Misfortune (22 page)
“It was a long time ago,” she said finally.
“You never told me why.”
You never asked
, she wanted to reply, but she stopped herself. “We weren’t well suited.” Frances hoped to dismiss the conversation with an easy answer.
“Was he upset you weren’t Catholic?”
She didn’t have the emotional energy to figure out how her father knew or why he had decided to wait until the day after Clio’s death to ask her about it.
“Pietro alluded several times to something that made me assume religion was the reason,” Richard mumbled in response to her silence. “I just hope he never hurt you. I never want you or Blair to be hurt.”
That he had chosen this moment to display paternal concern struck her as ironic. How many times, over the years, had she wondered whether her father had ever given a thought to her well-being? He had never even bothered to explain why he allowed Clio’s mistreatment of his daughters. Frances had been left to imagine how he felt about their familial situation. As a child in search of answers, she had invented a conversation with her father. Now she allowed herself to remember the imagined dialogue.
I want you to know, Frances, that just because I’ve remarried, it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about my family, about you and Blair.
But it seems that way.
I know it must, but I want to change that. This is your home. You are always welcome here. I want you to feel safe.
But why does Clio hate us?
She doesn’t hate you. Being a stepmother is hard. She’s not your mother, but she feels constantly compared, and that can be threatening. It threatens her that I had a bond with your mother that produced you two girls.
What have we done wrong?
I’m not sure I can make you understand, but perhaps one day, if you fall in love with someone who’s been married before, you’ll know how Clio feels. You must realize that people aren’t perfect, and if they do things that are less than considerate, it doesn’t mean they’re bad.
You don’t see how she is.
If I haven’t seen, that’s my fault, and I’m sorry. I should have paid better attention. Clio and I spoke about the situation, and it won’t continue. She’s sorry she hasn’t been nicer. Things will be different, I promise. Come here, sweet Fanny. Let me hug you. You must understand how truly sorry I am.
She never had the courage to challenge her father, and this dialogue remained a fantasy. Unlike her sister, Blair, who was better able to demand her father’s attentions, Frances had forged a relationship with him characterized by formalized respect and aloof fondness. She admired her father, but they had never been close.
“Did Clio have any health problems?” She wanted to change the subject, but her voice sounded more timid than she expected.
He shook his head.
“Was she taking any medication?”
“She was a strong woman, although nobody can be that strong.”
“What do you mean?”
“She had experienced too much pain, been forced to live with too many fears. My stroke, my condition, was the last straw. She wasn’t prepared to be prematurely old.”
Frances stopped herself from asking anything further when she noticed that her father’s body had begun to twitch spasmodically. His shoulders shook slightly. Then his elbows and hands did, too, as the impact of his emotions worked its way down his frail body. He grasped the armrests of his wheelchair, as if to steady himself. Frances wondered whether she should call for Mary but decided against it. He was entitled to his grief without professional intervention.
Frances wished she could understand her father’s relationship to Clio, the intensity of their bond, the mysterious place that two people share where their identities become so intermingled that they truly can think and act as one. She wished that she could put aside the distance she felt and actually empathize with his loss. Instead she felt empty.
After what seemed an interminable time, Richard spoke again. “Marriage is a precious gift that I wish you could have.”
“You needn’t worry, Daddy. It’s not what I want,” she lied. Then she leaned toward him and, trying to sound efficient, remarked, “I’d better get in touch with the florist. We don’t have much time.”
“It should have been me,” Richard said without looking at her.
Frances didn’t respond. As usual, her father was right.
Rocking back and forth in a creaky chair, Frances watched the flames flicker in the half dozen mismatched kerosene lamps placed randomly around the porch. The afternoon had disappeared in a blur of activity: a visit to St. Andrew’s Dune Church to see how many arrangements were needed, a meeting with the minister to ensure there were no pastoral restrictions on types of flowers, or size of bouquet, then several discussions with area florists to see what could be designed on relatively short notice. Throughout the day Frances felt oddly disconnected, a planner in charge of decorations with no particular attachment or investment in the event, but by the end of the afternoon her orders had been executed successfully. Then she walked the beach in an effort to make the exhaustion in her body equal to that in her mind.
