Grand Avenue

by Joy Fielding

  She checked her watch. “No, this can’t be. It can’t be.” Her head shot toward the white clapboard house. “No, I don’t believe this. Please just let this be another crazy dream.” But even as she was saying the words, Vicki understood it wasn’t a dream, that the green-and-tan Plymouth was no longer sitting in the driveway of the white clapboard house, that her mother was gone. “Where did you go? Where did you go?” she screamed, banging her hands against the steering wheel so that the horn blasted into the surrounding air, drawing the unwanted attention of the two boys playing ball across the street. She quickly waved away their puzzled looks, and they returned to their game, although they kept stealing guarded glances in her direction. “Idiot! How could you fall asleep?”

  Can’t you do anything right? she heard her father say.

  “Now what?” she asked again, out loud this time. What do you do now? “Okay, okay,” she said, speaking into her hands in case the boys were watching her. “Where could she have gone?” Maybe she was just driving her friend home, which meant she’d be back soon. Except Vicki didn’t know what time she’d left. “Maybe they went to a movie,” Vicki moaned. “Oh, God, I can’t stand it. How could you be so stupid? You had her. She was right here.”

  She checked her watch one more time. After four. She had to be back in Cincinnati by eight. Eight at the very latest. She’d promised Kirsten. How long could she afford to wait? “I’ll give it one more hour,” she said. Surely Rita Piper would be back by then.

  * * *

  It was ten minutes to five when the green-and-tan Plymouth pulled into the driveway and Rita Piper climbed out of the front seat, her arms full of groceries.

  “Thank God.” Vicki closed her eyes with relief, then opened them immediately, lest the woman disappear again. Okay, so she was home. Time to get this show on the road. “What am I supposed to do? Run out and help her carry her groceries inside the house?” Wouldn’t that be cozy? Mother and daughter getting reacquainted while restocking the refrigerator. No, better to let the woman get inside the house, give her time to get everything put away, time to catch her breath. “And mine,” Vicki said, opening her door and gulping at the outside air.

  Five minutes later, Vicki was knocking on the woman’s front door. Hi, I’m Vicki Latimer. Your daughter. Remember me?

  “Just a minute,” came the response from inside the house. A nice voice, Vicki thought, searching for echoes of her own voice in the sound, hearing none. “Who is it?” the woman asked without opening the door.

  “Rita Piper?” Vicki asked, her heart pounding.

  The door opened a fraction. Curious dark green eyes peeked across the threshold. “Yes?”

  “My name is Vicki Latimer. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “You’re not selling anything, are you?”

  Vicki shook her head. “No,” she said, and almost laughed.

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Even before the door was fully open, Vicki understood, that the attractive, sixty-year-old woman with dark red hair and questioning green eyes standing in front of her was not her mother. “I’m sorry. I’ve made a big mistake.” Then she burst into a flood of bitter, angry tears.

  Without another word, the woman who was not her mother wrapped her arms around Vicki’s shaking shoulders and led her inside the house.

  Fourteen

  Barbara’s arms were shaking.

  And I haven’t even started exercising yet, Barbara thought, lowering the heavy bags she was carrying to the green marble floor and struggling with the imposing glass door at the entrance to Bodies by Design Fitness Center, located on the sixteenth floor of the Sylvan Tower Complex on Mercer Street in downtown Cincinnati.

  “Somebody’s been doing some serious Christmas shopping,” the blond and bronzed receptionist chirped from behind her similarly colored desk as Barbara passed by on her way to the machine room at the very back of the center.

  “Damn right,” Barbara called back, then laughed. Wait till Ron got this month’s Visa bill. Yes, sir, Santa Claus was being especially good to his former family this year. An Armani suit for Barbara, a Gucci jacket for Tracey, matching watches from Carrier. Leather bands, Barbara sniffed, passing a crowded mirror-lined room filled with sweating, middle-aged white women trying to keep up with their tireless, young black aerobics instructor. She hadn’t had the nerve to buy the gold bands she preferred. Maybe next year.

