The Crawford Affair: a literary novel in three parts (Book 1)

by M. R. Adams

  “Oh. My. God.”

  Booooooooiiiiiing.

  Claire looked around at Eliza who looked over at her and smiled. She had actually been able to forget they weren’t alone. For a while.

  “An abortion?” mouthed Jessica, but the faintest whispers of sound left her mouth, which made Claire once again look around to Eliza, who was looking into the sky.

  Jessica turned, following Claire’s gaze to Eliza, then Eliza’s gaze to a cloud, sunlight streaming in beams around the edges of a hole. The hole seemed so round; so smooth; so deliberate. Returning to earth, and thinking it time for a break in their pastime, she placed the bow on her lap and said:

  “Eliza.”

  Eliza left the clouds.

  “Why don’t you help Maria get that last stray arrow while she gets the one before that?”

  “Oh, you’re right,” said Eliza, scrambling to her feet and heading out past the targets.

  “She shoots arrows like she’s hitting baseballs,” said Jessica. She returned to Claire: “Does Stephen know?”

  “Of course not,” said Claire, playing with the hem of her flower dress. “He’d never speak to me again. He would just forget me and move on.”

  Jessica wasn’t sure how to garner up any more concern. A lot of girls, and not just the poor ones, needed a situation fixed. She nodded.

  Claire, looking to her, said: “Have you ever done anything like this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many times?”

  “Just once. Maybe twice.” Come to think, she’d been feeling queasy lately. Ugh. A mulatto Cleeson: when flying pigs shot out of a freezing hell.

  “How could you never tell?” she said with mock offense. “Do I know him?”

  “Uh, no. He wasn’t from school. It wasn’t a big deal…I mean: I wasn’t in love…so it…” She was rambling. She looked out to see Eliza chatting with Maria.

  “Why do you think he hasn’t stopped by?” said Claire.

  “Stephen? I don’t know.” Jessica sighed. She had no reason to be tense. She had never faced judgment from Claire before and this time was no different. Maybe, she had thought, now that they were adults with adult problems, that–

  “I’ve been back for days. I told him today.”

  Eliza returned past the haystacks. Limply.

  “You have a point. His actions are quite unenthused,” said Jessica.

  “Exactly.” Claire looked over Jessica’s shoulder. “I know I messed up. I panicked. But he could give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Maybe he’s planning to re-propose?”

  “You think?” Claire bit her lip.

  “Sorry that took so long,” said Eliza.

  “You didn’t have to rush,” said Jessica.

  “I know. I just didn’t want to hold everyone up.” She picked her bow back up.

  Jessica examined Eliza: So eager. Spacey. Aloof–in her head. She was a fifteen-year-old in the body of a thirty-seven-year-old–particularly with the deep forehead wrinkles–and some how that equaled twenty-six. Actually, it averaged.

  “Aren’t you the sweetest?” said Claire, raising her bow and arrow…pulling…and releasing...nothing but hay. Jessica resisted a smirk. Claire deserved that: getting smug to compensate for deep inner shame.

  Jessica took her own turn. Hay as well. And she deserved that for being smug about a friend becoming smug. When they were alone, she’d have to do a much better job at feigning concern. Sure, she understood–

  Booooiiiiiiing.

  She wouldn’t look. It would just be rude at this point. And clearly, Claire agreed for she reached down, eyes averted, to get another arrow.

  Sure, she understood Claire had the whole squeaky clean thing going, but they were graduated, and how many people got to have their abortions in foreign countries instead of slinking into clinics hoping no one recognized? She had to fake an intern review in the city just to get hers, and even then the doctor seemed suspicious, a widening of the eyes when he saw her–a streak of recognition? For all she knew, he had called Grandfather shortly after, and he’d known this whole time. And only Claire, or an omniscient presence, would see the logicality, as opposed to the paranoia, of that statement.

  But ultimately she valued her position. People like Claire had much more of a dilemma because they had to face their loved ones, their boyfriends, whereas Jessica could just handle her business with a fake I.D., and go about life, moving forward, on to someone–thing–new.

  Taking her aim, she released...bullseye.

  “Whoa,” said Eliza. “You were so focused.”

