The year She Fell (26 page)

I gave Theresa credit. She was doing a great job of appearing unshocked. All she said was, “Do you tell the brides that in your pre-marital counseling sessions?”

“I ought to. It’s more useful than telling them not to let the sun go down on their anger.”

It was the drink, of course, but more than that. She was fueled by anger. And it had to be about Tom, had to be about whatever it was that had him exiled to the Super-8 out by the highway. I muttered something to that effect, adding that somehow I doubted it was just because he didn’t properly appreciate the gift of a blow job. This earned me a glance of incomprehension from Theresa, and a full-out glare from Ellen.

I’d always thought they had a strong marriage, tempered by trauma and shared adventure.

I’d been with Ellen, holding her hand, when Tom got off that plane from the Middle East—it was my single most sisterly moment, so it haunted my memory—and in that instant, I believed in love, not the selfish lust-love that the films think is so romantic, but real love. The belief didn’t last (living in LA does that to you), but I knew, after that, that it was possible to believe, and perhaps even possible to experience.

Maybe I endowed their relationship with more symbolic weight than it could bear. But I didn’t want to know about this fight. I wanted to belittle it, without even knowing what it was about. But I couldn’t find an opening, and pretty soon we ended up dancing to old disco records, and I didn’t want to spoil the moment—

Because Mother was so much better at spoiling moments.

She strode in, a Valkyrie with Band-Aids, and reduced us all to miscreant children just like that. I admired that sort of stage presence, that personal power. But as I scurried around, picking popcorn out of the carpet, I glanced back at her and saw the confusion in her eyes. I didn’t want to feel that twist in my heart, that feeling that couldn’t be love but had something to do with tenderness. Something was wrong, something that made her pull out her IV needles and walk out of the hospital. And I knew that she would never tell me what it was, and I didn’t really want to know.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mother’s CAT scan the next day proved to be normal, and, emergency over, she reverted to her usual manner. I rather admired that, though I thought it would go over better with a Joan Plowright accent. But after less than a week in her presence, I’d run through my patience and just about exhausted my acting skill. Another few days, and I’d be snapping back at her, and all my careful armed-truce-building work of the last decade would be ruined.

I decided to go back to
Long Island
. There was nothing keeping me here. I couldn’t face
Jackson
again, that I knew. He’d done a wonderful job rejecting me gently, but it was still a rejection, and I felt both hurt and humiliated. I was afraid if I saw him again, I’d try to tempt him away from his resolve, just to make myself feel better. And that wasn’t fair to him or his ex-wife and daughter. I’d never been the home wrecker type, and didn’t want to start with
Jackson
.

Maybe if I went back to Southhampton, seized the bull by the horns, and—Okay. No bull. No horns. No seizing. I’d just ask Grady out. Or, if my nerve failed, I’d send him the non-verbal signals that he could ask me out. And surely convention and nature would take their course. I’d grit my teeth and let him touch me, and after that, it would have to be easier, wouldn’t it?

I wouldn’t have to grit my teeth, if I were with
Jackson
.

Enough of that. Sunday night, I started packing my clothes. Monday morning, I started packing Daddy’s things.

I heard Mother’s measured treads outside my bedroom door, and quickly shoved the box of photographs into my carry-on bag and zipped it shut. As the footsteps retreated down the stairs, I taped up the box of Daddy’s sketch books. Hefting the package, I wondered grimly how much it would cost to ship it. I just couldn’t fit any more into my trunk, and too much luggage stowed in the passenger seat would excite Mother’s suspicion.

I stashed the box under the bed, and with a bright smile, went down to breakfast with my mother.

She sat with Ellen, in the sunlight streaming over the breakfast nook. She was impeccably attired in casualwear from the Talbot’s catalog, a soft pink scarf highlighting her still smooth complexion. “Dr. Urich is hosting the Garden Club today, giving us a tour of the botany department’s greenhouses,” she announced as she cut the crusts off her toast.
 

   
“I think I’ll go along,” Ellen said, pushing her coffee cup aside and getting up from the table. “I need some landscaping ideas for my back terrace.”

   
I was sitting across from Mother, and saw the protest rise to her lips. But it came out gently. “Now, dear, you don’t have to.”

   
“I want to. I feel the need of some communing with nature.”

   
“It’s a greenhouse, Ellen,” Mother pointed out. “Not quite natural.”

   
“I’ll drive,” Ellen said, in a tone that brooked no dissent. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to end up sounding like Mother some day.

   
As she went off to collect her purse, I said carefully, “How long do you think this greenhouse tour will take, Mother? Should I make lunch for you and Ellen?”

   
Mother had been looking abstractedly after Ellen, but turned her focus on me now. “Thank you, but no. I think we’ll be several hours. I might take Ellen to that new teashop on
Third Street
.” After a moment, she added politely, “Perhaps you and Theresa would like to join us.”

   
Theresa had left the house early this morning— I’d heard her getting ready in our common bathroom at seven. “I think Theresa walked downtown,” I replied. “I’ll see if I can find her. Why don’t you call and tell us when to meet you?”

