Home Safe

by Elizabeth Berg

  Then Helen remembers. She has told Tessa this story, and Dan did, too. In fact, Dan told Tessa about them spending the night together, carefully emphasizing that it was another time. Tessa just wanted to hear it again.

  Helen and Tessa clean up after dinner, and then Tessa sees that it has begun to snow, and tells her mother she'd better get going.

  In the elevator on the way down to the lobby, Helen regrets having told Tessa about the house. Look what she's started now. If Tessa sees the house in California and wants to move there, Helen will have to move there, too. Because although Tessa can be without Helen, she can't be without Tessa. She knows it's wrong. She knows it.

  She drives slowly down streets that have already gotten slippery. At a stoplight she sits waiting for the green, unwilling to look at the car next to her, at the park across the way, at the shops on the street, their windows full of wares. She looks only at the light, waiting for it to change.

  eleven

  IT'S SATURDAY, TEN-THIRTY, AND IT'S POSSIBLE THAT TESSA IS still asleep—she sometimes works late into the night. But Helen needs to talk to her about their trip to Minnesota tomorrow; she wants to be sure Tessa remembers to bring the cosmetics samples she's been collecting for her grandmother, who is more thrilled by samples than by the real deal. She always claims they put better product in the samples, hoping to persuade people to buy; then they water down the big sizes. Just like Coca-Cola, she says, Coca-Cola puts the same amount of syrup in the little bottles of Coke as they do in the big ones. Helen and Tessa once did side-by-side comparisons with Helen's mom and admitted she might be right: the Coke in the little bottles did seem to taste better.

  Helen's mother, an otherwise intelligent woman, also seems to fully believe every claim cosmetics people make. When Helen once said, “Come on, Mom, do you really think cream can get rid of cellulite?” her mother looked over her glasses and said, “The people who make this stuff are scientists, Helen.” And when Helen said, “Mom. Angelina Jolie has cellulite!” (though she did not know for a fact that this was accurate and in truth doubted the veracity of her claim even as she said it; Angelina Jolie was clearly not human but was instead some marvel of bioengineering meant to make sure women kept feeling bad about themselves), her mother drew herself up to say, “If Angelina Jolie has cellulite, it's because she doesn't have time to do what they say to get rid of it. Really, nobody does. But if she did what they said, she would not have cellulite.” Then she asked Helen, “Where is Angie's cellulite?” and Helen looked away and mumbled something about how she was hungry, did anyone else want a sandwich.

  Helen dials Tessa's number and her daughter answers groggily.

  “It's me,” Helen says.

  “Mom. Mom. It's Saturday morning.”

  “You're not up?”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Sorry,” Helen says.

  “I'll call you back.”

  Helen unloads the groceries she's brought home: supplies for the cranberry chocolate biscotti she's making to honor a request from her dad, for the Russian tea cakes and shortbread she's making for her mother. She thinks about what their reaction will be when they hear about the house; she hasn't told them yet and still wonders if she should. But she certainly could use the comfort and advice they might offer.

  She is measuring out flour when the phone rings. Helen answers it, saying triumphantly, “See? You're not asleep!”

  “Pardon?” an unfamiliar voice says.

  “… Who's this?” Helen asks.

  “It's Saundra Weller. I'm calling because I understand you've been asked to teach a workshop at the library in January?”

  You can't have it. “Yes, I have been. I will be.”

  “Well, I am, too, and I wondered if you'd like to get together sometime and talk about what we might offer these people.”

  “I didn't know there was another instructor,” Helen says.

  “There wasn't meant to be. But there was such an enthusiastic response this time. I told Nancy that would happen. Word spreads, and you know how everybody's a writer. Anyway, she said she'd asked you to lead a workshop; I'm sure she assumed I wouldn't really be interested and it's true that I'm terribly busy. But now she needs another instructor and I find I actually am interested. One needs, occasionally, to give back.”

