Concrete Angel

by Patricia Abbott

  “Eve seeing another doctor?”

  “Of course not. She’s the picture of health this spring. Put on a pound or two.” A large harrumph followed this statement, leading Daddy to believe someone advised the doctor otherwise.

  “Doylestown’s a small town. The idea your mother’s months in a sanitarium would go unnoticed was foolish,” Daddy admitted later.

  Mother continued to be bitter about her incarceration. Aside from the curtailment of her shopping, not one family member visited her after the first two weeks. Her father hadn’t come to see her at all.

  “You know your father,” my grandmother tried to explain to her. “A place like that—well, you know.”

  Eve came home to find Hank’s sister, Linda, waiting on the front porch when they pulled up, waving limply at the couple with a lace handkerchief.

  “Welcome, home,” Linda said, stationed in the rocking chair with the best view. Her voice was high-pitched, reminding me when I came along later, of Helen Keller.

  “What am I supposed to do with her around all day?” Eve asked as soon as it was clear Linda was ensconced for an undetermined period of time in their spare bedroom. She stood at the door of the room, looking menacingly at the homey touches Linda had already made: crocheted quilts, lace doilies, a large porcelain doll that hid her nightgown under its profuse skirt on the bed.

  “The plaid bedspread has to go. I can’t bear to pass the room.” She took Linda’s vase of plastic flowers and overturned it into the wastepaper basket, letting the cheap dime store vase fall in, too. “She’ll have to keep the door closed. It disrupts the entire décor.”

  “None of this is permanent,” Hank said. “You have to expect Linda to make herself comfortable. She’s doing us a favor.”

  “Ha! Doing you a favor.”

  He retrieved the flowers and vase from the wastepaper basket and reinstalled them on the bureau top. “Is this handful of silk daisies so offensive? You have crates of stuff like this, don’t you?”

  “Which goes to show how much attention you pay to my taste.”

  The boxes filled with this sort of accessories—remnants of earlier days—were taped shut in the Hobart basement; she hadn’t opened them in months. Eve moved with the times. Her taste was not immutable.

  “Yes, but this is Linda’s room for now.”

  “Temporary houseguests don’t usually get to redecorate.” Eve flung open the closet door, doubtlessly wincing at both the number and choice of clothes inside. “You can hardly close the door.” The closet already reeked of some flowery scent. She held her nose. “She wears the same perfume as your mother.”

  Linda Moran, Hank’s younger sister, was short, squat, sedentary—a throwback in a family of tall, energetic people. When I came to know her a few years later, she’d already arrived at spinsterhood—feet first and with little resentment.

  “We don’t have a damned thing to say to each other,” Mother said, continuing the discussion over the next few days. “And it’s not like she does anything to help. Linda can’t cook any better than me. She talks on the phone to your mother most of the day. Never-ending conferences about the most minute details of their lives. ‘What shall I wear to the ladies’ tea, Mother?’” Eve mimicked her sister-in-law’s voice. “Do you think my lavender shirtwaist will do? Shall I wear my pearls or the gold cross?”

  Eve had her elbow propped on the window sill and was watching her sister-in-law on the porch below. Linda was gazing at the street traffic from the aqua glider, her foot making it move every few seconds, a glass of lemonade beside her. “Look at her, Hanky—already out there at eight-thirty in the morning. She’s twenty-eight years old and acts ninety.”

  “She’s here to make sure your convalescence goes smoothly,” Hank said, trying to soothe his wife. “The sanitarium didn’t want to release you. I assured Dr. Doakes we’d have someone here with you. Would you rather spend another month or two at The Terraces?”

  “You could’ve signed me out of the loony bin any time you wanted. Don’t try to pin it on them. Your role in my incarceration is considerable. Don’t think I’ll forget that.”

  Nearly all of the residents at The Terraces had a story like Eve’s to tell—some husband or father or brother or mother who’d signed the commitment papers with impunity. Long evenings there had been whiled away listening to such stories. “Committal tales” someone had named them.

  “I had to rely on the doctors’ evaluations, Eve,” Daddy said. “Isn’t it better coming home early, even if Linda has to stick around for a few weeks?”

