Commuters (5 page)

Jerry shook his head, swallowed mightily, and drank again. He hadn’t touched the soup.

“Would you rather have sweet tea? I can make a pitcher—”

“What about soda water? We have any of those cans left?” Winnie jumped up to get one. She desperately worried he might ask for a sandwich. “You eating, Winifred?”

“Me? No, I had something earlier. Shall I call him again? Avery?
We could have him out to dinner. A barbeque with Rachel and the girls. Or just us, I don’t know. Whatever you think would help.”

“It’s not Avery—it’s Annette.”

“Yes?”

“She’s suing me. Not to put too fine a point on it.” Jerry wiped his mouth and finally picked up his spoon.

“What do you mean?”

He made a disgusted
tch
sound. “It’s not a matter for the courts, or anything like that. It better not be. Business decision. She wants to force a change in the board—make a play for something she and I disagree over. It’s not personal.”

“Not
personal
? I don’t understand! What does she say to you?”

“Hasn’t said anything, because I just heard about it this morning. From Ed Weller.”

“But—but—” Winnie didn’t know what to ask first. How could he be so calm? A
lawsuit
? Was Annette even allowed to sue her own father? Her father, who built the very company she was in charge of?

Suddenly, something occurred to her. “Jerry. Could she be—I mean, is this about us? Me? I know it’s been hard for her to accept.”

“Now, this is why I didn’t want to say anything,” Jerry said, raising his voice. He started to point the spoon at her, then put it down. “And maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“But I signed the papers. Annette must know that, right? The—” Winnie hated the term, that always-shortened, flip sound of it. “Pre-nup.”

“That’s different. That’s not part of this. What it is, is…” Jerry exhaled heavily, and looked around the kitchen. “One of the
companies, the original one—TrevisCorp—well, Annette’s heading that up. And she’s been making noises for a year about wanting to separate from the rest of the corporation, to run it on its own. Then take it public, probably. I don’t know what she’s all about.”

“And you won’t let her.”

“No I
won’t
let her! Frank and I built that shop from the ground up, back when we were just out of the army. I’m not putting my name, or my brother’s name, on some foolish IPO, just so Annette can outsource labor to India and run up a quick profit. And anyway, she’s not ready.”

But why now? Winnie had to wonder if it wasn’t a coincidence that Annette would do something so horrible now, less than a month after her father remarried. But it seemed selfish to ask, somehow.

And she was still learning how to talk with this man, her new husband. Their first real conversations had been by phone—Jerry from Chicago, she in Hartfield—and were full of gentle, teasing laughter as well as careful listening. Jerry asked her many questions, all about her life—what her parents had been like, and what she thought about her grandchildren, and how George had treated her. Winnie had treasured these long afternoons in her old apartment, walking back and forth, her ear growing hot from the phone’s receiver. She had been flattered by his attention, and perhaps she got caught up in talking about herself. Every once in a while she would try, of course, to turn the subject to his own experience, but she could tell right away that while Jerry didn’t mind talking about himself, he wanted to be the one leading the conversation. He much preferred to do the asking of questions. So she let him: it was heaven, the sensation of someone wanting to
know
you.

“Happens all the time,” Jerry said. “It’s a power play.” But he looked tired now, and he still wasn’t touching his food.

“Of course,” Winnie said, not certain about any part of it. “I’m sure she’ll listen to reason. Eventually.”

“I only told you because some of the lawyers are coming out tomorrow. And I didn’t want you to overhear something and get worried. Just put it out of your head.”

Winnie smiled, with difficulty, and said no more.

What would it mean for her own relations with Annette—were they still going to Chicago for Labor Day, for example? How could they possibly? Would there be shouting over the phone, a big fight at Thanksgiving? But the startling news and her fears soon shrank down to nothing but a manageable buzz inside her head, in the moment that Jerry blew noisily on a spoonful of soup, and then ate it. And another, and another. He put away the whole bowl in one swoop, and all Winnie did was sit, and watch, and fill with happiness.

The phone was ringing as Rachel unlocked the door at 10:05
AM
. She tossed an armload of folded clothing on the counter and caught up the receiver at the last moment.

