The Search Angel (20 page)

I
t’s almost 11 p.m. by the time Ginny leaves. Eleanor, in an attempt to avoid watching the video again, pulls on boots, jeans, two big sweaters, and her Annie Hall hat, and coaxes the reluctant Angus out for a walk in the cold night air.

Once outside in the crisp night air, the dog perks up and actually strains against his leash in an effort to get going. She tugs him back as she locks the door to the building. “Hang on, Angus.” As they pass Death by Vinyl, she glances inside. It’s dark. The Sasquatch is barely recognizable as such over by the counter. He could be an oafish man in a hairy coat, albeit alarmingly large. She sees light streaming in from the back of the store and leans closer to the window. The alley door is propped open by a crateful of records. Either Noel is being robbed or he’s out back putting out the trash.

Marion used to give Eleanor this advice: when considering whether or not you should do something, ask yourself “would an idiot do it?” If the answer is yes, reconsider. Aware that only the very biggest of idiots would do this, she makes for the dark passageway that leads from the buildings to the back alley.

Angus is so excited he practically drags her. The alley is a cornucopia of smells usually off limits. It’s where the garbage lives. There is glorious rotted meat, cheese that has liquefied in the sun, cast-off clothing, fouled kitty litter and—forget the banality of canine urine—there is the single most interesting bodily fluid of all. Human urine. Add to the mix the possibility of chasing from the Dumpster a raccoon or an urban coyote, and you have a veritable Disneyland for an apartment-dwelling dog.

He pulls so hard against his leash, his breath comes in broken, croupy coughs. “Angus!” Eleanor tugs him back. A series of crashes and bangs from the back only make Angus pull harder. “Settle down.”

They emerge from between the buildings to find Noel outside rearranging trash cans. He’s arranged his, hers, and the closest neighbors’ cans from biggest to smallest right beside the Dumpster. Dressed in a Dead Kennedys T-shirt and pajama bottoms, he looks up to see them and runs his hand through his hair as if he’s been working all evening to solve the world’s renewable energy crisis.

“Hey.”

Angus rushes him and inspects his pajamas for leftover dinner, evidence of him having petted another dog, whatever, and Eleanor is pulled along behind. She stares at the bins. “How am I going to know which is mine?”

“That’s the beauty part. It doesn’t matter.”

“Plus, it’s all the way over here. It’s not by my back door.”

“No. This way we’ve opened the space behind our stores and the stench of garbage is farther away from our doors—which some of us like to prop open.”

“And in the weather—an umbrella in one hand, the trash
in the other. And then there’s the snow. I see your point, but really, I don’t think this is going to work so well …”

“I’m actually thinking of installing a screen door. It gets so hot inside now that the rads come on. And, really, why do we care which bin belongs to whom? Trash is trash. Next I’m going to figure out how we can get the Dumpster moved across the alley to sit between those two garages over there. What do you think?”

If she didn’t know him, she’d swear he was high, the speed at which the words tumbled out of his mouth, his overly amped arm movements.

He positions himself where the Dumpster could be and explains why it would be easier for the trucks to empty it. As he moves from one graffitied garage door to the next, going on and on about efficiency and odors and rats, as Angus sits at the end of his leash, wagging his tail as if in full agreement, Eleanor stares at Noel’s boots. They were clean this afternoon. Now they’re covered in mud.

There is no mud in the alley.

Suddenly the significance of the day hits her. His wife died November sixteenth. One year ago today. He’s been to the cemetery.

She lowers herself onto the asphalt and pulls the panting Angus close, rubbing his shoulder. “Noel?”

He stops talking. “You know what I’ve discovered, since I started living alone?”

“What.”

“That the best time of day is the evening. Just after work, when you get home and turn on a lamp or two, maybe light a candle. You grab something like celery and peanut butter from the fridge because no one’s watching. You pour yourself
a glass of wine and turn on a movie. I mean, it was fun to be together and do that. But when you’re together it’s the ‘us’ you’re aware of. When you’re alone, you get to know the evening itself. Its quirks. Its glow.”

He sets his hands on his hips, blinking. “Yeah. You’re kind of sorry when it ends.”

