by Sue Margolis
Now it’s Ginny’s turn to yell. “How many times have I told you not to leave the garden? And to think you took little Rosie with you on the street. I swear I’m going to fill that side entrance with barbed wire.”
Mason and Tyler are looking at the ground.
“Right. Inside. All of you. Now.”
Rosie is still standing on the doorstep with Joyce. Ginny and I thank her profusely for all her help. “If you hadn’t knocked on the door when you did,” Ginny says, “I dread to think what might have happened.”
Joyce looks grumpy. “Take my advice: You need to rein those two in before they get out of control. By all accounts, they’re already getting a reputation.”
“Thank you,” Ginny says, making it clear—to me at least—that she’s perfectly aware of the situation and doesn’t require anybody else’s input.
Joyce says she has to go. She’s missing the snooker.
“Bye-bye, Rosie. At least you had the sense to run away from these stupid boys.”
“I didn’t like all the bangs,” Rosie says to me as Joyce makes her way down the path.
“I know, darling. I know. They are silly boys. But it’s all over now.”
While I cuddle Rosie on my lap, Ginny sits the boys down, stands over them and barks a lecture. She tells them how appalled and horrified she is by their behavior. “Do you have any idea the damage you could have caused—not just to yourselves, but to other people? It’s a wonder Joyce didn’t call the police and let me tell you—if the police had shown up, you would all be in very serious trouble.”
Mason and Tyler are smirking.
“I don’t believe this. Do you seriously think this is funny?”
Sam says he’s going to throw up and runs to the bathroom. Rosie is tooting her horn, telling me what a good girl she was by running away. Meanwhile I’m blaming everybody: the anonymous boy, Ginny’s hooligan grandchildren, Ginny and Emma for not being able to control them, me for not keeping a closer eye on Sam and Rosie.
After a couple of minutes, Sam reappears. I ask him if he threw up.
“Just a bit … Grandma—I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I just thought it would be exciting.”
Of course he didn’t think. He’s nine. But that doesn’t stop me being furious.
“We’re going home,” I tell him. “Get your things.”
Ginny can’t stop apologizing. “I feel terrible. I need to have a serious talk with Emma about their behavior. They will be punished, I promise you.”
I want to tell her not to worry, that boys will be boys and it’s OK. But I can’t. It’s not OK. The outcome could have been so different.
The atmosphere is uncomfortable to say the least. Ginny knows I blame Mason and Tyler. But we manage to say our good-byes and promise to speak tomorrow.
I barely say anything on the drive home. I’m still too het up. As soon as we get in, Sam bursts into tears. “Please don’t be angry with me. I hate it when people are angry. You have to forgive me.”
For the first time, I feel able to give him a hug. “It’s all right, darling. It was my fault. I should have been watching you more carefully.”
“So, do you forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you. But you have to promise me you will never, ever do anything like that again. You mustn’t let older boys tell you to do things you’re not sure about. You need to check with an adult.”
“Are you going to punish me?”
I look at him. He’s still white with shock. There’s a long vein of sick down his front.
“No. I think you’ve been punished enough.”
“And are you going to tell Mum and Dad?”
“They’ve got enough to worry about at the moment. I don’t think they need to be told right away. But they will need to know eventually.”
“But I’m not very good at secrets,” Rosie says. “What if I tell them by accident? What if the words come out whoosh, like sick, and I can’t stop them?”
“Rosie, I hope you’re not planning on getting Sam into trouble on purpose.”
“Of course not.”
“I bet she is,” Sam says.
“Because that would be a very unkind thing to do.”
“I know and I’m not going to. I promise. But what if it did just come out by accident?”
“Then I would deal with it. OK?”
“OK.”
Of course Mum wants to know what’s going on. “Sam was naughty,” Rosie says. “Him, Mason and Tyler set off fireworks. And there was this other boy. He was big. I didn’t like him. But I was a good girl… .”
Mum looks at me. “Is this true?”
