Within Arm's Reach (10 page)

“She said she feels uncomfortable driving?”

“Not in so many words. But I’d be happy to know she was off of the road. She’s getting too old, Gracie, and her balance is shaky at best. Her giving up driving is the next logical step.”

“Toward what?”

“We’ll get her a driver when she needs to go somewhere, and they have a shuttle that runs into town every afternoon at the assisted-living center. It’ll be fine. She’ll be safe.”

“She’ll die.”

I sigh. “Nobody’s talking about dying. Your grandmother will outlive us all.”

Something ripples across Gracie’s face. I notice again how pale she is. She has such nice skin. Lila had blemishes as a teenager, but Gracie’s skin was always smooth.

“I don’t feel well, Mom. I think I caught some kind of bug. I need to go inside now. I’m sorry. Thanks for stopping by, though.”

“Oh, sweetheart, can I help you? Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

But Gracie is out of earshot before all the words are out of my mouth. She is half-jogging across the top of the driveway and then around the side of the house. She doesn’t glance back before she disappears. And I am very aware, as I get back into the BMW, that Gracie never, during the course of our conversation, either responded to my dinner invitation or invited me inside.

WHEN I get home, Louis is not there. This is not a surprise. He is rarely home now. He has three shirts and a pair of his khakis hanging in the closet in the den. There are clean, rolled-up socks in the pants pockets. He comes upstairs only to shave and shower in the morning. In some way this situation didn’t seem real to me until last week when our housekeeper, Julia, said, “Mrs. Kelly, do you want me to put Mr. Louis’s clean shorts in the den, or upstairs in his drawer?”

I was livid. How dare she? I simply pretended I didn’t hear her. I turned my back and waited until she left the room. She didn’t mention it again, and she put his shorts upstairs. But now I am nervous all the time. What if one of the girls or, God forbid, my mother stops by and Julia says something to them? This is no one’s business but mine and Louis’s.

I need to do something to make Louis go back to the way he was before. For God’s sake, there is no reason he can’t sleep beside me in our king-sized bed while he goes through whatever he’s going through. All I want right now is some semblance of normal, the keeping up of appearances. The house feels cold and drafty at night, no matter how many blankets I pile on the bed. We continue to leave notes for each other on the kitchen table, but now those are nearly the only words that pass between us. I have not changed, but Louis has, and it is time for him to change back. He’s not keeping up his end of our deal, and he’s crazy if he thinks I’ll let
him
end our marriage. There are divorced women in my women’s reading group, and they are angry and bitter. I will not fail like they have. I have no intention of getting a divorce.

It is the thought of my reading group that gives me a great idea.

Since Louis seems unable to engage with me lately, perhaps he needs a friend. He might be more comfortable sharing his feelings with another man, one of his peers. I’m excited when I come up with this; I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me sooner. I’ve gotten so much out of talking to the women in my group, but Louis doesn’t have that kind of male support system in his life. He has lived his life with his two daughters and me. He’s been surrounded by women. Male camaraderie is what’s missing from his life. That’s probably why he misses that young man so badly. A frank conversation with a friend will shake him out of the state he’s in.

I drive to the mayor’s barbershop feeling very strong. I have found the answer. Now I just need to get the ball rolling.

“Hi Vince,” I say as I walk through the door. “Do you cut women’s hair?”

The mayor turns around in a slow circle, as if I’ve caught him deep in thought and it’s taking him a minute to come out of it. He is alone in the shop, cleaning his comb with a white cloth. His old Chow, who I somehow remember is named Chastity, is sleeping in the corner.

“Kelly?” Vince gives a big smile. “How nice to see you! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

I have never been in this shop before, although I’ve driven by it, even walked by it, countless times. It is a single room with three barber chairs, three mirrors, and wood-paneled walls. There is a counter with an old-fashioned cash register. The entire scene looks dusty and dark, even though it’s a beautiful sunny day outside.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” I say. “But I need a trim, too, so I thought if I could do both at once, it would be the most efficient use of both of our time. If you cut women’s hair, that is.”

