Grand Avenue

by Joy Fielding

  “What’s wrong?” Confusion clouded his eyes, twisted his lips.

  “I can’t do this.”

  “Sure you can.” Once again, his hands were everywhere, in her hair, on her breasts, tugging at her skirt. “Nobody’s going to come in.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is?”

  “I just can’t do it.” Susan pushed at him with such force Peter lost his balance, his hip slamming against the corner of the table.

  He stared at her through eyes as hard as pebbles. “What the hell kind of game are you playing, lady?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Susan apologized, struggling to rearrange her clothing, tuck her blouse back inside her skirt. “I didn’t mean for things to go this far. Can we just forget this whole thing happened?”

  “Forget it? You’ve been leading me on for months, and suddenly you just want to forget it?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Wiggling by my desk. Batting your eyelashes anytime you want some extra time off. Leaning over my desk …”

  “I haven’t …” Had she?

  “Playing little Miss Helpless. Little Miss Depressed. So worried about her mother …”

  “I am worried about my mother.”

  “Worry about your job.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t like being toyed with.”

  “I wasn’t toying with you.” How had this whole thing come to be her fault?

  “I thought you liked me,” he said, his voice a gentle plea. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

  Susan heard whispering outside the boardroom door. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  Peter pulled himself together, adjusted his clothing, straightened his tie. He looked at the sheets of papers that had been knocked off the table during their scuffle and which now lay scattered across the floor. “Pick this shit up,” he said, opening the door and exiting the room, leaving her alone to straighten up the mess.

  Three weeks later, the phone in Susan’s office rang.

  “I need to see you in my office as soon as possible,” Peter Bassett said. “Bring that article on hormone replacement therapy you’ve been working on.”

  Article? What article? Susan wondered, fumbling through the papers on her desk. He’d kept her so busy these last weeks, she hadn’t had any time to work on the article at all. At best, she had a few preliminary notes. An outline maybe. Where were they?

  The phone rang again.

  “When I say as soon as possible,” Peter Bassett said, “I don’t mean whenever you damn well feel like it.”

  “I’m on my way.” Susan coughed nervously into her hand.

  “You’re not getting sick again, are you?”

  “Sick?” Sick again? When was the last time she’d been sick?

  “Just bring the article.”

  Susan finally located the single sheet under a stack of other such sheets and read her notes over quickly before heading to Peter’s office.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got,” Peter said impatiently as she entered his office.

  Susan reached across his desk, handed him the single sheet of paper, careful to avert her eyes. Every time she looked at him, she felt a wave of nausea. Had she been out of her mind?

  “What the hell is this?” Peter asked, loud enough to be heard by those in the immediate vicinity.

  Susan felt a warm flush scurry up her neck to her face, like an army of fire ants. “It’s all I’ve got at the moment.”

  “You call this satisfactory work?”

  “I call it an outline, a few preliminary notes …”

  “Are you aware this article is due at the end of the week?”

  “What? No, of course not. We never discussed any deadlines.”

  “Have the finished article on my desk by Friday morning.”

  “But that’s impossible. You already have me editing three other pieces.”

  “Are you saying you can’t do your job?”

  “Of course I can do my job but …”

  Peter Bassett smiled, leaned back in his chair. “Look, Susan, I’ve tried to be patient.”

  “What?” What was he talking about?

  “I know you’re having a hard time on the home front, what with your mother and your daughter and God knows what else. Maybe this job is just too much for you.”

  “What?”

  “Chemotherapy takes its toll on everybody. Look at you. You don’t look well at all. You’re letting yourself go, putting on weight.”

  The words hit her like a slap on the face. “What?” How many times had she asked that?

  “There are only so many chances I can give you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know you love your job. Your enthusiasm is admirable. And I’ve tried hard to make allowances for your inexperience.” He shook his head. “But I’m not sure I can keep covering for you.”

  “Covering for me?”

  “Your work is simply not up to the standards of this magazine.”

  Susan could barely believe what she was hearing. Was he really saying these things? And did he actually expect her—or anyone else—to believe them?