I nod.
“But where were you? How could you let this happen? Sam could have been killed. Who are these ruffians you’ve been letting the children hang around with?”
“Mum, please don’t. I’m already beating myself up. I don’t need you to make it worse. What can I say? I took my eye off the ball.”
She can see I’m close to tears. “It’s all right,” she says, her tone softening. “You made a mistake. But nobody was hurt, thank God. Let’s just forget about it.”
But Sam can’t forget about it. Over dinner, he says he doesn’t want to play with Mason and Tyler anymore because they hang around with bad boys and it’s scary.
“That’s fine. You don’t have to see them again.”
What else could I say? He has every right to want to keep away from these kids. I’m not sure that I want him hanging around with them either. The problem is, how do I explain all this to Ginny?
Later that evening, Tanya calls to say that Ginny is in pieces. “She feels terrible. She’s yelled at Emma and accused her of being a useless mother. So they’re not speaking. It’s such a mess. Mason and Tyler aren’t bad boys. They just need some discipline. I love Emma, but she’s so focused on her business that she neglects the boys.”
I tell her I’ll talk to Ginny. “Which isn’t going to be easy, since Sam wants nothing more to do with Mason and Tyler.”
“Why would he? But Ginny’s going to be so hurt. Her horrible daughter-in-law already keeps Ivo away.”
“I know. But what can I do?”
“I don’t know… . But changing the subject, I do have one bit of advice.”
“What’s that?”
“Go out with Mike. He seems like a lovely chap.”
“Bloody hell … is there anybody who doesn’t know he asked me out?”
Tanya laughs. “Just do yourself a favor and go out with him.”
CHAPTER
thirteen
The following day, thanks to a broken-down delivery truck on the main road, we get to school just as the bell is being rung. I can’t help thinking it’s a blessing in disguise. With Claudia away, Mike might be dropping off Hero and Sebastian and I’d rather not bump into him. What if he asks me out again? I don’t care what everybody else thinks—I’m not ready. But Tanya’s right: he is a lovely chap and because of that I don’t want to upset him by refusing a second time.
In order to avoid him, I drop Sam and Rosie at the main gate and watch from the car as they run up the path and into school. It’s only as I’m pulling away that I notice Rosie’s reading folder lying on the front passenger seat. Miss Carter was due to hear her read today, and I imagine Rosie’s already fretting.
As I head toward the school building, the women who have hung around for natter and a gossip are leaving. As they pass me, I nod and smile or offer the occasional hello. A woman I don’t know stops to congratulate me for confronting Claudia. She says it’s been a long time coming. Others seem to be making a point of ignoring me. For the first time, it occurs to me that nearly everybody in the school knows who I am: that woman, the one who had the bust-up with Claudia. I am both famous and infamous. Infamy doesn’t bother me—so long as it doesn’t affect Sam or Rosie. I’m not sure what I would do if people stopped inviting them on playdates because of what I did.
I make my way to Rosie’s classroom a
nd hand the reading folder to Miss Carter. As I head back to the main door, I can hear footsteps quickening behind me.
“Judy, wait up.” It’s Mike. Of course it is. Bumping into him when I’ve been trying to avoid him seems like such a cheesy twist of fate. I can’t help feeling we’re starring in a bad rom-com.
“Hi, Mike… .”
“Listen … I’m glad I bumped into you… . I want to apologize.”
“Apologize? What on earth for?”
He holds the door open and lets me through. “I think I may have upset you the other day by asking you out. I probably stirred up a lot of emotions—muddied the waters as it were—and I just want to say that I’m sorry.”
I tell him he has nothing to apologize for, that I’m fine. But if I’m honest, seeing him again is unsettling me. I don’t know … Maybe I would like to go out with him. I think he senses I’m torn, but he dares not push it. So he changes the subject. As we walk to the school gate we discuss the weather. We agree that it feels as if spring might be just around the corner.
