Concrete Angel

by Patricia Abbott

  “It’s not so remarkable. Their generation is—was—prudish. Anyway, no children can imagine their parents having sex. Ask Christine. I bet she’d be shocked to know we have sex.” He paused. “That’s always been all right with us. Right? The sex part of it.”

  “Christine doesn’t know enough about sex to think about quantity. She’s immature in certain ways. Kids think adults do it only to have babies. In my parents’ case it was probably true.” Eve put the glass down and looked him right in the eye. “If you’re home, we have a lot of it, Hank. If we’re speaking to each other, if I’m not in the nuthouse or at my mother’s.” She felt generous giving him this. And what did she know about quantity or quality after only one man? She was almost embarrassed at that, in fact, knowing he surely had outdone her there.

  “Still, it’s a healthy amount.”

  Let him have this, she thought again. She hated that beard though. It’d have to come off. She could imagine the scratches on various areas of her body from the idiotic thing. But she couldn’t say anything right now. Reacquiring the upper hand would take some time.

  Dr. Cox thought it’d be a good idea for Mother to get a job.

  “What I could do?” she asked Daddy and me across the table at the Oak Ridge Country Club. “I didn’t finish college and can’t type worth a damn.”

  Dressed entirely in white, she was drinking champagne and eating lobster and a hearts of palm salad, both dripping with butter. It was nerve-wracking watching her eat greasy food in a white dress, but she was unconcerned—never doubting her ability to remain pristine. I kept my eye on the bottle of club soda on the waiters’ station but, as usual, she ate only a bite or two before putting down her fork. Just a taste to keep the waist, I remembered her saying once. I dug in.

  It was important to Daddy that we look nice. He’d approved my outfit grudgingly. I was skinny again, thanks to my months with Grandmother Hobart, but my exposed knees were scabbed from a fall off my new bike, and the dress Grandmother Moran sent over was too babyish for me. It looked like something Heidi might wear in the Alps.

  “Why don’t you come and work at the new stationery shop in Hatboro?” Daddy said smoothly. “A job there will keep you busy.”

  The Moran family had decided owning a shop where ordinary people could buy their new lines of lovely stationery, paper products, and wedding invitations was a good idea. Now was the right time for the family business to become more than an anonymous, if successful, factory operation in the backwoods of Bucks County. Retail was sexier in the new economy. Chic shops were replacing the pedestrian businesses of an earlier era. The new store had replaced one fixing irons, percolators, and toasters. Now people threw broken items away.

  “A fire hazard,” more than one advertisement warned. “Don’t risk electric shocks.”

  Even if our new shop didn’t turn a big profit, the Moran name would become more familiar to the general public. Daddy’s team of salesmen would have an easier time of it when they showed up on doorsteps. People would recognize the name before a salesman held out a business card.

  “You mean stand at a counter all day long ringing up sales. A saleswoman?”

  “Well, you’d be more like a designer. A decorator. Make recommendations on what items might look nice at a party. What weight and color of paper would be a good choice for a wedding invitation. What sort of font to use. You’d be terrific at it—with your great taste.” Daddy’s charm was turned on high, and I could feel its warmth; we were suffused with it within seconds. It was a rare demonstration of his salesmanship abilities, and it took us both by surprise.

  Mother looked more enthusiastic. “You don’t have a fulltime job in mind? I still have Christine—and other things.”

  I nodded quickly, always willing to back the myth she took care of me—that I was a fulltime job, a bit of a pest. It felt like little to ask, these small subterfuges. When had Daddy stuck by me? I put my fork down in alliance.

  He shook his head. “Nah. I was thinking of three afternoons a week. The girl I hired—Debbie—recently had a baby and wants to work part-time. It’ll work out all around.” He smile grew a little brighter—if such a thing was possible. I basked in the light, waiting for Mother to protest.

  “I might give it a try.”

