A Change of Heart (6 page)

"No, not really."
 
No wonder her father was so appalled about the idea of her working at his firm.
 
She was without skills and he knew it.

"Typing isn't everything.
 
You can start a business of your own.
 
Remember that business you and Maggie talked about?
 
I bet there's lots that you can do."

"Maggie wanted that, not me.
 
All I've ever done is be a wife and mother."

"Nothing wrong with that, if you have the right guy," said Will.

"Honey-pie!
 
That's our generation, not Annabeth's.
 
She should already have a career.
 
Women her age need independence and fulfillment."

"People start planning for retirement at her age, they don't go to school or begin a career."

"Yes, I'm really not qualified for anything," said Annabeth, her voice trailing off.
 
"I'd expected grandchildren and traveling now…."

"Grandchildren are a blessing, but hardly a career.
 
Maybe you could start a travel agency since you like travel."

"She's never been anywhere, Ginger.
 
Good lord!
 
You're giving me a headache with all this nonsense," said Will, sounding gruffer and making Annabeth feel even smaller and more useless.

"Divorce isn't such a bad thing, you know.
 
It's how I met your father."

"I know."

As Ginger launched once again into the story about how she'd met Will Copeland, Annabeth chewed her food miserably, pretended to listen, and nodded at the appropriate places.
 
They hadn't noticed her hair either.
 
Was it so little a difference?
 
Maybe she needed to make more changes, buy some new clothes.

"Dessert?" interrupted Will.

"How about some nice, non-fat frozen yogurt?" replied Ginger.

"I hate that stuff.
 
Think I'll go play with my computer, leave you gals to your girl talk."

"Come on in the bedroom and let me show you the new clothes that need hems."

Annabeth followed her stepmother into the bedroom.
 
How strange it was, after all these years, after the room had been redone, the furniture replaced, the walls repainted, that Annabeth could feel her mother still there in that room.
 
This was a sensation that came over her each of the many times she entered this bedroom, despite the fact that Anne Copeland had been dead nearly thirty years.
 
Over by the window had been an easy chair covered in a nubby avocado fabric with a matching ottoman, and it was on that ottoman that Annabeth sat, while Anne explained about getting her period, something that happened to Annabeth a year after that conversation.
 
"Don't slouch, dear, it makes you look heavier.
 
Stand up straight," commanded her mother as they peered into the big mirror on the far wall, Annabeth modeling one of many party dresses worn during junior high.
 
"It's a bit tight, isn't it."
 
Anne clucked her tongue, "Too bad you're built like Grandma, not me."
 
"The seam isn't straight, dear," Anne had said, sitting at the desk placed catty corner to the bed, holding a skirt Annabeth was sewing for a Girl Scout merit badge.
 
"Pull it out and do it like I do."
 
They lay casually sometimes, on the big bed, careful not to rumple the striped avocado and purple bedspread, Anne turning the pages of Annabeth's sketch book.
 
"Oh yes, that looks sort of like a rabbit, but do their eyes slant quite like that or is it more like a cat's eyes?"
 
Anne often laughed when spotting this creature or that, the usual subjects for Annabeth's art, "Oh, what a funny frog!
 
We don't have any around here that look like that."
 
Annabeth listened, usually quietly, to her mother's comments, and then to, "We could sign you up for some art lessons at the school downtown."
 
The institution to which she referred was merely a former high school teacher, long since retired, who'd begun giving classes in drawing in an empty room above Samuel's Hardware Store, classes Annabeth attended for two years until Markie's, a big chain home improvement outlet, opened on the highway outside of town, driving the smaller family-owned store out of business.
 
Anne had been sitting on the avocado chair, her feet propped up on the ottoman, an album of family pictures on her lap, her face a bit red, when Annabeth came in and her mother asked her, "If anything should happen to me, you'll take care of Julie and Chip, won't you?"
 
At barely more than fifteen, Annabeth thought little of the promise she made then, but at sixteen her mother was dead, and Annabeth kept her word.

Those reveries and others, thoughts of exchanges shared a lifetime ago took seconds to unfurl in her consciousness.
 
Annabeth sighed, refocused her mind to the task of pinning up the hems for Ginger, which took only minutes and then she was able to leave.

When she pulled up to her door and spotted R.J.'s van, her heart leapt.
 
He was home!
 

He glared at her as she walked into the house, then said, "Aren't you a little old for ribbons in your hair?"

She winced, removed the scarf, then asked, "You don't like my hair?"

"It's okay."
 

There were two suitcases by the door. "Oh," she said softly, "You're still leaving."

He nodded silently.

"Can we sit and talk?"
 
Annabeth walked toward the living room.

R.J. followed stiffly, saying, "I gotta be somewhere."

"Maggie mentioned that she'd seen you with a woman.
 
Is there someone else?"
 
Annabeth held her breath, waiting for his answer.

"That bitch been bad-mouthin' me for years.
 
I told you what the story is, so why listen to her and her crap?
 
She just gotta be the queen bee all the time and you let her."

Relieved at his denial, she spoke softly, "I don't understand this R.J.
 
Why've you gone back to our old apartment?
 
Is it something we had then you want to recapture?
 
Something you miss from the old days?"
 
She was open and sincere, interested in what he would say, willing and ready to hear the answer so that she could help him with this crisis.
 
"Do you miss your mother, being close to her I mean.
 
You see her all the time don't you?"

