Mrs. Kimble

by Jennifer Haigh

  “And?”

  “She went crazy. She wants to get married right away.” He ran a hand through his lank hair. “I don’t understand it. She’s nineteen years old. She’s got all the time in the world.”

  Nineteen, Joan thought: half my age. She’d been a virgin at nineteen, editor of the Radcliffe poetry review. She’d imagined herself an adult.

  “Have you ever been married?” Kimble asked.

  For God’s sake, she thought. Again with this question.

  “No,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended. “And I never felt like I was missing anything. There’s more to life than getting married.”

  Kimble clapped appreciatively, as though she’d performed a magic trick. “Brava,” he said. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I keep telling Moira she should go back to school, figure out what she wants to do with her life. Women have so many opportunities today. She could be anything she wants. Look at you.”

  Joan flushed. She’d spent years explaining herself to the George Beckleys of the world, men mystified by the choices she’d made. To Ken Kimble she’d explained nothing; yet he seemed to understand.

  “I wish Moira could talk to you,” he continued. “She’s getting some bad advice from her mother. Nancy’s a sweet lady, but she’s led a sheltered life. Every day the two of them go shopping for a wedding gown. It’s all they talk about.”

  Joan thought of the Moira she’d met that spring, restless and independent, ready to join the Peace Corps. Joan had envied her then, the discoveries awaiting her, her youth and energy and radiant health. The world had changed in marvelous ways. For her, anything would be possible.

  “This doesn’t sound like Moira,” she said.

  “I know. I barely recognize her anymore.” Kimble set down his cup and pushed back his chair. “Anyway, I’ve taken up enough of your morning.”

  “Nonsense,” said Joan. She had no plans—for the day, the week, the rest of her life. “I’m not very busy these days.”

  He rose from his chair and grimaced. “Whoa.” He gripped the edge of the table and placed a hand at his lower back.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Back spasm.” He was suddenly pale. “I get them every once in a while.”

  “Sit down,” said Joan, touching his shoulder.

  “Actually, sitting is worse.” Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. “That’s probably why I got it, from sleeping sitting up.”

  “Why don’t you lie down on the couch?” said Joan.

  “Maybe just for a minute.”

  She laid a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the living room. He eased himself onto the couch and stretched out his legs. His face relaxed.

  “Better,” he said.

  “Just lie still.” Joan sat on the edge of the sofa. “Can I get you an aspirin? Would that do any good?”

  “No.” Kimble closed his eyes. “Sometimes heat helps.”

  “I think there’s a heating pad upstairs.” She rose from the sofa. “I’ll be right back.”

  She hurried upstairs, to the dark bedroom where her father had slept; he’d used a heating pad for his arthritis. The bed was neatly made, the curtains pulled as if someone was sleeping. She peered into the walk-in closet, still hung with his suits; the thought of giving them to charity made her chest ache. There was no heating pad on the closet shelves. She couldn’t bring herself to look through the dresser.

  She tried the next room, and the next. There were six spare bedrooms in all—six empty closets, six beds with clean linens, as if guests were expected. Joan had never slept in any of them. In five months she hadn’t had a single guest.

  She found a hot water bottle in one of the bureaus and filled it at the bathroom sink. Outside, the early light was clear and gentle, the garden loud with birds. She hadn’t risen before ten o’clock in months, yet she felt rested and full of energy. There were eggs and bacon in the fridge; she could make them breakfast.

  “Ken,” she called from the stairs, “can I make you something to eat?”

  She went into the living room and stood at the foot of the couch. Kimble lay perfectly still, arms crossed over his chest. She’d slept next to plenty of men, watched them gape and drool and snore; but in sleep Kimble looked handsome and composed. His mouth was closed, his breath silent. Long eyelashes lay on his cheeks. She had never seen such eyelashes on a man.

  Suddenly his eyes snapped open; he inhaled sharply, as if she’d startled him.