  Claire rolled her eyes then said, “I’m parched.”

  “Good idea,” said Jessica.

  And they returned their arrows to their quivers, their bows to their stands, and stepped off the mat to sit on iron white chairs with floral cushions. Eliza followed suit.

  “Eliza, dear,” said Claire, hunching forward, “Would you mind going back to the house and fetching us some drinks–lemonade.”

  Jessica heard, maybe felt, the easing of pressure off Eliza’s chair and raised her hand to Eliza, and waited, holding a steady stare with Claire. Once she sensed the chair sinking back into the earth, she smiled and said, “I got it,” as she whipped out her phone. The black screen lit up and the dial pad appeared. She touched her manicured fingernail to the five, held it for three seconds, then released. Text appeared: “Claire’s.”

  Now Jessica wasn’t above snootiness, even Claire’s brand, but this matter was different. If Eliza had been white, and perhaps not so homely, she would’ve enjoyed the joint tactic of dismissal and subordination, but this instance settled wrong with her–like dust and not sand. However, she didn’t think Claire racist, because she took full responsibility for this peculiarity in feeling–peculiarity? What century was it?–and Claire wouldn’t’ve understood, overreacting and probably unleashing the greatest offense by responding, “I’m not racist. You’re my best friend,” when in fact she never would’ve called Claire racist (and Claire demonstrating this forgetfulness as to who Jessica was, her personality, her character, in substitute for some stereotype would only compound the tokenizing insult); so she had no choice but to feign ignorance of this powerplay but hope that look she gave Claire sufficed as an intimidation to avoid having this incident repeated–ever.

  The chubby face of a woman with cheery emerald eyes appeared on the screen.

  “Hello, Miss Crawford. What may I do for you?”

  “Hi, Agnes. Would you mind bringing out some lemon–”

  “Iced teas,” said Claire.

  “Iced teas,” continued Jessica, “Out back. Three please.”

  “Actually,” said Eliza, “I’d like a lemonade.”

  The chubby face looked left as if expecting to see someone through a doorway.

  “Make that two iced teas and a lemonade, please,” said Jessica.

  “Alright, deary. Two iced teas and a lemonade it is.”

  Jessica smiled and, with a random touch of the screen, the screen went black.

  “How efficient,” said Claire, smiling and, with a bright shrug of her shoulders, started to lose herself in the beauty of the lawn; the trees; the sky.

  “Preoccupied?” said Jessica, turning to see a blue speck leaving Claire’s house, and proceeding down a hill.

  “No, Jessica. I’m fine.” Claire, with clenched teeth, nodded her forehead to Eliza. And there was the paranoid neurotic. Although, Jessica would be lenient: Her best friend had never exhibited this kind of cliché female behavior before, but if this was going to be some habit in their adult years, then their relationship would require a re-examination. Wow, that was critical.

  “Thank you, Agnes,” said Claire.

  Agnes let fall one of two flattened table-trays she held tucked into her and unfolded it with one hand before placing it between Jessica and Claire, shuffled over where she repeated the same steps to place a smaller table in between Jessica and Eliza, then took a lemonade from a
tray she balanced in her other hand, placing it on the smaller table–

  “Thank you,” said Eliza.

  “Thank you,” said Jessica.

  “You’re welcome, dears,” said Agnes, shuffling over to place two iced teas on the larger round table between Jessica and Claire, then, with a huff, dabbed beads of sweat with her apron. “It got so muggy all of a sudden.”

  “Yes, the humidity does seem on the rise,” said Jessica, unsure if Agnes was making this comment to herself or if this was small talk.

  “Humph,” said Agnes, letting her apron fall. “Anything else, Miss Claire?”

  “No. We’re fine.” Claire took a sip.

  “Miss Crawford?”

  Claire flashed a squint to Agnes, who nodded to Claire then returned to Jessica.

  “Miss Crawford?”

  “Oh, no. I’m fine,” said Jessica. “Thank you so much. You get inside and stay cool.” She couldn’t help it if the help loved her. Taking a sip of her iced tea–mmm, raspberry, her favorite–her stomach gurgled: she hadn’t had anything since all that cake...and that was this morning.

