The Way It Happens In Novels

by Kathleen O'Connor

  Cheryl regarded the Inn more as a mammoth firetrap. Had it not been raining she would have sought the fastest escape route.

  Their Bloody Marys contained celery sticks that resembled ship masts. When Cheryl pulled hers out, it splattered the table with pinsize spots of red. Rose, she knew, would make a neater job of it. As she watched, Rose set the celery on her butter plate. Only then did she notice that her mother’s nails lacked their customary bright polish. This caused Cheryl to feel a little panicky. What if Rose was thinking of entering a convent? The longer she considered this, the likelier it seemed. Why else would she leave her husband, quit using makeup, and move into a budget motel?

  Rose took a gulp of Bloody Mary as if garnering strength. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

  Cheryl’s heart began to pound. She thought of visiting her mother in convent reception rooms with their stiff-backed uncomfortable chairs. Why now—just as we’re beginning to understand each other? Besides, she thought self-pityingly, her taking the veil will leave me an orphan.

  “Now that I know how it feels, I wish I had been more supportive when things didn’t work out between you and Stu.”

  “Aw, him.” Cheryl waved her hand in a dismissing gesture. Stu was the last thing she wanted to discuss. He was ancient history. “Besides, you weren’t left, Mom. You left Al.”

  “Only because I had to. He didn’t want me anymore. He wants a younger woman.”

  Cheryl shook her head in bewilderment. There was nothing the least bit youthful about Al. The blue polyester slacks he had been wearing this morning reminded her of a Florida retiree. And lately he had developed the beaten demeanor of a man who thought his life was over. “Are you sure? Did he actually say that?”

  “There were signs.”

  “I don’t know. Al’s not acting very happy alone. When he went for his bus driver’s physical, his blood pressure was very high. Richard told me. He and Al are buddies, you know. They’ve gotten in the habit of talking on the phone just about every night. Richard is pretty worried about him.”

  Al’s welfare clearly wasn’t a topic Rose was comfortable with. Her eyes wandered around the room, then rested on Cheryl. “You look wonderful. You’ve lost weight.”

  “A little bit. We’re really eating healthy and when we had the dog I got into the habit of taking walks. My clothes are all big. I’ll have to buy a few outfits before I go back to work.”

  Work! It was a subject Cheryl eradicated from her mind as much as possible—not because she dreaded the monotonous office routine but because of Richard. She had thought about it and decided it was just too long to leave him alone. If he fell out of his chair in the morning, he’d lie there all day. Her only alternative was to send him to an adult day-care facility. She knew what those places were like—dazed, weary old people in party hats. Hardly a party for Richard, though, and she was dreading telling him.

  Cheryl set the rumpled peach napkin on the table and paid the bill.

  “Thank you,” Rose said, shy as a kid on a first date. “I’m going to look at an apartment now. Want to come?”

  The apartment had a private entrance at the back of a two-story home. But it was a tiny studio, still occupied by an apparently very sloppy college student. Dirty dishes covered the counter. The kitchen cabinets were painted a garish pink.

  Cheryl expected her mother to give it a perfunctory glance, then politely tell the owner it wasn’t what she needed. Instead Rose agreed on a July 1 occupancy and left a deposit.

  Cheryl was stunned. How could her fastidious mother agree to live in such a cramped dump? Unless she was short of money. Of course, that was it. When she had given up her condo, she had intended to live rent-free with Al forever. On the way out Cheryl said, “Let’s go to the motel and get your stuff. I want you to stay with us until you move.”

  Rose shook her head firmly. “No! That’s something you’d better discuss with Richard.”

  Cheryl nudged her toward the car and said equally firmly, “He’d love having you.” This was one time when she knew she was going to win.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Rose left the bedroom door open. Cheryl would be coming upstairs soon. Perhaps she would want to venture in and talk. Even though she was exhausted, Rose remained sitting in the upholstered chair, still wearing her floral ankle-length robe.