  “I’m sorry,” said Joan. “Did I scare you?”

  He sat up carefully. “I must have fallen asleep.”

  “I couldn’t find the heating pad. I brought you a hot water bottle instead.”

  “Perfect,” said Kimble. “Can you put it under my back?”

  Joan knelt beside the couch, her heart beating loudly. His shirt had escaped from the waistband of his trousers, revealing a slice of white skin. Carefully she slid the bottle underneath him, her wrist grazing his flesh. His skin was surprisingly cool.

  “Thanks,” he said. “That feels great.”

  She sat back on her heels. “Ken,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how much longer are you going to sleep in that truck?”

  “I don’t know. Depends on Moira, I guess.” He shifted, wincing. “Sooner or later she’ll come around.”

  Joan took a deep breath. “I had a thought,” she said. “You’re welcome to stay here until you and Moira work things out. I have plenty of room.”

  Their eyes met.

  “That’s very kind,” he said. “But I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  “I have six spare bedrooms.” The insistent tone of her voice surprised her. “You couldn’t put me out if you brought all your relatives.”

  Kimble smiled. “In that case,” he said, “I’d love to.”

  Ken Kimble rose at dawn. From down the hall Joan heard the trilling alarm clock, the gentle creak of bedsprings, the soft patter of water on tile. She lay drifting in and out of sleep and imagined him standing under the shower, the white skin of his back turning pink under the spray. His tread was silent on the stairs; after the shower stopped she heard nothing until the truck started in the driveway. Her days unfolded as they had before—walk on the beach, afternoon swim—but now there was an endpoint. At five o’clock Ken Kimble would come home.

  She had dinner waiting when he walked in the door, each day a new recipe from The Joy of Cooking. She’d never cooked for a man before and found that she liked it. She avoided the complicated dishes—the soufflés and cream sauces, anything that involved stuffing—and produced passable roasts, hamburgers, breasts of chicken. The first night she’d remembered too late that he was a vegetarian; she apologized for the lamb chops and offered to make him something else.

  “Are you kidding?” said Kimble, his mouth full. He cut into the meat as if he ate it all the time. “This is terrific.”

  He ate quickly, barely chewing; he held his fork with an overhand grip. Five minutes later he pushed away his plate. “I’m stuffed,” he announced. He’d left a lamb chop and most of his potatoes.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Everything was wonderful.” He rubbed his flat belly. “I’m watching my weight.”

  Joan glanced down at her plate; she was still eating her salad. “I’m a little slow,” she said.

  “Take your time.”

  He seemed happy to entertain her while she ate; he described in detail the elaborate houses he’d visited that day, the difficult clients he’d encountered. He was an excellent mimic, able to reproduce the New Jersey accents of his matronly clients, the rolled consonants of his Cuban coworkers. After dinner they divided up the newspaper and read together in companionable silence. “Listen to this,” he’d say periodically. Then he’d clear his throat and read to her—sometimes just a headline, an inane comment by a public official; other times an entire editorial. He was knowledgeable about world affairs; his political views mirrored
Joan’s. Her whole adult life she’d read the paper alone, over morning coffee. Now she reserved this pleasure until evening, when she could share it with him.

  “Did anybody call?” he asked one night as they lingered at the table. “I told the lawn service they could reach me at this number.”

  “No,” she answered.

  He never mentioned Moira Snell, and Joan never asked.

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON while she was cooking, the telephone rang. She answered it clumsily, pinching the receiver between her ear and shoulder.

  “Hello?” she said.

  The line was silent.

  “Hello?” she repeated.

  At the other end a radio was playing; she heard laughing, splashing, the soprano cries of children.

  “Moira?” she said. “Is that you?”

  A soft click as the caller hung up the phone.

  ONE NIGHT Joan tried something different for dinner, fillets of sole with orange sauce. A complicated recipe, but her confidence had grown.

