Other Plans (16 page)

“What's in shepherd's pie?” He sniffed. It sure didn't smell like steak.

“Leftover lamb. You love it,” she told him firmly, “it's one of your favorites.”

“It is?” She had a way of telling him things were his favorites when he couldn't remember them ever having been such. “Where are Les and … her friend?” He wouldn't call her by name. It might make him seem too interested. Where's what's her name? I'll never forget what's her name.

“Shopping.”

“How long is she staying?”

“Why, I guess the usual time. Ten days. Isn't that how long she stayed on her spring break last year?” She was talking about Leslie, he about Emma.

“How's Mrs. Hobbs?” he remembered to ask. “She still forging ahead in business?” Mrs. Hobbs was one of the little old ladies his mother chauffeured around town as part of her volunteer work. Mrs. Hobbs was a gas. A few years back he'd been in the back seat, the old lady in front, talking nonstop about her dear departed husband.

“Why, I lived with that man for more than fifty years, don't you know,” Mrs. Hobbs had said, turning to look at him, to make sure he was listening. “And I don't believe I ever did anything right, to hear him tell it. I washed his shirts, shined his shoes, made him bran muffins for his digestion, and he never said so much as thank you' once. He liked his shirts done soft, don't you know, but I put starch in 'em and you could hear him all the way down to the corner.” Mrs. Hobbs had smiled then and taken off her small black hat to punch up her wispy white curls.

He'd seen a little pink spot on top of her head, which he'd realized with a start was Mrs. Hobbs coming through her hair. He'd opened the car window a crack and let his fingers hang out and had thought seriously of resting one cold finger on Mrs. Hobbs's bald spot. Just to see what she'd do. But she'd put her hat back on, turning again to look at him with her little watery eyes, as if she read his mind. The moment for touching Mrs. Hobbs's bare skin had, regrettably and finally, passed. He hadn't seen her since.

“Oh, she got her dates mixed,” his mother said, sniffing at the milk to see if it had gone sour. “She called right after you left this morning and said her appointment was tomorrow, not today. She's fine. Getting a little fuzzy, but aren't we all.”

The telephone rang and she said, “Get that, will you, John. If it's the young man for Emma, tell him she isn't home yet. He's a pest, must've called four times today.”

“Emma there yet?” a silky male voice inquired.

“Nein,” he said, tracing a little Hitler mustache on his upper lip with a handy ball-point. His mother called this dude young? He sounded pretty old. You could tell a person's age over the telephone pretty well, if you'd made a study of voices. This one was at least thirty.

“You vant leave message?” He clicked his heels, not easy while wearing sneakers, and saluted with his free hand. You turkey, how do you get off calling her four times in one day?

“Just tell her Ralph called. Tell her I'll wait to hear from her about tomorrow night, okay?”

Say please, you turd. Ralph? What kind of a name was that?

“She have your number?”

“She should have, but she's a little flaky.” Ralph gave a somewhat snide laugh. “Some days she has trouble remembering her own name. I better give it to you.”

Listen, turkey boy, don't hand me that crap. Don't give me that familiarity crap, like you know her so well. I'm not standing still for that kind of garbage, turkey boy.

“Wait a second while I get a piece of paper.” He left the receiver dangling, went into the hall, took his father's old hat out of the closet, turned down the brim all around, and practiced looking sinister in the mirror for a couple of minutes. Then he studied his gums to see if they were receding. Receding gums were all the rage these days. Were the gums an erogenous zone? He considered going up to floss his teeth.

“Okay.” Reluctantly, he returned to the phone. “I'm set. Shoot.”

“I thought you fell in,” Ralph said in a clenched voice.

“You want to give me the number? I'm in sort of a hurry.”

Ralph gave him the number. “Would you mind repeating that?” he said, not once, but twice. Pushing Ralph to the brink.

“You oughta get your ears cleaned out, sonny,” Ralph snarled.

“Emma know your last name?” he asked cheerfully, pleased with his interrogation technique. “In case this is a bar and grill she's calling you at.”

“Whose monster kid brother are you, anyway?” Ralph was on the verge of an explosion.

“Heil Hitler,” he said, and hung up fast.

“What was that all about?” His mother backed out of the refrigerator, both hands loaded with fur-bearing leftovers. “Was that Emma's young man?”