Now, as the chair’s gentle movement lulled her, Frances tried to recall times spent alone with Clio over the years. Such memories were few—a trip to Bloomingdale’s one Saturday afternoon to find what Clio called “appropriate school shoes,” leather Oxfords with tight laces; several theater matinees,
Grease, The King and I
, where Frances sat next to an empty seat because her father had an unexpected meeting or important conference call that prevented his attendance. She couldn’t conjure up any of the flower arranging scenes that apparently held some significance to Clio.
“You’re going to rock that chair right off its rockers,” Aurelia said as she came out onto the porch. She held a plate piled high with cheese, crackers, olives, slivers of prosciuto, and roasted peppers and extended it toward Frances. “Here, have a little antipasto.”
“No thanks.” Frances looked up at her mother and thought she caught disappointment drift across her face.
“What about something to drink?”
“I’d love a glass of wine if you’re offering.”
Aurelia smiled rows of large white teeth. She set the plate on the porch, wiped her hands on the checkered apron tied over her loose denim dress, and disappeared back into the house. Frances could hear her humming, then the sound of a cork unplugged. She returned with two filled glasses.
“I suppose it’s inappropriate to make a toast under the circumstances.” Aurelia sat in a straight-backed chair next to Frances. “But we might raise a glass to Clio. May she rest in peace.” She took a sip of her wine. “How’s your father holding up?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Weren’t you there for most of the day?”
“He’s focused on preparations for the memorial service, but that’s probably just a distraction. Clio’s death has also brought back memories of Justin. It’s all so sad for him.”
“Do you know what he’ll do?” Aurelia asked.
“Do?” Frances wasn’t sure she understood. Her father was physically and emotionally debilitated. She doubted he had any plans to do anything at all except try to survive another day.
“Will he stay in the house, I mean?”
Frances closed her eyes and rocked several times before answering. “I’m sure. His memories are there. It’s his home.”
“I have memories of that house, too.”
Frances stared at her mother. She had forgotten that the house on Ox Pasture Road had originally been theirs, a home that Aurelia and Richard had picked out together early in their marriage before she or her sister was born. No amount of renovation or re-decoration could change the simple fact that Aurelia had been there first.
Frances tried to read the thoughts passing through her mother’s mind, but Aurelia’s expression provided no clues. She had been a handsome woman, but her bronzed face was wrinkled by the sun and age. Her graying hair had thinned, and her eyes seemed smaller and deeper set in her face than Frances remembered. Her ample hips spilled over the sides of the small chair, and her ankles looked thick in her thin-soled red sneakers. Frances noted with some sadness that she had inherited this same body, destined to pass un-gracefully into middle age.
“Do they know why she died?” Aurelia asked.
“Apparent heart failure. The coroner hasn’t issued a report, though.”
“Do you believe it?”
Frances twisted in her seat. Her mother appeared to be focused on the meniscus of Pinot Grigio in her glass. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“I wouldn’t know. I just was wondering whether you believed it was a natural death, that’s all.” Aurelia smiled. “I bet you have a hunch one way or the other.”
“Dad says Clio was in excellent health. Her death is certainly surprising.”
“Would he know how healthy she really was?”
“I assume so.”
“Be careful about what assumptions you make in life,” Aurelia said matter-of-factly.
Frances felt unnerved. First Malcolm, now her mother. It seemed that she was surrounded by people with suspicions about Clio’s death. She rubbed her eyes, realizing how exhausted she was.
“Did Dad ever talk to you about Clio?” Frances asked.
Aurelia chuckled. “Not in years.” She took a large sip of wine and swirled it in her mouth before swallowing. “When they first met, he mentioned it. He never said much about her specifically, only that she was relatively young, that he respected her, and that he thought he might like to see a bit more of her. She was a friend of Jack Von Furst’s, if my memory serves me. He didn’t mention her again until he decided he wanted to marry her. He called to find out how I felt.”
“He did?”
“He certainly didn’t have to. We had been divorced for quite a while. He was free to do as he pleased, but, at the time, he seemed genuinely concerned with my feelings.”
“What did you say?”
“What you might expect. I was happy that he had found someone to make him happy. I certainly couldn’t.”
