Grand Avenue

by Joy Fielding

  “Eight dollars for two glasses of water!” Barbara sputtered when she saw the bill, unable to hide her shock and dismay. What would her mother-in-law say about that? Probably that her son worked much too hard for his wife to throw away his hard-earned money on something as frivolous as designer water. And she’d be right, Barbara thought, dropping a $10 bill on the table and fleeing the restaurant, pursued by her mother-in-law’s silent but steady recriminations. Did she have no regard for how hard Ron worked to support his family? A university professor’s salary wasn’t exactly a king’s ransom. Couldn’t she show at least a little restraint? Look at Sheila …

  By the time Barbara stepped out onto Belvedere Street, she was blinking back the renewed threat of tears. Dabbing at her bottom lashes with the side of her index finger, careful not to disturb what she prayed was water-proof mascara, she reached into her purse for her sunglasses, shoving them none too gently over the bridge of her nose, trying to obliterate the image of her mother-in-law’s ferretlike face. Was it fair that her own mother, a woman as warm and caring as she was beautiful, had died of acute lymphatic leukemia shortly after Tracey’s birth, while Ron’s mother, who was as cold and mean-spirited as she was unattractive, would probably live forever? “Damn it,” Barbara said into the palm of her hand, realizing just how much she’d been looking forward to lunch with her friends, especially to seeing Chris.

  Of all the Grand Dames, Chris was Barbara’s favorite. Susan was great—genuine and down-to-earth, if a little too practical for Barbara’s taste, and Vicki was … well, Vicki was Vicki, dynamic and lots of fun, but she could be very indiscreet. Barbara had learned long ago not to tell Vicki anything she wouldn’t feel comfortable seeing on the front page of the Cincinnati Post. It was with Chris that Barbara felt the closest bond. Perhaps because neither worked outside the home, Chris always had time for her. She never made Barbara’s concerns seem shallow or unimportant; she never walked away from her in midconversation, never made her feel insignificant. Thank God Tony had finally found another job. Not that Chris had ever complained. Still, the situation couldn’t have been pleasant, which might account for why she’d suddenly come down with the flu. Didn’t the experts claim depression weakened the immune system? Although it had been weeks since Tony had started his new job, and still Chris seemed preoccupied. Something was wrong. She’d have to talk to Chris when she was feeling better, get her to open up.

  Barbara stood for several seconds in the middle of the sidewalk in front of The Foxfire Grille, her stomach rumbling its confusion. She needed food and she needed reassurance that all was right with the world. She checked her watch. Closing in on 12:45. If she hurried, she could just make it to the university in time to take her handsome husband out to lunch.

  Less than ten minutes later, Barbara pulled her black Sierra into a newly vacated spot on Clifton Avenue, more commonly referred to as Fraternity Row because of the plethora of fraternity and sorority houses that lined the right side of the street, and raced toward the campus of the University of Cincinnati, America’s second-oldest and second-largest municipal university. Hurrying past the towering white concrete structure that was the Brodie Science and Engineering Center, she located the more modest two-story red-brick building that housed the Department of Social Studies, where her husband taught courses in basic psychology and human behavior. Nodding a vague hello to several denim-and-leather-clad students gathered near the front steps, Barbara pulled open the heavy oak front door and proceeded down the long hallway, her high heels in noisy contrast to the sneakers everyone else seemed to be wearing.

  It was a beautiful old building, Barbara thought, picking up her pace just slightly as she turned right and continued on down the corridor, lined with old black-and-white photographs of long-ago alumnae. Lots of dark wood paneling, leaded windows, fine old archways. The way a university was supposed to look. Creaky and grand and just slightly intimidating. Not that she should feel intimidated, Barbara decided, climbing the wide staircase at the far end of the hall. Just because she hadn’t gone on to college after winning her title didn’t mean she was stupid, didn’t mean she had anything to feel inferior about. She might not be able to quote Shakespeare, the way Susan could, or spout legal precedents, like Vicki, and truth to tell, she’d be hard-pressed to differentiate between psychology and sociology, but she could still hold her own in conversations with her husband and friends. Besides, it wasn’t too late. If she was interested, she could always sign up for a few courses, work slowly toward her degree, the way Susan had been doing over the years, one course at a time, whenever home life and babies permitted. Of course she’d have to find something she was really interested in, and it couldn’t be so demanding it would take away from her time with Tracey or Ron. Barbara shrugged, picturing herself as Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind: she’d think about these things later—tomorrow was another day. Quickly checking her image in the glass reflection of an old photograph outside her husband’s classroom, seeing Vivien Leigh stare back, Barbara pulled open the door and went inside.

  The classroom was large, its seats descending, as in a stadium, from top to bottom, where her husband, a tall and ruggedly handsome man of forty, stood behind his podium in front of a large chalkboard and delivered his lecture to approximately three hundred students hanging intently on his every word. Barbara slipped into an empty seat at the back, aware of numerous eyes turning toward her, including those of her husband, who acknowledged her presence with an almost imperceptible nod of his head while continuing to speak to the class. “One of the major difficulties in the field of attitude research has been the tendency to oversimplify problems in terms of a narrow theory of motivation,” he was saying. “The gestalt school, to look at one such example, believes that people are always striving toward a more inclusive and stable organization of the psychological field, where the individual is constantly trying to reconcile conflicting impressions in order to make sense of the world around him, thereby maximizing his potential for fitting in.”

