Mrs. Kimble

by Jennifer Haigh

  On Christmas Eve they ate dinner on the patio. Joan made baked beans and potato salad; Kimble grilled hamburgers for their guests. Joan’s brother, Ben, was visiting from New York; he and his new girlfriend, Lynda, had flown in the night before. A statuesque Lutheran girl from Minnesota, she was a stewardess for TWA; she’d just finished telling them how she’d finagled Ben a seat in first class. It was a kick, she explained, when a passenger was allowed to grab her ass.

  “How long have you been a stewardess?” Joan asked.

  “Three years. It beats waiting tables, I can tell you that.” Lynda tucked her blond hair behind her ear. Ben kissed her loudly on the cheek, a tremendous sucking sound that made her squeal with laughter. He’d grown stouter and hairier, his plump pink face half hidden by a dark beard. He raised his can of beer toward Joan.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said.

  “L’chaim,” said Joan. They hadn’t shared a Jewish holiday since their mother died; but their whole lives Christmas had brought them together. As children they’d tried unsuccessfully to ignore it; as adults they’d planned parties around it, at Joan’s apartment in Manhattan or Ben’s in Brooklyn. The year before Joan had spent Christmas in a private room at Sloan-Kettering. Lying in her hospital bed, drifting in and out of sleep, she’d fought the urge to phone her brother: I’m in the hospital, Ben. I have cancer. Shame stopped her. She couldn’t tell a soul.

  Lynda rose and stripped off her T-shirt. Her round breasts spilled over her bikini top.

  “I’m going in for a swim,” she announced. “Anybody coming?”

  “Still digesting.” Ben caressed his belly like a pet. “What about you, Ken? Go have a swim.”

  “Sure,” said Kimble. “Why not?” He stood and pulled off his shirt. His chest was slightly concave; his sternum protruded like something painful.

  “Man, don’t you eat?” said Ben.

  “You bet. Your sister’s a terrific cook.” Briefly he touched Joan’s shoulder. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Ben studied Joan from across the table. From his pocket he produced a small tin. “You’re looking good,” he said. “This place seems to agree with you.”

  “It does.” Joan watched Lynda bounce a few times on the diving board, breasts quivering, then dive expertly into the water, a perfect jackknife. Kimble descended the ladder at the other end of the pool. In the dark she couldn’t see whether he watched Lynda’s magnificent chest.

  “She’s pretty,” said Joan.

  “Isn’t she, though?” Ben opened the tin and began to roll a joint. “So when are you coming back to New York?”

  That week her editor had called, asking the same question; her leave of absence had run out and her only options were to quit or return. I’m sorry, she’d told him, watching Ken through the window, planting chives at the base of the oleanders—a permanent solution to the aphid problem. I can’t go back there. My life is here now.

  “I’m not,” she told Ben.

  He looked up from his rolling paper. “You’re joking.”

  “What’s so incredible?” She watched Kimble cross the pool, swimming toward Lynda. “I don’t need the money, and I don’t miss the aggravation.”

  Ben frowned. “What are you going to do with the rest of your life? Sit around the pool with some aging hippie?”

  Joan watched the pool. Kimble had disappeared underwater. He surfaced for a breath, then vanished again.

  “That’s not fair,” she said quietly, afraid he might overhear. She hadn’t discussed her decision with him; things were too good between them to risk such a serious conversation.

  “I mean it.” Ben lit the joint and took a drag. “Tell me. Where did you find this guy?”

  Please, Joan thought. Don’t ruin it. She hadn’t seen her brother in ten months, not since their father’s funeral.

  “Ken and I are just friends.” She inhaled deeply. She hadn’t smoked marijuana in a year; she’d forgotten it could smell so sweet.

  “Oh, right. Friends.” Another drag; he held the smoke in a long time. “Nothing like a wealthy friend with a great big house. A friend who doesn’t charge rent.” He reached across the table for her hand. “Don’t get offended. I’m trying to look out for you. You’re a wealthy woman now. You have to be careful.”

  Joan withdrew her hand. “Ken’s not interested in my money. He has a job.”

