Grand Avenue

by Joy Fielding

  “I’m truly sorry if I’ve done anything to give you the wrong impression,” Susan said, her voice full of tears.

  “You’ll be a lot sorrier in the unemployment line.”

  “You’re serious?” Susan asked after a pause. “You’ll really fire me if I don’t sleep with you?”

  “You make your bed,” Peter Bassett said slyly, “you lie in it.”

  Susan watched him lift his hands into the air, as if he were surrendering, as if the next move were hers. “Please don’t do this,” she pleaded one last time.

  “Consider it done. You’re fired, Mrs. Norman. I’ll call security to escort you out.”

  Vicki leaned forward and clicked off the recording. Silence seeped back into the room like a deadly gas, so intense it threatened to explode with the first spoken word.

  “Does anyone want to hear the tape again?” Vicki asked sweetly, somehow managing not to sound smug.

  “Thank you. I think we’ve heard quite enough.” Defeat mingled with barely concealed pride as Jeremy Latimer tried not to smile at his wife. “My sincere apologies to you, Mrs. Norman,” he began, nodding in Susan’s direction, “for the pain and discomfort you’ve obviously suffered.”

  Susan nodded gratefully at her friend, her lips trembling as her eyes filled with tears.

  “Why don’t we take a little break,” he suggested as Vicki returned the tape recorder to her briefcase. “Meet back here at, say, three o’clock?” He looked around the room. Everywhere around the table heads nodded up and down, like those toy animals people buy for the backs of their cars. “That should give my colleagues and me time to reach some sort of understanding, hopefully hammer out a deal we can all live with.”

  Vicki was instantly on her feet. “Sounds good to me.”

  Susan felt a tug at her elbow, and she pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, her head reeling with sudden dizziness. Was this nightmare finally over? Could she go back to work and get on with her life? Was it really over? She grabbed hold of the table. Dear God, was she going to faint?

  “I’m positively starving,” Vicki said, ushering Susan into the hall, as the heavy oak door closed behind them.

  “I’m feeling a bit light-headed,” Susan whispered, collapsing against the nearest wall.

  “A little champagne will take care of that.” Vicki laughed, a short burst of energy, like a dog’s bark.

  “Champagne?”

  “Champagne,” Vicki repeated, then barked again, dragging Susan down the long corridor. “We won, darlin’. It’s time to celebrate.”

  “So, how many are coming?”

  Susan temporarily stopped searching through the drawers of her dining room cabinet for candles that weren’t at least two-thirds of the way burned down, and counted aloud the number of people coming for dinner. “Well, let’s see. There’s you, me, Ariel, Barbara and Tracey, Vicki and Kirsten, Chris …”

  “Montana?”

  “Montana had other plans.” Apparently Montana had hung up the phone as soon as she’d heard Chris’s voice.

  “How come Daddy isn’t eating with us?” Whitney asked.

  “Too many women,” Susan said, hoping the lie would satisfy her younger daughter, who was wise far beyond her almost thirteen years. Whitney was tall and willowy, and growing more beautiful every day. She has her grandmother’s eyes, Susan realized, her own eyes immediately filling with tears, so that she turned away, pretending to be absorbed in the hunt for unused candles.

  “Did you and Daddy have a fight?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then why don’t you talk to each other anymore?”

  “We talk to each other,” Susan protested weakly, although it seemed that not even the hefty settlement she’d won was enough to make up for Owen’s hurt feelings and bruised ego. She shuddered, thinking back to that awful scene with Owen, when she’d finally confided in him the whole truth of her predicament.

  “You kissed him?” Owen had asked, his face a mask of pain and confusion.

  I let him kiss me, Susan had almost amended. I didn’t stop him. But she’d said neither, since neither was the truth. “Yes,” was all she’d said, watching the pain sink deeper into her husband’s eyes. “It was stupid, I know. It didn’t mean anything.” Had she really said that?

  “What’s going on, Susan?” he’d asked simply in return. “Have the rules changed?”

