through Grant Park, eat vendor food, listen to live blues or big band music, and when the sun went down they’d join the festive crowds and make oohs and aahs at the fireworks. She’d make her little girl happy, deliriously happy.
She’d make Tom proud.
“What do you say? Will you come with me? Just the two of us?”
Bronte’s face brightened with a smile and with what Eve could only perceive as a second chance.
“Yes,” Bronte replied brightly. “Sounds like fun.”
Eve smiled radiantly, feeling the fireworks already exploding in colors in her heart.
* * *
All Saints Cemetery was a short drive from Oakley. Nonetheless, it was a trip Eve and the children rarely took. It seemed the right thing to do today, however, especially for the children. Out of respect for Tom’s memory on this, his favorite holiday, the three of them selected a bouquet of red, white and blue carnations mixed with flags and sparklers that went beyond tacky straight to ridiculous. She had a good time watching Finney and Bronte laugh and kid how their father would have gotten a kick out of it. It was good for them to keep him alive in their minds, she thought as she drove through the heavy black wrought-iron gates of the cemetery.
They strolled leisurely along the winding path that led to the mausoleum, taking turns telling a favorite memory they had of Tom and his fireworks exploits. They were laughing at Finney’s account of the whistling firework that had backfired and chased Tom across the yard when Eve looked up and spotted a woman just leaving the glass entrance of the mausoleum. She was tall and attractive, with Irish pale skin lightly splattered with freckles and doelike hazel eyes. But what caught Eve’s attention was her full head of remarkable red hair. Eve stopped suddenly, feeling her heart in her throat, as recognition blazed across her mind. The children, one on either side of her, stopped a step or two later, looking back at her with confusion.
The woman took a step down the entrance stairs and looked up, absently glancing their way. Then she, too, halted suddenly with a stunned expression on her face, confirming Eve’s suspicion. Time seemed to stand still as the two women eyed one another, neither one of them offering the slightest move of recognition. Eve could feel her children’s gazes on her, sensing a connection between the two women.
“Mom?” Bronte said, her voice hesitant.
The woman, seemingly propelled by the sound of Bronte’s voice, walked quickly down the stairs and turned onto a path that went in the opposite direction.
“Who was she?” Finney wanted to know.
“I don’t know exactly,” Eve replied honestly, watching the slender figure in a sleek ivory summer suit with matching sandals and bag disappear around a thatch of flowering hydrangeas. Without question, that woman was the woman in the photograph she’d found in Tom’s filebox. Who was she? It was all she could do not to take off running after her and demand that she answer Finney’s question.
“A friend of your father’s, I believe.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“Visiting Daddy, obviously,” Bronte said with exasperation. But she, too, looked to her mother for confirmation, confusion and a hint of doubt in her eyes.
“Your father had lots of friends and associates,” Eve said evenly, despite the uncertainty she felt in her own mind. As they proceeded, she looked down at her clothing and felt a sharp pang of embarrassment at having been seen by that woman in her ridiculous holiday ensemble.
As they stood together in silence before the square that bore Tom’s name, Eve dismissed all thoughts of the nameless woman. She was insignificant at the moment. She thought instead how she never felt Tom was there among his ashes and how going to a stone mausoleum to see his name carved into a square box never brought her any solace. But it was overpowering to be there with her children, to watch them bend their heads and clasp their hands as though in prayer. These were his children. He lived on in them. They had been a family.
Tom, her heart cried out, what are you doing in there? These children need their father. Your children need you here, alive. How can you not be part of their futures?
It was expected that he, being the man, would go first. But they’d always thought death would come later, when what hair he had left was thin and white and the children were living with their own families and they were both stooped with age. He wasn’t supposed to die young and vibrant with young children and a future.
Still, when they discussed such things, he’d made her promise to have his ashes placed in the cylinder of a large-shell firework so he could explode against the sky in a bright gold willow pattern and his ashes would scatter across the earth. They used to laugh that if there was a heady wind, a few ashes might fall on folks’ heads and shoulders and the children could laugh and say, “Oh, that’s Dad all over.”
It seemed wrong for his ashes to sit in a canister in a stone mausoleum.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” she whispered. “I’m doing the best that I can.”
Then tapping her children’s shoulders she bent to kiss their cheeks and led them out into the sunshine.
Fourteen
She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
“Well, now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.
—T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land
Doris stood before the full-length mirror in her bedroom buttoning the long row of large wooden buttons on her red linen dress. She was complaining to R.J. for the hundredth time how thoughtless it was of them not to invite Eve Porter to their Fourth of July party.
“She’s been our friend for years. I feel horrible.”
“She’d just feel out of place,” he replied, using that tone that implied she was being mindless and should listen to his reasoning. “Her life has changed. Face it, this isn’t her circle any longer.”
“Just because Tom is dead doesn’t mean she is. She’s my friend and I should have invited her.” Doris’s voice rang with misgivings, but they both knew this tirade was but an assuaging of her conscience, that she’d already long ago given in to her husband’s will.
R.J. was angling for a huge development planned for the River North area of Chicago. It was a major leap for him and he had invited all the key players—politicians and builders he needed in his pocket. He’d overseen the guest list, the menu, even the decorations himself.
Doris did up the last button with none of the excitement she usually felt before one of their parties. She’d always thought of herself as the consummate hostess, prided herself on this accomplishment. This time, however, she’d been treated by R.J. little better than an assistant, just another Bridges employee.
Sh
e raised her eyes at the face she saw in the mirror, hating it. Rather than lose weight for the party as she’d planned, she’d put on a few more pounds. She just couldn’t seem to stop the upward slide of the scale. No amount of makeup could disguise the doughiness of her skin. Her once beautiful eyes seemed to have shrunk into her face. Even her neck...
“Honey,” R.J. called, approaching her.
She quickly dropped her hand from her neck and looked up to see him advance toward her. Her eyes met his in the mirror. She was surprised to see him not scowling, but smiling, and in his hand was a large square jeweler’s box. She recognized the unique blue color and the thick white ribbon and her heart jump-started with a jolt of anticipation.
“R.J., for me?”
“For you. A small token of my appreciation. You’ve worked hard for this party and I didn’t want you to think I didn’t notice.”
Her breath sucked in, her heart flip-flopped, and all her earlier thoughts dissipated like storm clouds after the sun came out. She mumbled unintelligible expressions of delight as she opened the box, her hands trembling. Inside she found a stunning black pearl necklace, each pearl the size of a knuckle. This was no trinket of appeasement. Tears sprang to her eyes and she reached for a tissue off her vanity lest her mascara run.
“I don’t know what to say. This is so beautiful! So unexpected!”
“You don’t have to say anything. I don’t thank you enough, dear. You do such a good job at these things, everyone always loves you. That includes me, you know.”
These verbal pearls were more precious to her than the Tahitian ones. Overwhelmed, she reached out to take his hand. Putting it against her cheek, she closed her eyes and pressed her lips against his palm. “Thank you, darling.”
As he fastened the clasp around her neck she listened attentively as he told her the names of the wives he wanted her to court that evening, including little tidbits of gossip she might need to know. She watched him in the mirror, his face intent and unusually anxious. Doris thought how selfish it had been of her to only think of herself and not to realize how important this night was for him. Her gaze fell to the necklace; the pearls really were magnificent. How could she ever thank him? Perhaps, she thought, she could help him more, get involved more with his work? But the children...
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