The hungry dog waited patiently. Saliva began to drip from his fanbeltlike gums. Richard set the sandwich on the saucer. He and the dog exchanged a long, meaningful look. As the dog’s head drooped downward Richard slid the saucer toward Cheryl. “Ladies first.” He and the dog watched in amazement as she began to cry.
“I’m just tired,” she explained. That was only a half truth. This sweetness of Richard’s was making it harder to send him away—like cuddling a baby intended for adoption. She twisted the ring and reassured herself it was not like that at all. She was staying married.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rose hated the mandatory idleness of vacations. She took great pleasure in accomplishing things—in crossing out one activity after another on the back of a used envelope (laundry, vacuum, peel potatoes, do dishes). But in a motel room nothing needed doing.
And here at Cranberry Lake everything was damp. Beneath her back the mattress felt cold and moist. They were sleeping apart, too. The beds were narrow, but that was just an excuse. Al had cut her off. Beware of silent men, she thought. They judge, condemn, and punish without even the benefit of an argument. Maybe all that tranquillity surrounding them at home had been nearly this hostile and she had been too busy with her daily routine to notice. But she remembered the feel of his arms about her and knew there had been no hostility.
Her mattress was worn and slumped in the middle. She shifted her weight away from the caved-in section and lay stiffly on her side. Her restless movement had rearranged the sheets into a cloud formation.
She smoothed the wrinkled bed linen but gave up on trying to sleep. A dog barked. Another answered. And Rose smiled. God bless the North Country! If you were too agitated to sleep, it gave you all kinds of reasons for not doing so. Cocks began to crow at 4 A.M. and at 6 A.M. Fort Drum played reveille. After she had praised the proficiency and consistency of the musician, Al told her it was a record. That depressed her immensely, and this morning when the canned music wafted in, she covered her exposed ear with the blanket.
Al stirred and got up. Later, when Rose heard the door quietly close behind him, she rolled onto her stomach and pounded her fists against the already defeated-looking feather pillow. How could he stop loving her like this? Why hadn’t he refused to bring her here? Couldn’t he have said he thought leaving Cheryl was wrong? But instead he had held his tongue and begun to hate her. What could she do? To challenge him would be like tackling an iceberg with her bare hands. She had no option but to square her shoulders and go on pretending she had acted correctly. And she collected change.
It would have been easy enough to go to a store or bank and request three dollars in quarters, nickels, and dimes. But that would have exhibited too much anxiety. She would call Cheryl when she had collected enough silver for the pay phone. What made it difficult was that Al paid for everything. She got back seventy-five cents by purchasing a map at a gas station. Then last night after he had taken care of the dinner check, she bought a roll of LifeSavers for the fifty cents in change it brought her.
That had annoyed him. In his scheme of etiquette it made perfect sense to buy dinner for a woman you hated. “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted mints?” he demanded.
She tore off the foil-end piece and extended the packet. “Want one?” She could see that he did, but he was too stubborn and pigheaded to accept one. The mints had become contaminated by her touch. But what had she done that was so wrong? It wasn’t as if Richard had been a member of the family when he was taken sick. Cheryl had married him in that condition, and now that it was obvious she could not care for him, something had to be done. Al shouldn’t be so righteous. He was the one who had opposed this marriage in the first place.
She dropped her arm. What she had thought were freckles now looked like age spots. Oh, God! What if this whole thing had nothing to do with Richard? It could be the age difference. Her whole body might have begun to repulse him. If so, then the hurt had to be hidden. If nothing else could be saved, she must at least salvage some pride.
She took deep breaths and began concentrating on her back. She again pretended it was composed of children’s building blocks and mentally piled one block on top of another. The technique always worked. She immediately began to feel less stiff, and by the time Al returned, she was fairly calm.
He set a Styrofoam cup and an English muffin beside her. Then he emptied his pockets on the nightstand: a nail clipper, a small knife, and (at least) twelve quarters.
She coveted that money so much she dared not glance at it. “Going fishing today?” she asked casually.
