Concrete Angel (12 page)

He shook his head, his eyes averted.

So Linda had insinuated herself here weeks ago, perhaps taking her place in his life if not his bed.

“Well, a fine scene you paint, Hank. An even keel? They wouldn’t have released me if I wasn’t fit for society. Ease me in indeed!” Her eyes glittered. “You’ve destroyed all the charge plates, hid the checkbooks. What could I possibly do to embarrass you now that I’m a prisoner in your house? It’s two miles into town, and this hillbilly place has no bus system.” She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. “Life went smoothly with you and Linda, huh? It’s me that turns things topsy-turvy.”

“Take it easy, will you.” A band of sweat stretched across his forehead. “Linda’s only here for a week or two.” He frowned and undid his tie. “She’s a good-hearted girl. Not a mean bone in her body. She can be on the lookout for trouble.”

“Trouble? You keep saying that word. Do you think I’m about to kill myself, Hank? Is it my health that concerns you or my spending money? Maybe I’ll smuggle in the Cartier diamond? Is that what this is really about? I can guarantee you I won’t do either.” She crossed the room and stood behind him. “I’ll wear tattered old nightgowns like this one,” she gestured to her flawless blue silk gown, “for the rest of my life if you send your sister home. I won’t shop at all. I swear to God, she gives me the creeps. She and your mother watch
Edge of Night
together, playing out every scene over the phone. It’s ridiculous she’s minding me. She’s a nutcase herself.”

“Linda’s bored, Eve. She’s never known what to do with herself. Not when she was a kid nor later. Dad should’ve worked her into the business—given her a position.” He said this under his breath, giving Eve a sidelong glance, finally getting the knot in his tie done properly. “Have some sympathy. She doesn’t have your looks or brains. Linda may not ever have a life of her own. We have an aunt who’s lived with her sister and her family her whole life.”

I could well imagine my mother shriveling at that remark.

“Christ! Some sort of Moran family custom? Linda can’t have
my
life or live with
us
forever if that’s what she’s expecting.” She was probably shouting by then, confirming his idea she needed a companion. “Having a ton of money won’t hurt her chances of finding a man. If she’d get a handle on her weight, she’d be the catch of the season. Some man will eventually see past the fat to her bankbook anyway. I can help her out. Give her some advice.” She paused. “But from a distance, Hank. Not from under my feet.”

“Did that happen with us? Did you get the catch of the season?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re handsome, fun, smart. I fell for you before I knew you were anything more than the average neighborhood hoodlum.”

Hank smiled. “Who’s to say I wasn’t?”

Eve had handed out her allotment of compliments for the morning and let his comment drop, returning to the subject of Linda. “What will we talk about today? Give me an idea, at least.” There was real panic in her voice. “The dinner menu? What Sissie Burt is up to at the Country Club?”

She flounced over to her mirror and began running a brush through her hair. It was a heavy silver brush she’d picked up in Charleston. She’d actually paid for this item—she told me that when I admired it years later. The bristles were thick and soft on her scalp. Good quality was worth the price. There’d be no going back to bed now. Her hair was brushed and she was fully awake.

“I wonder if Mrs. Murphy has my breakfast ready.” She smelled only coffee, but Linda looked well-fed. Maybe there’d be French toast. That was the best thing about breakfast. Desserts counted as an entrée.

“Goodness knows, you could both take some interest in managing this household.” Hank was still going on. “Cooking, cleaning, making a home. With two healthy adult women with nothing to do all day, why am I paying a housekeeper?”

“Because Mrs. Murphy’s a good cook and keeps the house immaculately clean. And your sister hasn’t held a dust cloth in her fat hands in her life. If you take Mrs. Murphy away from me, I swear I’ll leave,” Eve said tearfully. “At least she’s someone to talk to. Why can’t she look after me if that’s what we’re going to call it?”

Yesterday, she’d convinced Mrs. Murphy to pick up a few things for her in town. “I’ll reimburse you when I get my allowance,” she told the older woman, their eyes locked.

“Oh, of course, she can stay. I couldn’t go long without her potato pancakes,” Hank said, slipping his jacket on. It was a pinstriped suit he rarely wore. He didn’t usually put on a suit to go to the plant, preferring to seem to fit in with his workers. “I like to eat as much as the next man.”