  I was horrified. How could I possibly monitor her behavior from that distance? What new shenanigans would she introduce while I was stuck behind a desk at school? Or sitting and eating cookies at the kitchen table with Mrs. Murphy. Disasters had come about in such circumstances before. My grandmother’s watchful eye had not been enough. Strange men had tried to have their way with both of us.

  Mother, for her part, was probably already thinking about the personal fulfillment derived from offering advice to the ordinary town folks of Hatboro, setting a smart tone, being a style-maker. And having money in her pocket she didn’t have to beg from Daddy wouldn’t be half-bad. She didn’t give a thought to the cost her job would have on me. When had either of them stuck by me? I was alone.

  Eve’s employment at Moran’s in Hatboro began the next week. She saw Dr. Cox Tuesdays and Fridays, working afternoons the other days. The shop was not expected to generate huge revenues, so there was little pressure to make a lot of sales. As Daddy spelled out repeatedly, Moran’s Stationers was primarily to remind area businessmen that the family ran a successful printing business not ten miles away, a business that could take care of all their paper and printing needs—large or small.

  The shop was small but nicely appointed with cherry cabinetry and ceiling moldings and highly-glossed, wide-planked flooring. The name was inscribed in a wrought-iron font over the front door. A jaunty awning, in the same color as the logo on the letterhead, hung above. Shops hadn’t begun to pay much attention to their façades in Hatboro so Moran’s Stationer was a scene-stealer.

  “People will want to stop in if only to see the decor,” Hank told his wife with confidence.

  He’d come into his own as a businessman now, sitting on various planning commissions, foundations, and boards. It was his damned wife’s behavior that tripped him up. He must’ve wondered again, as he saw her hands gliding over the merchandise, whether employing his wife was a wise move.

  But things started out on a high note. Eve enjoyed giving advice to the newly engaged, to matrons planning parties, to anyone who asked for her help. She quickly became known in town and began to function as an early version of an event planner.

  All went well until she realized, inadvertently, she later said, that sales rung up as “no sale” could put pennies in her pocket. She was in the shop alone for hours at a time and if she wanted to pocket the odd five dollar bill, no one would know. If the inventory didn’t disappear too quickly, who would figure it out? It didn’t occur to her, or so she later claimed, she was robbing her husband and his family. It didn’t seem very different from taking an odd twenty from his wallet. More than fair when you considered the paltry salary he paid her. Actually, he was paying Debbie Knotts, a twenty-five-year old, more than his own wife.

  “When you’re the proprietor, you don’t take a big paycheck,” he explained more than once. “We are the recipients of the shop’s profits.”

  “Give me a seat on the board and perhaps I’ll think differently.”

  Eve’s past inability to understand the mechanics of making change had faded over the years. She understood the mechanics of money better now that an incentive for mastering it had been presented. High finance wouldn’t be her forte, but this sort of finagling was within her grasp.

  As she grew bolder, she’d sometimes write a large order for a prospective bride or a ladies’ group affair and pocket the entire payment, crumbling any trace of the paperwork once the job was complete. She didn’t do this often, understanding it would come to light if it was anything more than an infrequent stunt. As in the past, it was the little thefts she could most easily justify and live with. She didn’t crave a Cadillac, just crystal goblets.

  At home,
things were going well. No strange men were fondling her child, Adele was temporarily out of their daily lives, and Hank was coming home for dinner more often since Mrs. Murphy had returned. Eve’s “work” necessitated it. She was able to integrate a few of her nicer purchases, paid for by her inventive bookkeeping at Morans, into the household decor without Hank noticing. The rest went into storage.

  The boxes in the basement and garage continued to accumulate. A new storage unit on the edge of the city was secured and another of the little keys found itself onto her key ring. She took me along to stow the first load of boxes. It was impossible to believe she’d fill the unit, but she succeeded in less than two years. She’d brought a dolly with her and we struggled to unload the orange and white VW camper she’d borrowed from a neighbor.

  “Cute little place,” she said, on opening the door to the unit. She yanked a string and a sixty-watt bulb illuminated the room. “We could practically live in here, Christine.”

