Baker Towers (22 page)

At first he was filled with relief. Only later, when the crisis was past, did he understand what he had lost. At night, with the new, changed Marion sleeping peacefully beside him, he remembered the mysterious, voracious woman he’d married, her unpredictable passions, the shocking detour his life had taken when they met. He wondered where she had gone.

He didn’t miss her; not at first. The old Marion had fascinated him; but he couldn’t remember being happy in her presence. His memories were tinted like an old photograph: yellow with anxiety, red with anger, green with drunkenness, blue with lust. But at least he had
known
her. The new Marion—a polite, remote woman, carefully coiffed, who stared absently at the television while he read the newspaper, who clutched his arm as they crossed the street, who poured herself a single drink at bedtime and fell dead asleep on the couch—was a stranger to him. A different woman had led him into this Philadelphia life with its invisible codes of behavior; a place where he would forever remain a stranger. She’d regarded
Main Line society as an elaborate maze constructed for her amusement, and she’d enjoyed leading George through it, laughing at its provincialism and pretense.

Shortly after they’d bought the Newtown house, new neighbors moved in across the street, a pleasant young couple named Peter and Libby Hill. Peter was an attorney with a year-round suntan; he played golf every Saturday and had once asked George to come along. Though George didn’t golf, he’d have liked to learn. But he had refused the invitation, because while Marion found Libby merely tedious, she
despised
Peter Hill. He was perfectly vacuous, she said; smug, venal and nearly illiterate—though how she’d gleaned all this from the occasional pleasantries they exchanged, George had no idea. The invitation had never been repeated; like the rest of his well-heeled neighbors, Peter Hill remained a stranger. Now, without Marion’s ironic commentary, these people no longer struck George as ridiculous. He found them exotic and utterly intimidating, and felt himself completely alone.

He had loved to make her laugh. He was an excellent mimic, a fine physical comic. Working at Quigley’s had provided him an abundance of material. At the end of the day, with a few drinks in him, he’d entertained her by impersonating the boozy customer who couldn’t fasten his suspenders, the stout woman in the shoe department who refused to step on the fluoroscope because she thought it revealed her weight.

“It’s an X-ray machine,” George had explained. “It shows us the bones in your feet, so we can fit your shoes properly.”

“Don’t tell me, young man,” the woman huffed. “I know ex
actly
what it shows.”

Tipsy herself, Marion had shrieked with laughter; and somehow—who knew how these things happened—it had become a private joke. In bed, or at her parents’ dinner table, or at First Presbyterian as Kip exchanged
rings with a very pregnant bride, George had only to whisper the words into Marion’s ear to send her into peals of laughter.
Don’t tell me, young man. I know exactly what it shows.

A few years later, toward the end of Marion’s illness, they had attended an exhibition of abstract art at the Metropolitan. She had begun seeing Dr. Gold; for the first time since Arthur was born, she and George were spending an evening out in public. At one time she would have spent hours at such an event, but the new Marion moved quickly from canvas to canvas, clutching George’s arm. Ahead of them, a scraggly bohemian type critiqued each painting, in exhaustive detail, to a suntanned old woman in a pink Chanel suit. Without thinking, George leaned close to Marion.

“Don’t tell me, young man,” he whispered. “I know ex
actly
what it shows.”

She stared at him blankly.

“Remember, honey? The lady in the shoe department?” Thinking
Jesus, she’s lost her memory, too.

“Oh, yes,” Marion said vaguely. “I remember. But I don’t understand, George. What does it
mean
?”

B
y midmorning, the road was lined with cars, parked at odd angles on both sides of Polish Hill. The Stusicks’ porch was crowded with neighbors and relatives. In the living room, card tables were loaded down with food: the usual Polish favorites, plus a hodgepodge of casseroles. A ceramic basket held ornate
psanky
—hand-painted Ukrainian Easter eggs. Children picked through a mountain of cookies—some store-bought, some homemade. There were cupcakes and Bundt cakes, a rhubarb pie, green and yellow gelatin salads studded with fruit.

“Beep beep,” said Ev’s sister Helen. George stepped aside, and she set down a plate of deviled eggs dusted with paprika. “Georgie. We didn’t see you in church.”

