Mrs. Kimble

by Jennifer Haigh

  “It’s these shoes.” She bent over and took them off, leaning on the car for support. Then she tossed her shoes in the backseat and sat heavily behind the wheel. The engine started with a roar. She pulled onto the road, scattering gravel; they headed back the way they had come. His mother drove faster now; the engine roared as they climbed the first hill.

  “Mama,” said Charlie. “Who were those people?”

  His mother accelerated; the car charged down the other side of the hill, gaining speed.

  “We were best friends,” she said. “Me and him played together when we were little.”

  Ahead of them a pickup truck appeared around the curve.

  “Move over,” Charlie yelled. “There’s someone coming.”

  “Good Lord,” said his mother. She turned the wheel sharply to the right, just before they hit the curve. The truck swerved out of their way, missing them by inches; the car spun off the road, a horrible squeal. Then everything was quiet.

  His mother lay flopped over the steering wheel, the bottle of wine at her feet. Somehow her hat had landed in her lap.

  “Mama?” said Charlie.

  She lifted her head. Her face had a look he’d seen before, as if she’d just woken from a nap. She opened the car door and staggered out. They had landed in a farmer’s field.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  “What about the car?”

  “I don’t want it.”

  Charlie got out of the car. His mother walked strangely, a cut bleeding at her forehead. They walked through the field, their feet sinking in the moist earth. She was barefoot but seemed not to notice. He reached for her hand. They walked up the hill and crossed the road, to the dirt path that led to Pappy’s house.

  The house was surrounded by cars. His mother stopped and patted at her hair. Grandma Helen appeared on the porch.

  “Birdie!” she cried. “What in God’s name happened?” She ran down the porch steps and across the lawn. Charlie had never imagined she could move so fast.

  “I wrecked Daddy’s car,” his mother said.

  “My God.” Grandma Helen bent and took Charlie’s face in her hands, pulled back each of his eyelids and looked at his eyes.

  “Did you hit your head?” she asked.

  “No’m,” said Charlie.

  Grandma Helen stood and embraced his mother. “Oh, Birdie.”

  His mother began to cry. A small crowd had assembled on the porch.

  “Ken is gone,” she said into Grandma Helen’s shoulder. “He left in May. And I can’t go back to Richmond because they’re going to take away my children.”

  Joan

  Florida

  1969

  She met him at a swimming-pool party in late October, in Florida a time of clear days and cool evenings, when women draped cotton sweaters over their shoulders and men remembered snow tires and dead batteries, the bitter winters of Newark or Philly or Hartford, Connecticut, the places they’d left behind. Joan Cohen, recently of New York, had never minded the snow; she still believed she would return.

  The party was given by Dick and Nancy Snell, a couple Joan had known a short time. Besides Joan, they’d invited Hal and Dot Beckley, pleasant, suntanned people who shared their interest in gardening and the weather. The Snells and the Beckleys were young by local standards; they were all under fifty.

  Joan sat in a chaise longue overlooking the pool; she was the only one not wearing a swimsuit. The air smelled of chlorine and citronella. Nancy Snell and Dot Beckley splashed in the water, their bodies slick in colorful nylon. Hal Beckley sat on the flagstone rim, smoking.

  Dick Snell approached Joan’s chair, bringing two drinks. “Here you go,” he said, sitting at the foot of the chair. “Any offers on that house of yours?”

  “One,” said Joan. “We’re still negotiating. I’m hoping to close by the holidays.”

  Dick chuckled. “Wait till you see the winter down here. You’ll change your tune. You’ll never want to leave.”

  Joan smiled. She’d been in Florida five months, at first settling her father’s estate, lately just reading novels and walking on the beach. She’d known all along she couldn’t stay. There were no bookstores; the local paper she found inadequate. She was thirty-nine years old, her neighbors of retirement age. If she hadn’t met Nancy Snell at a hair salon, she’d have no friends at all.

  “Have you heard from Moira?” Joan asked. Moira was the Snells’ older daughter, who’d dropped out of college to drive cross-country with a friend.

  “A couple of postcards.” Dick looked down into his drink. “She’s out in California somewhere. Nancy’s worried sick about her.”