  1990 was almost over. They were inching toward the new millenium.

  God only knew what surprises the decade had in store. “Can hardly wait,” Barbara muttered into the black fox collar of her green tweed coat, last year’s Christmas present from her outraged former spouse. Didn’t know you were such a generous man, did you? Barbara thought, and smiled, although the surface of her face remained still.

  “Four more!” the aerobics instructor was shouting into the microphone around her neck, as she extended first her well-toned right arm, then her left, into the air. “Three more.”

  “No more,” Barbara sang out, readjusting the packages in her arms, wobbling on high-heeled winter boots toward the rear of the facility, wondering if Susan and Vicki were here yet. Probably. She was at least half an hour late. Susan was always so punctual. And Vicki’s office was only two floors down. Even though it was Saturday, she’d undoubtedly spent the morning working. Just as she’d most likely return to her office when she was finished here. Vicki was always working.

  She hadn’t even bothered showing up to her daughter’s school play last month. Working, she claimed. Some lame excuse about getting stuck with a client, not realizing the time, etc., etc. Was she having another affair? Barbara wondered, thinking that while it wouldn’t be the first time Vicki had cheated on her husband, it would be the first time she’d decided to keep that information from her friends.

  Not that Barbara had confided in either Vicki or Susan about her brief interlude with Kevin. Why hadn’t she? she wondered. Was she embarrassed? Ashamed? Afraid of being judged? Afraid of being pitied?

  Things had changed, Barbara realized sadly, although the women tried gamely to pretend they hadn’t. The Grand Dames had somehow survived Vicki’s move from Mariemont to Indian Hill intact, but Chris’s untimely departure had dealt a fatal blow to the women of Grand Avenue. Slowly, subtly, inexorably, the group dynamic had shifted. This wasn’t altogether unexpected. There were, after all, three women now instead of four, but more often than not, Barbara felt like the odd woman out. Especially since her divorce.

  Barbara recognized that neither Vicki nor Susan meant to exclude her. They were simply an easier fit, both well-educated women with husbands who adored them, with healthy incomes and successful, satisfying careers. They couldn’t understand what it was like to be in her position, to be uneducated, unloved, uncertain. Although Vicki and Susan never said it out loud, Barbara knew they were thinking it was high time she pulled herself together and started doing something constructive with her life. Ron was never coming back; it was time for her to move forward.

  Except she couldn’t move.

  She was stuck.

  And she didn’t know how to get out of the mess that was her life.

  If only she had Chris to talk to. Chris would understand. But Chris was gone, spirited off in the middle of the night by a monster who’d sold her Grand Avenue house out from under her and imprisoned her in a small rented house in the nearby suburb of Batavia. An investigator Vicki hired had quickly uncovered their whereabouts, and the women had driven to out to Elm Street and confronted Tony at the front door, then called the police when he refused to let them see Chris. But the police had informed them that nothing could be done in light of Chris’s refusal to file a complaint, and they lectured the women sternly about minding their own business.

  Barbara had ignored their warnings and, for the next few weeks, continued driving to Batavia almost daily, parking in front of the tiny brown wood bungalow, hoping for a glimpse of Chris. But t
he curtains were always drawn. There were no signs of life. A month later, Barbara pulled up in front of the house to find the front door open and the house deserted. Chris was gone.

  There were no further attempts to locate her. “There’s nothing we can do,” the women took turns saying over the ensuing years, although Barbara didn’t believe it, and she was pretty sure the others didn’t either. Over time, their unspoken guilt thickened, then hardened, like a coat of protective varnish. They no longer kissed each other’s cheeks in greeting, choosing instead to peck at the air. When they hugged, their guilt kept them an arm’s length apart.

  The Grand Dames weren’t so grand without Chris.

  Barbara reached the exercise room at the end of the long hall, spotted Susan slogging along on one of six treadmills, Vicki pounding away on the closest of three StairMasters. That can’t be good for you, Barbara thought, pushing open the glass door with the weight of her shoulder, feeling an immediate wave of heat wash across her face.