“Hi, Helen.” George didn’t know her married name; she lived at the top of the hill and was a notorious gossip. “We went to the first mass. Joyce is an early riser.”

“How’s your other sister? I heard she came back from Washington a little under the weather.”

“Who told you that?”

“Ida Spangler, at the hat shop.” Helen lowered her voice. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

Goddamned small town,
George thought. “Bronchitis,” he said. “Turned into pneumonia. She’s still recuperating.” He spied Gene heading out the back door. “Excuse me. I want to say hi to Gene.”

He wove his way through the crowded kitchen to the back porch. Gene stood at the kettle grill digging at the charcoals, a bottle of Iron City in his hand. He was still in his Sunday clothes, suit trousers and a short-sleeved shirt.

“Eugenius,” George called.

“Georgie.” He had thickened around the middle, but otherwise looked much as he had in childhood: fair hair standing up in a cowlick, glasses repaired at the temple with electrical tape. “Glad you could come.”

They sat in folding chairs overlooking the small yard, which had been taken over by children playing a noisy game of tag. “So you’re a homeowner now,” said George. “Congratulations.”

“Can you believe it?” Gene handed him a bottle from the cooler. “I wish my dad had lived to see it. He hated living in a company house. It about killed him, having that money taken out of his pay every month.”

George nodded.
You pay rent, you never have nothing:
his own father had said it a thousand times.

“They’re solid houses, Georgie. Nothing wrong with them a little elbow grease won’t fix. It’s hard to believe Baker’s letting them go.” Gene took a pull on his beer. “What about your mom? Any chance she’ll buy her place?”

“She hasn’t said anything. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know it was for sale.”

The screen door opened and Evelyn appeared, carrying a plate of snacks: celery stuffed with cream cheese, more deviled eggs. “Well, look who’s here.”

“How are you, Ev?” He embraced her quickly, avoiding Gene’s eyes. The three of them had spent their adolescence at Keener’s Diner: George and Ev on one side of the booth, hip to hip; Gene on the other side, alone. Ev had felt sorry for him, George remembered. A few times she’d offered to set him up with one of her girlfriends, but Gene wasn’t interested. Always it had been the three of them.

Ev sat, smoothing her skirt. “How’s life in the big city, Georgie?”

“Not bad. Good to be back here, though. There’s no place like home.”

“It must be hard, being so far away. You must worry about your mother.”

“Joyce takes good care of her,” said George. “But yeah, I do.”

“If you’re interested,” said Gene, “we’re hiring over at the Twelve.”

“Oh, Georgie’s not looking for a job.” Ev pulled up a chair. “Aren’t you about finished with medical school?”

“Oh, I gave up on that a long time ago.” George took the beer Gene offered. “I work in retail. Marion’s father has a department store.”

“He sell Caddies at that store?” Gene asked, a twinkle in his eye.

George grinned. “Oh,
that.
My brother-in-law has a dealership.” After a series of accounting missteps that would have landed anyone else—George included—in prison, old man Quigley had given up on teaching his son the family business. He’d bought Kip a Cadillac dealership, a business so foolproof that even a proven fool couldn’t run it into the ground.

“Told you,” Gene said to Ev. He grinned. “My wife here was ogling your Eldorado.”

Ev blushed to the roots of her hair. “It’s beautiful, Georgie. And so
clean.
”

“What do those go for new?” Gene asked. “Four grand?”

More like six,
George thought but didn’t say.

Ev gasped. “Four thousand
dollars
? For a
car
? That’s more than we paid for this house!”

George shifted uncomfortably. He’d felt guilty about spending the money—his wife’s money—on such a luxury; but on some level he felt entitled. The car made him happy. Except for his son—a clever, hyperactive five year old, sweet-natured and affectionate—it was the only thing in his life that did.

“Georgie’s no fool,” Gene said, laughing. “I told her you must have got it at cost.”

“Gene!” Ev protested, her cheeks flushing. “Ignore him, Georgie. He’s got no manners. Never has.”

George watched her. Later—days, months, years later—he would replay the moment in his mind, the flush creeping up from her throat. He had always loved her skin, its utter transparency. She’d never been able to keep a secret; her feelings were written on her face, all over her body. There was no mystery to a redhead. A redhead was incapable of deceit.