“Hand Me Down, children’s consignment,” she said, out of breath, flipping on the lights. Could she reach the air conditioner, too? The room was sweltering.

“Is this Rachel Brigham?” It was a young woman’s voice, both familiar and not, tentative in tone.

“Yes?”

“This is Leanne Draper. From the management office at the pool?”

“Yes? Wait. Is everything all right with Lila?”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that.” A little note of relief came into Leanne’s voice. “I was just—well, it’s just that your check got returned? I tried to reach your husband first, but…anyway, I left a message for him. So this is the other number that we have on file.”

“My check…really? I didn’t think I’d paid August yet. Did
Bob mail it in already?” This was impossible, of course. Bob would no sooner know the fee schedule for Lila’s pool membership than she herself would know how to fix a carburetor.

“It’s the check for July. The bank just called us.”

“Well, I don’t see how that could have happened.”

“Yeah,” Leanne said. “I bounce stuff all the time.”

“You guys are just depositing July now?” Rachel did some fast, sloppy calculations in her head. Last she’d looked, there was six hundred something in her checking account. If the July check for $850 had already bounced, would that mean that it was coming back into her account? Or that something else had bounced, too?

“I can take care of this over the phone for you, if you want. We can do pretty much any kind of credit card.”

Rachel was trying to think, in the still, hot air of the store. The Visa card would never handle that kind of charge. And American Express would be due by mid-month anyway. She could transfer from savings. Again. That would be the third time this summer. Then again, Vikram’s rent check would come in…when? Friday.

“I’ll drop off a check this weekend. Saturday, since we’ll be over for the meet anyway.”

“Um, okay,” Leanne said. “Maybe you could bring the check for August then, too? I mean, since Saturday’s the second.”

Pushy little thing! “Thanks for letting me know, Leanne. I’ll see you this weekend.”
Thanks for letting me know?
Rachel wondered if she should have been apologetic. But she didn’t
feel
apologetic. She felt furious. “Fuck,” she said quietly, to the yellow sundress in front of her. There was a pair of ducks appliquéd on its front.

She tried Bob, first at home, then on his cell. Melissa answered
at home but rushed off the phone when Mrs. Simmonds honked outside, waiting to pick her up.

A customer came in and browsed the Boys Winter section. He picked up a pair of ski boots that they’d had out for over a year and weighed them in one hand, contemplating. Rachel quickly went to the back and turned on the air. She straightened up the counter and then covertly dialed Citibank, but then hung up when the automated menu options proved overwhelming. She marked up three new items, including the duck dress, and arranged them on various racks. All the while, her eyes burned and her throat ached. Leanne worked for Deb Towney, who lived in Butterfield but was close with at least three of Rachel’s friends. She supposed she should feel lucky that it hadn’t been
Deb
who had called—although—what if Deb had specifically asked Leanne to call? Had said,
Oh, would you? I really can’t. It would be so
awkward
for her.
Aghast, Rachel stood at the front window, replaying this imagined moment over and over, unable to stop. Finally, the ski-boot man came to the register and purchased a pair of high-tech mittens in neon green, which she wrote up quickly and in silence. He was mildly startled when Rachel gathered her purse and keys and left the store with him, flipping the sign to closed on the way out.

Until this year, working at Hand Me Down had been a kind of hobby. The owner was a friend of Rachel’s, and filling in once or twice a week while the girls were at school hadn’t been strenuous—had been fun, even. But the endless medical bills and Bob’s leave had gradually increased her hours at the store, until she was now more-or-less working there full-time. Which she should be grateful about, probably.
At least it’s not the Gap,
she told herself. For some reason, working at a consignment store—which featured
the lightly used outfits of her friends’ children—was a world better than selling new retail at some bright-and-shiny chain, in one of the anonymous shopping centers near Mount Morris.