“So, Ginny tells me everything’s in good shape for the school fair,” he says.
“Yes, she told me the same.”
I’m done. I’m out of small talk. I have no idea what to say next. And nor, it seems, has he. We continue in silence. Inside my head, it’s anything but silent. “Do yourself a favor. Go out with him.”
“… He’s not asking you to give him a blow job.”
I hear myself saying the thing I had no intention of saying: “Mike, I’ve been thinking. I would like to go out with you … That’s assuming the invitation is still on.”
He stops in his tracks and so do I.
“Of course it is. But why the change of heart?”
“First of all, I like you. And deep down I know it’s time.”
“Well, if you’re sure …” He’s managing to look more anxious than pleased. “I would love to take you to dinner.”
“I’d like that.”
“Excellent.” His face relaxes and breaks into a smile.
Once we reach my car, we exchange phone numbers and he says he’ll call me to make a date.
• • •
When I get home, Mum has already left for the old folks’ day center. She goes three times a week—not as a participant, you understand. She works there. Oh yes. So does Estelle Silverfish. They call themselves volunteer helpers, and the staff who runs the center are happy to indulge them—partly because they do an excellent job. Along with the paid helpers, Mum and Estelle Silverfish help the cooks prepare lunch. They lay the tables, serve and clear up. Whereas Estelle Silverfish will tell you how much she enjoys working at the day center, Mum says it half kills her and she’s not sure how much longer she can carry on. That doesn’t stop her coming home afterward and insisting on cooking dinner for the kids and me. Despite her complaining I’ve never met an old person as determined to fight the dying of the light as my mother—except of course when it comes to finding some male company.
Mum has loaded the breakfast things into the dishwasher and tidied the kitchen. So I go upstairs to make beds, gather up dirty laundry and clean bathrooms. (Not Mum’s. She keeps hers immaculate). It occurs to me—as it often has—that I have cleaned a toilet or toilets almost every day of my married (and widowed) life. Brian was happy to vacuum, cook, do his share of child care, but he never offered to clean the toilet. He said just thinking about it made him gag. Not long ago I calculated how many times I’ve done it. Allowing days off for illness and vacations, I worked out that I’ve cleaned the toilet thirteen thousand times—give or take. Allowing three minutes to do a decent job, that’s thirty-nine thousand minutes or twenty-seven days. I’ve spent nearly a month of my life scrubbing skid marks off a toilet bowl. Without gagging once.
Back downstairs, I load the washer and select the forty-degree program. As water fills the drum I find myself staring, yet again, at the black plastic sacks full of Brian’s socks and underwear. After what just happened between Mike and me, I have an urgent need to connect with my husband. I open one of the sacks and take out a pair of his GoldToe socks. I stand there, pincering bits of lint off them. “OK … I’ll come straight to the point. Somebody—and by that, I mean a man—has asked me out on a date and I’ve said yes. I know you’re not cross with me. You were adamant that after you died I should get on with my life and be happy. I know I have your blessing. But I need you to understand that no matter what happens in the future, I will never ever stop loving you.” I put the GoldToes to my lips and kiss them. “I adore you.”
Brian adored me, too. I know he still does—wherever he is. That’s not to say our marriage was perfect. It wasn’t.
We met when we were nineteen. He was this well-built, fair-haired, blue-eyed rugby player who was studying law. I was in the second year of my nursing degree.
My friends—particularly the Jewish ones who knew my mother’s story—used to tease me because I had a penchant for Aryan men. When I reminded them that my mother had married a blond Englishman—so it ran in the family—they decided that her choice was even more bizarre.
“People think I’m only with you,” I told Brian, “because I’m acting out some weird SS storm trooper fantasy.”
“Well, you’re definitely my Jewish princess.”
“You mean I’m a brat?”
“What? No. Of course not. I’m referring to your dazzling biblical beauty.”
I remember attempting a coquettish smile. I may even have tossed my hair. “That’s all right, then.”