  The smile in his eyes provided her with the answer.

  “Are you firing me?”

  “No.” He reached across his desk, lifted a black-and-white Mont Blanc pen into his hands, twisting it between his fingers. “I’m a nice guy, Susan. I’m going to give you one more chance.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m putting you on probation.”

  “Probation?”

  “I think you need some time to think things through, decide just how much this job really means to you, whether you can give it your full attention, become more of a team player, as it were.”

  As it were, Susan repeated silently. “You can’t do this,” she said out loud.

  “Ah, but I can,” he said, a fresh chirp in his voice as he dismissed her. “That’s all, Susan. Oh, remember to have that article on my desk first thing Friday morning. And close the door after you on your way out.”

  This isn’t happening, Susan thought as she marched back down the hall toward her cubicle, muttering under her breath, “How dare you! You bastard! How dare you!”

  What the hell was she supposed to do now? she wondered, looking neither left nor right as she strode past the long line of cubicles, ignoring the puzzled look on Carrie’s face as she passed her desk. She plopped down hard into her chair, inadvertently dislodging the papers beside her computer, watching them jump into the air and dive toward the floor, as if looking for cover. “Damn you, Peter Bassett.” What was she supposed to do now? There was nothing wrong with her work and they both knew it. Her work wasn’t the point. Her work was beside the point. The actual point was that she’d rebuffed his advances. Rebuffed his advances! Who was she—a beautiful young heroine in some old-fashioned bodice ripper? No, she was a pathetic, overweight, middle-aged woman who’d let herself be so flattered by the attentions of the office lothario that she’d almost done something incredibly stupid, and now she was in danger of losing her job because of it.

  God, what had ever possessed her?

  Vicki had been so right. About everything.

  Susan picked up the phone and punched in Vicki’s number. “I need to speak to Mrs. Latimer,” Susan told Vicki’s secretary.

  “She’s in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?”

  “This is urgent. Can you tell her that her friend Susan Norman needs to speak to her right away? I’ll hold as long as I have to.”

  Thirty seconds later, Vicki was on the line. “Susan, where are you? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m at work. Remember what we talked about last month?”

  “Goddamn,” Vicki said slowly. “You’ve been shitting where you eat.”

  Twenty-One

  Shit,” Barbara said, feeling the sting of mascara as her nervous fingers accidentally jabbed the delicate makeup brush
smack into her right eye. “Shit, shit, shit.” She blinked rapidly, watching the errant mascara arrange itself mournfully around the bottom of her eye, as if someone had punched her. “Great. I look just great.” She reached for a cotton ball, squeezed a drop of makeup remover across its soft surface, then delicately wiped the accidental artifice away while trying, unsuccessfully, not to take the rest of her makeup along with it. “Shit,” she said again, understanding she’d have to start over despite her best efforts.

  “What’s the matter?” Tracey, wearing a blue chenille bathrobe identical to the one her mother had on, stood in the bathroom doorway.

  “Look at me. I look like I just went ten rounds with Mike Tyson.” Barbara reached for her bottle of cleanser, began rubbing the creamy, white lotion into her cheeks and across her forehead with deliberate, well-practiced strokes.

  “I think you look nice.”

  “Thanks, sweetie, but nice isn’t quite the adjective I was going for.”

  “What’s the big deal? It’s just you and me and Richard Gere.”

  Barbara stared at her daughter through their reflections in the bathroom mirror. What was Tracey talking about? What did Richard Gere have to do with anything? “What am I missing here?”

  “An Officer and a Gentleman? Your favorite movie? The one you asked me to rent for tonight?”

  “Oh, God.”

  “You forgot?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re going out?”

  “I’m sorry,” Barbara repeated.

  “With that guy again?”

  “With Howard, yes.”

  “You said we were going to watch a movie. You asked me to rent the tape. I bought popcorn.”

  “I’m so sorry, sweetie. Really, I forgot all about it.”

  “Can’t you cancel?”

