It was like a dream. She tried to scream and couldn’t. Her legs wouldn’t move. He pushed her forward. On the bottom step he lifted her and began to carry her upstairs.
For a crazy half second she leaned her head against his chest for comfort. When she jerked it away, she could see Richard’s sleeping form through the stair rails and was glad she hadn’t been capable of screaming. It would have frightened Richard, who, moreover, could scarcely help her.
Al dumped her on her own bed and she silently repeated over and over: I won’t scream. I won’t scream. That was as close as she could come to praying.
He knotted Cheryl’s scarf around her wrist, unbuttoned her blouse, then yanked her poorly fitting bra upward.
She kept her eyes closed and didn’t struggle. There was no point. Just let him do it and get it over with. Life would go on. She even lifted herself up so he could get her slacks off easier.
She did not open her eyes until she heard him leave by the front door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Richard hoped no one else was outdoors. Such raw grief should not be witnessed. He was watching Cheryl through the screen door. It was much like a funeral ceremony. First she would lift a plant, turn, then slowly plod toward the Dempster Dumpster. Now she was dropping a box of pink petunias into the green garbage receptacle.
He would like to get her back inside. But there were three boxes and one hanging plant left. She would not stop until all evidence of that shopping trip with her mother was erased.
He had hidden her new dress under his bed. If she saw it, she would destroy it and then be sorry later. Rose’s note, the cause of all this grief, still lay on the table. It had been hastily scrawled but was still legible: Must get away by myself for a while. Thanks for everything. Rose
If only he had woken before she’d left, maybe he could have talked her out of going. But damn it, she should have known better. For the first time in their lives, she and Cheryl were getting close. Rose’s departure had wrecked it all.
When Cheryl came back in, he would try to get her to take some aspirin. Maybe that would help her calm down. But he didn’t want to issue an order. It would be better if he could just hand her a couple of tablets and gently coax her into taking them.
Getting his hand on the little plastic bottle of aspirin was the problem. Cheryl kept it on the bottom shelf of the cupboard under the bathroom sink. He wheeled over to the bathroom, reached in, and swung the cabinet door open. There they were in the left corner of the bottom shelf. She couldn’t have put them in a more inaccessible spot if she had tried.
He backed out of the bathroom and plucked a hanger from the coat closet. By bending the hanger, he was able to form a long-handled hook. But after a three-inch lift the aspirin slid off and hit the blue bathroom rug. Finally he just dragged the bottle into the hallway and ultimately, the kitchen. When he leaned over to pick it up, he was glad to find it did not have a childproof cap.
Cheryl almost took them. She even got herself a glass of water. But then she shook her head. “Better not,” she insisted. The tablets he had worked so diligently to get were set back down on the table.
Her face was pink and swollen from crying. She had been chewing her bottom lip, and beads of blood had formed on it. He had to comfort her somehow. “What about a weak drink?”
She did not appear to hear him. “Was it my fault? Did I do something terrible?”
“No.”
“How could she?”
“I don’t know.” Richard had never held his own mother in much esteem. But Rose was different: a shy, strong woman who gave rather than took. But her behavior today didn’t seem very generous. He couldn’t explain it at all. The most constructive remedy was to forget about her for the time being. He crumpled Rose’s note and dumped it into the wastebasket. “How about a drink?”
“All right.”
He made her a weak manhattan. If he were a different man, he could take her someplace suitable for dinner and maybe get her to forget her troubles. Still, if he were a different man, he never would have gotten involved with her in the first place. He asked himself how he would have regarded Cheryl if he had met her before his stroke. He wasn’t proud of his answer.
She was staring vacantly in front of her.
“Why don’t you lie down for a while?”
She looked at her watch. “It’s almost dinnertime.”
“We’ll eat late.”
He was relieved when she started upstairs. It could have been worse. Rose told him Cheryl had taken scissors and cut up all her clothes after her father had died. Then she had jaggedly cut off her own bangs, so short that neither barrettes nor scarves could hide the damage.