  “She’s probably having the time of her life,” said Joan, then noticed Dick’s face. That’s exactly what he’s afraid of, she thought.

  “You know what I think?” said Hal Beckley, butting his cigarette on the cement. “I think the girls should go topless.”

  Giggles from the pool, squeals of protest.

  “Why not?” said Dick. “We’re all friends here.”

  Nancy Snell was the first to let go; her bikini top landed with a wet slap on the cement. She was a small blonde, cute and toothy. Her breasts were the size of cupcakes.

  Dick whistled approvingly. “That’s my girl!” he called. The Snells had been high school sweethearts; their youngest child had just gone off to college.

  He turned to Joan. “What about you?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Come on.” He placed his hand on her bare foot.

  “No, really. I’ll pass.” Joan hugged her sweater around her and sipped her drink, a sweet concoction of mangoes and rum.

  Dick stood and peeled off his shirt. He was still in navy shape at forty-six; except for the line of gray hair dividing his chest, he could have passed for thirty.

  “Finish that drink,” he said. “You might change your mind.” He jumped into the pool with a tremendous splash.

  “Watch it!” Dot Beckley yelled. She raised her arms to shield her bouffant hairdo, her flat brown nipples peeking above the surface.

  “This isn’t fair,” said Nancy. “Giving them a show for nothing.” She tore through the water, breasts bobbing, and made a grab for Dick’s swim trunks. Dot clapped and squealed. They’d all been drinking for hours.

  Dick disappeared underwater, surfaced, then tossed his wet trunks across the pool. “All you had to do was ask.”

  Hal Beckley lunged for Nancy Snell, dunking her slick blond head. In a moment she reappeared, shrieking with mock outrage. He lunged again; she shoved him aside, cocking her head.

  “What’s that noise?” she said. “It sounds like a car.”

  “Nice try,” said Hal. “You won’t get away from me that easy.” Again his arm crossed her bare chest; again her head disappeared beneath the water, giggling and sputtering.

  “Mom?” a voice came from inside the house. “Dad?”

  For a moment everyone froze. Dot let out a little cry. Dick Snell tore across the pool for his trunks. The women fumbled with bikini tops.

  At the rear of the house, the French doors opened. A girl appeared in the doorway, lugging a knapsack. Behind her stood a tall man in ragged blue jeans.

  “Mom?” she called.

  Nancy Snell had ducked beneath the water. She reappeared, tugging at her bra straps.

  “Moira,” said Dick. He had tucked himself into his swim trunks.

  “Surprise!” said Moira.

  “It certainly is.” Nancy climbed out of the pool wearing a tight smile.

  “Come meet your future son-in-law.” Moira clutched the man’s arm, beaming. “Mom, Dad, this is Ken Kimble.”

  THE SNELLS and the Beckleys showered and changed; they sat around the pool in Bermuda shorts, drinking colas. Dick Snell fired up the barbecue grill. The mood on the patio was polite and restrained.

  Joan stood behind Dick at the grill. “Where’s the happy couple?” she asked.

  Dick grunted. “Inside getting cleaned u
p. Could take a while, from the looks of them.” He turned the steaks with a long fork; juices dropped, hissing, onto the coals.

  “What’s he like?” Joan asked. “Moira’s fiancé.”

  “No idea. I never laid eyes on the guy until today.” He stared morosely at the meat.

  Joan glanced across the patio. Moira appeared through the French doors in a patchwork sundress.

  “Joan!” she cried, running across the patio.

  “Hi, honey,” said Joan, embracing her. They’d met the previous spring, when Moira was home on college break. Nancy Snell had asked Joan to take the girl to lunch, to advise her on a career in journalism. They’d eaten at a seaside restaurant and spent the afternoon chatting and laughing. Joan had found Moira lively and articulate, brighter and better informed than either of her parents. She was unhappy at her small Virginia college; she found her classmates narrow-minded and politically apathetic. She planned to suffer through another two years and join the Peace Corps after graduation—though her father, she told Joan, would have a fit. That summer Joan was stunned to hear that Moira had dropped out of school.

  “I want to hear all about your travels,” said Joan.