  At five-fifteen she glanced out the window, waiting for the truck in the driveway. Traffic was gentle as a rule, but even in Palm Beach County, bottlenecks could happen.

  By six o’clock the sauce had cooked down to nothing; the fish looked fragile and desiccated in the pan. The unread newspaper lay on the table. Joan dialed the lawn service; no answer. A strange anxiety gnawed at her stomach. He’d been in town only a few weeks; he never spoke of any friends. There was only one place he could be. The days were getting shorter. Moira would be home from work by now, the pool closed for the day.

  She waited until dark. The night was cool and damp; she dressed in slacks and a dark sweater—her reporter’s uniform, now worn to spy on a man she barely knew. In her father’s car she drove the three miles to Ocean Avenue, a broad, busy street lined with inexpensive restaurants and tourist motels. Among them were several large stucco buildings, dotted with flimsy terraces. Ken and Moira’s apartment could be in any one of them; she had no idea of the address. She turned into the first complex on her right and circled the small lot, looking for his green lawn service truck.

  She drove slowly in and out of parking lots, headlights off to avoid attracting attention. Then she remembered what she was driving: her father’s baby blue Cadillac, polished to a sheen; as conspicuous as an airplane among the vans and Volkswagens and beat-up sedans.

  She reached the last white stucco building on the strip. A sign out front said COCO PALM COURT. In the distance she saw the lights of a gas station; beyond it Ocean Avenue stretched dark and empty for miles, nothing but swampland on either side. She turned into the parking lot and cut the motor. For the first time in months, she wished for a cigarette. She was aware that something had taken hold of her.

  She glanced at her watch. The lot was full of cars; the residents of Coco Palm were home for the night. A door opened and a pregnant woman emerged, carrying laundry; a long-haired couple threw a Frisbee across the parking lot. In the courtyard children teased a small dog. Cooking smells floated through the open windows; a baby’s cry, the driving beat of rock music. A pennant in a window read FLORIDA ATLANTIC UNIVERSITY.

  Joan rolled down her window to let in the noise. She was a city girl, raised in apartments; she missed the companionship of the neighbor’s television set, the comforting footfalls of the couple upstairs. She dreaded going back to her silent house, the ruined dinner on the stove. A week before, she’d been fine; she’d accepted her solitude, made peace with it. Kimble’s arrival had changed everything. She couldn’t bear to be without him.

  She started the engine and drove to the gas station. The Cadillac guzzled fuel; she’d burned a quarter tank casing Ocean Avenue. When no attendant appeared, she stepped out of the car and peered into the front window. A sign dangled behind the glass; the station was closed.

  Joan went back to her car. In the distance she noticed a cinder-block building farther down the road. The parking lot was dark, but a few of the windows blazed with light. She got into her car and drove toward it, her hands weak on the steering wheel.

  In front of the building sat the green lawn service truck.

  THE NEXT MORNING she awoke to a silent house. The clock ticked loudly; the leaves of the date palm scratched the windowpane like a pet demanding attention. Her throat burned; her mouth tasted dirty. An ashtray overflowed on the bedside table.

  Joan sat up in bed, still wearing her dark sweater; her silicone breast was slightly askew. The evening came back to her in an instant. She’d parked outside the cinder-block building on Ocean Avenue and sat there for a long time. Dim light flickered in an upstairs window—a candle, she supposed. Finally she stepped out of the car. The outside door was locked; she stood there a moment, staring through the glass into the lobby, at the bank of mailboxes just inside the door. She couldn’t make out the names on the boxes, except for one marked with a strip of masking tape. On it someone had written in large block letters: “Snell/Kimble.” Afterward she’d driven across town in search of cigarettes. She’d sat in bed and smoked them one after the other, a whole pack in a matter of hours. When the cigarettes were gone she went to sleep, leaving the front door unlocked.

  She rolled over, hoping for sleep; then, in the distance, she heard a motor. She sprang out of bed and went to the window just as the lawn service truck turned into the driveway.