  Barbara had been looking forward to tonight all day—dinner at The Maisonette, Cincinnati’s finest restaurant, with Howard and several of his closest friends. No way she was canceling, especially at the last minute. Surely Tracey would understand. “I can’t. I’m sorry, honey.”

  Tracey sighed audibly. “How about tomorrow?”

  “How about Sunday?” Barbara asked instead.

  “You’re going out tomorrow night too?”

  “Howard’s firm is having their annual party. I’m sure I told you about that.”

  “No, you didn’t.” Tracey slumped against the doorway. “So, what’s the story? You really like this guy?”

  Barbara shrugged, tried to look more indifferent than she felt. There was no point in alarming her daughter unnecessarily. She and Howard had been dating for less than two months. There was no telling where it might lead. “I like him very much.” She returned her attention to her face, wiping the cleanser off with a tissue, then rinsing with warm water and patting her skin dry. “Maybe you could invite one of your friends over to watch the movie,” she suggested, realizing she’d be hard-pressed to name any of her daughter’s friends.

  Tracey shook her head, though not strongly enough to disturb the shoulder-length dark hair that flipped up at her shoulders. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Was it possible her daughter didn’t have any friends?

  Barbara watched Tracey’s eyes studying her as she expertly reapplied her makeup, starting with an assortment of moisturizers and eye creams, followed by a single stroke of concealer under each eye, foundation, blush, pale blue eye shadow, navy liquid eyeliner, then rich black mascara. She carefully outlined her mouth in cherry red, then filled in her lips with a burnt orange lipstick, blending one into the other. “How’s that?” she asked her daughter when she was satisfied.

  “Beautiful.”

  “Really?”

  “What’s the big deal?” Tracey followed her mother out of the bathroom and into her closet. “I mean, how special is this guy? Are you two getting married or something?” She said it as a joke, but Barbara recognized the serious tone that lay beneath.

  “No, of course not. He’s just a guy.” Barbara pulled a black cocktail dress from its hanger.

  “Is that a new dress?”

  “Not really,” Barbara lied.

  “Price tag’s still on it.”

  Barbara felt instantly guilty, though she wasn’t sure why. Why should she feel guilty about going out on a date? Why should she feel guilty about buying a new dress? Why had she lied about it to Tracey? “Well, I bought it last month, so technically it’s not new,” she qualified, wondering why she felt the need to justify herself to her daughter.

  “It’s pretty.”

  “It was on sale at the store. Fifty percent off plus my employee discount. How could I say no?”

  “You don’t have to explain.” Tracey plopped down at the foot of Barbara’s bed, watched her mother remove her robe and step carefully into her dress. “What shoes are you going to wear?”

  “I haven’t decided,” Barbara lied again, mindful of the new pair of sequined, black, three-inch heels sitting in their box in the closet. “Maybe you could give Ariel a call.”

  “Ariel? Why would I call her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’d like to come over and watch the movie with you.”

  “She’s a freak. Have you seen her lately?”

  Barbara nodded, wondering how Susan put up with it, thankful that Tracey hadn’t felt the need to hack off her hair or violate her body with ugly tattoos. Three by the last count, Susan had confided. An ersatz Japanese symbol on Ariel’s right shoulder blade, something that looked like a squished pineapple on her left ankle, and the latest, a spiderweb on the back of her left thigh. Wait till she gets older and everything starts dropping. That spiderweb will look like varicose veins. Barbara checked the backs of her own legs for any sign of unsightly blue lines, mercifully finding none, although without her contact lenses, she couldn’t really be sure. Probably the only good thing about getting older, she decided, is that it got harder to see your body disintegrating around you.

  “What about Kirsten?” Barbara pictured Vicki’s lovely flame-haired daughter, as popular as she was smart, and at fifteen, already decided on a career in law.

  The look of disbelief on Tracey’s face said it all. Just because you and her mother are friends, the look said, doesn’t mean I’m going to be friends with her daughter.