  “A close call,” Eve said, smiling slightly. “Doakes wanted to keep me there forever. Bleeding you dry while I did jigsaw puzzles with my drippy O.T. guy. Waiting on pins and needles to see how soon he’d slide his hand up my dress again.” She made a face.

  “You invented that, Evelyn Moran.”

  Ignoring him, she went on. “And using the word ‘companion’ implies Linda and I do things together. Me and Tubbylinda.” She sat on the bed, contemplating another hour of sleep. What else was there to do?

  “Look, bear with me till things get straightened out. I have a lot on my plate.”

  “But not as much as your sister has on hers.”

  Hank was working a dab of Brill Cream into his hair. He raked both sides of his head a final time and wiped his hands.

  “Don’t call her Tubbylinda again,” he said, choking back a laugh. “I’ll slip and call her that myself.” His face became a mask at he looked critically in the mirror. “I wonder how I’d look with a mustache.”

  “Hideous. Only Clark Gable got away with a moustache when they were out of style.” She stretched.” Straightened out how?”

  Mother was probably feeling headachy was, in fact, hung-over. Lately, they’d both been drinking too much. Hank had come home the night before with an orange liqueur a client gave him, and they put a good dent in it after the red wine they’d had with dinner and the martini still earlier. Since alcoholism was not deemed one of Eve’s problems, no prohibition had been placed on her social drinking.

  “Boredom drinking,” she often told me.

  She only drank when Hank was home. Although if he worked late, she often began without him. And mostly, he did stay at the office fairly late. She’d discovered it was surprisingly easy to make your own cocktail and to drink it alone. Easy also to have a second one when Hank was out even later.

  Linda had not joined them in their alcohol consumption the night before, of course, looking on with disapproval and a strawberry ice cream soda in her hand. Hank brought it home from the Doylestown soda shop, flourishing it like flowers. She actually blushed. “Oh Hank,” she started to say.

  “You know those calories go right on your hips,” Eve said, jutting out a boney one.

  Hank sighed loudly, and Linda walked into her bedroom. The sound of her blaring TV was a reminder of her presence though. She liked the sort of goofy shows my mother couldn’t tolerate.

  “The Beverly Hillbillies, McHale’s Navy. You can imagine her favorites, Christine.”

  Eve could sleep as long as she wanted. Eleven or twelve hours a night was not unheard of. Sleeping in became a habit in the nuthouse where rest was considered therapeutic. And it gave the staff time to put up their feet.

  But if she returned to bed now, she remembered, she’d have to get up all over again, waking once more to the long and boring day ahead, the hours to wait until cocktails. An endless sentence of shopping-free days or else she’d be booted back from whence she came. I imagine none of this was particularly palatable to my mother.

  “Why do you have to be gone such long hours,” she’d asked her husband. “You’re the boss, right?”

  “You know what I mean, Eve.” Hank’s voice now was low, and she turned to him with surprise. What he meant about what? Was she missing bits and pieces of what people said? Had the few times she’d taken Thorazine done some damage. She’d entirely forgotten the subject under discussion.

  “
She’ll stay until things are back on an even keel.”

  He was still talking about Linda. Good grief! Maybe he was obsessed with his sister. This hadn’t occurred to her before. Obsessed with Tubbylinda? What had their childhood been like? Was she being crazy? Too much time spent with shrinks and you started thinking like them. Something sexual, a deviant act, explained everything. No one completed childhood unscathed according to them.

  Hank began knotting his tie. “We became used to having things a certain way around here: Mrs. Murphy, Linda, and me. Our days went smoothly, and I’m not inclined to make any big changes right now. We’ll ease you in…”

  “Linda stayed here while I was gone?” Eve was appalled, more suspicious now of some sort of incestuous liaison. “I thought she’d moved in right before I came home.”

  He shook his head, his eyes averted.

  So Linda had insinuated herself here weeks ago, perhaps taking her place in his life if not his bed.

