“If Adam won’t fight her, I will!”
“In the kitchen you find, about halfway up the wall, one of those decorative bands of tiles featuring a row of teakettles alternated with pepper mills, like this: teakettle, pepper mill, teakettle, pepper mill, teakettle, pep— Are you seeing this with me?”
“She’s banking on keeping Adam and me apart. It’s like you said, her whole plan hinges on him struggling with the kids in that house alone, until finally he gives up and asks her to come back—which is why I’m not going to play along!”
“Potpourri,” Agatha mused. “I bet you’ll find wooden bowls of potpourri everywhere, with perky ribbons tied around them. That’s my bet. Dishes of seashells in the bathroom. Decorative pinecones?” A look of alarm crossed her face. “Ducks?”
“Once she finds out I’m cozily installed with Adam in her suburban dream home, sharing the housework and helping him raise her golden-haired babes, she’ll come tearing back, screaming like a hellcat, to reclaim her house and kids. It’ll work. I know it will.”
“And the kids! Oh, Valerie, the kids! I’d forgotten the kids. This is suicidal! My God, Valerie, listen to me—suburban life will crush you like a turd under the wheel of an oxcart.”
Valerie had been cupping her hand under her lengthening cigarette ash for some time, craning around in vain for an ashtray. “This minimalist shit has got to go! I bet you have a secret room somewhere, exploding with junk. What do I do with the ash—eat it?” She tried to flick the ash toward the window and nearly made it. Cursing, she jammed the cigarette into her mouth so she could brush her dress off with both hands, and the smoke curled into her eyes, stinging them. With a cry of irritation, she jumped up and fumbled behind the white shade until she managed to yank the window open and hurl the butt outside. Then she slammed the window closed, muttering, “… going fucking snow-blind!”
Agatha watched it all dispassionately. “Put it on record,” she said, “that I don’t think you’ll last a week out there. You’ll be stabbing your veins with the fondue forks.”
“Agatha, do you know how often Adam and I have had sex since she left? We hardly ever see each other, and when we do, we fight. Our relationship is falling apart. Her goddamned plan is working! This is not idle theorizing I’m engaging in here, this is fact. Listen to me—I am losing Adam! We have to act quickly!”
Agatha looked at her friend’s tense white face and shook her head sadly. “That bitch,” she moaned, “oh, that bitch. To think she has brought you so low.”
Valerie waited.
And sure enough, Agatha straightened up, all briskness and efficiency. “Okay! If this is the sorry state things have come to, so be it. Now!” She rubbed her hands together. “A thing worth doing is worth doing well. First off, we need to hire a damned good nanny. Someone’s got to keep those kids away from you, even if it’s only for the day or two it takes for the wife to come running back. Plus, it’ll show Adam you mean business.”
“So you think it’ll work? If I move in, she’ll come back?”
“Of course. What woman wouldn’t be driven mad by her usurper occupying her very bed? The question is, will you survive out there till then? That’s why we need the nanny. Hang on.” Agatha left and came back with her laptop, smirking. “What should we look under—animal trainers?”
Valerie gave her a long, appraising look, and when she spoke, it was calmly. “I wonder, Agatha, if you’ll ever reach the level of maturity necessary to keep you from trying to score cheap laughs off my personal problems. I’m running the risk of losing the man I love, and that’s a serious matter for me.”
“Oh, Christ, Valerie. I know it is—”
“Then please grow up.”
“And I’m helping you, aren’t I? Jesus, I’m always helping you! All we ever talk about is you.”
“Agatha, I know that your own private life doesn’t have much content and that you use frivolity to mask its emptiness, but it’s inappropriate in a case like mine. That’s all I’m saying.”
“What do you know about my life? For all you know, I could be involved in a passionate romance at this very moment. How would you ever find out? You never even ask me how I am! It’s just installment after installment of The Valerie Show, which I’m sorry to say is not a serious drama but just a farce in need of a few jokes to make it palatable.”
