Grand Avenue

by Joy Fielding

  “Well, the decorator did it all,” Vicki admitted. “I just told him that I liked antiques and Jeremy preferred modern, so he went with a combination of old furniture and modern art, and I don’t know, somehow the whole thing works.”

  “Looks great,” Tony said, aping Vicki’s confident stride behind her back, causing the two children in his arms to laugh out loud.

  “Something funny?” Vicki asked.

  Rowdy immediately returned his face to Tony’s shoulder, but Wyatt laughed even louder. The abrasive sound hacked at the air, like an annoying cough. Rowdy promptly covered his ears and started screaming.

  “What’s the matter, Rowdy?” Chris asked.

  “Leave him alone, Chris. He’s fine,” Tony said.

  “I can give you a tour later, if you’d like,” Vicki said, seemingly oblivious to the little scene being played out behind her back, although Chris knew Vicki was oblivious to nothing, that those small hazel eyes didn’t miss a thing. “Everything all right?” Vicki asked Chris as they passed through the kitchen, where stainless steel appliances mixed easily with antique walnut furniture.

  “Fine.”

  “You look a little pale.”

  “Just tired.”

  “Have you lost weight?”

  “Maybe a few pounds.”

  “Maybe more than that.”

  “Daddy says it’s rude to whisper,” Wyatt said.

  “Your daddy’s absolutely right,” Vicki agreed. “So, everybody, look who’s here,” she announced to the small gathering milling about the stone patio in front of the large, gated pool. Everyone turned to greet them.

  Her friends, Chris thought gratefully, wanting to pull them to her and never let them go. Her wonderful, dear friends: Susan and Owen, tanned and smiling, arms around each other’s waist; Barbara and Ron, glamorous and tall, Barbara’s red lipstick an exact match with Ron’s golf shirt; Jeremy Latimer, casually distinguished and very proud, beaming at the whirling dervish that was his wife.

  “Hi there, stranger.” Susan extended her arms toward Chris. “I can’t believe we live on the same street and we had to come all the way out here to see you.”

  “It’s been way too long,” Owen agreed, shaking Tony’s hand.

  “Everything all right?” Susan asked.

  “She cut her hair!” Barbara squealed, wiggling toward Chris on three-inch heels and gripping her friend in a tight bear hug. “When did you do this?”

  Chris winced as Barbara’s arms pressed against a recently acquired bruise on her lower back.

  “I see congratulations are in order.” Tony turned to Chris. “Why didn’t you tell me Barbara was expecting?”

  There was a collective intake of breath.

  “What?” Barbara said.

  “What are you talking about?” her husband asked.

  “I’m not pregnant.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” Tony said quickly. “I just assumed …” His hands made vague circles in the direction of Barbara’s round stomach.

  “It’s the blouse.” Barbara’s large brown eyes glistened with the threat of tears as she pulled on the front of her lilac-and-white-striped top. “Guess I should have tucked it inside the pants.” She brushed an imaginary fleck of dirt off the thigh of her white slacks, stared toward the large gray stones of the patio.

  “I’m really sorry,” Tony repeated, but Chris saw the glint in his eyes and wasn’t so sure.

  “How’re things going?” Ron asked.

  “Never better,” Tony said

  “I take it this little guy is Rory.”

  “Rowdy,” Tony corrected.

  “Rowdy. Yes, that’s right. Montana, Wyatt, and Rowdy. Such interesting names.”

  “The names were Tony’s idea. He’s the one with the imagination,” Chris said, her lips struggling with a smile. “I’d have called them Anne, William, and Robert.”

  “You hear that, Montana?” Tony asked. “Mommy would rather you had a boring name like Anne.” The child’s pinched expression duplicated her father’s.

  “Well, I certainly hope you kids brought your bathing suits,” Jeremy Latimer said, glancing toward the large free-form pool that occupied only a small portion of the sprawling backyard. The other children—Kirsten, Josh, Ariel, Whitney, and Tracey—were having a great time splashing around and jumping off the diving board, under the watchful supervision of the Latimers’ nanny and housekeeper.

  “Oh, no, I forgot about their bathing suits.” Panic laced through Chris’s words.

