The Laments (34 page)

“Perhaps another time, Mike,” Trixie replied, flattering him with the use of his first name.

JULIA TOOK TRIXIE
to the tap room of the Nassau Tavern in Princeton, where Norman Rockwell’s mural of Yankee Doodle was displayed. Women had recently protested this all-male bastion, and there were angry articles in the papers, until finally the doors were opened to the opposite sex. Julia noted the irked stares of the ruddy-faced Princetonian bucks at every table—irked, that is, until Trixie stepped into their line of sight.

“Julia,” said Trixie as they were seated, “you always seem to find a handsome man in the middle of nowhere. What’s his name, Bortigan, Booligan?”

“Mike Brautigan?” Julia replied as those years in Bahrain came back in a flood of images. She remembered the bourbons, the black eyes, the tidal-wave hairdos, Will’s first laugh on the beach, and, of course, Mr. Mubarez.

Trixie nodded slyly. “I like his type; the silver hair always gets me. Married?” she asked.

“Recently divorced,” said Julia.

“And you and Howard, are you still—”

“Howard and I are fine,” replied Julia sharply; though delighted to see her old friend again, she had no desire to discuss any of her troubles at home.

Trixie laughed at Julia’s defensiveness, and remembered the old Julia—the wild mane of black hair (now traced with a few gray strands), and the barbed eyebrows, which were as principled and judgmental as ever.

“Julia, it’s so wonderful to see you again,” admitted Trixie. “I kept the American Express card in Chip’s name just for your letters.”

“But you never answered?”

Trixie was unapologetic. “Julia, you
know
how I feel about writing.”

“What happened to Chip, and how is Wayne?”

Trixie sighed. “There’s so much to catch up on. I left Chip about ten years ago. He still sends postcards from one godforsaken place after another. After my second divorce I came to New York and opened a gallery—those paintings Chip used to joke about were worth a fortune. I have a town house in the Village now.” She relished this vindication for a moment.

“So who’s this Chamberlain you’ve taken by name?” Julia asked.

“Oh”—Trixie groaned—“that was the second husband, in Chicago. I only kept his name because it was better than being a Howitzer.”

Julia was amused. “Howard thought ‘Howitzer’ suited you fine.”

Trixie leaned forward and gave Julia’s hand a squeeze. “Have you any idea how long it took me to forgive Howard for taking away my best friend?”

Tears welled in Julia’s eyes, and for a moment both women sat quietly, savoring the endurance of their friendship. But after they had finished their food, Trixie became uneasy, asking questions without listening to the replies.

“How’s Will?” she asked, and then a moment later she asked again.

“As I said, he’s a wonderful boy,” replied Julia. Once again she asked about Wayne, but Trixie ignored the question a second time. Then she folded her napkin and rested it on the table.

“Let’s go for a walk,” said Trixie.

“In this weather?” asked Julia, but Trixie was already headed toward the door.

Outside the tap room, a fierce November gale rattled the traffic signs while trees thrashed wildly on Witherspoon Street. It was a hell of a time for a leisurely stroll. But Trixie walked, and Julia shadowed her, knowing her friend had some ulterior purpose. But after they returned to the same spot, it seemed as if Trixie were employing the elements to avoid the subject, like Ariel, the chief of spirits, who whips up a storm in
The Tempest
.

“Trixie, what made you finally call me?” asked Julia.

As Trixie took a deep breath, the wind tossed her hair into disarray, and her color vanished.

“Wayne, Julia. Wayne died a month ago.”

“My God, Trixie, what happened?”

“Suicide.”

Trixie bit her lip, and embraced Julia.

“Why? Whatever was wrong?”

Trixie shook her head, unable to speak.

“Oh, Trixie, you poor dear,” Julia cried.

“Oh God, Julia, how I miss him!” Trixie sobbed. Then, as if she could permit herself only a small quota of self-pity, she wearily gathered herself up, tidied her hair, and checked her makeup.

They crossed the street to the campus, and silently ambled through the quadrangles. It seemed to Julia that Trixie desired the company of a kindred spirit more than she wanted consolation.

They exchanged numbers before Trixie climbed back in her car, but as dearly as they loved each other, it was a relationship of limited province. Julia knew that it would be another lifetime before Trixie called again.