“Yes!”

“I mean, you’re going to see it again, same time the next day, but still. You’re sad to leave it behind and go to sleep.”

Eleanor’s face slides into a smile. “Exactly.”

They stare at each other, silent but knowing. He shifts his weight to one side and opens his mouth as if to say something. Then a neighbor’s car door slams and Angus barks, and the moment has passed. Noel turns back to the Dumpster and sets his hands on it, tries to shake it as if he might be able to drag it across the alley by himself. Eleanor unclips Angus and lets him race around with his nose to the ground.

She shades her eyes from the light. “Noel?”

He turns.

“Are you doing anything November twentieth?”

H
is wife and children aren’t difficult to find. Ethan’s death was so recent, he’s still in the current phone book—address and all.

She debated what to do. Even doing nothing at all. But Isabelle, who has helped so many, who helped Eleanor herself, doesn’t deserve to live the rest of her life alone in that gigantic Beacon Hill town house. A house that big needs to be filled with people. Family.

Eleanor doesn’t want to call and leave a message. She doesn’t even know Ethan’s widow’s name. She tells Ginny she’ll be out for the morning, fills up her Volkswagen Beetle with gas, and drives out to Sandwich. Parks across the street from 341 Cherry Blossom Court, beside the communal mailboxes, between two rhododendron hedges, and waits.

Most of the homes in this subdivision have a salty Cape Cod feel to them. All are different shades of gray clapboard with white trim and a peaked roof. The neighborhood is fairly new, judging from the landscaping. All the shrubs are undersized and spaced quite far apart. It’ll be a few years yet before they grow up and out and start to spill into each other.

It’s a rare driveway that doesn’t have a basketball net, and a bike path at the end of the courtyard leads to an open green space. An ideal place to raise children.

When Eleanor set out, she had no idea what she’d do. Scurry up to the front door when no one is home and leave a note or wait until Mrs. Runion is home and speak to her in person. She sips her now-cold coffee and debates. On the one hand, it would be more dignified, more personal to introduce herself and give the woman the message in person. On the other, she has no way of knowing how Ethan felt about being adopted or if he even knew at all. If he did, he may have had no interest in meeting his birth mother, and who is Eleanor to put his grieving widow under that kind of pressure?

It’s two forty in the afternoon; the kids are likely in school. A navy minivan sits in the driveway. Eleanor leans back in her seat and waits. Just as she hoped, at about 3:05, the front door opens and a woman with short brown hair steps out, locks the door behind her. She’s thin, broad-shouldered. Looks like she could be quite athletic. She’s not dressed for the weather either, in her T-shirt and sweatpants. With nothing in her hands but wallet and keys, she’s not planning to be gone long. Probably back up Acacia to the public school just over the hill.

Eleanor will have to act fast.

She watches the woman climb into the van. As the vehicle speeds past, Eleanor ducks. It isn’t until she hears the vehicle stop at the corner and pull into traffic that she sits up and reaches for a pen. On a blank card, she writes:

Mrs. Runion
,

I am deeply sorry for your loss. I have some information about

your late husband’s family that may help you. Please call me at 518–555–1726
.

Warmest wishes
,

Eleanor Sweet

She runs across the street and places the sealed envelope in the mailbox and gets back in the car. With any luck, she’ll hear from Ethan’s wife soon.

As she pulls away from the curb, she decides it was the right thing to do, leaving the note rather than shocking Mrs. Runion in person.

Of course, she’s learned from the best.

I
sabelle’s closet is dark. In such a house, one bare bulb hanging from a wire—it’s incongruous. Wrong. It should be a grand chandelier illuminating her wardrobe.

“When you’re going to a wedding like this,” Isabelle says, pulling out a long navy shift, making a face and putting it back. “Formal, in Cambridge, and you’re meeting people for the first time, you don’t want to wear anything that people will remember. You want them to say, ‘It was lovely meeting Eleanor.’ Not ‘I didn’t quite understand the pattern of Eleanor’s skirt.’ Besides that, I insist you wear at least three fewer layers of armor than you would otherwise. Left to your own will, you’re likely to pile a caftan atop a dress atop several pairs of trousers.”

