Sara Gruen Page 6

  Isabel let out a muffled cry and struggled to get upright. She knocked the juice from the nurse’s hand, spilling it across both of them. The insulated brown thermos slid across a puddle of condensation, as if pushed by an invisible hand, the broth sloshing from side to side.

  “Stop. You’ll hurt yourself! Stop!” said Beulah, and when Isabel did not, she pressed the red call button and held Isabel’s wrists and shouted for help, which came pattering down the hall in the form of other uniformed figures and a syringe that was emptied into the valve on Isabel’s intravenous line.

  Well, thought Isabel, when she realized what had just happened, at least they didn’t shoot me out of a tree. The television and its falling bonobos was clicked off, and shortly thereafter Isabel sank back against the lowered bed, her panicked desperation neutered by the blissful numbing of drugs.

  5

  John had finally booked his flight for the next morning (inexplicably, all the flights that day were full) and was watching footage of the apes falling from trees when someone started banging on the door. The banging continued with such vehemence that it occurred to him it might be the police. Of course they would wish to speak with him; he had been at the language lab only hours before the explosion. But the vigor and relentlessness of the banging worried him. Surely they didn’t consider him a suspect?

  When he swung the door open, it all made sense, even though she was supposed to be safely six states away—

  “Fran?”

  “Where is she?” demanded his mother-in-law, inserting herself between John and the doorway and entering the front hall. Bulging supermarket bags swung from her hands and wrists. John was sure he saw the outline of a box of Velveeta.

  “I think she’s in the …” John’s voice trailed off, because Fran was already marching toward the kitchen.

  John turned back to the doorway. His father-in-law was climbing the stairs with two suitcases, old-fashioned hard-sided ones without wheels or retractable handles. They had purple ribbons tied around the handles, presumably to tell them apart from all the other pieces of thirty-year-old luggage coming around the carousel.

  “Hello, John,” said Tim, pausing at the doorway.

  “Hello, Tim.” John swung his head around toward the raised voices coming from the kitchen. “Did Amanda know you were coming?”

  “I don’t think so. When Amanda didn’t even call to say ‘Happy New Year’ Fran got it in her head that something was wrong.”

  John sighed and took the suitcases from the old man. He carried them into the guest room, which was really Amanda’s office. It had been in a state of suspended animation since Magnificat’s untimely demise, at which point she had been polishing Recipe for Disaster and sending query letters to agents. The room looked like a paper mill had exploded. Chunks of her manuscript, marked up in her own hand, littered the bed and were scattered around it. They were mixed in with dozens of rejections: “Hard to market literary fiction …”; “Not for me …”; “Not taking on new clients at the moment …” John picked up a piece of paper that was lying facedown. It was one of Amanda’s own query letters, which had been returned to her with the word NO scrawled diagonally across it in enormous red letters. He imagined her standing with trembling fingers, ripping open the envelope that she herself had addressed and stamped, hoping that this time, this time, someone had written to say, “Yes, please send the manuscript, I’d love to read it,” and instead finding … this. He let the page fall to the floor. The surge of anger he felt was overwhelming. He’d never felt so impotent.

  His mother-in-law’s voice sailed in from some other part of the house and John pulled himself together. He couldn’t do much—even if the room were neat, it would not be clean enough to please Fran—but he shuffled stacks of paper together and moved them into the closet along with the printer and stepped into the wastepaper basket to squash its contents. As a final touch, he smoothed the bedspread, which still had a fine coating of cat dander.

  ——

  There was no rescuing Amanda from Fran, and adding his own presence to the mix could only make things worse, so John parked himself in the living room with Tim and the television and a bottle of Bushmills. After a while Fran came through on hands and knees, scrubbing the wall and baseboard, complaining in equal parts about her creaking knees and Amanda’s housekeeping. Amanda followed, swabbing halfheartedly with a wad of moistened paper towel. Her deficiencies were grievous: what kind of a woman didn’t keep her guest room made up? And why didn’t she have shelf paper in the kitchen? Fran promised to furnish some, since it was clear Amanda didn’t care, and Lord only knew where that came from, since she, herself, was a meticulous housekeeper. Once, when John was absolutely sure Fran’s back was turned, he made a yapping motion with his hand. Amanda responded by holding a finger gun to her own forehead and pulling the trigger.

  Through a whiskeyed haze, John endured Velveeta-laced scalloped potatoes, a pile of tasteless green beans, and pork chops dressed in Shake ’n Bake. The Caesar salad, drowning in Kraft dressing, had been carefully denuded of all the crisp white pieces of the romaine, which were John’s favorite. Fran herself consumed three quarters of a basket of heat-and-serve dinner rolls, all while continuing to berate Amanda: she needed to take a good, hard look at her life. She wasn’t getting any younger, you know. Forty was closer than thirty now, and she still didn’t have a career or family to speak of, and while it was fine to have one or the other, Amanda had neither, in case she hadn’t noticed. She’d given the book thing a go but now it was time to think of the future. How could she even think of leaving her husband and moving to L.A.? She’d end up being a waitress, that was what, and she was too old to spend that much time on her feet. She did realize that varicose veins ran in the family, didn’t she?