  “Of course not,” Susan had assured him, pleading temporary insanity, swearing such a thing would never happen again, and telling him over and over again how much she loved him, how highly she valued their marriage. She’d begged his forgiveness. Ultimately, after much cajoling, after many tears, on both their parts, he’d said he understood, although Susan could see that he didn’t.

  Whitney was right, Susan realized now. Her conversations with her husband had become increasingly brief and impersonal these last few months, until they bordered on nonexistent. She could barely look in his eyes, so clear was the reflection of her betrayal.

  Not that she blamed him. He had every right to feel hurt and embarrassed. The newspapers had had a field day with the news that Vicki was suing her own husband for sexual harassment. If they hadn’t settled, if they’d actually gone to trial, if all the lurid details had come out … Susan shuddered. Owen might be understanding and supportive, but he was also very proud. And very disappointed.

  She’d let him down.

  Vicki said to give it time. Owen loved her; eventually he’d come around.

  Of course, what did Vicki know? Hadn’t she assured Susan she’d get her job back? “I’m sorry, Susan, but you didn’t really expect them to hire you back after you sued them, did you? I mean, you’re a bit of a troublemaker, you know,” she’d added with a sly smile.

  I guess I am, Susan realized, shaking her head in wonder, absorbing the room in one quick glance: the circular walnut table that sat beneath a modern brass-and-glass chandelier, and was surrounded by eight high-backed, wine-colored chairs; twin cabinets against two of the eggshell-colored walls; a fireplace that had never been used, despite Owen’s best intentions and repeated assurances; billowy ivory curtains pulled open and secured with large bows at each side of the large window overlooking the street, as if providing a frame for the trees that had already lost much of their foliage, the remaining red, orange, and yellow leaves clinging perilously to life, most of their previous luster faded or trampled into the ground. Again, Susan thought of her mother, lying pale and skeletal beneath harsh and graying hospital sheets, connected to life through a series of tubes and the sheer ferocity of her will to live.

  She grabbed two dark red candles, no more than short stubs really, and stuck them into a pair of elegant glass candlesticks, then arranged her good crystal glasses around the table as Whitney laid down the cutlery. She didn’t want to think about her mother or Owen or her problems finding another job. Thankfully, Peter Bassett was in an even worse predicament. Not only had he been summarily dismissed and publicly humiliated, but his wife had left him, along with their difficult teenagers and the family dog. “Should I change?” Susan asked her daughter.

  “What for? You look nice.”

  “You’re so sweet.”

  “Who’s so sweet?” The voice was dark, vaguely menacing, much like the fifteen-year-old girl it belonged to. Ariel was dressed all in black, as had lately become her custom, her uncombed hair newly tinged with crimson streaks, her lips a deep purple gash. “Could it be the alien?”

  “Don’t start,” Susan warned.

  Ariel glared toward the freshly set dining room table as if it had deliberately been designed to upset her. “What’s going on here?”

  “A little hen party,” Susan explained. “I told you about it last week. Chris, Vicki, Kirsten, Barbara, Tracey …”

  “To celebrate your victory?” Ariel’s voice trembled with irritation. Hadn’t she complained to her mother repeatedly that Susan’s lawsuit had made her the laughingstock of her class?

  “Not
really, no. It’s just been a while since we all got together, and I thought—”

  Ariel made a face, as if someone had just passed wind. “Count me out.”

  “What?”

  “No way I’m having dinner with Tracey Azinger,” Ariel scoffed.

  “What’s the matter with Tracey? She’s a perfectly lovely girl.”

  “She’s weird.”

  “She’s not weird.”

  “She just sits there with this stupid smile on her face all the time.”

  “Since when is it weird to smile?”

  “She looks like one of those wax dummies from Madame Trousseau’s.”

  “Tussaud,” Susan corrected.

  “What?”

  “Tussaud, not trousseau. A trousseau is something you have when you get married.”

  “I know what a trousseau is,” Ariel shot back, pale cheeks burning angry red.

  “Is Barbara still dating that guy?” Whitney interrupted.

  “Howard Kerble,” Susan said, grateful for her daughter’s intentional diversion. “Yes, she is.” “Think they’ll get married?” “They might.”