Richard decided, since he couldn’t take her out to dinner, he could, at least, prepare a meal. Fixing supper did not require gourmet wizardry. His grandmother had not been much of a cook and her dinners had always been special. He tried to remember why. In the chest where Grandma kept her tablecloths there was a drawer full of seasonal trimmings. A small leprechaun with sturdy green plastic feet stood in the middle of the table on St. Patrick’s Day. A crepe-paper and cardboard turkey, held together by a paper clip, occupied the same place on Thanksgiving. She had stickers, too. They were put on the dinner napkins—yellow ducks for Easter and red hearts for Valentine’s Day. But the Florida heat dried out the glue, and as soon as the napkins were unfolded, the sticker always fell to the floor. But there was still cranberry juice in a real wineglass and the thrill of being treated like an interesting dinner companion. That was it! Having Grandma’s undivided attention had made everything special.
Cheryl always had his undivided attention. He had made it his occupation to gauge her moods and bolster her shaky ego. So a memorable dinner was going to require something else—maybe a tablecloth and candles.
It wasn’t going to be elaborate food; all the refrigerator contained was a head of unwashed lettuce, an unopened bottle of red wine, and a package of ground beef. However, there was a banana cake in the freezer, which he set out to defrost. He debated over what to do with the ground beef, then decided a meat loaf was classier than hamburgers. Besides, he had eaten a hamburger for lunch.
He and Al had gone to a root beer stand at noon because Al claimed not to be able to cook anymore. Richard thought that might be the truth because there was no evidence of anything but drinking going on at Al’s house. He even had to pick up their morning coffee at a convenience store because he had even run out of Taster’s Choice. Al’s home was well stocked with beer, though. Cases of it were piled by the refrigerator, waiting for space inside.
It had been an awkward visit. Heinz stayed close to Al, occasionally nuzzling against his leg. That had embarrassed him. Twice he said, “She’s never done this before.” The second time he added, “Generally, she has no use for me.” Both times he tentatively petted her, acting as if she might jerk away at any moment.
But she did not jerk away. Heinz, the rejected woman, might merely have been putting up a good front with the new master. But if she was not yet attached to Al, Richard knew she would soon become so. Heinz was a realist and knew there was no sense living in the past. Being a realist himself, he wasn’t hurt by her coolness. The part of his life she had belonged to was over.
At lunchtime they got into Rose’s car and drove to the big mall on Route 7. Between the Hickory Farm Store and Sears, there was a root beer stand that Al praised for its good hamburgers.
It was a narrow little place with the counter in the back and the tables in front. Al wheeled Richard through the entryway. Only a delicate wrought-iron fence separated them from the diners. Richard glanced to his right and stared directly into the face of an impoverished-looking old man eating french fries. The creases around the man’s mouth fluttered as he chewed. Next Richard focused on the dark roots of a blonde whose thick makeup couldn’t conceal intense disappointment. He had to look away. It was awful to be so intimate with strangers. In his infrequent outings he generally stared at
belt buckles or blouse buttons and found the view more comfortable. How had he handled the pain in strangers’ faces when he walked erect? He supposed he had never seen it. Back then he had been pretty wrapped up in himself and his career.
Al parked him at a table and went up to the counter. Richard saw him flinch as the uniformed girl bellowed their orders into a microphone. Poor Al’s nerves were shot. Richard had known the guy was in trouble ever since Mrs. Valerino’s funeral. He had even considered suggesting counseling. But it would offend Al and probably cost about eighty smackers an hour. Besides, he remembered what a wimp Stuart had turned out to be. He figured he could do just as good a job himself. In consequence, he called Al often and tried to get him to talk. But he never got very far. Al might tell him what was bothering him but never why. Maybe he didn’t know. He wasn’t a very reflective guy.
Al plunked down the tray that held their hamburgers and drinks and proceeded to eat in total silence. Purely for conversation Richard asked, “Glad the school year is over?”