“A meeting today?” She brushed some imaginary lint from his shoulder.

He glanced down at his shoulder, nodding. “Princeton. The University, in fact. I may pick up some new business if things go well. Can you imagine the increase in revenue if we get our foot in their door?”

He was ready to leave, shaking her and her troubles off, his mind on his future sales pitch. This would always be my father’s tactics, work made his troubles at home seem minor.

“Such ambition so early in the morning.” Mother yawned. “Go ahead,” she said, dismissing him. “It would’ve been nice if you’d let me sleep in though. What a long day I’ll have now. And with your sister and this heat…”

Cocktail hour was a long way off.

M
other only “shopped” once or twice in those first few weeks. She’d call a store in town, ask them to send something out to the house, and bill the item to Hank’s account.

“I misplaced my card,” she told the clerk on the phone, “and I need a new pair of short, beige kidskin gloves. Could you send me out a pair in size seven?”

Sounding authoritative—like she did this sort of thing all the time—probably greased the transaction. The Moran family was too well regarded to refuse her. My father hadn’t thought to call the stores and warn them off. He hadn’t thought beyond her previous activities, probably assuming she was only capable of repeating herself. Hardships spurred my mother on, led to creativity and innovation.

“Don’t you want to try them on first?” the woman on the phone asked. “Sometimes the length isn’t right. Or the color. Beige can be kind of peculiar. It can be tan or ochre or…”

“Look, I’m not particular. Plus, I’m not well at the moment,” Mother said, cutting her off.

And Mother wasn’t fussy. She liked the excitement of having nice things arrive, of stowing them away, having them as protection against—well, Mother wasn’t sure what. Excess was what did her in at The Terraces, and she wouldn’t repeat her mistake. When the gloves arrived in a darling box with mauve ribbon two days later, Linda watched enviously as Eve opened the box, allowing the ribbon to fall on the floor.

“I could wear this ribbon in my hair,” Linda said, swooping to retrieve it and draping it across her head. “What do you think?”

Her sister-in-law didn’t dignify her suggestion with a response. Linda already gave the impression she was a character from a children’s book—the barnyard pig dressed in human clothes. The mauve ribbon accentuated it.

“Oh, isn’t it nice of someone to send me these gloves,” Eve lied. “Beige is an unusual color choice, but I do have a beaver coat.” She handed the gloves over to Linda to admire, recovering the ribbon in one swift movement.

“When will you wear them?” Linda asked, stroking the leather enviously. “It’s still summer. It’ll be months before you need leather gloves.” She made as if to pull them on her chubby hands.

“Oh, that’s not the point, Linda,” Eve said, grabbing them. “It’s nice to think someone thought of me. Wanted me to have something pretty.”

She stared at the box, probably wondering who that someone might be—not having thought ahead to the probability of Linda being on the spot to witness the packages’ arrival. That an explanation would be in order.

“My mother, I guess.” There was no card, of course.

“Of course,” Linda said agreeably. “I didn’t see a card, did you?” She scrambled through the tissue paper. “What a lovely present to receive out of the blue. Certainly brightens the day.”

Linda actually seemed pleased. It was like The Terraces again. People taking pleasure in someone else’s gift. She didn’t get it herself.

Later she told me, “And for a moment, I liked my sister-in-law because it honestly seemed like that to me too. Like maybe my fairy godmother sent the gloves. Do you see how I felt, Christine? Of course, my real mother would never have done such a thing.”

The arrival of the jaunty little truck with the store’s name in gilt letters was enough to raise Eve’s spirits. She loved watching the uniformed men trot to her door and ring the bell, loved signing the slip with her ornate initials.

A leather handbag arrived two days later (“my best friend from college”) and a set of demitasse cups a week later (“Mother again, she shouldn’t have.”) Eve realized at some point how few people might send her gifts, which must have made her all the sorrier for herself and led to another round of purchases.

“I can’t imagine someone I haven’t seen for years sending me a handbag that must have cost fifty dollars,” Linda had said, eyeing the soft brown leather envyingly. “How did she know you were hospitalized? It’s an odd present for convalescence. You could use something to do with yourself. Like a crossword puzzle book or a jigsaw puzzle. Maybe a good novel.”