  Barbara heard the frantic scribbling of pens on paper as, all around her, students struggled to record each word. Do they actually have any clue what he’s talking about? Barbara wondered, trying hard to concentrate so that she could discuss these theories with her husband over lunch. But already she was losing the thread of his lecture, her mind wandering back to Chris, wondering how she was feeling, if there was anything she could do to help her.

  “Another motivational model follows the reward-punishment pattern,” her husband was saying, brown eyes circling the room. “This model sees attitudes as part of an adaptive response to the social world where group norms are of primary importance and the individual seeks acceptance and support from his group.”

  Was he speaking English? Barbara wondered, feeling like a new immigrant, fresh off the boat. Where had he learned to talk like that? She surveyed the predominantly female gathering, the students hovered over their small desks, eager pens racing after each word. Not one of these girls knows a thing about makeup, Barbara thought, shaking her head with dismay. They may know plenty about motivational models, but they know zippo about contouring and blending.

  “And finally, we have the personality theorist who emphasizes the internal dynamics underlying attitudes in which the individual’s need to preserve his self-image and integrity becomes more important than external rewards and punishments.” Ron stopped suddenly and smiled. “We’ll continue with this tomorrow. Please read page 121 through 139 in your text. Thank you.”

  The students immediately rose from their seats, gathering up their belongings and ascending the stairs, ignoring Barbara as she made her way down the steps toward her husband’s podium. “What a pleasant surprise,” Ron said, a smile spreading across his perpetually tanned face. “What brings you out here?”

  “I thought I’d take my gorgeous husband out to lunch,” Barbara said, invisible fingers crossed behind her back, her eyes all but shouting, Please say yes.

  “I thought y
ou were having lunch with the girls,” Ron said, looking around the room as if for something in particular. “Amy,” he called out suddenly. “Amy, I need to talk to you for half a minute about your essay.”

  Barbara watched the long-haired girl in the seemingly requisite tight blue jeans and black leather jacket stop near the top of the stairs, whisper a few words to her friends, then make her way down the steps. “It got canceled,” Barbara explained, “so I thought I’d take a chance and see if you were free.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Ron said, and Barbara breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Give me two minutes to take care of this.”

  “No problem. Is there a washroom nearby I can use?”

  “Top of the stairs. Turn right.”

  “I’ll meet you in the hallway.”

  “I’ll just be two minutes,” Ron repeated as Amy approached, nervous fingers pushing her long brown hair behind her ears.

  A little mascara would give that girl all the confidence in the world, Barbara thought as she made her way back up the stairs. She turned back briefly, noticed that the girl was standing perhaps an inch too close to her husband, that the side of her breast was brushing against the side of his arm, that he made no effort to move away. Don’t be silly, Barbara told herself, exiting the room. She was being paranoid again. The girl was standing only as close as was necessary to hear what Ron was saying. It only looked as if her breast were pressed against his arm because of where Barbara was standing.

  Barbara quickly located the washroom, adjusted her hair and lipstick in the long rectangular mirror over the row of sinks, then tugged at the skin around her eyes until the small lines that surrounded them, like parentheses, disappeared. “You don’t look any older than any of those girls,” Barbara whispered to her reflection, wondering how Ron managed to maintain his youthful appearance without benefit of either diet or exercise. All those hours of lying out in the sun hadn’t seemed to hurt him either. He was still as handsome as the day she’d first spotted him sitting at the bar at Arnold’s, surrounded by women even then. Uh-oh, she remembered thinking as their eyes had connected. Trouble.

  Of course she was aware of the rumors circulating about her husband. There’d been rumors throughout the ten years of their marriage. But Ron had assured her repeatedly that those rumors were base and unfounded, and she’d decided long ago to place no stock in them. She’d also decided that, even if the whispers were true, even if her husband did engage in the occasional outside dalliance, it meant nothing. Wasn’t that what Vicki had said about her own extracurricular activities? That it was just sex?

  Barbara unbuttoned her blue jacket, tucked her white silk blouse inside her skirt, and was deciding whether to use the toilet when the door to the washroom opened and the girl from her husband’s class—“Amy, I need to talk to you for half a minute about your essay”—walked inside and approached the mirror. “Hi,” Barbara said, as the girl dropped her books to the sink and immediately begin brushing her hair in a series of long, fluid strokes. She was a pretty girl, with a pale, thin face, and large, dark eyes that made her look more interesting than she probably was, Barbara decided, but still, she wasn’t winning any beauty contests. Miss Congeniality maybe, Barbara thought with a smile, trying not to notice the round little bottom filling out the tight jeans, the small, high breasts that could only be described as perky. The young didn’t have to be beautiful, Barbara realized. It was enough they were young.

  “Hi,” Amy said to Barbara’s reflection.

  “You’re in my husband’s class,” Barbara said, straining to sound casual.