  “You what!” Montana demanded.

  “You big dummy!” Wyatt gave his mother a push.

  “Stop that,” Chris said, eyes appealing to Tony for help.

  Wyatt barked his loud, abrasive laugh. “Dummy Mommy,” he said, then again, “Dummy Mommy.”

  “Okay, Wyatt, that’s enough of that,” Tony instructed. Instantly Wyatt fell silent.

  “I think we have some bathing suits that will fit you guys,” Jeremy Latimer offered quickly. “Maya,” he called toward one of the staff milling by a long table of food that had been set up on one side of the patio. “Could you take the children inside and find them some swimsuits?”

  The young woman flipped her long blond hair over the shoulder of her formfitting white uniform and approached Chris’s three children. Chris noted the furtive smile that floated between the girl and Barbara’s husband as she took Rowdy by the hand and led the children back inside the house. “Dummy Mommy,” Rowdy was chanting happily to himself. “Dummy Mommy.”

  Chris stood in the middle of the stone patio, a plastic smile fastened to her mouth, like a pair of wax lips. This is your own damn fault, she was telling herself. Vicki told you to bring their bathing suits. If you weren’t so stupid, this wouldn’t have happened. Wyatt’s right. You are a dummy. Dummy Mommy. Dummy Mommy. Don’t you cry, Dummy Mommy. Don’t you dare cry. “So, how are you enjoying living in the country?” she asked in a voice she barely recognized.

  “Love it,” came Jeremy Latimer’s quick response.

  “And it’s only twenty-five minutes from my office,” Vicki said.

  “How many acres you got here?” Tony lifted a tall bottle of beer from a nearby cooler, downing almost half of it in one prolonged gulp.

  “Five point something,” Jeremy said. “Don’t ask me about the square footage. I can never remember.”

  “The house is just under ten thousand square feet,” Vicki offered, taking over from her husband. “Fourteen rooms, six bedrooms, five and a half bathrooms, first-floor master wing. Come on, Chris, I’ll give you a tour.” She grabbed Chris’s hand, pulled her toward the patio doors.

  “I’m coming too,” said Barbara.

  “Wait for me,” Susan said.

  Tony downed the rest of his beer. “Think I’ll come too.”

  “Sorry,” Vicki said quickly. “This tour is for girls only. Jeremy’ll show you around later.”

  “Relax,” Owen said to Tony, depositing a second beer in his hand and leading him toward a row of deck chairs. “Tell us about what you’ve been up to lately. I understand you’re thinking of leaving the advertising business.”

  Chris felt Tony’s eyes searing a large hole in the back of her pink T-shirt as she allowed Vicki and the others to drag her back inside the house. “Kitchen,” Vicki said, perfunctorily waving her hands in the air as she strode purposefully from one room to the next. “Dining room. Living room. Hunt room, whatever the hell that is.” She pulled Chris toward the so-called master wing, brought the finely carved double doors closed behind them. “So, what’s going on?” she asked Chris, as Susan and Barbara gathered around her protectively.

  Chris looked nervously past the billowy muslin curtains hanging from the canopy of the antique four-poster bed toward the long wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked onto the outside patio. Even from this distance, she could see Tony pacing nervously back and forth in front of the deck chairs, refusing to sit down despite Owen’s repeated entreaties. “What do you me
an? There’s nothing going on.”

  “You’re a nervous wreck,” Susan said. “Look at you. You’re shaking.”

  “I’m just tired. You know—three kids, only two hands.”

  “You don’t look so great,” Barbara said.

  “She’s lost weight,” Vicki said to the others.

  “It’s my hair,” Chris insisted, eyes flitting between the women and the window. “I never should have cut it.”

  “Well, I have to admit it’s not the most flattering do.” Barbara examined the uneven ends of Chris’s hair. “Who’d you go to anyway?”

  Chris held her breath, said nothing.

  “Chris?”

  Tears sprang to Chris’s eyes. Immediately she lowered her gaze to the thick mint-green carpet, refusing to look up.

  “Chris, talk to us,” Susan said. “You can’t keep insisting nothing’s the matter. Let us help you.”