  Helen pulls out the sugar canister, goes to the cupboard for red and green sprinkles, banishes an encroaching memory of how much Dan loved these cookies, how he used to eat them for breakfast. “You know, I'm kind of swamped right now,” she tells Saundra. “I have to make—”

  “I'm only trying to make sure the classes are good,” Saundra says. “Just because they're free doesn't mean they should be substandard. So I thought we should get together and compare notes for what we intend to do.”

  Helen hesitates, then says, “I'm confused. Are we teaching together?”

  “Oh, heavens no. No. I'm just saying that I think these people should be well taught, even if they're … Well, let's just say they're not exactly MFA candidates, okay? And I know you've not done much teaching, and—”

  “Yes, I have,” Helen says. Don't ask where.

  “Where?”

  “On … this … It was a special retreat. For writers. Who I taught.” Whom! Whom I taught!

  “Oh? Well, I understood that—”

  “Who did you ‘understand’ it from?”

  “Nancy Weldon told me you hadn't done this kind of thing before.”

  “Did she ask you to help me?”

  “Well, she … didn't exactly have to.”

  “I see. Well, no thanks.” Helen opens the bag of walnuts, pops a few into her mouth, chews a bit harder than she needs to. Into the mouthpiece.

  “Well, I must say you seem offended. I apologize if I said anything that made it seem … if I offended you in any way.”

  “It's okay,” Helen says. “I'd just like to do this on my own.”

  “All right,” Saundra says lightly. “I just wanted to make the offer. So … How are you otherwise? You've another book coming out next year, I imagine?” Oh, with what ill-disguised weariness she offers this last.

  Nope. Not another book. Not another anything. “I do,” Helen says.

  “I'll have to look for it. My, you are nothing if not prolific.”

  “Yeah,” Helen says. “Well, listen, thanks a lot for the offer. And the same to you, by the way!”

  “The same …?”

  “If you need help, just let me know.”

  Silence, and Helen can all but see Saundra's look of incredulousness. She imagines her dressed in black, looking chic and beautiful. Saundra is a remarkably beautiful woman: blond, green-eyed, ultrathin, bone structure to die for. “I'll see you soon,” Saundra says, finally, and hangs up.

  Helen goes defiantly to her cookbook shelf. Where is that recipe for pumpkin flan. It's really hard. You have to know what you're doing to make it.

  Helen has finished with all the baking when Tessa calls back. It's five o'clock and dark outside.

  “You just got up?” Helen asks.

  “No. I forgot to call you back.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mom. I have ten thousand things to do. I haven't even started packing. How cold is it in Minnesota?”

  “Freezing. Don't forget to pack the cosmetics samples for Grandma.”

  “I know.”

  Helen frowns at the phone. “Are you crabby?”

  “No, I am not crabby.”

  Helen could argue that point. But she doesn't want to argue. She wants to lie down. And she wants to go to her parents' house and be taken care of. Also, she wants to go there and take care of them. “Well, I'm just trying to help you not forget anything,” she says. “You always forget something.”

  “So do you,” Tessa says. “Last time you forgot your glasses. And you had to wear your contacts all the time and you kept bitching about it.”

  “Good-bye, my little darling, my sweet angel daughter, light of my life.”
r />   “I'll see you at Union Station,” Tessa says. “Wear a red rose so I know who you are.”

  twelve

  HELEN WEARS A RED ROSE, A FRAYED VELVET ONE THAT USED TO go on a vintage hat, pinned to her coat lapel when she goes to the train station. When she sees her daughter at the entrance to the Great Hall, she waves exuberantly and shouts, “Tessa! Over here!”

  Embarrassed, Tessa puts her head down and comes over. “I saw you.”

  “Did you bring the samples?”

  “Yes, I brought the samples. Did you bring your glasses?”

  “Ah, jeez.” Helen sees them in her mind, lying next to her bathroom sink, so that she'd be sure to remember to pack them.