Silence followed as Agatha frowned at her computer screen and Valerie looked stonily out the window, or rather at the window, as it was completely blocked by the white shade. Sparring was intrinsic to their friendship; it invigorated them, and playing off each other for laughs was a trick they had learned in high school. But there was no audience now, and their irritation, while real, was only mild. Neither wanted hostilities to spiral. The question was how to back down without loss of face.
In the end Valerie made the peace, which was only fair, as she had started the argument. “Let’s look under lion tamers,” she said.
Agatha smiled. “Okay.” It was strangely fun lying on the carpet together compiling a list of nannies. It was an engrossing task, and an unusual one for two childless women, which added a sense of novelty to their mission. “Hey, we haven’t had so much fun together since the junior prom, have we, Vee?” Agatha chuckled, remembering, and Valerie hummed agreement in a distracted way.
The junior prom had marked their entrance into high-school society, their transition from dowdy nobodies to notorious rebels, admired by a few and hated by many, but hatred was okay; as attention-seeking teenagers, it was indifference they couldn’t bear. Agatha had been sunk in despair at not being asked to the prom, not asked by anyone, knowing of course that it didn’t really matter but feeling painfully humiliated all the same, because the whole problem with high school is that even though you know it doesn’t matter, it does. She had moped, ranted, and even cried until Valerie took the situation in hand. It wasn’t hard. She bought a tuxedo from the Salvation Army, forced her mother to do some proper alterations for once on that old sewing machine of hers, got her hair cut like James Dean, put on a pair of sunglasses, and took Agatha to the prom as her date, “Angelo.” They stole the show, dancing a nearly pornographic tango together (exhaustively rehearsed beforehand in Agatha’s bedroom) until Angelo’s identity was discovered, exciting much homophobic indignation and culminating in the unprecedented honor of being asked to leave the prom. Their reputations were made. The prank was seen as free-spirited by some, as depraved by others, but at any rate “Val ’n’ Ag” never again had to suffer the ignominy of anonymity. From that first achievement, it had been just a short step to the fake IDs that got them into the Rat in Kenmore Square on Saturday nights to see Lou Miami and the Kozmetix—the very pinnacle of the high life. For all this, Agatha had been profoundly grateful to Valerie. And still was.
“Remember Lou Miami, Vee? I love Boston. Why is it that we Bostonians always feel we have to justify ourselves for not living in New York? Did you know that in New York City for every unmarried man there are something like twelve point three unmarried women? Think of it—what if you ended up being the ‘point three’? I’m glad I stayed right here. And I know why you never moved.”
“Because I’m such a zealous Red Sox fan?” Valerie asked, intent on her task, eyes on the screen. “Here’s one. Ready to take this number?”
“You never moved to New York because you prefer to be a big fish in a small pond, that’s why.”
“Her name is Miss Amelia Eldridge,” Valerie said. “Sounds too good to be true.”
“It could be a nom de guerre,” Agatha said, reaching for her phone. “Let’s find out.”
* * *
Sophie lay low for the next few days, ailing in spirit. She pared down what she must do to the bare essentials: attend class and play with her children. The rest of the time she stayed in bed with a pot of herbal tea and a stack of novels. What she did mostly was cry—cry as she had never done before. Even with her mind on a book, her eyes would fill with tears until the print got blu
rry and she had to blink to clear her vision until her eyes filled up again. There was no resisting it; she let the tears fall and imagined them washing away her sadness and anger. This weeping was healthy and cleansing, she told herself. She was undergoing a water cure of sorts, her body acting as a spa.
Henry took her swimming, as he had promised, in a pool at a gym near their school. At first she was reluctant to go, envisioning the usual dank and chlorine-reeking indoor pool, but it turned out to be warm and bright, with one wall made all of glass—a tall poplar visible through it—and a vaulted translucent ceiling, and she found swimming so soothing that she didn’t need to top up the pool with salty tears for extra buoyancy. She swam slowly, concentrating on the rhythmic movements of her arms and legs and the silky feeling of gliding through the water. When she got tired, she dawdled on the ropes idly, gazing at the sun sparkling on the water, thinking of nothing.