  “It was fantastic,” said Moira. “We drove all the way up the coast, from Los Angeles to Vancouver. We picked grapes in Monterey, with these beautiful Mexican families who are here illegally because the government won’t give them papers. Ken actually speaks Spanish. You’re going to love him. Ken!” She was sunburned, a little breathless; her wet hair smelled of strawberries.

  The boyfriend came through the French doors with Nancy Snell, who paused to point out shrubs and trees and exotic ferns. He was tall and slender; his lank dark hair hung to his shoulders. He wore faded jeans and a colorful cotton blouse.

  Moira rolled her eyes. “Mother,” she called. “He doesn’t need the whole garden tour.”

  Nancy and the boyfriend approached the grill. Moira hooked a finger through one of his belt loops.

  “Baby, this is Joan. I told you about her. The writer for Newsweek.”

  The boyfriend offered his hand, his grip cool and firm. He’d looked younger from a distance. Up close, Joan could see that his hairline was receding; deep grooves curved from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. His eyes were a startling blue.

  “Glad to meet you,” he said. “I’m Ken Kimble.”

  Moira fingered the fabric at his wrist. “Isn’t his shirt fabulous? All the Mexican ladies fell in love with him. One of them embroidered it herself.”

  “Coming through,” Dick Snell barked. He stepped between Moira and Kimble, carrying a plate of steaks. Behind him trailed the rich smell of beef.

  “Oh, Daddy,” said Moira. “We don’t eat meat. We’re vegetarians.”

  Dick Snell didn’t answer. He carried the platter to the table.

  “It’s okay,” Kimble said softly. “We’ll adapt.”

  They sat at wrought-iron tables overlooking the pool: Joan and the Beckleys at one table; the Snells, Moira, and Kimble at the other. The Beckleys had a Lhasa apso; they bemoaned the dearth of competent dog groomers in Palm Beach County. At the other table Dick Snell hunched over his plate, sawing at his steak; Moira picked at her potato salad. Her mother explained the gardening challenges presented by August rainstorms, sandy Florida soil. Kimble nodded attentively.

  “What kind of grass is that?” he asked, pointing. “All your neighbors have it too. It seems to be everywhere down here.”

  “Bermuda grass,” said Nancy. “It’s perfect for this climate. It has deeper roots, so it holds the water better.”

  Kimble gave a low whistle. “Amazing,” he said. “You’re a walking encyclopedia.”

  Nancy beamed. “It’s so nice to have a man around who’s interested in gardening. Dick couldn’t care less.”

  “It’s fascinating stuff,” said Kimble. “You could go into business giving gardening advice. Really. You’d make a fortune around here.”

  True enough, Joan thought. She paid plenty to have her garden maintained; she wouldn’t know where to begin taking care of it herself.

  “I have a question,” she said. She pointed to the tall flowering shrub that bordered the patio. “What’s that plant over there? With the red flowers?”

  Nancy laughed. “Why, they’re oleanders. You’ve got them yourself, in your backyard.”

  “I thought so.” Joan helped herself to more fruit salad. “There’s something wrong with mine. The leaves are all curled up, and there’s some kind of black stuff on them.”

  “Aphids,” said Nancy. “Sounds to me like aphids.”

  “Oh, no,” said Dot. “Not aphids!”

  A cool breeze blew across the swimming pool. The citronella candles flickered.

  “You’ve got to take action,” said Dot. “This is serious, Joan. They’re insidious little creatures. If you give them an inch, you’ll never get rid of them.”

  Kimble and Moira stood and excused themselves. Hand in hand they disappeared into the house.

  Joan awoke with a racing heart. It was late morning, the bedroom filled with sunshine. She’d been up half the night worrying; she always slept poorly the night before a doctor’s appointment. In the distance she heard the mechanical grind of a lawn mower; in her dream it had been the hum of aphids, a thousand tiny mandibles sucking at her oleanders. She put on a robe and went barefoot down the spiral staircase, across the cold marble foyer, through the cavernous kitchen and out the back door.