  There is an echoing announcement that it is time for boarding, and they make the long walk down the narrow concrete strip to their car. As always, Helen is thrilled by the immensity of the train, by the sight of the uniformed conductors helping people up the big metal steps, by the loud hissing and clanking sounds, by the idea of travel—all these people going somewhere. Walking ahead of them is a family with two small children, a boy and a girl, and each rolls their own small suitcase dutifully behind. Helen wonders what's in there: stuffed animals and toys, coloring books and games? Or is it their clothes and pajamas, stacks of folded underwear? The first time Helen saw little children pulling suitcases she felt sorry for them and wondered why their parents didn't pack for them, and carry the children's things in their own bags. Why make the children lug suitcases behind them and often carry backpacks besides? But then she became aware of the pride in the children's faces, the way that they seemed to want to do this. It was a good idea, she decided, to foster this sense of can-do early on in life. Maybe if she'd been made to carry her own suitcase as a child, she'd know how to fix her own toilet flapper now.

  After she and Tessa get seated inside their roomette, Helen says, “Want some wine?”

  Tessa smiles. “Sure.”

  “Cheese? Chocolate?”

  “Mom.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe later? Like, after we've left the station?”

  “I have little sandwiches, too.”

  “Mom. Mom.”

  “I didn't offer them to you. I'm just saying we have them. Then, later, when you're riding along and you get hungry—and you will get hungry—you'll know what we have.”

  “We have a dining car.”

  Just then, as though confirming Tessa's point, the conductor pokes his head inside their room and says, “Ladies? What time would you like to have dinner?”

  Tessa raises an eyebrow at her mother.

  “You choose,” Helen tells her, then rushes to add, “I always like the first sitting. Then they still have everything, and you can be done with dinner and have the rest of the trip to just relax. Your dad and I always got the first sitting. But you choose whatever you want.”

  Tessa looks at the conductor, rolls her eyes.

  “Okay!” he says. “First sitting!” He's cute, the conductor, and Helen can tell he finds Tessa attractive, though who wouldn't? But he's not for Tessa. Tessa needs someone else. Soon. What if it takes her a long time to get pregnant? What if she wants more than one child?

  Helen pours Tessa and herself a glass of wine each and waits for the thrilling lurch of the train as their trip begins, waits for Chicago to slide past and into the distance. Then, as the sun starts sinking in the sky, the train will make its way through open land and into and out of little towns and cities. Once, she was traveling alone to St. Paul and when the train arrived in Milwaukee, she heard a woman say to her husband, “Milwaukee. What do they have here?”

  “Beer,” the man said. “That's about it.”

  Helen loves Milwaukee: its fine art museum; the excellent theaters; the Italian grocery on Brady Street. Glorioso's has not only killer salami but a black “complexion” soap that all the old lady customers swear by—it is kept behind the counter like contraband. There are exquisite galleries and stores in the newly restored Third Ward, and the lakefront is full of homes worthy of openmouthed admiration. She politely interrupted the couple to tell them all that, and they told her to buzz off.

  Helen settles back into her seat, stares out the window. She always feels so cozy on a train, so privileged. She sometimes likes to imagine the engine having a face, as in children's books, and at such times sees the lead car chugging cheerfully along, calling out greetings to the deer in the fields, to the tall pine trees, to the white-faced cliffs along the Mississippi, to the stars that, toward the end of the trip, will come out and shine high above them.

  • • •

  Helen startles awake, unsticks her mouth from itself, and checks her watch. About forty-five minutes away from the elegant city of St. Paul, her birthplace and in so many respects still home. It's not yet time to awaken Tessa, who has been sleeping soundly since after dinner. Tessa works hard, and she is chronically behind on sleep. Helen is glad they will have time to relax, to unwind and enjoy themselves. Her father has a nightly martini with Tessa, her mother listens with great interest to any stories Tessa wants to share about work, about friends, even, to Helen's chagrin or pleasure (or sometimes, oddly, both), about Helen.

  Tessa never displays with Helen's parents the kind of short-temperedness she often shows her mother; instead, she is patient, kind, always loving. In some respects, Tessa has made Helen love her parents more, because of the easy way they reveal themselves to their granddaughter. “Did you know Grandma had a boyfriend in high school with really curly blond hair who went on to play professional football?” Tessa has asked her. “Did you know Grandpa had a pet mouse that lived in a cage he built out of sticks and his dad drowned it in the toilet?”