At home she avoided the telephone, opened no letters or e-mails, and went to bed as soon as Milagros had picked up the children at six. There she cried some more, reminding herself that this was her weeping cure and that teardrop by teardrop she was washing her spirit clean of the poison Adam had poured into it.
Messages stacked up on the answering machine. The light blinked continually, menacing her fragile calm until one afternoon, tired at last of being bullied, she decided to listen to them all with her finger poised on the “erase” button, ready to eliminate anything upsetting.
“Sophie, it’s Marion. How are you, hon? I—” That caring, professional voice… Erase.
A hang-up. Adam? Erase.
“Sophie, what in heaven’s name is—” Her mother’s voice, taut with anxiety. Or annoyance. Erase.
“Hellooo, Patricia here. Look, darling, I’ve just spoken to Adam, and—” The low, throaty English drawl of Adam’s mother. Let him deal with her, now and forever. Erase.
Another hang-up. Adam again? Calling to beg her forgiveness? Or because he couldn’t find the toilet brush.
“Sophie, it’s Lydia! My God, I’ve just—” Erase.
There seemed no end to these messages from friends and neighbors, sounding concerned or reproachful, or simply curious.
“Sophie?”
“Sophie!”
“Soph—”
Each time she heard her name, she punched the “erase” button. The only person she needed to respond to was her mother, who must have called Adam’s house and heard God-knows-what from him. But talking to her mother required adopting an upbeat, reassuring tone that she wouldn’t be able to sustain. Luckily, it was Wednesday, so her mother would be busy all day with her volunteer work, and Sophie felt she could just muster the energy to leave a short message. She dialed, composing herself for the emotional lie, and when the answering machine beeped, her eyebrows leaped up and her eyes widened as she spoke in tones of practiced cheerfulness. “Hello! It’s Sophie calling to say that the children and I are just fine, so please don’t worry about us. I’ll call you in a few days. In the meantime take good care of yourselves! Love to you both! Bye!” Her face sagged as she lowered the receiver, duty done. She stood for a moment looking with distaste at the phone, the one vulnerable point in her fortress. On the bottom of it was a switch for silencing the ringer, so she did that, but she still didn’t feel safe. Reaching down, she unplugged the phone from the wall, then lifted the receiver experimentally and smiled when she heard nothing. There. Then she switched off her cell phone. Now no one at all could reach her for any reason whatsoever, which was just fine. After all, what was the worst that could happen? One of the children could have a fatal accident and call in vain for her with his dying breath? She plugged the phone back in, turned the ringer up loud, went into her bedroom, and wept.
By Friday morning, after five and a half days of the weeping cure, she was feeling as she often did after a fever: light-headed and weak, but beautifully calm. The children were coming for the weekend. It will be all right, she told herself. I’ll move slowly and gently, and it will be all right. Now then, what to do. Food. Must buy food for the children. When she was ready to go out, she stood uncertainly at the door, hands pressed flat against her jacket pockets as she stopped to think if she had everything, feeling she must be leaving something important behind. But no. Her money, keys, and phone were all she needed, and they fit in her pockets. No need for a bag. How odd it was, being able to walk out of the house so easily. A single woman again. She locked the door behind her and went bravely down the stairs.
* * *
Courage was what Valerie prayed for aloud the next morning when Adam pulled up in front of his house and she got her first look at her new suburban love nest. She gazed at it with comic dismay while Adam got her bag out of the trunk. “It’s awfully good of you to do this,” he said, leading her up the path. He pointed down at the flagstones. “I hope you’re admiring the crazy paving,” he added jauntily, trying to show he was on her side.
“The what?” she asked, frowning down at the path.
“Crazy paving… you know… irregular flagstones laid in that random pattern. The emblem of suburbia, I should have thought. What do you call it here?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
He fumbled with the keys before managing to get the front door open.