   
For just a second, I saw something in Mother’s eyes, a flash of something sweet, longing, as if I’d somehow managed, for the first time in recorded memory, to say something that pleased her—but then it was gone.
 
“Yes, I’ll try to call. But don’t wait if you have other plans.”

   
My plans consisted of raiding the house for more of Daddy’s work and personal items, but I couldn’t tell her that. “Oh, I don’t mind waiting,” I said airily. “Just be sure and call, say, an hour before we should meet you, so I can collect Theresa.” That would give me plenty of time to hide my booty, maybe even get to the UPS outlet to ship some more of it back to Grady for safekeeping.

I was on the lookout
for Theresa all morning, glancing out the window whenever I heard a noise, certain that she would catch me out. She had a knack for figuring out whenever I was doing something that could incur Mother’s disapproval, and storing the knowledge away like a nut in a squirrel’s cheek.

But at eleven she called, sounding, for Theresa, excited and breathless. “I’ve got something to do.
 
I won’t be home tonight. Maybe not tomorrow night either.” And then she said, “Goodbye,” very quickly and hung up before I could ask any questions.

I replaced the hallway receiver thoughtfully, and returned to my room to finish boxing. If it were anyone but Sister Theresa, I’d think she met some guy and was going off with him. But . . . but it couldn’t be that. Still . . .
 
she didn’t have a car. I don’t even know if she had a driver’s license. And without transport, she couldn’t get very far.

At least it left the coast clear for my foray into robbery. I didn’t let myself feel even a twinge of guilt as I picked up the last box and started down the stairs. I was taking nothing that Mother would miss, just Daddy’s sketches and art books and his pencils, mostly from the attic. An old Brooks Brother shirt daubed with paint. His easel, broken down into pieces and wrapped in canvas. So there was no reason at all for me to be struck with panic when, over the top of the box, I saw the front door open and Mother enter. Behind her, a cab drove away.

She was supposed to call first, not just arrive home two hours early—but I had no time to voice my annoyance. She stopped in the doorway and looked up at me, her face illuminated by the sunlight outside, but immediately darkening with suspicion. “What are you doing?”

The best defense is a good offense. “What are
you
doing? You’re supposed to be at the garden club with Ellen. And your professor . . . friend.”

“Yes. Well.” For just a moment, she seemed flustered. “I got a message. I must go to—to
Charleston
. To a meeting. Of the state historical society. I’m the recording secretary.”

The box was getting heavy, and I shifted it to my other forearm. “But, Mother—”

“I haven’t really time to discuss this with you, Laura. I’ve got to pack.”

So she and Theresa would both be gone. Good, I thought uncharitably. Ellen and I would have fun, something hard to do with the two disapprovers around. I shrugged and descended the rest of the stairs. Maybe, in her distraction, she wouldn’t notice the box.

No such luck. She grabbed my arm as I walked past her. Her hand was surprisingly strong. “What do you have there?”

I eased my arm out of her grasp. “Just a few things I’m taking home with me.”

“Let me see.”

To hell with her. I wasn’t going to fold because of her disapproval, or even defy her for the sake of defiance. I set the box down on the marble-topped foyer table and stood back. “Help yourself.”

She inserted a single manicured nail under the tape and pulled it up. The flaps opened, and she bent to look inside. I held my breath as she reached to touch the old paint-spattered shirt.

“This is your father’s.”

“Yes. I found it in the attic.”

Her hand closed around the shirt as she glanced up at me. “Why are you taking it?”

I hesitated. Then I plunged. “So that you won’t give it away. Getting them out of the house before you give it away. This is nothing—nothing
valuable
. Nothing he’ll miss.”

Amazingly, Mother didn’t seem angry. Her face was puzzled. “He?”

“Dr. Urich. The one you’re leaving the house to. And all its contents.”

“I’m leaving it to the
college
. And of course I didn’t mean personal items like—like your father’s painting shirt. I meant the furniture. The appliances.”

“Daddy’s pictures.”

“Why do you say that?”

I was almost stopped by her expression—anguish? As if I didn’t understand. “Because you just gave him the arch picture. The one Dad did for Cathy. I saw it in that photo of him in the college catalog.”

“The arch picture.” Mother was still gripping the old shirt. “I didn’t . . .
just
give it to him.”

“So he’s had it for a long time, has he?”

“Cathy was also an alum, you know. She would not object.”

Her calm infuriated me. It was as if nothing I said affected her anymore.
 
“Yes. I’m sure you considered it an appropriate gift at the time. But I hope you don’t mind if I save the rest of Daddy’s stuff for his daughters. Not for . . . for his
replacement
.”

Her fingers tightened on the shirt, the knuckles whitening, and though her face barely changed, I knew I’d scored a direct hit. But I couldn’t follow up. Couldn’t take the next step. Couldn’t make the final charge. The house would collapse, or Mother would have a stroke. Or someone else would hear.

She released the fabric and stepped back from the box. “That’s a good idea, dear,” she said finally. Her voice was abstract, almost gentle. “Best take it all away soon, before it’s too late. Now I must pack an overnight case. I’m sorry about missing our little luncheon, but this meeting is vital.”