That the new coffee place on Tremont was called The Grind had almost ceased to bother Rachel, although she still felt there was something vaguely inappropriate either about the name or the fact that she went there every day. And why the relentless dim lighting, the throbbing club music? Why, at ten minutes to eleven in the morning? Winnie refused to meet there for their regular coffee or lunch get-togethers—regular until recently, that is. It had been several weeks since Rachel had seen or talked to her mother, though her pain over this was dwarfed by the more immediate humiliation of the bounced check. She ordered a half tea, half lemonade, declined an extra “flavor shot,” and obediently stepped over to the pickup counter.

She idly glanced at the three people crowded into the one back booth, their papers scattered across the table.

Then the man said, “Ray?”

She turned, face already arranged in a half smile for whoever it was. But it was Bob, in a Waugatuck Girls Diving baseball cap, sitting there at The Grind with two mother-hen types.

“Your hat,” Rachel said stupidly, gesturing vaguely. Without it, his pale, bare head stood out—he’d stuck with shaving himself bald, after all the surgeries, and liked to say he rocked that look—and his scar, of course, was unmistakable. “I didn’t recognize you.” Meanwhile, Bob had half risen, but effectively pinned into the booth by the table and the unmoving ladies to either side of him, he gave up with a shrug and then sat down and blew her a kiss. This last was so awkward and strange to Rachel, a
gesture she’d never once seen him perform, that she flushed hot with distaste.

“You know Maureen, Rachel. And this is Dara Moss—both in my class.”

“Hello,” Rachel said. Her iced tea arrived. Bob was explaining something interminable about how one might consider this a subcommittee meeting, a micro-version writers’ group within a bigger writing class, ha ha, everyone chuckling, Rachel got the point. They were talking about words on paper. Meanwhile, Rachel stood directly in front of their booth and sucked deeply on her iced tea.

How was it that the very traits of Bob’s that she once loved the most—his sunny, unflappable nature, his single-minded ability to focus, and that
friend-to-one-and-all
attitude—had become the things about him that annoyed her most?

“Well, I’ve got to get back to the store,” Rachel said, shaking the keys. “But Bob, can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure,” Bob said. He smiled up at her. Everyone waited. “Oh—did you mean?—right. We’re at a good break point. Maureen?”

Maureen agreed, but then she pointed to a question mark on her page and asked a question about that and the three of them went on for at least another minute, wrapping it up, and then Rachel lost it. She turned to go.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said loudly, over their protestations. “No, I don’t want to interrupt. We can talk at home. It’s just…the check to the club bounced, so maybe we should talk about that. Bob. When you get a chance.” The ice rattled loudly in the bottom of her plastic cup. Had she drained the whole thing already?

In silent unison, the two women slid out of the booth and left without further delay.

One of them touched Rachel lightly on the arm as she passed. “Don’t you just hate when that happens?” she said, in a friendly, conspiratorial whisper.

Left alone, Bob rubbed at a spot above his right eye. “Okay,” he said, drawing the syllables out.

She sat down on the extreme outer edge of the banquette. The seat was still warm. “Well, what did you want me to do?”

“I thought we weren’t going to pay Discover this month.”

“I
didn’t
pay Discover,” Rachel said hotly. “The windows guy had to have half in cash.”

“Wasn’t that June?”

“Well, the bill just came for the rest. That’s four hundred right there, then the mortgage—I’m assuming you paid the mortgage this month.” Rachel made no attempt to strip the sarcasm from her voice.

“You should have told me.”

“Told you about what? That Waugatuck is due at the beginning of the month? Or what Lila’s diving costs in the summer, with the pool fee and the coach fee and the travel fee? Christ, you’re the one wearing the damn hat.”

“I mean, we need to talk about this stuff.” Bob’s voice rose a degree, and Rachel didn’t need to see the back of his neck to know how that rope of scar tissue would be standing out white in relief to his reddening skin. “Half the time I have no idea what you’ve paid, from which account.”

This was usually Rachel’s claim, and hearing Bob put it forth so reasonably, as if it was a piece of self-evident wisdom, enraged her.

“Oh, what would it matter? We’d just be having this conversation again and again. Better to be in the dark.”

“This isn’t a conversation.”

The roar of the coffee grinder interrupted them. When it stopped, Bob said, “Could be worse. Could have been the cable bill.”