  “Well, a fine scene you paint, Hank. An even keel? They wouldn’t have released me if I wasn’t fit for society. Ease me in indeed!” Her eyes glittered. “You’ve destroyed all the charge plates, hid the checkbooks. What could I possibly do to embarrass you now that I’m a prisoner in your house? It’s two miles into town, and this hillbilly place has no bus system.” She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. “Life went smoothly with you and Linda, huh? It’s me that turns things topsy-turvy.”

  “Take it easy, will you.” A band of sweat stretched across his forehead. “Linda’s only here for a week or two.” He frowned and undid his tie. “She’s a good-hearted girl. Not a mean bone in her body. She can be on the lookout for trouble.”

  “Trouble? You keep saying that word. Do you think I’m about to kill myself, Hank? Is it my health that concerns you or my spending money? Maybe I’ll smuggle in the Cartier diamond? Is that what this is really about? I can guarantee you I won’t do either.” She crossed the room and stood behind him. “I’ll wear tattered old nightgowns like this one,” she gestured to her flawless blue silk gown, “for the rest of my life if you send your sister home. I won’t shop at all. I swear to God, she gives me the creeps. She and your mother watch Edge of Night together, playing out every scene over the phone. It’s ridiculous she’s minding me. She’s a nutcase herself.”

  “Linda’s bored, Eve. She’s never known what to do with herself. Not when she was a kid nor later. Dad should’ve worked her into the business—given her a position.” He said this under his breath, giving Eve a sidelong glance, finally getting the knot in his tie done properly. “Have some sympathy. She doesn’t have your looks or brains. Linda may not ever have a life of her own. We have an aunt who’s lived with her sister and her family her whole life.”

  I could well imagine my mother shriveling at that remark.

  “Christ! Some sort of Moran family custom? Linda can’t have my life or live with us forever if that’s what she’s expecting.” She was probably shouting by then, confirming his idea she needed a companion. “Having a ton of money won’t hurt her chances of finding a man. If she’d get a handle on her weight, she’d be the catch of the season. Some man will eventually see past the fat to her bankbook anyway. I can help her out. Give her some advice.” She paused. “But from a distance, Hank. Not from under my feet.”

  “Did that happen with us? Did you get the catch of the season?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re handsome, fun, smart. I fell for you before I knew you were anything more than the average neighborhood hoodlum.”

  Hank smiled. “Who’s to say I wasn’t?”

  Eve had handed out her allotment of compliments for the morning and let his comment drop, returning to the subject of Linda. “What will we talk about today? Give me an idea, at least.” There was real panic in her voice. “The dinner menu? What Sissie Burt is up to at the Country Club?”

  She flounced over to her mirror and began running a brush through her hair. It was a heavy silver brush she’d picked up in Charleston. She’d actually paid for this item—she told me that when I admired it years later. The bristles were thick and soft on her scalp. Good quality was worth the price. There’d be no going back to bed now. Her hair was brushed and she was fully awake.

  “I wonder if Mrs. Murphy has my breakfast ready.” She smelled only coffee, but Linda looked well-fed. Maybe there’d be French toast. That was the best thing about breakfast. Desserts counted as an entrée.

  “Goodness knows, you could both take some interest in managing this household.” Hank was still going on. “Cooking, cleaning, making a home. With two healthy adult women with nothing to do all day, why am I paying a housekeeper?”

  “Because Mrs. Murphy’s a good cook and keeps the house immaculately clean. And your sister hasn’t held a dust cloth in her fat hands in her life. If you take Mrs. Murphy away from me, I swear I’ll leave,” Eve said tearfully. “At least she’s someone to talk to. Why can’t she look after me if that’s what we’re going to call it?”

  Yesterday, she’d convinced Mrs. Murphy to pick up a few things for her in town. “I’ll reimburse you when I get my allowance,” she told the older woman, their eyes locked.

  “Oh, of course, she can stay. I couldn’t go long without her potato pancakes,” Hank said, slipping his jacket on. It was a pinstriped suit he rarely wore. He didn’t usually put on a suit to go to the plant, preferring to seem to fit in with his workers. “I like to eat as much as the next man.”

  “A meeting today?” She brushed some imaginary lint from his shoulder.