  She reached beneath her sweater to adjust her breast, then slipped on a pair of slacks. Her face in the mirror shocked her, the fine smoker’s lines around her mouth. She wasn’t a kid anymore; her skin could no longer hide a poor night’s sleep. Her hairdresser had talked her into a darker color; in the morning light her black hair looked false, lifeless, like the synthetic curls of a doll. The pixie cut was also a mistake—it had never suited her strong face. She swiped at her hair and hurried downstairs.

  Kimble met her on the front step, dressed in jeans and his Mexican blouse. He had showered; his hair curled wetly over his collar.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.” She bent and picked the newspaper from the stoop, feeling light-headed. Nerves tingled in her hands, the aftereffects of nicotine.

  “I’m about to make coffee,” she said. Her voice was pleasant but cool. “Would you like some?”

  “Sure,” said Kimble, following her inside.

  In the kitchen she filled the coffeepot with water. The whole house smelled of fish; she’d left the pan of sole on the counter all night. Kimble’s eyes went to the sink, filled with crusted cookware.

  “No work today?” said Joan. “You’re not wearing your uniform.”

  “It’s my day off.” His eyes met hers. “Joan, I need to talk to you about last night.”

  She turned her back to him and filled the sink with hot water. “What about it?”

  “I should have called. You went to all this trouble making dinner, and I didn’t even show up.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I was going to cook anyway. Believe it or not, I eat even when you’re not here.” She pulled on her rubber gloves and squirted soap into the sink. “How’s Moira?”

  “She’s all right.”

  She rinsed a glass and placed it in the drainer. “I take it you’ve worked out your differences.”

  “Not exactly.” He reached around her and shut off the faucet. “Look at me.”

  Her heart quickened. She turned to face him.

  “I feel like a heel for what I did last night,” he said. “You’ve been nothing but generous and this is how I repay you.”

  “It’s no big deal,” said Joan. An unfamiliar tightness in her throat. Don’t cry, she thought. Whatever you do, don’t cry.

  “There’s something you should know,” he said. “Moira and I are finished. The wedding is off.”

  Joan’s heart paused, then reset itself.

  “What happened?”

  “Things haven’t been good for a while.” He was very close, his mouth crusty white at the corners; he had just brushed his teeth. “I’ve never told you
this, but I’m a little older than Moira.”

  No kidding, Joan thought. “Really?” she said.

  “Yes,” said Kimble. “She seemed so mature I didn’t think it would be a problem. I guess I was wrong.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Joan.

  His eyes met hers. “Everything happens for a reason.”

  She turned to fill the sink. “What will you do now?”

  “I only came to Florida because of Moira,” he said, “but I like it here. I’m going to stay.”

  Joan waited.

  “I’ll need to find an apartment,” he continued. “I’ve taken advantage of your hospitality long enough. You said I could stay here until Moira and I worked things out, and I guess we have.”

  Joan wet a sponge and scrubbed at the spattered stove top. “What will you do? Keep working for the lawn service?”

  “I don’t think so.” She could tell by his tone that he found the idea ridiculous. Clearly he was an educated man. It occurred to her that he’d lived a whole life she knew nothing about.

  “Actually,” he said, “I’ve always been interested in real estate.”

  “Really?” she said. “My father was in real estate. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “No.”

  She thought a moment. “My uncle has an agency in Coral Gables. Maybe he could help you out.”

  “That would be great. Joan, I don’t know how to thank you.” He eyed the newspaper on the counter. “Would you mind if I borrowed your paper? I need to start looking for an apartment.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  He took the paper and sat at the kitchen table. She noticed he held the pages at arm’s length. He needs reading glasses, she thought.

  “Ken,” she said.

  He looked up from the paper.

  “You don’t have to leave. I don’t want you to.” She swallowed loudly. “I like having you around.”

  He rose and crossed the kitchen, bent and kissed her cheek.