  There’d come a time when we spent a few days in such a storage unit in Burlington, New Jersey. We heard noises from other units there too. Apparently storage units actually hosted the multiple uses the brochure promised. The unit was made of aluminum and clattered as we tossed in her bounty.

  It’s hard to believe my father wouldn’t have known what would happen when he installed Mother in the Hatboro store. Maybe he thought she’d take some loose change from the cash register on occasion. Figured it’d be no worse than what happened with any unsupervised employee with access to the money. No worse than the sort of tricks she pulled at home. It’d keep her busy, and if her paycheck was small enough, it might all even out.

  It was Debbie Knotts who figured out such thefts were taking place and squealed. And because Mrs. Moran, Senior, happened to stop in the shop to pick up some stationery for a friend, it was she who was the recipient of the bad news.

  “I don’t like to tattle on Mrs. Moran, but I couldn’t take the chance I’d be blamed,” Debbie told Sophie Moran. “I can’t sleep at nights for worrying over it.”

  “She’d been gunning for me since Day One, Christine. I’d actually expected the old biddy to go through the books. I was so damned careful with the accounts but didn’t give Debbie Knotts a thought. From all signs, she was too preoccupied with her baby to pay much attention to me or the stock.”

  “Do you have any idea how much her thefts might amount to?” Sophie Moran finally asked the shaking stationery store clerk.

  Debbie shook her head. “Eve has kept track of the inventory for months.” She took a gulp of air. “The big printing job we did last month for the Harbisons never showed up on the books. I only noticed ‘cause—”

  “How much was the order?” My grandmother couldn’t wait to get to the point.

  “Nearly two hundred dollars. Invitations, place cards, cocktail napkins, some other stuff. I noticed another job from a few weeks earlier wasn’t on the books either. An order for the Southampton Garden Club—a small one for paper for their program and such—under twenty-five dollars. But it wasn’t entered in the books.” Debbie was wringing her hands with anxiety. “I feel awful. Eve being the boss’s wife and all.”

  Yes, Debbie was completely undone at this point, according to my grandmother, probably unsure about how this information would play out. Would she get in trouble for either squealing on Eve or for not noticing it earlier? Oh, it was fraught with dire possibilities. Debbie looked so white with terror my grandmother made her sit down. They both sat down, in fact, and went through the books together. Nothing stood out. But mother hadn’t doctored the books. She’d merely omitted an item here or there.

  “Have you noticed a loss of inventory?”

  Debbie shrugged. “Once or twice. An item I had my eye on as a gift once. Or something I was planning to recommend to a customer. But with the both of us selling things separately, it’s hard to know when something’s missing. The store’s not big, but it’s well-stocked.”

  My grandmother told Debbie she’d done the right thing and a big bonus would appear in her next paycheck.

  “That’s not necessary,” Debbie said sheepishly.

  “You’re going to find out how a loyal employee is treated by the Morans,” Sophie said. “You can advance in the business, you know. We have a growing operation…”

  “Three days a week works fine for me—with the baby and all,” Debbie said. “My mother can only look after the baby that often. I’m really a housewife. I don’t really want to—advance—right now.” She shook her head at the thought.

  Of course, Daddy went crazy when his mother, breathless with excitement, flew into his office and told him about his wife’s thefts.

  “Nobody thought having Eve at the shop would work out for long, Hank, but we didn’t imagine this. We should probably notify the bunko squad. Is that what they call it? But, of course, we can’t. It makes us look foolish—once again.”

  Still breathing hard, his mother sank into a chair, pretending or perhaps experiencing real grief at the circumstances. Certainly its consequences on the family disturbed her. She took a pocket fan from her pocketbook and began to fan her face.

  “We’re going to have to find a way to keep Debbie Knotts’ mouth shut.”

  She told him about Debbie’s refusal of a better job. “I think I handled it as well as I could. Linked it to her loyalty rather than the fact we wanted a lid kept on Eve’s activities.”