“Making soup, eh, Ma?” he asked, not answering her question. The less said about Ralph the better.

“Things get so crowded. I should've cleaned it out before Les got home, but I forgot.” She had the grace to look sheepish. “You know how I feel about throwing perfectly good food away, John. With people starving all over the world. What do you think of Emma?” She was changing the subject. You could practically hear her shifting. She was sensitive on the subject of her leftovers. “She's … different, isn't she?”

“Well, she's not Grace Lerner's niece, Ma, if that's what you mean. She's okay.” He was slippery as an eel when it came to committing himself about people. Girls, especially. He didn't want to be quoted. “I've never known anyone from Oklahoma before.” As if Oklahoma were Afghanistan. Mercifully, a car pulled up in the driveway just then and he heard them talking and laughing. He went out to greet them, glad to get away from what he thought of as the inquisition.

“Johnny!” Leslie embraced him as if she hadn't seen him in months, He stood there thinking Emma might get the idea and do the same, but no luck. He helped them carry in their packages.

“This is for you.” Emma handed his mother a package wrapped in shiny dark-brown paper, tied with a huge, classy white bow. He was pleased that his mother didn't say, “Oh, you shouldn't have,” the way phonies did when you gave them a present. He couldn't stand it when people did stuff like that. Instead, his mother said, “Thank you so much, Emma,” and picked carefully at the bow, no doubt having some future plans for it. She also collected string.

Inside was a mohair throw the color of ripe apricots. Even he could tell it was expensive.

“Why,” his mother's face flushed, “it's perfect. It's lovely. Thank you, Emma.” He wished he could have bought his mother a present as grand. She held it up against her cheek.

“I've never had such a beautiful thing; well, anyway, not in years,” his mother said. “I can't thank you enough.”

Emma ducked her head in mock shyness. “I'm glad you like it. All right if I use the shower? I promise I'll make it fast. My hair's filthy.”

She excused herself. He felt the tips of his ears get hot at the mention of “shower.” Did she know?

Les put the kettle on for tea. His mother placed the pink cyclamen in the center of the kitchen table. He got out the jar of cinnamon and sugar to sprinkle on the toast. While they waited for the kettle to sing, Les tried on her new running shoes; pale blue and guaranteed to make her run faster than anybody. “They were on sale,” she said. “I would've bought two pair but I ran out of money. Emma wanted to buy me another pair, but I wouldn't let her. She's very generous. She has scads of bills crumpled up in every pocket. It's the most amazing thing.” Leslie shook her head. “I've never known anyone as rich as Emma. She's always lending people money. Half the time I don't even think they pay her back.”

The kettle began to keen. Les made the tea and he put the bread in the toaster. Cinnamon toast was his responsibility. Leslie got down the most fragile teacups.

“Sit, Mother,” she directed. “Let the slaveys do the work.”

“You've become very bossy,” his mother said. “Hasn't she, John?”

“Higher education done it to her,” he said. The smell of burning filled the room. Both he and Les leaped for the toaster. “God, Mother, you've simply got to buy a new toaster,” Leslie said. “This thing is the pits.”

When they'd got everything settled down, Les did the honors, balancing a strainer carefully as she poured tea into each cup. They ate and drank and a feeling of well-being overcame them all.

“How about some for Emma?” his mother said.

“Oh, she won't be out for hours,” Leslie said. “When she washes her hair, she also does her nails and her exercises and about a hundred other things.”

Exercises? What kind of exercises? He saw her doing sit-ups in the bathroom, the mirror fogged over with steam. Or push-ups. Or maybe chin-ups on the shower rod. He shook his head to clear it.

“Anybody call?” Leslie asked.

“Ralph,” he said.

“Ralph who?”

“Ralph for Emma. How long's she staying, Les?” He had broken the ice by saying her name.

“She might go to North Carolina for a few days. Mother, I have a lunch date in town tomorrow. Thought I might go in with Dad on the train in the morning. That all right with you?”

“How about Emma?” he said. “She going with you?” There, he'd said it twice.

“Oh,” Leslie waved her hand vaguely, “she wants to stick around for a phone call. You don't have to worry about her. She's good at amusing herself.”