  “Mowing lawns?” Ben offered the joint; Joan shook her head no. She knew Ken’s opinions on pot smokers.

  “That’s just temporary,” she said. “He’s looking for something else.”

  “Like what? A paper route?”

  Joan stared at him. “This isn’t like you. Since when are you so concerned with money?”

  “I’m not. I’m concerned about you. You’ve always known how to look out for yourself. What’s happened to you?”

  The question hung in the air. Joan hugged her caftan around her, conscious of the silicone breast against her chest.

  “You don’t know him,” she said finally. “You don’t know the first thing about him.”

  “True enough,” said Ben. His eyes went to Kimble and Lynda, crouched at the shallow end of the pool, their slick heads bobbing at the surface. Kimble spoke softly; Lynda nodded and smiled. She seemed mesmerized by his voice.

  “Do you?” he asked.

  They drove to Coral Gables in her father’s car, Kimble behind the wheel. It was a brilliant Saturday morning, crisp and sunny; they were expected at her aunt and uncle’s for lunch. Joan closed her eyes. Through the windows the winter sun warmed her skin; her limbs felt heavy and languorous. She hadn’t been a passenger in a long time. She’d forgotten how pleasant it could be.

  She glanced across the seat at Kimble. He’d driven the car once before, when she had a big grocery order and needed help carrying the bags. He was a tall man, like her father; the first time he slid the seat back from the dashboard to accommodate his long legs, she’d felt a pang of recognition.

  “You look tired,” he said as he turned onto the highway.

  “A little.” She fatigued easily since the surgery; she could no longer function on a few hours’ sleep. The night before she’d lain awake, remembering Ken at the dinner table: shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth, the cuff of his Mexican blouse tipped with gravy. His beard had grown in completely; his hair was long enough for a ponytail. She thought of the way her brother had described him—an aging hippie—and knew her uncle Floyd would see him the same way. Floyd was a hardhead. If Ken planned to show up in Coral Gables with a ponytail, they might as well save themselves the trip.

  When she woke that morning, Kimble’s truck was gone; an hour later he’d appeared with a fresh haircut.

  “What do you think?” he’d asked, turning to show the neat nape of his neck. “Would you buy a house from me?”

  “Wow,” said Joan. His hair was thinner than she’d realized; a bare spot had opened at the crown. She’d never been attracted to bald men, but on him it was somehow different; she appreciated his high forehead, his long, intelligent face. “You look terrific.”

  He looked down at his faded jeans, worn and stringy at the cuffs. “Will I be all right like this? I don’t have a suit.”

  She eyed his long legs: a thirty-six inseam, maybe thirty-eight.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  They went upstairs to the master bedroom, cool and dim behind the thick curtains. She opened the closet. Her father had taken good care of his clothes; there were suits she recognized from twenty years before. She thought, Everything happens for a reason.

  “These were my father’s,” she whispered.

  She reached for a linen jacket on a hanger, next to it the matching pants. Her father had worn them to her college graduation.

  “Try this,” she said. “It’s an old one. He was thinner then.”

  Kimble took the suit and disappeared into the bathroom. He came out a moment later, buttoning the jacket over his T-shirt.

  “Does it fi
t?” he asked.

  Joan covered her mouth, afraid she would laugh or cry. Her father’s clothes didn’t merely fit. They suited him perfectly.

  THEY ARRIVED in Coral Gables ten minutes early. Unlike Joan’s father, Floyd Cohen had no taste for glamour. He and his wife had lived in the same modest rancher for twenty years, though he could have bought the biggest house in the neighborhood, with cash.

  “Uncle Floyd,” Joan said at the door. “This is my friend Ken Kimble.” Her palms were moist; she felt like a teenager bringing home a date.

  “Welcome,” said Floyd, extending his hand. Kimble? she imagined him thinking. What kind of name is Kimble?

  “Your aunt Cookie is in the kitchen,” he said. “Come and say hello.”