  Chris said nothing. No one can help me, she thought. “I really should be getting back.”

  “Talk to us, Chris,” Susan said again.

  “I can’t.”

  “Listen,” Susan prompted. “It’s been obvious to all of us for a very long time that you and Tony are having serious problems. Maybe if you could persuade him to see a marriage counselor …”

  Chris felt her hands begin to tremble, her knees begin to wobble, and her head begin to bob up and down involuntarily, until her entire body was shaking so hard, she could barely maintain her balance. Her shame was about to spill out, to erupt from deep within her, like lava from a volcano. There was nothing she could do to stop it. “Oh, God.”

  “Chris, what is it?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Understand what? Tell us, Chris. What don’t we understand?”

  “He did it.” Dear God, she’d said it.

  “What? Who did what?”

  “Tony.” Her secret was out. Her secret had a name.

  “Tony did what?” Vicki demanded.

  “My hair.” A low wail escaped Chris’s throat. Could she tell them? Could she tell them everything?

  For an instant there was total silence.

  Then, “Tony cut your hair?” Barbara asked in disbelief.

  “What do you mean, he cut your hair?” Susan said, her voice low. Then again, even lower: “What do you mean, he cut your hair?”

  “We took the kids over to Kenwood Towne Centre last Saturday. We were walking past this hairdressing salon, and I stopped to look at this girl who was getting her hair cut real short, and I said something like, ‘I wish I were brave enough to do something like that.’ ” Chris stopped the lifeless recitation of facts, swallowed, struggled to continue. “Everything was fine. We kept walking. We got the kids ice cream. I thought we were having a good time.” Again she stopped. What was the matter with her, for God’s sake? What made her think she was entitled to a good time?

  “What happened, Chris?” Susan asked.

  “We got home. I made dinner. I got the kids settled down for the night. I climbed into bed to watch TV.” A frightened cry ferreted its way into her voice, as Chris searched for words to describe the horrible nightmare that followed. “Tony came into the room. I could see he was upset about something, but I didn’t know what. He started pacing back and forth in front of the TV. I asked him what was the matter, and he said I knew what was the matter. I said no, I had no idea. And he said, ‘You think I like it when my wife flirts with other guys when I’m standing right beside her?’ Honest to God, I didn’t know what he was talking about. I said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ and he said, ‘You think I didn’t catch the looks between you and that hairdresser in the mall?’ and I said, ‘What are you talking about? I was just watching him cut that girl’s hair.’ But he wouldn’t believe me. He kept saying over and over how I made a fool of him, how everyone around us saw how I was looking at this guy, how he was looking at me, and I said no, I wasn’t, that the guy didn’t even know I was there, that he was probably gay anyway, I was just looking at the haircut.

  “And suddenly, Tony had me by my ponytail and he was pulling me out of bed toward the bathroom, and I was pleading with him to stop, and he was telling me to be quiet, I’d wake up the kids, so I tried to be quiet, I thought, don’t give him a hard time, just let him work all this crazy stuff out of his system, he’ll calm down, he’ll realize he’s being ridiculous. I never even looked at this guy.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Susan said.

  “You don’t have to explain yourself to us,” Barbara told Chris.

  “Should have kicked the fucker in the balls,” Vicki said.

  “And that’s when he did it?” Susan asked. “That’s when he cut your hair off?”

  “He got me in the bathroom, and he started opening the drawers, rifling through them like he’s looking for something, and he’s getting madder and madder because at first he can’t find it. Meanwhile he’s still got me by my ponytail, he’s pushing my head down, I’m all hunched over, I can’t see what he’s doing. And then I hear this sound, I don’t know what it is at first, and then I realize it’s scissors, and he’s making snipping noises in the air with them, and I said, ‘What are you doing?’ and he was saying, ‘You like short hair? You want a new haircut? I can cut your hair for you.’ And I’m screaming, ‘No!’ and he’s yelling at me to shut up, I’ll wake up the kids, and then I feel this horrible tug on my head, and I hear that awful snipping sound, and I see my hair falling past my eyes, I see my ponytail hit the floor.”