“No.”
There was a cheap little folding chair in front of their motel unit, and he took the morning paper out there. Rose decided he must truly hate the sight of her; it wasn’t yet 8 A.M. and could only be about forty-five degrees outside.
As soon as the door slammed, she scooped up ten of the quarters and dumped them into her purse. Never before had she stooped so low. But once the money was in her possession she felt better. Revenge, she supposed.
If they left this damp, dreary motel, relations between them might improve. But they were trapped here because she had given the name and telephone number to Cheryl and Al’s family. But when she called Cheryl today, she would explain that they were changing motels.
She had almost enough change for two calls. But she intended to stop worrying about change and just phone whenever she felt like it. Credit card calls were convenient. She would start calling every day. Was it too late in life to become an overprotective mother? Probably.
She took a couple of sips of coffee, then replaced the plastic lid. She didn’t even glance at the muffin. It was probably dripping with butter. Besides, if he couldn’t accept one of her mints, she wouldn’t touch any food he offered.
Rose walked into the shower, quickly stepping over the mold in the grooves of the frame. She longed to clean this bathroom, but that would confirm her misery. Her present occupation was to pretend what Al was doing wasn’t hurting her.
After toweling herself dry she dressed warmly in jeans, a turtleneck shirt, and the fisherman’s sweater George had brought her from Ireland. She patted its thick weave. How could he have abandoned her to make such a fool of herself with a younger man? It occurred to her that she was becoming nearly as melodramatic as her daughter. She straightened her shoulders and stepped out onto the porch carrying her canvas bag. “I’m going for a walk.”
“All right.”
He didn’t so much as flick an eyelash, let alone offer to accompany her. She had an enormous desire to hit him in the mouth with her soft yellow purse and scream, “If you can’t act like a husband, then go away.” But it was too late for abrupt, histrionic partings. They traveled in a shared vehicle with common finances.
Cheryl’s first marriage had been an uncomplicated dissolution —property-wise. It couldn’t have been so emotionally. Rose took a stone out of her clog and resumed her stride. Maybe she should have treated her child more tenderly. But she had always thought pampering and coddling canceled growth. Now she craved a little coddling herself. It was funny how rejection created a different perspective on the nature of independence. Well, there was still time to make amends with Cheryl.
She could see the Emerald Diner with its pay phone in the parking lot and began to run toward it. The glass door of the booth was cracked, the floor wet, but Rose didn’t notice. She lined up all her money on the silver tray. The call only required $2.40. Six of Al’s quarters could be returned to the dresser top.
The phone rang and rang, sounding as hollow and lonely as the cave she and Al had toured the day before. She replaced the receiver and tried to convince herself that worry was unnecessary. No need to be premature. Cheryl might have left Richard unattended while she went for groceries or the nurse’s aide staying with Richard might be phone-shy. It was also possible that Cheryl was taking him back to the nursing home. The alternatives were too numerous to speculate.
Rose strolled back to t
he motel, kicking a stone in the direction of the topless bar she was required to pass. Though her first attempt had been thwarted, she was determined to become a gentler mother. Her own pain would be camouflaged completely. When Al left her, she would let her hair go gray and wear it in a formidable bun and look like a woman who has no use for a man.
Al had risen from his chair and was in deep conversation with the motel owner, a heavy woman whose deep blue sweatshirt matched her sneakers. The woman’s hair was so short, it looked glued on. The effect was severe but made her look enormously capable. That’s how I’ll wear my hair, Rose decided.
As she watched the woman gestured urgently and patted Al’s shoulder. That could only mean trouble. Somebody had called with bad news. When her clogs slipped off, she scooped them up and continued running. Richard must be dead. Cheryl might be under indictment. Al waited until the owner had returned to the office before he spoke. “My mother died.”
His mother was the only member of his family he truly cared for. “Al, I’m sorry.” She opened her arms to him, but he turned his back to her and walked inside.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Richard sat at the kitchen table and studied the red sandals Cheryl had just stepped out of. The imprints her toes had left were so distinct and deep that in moments of stress, he decided, she must curl her toes and press urgently downward.