  She passed the swimming pool and hot tub, the patio damp beneath her feet; beyond, a flagstone path bisected the grassy lawn. The path was lined with fig and mango trees, plus a host of flowering shrubs Joan couldn’t identify. Her father had taken no interest in the yard; a lawn service had looked after the trees and flowers. Since his death she continued to pay the monthly bill. Every Friday a uniformed gardener came to mow and water.

  The oleanders grew thickly around the perimeter of the yard; they’d been blooming since summer, a fragrant explosion of red blossoms. Joan stared at the top branches, their narrow leaves shiny in the morning sun. The hedge was ten feet tall; its dense leaves screened the yard completely from the neighbors’ view. She examined a leaf. It was gnarled and discolored, coated with a sooty substance. On the lower branches the growth seemed to be thinning; soon the neighbors would be able to see her through the shrubs, at least from the knees down.

  She went back inside and dialed the gardening service. A shrill woman answered the phone.

  “I need some advice,” said Joan. “Something is killing my oleanders.”

  The woman asked Joan’s name and address. “We’ll send someone over to spray this afternoon.”

  “Thank you,” said Joan. Then she went upstairs to dress for the doctor’s.

  SHE PARKED in the lot behind the hospital and went in through the back entrance. Her appointment was in the rear wing—the Ava Cohen Cancer Center, built with her father’s money after her mother’s death. The wing held a hundred beds, a laboratory, and four operating rooms. Recently they’d added radiology facilities; a week ago Joan had stood there bare-chested for the X ray of her breast.

  She passed the chapel, the nurses’ station, the portrait of her mother hanging in the hallway. She was twenty feet from the radiology area when she recognized Dot Beckley coming toward her in the corridor.

  “Joan?” said Dot. The question in her voice: What are you doing at the cancer center? Then her brow cleared. “I didn’t realize your family was still involved with the hospital.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Joan.

  “I had an appointment, myself.” Dot pointed to a small Band-Aid at her hairline, several shades lighter than the brown skin underneath. “I had a little spot removed.”

  “Goodness,” said Joan. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  Dot waved airily. “Oh, no. I get them all the time. The sun, they say.” She fumbled in her purse for cigarettes and shook one out of the pack. Her hands were brown and creased, studded with gold rin
gs.

  “I’m glad I ran into you,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to call. Hal’s brother George is visiting for the week. We want you to join us one night for dinner.” Dot lowered her voice. “He’s recently divorced. We’ve told him all about you.”

  “How nice.” Joan glanced at her watch. “Dot, I’ve got to run, but why don’t you give me a ring at home? That way I can check my calendar.”

  “Sure. I’ll call you this afternoon.”

  “Wonderful,” said Joan. By then she’d have thought up an excuse.

  THE NURSE poked her head into the examining room. “Miss Cohen,” she said. “Dr. Sugarman will be right with you.”

  “Thanks,” said Joan. She sat on the examining table in a flimsy hospital gown, her clothes neatly folded on a chair. She glanced at her watch; she’d waited half an hour already. Come on, Zuckerman, she thought. This made her smile. Her father had deplored Jews who Americanized their names; for a second she’d sounded just like him.

  The door opened.

  “Hi, Joan,” said Sugarman, manila folder under his arm, the tails of his white coat flapping behind him. He was young and handsome, always a little disheveled: tie loosely knotted, cuffs rolled back to show his tanned forearms. Had she met him on the street she would have found him attractive; but as a doctor he was all wrong. She preferred the dour demeanor of her surgeon at Sloan-Kettering, whose sonorous voice seemed to acknowledge the gravity of what had happened to her.

  He pulled a stool up to the examining table. “I had a look at your chest film. Everything looks great, Joan.”

  Thanks, Larry, she thought. She and Sugarman were the same age; it irked her that she was “Joan” and he was “Doctor.” She’d despised doctors her whole life, in direct proportion to her parents’ admiration of them. Her father had wished his son to become one and his daughter to marry one. Her mother had revered her surgeons until the end, even when it was clear they’d failed to save her life.

  Joan untied her hospital gown and turned her head. Though she avoiding looking at it herself, she didn’t mind showing Sugarman her scar, a puckered trail that led from her breastbone to her right armpit. It was the other part she dreaded: him looking at her remaining breast, round and as innocent as a baby. Him seeing her the way she used to be.