  John watched with amazement as Amanda blandly “Yes, Mothered” her way through the onslaught.

  When Fran got up to clear the table, Amanda stood and calmly gathered plates. Tim Matthews patted his stomach, rose, and toddled off toward the room with the television. God bless him, thought John, following in such a hurry he nearly knocked his chair over.

  ——

  In the privacy of their room, Amanda’s inscrutable veneer dropped like a carton of eggs.

  “This is unbelievable,” she said, flopping onto the bed. “They ‘dropped in’ from Fort Myers. Who ‘drops in’ from Fort Myers?”

  “Did she say how long they’re staying?”

  “No.” Her voice had an edge of panic.

  “My flight leaves first thing in the morning. Will you be okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You were brilliant tonight,” he said. “How did you do that? Not that she didn’t manage to have a fight with you all by herself anyway.”

  “I tuned her out. Or at least I tried to. It’s hard to do. I don’t know how long I can keep it up. She—” The strain of whispering was too much. Amanda sat forward with a sudden cough.

  John hauled himself up on an elbow and rubbed her back. “You okay?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she managed. “Just swallowed the wrong way. I’ll be fine.” She cleared her throat and nestled back against him.

  Down the hall, the guest room door creaked open. There were footsteps, moving past the bathroom, and down the stairs, followed by a rattling in the kitchen. It sounded like the cutlery drawer, but that made no sense, unless someone was having a midnight hankering for scalloped potatoes. But no, that could not have been the case, because now, too soon for a plate to have been made, came the unmistakable sound of someone ascending the stairs.

  And down the hall.

  To their room.

  The door crashed open, hitting the wall behind it. John yanked the blankets up to his chin. Amanda let out an “eep” as she struggled to do the same.

  Fran stopped at the end of the bed, squinting to make out the figure of her daughter among the shadows. “There you are,” she said, coming around to Amanda’s side of the bed.

  In the n
ear-colorless glare of the moonlight, John saw the flash of a spoon. Amanda sat forward obediently, clutching the covers against her naked body with both hands. Her mother poured cough syrup onto the spoon and Amanda opened her mouth like a baby bird.

  “That’ll sort you out,” Fran said with a nod. She turned on her heel and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  John and Amanda lay in stunned silence.

  “Did that just happen?” John said.

  “I think it did.”

  John stared at the ceiling. A car drove by; the headlights flashed across the length of their bedroom wall and disappeared.

  “Come with me tomorrow,” John said. “We’ll get you on standby.”

  Amanda flopped back onto him and adjusted the covers so that only their necks and heads were exposed. “Thank you,” she said, clinging to him like a spider monkey and breathing warm eucalyptus across his face. “Because if you leave me here with her, I think I might have to kill her.”

  ——

  The next morning, John lay perfectly still until he heard the sounds of the television downstairs. It was a reliable indicator of when his in-laws began their day.

  Amanda was asleep with her arms thrown over her head. Her hair, corkscrew curly, tumbled over her pillow and beyond her pale wrists. It was what had struck him the first time he laid eyes on her, in a hallway at Columbia, standing between him and the sunlight within a glowing halo of curls. It was always out of control, even when secured in its customary knot. She never used elastics; she used chopsticks, pencils, plastic cutlery, and anything else she could poke through it. Very early in their relationship, John had learned to check just what was in there before letting her lay her head on his shoulder so he wouldn’t lose an eye. But no matter how tight the knot or how recently done, bits of hair always sprang free.

  He leaned over and buried his nose in her hair. He breathed deeply, and then nibbled her collarbone, which gave way to soft curves and heartbreaking dips. God, how he loved her. It had always been Amanda. For eighteen years, it had been Amanda. He’d never even been with another woman—unless you counted the unfortunate incident with Ginette Pinegar, which he did not.

  “Mmm,” Amanda said, swatting him away.

  “It’s time to go,” he whispered.

  Her eyes opened wide. She smiled as he pressed a finger to her lips.

  With a rerun of The Price Is Right as their soundtrack, Amanda piled folded clothes on the bed while John snuck to the hall closet for a suitcase. Not a word passed between them, but when their eyes met, they stifled giggles. They crept down the stairs and stood by the front door.

  “Good-bye! We’re leaving!” John called loudly.

  Sounds of muffled confusion floated down the hall, followed by fast footsteps.

  Amanda pressed a fist against her mouth to suppress a laugh and zipped her feet into shiny high-heeled black boots that were very much the opposite of mukluks. John gazed admiringly, but not for long—Fran’s solid feet slid into view, encased in Isotoner slippers.

  “What do you mean, you’re leaving?” she said. She stood with arms akimbo, eyes flashing. “Where are you going?”

  “Kansas,” said Amanda.

  “L.A.,” said John at the exact same moment. “House-hunting,” he added. Amanda paused momentarily, then resumed struggling into her pink belted coat. Large sunglasses already hid her eyes.

  Tim ambled down the hall toward them.

  “Bye, Tim! Thanks for coming,” John called cheerily.

  “You’re welcome,” the old man replied in a baffled tone.

  John pulled the door open.

