Mrs. Kimble

by Jennifer Haigh

  Brendan stepped back and eyed the tree.

  “You’re right,” he said finally. The smile cracked open, a glorious flash of silver and light. Dinah’s throat tightened. “It’s a pretty handsome tree.”

  They hauled the Brendan tree to the cashier. A man in a parka buzzed the stem with a power saw. “Fresh cut,” he said. “Takes up more water.”

  Dinah reached for her wallet. A familiar voice called her name.

  “Whoa,” said Wayne Day. “That’s a monster you’ve got there.”

  “Wayne. What are you doing here?” It was odd to see him off the court, his sinewy limbs hidden by street clothes. He wore the same corduroy jacket as Brendan, though Wayne’s was old and worn and Brendan’s was stiff and new.

  “I’ve got my sister’s kids,” said Wayne. Over his shoulder Dinah saw the two little girls, laughing and racing through the rows of Christmas trees. He turned to Brendan. “Nice jacket,” he said, offering his hand.

  To her surprise Brendan smiled again, the same brilliant flash of silver. “Hey,” he said, shaking hands. Years after he’d quit the club’s juniors tennis team, Brendan admitted that for a coach, Wayne wasn’t an asshole.

  Wayne eyed the Brendan tree, lying like a fallen soldier. “You need some help with that thing? I’ve got rope in my truck.”

  “That’s okay,” Dinah started to stay, but Brendan interrupted.

  “Cool,” he said. “You can take Mom’s end.”

  She watched them carry the tree to the car. Brendan covered the roof with an old sheet from the trunk; then, together, they hefted the tree. Wayne ran a rope through the open windows and wrapped it several times around the tree. He cut the rope with a pocketknife and wiped his hands on his jeans.

  “Don’t drive too fast,” he told Dinah. “Up to fifty you’ll be fine. Beyond that I can’t guarantee.”

  “Thanks,” said Dinah. He needed a shave; the skin of his throat looked rough and warm. A cloud of breath floated from his mouth.

  “We should get home,” she said. “Ken is waiting to put up the lights.”

  His eyes scanned her face. She’d put on makeup, knowing Ken would be waiting for them back at the house.

  “I like you better the other way,” he said. Without warning he bent and kissed her cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

  WHEN THEY pulled into the driveway, the house was dark.

  “Your dad was supposed to be home,” said Dinah. “To hang the lights.” Her voice broke; she felt Brendan’s stare. She never criticized Ken to him, never let Brendan say a word against his father. This time something caught in her. Tears burned behind her eyes.

  Brendan reached for her hand. “It’s all right, Mom. I can hang them.” He stepped out of the car and began to untie the rope. “We’ll manage without him.”

  They dragged the tree across the threshold and into the living room, leaving a trail of pine needles. In the hallway stood boxes of ornaments that Dinah had brought down from the attic.

  “Where’s the stand?” said Brendan. He rooted through a box and found it, the same painted metal one Dinah’s father had used. Dinah held the tree upright while Brendan screwed the hooks into the base of the tree. It was a slow process, requiring many small adjustments, but he didn’t seem to mind. He whistled softly under his breath.

  “Done,” he said finally. They stepped back to admire the tree.

  “Carols,” said Brendan. “We forgot the carols.”

  Dinah located the record in a box of tinsel. The year before she’d bought a copy on compact disc, but she missed the slow skip of the needle, the gentle static. “ ‘O come all ye faithful,’ ” Perry Como crooned. “ ‘Joyful and triumphant.’ ” Dinah hummed along with the record. Brendan rooted through another box for the Christmas lights. The telephone rang.

  That bastard, she thought. He’s not coming.

  “Your dad,” she said. “Probably stuck in traffic.” She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  The line crackled. Loudspeaker voices droned in the background. She watched Brendan on the living room floor, patiently untangling a mess of wires.

  “Ken?” she said. “Where are you?”

  “At the airport.” He sounded rushed, distracted. “I know this is short notice, but—”

  “The airport?”

  Brendan looked up sharply.

  “I have to go to Florida,” he said. Voices hummed around him; in the distance, a baby cried. “It’s these deadbeat Cuban tenants. My property manager has been trying to evict them, but they won’t budge. We have to go to court.”