I was gobsmacked when he told me I was the first girl he’d slept with. “But you’re so good-looking … and you’re so—you know—skilled.”
He joked about how he’d been saving himself for the right girl. Years later he confessed that when he was a teenager, sex had petrified him. “Then you came along and I wasn’t scared anymore. And lo and behold, I turned out to be rather good at it.”
I seem to remember telling him not to get above himself.
We married at twenty-one. In those days nobody batted an eyelid at us tying the knot so young. With help from Brian’s parents, we managed to buy a small garden apartment. Abby arrived almost a year to the day after the wedding. I gave up nursing and didn’t go back—and only then part-time—until Abby started preschool. Since I’d taken such a long break so early on in my career, I had a lot of catching up to do. So I was working hard and studying for exams while taking care of Abby and running a home. Even so, I thought our life was damn near perfect.
Then out of this clear blue sky, it came crashing down. Brian was having an affair. She was a teacher at school. I’d worked out what was going on. It wasn’t hard. He was buying new clothes he couldn’t afford, working late, losing interest in sex—at least with me.
When I confronted him he denied it. He told me I was crazy, that I needed my head examined. But I wasn’t having it. I’d read enough agony columns to know that’s what cheats did—how they projected their guilt onto the innocent party.
“Hey, J.R., this is me you’re talking to, not Sue Ellen. If you don’t tell me what’s been going on, I’m leaving right now and taking Abby with me.”
The moment he confessed I became so angry, so frenzied and out of control that I scared myself. I went for him with my fists. I threw stuff—pieces of fruit and Abby’s toys mainly. I remember sitting on the sofa, tugging my hair and howling.
I lost count of the number of times he said that he was sorry, that he didn’t mean to hurt me, that the affair was over and all he wanted was to be with me.
I said I would only stay if we went for couples’ therapy. By now I’d decided that the affair had to be my fault. I was working too hard. I was always exhausted. I’d been neglecting him.
But that wasn’t it. He sat in the therapist’s office, looking down at his hands.
“I had the affair because I needed to prove to myself that I was a real man.”
“I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
&
nbsp; “I’m saying that until a few months ago, you were the only woman I’d ever slept with and it affected my self-esteem.”
“So sleeping with me makes you feel bad about yourself?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not. I’m trying to explain that because I never slept around or had loads of girlfriends, I never felt like one of the lads. I needed to do this in order to feel like more of a man.”
“And do you feel like a man knowing how much you’ve hurt me?”
“I hate myself for what I’ve done to you, but at the same time … yes, I feel more like a man.”
“Well, bully for you. But I hope you don’t feel like a decent man, because decent men don’t do what you did.”
But I knew they did. Even decent men were only human.
I got it. I understood. But years later I was still angry. I would lose my temper with him for no apparent reason. I was still in pain. I felt that I couldn’t trust him. Brian did his best to reassure me. “I will never, ever hurt you again. You have to believe me.”
After couples’ therapy, we tried for another baby. We thought a second child was the cement our relationship needed. After a year, I still wasn’t pregnant. We went for tests. Nothing showed up. I often wondered if my emotions had played a part and that perhaps I wanted to punish him by not giving him another child. These days I prefer to think it was a combination of genes and bad luck. My mother struggled and failed to produce a second child. I was the same.
Eventually I stopped obsessing about whether Brian was cheating on me. I must have been in my mid-forties. I was in charge of a surgical ward at a London teaching hospital. I was more confident and at ease with myself. I knew that if Brian did cheat on me again, I wouldn’t fall apart. I would cope. Gradually I stopped fretting about the past and allowed myself to be happy. Brian picked up on that and, schmaltzy as it sounds, I told him I forgave him and we sort of fell in love all over again.
• • •
My face is wet with tears as I knot the black sacks and carry them into the hallway. I’ve left the pair of GoldToe socks on top of the washer. I can’t part with them. I’m going to put them in my dresser drawer alongside Brian’s watch.