  “There she is!” Vicki called out, as five sweaty heads snapped in her direction. “We wondered what happened to you.”

  “We were starting to worry,” Susan admonished.

  “Sorry. I lost track of the time.” Barbara dropped her parcels to the floor and slipped her coat from her shoulders, revealing a newly purchased blue-and-black-striped leotard underneath. She realized she’d forgotten her sneakers.

  “That’s a pretty outfit,” Susan said. She was wearing a pair of loose gray jogging pants and a shapeless white T-shirt. Her chin-length brown hair was damp with exertion. “When did you get that?”

  “This morning.”

  Susan shook her head, dislodging several large beads of perspiration that quickly dribbled from her forehead to the tip of her nose. “Something tells me a certain college professor isn’t going to be very happy.” A bead of sweat fell toward her mouth, teetered precariously on the bow of her upper lip.

  “Next time he gets a divorce, he should read the fine print,” Vicki said, jumping off the StairMaster, giving Barbara’s arm a squeeze as she headed for the free weights in the center of the room. She wore black shorts and a matching T-shirt with a Bodies by Design logo over her left breast.

  “She’s pregnant again,” Barbara announced, the words echoing against her ears, making her dizzy.

  “What?”

  “Who?”

  “Rotten Ron and Putrid Pammy,” Barbara told them, steadying herself against a nearby bench. “They’re expecting another baby in June. Can you believe it? She’s still nursing barf-faced Brandon, for God’s sake.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “Tracey called from Ron’s first thing this morning.”

  “How’s she taking it?”

  “She’s fine,” Barbara marveled. “You know Tracey. Nothing fazes her.”

  “How about you?” Susan slowed the speed of her treadmill, looked at Barbara with concerned eyes.

  “I’m okay.” Barbara shrugged, although in truth she was anything but okay. She hadn’t slept well in weeks, and the weekends Tracey spent with Ron were especially difficult. She’d gotten used to having Tracey sleep beside her in bed. The news of Pam’s pregnancy had hit her with the force of a ten-pound barbell dropped squarely on her head. Spending her ex-husband’s money had provided only temporary relief. Even the knowledge that it was her former mother-in-law who was most likely footing the bills brought with it only momentary satisfaction.

  I’ve made such a mess, Barbara thought now, knowing how angry Ron would be at her continuing extravagance. Hadn’t he already threatened to take her back to court if she didn’t start controlling her spending? What was she trying to do? Didn’t she know that by forcing his hand she could get slapped in the face?

  Barbara spun around, trying to avoid her reflection in the walls of mirrors that surrounded her. What was there to see, after all, but a pathetic, middle-aged woman in a stupid blue-and-black leotard whose horizontal stripes only emphasized the thickening of her waistline. What was she doing here anyway? Exercise wouldn’t help her. Nothing would help her.

  “So, did you hear the news about Kevin?” Vicki was asking.

  “Kevin?” Susan repeated, as Barbara’s heart stopped.

  Good God, she thought. He has AIDS. I’m dead.

  “My trainer,” Vicki said. “Our trainer.” She extended a barbell in Barbara’s direction. “Ex-trainer, I guess I should say.”

  “He’s dead?” Barbara gasped.

  “Dead! No, he just got fired, that’s all. Why would you think he was dead, for God’s sake?”

  “Why did he get fired?” Barbara asked, ignoring the question, trying to regain her composure.

  “Apparently he was sleeping with half his clients. Management got wind of it and fired his cute little ass.”

  “Did you?” Barbara asked, horrified by the thought she and her friend might have been sharing the same cute little ass.

  “Did I what? Sleep with Kevin? Are you kidding? I make it a practice never to sleep with anyone prettier than I am. Did you?”

  “What? Of course not.”

  “Too bad,” Vicki said, returning the ten-pound weight to its stand, picking up two fives, lifting them behind her neck and above her head. “I guess I don’t have to ask you,” she said, glancing at Susan, whose only reply was an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Didn’t think so. Anyway, I’m going to have to cut this short, I’m afraid. I have a client coming in at two o’clock.”