Right now she was standing barefoot in front of the stove, stirring egg noodles with a wooden spoon. She looked pale, irritable. Perhaps, he mused, it was her tender time. But maybe she was bothered by the presence of the dog. She did not like Heinz and Richard didn’t know if out of fear or jealousy; but just in case it was the latter, he never corrected her when she referred to Heinz as he.
Heinz was obviously a lady. You could tell by the delicate way she licked and groomed her feet. But Cheryl was responding to the appellation, which she assumed came from the German. How could she know the name came from the soup of fifty-seven varieties and indicated genealogy rather than gender?
Cheryl slammed the spoon on the counter, picked up a curved knife with a wooden handle, and began peeling an onion. When she turned to discard the skin, she had to fling it toward the garbage disposal because the furry expanse of Heinz prevented her from getting close to the sink. “Wherever you are,” she told the dog, “it’s in the way.” The bitch! he thought. Yes, Heinz, peculiar name aside, was a bitch.
Heinz focused startled, injured eyes on Richard, as if demanding: why do we put up with this woman?
In response Richard looked up to the ceiling, down to the floor, and then toward Cheryl. Her house. He thought the dog understood for she crossed her feet daintily and raised her head in an elegant stance that seemed to proclaim: regardless of ownership, there is still only one lady on the premises.
Cheryl was watching them with a pouty left-out look. Richard knew she was far too busy examining her own hurt feelings to decipher his silent conversation with Heinz. But she did realize he loved the dog in a way he didn’t love her. She should understand that the dog was all he had to show for his entire adult life. No small voices called him daddy. He wasn’t even an uncle. But he had never known Cheryl to be especially perceptive and was sure she did not understand.
He looked at the indentations in her sandals again and couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. He pointed to the dog and started to say, “I’m very grateful that you found—” Unable to finish, he swallowed and counted to ten; but he could still feel his eyes starting to tear. That was why he had avoided certain conversations. Expressing gratitude and reminiscing always caused him facial incontinence, which was, by far, the most humiliating type.
Cheryl, now given the upper hand, generously ignored his emotionalism and continued dropping huge chunks of yellow cheese into a saucepan. “Did you know,” she asked softly, “that Jetlag Johnson has children?”
She must be following techniques suggested in those medical books he had seen her reading. 1. Change the subject and it will calm the patient. 2. Ask questions that require only one-or two-word responses. Oh, hell, he might as well give in and let her be pleased with herself. “I knew they had one.”
“What’s his wife’s name?”
Oh, God! He couldn’t remember, so he decided to lie. After all, Cheryl wasn’t following the rules. She was supposed to be asking easy questions. “Joy.” Richard beamed. That sounded right. In future instances of memory lapse, he would just lie and the right answer would automatically come to him. Further supporting details sprang to mind, one an anecdote he decided to share with Cheryl. “When they first started dating, I told him women named Joy were bound to be a disappointment. But he didn’t listen.”
“Joy Johnson.” That someone had a name more lightweight than her own appeared to please her. She smiled and began clearing the table. That was when he remembered Jetlag’s wife was named Linda.
Clearing the table was not a quick job, because its surface was covered with items necessary to his personal hygiene. When he was able to stand, washing in the bathroom did not require much. But to shave here at the table, he needed a fold-up mirror, a dishpan full of water, a washcloth, shaving cream, and a razor. Grooming his hair still only required a comb. But brushing his teeth had become an Olympic event. For every performance, she brought a toothbrush, the toothpaste, a Dixie cup full of mouthwash, a large glass of water, and the kidney-shaped bowl that patients everywhere were supposed to spit into.
When she started for the sink to empty the dishpan, he snapped his fingers at Heinz and commanded, “Out of the way.” Heinz trotted into the living room with a haughty look. A few seconds later Richard and Cheryl heard rip-tear-snap. Heinz had torn down a section of the custom-made curtains by the sliding glass door. Richard hoped it was just a tiny bit of material from one drapery hook to the next. That much damage would indicate slightly hurt feelings, not deep anger. But Heinz had never been cooped up this much, and Richard didn’t know what to expect from her.