Al shrugged, removed the pickle from his hamburger, then tossed it into the Styrofoam container. “Think I might stop driving altogether.”
“How come?”
“Too many women drivers.”
Richard did not understand how that affected Al. He was alone in his bus with the children and rarely came into contact with other drivers. Then he hit upon a reasonable explanation. “Do they bring down the pay scale?”
“Na.” Al blushed and appeared unable to explain the matter further. They both reverted to eating their overcooked, tasteless hamburgers.
Tonight’s meat loaf looked far more appetizing. Richard had opened the oven door and could see the meat juices turning a golden brown. The baked potatoes looked nearly done, too.
He dried the lettuce and fixed salads. Then he located a corkscrew, planted the wine bottle between his thighs, and pulled out the cork. Removing corks was always his job. Cheryl always jabbed the corkscrew in crooked and broke the cork.
Everything was ready except for the table. All he could find in the living room bureau were the violet place mats June had given Cheryl and the laminated used greeting-cards ones she had been given as a wedding gift at the nursing home. Using June’s gift was out of the question, so he pulled out the garish ones from the nursing home. By candlelight they may not look too bad. The lemon candle was the stocky air-freshener variety set in canning jars. But its gentle light made the kitchen table look festive.
Cheryl appeared at just the right moment, wrapped in a terrycloth robe and mumbling “I’ll fix something fast.” Then she took in the salads, wine, and oven smells. “You fixed dinner. My God, Richard, everything smells wonderful. I guess I’d better go get dressed.”
He knew better than to expect her to get dressed up. In a few minutes she would wander back downstairs in a T-shirt and jeans or, at best, a worn wrap skirt.
Since their wedding she had only dolled herself up once and that had been for her ex-husband. He wished just once she would wear something new for him.
But she didn’t. The black jumpsuit she reappeared in had been bought four years earlier in an impulsive moment and never worn because it was so low-cut in front. Richard took in the plunging neckline and the leopard scarf that belted her waist. But what he liked best was the way she had combed all her thick red hair over one shoulder. She was shyly waiting for his reaction. There was nothing to do but give a long, lecherous whistle. He was sorry for that unkindness he had entertained earlier about never giving her a second thought in his healthier days. If she’d been dressed like this, he would have noticed her. No question at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Cheryl stared into her mirror and repeated, “Dumpy, dumpy, dumpy.” The new turquoise outfit she had considered so flattering in the store now pulled on her waist and made her feel sausagelike. She had so wanted to impress Derrigo and Raymond with her recent weight loss, but these separates did not convey thinness. Still, what difference did it make? Neither of her bosses had ever really noticed her before. Today wouldn’t be any different.
Cheryl pushed her feet into white heels and started downstairs. She had to hold on to the banister because it had been months since she had worn anything but flats or sandals.
Richard had perked coffee and was preparing to make cinnamon toast. She was glad to be working only half days this first week. It gave her a little time before she had to broach the subject of the day-care center. Not that it was going to get any easier. Richard was trying hard to become proficient at cooking so he could be independent. That just made his staying alone all the more dangerous. She had grown anxiety-ridden. What if he spilled hot coffee on himself or if his clothes caught fire? It was just too dangerous for him to be alone. If Rose could drop in once in a while, it might be different. But Rose couldn’t be depended on for anything. Cheryl ripped her toast in two, quartered it, then set it back on her plate. She had no appetite.
Richard noted her shaking hands. “The big-business lady is nervous,” he said teasingly.
“I’m not nervous and I’m not a big business lady.” She had not meant to snap at him, but any reference to successful businesswomen made her feel defensive. Richard did not realize how far she was from a briefcase-carrying woman executive. Those well-dressed professionals were always getting profiled in the magazines. Besides a great job, they always had a husband, two children, and curvaceous figures. Their constant publication of those success stories was one of the reasons she had canceled her subscriptions to several women’s magazines. She far preferred reading romances. The characters in them never made you feel professionally inadequate.