On the drive home, Julia remembered Trixie’s conviction that Wayne needed to know the facts of his adoption from the first day he could understand it. And while she couldn’t imagine what had driven Wayne to suicide, she feared for her own son’s peace of mind, and renewed her vow never to tell Will the facts of his birth.

CAREY BRISTOL WAS AT
a realtors’ convention in Atlantic City when Julia closed a deal on an expensive town house in Princeton. Since it was a tradition in Roper to celebrate every sale, Brautigan offered to buy Julia a drink after work. The nearest bar was part of Joey’s Bowl-a-Rama, a bowling alley three miles down Route 99. They could hardly hear themselves over the crash of ninepins.

“So what are you gonna do with your commission?” asked Brautigan.

“Oh, pay back the credit card company and Roper Realty, and the rest will cover the mortgage for a while. And perhaps there will be enough to pay for a new stove and fridge.” Julia explained that when the refrigerator stopped working, Howard’s solution was to place bags of ice in the freezer. The cool air would drift down and keep the milk and eggs fresh for a day or two.

“Jesus,” muttered Brautigan. “He sounds crazy!”

“Howard doesn’t want to go further into debt.”

“Then why doesn’t
Howard
go out and earn some money of his own?”

Julia flinched.

“Sorry,” said Brautigan. “I had no right to say that. Forgive me. I guess there’s some insanity in every marriage.”

Brautigan drove Julia home. As his Delta 88 pulled into the Laments’ gravel driveway, he peered up at the gray-clapboard house: a heap of debris for a porch, peeling paint, and cracked windowpanes.

“Renovations sure are tough,” he said with obvious tact.

Brautigan’s glance turned to Julia. Trixie was right—he was still handsome. If he had been less smitten with her, Julia might have liked him more.

“See you tomorrow, Mike,” she said.

Brautigan reversed out of the drive, and Julia noticed Will standing on the porch, his glance following the car.

“Will,” Julia said, “I sold a house today!”

Will, now more than a head taller than his mother, gave her a congratulatory hug and they entered the house together.

“Let’s tell Dad the news,” said Julia.

“He’s been sleeping all day,” Will explained anxiously. “Mum? What are we going to do about him?”

Julia was touched that Will used the word “we,” and that he worried about Howard’s condition when the twins obviously considered their father a hopeless case.

“Will,” she replied, “I think your father suffers from a lack of pride.”

“Pride?” replied Will.

“At the beginning of his career your father had so many ideas—ambitious and brilliant ideas.” Julia paused. “Of course he still does, but he’s faced obstacles that would break anyone. What’s that line from
Henry VII
I
? ‘My high-blown pride at length broke under me and now has left me, weary and old with service . . .’”

Will noticed his mother hesitate and turn from him to wipe her cheek.

“Well, he’s not that old, is he?” she added. “He’ll be fine.”

Will put his hand on Julia’s shoulder. “Isn’t there something we can do for him?”

Strangers in the House

In spite of the many years that had passed since Julia had written to Rose, the letter she sent was easy to compose, for it was motivated not by obligation but by concern for Howard. Her mother had always adored Howard, and Julia felt sure that a visit from Rose would do wonders for him. She waited anxiously for the reply:

Thank you for your letter, Julia. After so many years, I was beginning to think you had given up writing completely! What a shame
that
would have been after the expense invested in Abbey Gate School.

The children sound well. No doubt Marcus’s infirmity will strengthen his character. As for all the fuss over this Watergate affair, when will Americans realize that politicians are scoundrels by nature and saints in the exception?

Though you didn’t mention Howard in any detail, I must assume that he is doing wonderfully well. Such an inventive and brilliant man.

While I appreciate your invitation to visit for Christmas, I really can’t imagine such a journey at my age.

Julia had felt sure that Rose would seize the opportunity to visit, if only to see America and give it the full blast of her criticism. As for the excuse about her age, Rose was only sixty-four. With disappointment, she wondered how else to interrupt Howard’s withdrawal from the world.

AT THE THURSDAY MEETING
, Frieda Grecco showed up with her daughter, Minna.

“I’m leaving,” she explained. “I’ve been offered a job at a new restaurant in Tatumville, and Stevie doesn’t know about it. Minna’s coming with me. We just need to find a place to stay while I save for a rental deposit.”