I admit, I get a little charge from saying this. I’m making this up as I go along, and that is very unusual for me. I didn’t know I was going to ask for the haircut. For fifteen years I have had my hair styled at an upscale salon in Ridgewood by an Asian woman named Linda. And I’ve prided myself on never talking about what goes on in my family, outside of my family. Yet here I am, asking a barber to cut my hair, wanting to talk to him about my husband. It’s true, I tell myself, that desperate times call for desperate measures.

He says, “I cut Cynthia’s for thirty years.”

I had almost forgotten about Cynthia. She died a year ago of breast cancer, but even when she was alive she was rarely seen. She was a round, short Italian woman who came over from Italy with her parents when she was a teenager. She married Vince when she was nineteen and he was twenty-five. They never had any kids, and she never went out with him in public. Even after he became mayor, she chose to stay at home, cooking and cleaning. I had spoken with Cynthia once or twice, but we had nothing in common and she was so terribly shy that conversation was painful. She liked Louis, though, and would talk to him in Italian, a language he can understand but not speak. He went to visit her in the hospital during her final stay. I didn’t go with him. I didn’t think it was necessary. The mayor and politics and the land and welfare of Ramsey are Louis’s passion, not mine. After Cynthia died nothing seemed to change much. Vince was still out around town stumping and hand-shaking, still at the barbershop cutting hair.

I try to remember Cynthia’s hair. It was always up in a bun. I feel Vince’s eyes pore over my brown hair, then the angles of my face. “Have a seat,” he says.

I sit down in the chair, which is surprisingly comfortable, if a little slippery. He drapes a gown around me, covering my gray suit. “How’s Louis?” he asks. “Did he send you here?”

I watch my face color in the mirror. I don’t know why. “God, no,” I say. “I actually came here to talk to you about Louis.”

“Close your eyes,” Vince says.

I glance up at him.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s just for a second.”

He sprays my hair with water out of a bottle. When I open my eyes I see a fifty-six-year-old woman in the mirror who appears to have been caught in the rain. I wonder whether this was a good idea.

“Louis has been an amazing friend to me. I wish I could say I’ve been better to him.” He smoothes his hand over my wet hair, evening the pieces on either side of my face. “I started drinking in the evenings after Cynthia passed away—Louis must have told you that. He’s had to pick me up off the floor several times, literally and figuratively.”

“Louis never mentioned it,” I say. I don’t really know what to make of this. Why would this man share this with me? How am I supposed to respond? “But he hasn’t said much to me lately at all. That’s partly why I’m here.”

“You need my help?” Vince sounds surprised.

I breathe in wet air tinged with hairspray. “Louis is depressed. I thought maybe you could talk to him. Try to cheer him up. Tell him that he needs to pull himself together. He won’t listen to me. I thought that as an old friend you might have a better shot.”

The dog whimpers loudly in the corner, and we both glance over. “Poor thing is plagued by nightmares,” Vince says. He clips at the back of my hair with scissors. I watch the ends fall to the floor. “Louis is still upset about the young man who died?”

“Yes, at least that’s what started the depression. God knows he should be over that by now. It’s not as if it was his fault.”

“It’s nice that you’re so worried about him.” Vince touches my head with his fingertips, smoothing my hair first in one direction, then the other. His fingers are warm against my skin. “Louis’s lucky to have such a wonderful wife taking care of him.”

I wish I wasn’t sitting in front of a mirror during this conversation, watching the lines around my mouth move as I talk, watching myself blush. “You don’t have to report back and tell me what he says. The conversation would be between you and Louis.”

“What if something is really wrong? You wouldn’t want me to tell you?”

“There’s nothing really wrong. He’s just depressed.”

“What if he’s having an affair?”

I glare at him in the mirror. My hand fumbles at the back of my neck for the snap to release the cape draped over me. The surreal quality of this situation hits me. Why did I think this would work? Why would I let this man cut my hair?

“Hold on,” Vince says. “It was a joke! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t think you would take me seriously. Louis would never have an affair. Never. I’ve known him my whole life and he’s one of the best people I’ve ever met. Now I’ve upset you and that’s the last thing I wanted to do.”