  “Deb’s twenty-five years old and wants a job for pin money,” he said. “But her husband’s a mechanic at the Sunoco station so things are probably tight.” He paused, thinking hard. “Maybe we can hire him to work in the factory. I’m sure I can beat whatever the station pays him.” They smiled simultaneously.

  Hank drove home immediately. Obviously it was not one of Eve’s days in the shop. The house was quiet as he opened the back door—Mrs. Murphy was out shopping perhaps. He took the back stairs two at a time and pushed open the door of his bedroom, wondering if his wife was still in bed.

  Eve was in bed all right. An ecru negligee lay crumpled on the floor. Mother was having her regular Tuesday session with Dr. Cox, and for the first time, it was between her much-disheveled robin’s egg blue sheets.

  Hank stood at the door silently for a few seconds before turning on his heel. He was not quiet enough, however, to avoid his wife’s ears.

  “Damn,” Eve said, nimbly hopping out of bed. “You never come home unexpectedly. It’s a goddamned thirty-minute drive. Hey, did you hear me?”

  She was yelling by now, hopping around with one slipper on as she looked for the other. Dr. Cox shrugged and rose wearily, the smell of sweat, sperm, deodorant, cologne, booze, and Eve hanging pungently in the air around him.

  “What’s up, Hank?” Eve shouted, still naked. “What brought you home? Look, it’s not what you think—” she said, ricocheting between which strategy to try. “What’s going on here with me and Dr. Cox.” She didn’t glance at her bedmate. “Is it something to do with Christine? Did the school call?” Hank had already fled down the steps. “Truly, this is unheard of,” Eve said, turning back to Dr. Cox. “I could count on one hand the times—”

  “Are you sure you hadn’t planned on this, Eve?” Doctor Cox broke in, calm, cold and reasonable as always. “Research suggests there are few true accidents in life. Only expressions of unconscious desires that appear to be accidents. I haven’t bought into Freud’s idea on this completely, but in this case…”

  He stood, his spent penis looking sticky and atrophied.

  She gave it an unavoidable look. “Keep your insights for our sessions,” she said, throwing the ecru negligee in his direction. But its light weight made reaching its target impossible, and it fell to the floor. They both dressed hurriedly.

  “You know it’s not at all unusual, Mr. Moran—or can I call you Hank,” Dr. Cox said, once Eve and he were dressed and in the kitchen. Hank had a bottle of Dewar’s in front of him. “Sexual activity between a doctor and a patient. Many therapists s
peak to the efficacy of ‘overt transference’ or the utilization of ‘sex’ in their treatment of patients. I warned Eve my role in the so-called ‘sexual relationship’ she sought would be in keeping with the acting out of ‘transference love’ rather than ‘romantic love.’”Eve snorted from her corner.

  “How considerate, Dr. Cox,” Hank said from his chair at the table. He hammered his fist on the table lightly and said, “So far I have been repeatedly unimpressed with the ethics and skill of your profession despite the necessity of using psychiatry again and again with poor Eve here.”

  “Fuck you,” Eve said softly.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Moran. It would’ve certainly been preferable to keep this interlude between doctor and patient a private affair.” He glanced over at his patient. “Eve assured me you rarely made trips home midday, so I assumed…”

  “He told me it meant nothing to him, Hank. And it meant less still to me.”

  Eve didn’t know why this information was relevant, but a workable strategy for calming Hank down had yet to occur to her. She looked over at Dick Cox, hoping for a way out of this

  “I guess you think you’re pretty funny, Eve,” Hank said, holding a half-empty glass of Scotch. “Imagining you could defuse the situation by denying it had any meaning?” His hand shook and some of the Scotch sloshed out. “Wait until I sue the pants off this bastard. We’ll see exactly how funny it all is. You didn’t sign anything, did you?” He glanced at Dr. Cox. “You didn’t make her put her request for sexual favors in writing, did you? And what about your part in this… escapade, Cox? Did you sign a waiver of some sort and file it with your attorney? Do you maintain a file on patients who sleep with you? Do you offer a discount or do you charge more?” He took a large sip of the Scotch and winced.