“If you ever needed proof of my love, this is it,” Valerie said with a rueful laugh as she stepped over the threshold. Well… no potpourri immediately in evidence anyway, and no perky ribbons. It was a little better than Agatha had predicted (no “oatmeal”), but not a lot: banana-yellow walls with the bottom three feet scuffed and scribbled on. “Can you assure me again this is only temporary?”
“Of course. Of course.” He followed her eyes to the defaced walls and laughed awkwardly. “I know it isn’t what we had in mind, darling, but we’ll be all right here for a few months. Come in and look around. The boys are with Sophie this weekend. I thought it would be best if you settled in while they were away. I’ve told them, of course, that you were coming to live with us, so it wouldn’t come as a shock.”
“Oh, yeah? The wicked stepmother, eh? Did they scream blue murder?”
“Not at all. They didn’t even seem particularly interested. I’m not sure how much all this means at their age. Go on, take a look around and get acquainted with the house… such as it is.” Time had inured him somewhat to the place, but he dreaded to think how it must look through her eyes.
Gingerly, Valerie strolled from room to room. Well, there were no ducks, and no tiles in the kitchen with teakettles on them. Oh. But there was a dish of seashells in the bathroom—good old Agatha. At least it was tidy; the toys were in baskets. No sticky nylon carpets. Still, it was a little like living in a nursery school. “I can’t understand the phenomenon of the suburbs at all. Why does anybody choose to live out here?”
Adam cleared his throat. “There are certain advantages for children.”
“Oh, God, of course, I forgot. ‘Nice, quiet streets where kids can ride their bikes.’” She made a mocking face and laughed.
“Yes. That’s it.”
There was a short silence. Then she said, “It’s only now, darling, seeing this, that I can really appreciate how unhappy you’ve been. It breaks my heart to think of you here.” She took him in her arms.
“And now you’ve come to share my martyrdom.” He smiled. “Only one bag? You travel light.”
She smiled back. “Always. I can bring things from home as I need them.” She didn’t tell him that if everything went according to plan, they would both be living in her apartment before the week was out. She hadn’t bothered to share all the aspects of her plan with him—for example, that she fully expected, by moving in, to drive Sophie back home. She’d just said it was the only way they could spend any time together during this interim while Sophie got settled, presenting it as a sacrifice she was willing to make, and he had been suitably grateful. “How did Sophie take the news of my moving in?” she asked, as casually as she could, running her finger along a
kitchen cabinet. Simulated knotty pine; Agatha must be told.
Adam frowned. This was a gray area on his conscience. It would have been better, he couldn’t help but feel, to have let Sophie know beforehand, but it had all happened so damned quickly. Valerie had only suggested the idea the day before, and she’d been so keen, and it was so good of her, and so convenient for him in so many ways.… Perhaps the boys would break the news to her. Yes, that might be quite the best way, come to think of it. He cleared his throat again before saying, “I haven’t actually spoken to her.”
“Oh, Adam!”
“She doesn’t like me to call, prefers me to write, and there just hasn’t been the time. I’m awfully busy in the evenings, you know. Milagros is showing me the ropes with the boys, and it’s quite a to-do. There’s the bath, and they get soap in their eyes and shout, ‘Eye! Eye!’” He sighed, remembering. “Then there’s reading, then glasses of water and whatnot.”
“Call her right now. To hell with writing—she’s just being obstructive. You owe it to her, Adam. This is something she has a right to know.”
“Is it? I don’t think she cares what goes on here.”
That would be very bad news indeed, if true, but Valerie recognized it as the type of thing a man feeling guilty or self-pitying chooses to think. “Of course she cares! It’s her house, her furniture, her… her curtains… her…” There was something else that was hers, but what? Oh, yes. “Her children!”
“What does it matter what she thinks, anyway?” Adam said, his guilty feelings giving way suddenly to self-righteousness. “She left without so much as a backward glance, obliging me to stay here, so now it’s only fair that I should live with whomever I choose!” He felt better for having reasoned that out, and it was a line he could take with Sophie, should the need arise. He smiled at Valerie. “She can’t throw you out, darling. Is that what you’re worried about?”
Leaving Sophie Dean Page 12