  Barbara took Chris in her arms. “My God, he’s a lunatic.”

  “What else has he done to you?” Susan asked.

  Chris shook her head, her eyes racing toward the window, searching the outside patio. Where was Tony? She couldn’t see Tony.

  “How long has this sort of thing been going on?” Barbara asked.

  “Does he hit you?” Susan asked.

  “It’s my fault as much as his,” Chris insisted, locating Jeremy and Ron, unable to find either Owen or Tony. Maybe they were engrossed in conversation just out of her sight line. “I egg him on. I mean, he has a temper. Of course he has a temper. And you know how easily he takes offense at things. He’s very sensitive.”

  “He’s an asshole,” Vicki said. “I say, shoot the bastard! How dare he lay a hand on you!”

  “It’s not that cut-and-dried,” Chris argued. “It takes two to make a fight, remember. It’s not all his fault. I’m not blameless. I know exactly what buttons to push, how to provoke him.”

  Susan looked confused. “You’re saying it’s your fault he hits you?”

  “I didn’t say he hit me. You’re putting words in my mouth. I never said that.”

  “He cut your hair off, for God’s sake.”

  “I shouldn’t have argued with him. I should have just apologized. Maybe I did look at that guy.”

  “For God’s sake, listen to yourself,” Susan said, grabbing Chris’s arms, forcing Chris’s eyes to hers. “You are not responsible for your husband’s bad behavior.”

  “What’s going on here, Chris?” Vicki asked. “In my book, any woman who stays with a man who beats her must like to be beaten.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Susan said, her round face a mask of confusion.

  “He doesn’t beat me,” Chris insisted. “We have arguments, just like everybody else.”

  “Not like everyone else,” Barbara said.

  “Let me talk to someone at my office. I’m sure we can find a good divorce lawyer.”

  “I can’t get a divorce. That’s out of the question.”

  And then they were all talking at once, their voices blending, emerging as one. You don’t have to be afraid. He doesn’t have a hope in hell of getting custody of the children. What other choice has he left you? You can’t stay in that house. He’s a monster. You have to get away from that man. You have to get away before it’s too late.

  And then the double doors burst open and Tony exploded into t
he room. “What’s going on in here?” he demanded.

  “Hen party,” Vicki said, jumping directly between Tony and Chris. “No men allowed.”

  “Looks like my wife’s been crying. What have you been saying to her?”

  Vicki shook her head in disbelief, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. “Look, we’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  “Now. I’m taking my wife home now. Kids!” Tony called toward the three youngsters coming down the stairs newly outfitted in bathing suits. “Go get your clothes back on. We’re going home.”

  “What!” Wyatt yelled in angry disbelief.

  “Your mommy isn’t feeling too well. She wants to go home.”

  “Oh, jeez!” Wyatt protested, spinning around on his heels.

  “She never feels well,” Montana muttered.

  “Dummy Mommy! Dummy Mommy!” Rowdy said.

  “Dummy Mommy! Dummy Mommy!” the other children chimed in, picking up the chant, carrying it with them back up the stairs.

  Chris stood in the center of the commotion, too numb to speak or offer any resistance. Around her she was aware of bodies jostling for position, of Owen in the doorway, of Jeremy and Ron lingering just behind.

  Tony lifted his hands into the air. “I don’t know what stories my wife’s been feeding you.”

  “How could you?” Barbara asked.

  “Barbara,” Ron said, coming forward, touching his wife’s arm as if advising her to back off. “We shouldn’t be getting involved here. This is obviously a private matter, something between a husband and wife.”

  “You don’t know,” Barbara said, refusing to be silenced. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

  “What I’m capable of?” Tony asked. “Well, let’s see. Am I capable of cheating on my wife every chance I get with every little coed who crosses my path?”

  “That’s enough,” Ron cautioned.

  “Your husband fucks anything that moves and you don’t do a damn thing about it,” Tony told Barbara. “I hardly think you’re in any position to be advising my wife.”

  “I think you’ve said quite enough,” Jeremy Latimer interrupted as Barbara’s face went white behind her heavy layer of blush. “Party’s over.”