  They went inside and sat in the parlor. The house hadn’t changed in twenty years. Joan recognized the ornate lamps and threadbare rugs, the dark, heavy furniture Floyd and Cookie had brought down from their house in Newark. On the coffee table was a crystal candy dish filled with butterscotch disks; Cookie ate them compulsively. The house had an odd medicinal smell that had nothing to do with age. Floyd and Cookie had smelled that way for as long as Joan could remember.

  “Cookie,” Floyd called. “Joanie and her friend are here.”

  Cookie emerged from the kitchen. “Joanie!” she cried. She was stout and firmly corseted; her broad bosom jutted forward like the prow of a ship.

  Joan embraced her. “Hello, Aunt Cookie.”

  Kimble got to his feet. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Sit, sit,” said Cookie. Her knees made a cracking sound as she lowered herself to the sofa.

  “How’ve you been, Auntie?” said Joan.

  “Better than them up there. I heard on the radio this morning: fourteen degrees in Newark.” She scrabbled in the candy dish for a butterscotch. “How’s your brother, dear heart?”

  “He’s fine,” said Joan. “He was just down for a visit.”

  “Still with the girlfriend?”

  “A new one.” Joan’s eyes went to Kimble. After their swim, he and Lynda had chatted for over an hour, her breasts bobbing between them in the hot tub. Do you think she’s pretty? Joan had asked after the guests went to bed.

  Not especially, he’d answered. She’s not my type.

  Floyd sat back in his chair and eyed Kimble. “Joanie says you’re interested in real estate. Ever sold anything before?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Kimble’s voice seemed deeper than usual; he sat erect in his chair. “I used to be a teacher.”

  “A teacher,” Cookie said, beaming.

  Joan smiled. She’d only just learned this herself. “At school,” he’d said when she asked how he and Moira had met; only when she pressed did he admit that Moira had been his student. Since then Joan had tried to imagine him at the head of a classroom. Was it the old, long-haired Ken who had taught school? Or the new Ken, crisp and distinguished in her father’s suit?

  “Young people today are different than they were in our day,” said Kimble. “Teaching them requires a lot of persuasion.”

  Floyd grunted. “They’re spoiled rotten. They know nothing about life.”

  “That’s right. They don’t know what they want, but they want it right now. It makes them difficult customers.”

  Floyd nodded. Finally he stood.

  “Let’s not bore the ladies with talk of business. How about we get some fresh air?” He led Ken through the kitchen and out the back door.

  Cookie turned to Joan. “And you,” she said. “How are you getting along? All alone in that big house.”

  “I’m just fine,” said Joan. Through the window she watched the men walk around the garden. Ken stood taller than usual; his bearing was almost military. “I go swimming every day. The weather has been lovely.”

  Outside Floyd stopped at a rosebush. Ken squatted and felt the soil beneath it. Joan relaxed a little. He was at his best talking about plants.

  “Your beau is very handsome,” said Cookie.

  Joan colored. “He’s not my beau. Really, Auntie, we’re just friends.”

  “What are friends?” said Cookie, waving her chubby hand. “Why be friends with a man?”

  “I’ve been single for a long time.”

  “Too long.” Cookie reached for another butterscotch. “Your father worried about you. It broke his heart that you never married.”

  “I know,” said Joan.

  “You and your brother.” Cookie shifted on the couch. “We talked to Ruthie today. She and Phil are expecting again.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Joan said, steeling herself. There was no avoiding the subject of her cousin Ruth, married to a doctor in Scarsdale, New York; no avoiding the unspoken comparisons.

  “She’s your age, you know,” said Cookie. “She’ll be forty in August.”

  Joan glanced out the window. Ken stood at the rosebush, gesturing as he spoke; she’d never seen him talk with his hands before. Floyd nodded slowly. He clapped Ken’s thin shoulder as they walked back toward the house.

  “I know it’s a touchy subject,” said Cookie, “but for you it’s not too late. Trust me, dear. There’s still time.”

  THE SKY reddened behind them as they drove back toward the coast. Kimble would take the real estate exam in the spring; then he would go to work for Floyd.