She sipped the last of her coffee. “I better get going.” Already she missed the leisurely mornings she and Richard were accustomed to and wished he would look a little depressed about her leaving. But as she pulled the keys out of her purse, he gave her an upbeat grin, the thumbs-up signal, and said, “Go get that bacon.”
It was stupid to expect sympathy from Richard. With his rah-rah football background, he would view even her dead-end job as an opportunity.
Her watch was fast. The radio announcer said it was only 7:30. She still kept driving toward the Interstate. It might be good to get into the office early and get a feeling for what had been going on.
Lucy wasn’t gone! Cheryl had assumed the office temporary’s assignment would end the preceding Friday, but the girl’s possessions were all over Cheryl’s desk. An ivy plant sat on the ledge. A purple satin star-shaped pillow hung from a gold thread taped to the overhead desk light. On the desk itself a former soup can with an orange yarn covering held Lucy’s abundant supply of felt-tip pens.
Thank God we didn’t hire her at Christmastime, Cheryl thought. She would have brought in blinking lights and a life-size Santa. She stomped over to the adjoining desk, but it now had a coffee maker on it. There was also a supply of Styrofoam cups, a jar of Cremora, and large tray of sugar packets.
Was brewing coffee now part of the morning routine or something Lucy did on the sly? Cheryl figured it had to be the latter. Wasn’t it Derrigo who always said he didn’t want the office turned into a kitchen?
She stood staring at the pot, unsure of what to do.
“You’re an early bird.”
She whipped around and gave Derrigo an eager smile, which he did not return. He looked grave and older, but maybe it was just his brown suit. She had always thought the wearing of winter colors in summer aged people.
After switching on his office lights he walked over to her. “I’m glad you’re here early. Why don’t you make us both some coffee and come into my office?”
Cheryl carried the pot to the water fountain and blinked back tears. She took his command as a personal defeat. It had taken her years to train him to walk down to the first-floor coffee machine himself. Now she was going to have to start all over again. Besides that, he didn’t look all that happy to see her back.
She added a lot of cream and one plump sugar to his
coffee, then set it in front of him.
“That’s great. Want to close the door, hon?”
What was going on here? Cheryl obediently closed the door, then sat tentatively in the visitor’s chair—a space she had occupied only when taking shorthand.
“How is it going at home?”
Cheryl slid back in the chair and crossed her legs. It was all right. Nothing was going on here. Derrigo wanted to ask her about her husband’s condition and was considerate enough to hold the conversation privately. “Things are going better than I ever expected,” she told him honestly.
“You’re looking refreshed.”
“Thank you.” She felt he had noticed her weight loss and was mentioning it in a tactful way.
He pulled a folder out of a desk file and placed it on his desk to indicate that the conversation was taking a business turn. He opened the folder but did not look at its contents. “You’ve been doing an excellent job for us for four years. I thought it might be the right time to offer you a chance for promotion.”
Cheryl uncrossed her legs and kept her hands primly in her lap.
“There’s a trainee course opening up next month for computer programmers. Several promising nonprofessionals have been selected to attend. And since you’re extremely logical and a whiz with numbers, I thought it might be a good opportunity for you to break into the field. And into a higher pay scale.” He raised his hand to prevent her from speaking. “No need to give me an answer now. I know it’s something you’ll want to discuss with your husband.”
He picked up his pipe and rubbed his thumb against the wood of the mouthpiece. “There’s another situation I think you should be aware of. We’ve hired Lucy full-time. Not because of any unparalleled office skills. It was more of a humane situation. Her mother—er—acquired a new boyfriend and asked Lucy to leave the house. To get an apartment, she needed to be working permanently.”
Cheryl’s hands were shaking, but she spoke calmly. “When I was offered a leave of absence, I was told my job or an equivalent job would be held for me.”
The Way It Happens In Novels Page 15