  “Florida,” Dinah repeated.

  “Just for a couple of days. Look, they’re calling my flight; I have to go. I’ll call you when I get there.”

  “Where are you staying?” she asked, but it was too late. He’d already hung up the phone.

  The next day the phone rang three times. The first caller was Brendan’s friend Sean Guthrie, inviting him to play a new computer game. The second, a woman named Charmaine Watkins, looking for Ken. The third, a receptionist in the dermatology department at Georgetown Medical Center, reminding Dinah of her upcoming appointment. Ken had scheduled it for her a few weeks ago, a consultation about the new procedure.

  The following day it rang twice. A reporter from the Washington Post, hoping to interview Ken. Another call from Charmaine Watkins.

  The third day it didn’t ring at all.

  Season’s greetings, Dinah wrote. Warmest wishes this New Year. Ken, Dinah, and Brendan Kimble. Her hand shook as she wrote their names. Ken had been gone for four days.

  At first she’d been furious, then concerned; she’d imagined him collapsed in an airport, his heart seizing in a crowded airplane. Finally she’d called the police.

  “My husband has disappeared,” she said. “He has a history of heart disease. I’m afraid something has happened to him.”

  The sergeant hammered her with questions. Were there marital problems? Had her husband done this sort of thing before?

  “No,” she’d answered calmly. “Of course not. Never before.”

  She sealed the envelope. Ken considered it ridiculous to write cards by hand—he said preprinted ones were easier and classier—but Dinah insisted; it was her favorite part of the holidays. One by one she crossed the names off her list: distant cousins, coworkers from her days at Emile’s, a few of Ken’s business associates. He had no living relatives, other than his children; his only friends were couples they both knew. In all their years of marriage, he’d never sent a Christmas card to Florida, let alone gone back for a visit. Dinah knew he owned property there—a time-share condo in Orlando, apartments near a golf course in Palm Beach—but never before had he mentioned any tenants.

  She tucked the cards into her gym bag, to mail on her way to the club. She pulled a jacket over her tennis whites and was halfway out the door when the phone rang. It’s about goddamn time, she thought. She grabbed the phone.

  “Miz Kimble?” said a woman’s voice. “This is Valerie Clark.”

  “Val.” She took a deep breath. Surely Ken’s secretary would know how to reach him. “What’s up?”

  Val hesitated. “Do you have a number where I can reach Mr. Kimble? We got a situation here…” Her voice trailed off. “I’m not sure how to handle it.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” said Dinah. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  Val lowered her voice. “Miz Kimble, there’s two gentlemen here. From the Department of Housing and Urban Development. They’re asking a lot of questions. I think Mr. Kimble’s in some kind of trouble.”

  “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

  “They want to see all the financial records. All the way back to eighty-nine. At first I said no, but I don’t see as how I have any choice.”

  “Financial records,” Dinah repeated. She stared out the window, at the white sky threatening snow.

  “If Mr. Kimble calls, tell him I need to talk to him right away,” said Val. “Tell him it�
�s an emergency.”

  “Of course.” Dinah’s heart raced. “Val, that Charmaine Watkins keeps calling the house. Do you know what she wants?” She heard voices in the background. “Val, are you still there?”

  “Miz Kimble, I got to go.” Again Val lowered her voice. “About that Charmaine Watkins. She’s been after Mr. Kimble for weeks now. He told me not to talk to her. He said she just want to make trouble for him.”

  She hung up the phone.

  THAT AFTERNOON Dinah sat on the living room floor with a cup of coffee, wrapping Christmas presents and listening for Sean Guthrie’s Jeep in the driveway. The snow had begun to fly. She wished she’d gone to pick up Brendan herself.

  There was nothing to be done. She’d considered, briefly, going downtown to see the HUD people herself, but realized she had nothing to say. She knew little about the Homes Project beyond what she’d told Charlie at Thanksgiving. It’s a terrific project. He doesn’t make a dime off of it. For the first time she wondered if this were true.