“Sure,” he lied. “I got a nice discount.” He turned to Gene. “I hear you’re doing well for yourself, Mr. Crew Boss.”

Gene beamed. “It’s a hell of an operation, Georgie. Right now we’re bringing up eight thousand tons a day. That’s enough to heat eight hundred homes for an entire winter.”

He adjusted his glasses, which had slipped down his nose—a gesture George had seen him perform a thousand times. Despite his swagger, Gene hadn’t changed at all. Underneath was still the same boy
who had rattled off the list of presidents, who could multiply and divide in his head.

“Eugenius,” George said, raising his glass. “It’s good to be home.”

A
FTERNOON STRETCHED
into evening. Cold bottles of Iron City appeared from the cooler; empty bottles were whisked away. George watched the children chase one another across the yard: red-haired Lipnics, blond-haired Stusicks, a few girls still in Communion dresses, like tiny brides. Adults crowded the living room—young couples, old women. Past a certain age the men seemed to disappear. The lucky ones, like Gene’s uncles, hobbled around on canes, crippled by Miner’s Knee, Miner’s Hip, Miner’s Back. The rest were at home breathing bottled oxygen, their lungs ruined from years of inhaling coal dust. You’d have to call them moderately lucky, George reflected. The unluckiest were like his own father, keeled over in his own basement. Dead at fifty-four.

He watched Gene flip hamburgers at the grill.
Smarter than me,
George thought,
and what is he doing? What is this life he’s signed on for?
In his boozy state, his old buddy seemed to him a kind of bookmark, holding his place in a life he himself had started but decided not to finish. The company house, the redheaded children, the woman George could have (and maybe should have—probably, definitely should have) married. Eugenius would be the one who finished that book. Eugenius would let him know how it all turned out.

He watched Ev carry plates back and forth to the kitchen. She wore a yellow dress cinched at the middle. He was aware of breasts and arms, a
round behind. She had been his first, and he’d been hers. One time only, the night before he left, but enough to qualify for the title.
I love you. In my heart we’re already married.
At the time he’d meant it—at least he thought he did. And she had taken him at his word.

She pulled up a chair next to him. “Whew. I’m beat.”

“Are they all yours, Ev?” George asked, pointing.

“Gosh, no. Leonard’s in fourth grade.” She pointed to a boy in striped trousers. George would have recognized him anywhere: his father’s thick glasses, his mother’s red curls. “You met him when he was a baby. Then the two girls. Gene wants to try for another boy, but I’m ready to retire.” She laughed. “How old’s your boy, Georgie? I don’t even know his name.”

“Arthur. He’ll be six in July.”

“Just the one, Georgie?” She smiled; again the hint of a blush. “You’re not planning on more?”

“Marion’s awfully busy. I’m not sure what she’d do with another one.”

“Is she—a career girl?” She used the phrase hesitantly, as though she weren’t sure it applied.
I could kiss her,
George thought.

“I guess,” he said. And then, because an explanation seemed necessary: “She’s a painter.”

“A housepainter?”

“Oh, no. She’s, you know, an artist.”

Ev blushed a deep red. Again he felt his heart quicken. His own cheeks heated, as if warmed by hers.
I’m drunk,
he thought.

“Well, she sounds fascinating. I’d love to meet her someday.”

He let himself imagine this: Marion in Ev’s living room on Polish Hill, eating deviled eggs, swapping recipes for gelatin salad. Marion’s recap afterward:
My picnic with Evelyn Picnic. Her progeny screaming in the next room. Her milkmaid’s arms as big as my thighs.
The old Marion: skewering
Ev with a few turns of her vast vocabulary, in the bored, flat tone that let you know how little she cared.

“Oh, sure,” he said miserably. “You two would hit it off.” He rose, a bit unsteady, and began clearing plates from the table.

“Georgie, sit! You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

She gave him an odd look: he’d said it with more feeling than was appropriate. He couldn’t help himself. Picturing Ev at Marion’s mercy unsettled him deeply. As though he himself were sadistic and cruel, as though he’d imagined her violent death.

T
HE STREET
was dark by the time the party broke up. George crossed the street, feeling guilty. He’d spent the whole day—a third of his visit—at Gene and Ev’s. Now his mother’s windows were dark.