  I guess that’s right, Barbara thought sadly, sinking down beside her daughter on the bed and putting her arm around her. Immediately Tracey’s head burrowed into the side of her mother’s neck. Barbara had always assumed that, like their mothers, their offspring would become fast friends. They’d known each other almost all their lives. And yet, none of the girls was even remotely close to any of the others, which maybe wasn’t that surprising. They were all so different.

  There was no point in even mentioning Chris’s daughter, Montana. No one had seen the girl in more than a year. Poor Chris, Barbara thought, her heart breaking.

  Had it really been eighteen months since Chris had shown up on her doorstep on that bitter cold December night? Eighteen months since they’d sat together on this very bed? Eighteen months since they’d shared that wholly unexpected kiss?

  Barbara brought her fingers to her lips, felt the ghost of Chris’s gentle touch. She shook her head. This was no time to be thinking such thoughts. Howard would be here in less than ten minutes. She had to finish getting ready. “What earrings should I wear?”

  Tracey shrugged her indifference, then shuffled from the room, clumping down the stairs to the kitchen. Hearing her rifle through the fridge, Barbara frowned. “Stay away from the ice cream,” Barbara called out as she hurried into the bathroom to fluff out her hair and put in her lenses.

  At exactly seven o’clock the doorbell rang, and Barbara floated down the stairs to greet the new man in her life. “I won’t be late,” she assured Tracey, kissing her daughter’s forehead on her way out the door.

  Tracey’s eyes narrowed accusingly. “Are those new shoes?”

  Barbara had met Howard six month
s ago when she’d signed up for a course in current affairs at the Mariemont Community Center, just down the street from the upscale boutique in which she’d been working for the better part of a year. The course was the last thing in the world she’d felt like taking—did she really care that Iraq had ignored the January 15 deadline for withdrawing from Kuwait, and that Allied forces, which included the United States, Canada, Britain, France, Japan, Italy, and Pakistan, as well as members of the Arab League, had launched a retaliatory six-week air attack, or that the Soviets were suppressing independence movements in Baltic republics?—but it was a necessary part of her plan for getting on with her life. What choice had Ron left her?

  Besides, if Chris could forge ahead despite Tony’s repeated threats and constant harassment, so could she. Hell, it was the least she could do.

  And surprisingly, after several sessions, Barbara had found she did care about what was going on in the Mideast and the Soviet Union, that she was genuinely interested in the plight of the people of Somalia and South Africa. She discovered she enjoyed knowing there was a world beyond Grand Avenue, enjoyed knowing what was going on in that world, enjoyed talking about it, discussing important issues of the day with Susan and Vicki and Chris.

  She hadn’t been looking for a man. In fact, she’d barely noticed Howard Kerble until the very last class of the term, when he’d accidentally dropped his heavily underlined newspaper to the floor, then spilled his coffee all over it while trying to retrieve it. “Problems?” Barbara had asked, helping him blot up the mess.

  “Piles,” he’d replied, then smiled sheepishly. “And that’s only one of my problems.”

  Barbara had laughed out loud, laughed with her whole face, the first time she remembered having done that in years. And next thing she knew, she and Howard were having coffee together after class, then meeting for lunch the following week, then having dinner together the week after that.

  Howard Kerble was a widower with two grown sons and a recent grandchild. I’m dating a grandfather, Barbara occasionally found herself thinking, relishing being cast in the unexpected role of the younger woman, although in truth, there were only eight years between them.

  At first Barbara saw Howard Kerble only in relation to her ex-husband. Howard was tall, although not as tall as Ron, and more compact than Ron. His hair was sparser than Ron’s and more peppered with gray. His eyes were blue as opposed to brown; his fingers were longer, his hands smaller. If Ron was admittedly the handsomer of the two, Howard was easily the more distinguished, although less fussy than Ron had been, more accessible. He was every bit as smart as Ron, but less intent on showing off. He never talked about his work—insurance—whereas Ron’s conversation had always revolved around his teaching. Howard never made Barbara feel stupid, as Ron had. Howard made her feel valued. All Ron had ever made her feel was inadequate.