“So that was it? You gave him your blessing.”
“I wanted him to make a life for himself. Our marriage hadn’t worked, but that wasn’t to say he couldn’t make a good husband.”
“Did you ever talk about her again?”
“Your father and I had a lot less interaction after he remarried. Occasionally, issues arose with you and your sister, whether to send you to sleep-away camp, whether you should stay in New York for high school, that sort of thing, but we seldom disagreed. Besides, both of us were inclined to give huge deference to what you girls wanted to do, so you might say there was little parental interference. Several times I tried to tell him how you and Blair felt about Clio, to talk about how she treated the two of you, but he wouldn’t discuss it.”
“You did? Why?”
“How could I not? I saw how upset she made you. Remember the time she insisted that you change your clothes before some dance? She was embarrassed that you wore stripes with checks, or stripes and flowers, I can’t remember the details, but you called me, upset. She humiliated you. Frankly, it was none of Clio’s business what you wore, and I told your father so. You were developing your own style.”
Frances remembered the episode well, how she had stood in front of the mirror studying her carefully chosen outfit, a navy-and-white-striped T-shirt and pale blue corduroys with red flowers on them. She had been as anxious about the dance, and her appearance, as any slightly chubby thirteen-year-old with budding breasts could possibly be, and she had changed her clothes a dozen times before settling on something that pleased her. Then, without knocking, Clio had come into her room. “You may not leave this house dressed like that. Don’t you see you clash? You look ridiculous,” she’d said. Frances had held back her tears only long enough for Clio to leave the room. She hadn’t changed, but she hadn’t gone to the dance, either.
“Of course, my information came from you and Blair, the stories you told me, the complaints you had,” Aurelia continued. “Richard told me everything was fine.”
“I never had the courage to say anything.” Frances felt her chest constrict. How many times over the years had she waged an internal battle over whether to stand up to her stepmother and risk the consequent wrath or swallow her own desires and remain the obedient daughter? It seemed like the dilemma that defined her childhood. Perhaps, Frances thought, that’s why she ended up at law school. She couldn’t defend herself, but she could make a career out of standing up for others.
“It was a lot harder for you to speak up than it was for me. I had nothing at stake in the relationship with your father by the time Clio came along. You did. I should have been more insistent with him, but he didn’t want to hear. I gave up pretty quickly.”
Frances didn’t respond. She never expected anyone to come to her rescue and was touched that her mother had tried, even if her efforts had been unsuccessful.
Aurelia reached over and held on to Frances’s arm. “I’m sorry for your father’s loss. Being old and infirm is not a particularly nice way to spend your golden years, but I’m more sorry for what that witch of a woman did to my girls.” She leaned over and kissed Frances on the cheek. “I’ll fix us some dinner,” she said, standing up.
“Do you need help?” Frances asked.
Aurelia shook her head and moved toward the screen door. Just before entering, she turned back to look at Frances. “I’m awful to speak poorly of the dead. Perhaps I shouldn’t judge someone else’s relationship,” she said with just a hint of sarcasm.
S
cott Bendleton, known to most members of the criminal bar as “Bender,” a small, thin man in a navy blue double-breasted suit with oversize brass buttons, was just finishing his plea for leniency on behalf of the defendant, William Howard Avery III. Frances, stuck in her chair only ten feet away from his booming voice, resented his long-windedness, typical of lawyers who were paid by the hour. As far as she could discern, Bender’s pitch was unoriginal: despite the jury’s finding that his client was guilty of larceny, Avery wasn’t a bad guy. He had meant to invest the victims’ money wisely and provide them with a substantial return. He hadn’t meant to use it to purchase a new Range Rover, a condominium in Boca Raton, or a twenty-five-foot Grady White motorboat with twin 150-horsepower engines. The Suffolk County prosecutor had been overzealous in coming after this quiet, well-liked man, a vestry member of the Saint Francis Episcopal Church, the dutiful husband of Sissy Avery, who volunteered at the local chapter of the Red Cross twice a week, and the father of two adopted boys and a little girl with special educational needs. Bender seemed to think that because his client was such an upstanding citizen, the court should excuse his embezzlement of nearly half a million dollars.