  She heard her daughter closing the house for the night. The kitchen window was slammed shut. Both front door locks were clicked in place. Then the sliding glass leading to the patio squeaked closed.

  Rose straightened and stared at the two-year-old magazine in her lap. She remembered the articles because it was from the stack she had left behind. Though she wasn’t planning a trip, she reread an article advising women how to travel safely alone. When her daughter came upstairs, she wanted to look approachable. For too many years she had tried to avoid Cheryl’s confidences. They had struck her as petty and self-pitying. Now circumstances had changed. Cheryl truly lived in a difficult situation and Rose wanted to comfort her.

  After she listened to her daughter’s problems there was some advice she wanted to volunteer. Sure, Richard had his limitations. But he wouldn’t ever be unfaithful. Rose didn’t know if Cheryl was aware of her father’s infidelities. Just in case she wasn’t, Rose would carefully sidestep the issue now. Still, her daughter should know that most married women are afraid. They are careful not to anger their husbands too much. With Richard, Cheryl would never have to experience the shame of a fearful retreat.

  The downstairs lights blinked off. Cheryl wasn’t coming upstairs! She was spending the night with her husband. There weren’t going to be any whispered confidences between mother and daughter. It was too late for that. Cheryl had become a married woman in the traditional sense—loyal, courageous, and silent. Rose heard what might be a prelude to lovemaking and rushed to close her door.

  Since leaving Al, she felt as if she had become a voyeur in other people’s lives. From her motel room she had heard slamming car doors, raised voices, laughter—and none of it had anything to do with her.

  In the morning she stayed in bed long after she heard activity downstairs. She did not want to witness Cheryl administering to Richard. But when she strolled into the kitchen no administering was going on. Richard was at the table reading the newspaper. Cheryl was nowhere in sight.

  When he spotted her, he pointed to the half-full coffeepot. “Morning. How did you sleep?”

  Rose poured coffee into the dainty china cup that had been set out for her. “Very well,” she replied. She was half-afraid to face him. She had slept poorly and felt her face showed it. Richard could be very observant.

  But he wasn’t studying her. He was fixing raisin toast. “Want cinnamon sprinkled on your toast?”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “Here it is.”

  Rose walked over by the toaster. Richard had toasted and buttered the bread but was unable to bring it to her. The commendable thing about Richard was that he told you what to do. There was none of this uncertainty—should I or shouldn’t I help?—that Rose felt around other handicapped people. She sat at the edge of the table. “What’s going on in the world?”

  “Nothing good. Want part of the paper?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t have much time. I have to be at school by 8:45.” She was immediately sorry she hadn’t taken a section of the newspaper. She could have used it to hide behind; for Richard had begun studying her with an intensity she found unnerving.

  He was probably taking in her serious gray suit and lack of makeup and jewelry. She had even forgone wearing nice underwear. Instead of buying expensive, padded bras, she now chose stiff, nameless brands with cups that came to an obvious point. And when her silky underpants wore out, she replaced them with stiff, bandleg briefs bought at discount stores. Though her financial situation wasn’t great, she wasn’t changing her appearance to save money. It was more significant than that. She was doing it as a form of penance. She was lett
ing the world know she was renouncing men. She wasn’t young and should never have married Al, especially since her motivation was primarily physical. But she was putting all that behind her now. “Where’s Cheryl?”

  “Out digging up the front garden. The crazy woman is still in her bathrobe.” He shook his head.

  He had, Rose thought, a cute way of acknowledging Cheryl’s shortcomings without criticizing or asking for sympathy.

  Cheryl burst in and, without even a good morning, asked abruptly, “Is it too late to plant out front?”

  “No. It’s never good to plant before Memorial Day.” Rose took another sip of coffee and glanced at her watch.

  “Can we go for flowers this morning?” Cheryl asked.

  “Honey, I’d love to but I have to go to work.”

  Cheryl put a grimy hand to her cheek. “Work. I forgot people did things like that. We’re in our own little world here.” Her eyes watered and she crossed her arms.