I settle back in to the chair slowly. “That’s not my idea of a joke,” I say. “I hope you understand that what is going on is a private matter and the utmost discretion—”

“I understand. And of course I’m happy to speak to Louis. No one has done more for me since Cynthia died than your husband.” He meets my eyes in the glass. Beside us, around us, my hair continues to fall away. I am getting lighter and lighter.

“Don’t tell him I asked you to do this.”

“Of course not.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I’ve liked talking to you,” he says. “You have that same gift Louis has—you make me feel like everything’s going to be all right.”

My whole body is hot. This feels wrong; it feels like too much. This man is too honest, too present. I forget why I came here, and I need to leave. I pull a twenty-dollar bill out of my purse.

“I don’t need a blow-dry,” I say, and stand up. I unsnap the cape and push the money into his hand. “It’s warm enough outside. Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, and walks me to the door.

I AM too keyed up when I leave the barbershop to go straight home. I need some time alone to collect myself. I drive toward Route 17 and once there I join the rush of cars, each driver speeding away from his job and his day. I make a U-turn and head in the reverse direction. I pass a stretch of forest, and then the gas station and Houlihan’s. I slow down in front of the restaurant and turn into the Fairmount Motel parking lot. I park near the end of the L-shaped motel, directly in front of Room 111. I finger the room key in my purse for a moment before I get out of the car.

The key makes a smooth clicking noise in the lock, and the door is released. I step inside and flip the light switch. The two lamps on either side of the bed light up. The curtains for the room’s sole window are already shut to block out the sight of the highway. I set my purse down on the bed and walk straight into the bathroom, where I wash my hands with the fresh bar of Ivory soap I left here last week. I dry my hands on a flowered towel Gracie brought home from college. When I walk back into the room I pull the two pillows I bought at the bedding store off the closet shelf and prop them against the headboard. I remove my tan heels and lie down on top of the bedspread. I am supported in a half-sitting position by the firm pillows. Once comfortable, I am completely still, my hands clasped on my waist. I take a deep breath and allow myself to relax.

Sometimes I watch the news here, on the small television in the corner. Sometimes I read one of the novels I have stacked beside the pillows in the closet. But usually I just lie on the bed. I rarely sleep. I simply savor the fact that I am alone, perfectly alone. I don’t have to pretend to be interested or sorry or content or whatever else my family or my employees might want me to be. Here, and only here, can I explore and expose my true self. I can be Kelly McLaughlin Leary: a strong, independent fifty-six-year-old woman.

When I first came here I had no idea who Kelly Leary was. I still am not completely sure, but at least I’m learning. I’d been working to the point of exhaustion for years and had lost all sight of myself. But last year I joined a women’s reading group, mostly so I would have someplace to go one night a week. Louis, after all, is gone four out of five nights a week attending all sorts of meetings. I wanted a change. I wanted something that was my own. I had no idea what to expect from the group, but what I found was a lot of discussion in which these women told one another
everything
about their lives in startling detail. And in between the meetings, we read the same books. At first I was better at the reading than the talking. We chose books about finding our paths and our true selves. I came to realize that I had spent my life trying to be what everyone else wanted me to be: a good daughter, a good wife, a good mother. I had done nothing to feed my soul, nothing to set myself free. I mentioned once or twice in the group how frustrating it was to be trapped in the life I had built up around me, and how I craved my own space. After one of our meetings a woman offered me this room. She is from a wealthy family that owns, among other things, a string of motels in northern New Jersey. The Fairmount Motel was not doing particularly well and was never full, so she lets me rent this room for a low monthly fee.

I have had a lot to learn, and to accept. Most of my life I have just lived a moment and then done my best to throw it away. But in this room I have sifted through those moments, through my childhood and my marriage, through those times that got me here. I am a different person today than I was when Louis and I were married. No one ever tells you, when you are young, that your entire personality can change—will change—as you grow older. The twenty-five-year-old Kelly McLaughlin is a completely different woman from the fifty-six-year-old Kelly Leary. My behavior is different, my needs are different. When I was young I needed someone to take charge of me, to take me a few steps away from my family.