  “I feel like celebrating,” he said. “What do you say I buy you an ice cream?”

  “Great,” said Joan. Ridiculously, she felt nervous. They’d lived under the same roof for weeks, but except for a trip to the grocery store they’d never been out together in public.

  He parked in front of an ice-cream parlor a few blocks from the beach. The girl behind the counter filled their cones with strawberry ice cream.

  “Uncle Floyd loved you,” said Joan. “He doesn’t usually take to new people.” Especially gentiles, she nearly added, but didn’t. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I like him,” said Kimble. “He’s a crafty old guy.”

  They sat at a table near the window. “He and my father were partners for years,” said Joan. “They used to have a furniture store in Brooklyn. Then my father came down here and got into real estate. A few years later Floyd joined him.”

  “Interesting.” Kimble crunched his cone loudly; Joan had never seen anyone devour an ice cream so fast. “Why Florida? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “The climate. My mother was ill—” She nearly said with breast cancer, but stopped herself. “And I guess they were sick of the winters in New York.”

  Kimble smiled. “Is that what happened to you? Got sick of the snow?”

  “Not exactly.” Joan hesitated. “I can’t explain it. I came down for my father’s funeral and I can’t seem to leave.”

  Kimble finished his cone and wiped his hands on a paper napkin. Just then Dot Beckley and Nancy Snell came into the store. They were loaded down with shopping bags, laughing throaty laughs.

  Joan felt hot and clammy, slightly ill. They hadn’t seen her yet; she could easily slip out the side door. No, she thought. We haven’t done anything wrong. She forced herself to speak.

  “Hi, girls!” she called out. “How have you been?”

  Dot smiled nervously. Nancy looked stricken.

  “Fine, thank you,” Nancy said icily. She turned to Dot. “Will you look at him, all cleaned up? I barely recognized him.”

  An awkward silence followed. The girl behind the counter watched with interest. Finally Kimble spoke.

  “How’s Moira?” he asked.

  “How dare you.” Nancy approached their table. “You broke her heart. How she’s doing is none of your business.”

  Ken crumpled his napkin into a ball; his half of the table was littered with crumbs. “Well, give her my best,” he said, perfectly calm.

  “You’ve got some nerve.” Nancy turned to Joan. “And you. Moira thought the world of you. She wanted to be just like you.”

  Joan’s throat closed. “She’s a wonderful
girl.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Joan?” said Nancy. “Are you so desperate for a man that”—she eyed Kimble—“anyone will do?”

  “You don’t understand.” Joan’s cheeks burned. “I wish you’d let me explain.”

  “I suppose I should thank you. My daughter was going to marry this schemer, for God’s sake. At least she got to see his true colors before it was too late.”

  Kimble rose and grasped Joan’s elbow. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait,” said Nancy. Her eyes met Joan’s. “Don’t worry about Moira. She’ll be just fine.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t know how you got mixed up with this gigolo, but if I were you, I’d worry about myself.”

  THEY RODE back to the house in silence. In the driveway Joan stepped out of the car.

  “I’m exhausted,” she said. “I’m going upstairs to lie down.”

  She went inside and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. As she reached the door, Kimble called her name. She turned; he was right behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders. They felt cool through the fabric of her blouse.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is it what Nancy said?”

  Joan’s heart raced. “It’s not just Nancy. The whole world thinks so. My brother. My aunt. Everyone.”

  “Everyone thinks what?”

  Her face felt very warm. “They think we’re lovers.”

  “Joan.” His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Which part bothers you? That people think we’re lovers? Or that we aren’t?”

  This isn’t happening, she thought as he bent and kissed her. He pulled her close and slipped his hands under her blouse.

  “Don’t,” she said faintly.

  “Why not?” His hands were cool and dry on her bare back; he slid them around front and placed them over her bra. “Because of this?” Gently he held her breasts, the warm, living left one, the cold, unyielding right.

  “Do you think I care?” he said. “Do you think it makes any difference?”

  He kissed her chastely, his lips cool. Behind the silicone her chest burned, the place where her breast had been.