“Are you kidding? I’d a million times rather bounce a check to some faceless corporate—”

“Joke. Joke! Come on, Rachel, don’t make this bigger than it needs to be. I mean, being short on one’s country-club payments doesn’t exactly mean the poorhouse.”

“What about Con Ed last month? And didn’t you say you’d stopped the IRA contributions? Again?” There was an older man at the milk-and-sugar station nearby, but Rachel didn’t lower her voice.

Bob blew out a long breath. “I don’t think we want to revisit the diving thing.”

“
I
don’t,” Rachel cried. “Do you?”

“No,” Bob agreed. It happened this way each time: one or the other would broach the obvious, Lila’s diving expenses, and then both would back off, swearing not to change the girls’ lives more than they already had been. Rachel worried, though, that hanging on to Waugatuck was starting to look odd, especially as more and more people knew about their circumstances.

“Like those welfare moms with flat-screen TVs,” she said to herself.

“What are you talking about?”

She waved it away, because something else occurred to her. “Weren’t you supposed to see Nikki today?” The speech therapist. His language, in those first few weeks of recovery, had been jumbled—“metal detector,” he’d called his IV pole, and “box” for
cup—and although it had seemed to right itself almost immediately, those incidents had propelled him into long-standing sessions of rehab work, just in case.

“I canceled,” Bob said.

“What?”

“We had a
writer’s group
,” he explained patiently, gesturing toward the rest of the booth. “And now that I think about it, that’s a fifteen-dollar co-pay right there. Not to mention parking. What do you say we blow it all on two cheddar scones? I’ll even throw in another iced tea, in honor of…well, just because I’m that kind of guy.”

“But—” She knew it sounded childish. “I thought I was the one who made the appointments.” She’d been calling Nikki for over a year to schedule Bob’s visits.

Bob reached over to give her arm a little shake. “Ray. What do you want me to do? Go back in time and turn down the leave? A whole year’s leave at half pay? Because sometime over the summer it might cause a little problem for my daughter’s
diving lessons
?”

“Well, if you’re going back in time, why stop there?” Rachel said, and then stopped, confused. She had started to say this lightly but knew right away she had crossed some kind of line. Bob was quiet, watching her closely as if to track her own response to her remark.

They sat, silent. Hannah Deardon, a past babysitter of the girls, now married and very pregnant, caught Rachel’s eye and waved energetically from the window out front. She mouthed something long and complicated, supplemented with much pointing and hand gestures.

Bob waved too. “What’s she saying?”

“That she’s due…next month? And will be coming by the store soon. Which reminds me.” Rachel put her hand on the keys, on the table.

“I’ll transfer from the savings,” Bob said.

“No, I’ll do it. Or—well. Maybe our
tenant’s
check is in the mail. If not, I’ll go bang on his door. Our door, I mean. Ha ha.” But Bob ignored this little attempt. Rachel lingered. She had the distinct feeling of being in the wrong. But then again, an apology, a real one, was beyond her.

“Did you see her picture in the newsletter?” The club mailing had arrived with a front-page photo of Lila in full pike position, midair, her forehead nearly touching her calves. The caption read, “Airborne! Fourteen-year-old Lila Brigham takes first place at the Waugatuck Invitational.”

“When I showed it to her, all she said was that she wished they’d run a picture of her inward two. She said the front flip was worse.” Bob smiled thinly, recognizing the long-standing joke about Lila’s perfectionism.

“All right,” Rachel said uncertainly. “See you back at the ranch.” She wished he wouldn’t just sit there, as she pushed through the door back into the hot, patchy sunshine.

She had been in the shower when he collapsed, that morning, March 20. That was the best she could do, piecing together a narrative from the jagged holes of the day. It was a Saturday, damp and overcast. Melissa had been invited to a birthday party at an ice rink in Mamaroneck, and by the time Rachel had gotten back from dropping her off, it was close to noon, and she and Bob were due at Lila’s meet by 2 pm.

“What are you doing?”

Bob was in the garage when she pulled in, still wearing his faded corduroys and a stained windbreaker. His hair, thick and unruly, curled down over his collar.