  “Then she could have a Tussaud,” Whitney deadpanned.

  Susan laughed.

  “Are you laughing at me?” Ariel accused.

  “No, of course not,” Susan said, weary before the evening had even begun. Increasingly, Ariel had that effect on her. “It was just a joke.”

  “Whitney’s the joke.”

  “That’s enough.”

  “She and Tracey should be sisters.”

  “I said enough.”

  “Tracey is kind of weird, Mom.” This time the voice, surprisingly, was Whitney’s.

  “What?”

  Whitney shrugged.

  “How come you don’t yell at her for saying stuff like that?” Ariel demanded.

  “I didn’t yell at you.”

  “You’re always yelling at me.”

  “I’m not always …” Don’t bite. Don’t bite. Don’t bite. “Let’s just drop it. Okay?”

  “Good,” Ariel said. “Because I’m going out.”

  Immediately Susan’s jaws clamped down on the bait. “What do you mean you’re going out?”

  “I have plans.”

  “What kind of plans?”

  “The none-of-your-business kind.”

  Susan took a series of deep breaths, silently counting to ten at least half a dozen times before responding. “You’re not going anywhere, young lady. Now why don’t you help us finish setting the table?”

  Ariel’s response was to march into the front hall, open the closet door, and start putting on her coat.

  Susan was instantly at her side. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I told you I was going out.”

  “And I told you, you were staying put.”

  Ariel shook her head, stuffed her arms in the sleeves of the old black coat she’d gotten from Goodwill. “Then we have a problem.”

  Susan quickly decided on a different approach. “Look, Ariel, just do this for me tonight, okay? I’ve really been looking forward to all of us getting together. Surely you can tolerate Tracey for one night.”

  “No,” Ariel said stubbornly.

  “Come on, sweetheart. Is what I’m asking so unreasonable?”

  “Yes.” Ariel opened the front door. A jolt of cold night air pushed its way inside.

  “Let her go,” Whitney called from the dining room. “If she’s not here, we might actually have a good time.”

  She has a point there, Susan realized, taking a step back. Why was she being so insistent that Ariel stay home? So that she could scowl her way through dinner? So that she could insult her sister and ignore her guests? So that she could spread her gloom and doom around the table like an infectious cough? Let her go, she repeated silently. Let her go. Susan backed out of the hall as Ariel stepped outside and pulled the door shut after her.

  “It’s better this way.” Whitney smiled at her mother, motioned toward the dining room table. “Looks pretty good, huh?”

  “Looks great. Thank you, sweetheart. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Suddenly the front door burst open and Ariel stormed back into the house, her face contorted with rage. “What do you mean, if I’m not here, you might actually have a good time!”

  Susan would have laughed had it not been clear from the look on Ariel’s face that she was deadly serious. Whitney rolled her eyes, said nothing.

  “Don’t roll your eyes at me, bitch!” Ariel shouted.

  “Stop it, Ariel,” Susan warned. “Stop it right now.”

  “Just ignore her, Mom.” Whitney turned her back on Ariel’s rage.

  “Don’t walk away from me, you moron!” Without any warning, Ariel lunged toward the dining room table and grabbed one of Susan’s good crystal glasses, lifting it into the air above her head.

  “Ariel, put that down this minute,” Susan cautioned, but already the glass had left Ariel’s hand and was flying toward Whitney. “Whitney, look out!” Susan screamed as the glass narrowly missed the side of Whitney’s head and crashed against the wall, shattering into a million tiny fragments.

  “I’m sorry,” Ariel said immediately, her face reflecting the horror of what she’d just done. “I didn’t mean to throw it. It was out of my hand before I could stop it.”

  “Get out of here,” Susan growled, her voice so low she barely recognized it. How could things get so bad so fast? A minute ago, all had been calm. Now there was shattered glass all over the dining room floor. Whitney was already down on her knees, trying to gather the fragments together, and Susan could see the tears streaming down the child’s cheeks even as she fought to hide them from view. “Get out of here,” Susan said again.

  “I thought you wanted me home tonight,” Ariel protested.

  “I changed my mind. Get out.”