  The girl shrugged. “Hmm.”

  “He’s a good teacher,” Barbara continued, although the girl was clearly not interested in pursuing a conversation.

  Amy returned her brush to her floppy black leather bag. “The best,” she said, her eyes connecting briefly with Barbara’s in the mirror, lingering a beat too long, as if issuing a silent challenge. And then she was gone, out the door with her long brown hair flying after her, her bag slapping at her side.

  Barbara remained in front of the row of sinks for several more minutes, trying not to think of what her unexpected arrival might have interrupted, trying not to think at all. Sometimes it was better not to think. Thinking only got you in trouble. The dumber you were, the happier you were, she decided, applying blush to newly ashen cheeks. Once again, she adjusted her blouse and straightened her skirt. Then she waited until her breathing returned to normal, took one last look in the mirror, and stepped out into the hall to find her husband.

  Four

  Chris heard the doorbell ring, thought about answering it, decided it was better just to let it ring. Tony would answer it, tell her friends she was busy, that she’d call them later. Except that when later came around, she’d probably be busy with something else, and then it would be too late to call them back, and another day would pass, and then another. Lately a whole week could go by without her seeing or even speaking to her friends. She’d missed Susan’s birthday lunch, begged off shopping with Barbara, turned down Vicki’s latest invitation to dinner. Here it was halfway through September, and they’d gotten together what … three times since June? They used to speak every day. Nothing important. (“Hi, just checking in. I’m going to the store. You need anything?”) Stuff like that. (“Wait till you hear what Ariel did yesterday.” “You should have seen how cute Tracey looked in her new outfit.” “Kirsten says day camp sucks.”) The stuff of everyday life. (“Talk to you later.” “Wait till you hear this.” “Call me tomorrow.”) The stuff that kept you sane.

  (“I love you.”)

  I love you too.

  When had she stopped returning their calls? When had she become too busy to see her friends?

  She heard Tony at the front door. “Well, hello, girls. This is a pleasant surprise.”

  And then three voices speaking at once. “Where is she?” “We won’t take no for an answer.” “Chris, get your ass down here.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Chris called down the stairs, her heart thumping as she hurried into her bedroom and checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “I look okay,” she assured herself, pulling a comb through her shoulder-length hair, securing it into a ponytail with a purple scrunchy. She exchanged the stained gray sweats she’d been wearing the last two days for a pair of white cotton slacks, replaced the faded yellow T-shirt she had on with a pale lavender clone. Why the fuss? she wondered. Where was she going? Just downstairs to say hello.

  “Chris, what the hell are you doing up there?” Vicki yelled up the stairs.

  “Be right down.” Chris didn’t move. Maybe if enough time elapsed, they’d get tired of waiting and go away.

  “I’m counting to ten, then I’m coming upstairs,” Barbara warned.

  Chris took one last glance in the mirror, then rushed into the hall. She appeared at the top of the steps just as Barbara was starting her climb.

  “There she is!” Barbara announced with delight. “She’s real. She exists. We didn’t just make her up.”

  In the next instant Chris was in Barbara’s arms, the warmth of the other woman’s embrace like cashmere against her skin, the subtle musk of Barbara’s perfume dancing around her head like fairy dust. Chris closed her eyes, buried her head against Barbara’s neck, inhaled the wondrous scent.

  “Is everything okay?” Barbara whispered, squeezing Chris tightly.

  An involuntary cry, half-squeal, half-sigh, escaped Chris’s lips, and she pulled back, away from Barbara’s arms.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Apparently you don’t know your own strength, Barbie doll,” Tony said, laughing, joining the two women on the stairs, putting his arm around his wife, leading her gingerly down the stairs and into the front hall where Susan and Vicki were waiting. “Chris is a little bruised up. She told you about falling down the stairs last week, didn’t she?”

  “What?” Susan.

  “You fell down the stairs?” Vicki.

/>   “My God, are you okay?” Barbara.

  “It was just the last two steps,” Chris assured them. “And, yes, I’m fine. Can’t say the same for Wyatt’s train, I’m afraid, which I pretty much destroyed when I landed.” She tried to laugh, but the painful throbbing at her ribs cut the laugh short.

  “Let’s see.” Barbara was instantly at Chris’s side, lifting up the bottom of her T-shirt, her fingers gently grazing the large, round, mustard-colored stain on Chris’s left side.

  “Whoa, girl,” Tony said. “Anything going on with you two I should know about?”

  “That’s a pretty nasty-looking bruise,” Vicki said.

  “Maybe Owen should have a look at it,” Susan offered.

  “I’m fine,” Chris protested. “Really. It’s nothing.”

  “Mommy fell down the stairs and squished Wyatt’s train,” Montana announced, entering the hall from the kitchen.

  “So we hear,” said Vicki. “That wasn’t very smart of her, was it?”

  “She’s always falling down,” Montana said matter-of-factly.

  “Maybe if you and your brother would pick up your toys occasionally …” Tony said.

  Montana frowned, grabbed her mother’s fingers, started tugging on her arm. “Come on, Mommy. You said we’d make cookies.”