“Layers aren’t armor. They’re fashion.”

“That’s not your reason and you know it. Somehow you’ve gotten it into your head that you can prevent people from hurting you by wearing as many skins as an onion. Well, I’m here to tell you that none of us gets through it unscathed. And all the scarves in the world won’t stop it from happening to you. How about this?” She holds up a full-length peach gown with capped sleeves and a sweetheart neckline.

“No. This one’s too long for me. You’ll trip on it even if we
give you the highest pumps. Speaking of which—what shoe size are you?”

“Seven and a half.”

“I’m eight. It’s close enough.”

Eleanor stands. Trails her fingers along the hanging items. Isabelle’s suits are arranged lovingly, artfully, by muted color, much like a rainbow of overripe produce. Past-its-sell-date eggplant seeps into hoary blueberry which bleeds into rotted pepper. Cashmere sweaters lie folded and stacked on a ladder of glass shelves. Her dress shirts—all white and pressed to perfection—drape from wooden hangers, spaced two inches apart. One hanger, the last, is bare. The fitted white shirt she wears now, most likely.

It’s been a day and a half and no word from Ethan’s wife. Eleanor has wondered whether the note was frightening in any way. Surely the woman didn’t think she had any sort of bad news to impart. Eleanor had said specifically that the information could help her.

“On another topic, I don’t normally permit clients’ great slobbering buffalo to salivate on my Aubusson rug,” Isabelle says, sliding a pressed linen hand towel beneath Angus’s chin. “Is he eating yet?”

“Yes. Now we feed him in the store. He’s a bit less depressed down there.”

“Quite frankly I don’t know how you got on all these years without making a complete cock-up of your life. Who, possessing any intelligence whatsoever, buys a dog the size of a UPS truck when they live in a shabby walk-up apartment?”

Eleanor suppresses a smile. Isabelle would have made a terrific mother. She pulls out a red dress—strapless and to the knee—and holds it up. “How about this?”

“Honestly.” Isabelle snatches it up and hangs it on another rail. “You don’t want to give anyone a reason to judge you. A trendy shoe, a plunging neckline, a too-broad shoulder—these are all things that open you up to scrutiny.”

“You met them. They don’t seem so prone to judgment.”

“But Great-Aunt Betsy from Minnesota may be prone to that and more.” Isabelle sets hands on hips and looks Eleanor up and down. “I’m thinking plain dark dress and low, ladylike pumps.”

“Whatever.”

Isabelle stares at her, appalled by her naïveté. “You’re being introduced as the child they never admitted to. ‘Whatever’ does not apply in
any
form to this event.” She pulls out a sleeveless black dress. “Try this one.”

From her purse on Isabelle’s bed, Eleanor’s phone pings. It’s a text.

“Have you had a stroke, Eleanor Sweet? Take off your seventeen layers and try on the dress.”

With glances back to assure herself Isabelle is not looking, Eleanor pulls off her blazer and scarf, cardigan and skirt, and slips on the dress over wooly tights. Steps into the shoes. The fit around the bust and shoulders is good. She turns around, pleased by the way it swirls around her thighs. “It’s fine.”

“It’s atrocious. Take it off.”

“What?”

“It’s miles too short. Makes you look cheap with those noodly woolen legs of yours.”

Reluctantly, Eleanor pulls it off and waits for the next garment—a steel-gray tank-style dress that goes all the way to the floor. She tugs it on over her curves and busies herself with the hemline. Eventually, she stands and looks in the mirror.

“No way. Too much shoulder. I need something with more coverage.”

“You’re wearing it.” Isabelle hands her a pair of sky-high black patent pumps. “With these it’ll be long enough to look elegant without being so long that it trails across the restroom tiles at the Liberty.”

Eleanor slips them on and turns around. “There. I look spectacular. Can I go check my phone now?”

Isabelle grunts. “I’d ease up on the self-congratulations, Cinderella. You don’t look that good.”

Eleanor walks past her to pull her phone from her purse. The text is from a number Eleanor doesn’t recognize.