  “Could we go on Saturday?”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Cheryl bobbed her head up and down the way she had as a teenager. “We’ll shop and go out to lunch.”

  “Lunch will be my treat.” Rose set her dishes on the counter, then pulled car keys from her purse. Even with a grown child, Rose realized, going off to work could make a mother feel guilty.

  Though she had looked forward to their outing all week, on Saturday Rose stuck to her resolve of dressing simply. Over her old ladies’ underwear, she pulled on navy slacks and a V-necked cotton blouse. The blouse was cut a little lower than she now preferred, but she couldn’t possibly afford to buy a completely new wardrobe.

  Cheryl kept parading through the bathroom that adjoined the two upstairs bedrooms, modeling outfits that were now too large for her. She stepped in front of the big vanity mirror. “This is just huge,” she proclaimed proudly, twirling around in a black dress. “I couldn’t possibly wear it to work.”

  The waist on the dress did gap. Rose inspected it. “I could make a tuck.” Cheryl’s face clouded. “But you do need to buy some new things,” Rose added quickly.

  Cheryl regarded her mother’s uniformlike outfit and then reappeared with a long red-checked scarf. “This will give you some color.”

  Rose took the scarf, tucked it under her collar, then looped the front strands into a bow. The flashy scarf not only made a sharp contrast with the rest of her outfit, it pulled her neckline even lower. But rather than offend her daughter, Rose accepted the scarf as an accessory. She also put on lipstick and added hoop earrings.

  “Where do you want to go for lunch?”

  Rose shrugged. “Will Richard mind us being away so long?”

  “Na. He’s going out with … with Al this morning. And this afternoon he’ll probably sleep.”

  Cheryl always mentioned Al with such reluctance. Rose would have liked to tell her: He didn’t break my heart, I just made a fool out of myself. I’m glad he and Richard are friends. At least, something positive came out of our marriage. But it was too soon to say those things. She and Cheryl had not advanced to confidences. More time was required.

  Rose did not respond to either of Cheryl’s statements. She already knew Richard took an afternoon nap and thought it was quite wise of him. In fact, it probably saved his marriage. He woke up cheerful at a time when Cheryl was most prone to being testy. His nap also permitted them to enjoy their evenings, and they enjoyed their evenings more than Rose had ever thought possible.

  She plopped her car keys onto the kitchen table. “I’ll leave the Buick keys here for Al. He’s more used to driving it.”

  “Thanks,” Cheryl mumbled, relieved at not having to mention her stepfather’s name again. “Let’s go, then.”

  There was a sloppily painted sign on the nursery’s porch: TWO HANGING BASKETS FOR THE PRICE OF ONE. Cheryl, never able to resist a bargain, bought four hanging plants for the back patio. For the front she selected petunias, pansies, and one salmon-colored geranium. In the checkout line she fingered the petals of the pink and white petunia. “It sort of reminds you of one of those crank record players.”

  “A gramophone?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rose assumed Cheryl would drop the flowers at home and give them some water. Instead she immediately headed for the Interstate. “Let’s go to the mall. Downtown is so dismal.”

  Rose nearly said: “The flowers need to be watered first.” But she decided against it. She vowed not to do or say anything that might exhibit disapproval, at least not until her relationship with her daughter was firmer. A tough pledge. It wasn’t yet 10 A.M. and already her head ached and her neck was stiff. She used to practice breathing and mental exercises that helped alleviate tension but had given them up. When stress became constant, no exercise could combat it.

  She wasn’t a shopper. It would have been impossible for her to approach a crammed rack and scoop out the one dress that would be perfect for her daughter. Still she knew what would be all wrong. She watched Cheryl approaching the dressing room with a slinky red knit that wouldn’t have been flattering on a beanpole.

  Rather than interfere, she wandered from the dress department and began to look for a water fountain. If the department store had one, perhaps she could find a plastic bag and transport some water out to those poor, half-dehydrated flowers.

  There was no water fountain, but when she returned to the women’s department, Cheryl had selected a silky turquoise two-piece outfit that was very pretty and quite expensive.