  “Wait!” Fran’s voice sent chills through John’s body. It was a reflex—her tone demanded obedience. He girded himself and turned to meet her steely glare. “Yes?”

  “Nobody said anything about this last night.”

  “It was very last minute. No choice. The Realtor was very busy—”

  “Very busy,” added Amanda. She tied the sash of her coat while trying to remain hidden behind John.

  “You only said you were thinking about moving, not that you had decided. When are you coming back?”

  “No idea,” said John, ushering Amanda through the door. She headed for the car at a near-run. John followed with the suitcase.

  “And what are we supposed to do?” Fran cried from the porch.

  “Stay as long as you like,” said John. “Good-bye, Fran. Good-bye, Tim!”

  “See you at the wedding!” Amanda called over her shoulder. She climbed into the car and slammed the door.

  John glanced behind him. Fran was marching down the walkway, a one-woman armada, her bosom an impregnable force resting on a shelf of gut.

  By the time John hit the driver’s seat, Amanda had pulled down her sunshade and was pretending to search through her purse. “Gun it, baby,” she said, without looking up.

  John did, screeching backward into the road and then forward and out. Somewhere down the road, as he finally did up his seat belt, he asked Amanda, “What wedding? What are you talking about?”

  “My cousin Ariel is getting married in three weeks.”

  “That’s awfully fast.”

  “It’s of the shotgun variety, although officially we don’t know that. Are we really going to L.A.?”

  “No. We’re going to Kansas.”

  “Oh.”

  “But after that, you can go to L.A. If that’s what you really want.”

  “Oh God.” Amanda dropped her head back and stared out the windshield. They pulled up at a stoplight, and she was silent for the entire red. “Are you sure?” she said when the light finally changed.

  “As long as you’re really sure this is what you want.”

  John glanced at her a couple of times, the second time in alarm, because tears were streaming down her face. But when she reached over and laid a hand on the back of his neck, her expression became almost beatific.

  “I do. I really, really do. But are you sure you’re okay with this?”

  “Yes.”

  They were both reflective for a moment. Then John reached over and patted her thigh. “Yes. I am.”

  6

  John and Amanda’s one-hour layover in Cincinnati was extended first by twenty minutes, then by ten, and then by another fifteen, until eventually it stretched to six hours. Weather was the first excuse given, although the sky was perfectly clear. Traffic in O’Hare was blamed next, although John pointed out to the gate attendant that they were not at O’Hare. It did not matter—apparently the logjam of holiday fliers had a domino effect. John was apoplectic: he was now two full days behind in starting his investigation.

  As a final insult, Cat had somehow managed to arrive the night before even though John had booked the first available flight. She immediately informed Elizabeth of her coup, copying John on the email: “Here and settled. Will make contacts while awaiting John.” She must have flown standby on the red-eye. John had visions of some hapless salesman trussed and gagged in a maintenance closet at the airport, bereft of his boarding pass.

  Cat was leaning against the brick wall near the cozy fireplace in the lobby of the Residence Inn when John and Amanda arrived. It was the hotel’s “social hour,” and Cat was taking advantage of the free wine while emanating waves of unapproachability. It was as though she had an invisible cloaking device: other guests would wander too close and suddenly veer off, looking stunned.

  “Cat.”

  “John.”

  “You remember Amanda?”

  “Of course,” Cat said, examining Amanda and offering a limp hand. “So nice to see you again. Do you have family here?” She cocked her head slightly and smiled.

  “No,” said Amanda.

  Cat blinked a few times, inviting Amanda to elaborate. Amanda blinked back.

  Cat finally tore her gaze away. “Well, I should let you get checked in,” she said, and wandered off in search of a refill.

  John sighed. Undoubtedly Elizabeth would know of Am
anda’s presence by nightfall, and his expense report would be examined accordingly.

  After a very quick discussion about whether to invite Cat, they went in search of a reasonably priced place to eat (Elizabeth had made it clear that since the hotel rooms had kitchenettes, the paper wouldn’t cover restaurant meals).

  “So,” Amanda declared over margaritas and wings, “do you know what my mother said to me last night?”

  John sawed his overdone steak. “That I’m a no-good lout and you should leave me?”

  “Quite the contrary. She told me I should get on with it because my eggs are getting past their sell-by date. Can you believe that?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  Amanda’s eyes widened. “What?”

  John recognized his mistake instantly. “No,” he said emphatically. “No, of course not. I mean I believe your mother said that. She would, wouldn’t she?”

  Amanda sighed in agreement and reached into the basket of wings. She extracted one, holding it between two fingers like a miniature corncob. She surveyed it carefully and then took a bite.

  “So you don’t think they are?”

  “What, your eggs? No, I don’t.”

  She chewed for a second, looked far away, and dragged her glass toward her. It was absurdly huge, the size of a fishbowl. She ran the tiny red straw around and through the ice cubes. “When we have kids, do you suppose I’ll turn into my mother?”

  “You could never turn into your mother,” he said through a mouthful of steak. “Your mother is a horror. Your mother is Godzilla. And you, my dear, are perfection.” He pointed at her with his fork. It was the kind of establishment where you could do that.