Hi, this is Tiffany Runion. I’m very interested to hear. Please call me at the number below. Thanks. xo Tiff

A
dorably unloved. That’s how Noel looks tonight, Eleanor thinks as he reaches for his dropped napkin. From the front he’s great. Well, his tie could use a good tweak to tighten the knot. But from behind, his suit jacket is wrinkled across the shoulders and his hair is splayed out. It’s as if he showered, got dressed, and gave up. Fell back onto his bed and went to sleep. Then left the house with no one to point out the rear view. It makes her sad.

Rustic twig chandeliers wrapped in fairy lights hang from a fabric-draped ceiling. Silver balloons drift lazily upward like bubbles. With wooden tables and chairs slipcovered in white, and centerpieces made of calla lilies, the total effect is simple and elegant.

The band plays a decent rendition of Michael Jackson’s “Beat It.” Guests gather in groups, drinks in hand, while their children bounce and jump on the dance floor, a group of three tween girls forcing little Robbie to dance in their midst. He doesn’t seem to mind one bit.

Everywhere people laugh. Smile. Congratulate. And Eleanor cannot wait to leave.

She glances over to where Ruth and Richard have appeared, chatting and sipping champagne by the doors. Before the service, they’d greeted her at the front steps of the church. But instead of asking her to join them in the front rows, Ruth called over one of the ushers—a hulking, long-haired blond who never actually spoke—and asked him to find an extra-special seat for Eleanor and her date, Joel. He sat them in the ninth row, far end, by the restroom.

Ruth found her after the ceremony and pulled her aside. Explained that they hadn’t told anyone about her yet. No one knew outside of the immediate family. It’s Roxie’s wedding, she explained. Probably not the best time to drop such a bomb. Might detract from Roxie’s big day, and Ruth didn’t think that was a good idea.

Eleanor agreed, even as she crumbled inside.

After the service, once the crowd piled into cars and everyone headed for the banquet hall, the Pantera family stayed behind to pose for pictures. Eleanor stood in the entryway and watched as the photographer’s assistant filed them all into the church library. As Eleanor stood there waiting for an invitation, the photographer’s assistant said, “Sorry, this is just for family,” and shut the door.

No one opened it again. No one came out looking for her.

Noel waves toward the fairy lights with his dinner roll. “Nice party. Your twin sister, you said?”

“Not my twin. Roxie and Ronnie are twins. They’re my little—” She stops herself. The word
sisters
seems to get stuck on her tongue. Which is ridiculous. She accepts what Ruth said—this isn’t the occasion to go public. Of course that included the photo session. She smiles at Noel. “I like this song.”

“‘Sunday Morning’ is the only Maroon 5 song that is remotely acceptable. Only because of the nod to Paul Simon,” says Noel.

“I actually thought this song
was
by Paul Simon.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “You say that like your lack of taste in music should surprise me.”

“Really.” She nudges his leg. “Should a guy who sells music be such a snob?”

“If he isn’t, he’s in the wrong business. Hey, I got that one speaker up and running again. The one that got soaked the worst.”

“Does this mean we’re back to our old standby—‘Bohemian Rhapsody’?”

“Oh yeah. By tomorrow morning, no worries.”

“Good.” She rips apart her dinner roll and pops a piece into her mouth. “At least that I can count on.”

He leans back and observes the room. “So what’s with the lousy seating? You didn’t want to be at the head table with the rest of them?”

“It’s very last minute, me even being here,” Eleanor explains. “They can’t just reorganize all the seating when a long-lost relative shows up.”

“Long-lost?”

Oops. “I’ll explain later.”

He hadn’t answered her right away, when Eleanor asked him to be her plus-one. The high from his trash planning out in the alley vanished, he mumbled something about staples and disappeared inside his store. It wasn’t until the next afternoon she got her answer. She was on her way out for lunch and noticed a Post-it on the Pretty Baby side of the wall. All the note said was
I’m free the 20th
.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Roxie bends over from behind and hugs Eleanor in a froth of satin and veil and hair curled into shiny blond ribbons. She straightens and pulls her new husband closer. “Peter, this is my big sister, Eleanor.”

He hugs her tight, thumping Eleanor’s shoulder like she’s the team quarterback. “Mind if we call you Ellie?”