  “It’s Saturday,” Susan reminded her.

  “It’s business,” Vicki replied. “How’s lunch on Friday? I checked my calendar, and I actually have an hour free.”

  “Can’t,” Susan said. “I’m having lunch with my supervisor on Friday.”

  “Ooh, that sounds interesting. What’s he like anyway?”

  “Very nice. Very smart.”

  “Very cute I understand.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Now it was Vicki’s turn to roll her eyes. “God, Susan, you’re no fun. Is she, Barbara?”

  Barbara shrugged, waited for Vicki to extend the luncheon invitation to her. But Vicki continued lifting the weights above her head in silence, and nothing more was said about lunch on Friday.

  “Okay, got to go. Talk to you guys later,” Vicki announced minutes later, dropping the weights, gathering up her belongings, throwing kisses at the air, and exiting the room in a series of abrupt moves that made her look like a blurred photograph.

  It’s only a matter of time till she’s out of my life entirely, Barbara thought, watching the door close behind her. First Chris had left her, then Ron. Now Vicki and Susan were drawing closer together, sharing time and confidences, increasingly leaving her out in the cold. Hell, even Kevin’s cute little ass was gone. How long before Tracey decided she’d rather live with her father? How long before she had no one?

  “Barbara?”

  Barbara saw Susan dismount the treadmill, take several steps toward her.

  “Barbara, what’s going on?”

  “Going on? What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been talking to you for the last two minutes, and you haven’t heard a thing I’ve said, have you?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Sure. Why? Is there a problem?”

  “You tell me. You’re just standing there in the middle of the room. You haven’t moved since you took off your coat.”

  Barbara swallowed the surprising threat of tears. What was the matter with her? “I guess I just don’t feel much like exercising today.”

  “What do you feel like?”

  “Graeter’s ice cream,” Barbara responded softly, waiting for Susan’s gentle rebuke.

  Instead Susan laughed. “Sounds wonderful.”

  “You game?”

  “Can’t,” Susan apologized. “Owen’s picking me up in half an hour. We’re going to visit my mother.”

  Barbara felt instantly guilty she hadn’t inquir
ed about Susan’s mother, who was in the hospital recovering from her most recent, surgery. Poor woman—a mastectomy last year, and now another operation to remove a cancerous lymph node from her neck. “How is she?”

  Susan tried to smile, but her lips only wobbled weakly before disappearing one inside the other.

  “She’ll be all right.”

  “I know.” Susan climbed onto one of the stationary bicycles, then immediately climbed back off. “To hell with exercise. Life’s too damn short, and I’ve got half an hour till Owen shows up. What are we waiting for? Let’s go to Graeter’s.” Her arm slipped across Barbara’s shoulder. “Have I told you lately that I love you?” she asked with a sad smile.

  “Tell me again,” Barbara said.

  She was coming out of Saks when she saw him.

  No, Barbara told herself immediately, wiping the late-afternoon sun out of her eyes, feeling the dampness of lingering tears. What was the matter with her? Why was she crying, for God’s sake? The salesgirl hadn’t meant to upset her. She was a child, for heaven’s sake. What did she know of diplomacy, of tact, of life? “Lalique has just put out this wonderful new line of products for mature skin,” she’d said when Barbara had asked about a new face cream. And suddenly Barbara was crying. Right there in the middle of the makeup department at Saks. Right there in front of the horrified salesgirl and curious passersby.

  It seemed as if she were crying all the time these days, as if all anybody had to do was look at her the wrong way or say the wrong thing or even think it, and right away, she was bawling her eyes out, which Dr. Steeves would undoubtedly tell her was the worst thing she could do.

  She was so tired. Tired of her days. More tired of her nights. Tired of coping. Tired of hurting. Tired of shopping, for God’s sake. Tired of pretending that everything would be all right, that Ron would come to his senses and come home. He was never coming home. She knew that. He had Pammy and Brandon and another baby on the way. A whole new life. And what did she have? The scars from the old one.