  Helen reaches over and pulls Tessa's blanket up to her chin, and hopes that no announcements will come on over the loudspeaker and wake her up. She hopes the conductor will not knock loudly at the closed door, asking if they need anything. Not that this has ever happened, except on one notable occasion. Helen nearly laughs out loud, recalling it now. A couple of years ago, when she and Dan were taking a vacation trip to Boston, she had been sitting opposite her husband in a roomette such as this, and she began feeling a bit amorous. She watched her handsome husband reading, his tortoiseshell glasses slid partway down his nose, and grew more and more aroused. Finally, “Dan?” she said. He held up a finger, read to the end of the sentence, then looked up. “Would you like a little train sex?” she asked. And Dan blushed—oh, it was so dear, the man blushed. “Would you?” she asked, giggling. She flung herself at him and started passionately kissing him, feeling him up generally, then quite specifically. They laughed at first, but they were both very turned on. Helen had just unzipped Dan's pants when there was a sharp rap on the door. Helen leaped back into her seat, Dan zipped up and opened the door. “Yes?” he asked the conductor, and his voice was high and nervous and unnatural. Like Woody Allen's, she told him later.

  “You need your trash emptied?” the conductor asked. He was an older, angry-looking man, nothing like the cute and undoubtedly liberal conductor they have on this train. He looked suspiciously at Dan, then Helen.

  “I believe it's empty,” Dan said, and pulled out the little trash can to show him.

  “All right, then,” the conductor said, and moved on down the aisle. Across the way, Helen met the eyes of a middle-aged, stout woman, who was furiously knitting. Helen fluttered her fingers at her, and the woman turned away.

  “She told on us,” Helen whispered to Dan, pointing at the woman and then sliding their door closed.

  “I know,” Dan whispered back, and then they couldn't help it; they started laughing.

  “Yes?” Helen said, imitating Dan. “Yes, Mr. Conductor?”

  They laughed and laughed, and later that night they finished what they had started and then some. Helen stares out the window into the blackness. Every now and then, there is a house with a light on. She strains to see the people there, and across what seems a vast distance, she wishes the
m all well.

  thirteen

  “WHAT HAPPENED HERE?” HELEN'S FATHER, FRANKLIN, ASKS Tessa. “You've grown about three feet, haven't you?”

  Tessa smiles and points to her boots. “They're high.”

  “But you've grown, too!”

  “I think I've stopped growing, Grandpa.”

  Franklin studies Tessa's face. Then he says, “Well, hell. I guess I've shrunk more, then. Want a martini?”

  “Sure!”

  “Helen?”

  “Okay.”

  “Eleanor?”

  “Maybe a half.”

  Franklin winks at Helen; they call her mother the Queen of Halves, for her tendency to cut virtually anything she eats in half. Almost invariably she eats both halves.

  “Anyone want a Christmas cookie?” Eleanor asks, and they all three answer yes.

  They sit around the kitchen table, talking, and Helen finally tells her parents about the house, skipping the monetary worries. At midnight, she is exhausted, but it seems Tessa and her parents could go on all night. “I think I'll go up and just put on my pajamas,” Helen says, and Tessa says, “Good niiiiight!”

  “I'll be back down,” Helen says, and together Tessa and her mother say, “No, you won't.”

  It's true. Helen has a habit of saying she's “just” putting her pajamas on, then disappearing for the night. Dan used to say, “Why don't you just say you're going to bed?” and Helen would say, “Because I never think I am.”

  She takes her pajamas out of her suitcase and lays them on the bed, then stores her suitcase back against the wall, abbreviated in height by the eaves of the house. The guest room is in the attic, and Helen always feels she's in danger of bumping her head, though she never does. She takes off her clothing, shivering—the ancient space heater does little to warm the room. But Helen likes sleeping in a cold room; after she's under the covers, she won't mind the temperature. Tessa will be sleeping with her, which neither of them likes, but neither wants the sofa, either. Helen uses the decorative pillows to construct a kind of wall down the middle of the bed. She hopes this will keep her daughter from kicking her. Tessa's kicking is another thing Helen worries about with regard to her daughter's marital future.