  Agnes tucked her tray under her arm and, with a nod and a smile, began–

  “Oh, I must go too,” said Eliza, getting up and placing her bow in her seat. “I-I didn’t think we’d be out here so long, and I still have so much to do.”

  “Very well. I’ll see you to your car,” said Agnes.

  Claire looked to Jessica with a raise of a brow and a smirk. Jessica shrugged.

  “Byyyye. Come again,” said Claire.

  “I will see you later this week, Eliza,” said Jessica, turning her back to Claire, giving Eliza her biggest smile, and a nod.

  For the first time, Jessica could see that the wrinkles in Eliza’s forehead were not permanent for they had relaxed and her lips even seemed fuller now that they too had relaxed, into a smile.

  As Agnes and Eliza made their trek back to the house, Jessica took a deep breath and prepared herself for the oncoming emotional baggage about to be thrown on to her for the last leg of her afternoon.

  “Okay, my dear,” said Jessica, “Now that–”

  “Why is Richard Cleeson asking about you?” said Claire, crossing her legs as she stuck one end of her bow into the ground and let it prop against her chair.

  “Probably wants me to keep quiet about us sleeping together.” Jessica returned to the mat and took up her instruments. He’d call soon enough.

  She raised, pulled back…

  “Didn’t think it was customary to follow up on these things,” said Claire. “I thought it was just an understanding that it wouldn’t be discussed.”

  …the arrow sailed over the haystack.

  Jessica looked–just to make sure Claire wasn’t being prissy: Claire stood next to her, brow furrowed; so she said, “I guess so,” and grabbed another arrow, which Claire reached for, took, and placed in her own quiver. Jessica rested her bow on its stand and turned to face her dear friend.

  “Why does he want your number?” said Claire.

  “No clue,” said Jessica. He so wanted more.

  “Is it true?”

  Jessica sipped her iced tea. She was going to play sweet and coy by having no clue what Claire was talking about, but you know what, why play? “He’s hung.”

  “Leave it to you to get straight to the point. Since you can be frank about it, then I’m sure there are no worries that I did, in fact, give him your number?”

  “No, I have no problem with that.” Her phone was equipped to handle such situations; it was called ignore.

  “Good. It’s about time you considered a relationship. Something consistent. Reliable.”

  “With Rich? Right. My grandfather would freak.”

  Claire picked up her iced tea and let it rest in the palm of her hand: “Oh, no he wouldn’t. Only you and Richard think the other a racist, because you two are in love but too afraid the other doesn’t share the sentiment so you rationalize.” Claire hunched over and pouted, swaying to the left: “You go: ‘You hate black people because your daddy hates black people.’” She swayed to the right; her voiced dropped: “ Then he goes: ‘What? You’re just trying to hide your hate for white people.’” She giggled then sighed. “Silly young people. But thank you for not bringing your fair friend into the argument. And at least you two got past fighting long enough to indulge in explicit rendezvous.”

  Jessica laughed. She’d keep her trap shut. Obviously Claire was projecting her issues with Stephen onto her. Completely distorted thinking. And they fell silent, looking into the sky, observing how scattered the clouds had become.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Birth of Margaret McPhee

  The former Mrs. Covington laid on the fainting sofa in her living room, looking out the picture window, watching her daughter and her daughter’s best friend as they sipped (when they got older they’d know such lady-like pretenses were only for strangers and acquaintances, but for now they sipped) from their iced tea glasses.

  Her own last, true friendship was with Dani Cartwright, and that was many years ago, before she let Carl Covington whisk her away for adventure. Ha! Adventure. She never even saw much of Hong Kong, Istanbul, or Madrid, sitting at home waiting for him to come home–to their hotel. To jet set at so young–twenty-three–seemed to be the life. But it wasn’t. It was just work. And for what? The old coot was now being pushed out of the firm to make way for the younger, the new. But that wasn’t her concern anymore–it was Julie’s. She could go from typing his memos to licking his ego. Hmph. Among other things.