Mother let pass the irony of a woman who did nothing telling her this, saying, “Oh, she can afford it. And we were close in college.” She gave her sister-in-law the evil eye, adding, “And there’s the difference between us, Linda. I have friends who want to cheer me up, not give me a headache.”

A
fter the delivery, an enervating heat wave moved into southeastern Pennsylvania, and the two women spent much of the day on the porch, staring at each other from pitched outposts: Linda on the aqua glider, Eve in a cushioned wicker chair. They took turns filling their glasses with lemonade and iced tea, both of which Mrs. Murphy kept ready in the fridge. Eve was engrossed in a current work of Harold Robbins. Linda listened to
Art Linkletter’s House Party
and similar fare, the sound turned low after frequent requests from Eve.

“You do know that show is also on TV now,” she told Linda repeatedly.

There was only one air-conditioning unit in the house—and that was in the bedroom. “Your brother’s a tightwad,” Mother told Linda. “Lots of people have air-conditioning throughout their entire house now. My goodness, it’s 1962. They don’t have to make do with a lousy, dripping, belching machine that makes the bedroom dark and dank. Last night I could hardly sleep over its grinding motor. He’s got air-conditioning at the office.”

“Clients need to be comfortable to conduct business. And there’s only the one window in Hank’s office,” Linda said. “No cross-ventilation. Daddy insisted on air-conditioning when they built the new offices. A delivery man had a stroke in there last year.”

“You’ve certainly given it some thought.”

“Father sends me into the office now and then, with papers to sign.”

“Nice they provide their hourly workers with more comfort than their wives and sisters.”

“This house isn’t one of those Levittown ranches or bi-levels or a one-story office building. The heat comes from radiators. You’d have to tear the house apart, Eve.” Linda caught her breath. “Anyway sitting on the porch is nice. There’s a certain smell…”

“If you’re eighty-five years old maybe,” Mother said, looking around for further proof. “I feel like I’m living in the nineteenth century. Sitting on porches, fanning myself, drinking iced tea all day long. I took three showers yesterday. My skin’s going to peel off.” She waved her hand fan vigorously, killing a passing bee midair. “I’m going to go stark-raving mad if I don’t get out of here.” She must’ve realized the meaning of her last words and amended it. “Maybe I need a vacation.”

“Hank’s too busy for vacations,” Linda said authoritatively, not sensing the subject was winding down. “Trying to line up the Princeton job, and then, maybe Rutgers. It’ll bring in hundreds of thousands of dollars over the next decade.” She drained her latest glass of iced tea. “Maybe in the fall, you can go to the shore for the weekend. Hank might make a reservation at the huge hotel on the boardwalk in Ocean City. Flanders, isn’t it?” She blinked twice. “Anyway, wasn’t The Terraces like a vacation?”

“Oh, sure. A vacation spot where they jolt you to life when things get a tad dull.”

“Hank said they never did that—jolted you.”

Mother looked at her sister-in-law carefully. “You certainly monitor our lives closely, Linda. Maybe it’s you who needs a companion.”

“I’ve been here several months,” Linda said. “You can’t help but notice things.”

“Well, keep those “things you notice” to yourself,” Eve told her. “And I’ll do the same.”

“W
hy don’t you pay your parents a visit?” Daddy said, when Mother mentioned her need for a vacation.

“They don’t even have a window unit.”

It was seven o’clock and the temperature was still in the mid-nineties. The thought of her parent’s tiny row house, with the pathetic box fan propped on the coffee table with a bowl of melting ice cubes in front of it, was appalling. Her father’d be watching the Phillies game or listening to it on the radio, the only program he turned on. Her mother would be darning, inches out of his sight line
.

“Take a taxi into town tomorrow and take in a movie,” her husband suggested. “You’ll get out of the heat for a couple hours. Linda can go along too.”

The movie showing was
A Touch of Mink
with Doris Day and Cary Grant. Eve came out of the dark theater into the enervating heat steaming.
A Touch of Mink
was the story of her life. It was the tale of man who nearly turns a woman into a harlot because she wants some nice things in her life.

“I wonder if Doris Day is as pleasant as she seems in the movies,” Linda said. “I prefer to see Rock Hudson in the lead though—like in
Pillow Talk.
It’s easy to imagine them making a life together. Cary Grant always acts kind of fruity. Do you think he’s a homosexual?”