  Ken still had money. For a man who no longer took a salary or commissions, he had expensive tastes: exquisite clothes, a new Lincoln every year. He spent as freely as he ever had, and encouraged her to do the same. When she hesitated over a large purchase—Brendan’s computer, furniture for the guest room—he seemed almost offended. “I’m your husband, Dinah,” he’d say. “I’ve always provided for you.” He had an inheritance from his second wife, some successful investments. He did their taxes himself, with the help of an accountant. Dinah’s only contribution was signing the return.

  They want to see all the financial records. I think Mr. Kimble’s in some kind of trouble.

  Dinah measured a length of wrapping paper and set to work on the presents. Clothes and books for Brendan, though he would have preferred computer games. Ken was difficult to buy for; he had no hobbies and liked choosing his own clothes. She thought of his elegant shirts, expensively custom-made by a downtown tailor. He’d left them all behind. He’d worn a pinstriped suit the day he left; it was the only thing missing from their bedroom closet.

  He’d always been fastidious. She tried to imagine him in Florida wearing the same pants day after day, washing his underwear in a hotel sink. He’d have to send his shirt out every night to be cleaned. He was prone to food stains at the cuffs; in summer, armpit circles, dark stains beneath the collar. Florida would be warm in December. Ken had told her once that he and Joan had barbecued on Christmas.

  She put down her coffee and went upstairs.

  Ken kept two distinct wardrobes: dark wool suits for fall and winter, linen for summer and spring. The winter clothes he kept in their bedroom; the out-of-season ones, in the guest-room closet.

  She went into the guest room, opened the walk-in closet and flipped on the light.

  His summer suits and white bucks, his linen trousers and patterned sport shirts were gone.

  Charlie hadn’t always hated Christmas. As a boy, when his grandma Helen was still alive, he’d loved the weeks of preparation, the baking of gingerbread, the occasional, magical appearance of snow. After her death there was no more baking, no more carols; his mother didn’t bother with a Christmas tree. She drank more around the holidays; if they were lucky she’d forget the day altogether. That way Charlie could eat dinner with Terence Mabry’s family. If Birdie remembered it was Christmas, she’d make him stay at home.

  The Mabrys had rabbit stew on Christmas Eve, venison if Terence’s father had gotten a deer that year. They had buttered turnips, collards cooked with bacon, a sweet potato pie for dessert. Always under the tree would be a small gift for Charlie, mittens or a scarf. Maple, Terence’s stepmother, was an industrious knitter; Terence had more sweaters than he knew what to do with. After dinner Charlie walked home with a good feeling. Then, at home, Jody would be waiting for him on the stoop; their mother would be passed out drunk in the bedroom. He’d hide his new mittens in his coat pocket, ashamed he’d gotten a gift.

  As an adult he’d tried other ways of getting through Christmas—twice he and Anne-Sophie had spent it in Bermuda—but guilt pulled him back to the house in Montford, to his mother and sister. There, the holiday unfolded the way it always had. His mother still drank; he still tried to sneak away for a visit to the Mabrys. There was only one difference.

  Now, when Christmas was over, Charlie was allowed to leave.

  ON THE EVENING of December twenty-third, he packed his overnight bag: clean shirt, socks and underwear, a carton of cigarettes. Until now he’d bought only packs; the carton was an admission of defeat. He packed aspirin, toothpaste, soap. These were things you couldn’t count on Birdie to have.

  His pulse quickened when the phone rang. Anne-Sophie, he thought; perhaps she’d left something behind. He’d found one of her cookbooks on his shelf, a hair clip between the cushions of the sofa. They didn’t seem like things she’d come back for.

  He picked up the phone.

  “Charlie,” said a voice. “It’s Dinah. I know it’s the last minute, but would you like to join us for Christmas dinner?”

  Dinah: Ken Kimble’s wife. After the Thanksgiving fiasco, he figured he’d never hear from her again.

  “That’s nice of you,” he said. “Does—” He broke off. “Does your husband know you’re inviting me?”

  “He’s out of town.”

  “For Christmas?” A bell rang downstairs: the frozen dinner he’d heated in the microwave.

  “It’s a long story.” She paused. “Will you come?”