  With a shaky hand, she grasped the martini glass tighter–causing her drink to splash and swirl along the sides–took a gulp, then stroke the glass’s rim with her finger. Poor Carl: moving to Japan, having to assume that Asians would be more appreciative of age–experience–longevity, a value in culture and hence in business since the two were so…so…ugh, what was the word? In-ex-tract–inextricable. There it was. Men had to go through such lengths to prove their usefulness. Poor bastard. Heh heh. She wished him well. Avoid the hassle of adjusting alimony.

  Pitter patter–a shadow passed the door.

  “Agnes?” Mrs. Covington wrapped her sheer robe around her.

  Silence.

  Pitter patter–Agnes’s rotund figure in the doorway.

  “Yes, Mrs. Covington?”

  “Why the stirring?”

  “Mr. Crawford is here to see Claire as a favor to Mr. Dawes.”

  “Stephen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sent Mr. Crawford?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  “The oldest grandson, Mrs. Covington.”

  “Of course. Duuuuuh.”

  Mrs. Peggy Covington rested her elbow on the back of the sofa and propped her head in her palm. Silly young people. Running around doing nothing.

  Her knee, a coolness: the martini glass. Head back, concoction down the hatch–excellent–a clearing of the throat.

  “Oh, Agnes. Forgot you were there. What does Mister–Robert–want?”

  “Some reading device of Stephen’s. He left it here some time ago.”

  “Oh yes. Claire did mention it. Look in the library office. Top drawer.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Covington.” Agnes vanished.

  “Excellent then,” said Mrs. Coving–Peggy, staggering herself to a standing position, slipping into her heeled slippers and tip toeing–“Hehe”–to the doorway.

  Ahhh, Robert Crawford. In the foyer. He’d grown so much since she last saw him that…that…who cared? He’d beefed up a bit. Grown into his height. Erect, but not stiff. “Haha, shhhhh.” Youthful men were wasted on youthful, inexperienced girls. No wonder they tried so hard to dominate the little chicks.

  Agnes came out and handed Stephen’s reader to Robert who, after a moment, took his leave with three quick strides.

  Feeling light, she grabbed hold of the molding along the doorway. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the boy, but eit
her way, she was grateful to whatever it was that had caused the heat to swirl in her chest like magma in a volcano’s heart.

  Standing tall, shoulders back, she glided, then stumbled, then continued to glide into the main foyer and ascended the central stair.

  “Mrs. Covington,” said Agnes.

  She ascended…

  “Mrs. Covington.”

  …to the top of the stair.

  “Mrs. Covington?”

  Poor misinformed child. Mrs. Covington was no more. She had the papers to prove it.

  She continued down the hall, walked through a door to the right, and found herself facing a vanity where she, Peggy Covington, sat and was ready to admit that she, Peggy Covington in fact hated–dreaded–the name, Peggy bloody Covington. It was Carl’s fault. He’d taken to calling her Peggy and with her then round and pink face she could only repress the image of Mrs. Piggy that habitually crept into her head–God, she shoulda had Agnes send up another martini, keep the fire roaring. She’d imagine the boy instead. Eyes closed: skin like chocolate; sweat a little salty; a chocolate pretzel rod in the fire. Eyes opened: and there was Peggy Covington. Still. Go away, Peggy Covington. He had his Julie Covington; he didn’t need her anymore. She could’ve quitted the pretense–no one was around. She wasn’t that heartbroken when the divorce came around, she just knew the pity would come in handy (and how often did one pass up a chance to be pitied when they were justified regardless if they actually felt like being pathetic), but now it was time to pull up. The heat swirled. She was still young, in this new po-mo as the uber know-it-alls put it. Look at all those celebrities the magazines touted as proving the new thirty was forty and so forth. She was rich; she could afford the same shifting of the decades. Yes. She knew how to abolish Peggy Covington (no financing required). The boy. A goal. A driving force. Margaret McPhee–God, how literary–but any who–Margaret McPhee. Of the soil. The dirt. Before the glitz. The glam. REBORN! She glared at the glaring woman in the mirror. Fantastic.

  Peggy Covington would’ve lusted about like a pathetic wife–housewife–ex-wife, daydreaming about his buttocks undulating between her thighs, a daydream she would’ve slipped into because of some book that had fallen on to her chest as she slept, drooling onto the bodice ripper, wanting–and always left wanting.