“There’s plenty of room in our house,” offered Julia.

“Oh, Julia,” said Frieda, “that’s so kind of you, but what about Howard? Shouldn’t you check with him first?”

“No need,” Julia replied. “I know
exactly
what he’ll say.”

“
GUESTS?
WHAT DO YOU MEAN, GUESTS?
”

In a matter of hours, Julia had cleared the toys, books, and clothing stored in the upstairs study. Howard stood behind her in protest, his fists clenched in his khaki pants.

“I don’t want strangers in the house,” he said.

“Howard, I’ve known Frieda for years. She’s a friend and she needs my help. Besides, she’s a fabulous cook.”

“You’re forgetting about the kitchen; it’s hardly equipped for seven people!” said Howard.

“Darling, you’ll come up with a solution.”

Julia watched her husband’s expression change as his territorial hostility was replaced by the appeal of a practical challenge.

Under Howard’s supervision, a plumber repaired the bathroom faucets while Julia offered silent thanks to Frieda. A new fridge and stove were purchased in preparation for the houseguests. The boys examined the two spotless appliances with bewilderment and suspicion; the former because their parents had settled a war simply because visitors were coming, and the latter because the visitors appeared to wield more influence than the heirs to the Lament name.

ON THE WINDY SATURDAY
when Frieda arrived with her daughter, the driveway to the Laments’ gray Georgian was carpeted with red maple leaves; the autumn sun bathed the weary house in a soft light that forgave its peeling paint and warped clapboard.

Will and the twins peered out with barely concealed resentment as two outsiders stepped from an old Gremlin. The little woman with wire rims, an aquiline nose, and a face framed in ringlets handed her daughter a bag to carry. Minna’s hair was short and covered by a woolen cap, but her eyes were enormous; they overpowered her delicate features and gave her the appearance of a hatchling. Sensing the boys’ scrutiny, she looked up at the window, but they ducked together, like troops in a foxhole.

“Welcome!” cried Julia, giving Frieda a hug.

“Where’s Howard?” asked Frieda nervously.

“Oh, God knows,” said Julia. “Don’t worry about him.”

Minna pulled her suitcase out of the car, knocking a box of books to the ground. Julia bent down to help pick them up.

“Minna is a reader,” murmured Frieda.

“Excellent!” said Julia. “I’m sure Will can help you carry them inside. . . .”

But Minna started alone toward the house, dragging her belongings behind her.

From the second story, the boys observed the trench left in the gravel by Minna’s load of books. “Is that a girl? She’s got no boobs and no hair!” exclaimed Julius, whose libido had come a long way since he’d stashed the saucy magazine beneath his mattress. He now possessed an extensive collection of
Playbo
y
s,
Penthous
e
s, and
National Geographi
c
s to augment his fantasies. Cursed with unpredictable erections, Julius walked in a permanent slouch and kept his fists balled in his coat pockets to cover his crotch. In his dreams he debauched all the females on TV, from
I Dream of Jeannie
to
I Love Lucy
. He lusted after the Coppertone lady, the Indian woman on the Land O’ Lakes butter package, and the maiden on the Sunmaid raisin box, and he imagined all his female teachers naked, even Mrs. Finger, who had a potbelly and liver spots and was planning her retirement in a year. But these fantasies were never satisfying. In the mornings, he burst out of his bedroom and masturbated in the shower, or, as the twins called it, snuffed his wick, and emerged with angry satisfaction. “Well, so much for the trouble I went to,” sighed Julius.

“What trouble?” asked Will.

“The hole. I poked a peephole through my wall into the bathroom. It comes out in Norfolk, right under the toothpaste holder. But it was obviously a waste of time.” With one last glance at the pitiful specimen walking toward the house, Julius returned to his room and his magazines, to remind himself of what a
real
girl looked like.

THE TWINS EMERGED
from their rooms only when the pungent smell of sautéed garlic and freshly chopped basil wafted under the door cracks. The house had never smelled so good. Frieda had blackened a few peppers and extracted their insides, slicing the roasted skin for the pasta primavera. Salty mozzarella, sliced and drizzled with olive oil and slivers of basil leaves, was laid out with a fresh loaf of ciabatta.