  “I can’t.” He zipped his overnight bag. “I have plans. I’m going to my mother’s.”

  “How nice. Wish her a Merry Christmas from me.”

  Like hell I will, he thought. He had no intention of mentioning Ken Kimble to his mother, let alone the man’s new wife.

  “Brendan enjoyed meeting you,” said Dinah.

  “He did?” For some reason this pleased him. “I liked him too. He’s a good kid.”

  “Thanks.” She seemed reluctant to hang up the phone.

  “Okay then,” she said finally. “Give my best to Anne-Sophie.”

  “She’s gone.” He hadn’t told any of his friends, only his sister. Why he felt the urge to tell Kimble’s wife, he couldn’t begin to explain.

  “We broke up,” he said. “She moved out last weekend.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Dinah.

  “Thanks.”

  A long pause, the wire humming between them.

  “Well, Merry Christmas to you,” said Charlie.

  He hung up the phone. The house was deathly quiet. A bare branch rattled against the windowpane. Out of town, Charlie thought. What kind of man leaves his wife and kid alone on Christmas?

  He went to the kitchen for his frozen dinner and ate in front of the television. When he’d first met Anne-Sophie, this habit had shocked her; after she moved in, they always ate together in the kitchen, a candle on the table between them. Now she’d taken the table with her, the queen-size bed they’d bought together. Charlie kept the stereo and television, the couch, the barbecue grill. They’d agreed easily about who would keep what. They had never wanted the same things.

  HE DROVE to his mother’s the day before Christmas. Other years he’d stopped to pick up Jody, but this time they took separate cars. Jody would stay in Montford until New Year’s Day, or until Birdie drove her crazy and she left in a huff. When that happened—and it happened nearly every year—Charlie wanted to be as far away as possible.

  It was late morning when he turned off the highway, the wan sky streaked with high clouds. He passed frozen fields, barns and houses, chimneys billowing smoke. In summer the fields would green, rise with corn, snow over with cotton. Now, in the low light, he saw only dirty golds, gradations of brown.

  The house—his grandfather’s house—was set back from the road, at the end of a dirt path that cut through a forest. Charlie nearly missed the turn. The path was overgrown, narrower than he remembered, shrunken by time. The house stood large and cockeyed,
needing paint; bare wood showed through in places, exposed to the damp. A shutter dangled from an upstairs window; it seemed to Charlie the old place was winking at him. When his grandfather was alive, he’d trimmed the shrubs to resemble sheep and rabbits. Since his death the hedge had grown in, forming a solid wall around the house.

  He parked in the bare patch behind the house and walked around to the front, stopping to examine the trunk of a poplar. The tree was dead, struck by lightning the previous summer. He’d sent money to have it chopped down, but his mother refused to have strange workmen around, minding her business. He was staring at the tree when Birdie appeared on the porch.

  “Charlie?” She patted her hair, slightly matted on one side. “Is it really you?” Her voice was clear and breathless, a love-struck ingenue from the matinees of her youth.

  Of course it’s me, he thought. Didn’t I call and tell you I was coming?

  She crossed the porch toward him, arms outstretched. She wore an old barn jacket over a faded housedress.

  “Where are your shoes?” he asked.

  “For goodness’ sake! I must have left them inside.” She stepped down from the porch and picked through the frozen grass in her bare feet. She tilted her head, like a girl offering her cheek for a kiss.

  “Hi, Mama,” said Charlie. Her face was downy and slightly sticky. She smelled of hairspray and something dark and musky, onions perhaps. Her face looked freshly painted: rouge, eye shadow, a round bright mouth like a child’s drawing of a flower.

  “Merry Christmas!” she chirped. “Merry, merry, merry! Come inside. I have a surprise for you.” She took his hand, her nails digging into the flesh of his palm. The porch steps creaked under their weight.

  “How you been, Mama?”

  “Marvelous. I feel marvelous.” She led him through the musty parlor, unchanged from his boyhood; probably uncleaned too. Heavy brocade curtains soaked up the light; thin rugs, worn bare in places, covered the floors. A long crack bisected the plaster wall, a jagged diagonal from floor to ceiling.