North Carolina? What does she want to go there for?

“If you want,” he said, “I can get home early, in case she needs anything. Or anything like that.”

“Good boy, Johnny. You're a real sport, sport. Do anything for a pretty girl, wouldn't you?” Leslie leaned and kissed his ear, then blew into it.

He jerked away. “Quit it,” he said, not really sore. “How come she's not going into New York with you?”

“I told you. She's expecting an important phone call. She wants to stick by the phone all day.”

“You don't mean Ralph?”

“No, not Ralph.”

“The plot thickens,” his mother said. “I'm going up to write some letters and read. Clear up here, will you? Thanks for the lovely tea.”

After she'd gone, he said, “Then she's in love.” Gloom settled over him like a shroud. Leslie's eyebrows shot up. “But of course, dahling. Who isn't? I am.”

“You always are,” he said. “Who's she in love with?”

“No one you know. This time it's a married guy, somebody she met on her last flight from Oklahoma back to college.”

It sunk in. “She's in love with a married guy?”

“Don't worry.” Leslie patted him on the knee. “It won't last. She's flighty, is our Emma. She never stays in love for long. It's part of her charm, Johnny.” Les took the cups and saucers over to the sink, began rinsing them and stacking them in the dishwasher.

“Keith's coming for dinner,” he told her, not wanting to talk about Emma anymore. He had to digest what he'd heard. “His mother's in the hospital.”

“Keith as crazy about himself as ever?” She had never liked Keith. And Keith didn't like Leslie. He wasn't sure why.

“Listen,” he turned on her, “give the guy a break. His mother tried to kill herself. That's why she's in the hospital. He's having a rough time. She drinks, takes pills. His father's no help.” Leslie's face was instantly sad. He noticed how her high cheekbones caught the light, looked glossy, as if they'd been oiled.

“I didn't know,” she said. “No wonder the poor guy's so loused up.”

He told her about Keith's father getting the cold toe and chickening out of his wedding. “How'd you like it if Ma tried to knock herself off?” he said, wanting to make her feel something for Keith. “How'd you like it if when you came home she was laid out on the couch drunk as a skunk?”

“I'm sorry—”

“You'd be loused up, too.”

The doorbell rang. He went to answer and met Emma in the hall. She was done up in a gray miniskirt over red tights and a black turtleneck sweater that looked a little too small for her. She wore yellow clogs, which made her very tall, and her freshly washed hair was braided around her head like a coronet.

“I told you I'd make it quick, didn't I?” Emma said. “I can when I want to.”

She smiled at him and he just stood there while Leslie let Keith in.

“Hi, Keith,” he heard her say. “Come in. Nice to see you. Emma, this is Keith Madigan. Emma's a friend of mine from college, Keith.” As they shook hands, he watched to see how Keith would react to Emma. Nothing happened. Keith didn't twitch a muscle. He didn't know what he'd expected, but something. He still hadn't said much to Keith about Emma, hadn't had a chance. Just as well. Let her speak for herself. Keith couldn't help but be impressed. Emma was impressive, even to someone as jaded as Keith.

His mother came downstairs, hand out in welcome.

“How's your mother, Keith?” she said. “We were so sorry to learn she wasn't well.” She'd always been sort of standoffish around Keith, but tonight she was warm and cordial, shaking his hand, concerned about his mother, and he was grateful.

“Pretty good, thanks, Mrs. Hollander. The doc says she can come home in a couple of days.” For all the concern Keith showed, his mother might have had an attack of gastritis. Les and Emma went to the kitchen to get some drinks. He knew Les would fill Emma in on Keith's situation, most likely. He put on some records. Music might get things going. It had been pretty stiff, up to now. Keith sat uneasily on the edge of his chair, his big hands dangling down over his knees. Leslie brought him a glass of ginger ale. It struck him that Keith wasn't used to family gatherings.

“Do you do touch dancing here?” Emma came over to Keith and sat on the floor at his feet. A pang shot through him and he thought, why didn't she sit on the floor beside me? Her miniskirt, he noticed, was minier sitting than it had been standing. It was either luck or careful planning that she had on tights. She had terrific thighs. He couldn't take his eyes away from her thighs. Her knees weren't bad, either. He decided he was a thigh man.