  “That’s very smart,” Rose assured her. “Get one quality outfit, instead of a lot of things that won’t last.” That had not been Cheryl’s intent at all and Rose knew it. But she desperately wanted to get those flowers watered.

  Cheryl sighed and gazed down at her parcel. “Yeah. That’s what I decided. Want to eat lunch here?”

  The restaurant was four floors up and hidden behind the housewares department. Cheryl immediately ordered them both whiskey sours, then said defensively, “I need a drink. I have to go look at that day-care center this afternoon.”

  Rose poked at her cherry with the swizzle stick. There was a skylight and the hanging plants surrounding it reminded her of the flowers still trapped in the trunk. They are just objects, not people, she reminded herself. She couldn’t remember precisely when she started being so concerned about plants, animals, and possessions, but it happened shortly after her first marriage. Probably George’s affairs had made her realize possessions were more permanent than people. So she had become a gardener and her housekeeping even extended to scrubbing the driveway on blazing hot afternoons.

  But Cheryl was her daughter and certainly more deserving of her attention than some drooping plants. “Is this day-care center well run?”

  “I doubt it. But it can’t be as repugnant as that nursing home.”

  Rose smiled nervously. She could offer to look after Richard this summer. She had planned to enroll in a course in teaching the developmentally disabled, but staying with Richard would be more pleasant. They could talk, read, watch television, and—Rose speared the cherry savagely. And she would inevitably become too involved in her daughter’s marriage. Besides, when fall came, he would still have to attend the day-care center.

  Cheryl dropped Rose off at the house before going to inspect the facility. But she didn’t want to take the time to unload the flowers. “They’ll be all right,” she assured her mother.

  “It will only take a second. Let me carry them inside.”

  “Okay.” Cheryl reluctantly pulled the keys out of the ignition and handed them to Rose.

  Rose pulled the flowers out of the trunk and placed them on the sidewalk. She then returned the keys to Cheryl. The Vega restarted with a high whining sound.

  Poor kid, Rose thought as she watched her daughter drive away. Still she was relieved she hadn’t been invited to come along.

  She entered the house quietly. From the hallway she could see Richard asleep in bed. When she turned toward the kitchen, she had to stifle a scr
eam.

  There was a man’s arm on the kitchen table. Her heart missed a full beat and then began pounding wildly. She forced herself through the doorway. “Hello,” she said as calmly as she could manage.

  Al continued drinking beer from a can, one of the low-calorie brands Cheryl kept in the refrigerator. He had left her car keys in the middle of the table.

  To anyone else she would have said, “Oh, you startled me.” But it was foolish to admit shortcomings to a man who had rejected you. She was very conscious of how awful she must look without makeup. I don’t dress for him, she scolded herself.

  They had nothing to say to each other. Besides, Richard’s sleeping pretty much prohibited conversation. Rose grabbed Cheryl’s small orange watering can from the counter and took it to the sink. It seemed to take forever to fill it up.

  Rather than reentering the house, she used the outdoor faucet to refill the watering can. Once the flowers were watered, she lined them up in orderly arcs in front of each bed, changing the arrangement twice.

  When she could stall no longer, she went back inside. Al was still sitting at the kitchen table, but the beer was gone. She gave him a stiff smile, intending to say “We really appreciate your befriending Richard” with all the formality she could muster. But she was afraid her voice would falter and he would know how much he had hurt her. Al had spent much of their week at Cranberry Lake without speaking. She shouldn’t let a few awkward moments force her into starting a conversation. Besides, he would be forced to depart sometime.

  There was a large coffee stain on the counter. As she took the dishcloth off the sink faucet, she heard his chair scrape backward. Thank God, she thought, he’s finally leaving. She began scrubbing at the stain. When he grabbed her left arm, she dropped the dishcloth. Her right arm automatically shot up to her glasses. The frames were wire and got bent easily. But he did not strike her. “Let go of me.”

  He pressed his chin down onto her shoulder and hissed softly, “Upstairs.”