R.J. glanced at his watch, squirmed uncomfortably, and remained silent.

"There isn't even any furniture there any more.
 
How can you possibly stay there?
 
It doesn't make sense to buy stuff for a short…."

"What are you so worried about?
 
I'm on the road jus'bout all the time, not here.
 
You won't even notice I'm gone since I'm always gone."

"Oh, sweetie!"
 
Annabeth leaned toward R.J., touching his shoulder.
 
She was flooded with tenderness and the desire to reach out and to help her husband.
 
He was obviously in deep trouble.
 
He sounded so angry and resentful.
 
"Of course I'll notice.
 
What do you think I do here all alone?
 
I wait for you to come home."
 
Seeing R.J. blush on hearing this, Annabeth continued, "Just tell me what you need, what I can do to help you."
 
She leaned in closer, kissing his cheek, hoping she could persuade him to stay the night.
 
"Stay here with me hon, we haven't made love in such a long time.
 
Maybe…."
 

As she was kissing his neck, R.J. rose abruptly, his voice gruff, and said, "You can't do anythin', okay?
 
I gotta do this myself, so just lemme go, will you?"

Annabeth watched R.J. drive away then walked into the kitchen to think.
 
Seating herself at the table, she opened the cookie jar and began nibbling her homemade cookies.
 
What could she do about this?
 
Maybe stop by the bookstore for something on men and their mid-life crises?
 
If they were religious, she could go talk to a minister, but no, they didn't even have a minister.
 
Could that be the problem?
 
No, R.J. couldn't abide religion, and it didn't much interest Annabeth either.
 
R.J. was such a loner.
 
It's not like he had a male friend she could ask; the only people he ever talked to that she knew of were his mother and herself.
 
Mother Welner.
 
She would have to talk to Mother Welner.
 
That would be hard, very hard.
 
She would have to do it, to put aside her feelings about Richard and his death, talk to her mother-in-law, pretend nothing was wrong as they always did, ask about R.J. and what Mother Welner knew about this crisis.

It was a long night, and Annabeth slept poorly, dreaming repeatedly that she was pushing her stalled car up a monstrous hill.
 
The next morning, when she was actually in the car with the engine grinding but not running, there was a sense of exhausted deja-vue, but ultimately the engine caught and she was able to drive to see her mother-in-law, who led her into the living room where she seated herself on the couch.
 
"I'm worried about R.J.," she said simply.

"Men…" said Mother Welner, her voice trailing off.
 
She regarded Annabeth with eyes that were veiled, the usual gruffness and dislike in her voice,
 
but tension as well, but wasn't that normal too?
 
Yes, there was always tension between them, always would be.

"I just don't see how he can stay in that empty apartment, even if he's only in town one or two nights a week," said Annabeth after explaining in as few words as possible what had happened with her husband.

There seemed to be a glint of regret in Mother Welner's eyes, but it was so quickly replaced with the usual contempt that Annabeth was certain she'd misread her mother-in-law.
 
"Here's where he's staying, you'd find out sooner or later, I guess."
 
Mother Welner reached for a pad of paper on the table next to her chair and handed it to Annabeth, who copied the address and phone number.

"I just can't stand to see him so unhappy," said Annabeth.

Clutching the piece of paper in her hand, Annabeth drove the few miles to Wayburn, a town small and indistinct from all the many others surrounding it.
 
First there were the inevitable gas stations, then a fast food place, a supermarket, a small and insignificant restaurant.
 
Then there was a laundromat, a stand-alone brick building with a separate door to one side, leading to an apartment upstairs.
 
Without hesitation, Annabeth pulled the car into the lot, which contained three vehicles, none of them familiar to her.
 

The parking lot had been paved long ago, but it wasn't very well maintained, thus the cement had cracked and the sand from the unplanted curbside area and a number of pebbles, both small and large, were strewn about.
 
It was a rocky walk in her delicate sandals and it hurt her feet, but Annabeth didn't notice.
 
She glanced into the laundromat, which was empty, and then opened the side door, walking up the stairs to the apartment above.
 
Just before she reached the inner door, she paused, sighing and catching her breath.
 
There was a glass panel in the door, covered by some lace curtains, and she could see into the living room beyond.
 
Inside was a young woman, probably in her late twenties, and a toddler who played here and there, returning occasionally to the ugly plaid couch where his mother sat.

Annabeth held her hand to her throat, her heart pounding.
 
R.J. was living here?
 
With this young girl?
 
And a child of one or two?
 
He wasn't just having a crisis; he was having an affair, with a girl barely older than his daughters.
 
Maggie was right!
 
It wasn't innocent.
 
Could this have been going on for a long time?
 
The girl--was she the one from the Quick Mart?
 
Annabeth looked more closely, but it was too hard to tell.
 
She was rather tall and very slender, her hair bleached blonde, but clearly originally a dark brown.
 
She sat curled on the couch as the child played, and although the boy paid no attention to the cartoons on the television, his mother was clearly enthralled or she might have noticed Annabeth peering at her through the glass pane in her door.
 
She held a cigarette nonchalantly in her hand, a gesture of sophistication that made her look like a child playing movie star.
 
On a table beside her were several coffee cups, emptied glasses, two ashtrays overflowing with smoked butts, a set of electric hair rollers and some casual pieces of costume jewelry.
 
There were garments on the floor, stray pillows here and there, and in general chaos everywhere to which she was oblivious.