Cheryl, tiring of striding back and forth from the kitchen to the bathroom, shoved the remaining articles to the table’s side. “Your lunch is ready,” she announced. “Pasta primavera.”
His appetite was slowly returning, but he would have preferred canned macaroni and cheese with its pale, bland sauce to this colorful rich stuff. He ate a few noodles. “Have some with me.”
“Too many calories.” She walked into the living room and he heard her scream. “My curtains! Damn you, dog!” She must have lifted a newspaper, for Heinz scampered into the kitchen twitching nervously.
“Quick, Cheryl,” he hollered, “take her outside.” But it was too late. Heinz was already leaking on the linoleum.
“Get me a mop.”
“Oh, Richard. You can’t.” Her flushed anger subsided. She stepped around the puddle and began pulling paper towels off the plastic roller. Each sheet of toweling contained a simple recipe for homemade salad dressing. “No permanent harm done.” She became artificially pleasant and insincere, undoubtedly displaying the strained patience that the well-bred exhibit toward the sick and feebleminded.
The stupid cow. She was the one who had caused this mess by being jealous of a bewildered dog. “Get me a mop,” he snarled in his best I-don’t-like-to-ask-twice tone. He knew he was being cruel, but brusqueness was necessary. If he didn’t display authority now, she would treat him like a patient forever.
Mopping, like bowling, was a matter of alignment. He edged his chair forward, following the vertical cracks of the linoleum as he mopped in front of him. When the lane was clean, he plunged the mop into the Lestoil-filled sink and started over. Turning around with the dripping mop was an awkward procedure that edged Cheryl right out of the kitchen, but he didn’t care. The floor was getting cleaned, except for one persistent yellow stain near the table. When repeated rubbings did not erase it, he leaned forward to apply more pressure. His chair slid out from under him and for one dizzying second he was suspended in air, then fell downward with knees bent. From that vantage h
e could see the stain was candle wax and not of Heinz’s doing.
The woman stood in the doorway staring. He noticed the full fringe on her cutoffs, the freckles on her knees, and her short, vulnerable-looking toes. Her feet advanced onto the wet floor and toward the telephone. “It’ll be all right,” she said breathlessly. “I’m going to call the rescue squad.”
“No.” The tender feelings he had developed toward her disappeared. Why did they need the rescue squad? The kitchen wasn’t on fire.
“Put the chair tight behind me,” he explained patiently, “then lock the brakes.” He felt her pulling faintly underneath his armpits. “Don’t pull. Just guide me.” He got hold of the armrest and, by pushing with his foot, managed to heave himself into the chair. “Well, we made it,” he told her cheerfully. He had been careful to keep all his weight off Cheryl.
She was unimpressed with his chivalry and good humor. “You son of a bitch,” she screamed. “You’ve got this much strength, and you’ve been letting me tug on that Hoyer lift all week. Damn you.”
He had never seen her like this. She was wild, absolutely wild. She stormed to the silver bread box, and he thought she might start hurling Pepperidge Farm rolls at him, but she dumped them on the counter instead. Then she carried the bulky box over to the table and flung his toothpaste and razor into it. “I’m tired of having your crap all over the kitchen table. When you’ve finished cleaning up, put your personal things in here.”
She shoved his chair into the living room. He could see Heinz hiding under the bed, acting as she did during an electrical storm. Things were definitely out of control here. “Cheryl, honey, you’re tired and hungry. Let’s have some of your pasta and then take a nap.”
They all went to bed. Heinz came out of her hiding place and stretched out beside him. He patted her pretty paws, drummed his fingers on her head, and tickled her under the chin. She had a black mole on her chin with coarse black hairs sprouting out of it—her beauty mark. “ ‘You’re so vain,’ ” he crooned, “ ‘you probably think this song is about you.’ ”
The Way It Happens In Novels Page 10