  He glanced down at his shoulder, nodding. “Princeton. The University, in fact. I may pick up some new business if things go well. Can you imagine the increase in revenue if we get our foot in their door?”

  He was ready to leave, shaking her and her troubles off, his mind on his future sales pitch. This would always be my father’s tactics, work made his troubles at home seem minor.

  “Such ambition so early in the morning.” Mother yawned. “Go ahead,” she said, dismissing him. “It would’ve been nice if you’d let me sleep in though. What a long day I’ll have now. And with your sister and this heat…”

  Cocktail hour was a long way off.

  Mother only “shopped” once or twice in those first few weeks. She’d call a store in town, ask them to send something out to the house, and bill the item to Hank’s account.

  “I misplaced my card,” she told the clerk on the phone, “and I need a new pair of short, beige kidskin gloves. Could you send me out a pair in size seven?”

  Sounding authoritative—like she did this sort of thing all the time—probably greased the transaction. The Moran family was too well regarded to refuse her. My father hadn’t thought to call the stores and warn them off. He hadn’t thought beyond her previous activities, probably assuming she was only capable of repeating herself. Hardships spurred my mother on, led to creativity and innovation.

  “Don’t you want to try them on first?” the woman on the phone asked. “Sometimes the length isn’t right. Or the color. Beige can be kind of peculiar. It can be tan or ochre or…”

  “Look, I’m not particular. Plus, I’m not well at the moment,” Mother said, cutting her off.

  And Mother wasn’t fussy. She liked the excitement of having nice things arrive, of stowing them away, having them as protection against—well, Mother wasn’t sure what. Excess was what did her in at The Terraces, and she wouldn’t repeat her mistake. When the gloves arrived in a darling box with mauve ribbon two days later, Linda watched enviously as Eve opened the box, allowing the ribbon to fall on the floor.

  “I could wear this ribbon in my hair,” Linda said, swooping to retrieve it and draping it across her head. “What do you think?”

  Her sister-in-law didn’t dignify her suggestion with a response. Linda already gave the impression she was a character from a children’s book—the barnyard pig dressed in human clothes. The mauve ribbon accentuated it.

  “Oh, isn’t it nice of someone
to send me these gloves,” Eve lied. “Beige is an unusual color choice, but I do have a beaver coat.” She handed the gloves over to Linda to admire, recovering the ribbon in one swift movement.

  “When will you wear them?” Linda asked, stroking the leather enviously. “It’s still summer. It’ll be months before you need leather gloves.” She made as if to pull them on her chubby hands.

  “Oh, that’s not the point, Linda,” Eve said, grabbing them. “It’s nice to think someone thought of me. Wanted me to have something pretty.”

  She stared at the box, probably wondering who that someone might be—not having thought ahead to the probability of Linda being on the spot to witness the packages’ arrival. That an explanation would be in order.

  “My mother, I guess.” There was no card, of course.

  “Of course,” Linda said agreeably. “I didn’t see a card, did you?” She scrambled through the tissue paper. “What a lovely present to receive out of the blue. Certainly brightens the day.”

  Linda actually seemed pleased. It was like The Terraces again. People taking pleasure in someone else’s gift. She didn’t get it herself.

  Later she told me, “And for a moment, I liked my sister-in-law because it honestly seemed like that to me too. Like maybe my fairy godmother sent the gloves. Do you see how I felt, Christine? Of course, my real mother would never have done such a thing.”

  The arrival of the jaunty little truck with the store’s name in gilt letters was enough to raise Eve’s spirits. She loved watching the uniformed men trot to her door and ring the bell, loved signing the slip with her ornate initials.

  A leather handbag arrived two days later (“my best friend from college”) and a set of demitasse cups a week later (“Mother again, she shouldn’t have.”) Eve realized at some point how few people might send her gifts, which must have made her all the sorrier for herself and led to another round of purchases.

  “I can’t imagine someone I haven’t seen for years sending me a handbag that must have cost fifty dollars,” Linda had said, eyeing the soft brown leather envyingly. “How did she know you were hospitalized? It’s an odd present for convalescence. You could use something to do with yourself. Like a crossword puzzle book or a jigsaw puzzle. Maybe a good novel.”