Eleanor stands. “I can take it.”

After introducing herself to Noel and reaching out to tighten his tie, Roxie says to Eleanor, “So? When does my little niece arrive?”

It’s Noel who answers. “In four days. American Airlines Flight 943. Arrives 10:30 a.m.”

“You were listening,” says Eleanor. “I’m impressed.”

“You said it three times in the car on the way over. Hey, do we know if she’s into The Ramones? Because I’ve got a very tiny T-shirt …”

“How’s my girl?” Ruth appears, her gray-blond hair swept up in a sparkly clip. Richard hovers behind her. She kisses Eleanor’s cheek. “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to see you here.”

My girl
. Eleanor blushes. It’s crazy how she feels about Ruth. No matter how much weirdness has gone on today, she can’t get enough of her. “Me too.”

Richard shakes Noel’s hand and introduces himself. “You taking good care of our sweetheart?”

“We still haven’t decided if she’s tolerating me or I’m tolerating her,” says Noel. “I’m thinking of installing a scoreboard out front of the stores.”

Ruth loops her arm through Eleanor’s and pulls her aside. “I’ve barely been able to focus on the wedding since you came
out. I think about you, I dream of you. I’m just so happy to have you in my life. Our lives.”

This.
This
is what Eleanor needs to hear. “I am too. And for Sylvie. She’ll actually have grandparents and aunts and uncles. And a cousin.”

“Listen. I’ve been thinking about something. And, please, don’t feel obligated. But I’d, well, I’d just be over the moon if you’d consider calling me Mom.”

Eleanor stares at her and inhales as if able to get a deep breath for the first time in her life.

“Mom, Mama, Mother, anything of the sort will do.” She pulls back and takes Eleanor’s hands. “What do you think?”

The lead singer says something about slowing down the tempo and the band launches into Billy Joel’s “Piano Man.” Couples gravitate to the dance floor and pull each other close.

“Eleanor?”

“Okay.” She squeezes Ruth’s fingers and closes her eyes. “Yes. Mom.”

“That’s it. I can die happy. I don’t care if it happens tonight, even!” Ruth looks up and waves to a boxy woman in a pink dress and too much lipstick. “That, my dear, is cousin Shelagh. She once tried to drown me in her parents’ pool, the witch. To hear her tell the story is hilarious.” Ruth moves off to say hello.

Eleanor waits for her to bring Shelagh back, to hear her tell the story, but the women glide toward Roxie, who is two tables away now, mugging for a video camera.

Eleanor sits, glancing back regularly to see if Ruth will return. She doesn’t.

“Your mother’s stunning.”

“Thanks.”

“You look a lot like her.”

Eleanor could hug him. Never in her life has she heard those words uttered—that she resembles anyone. Until Ruth. She stares down at her lap. She could confide in Noel. It’s not as if
she
needs to keep the adoption a secret. She’ll tell him. But not tonight. “Thank you.”

“You know, an evening with you is even better,” he says, resting his forearms on his knees and leaning closer.

“Better than what?”

“Than that stupid-ass evening you described with peanut butter and a candle. I think you made the whole thing up.”

They both laugh. She feels something on her wrist and realizes it’s his hand wrapping itself around hers. He leans back quickly when his fingertips touch her wedding band.

She’d debated taking it off earlier. There was no reason to wear it now.

Across the dance floor, Ruth excuses herself from cousin Shelagh and makes her way to the restroom. Eleanor chides herself for being so needy. Ruth will return. She asked Eleanor to call her “Mom” for God’s sake.

“Hey.” Noel holds up a small, blue-lace-trimmed hankie streaked with mascara. “Is this yours?”

Eleanor takes it from him and stands. “I’ll be right back.”

She knows the handkerchief is not Ruth’s. Roxie had been clutching something in her hand, dabbing her eyes as she spoke. The hankie is clearly hers. But Eleanor can’t help herself. The desire to have more of Ruth is overwhelming.

In the muffled hush of the ladies’ room, Ruth’s voice rings clear. Two women about her age have her attention. One in
a nondescript dress Isabelle would approve of, the other so athletic she looks like a man playing dress-up in his wife’s pumps and silk. They offer congratulations and good wishes while Ruth applies lipstick and fluffs her hair.