  “Where’ll I go?” she wailed.

  “I don’t care,” Susan told her, and at that moment, it was the truth.

  “This is all your fault,” Ariel shouted at her sister.

  “One more word out of that miserable mouth of yours,” Susan said steadily, “and I’ll call the police and have you arrested for assault.”

  Ariel stared at her mother in disbelief. “Why don’t you make it sexual assault?” she sneered. “Isn’t that your specialty?”

  “Get the hell out of here. Now.”

  Ariel raced from the room into the front hall, shouting more angry words as she opened the door and slammed it shut after her. It took Susan a few seconds to decipher those words and play them back again after Ariel was gone. “You’ll be sorry,” her daughter had been saying over and over again. “You’ll be sorry. You’ll be sorry. You’ll be sorry.”

  Twenty-Three

  I’m sorry, Mrs. Hallendale, what day next week did you say you’d like to bring Charlie back to see Dr. Marcus?”

  Chris watched Emily Hallendale’s shoulders rise and fall in obvious irritation. “I said Wednesday afternoons are generally a good time for me.” She tucked Charlie, a tiny white teacup poodle, inside the lapels of her calf-length, black mink coat, her tone indicating her displeasure at having to repeat herself. At forty-plus, Emily Hallendale was a formidable presence, tall and buxom, with short, dark hair and an olive complexion, model-high cheekbones, and a low tolerance for incompetence.

  She hates me, Chris thought, deciding the feeling was mutual as she entered Charlie’s name in Dr. Marcus’s appointment calendar. “Here we go. One o’clock, Thursday, March nineteenth, 1992.” Chris shakily scribbled the information on an appointment card, trying to ignore the incessant ringing of the telephone beside her, and offered the card to Emily Hallendale, who was staring at Chris as if she were a complete idiot.

  “Wednesday,” Emily Hallendale corrected, her voice flat, as if Chris were no longer worth the effort inflection required.

  “Sorry. Yes, you did say Wednesday, didn’t you?”

  “Three times.”


  “Yes, I’m very sorry about that.”

  The phone continued ringing. Chris stared at it, pushing errant strands of limp, shoulder-length hair behind her ears.

  “Don’t you think you should answer that?”

  “No.” Chris forced an uneasy smile onto her face and tried to keep from screaming. Who was this woman to tell her what to do?

  “I’m not sure I appreciate your tone,” Emily Hallendale said.

  “I’m sorry,” Chris apologized quickly.

  “Maybe I should talk to the doctor about the people he has working for him.”

  “Maybe you should,” Chris agreed, filling out another appointment card, slamming it down on the counter without looking up. “Wednesday. March eighteenth, 1992. One o’clock. Have a nice day.”

  Emily Hallendale remained motionless at the counter for several minutes, as if considering her options, before sliding the card into her large black alligator bag. “Don’t forget to change the date on the doctor’s schedule,” she advised coolly before marching to the door, the small dog at her throat yapping his farewells.

  “Isn’t anybody going to answer that damn phone?” Dr. Marcus’s naturally gruff voice growled from one of the back rooms.

  Chris nodded, thinking that the doctor was beginning to sound more like his patients every day, but she made no move to pick up the receiver. What for? She already knew who was on the other end.

  “Answer the damn phone. Answer the damn phone,” came the cry from the middle of the cramped waiting room.

  “Be quiet, Lydia,” Chris shushed the majestic white cockatoo who sat atop her large cage. Lydia was the office mascot, a cantankerous parrot who’d been brought in for a checkup six months earlier and then abandoned.

  “Be quiet,” the parrot repeated. “Be quiet, Lydia.” The large bird began pacing back and forth across the top of her cage, her head bobbing up and down to an invisible beat.

  “What’s she doing?” a young girl asked from the row of black leather chairs against the wall. The girl, whose small, upturned nose was overrun with freckles, was maybe eight years old. She sat rocking a small gray kitten in her lap, a look of adult worry already settled into her child’s face. Her mother sat beside her, her head resting against the pale pink wall, her eyes closed beneath a painting of a frolicking dolphin.