Eleanor’s heart pounds with all the intensity of being certain she’s doing the wrong thing. Pasting a smile on her face, she approaches.

“They haven’t been seeing each other long, but from the start it was like kismet. They’re inseparable.” Ruth looks up to see Eleanor in the mirror. “Eleanor, dear.” She spins around. “That man of yours seems a sweetheart.”

Eleanor approaches, holding out the handkerchief. “I think you left this at the table.”

“Hmm.” Ruth examines the dried mascara. “It’s Roxie’s something blue.” She grins to her friends. “My youngest wears far too much eye makeup. Therese, May, this is Eleanor Sweet. Owns the most famous baby store in the country.”

“Well, maybe on my block,” Eleanor says, feeling stung, but not sure if she should be. “I own Pretty Baby.”

“Oh, in Boston. I read about your store in a magazine once,” says the cross-dresser.

“Good Housekeeping.”
The sensibly shod woman folds her arms across her chest in businesslike approval. “I saw that. My daughter wanted to fly in from Sarasota for her baby but I told her it was ludicrous. The flight alone was eight hundred dollars, then there’s hotel and what have you.”

“You’re a friend of Roxie’s?” asks the other.

“Well, no …” Eleanor looks to Ruth for help.
Say it
, she pleads silently.
Say I’m your daughter, even though you said we wouldn’t today. Point out that we look alike. That you asked me twenty minutes ago to call you Mom
.

“Eleanor is a close family friend. We go way, way back, don’t we, dear?”

The champagne rises up and scalds her throat. If she’d eaten anything at all today, she’d be lunging for the toilet. She needs to escape. “Nice to meet you both,” she manages before walking into a stall and closing the door behind her. She drops down to the toilet seat and leans over her knees.

Eleanor wanders back to the table and slides into her seat. The music, the dancing, the lights, it’s all a blur. The thing is this: to explain—in a public restroom no less—all that went on thirty-five years ago at a girls’ home on the wrong side of State Line Road, Roxie’s wedding is no place for that. Ruth explained that earlier at the church. This event is not about Eleanor or the decision Ruth and Richard felt they had to make back then. It’s about Roxie. When Ruth reveals what happened to her outer circle of family and friends, it should be in a more intimate setting.

That’s that.

Noel cuts into a piece of roast beef and pops it into his mouth. “The band knew Belle & Sebastian’s ‘Dear Catastrophe Waitress,’ can you believe it? They’re pretty decent guys. Said they’re going to send me a CD of their original music. I told them I’d sell it in the store. Really glad I came tonight.” He winks at her. “Roast is a little dry, though.”

Something about him having an opinion about the quality of his meal makes her snap. “Try opening first.”

He stops chewing. “What?”

“Before you go getting the band’s hopes up. Try opening your doors for a full day and actually selling something.”

“I have sold something. You were there. That customer of yours bought a very expensive album.”

“Yeah, out of pity.”

“What are you talking about?” A tuxedoed man on the other side of the table asks Eleanor to pass the pepper. Noel gets to it first and passes it across. He leans back and watches Eleanor. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m just on edge.”

The band launches into Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight.” Roxie and Peter get on the dance floor. As do all the kids, about a dozen other couples, and Ronnie and her husband.

Eleanor stands. “Let’s dance.”

“But the waiter just went to get me extra Yorkshire pudding …”

She tugs him to his feet. “Come on. We have to dance now.”

Out on the floor, she guides Noel ever closer to Ruth. She overreacted, back in the restroom. She doesn’t want Ruth to think she doesn’t understand. Slowly they spin in circles until finally Eleanor catches Ruth’s eye. Her mother winks at her and Eleanor relaxes. There. Proof. Everything is fine.

Noel pulls her close. His warm hand on her back reminds her what it is to be held by a man, and she allows herself to lean into him.

“Thanks,” he whispers in her ear.

“Hmm?”

“Thanks for bringing me here. You have a nice family. It’s nice to be in a room full of happy people.”

Yes, we are happy, she thinks. A happy family.