Smart Women (6 page)

“Because if Sara’s going to spend any time with him I want her in a decent neighborhood. If I leave it up to him he’ll rent some place off Twenty-eighth Street.”

“But you’re in the business . . . surely you could . . .”

“Do it for me, Margo . . . please . . .”

“Okay. If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

“It is . . . yes . . . it’s what I have to do.”

Margo knew that there were times when you could feel so desperate that just making a plan helped. It gave you a feeling of control. Following her separation from Freddy, Margo had experienced that kind of despair, until she’d mapped out a plan for the next year in her life, and then, even though she eventually changed her mind, that sinking feeling disappeared. So that evening before dinner Margo called on her neighbor, Martin Hathaway, to see about the apartment.

“What were you doing talking to Mr. Hathaway, Mother?” Michelle asked later at the dinner table.

“Do I need an excuse to talk to Mr. Hathaway?” Margo said. God, she sounded as hostile as Michelle. If you lived with it long enough it became contagious.

“I thought you said he was a sniveling old fart,” Michelle said.

“Did I say that?” Margo asked, trying to laugh.

“On several occasions,” Michelle said. “And it’s true, Mother . . . he is a sniveling old fart.”

“I was discussing the apartment over his garage,” Margo said.

“What about it?”

“Well . . . B.B.’s ex-husband is coming to town . . . I told you that, didn’t I?”

“Yeah . . . so?”

“So, she’s trying to find him a place to stay.”

“Go on . . .”

“She asked me to find out about renting the Hathaway apartment for him.”

“For how long?” Michelle asked.

“About three months.”

“Let me get this straight,” Michelle said, holding her fork in the air. “You’re saying that B.B.’s ex-husband is going to live here . . . next door to us?”

“Yes,” Margo said.

“God, Mother!” Michelle said, plunking her fork down on the table. She stood up, grabbed a deviled egg and shouted, “I just can’t believe you!” She shoved the egg into her mouth, charged out of the room, and stomped down the stairs.

Margo stood up and called after her. “Why don’t you ever say what you mean, Michelle? Why won’t you communicate?”

But Michelle did not answer. Margo sat back down at the table, feeling very tired. “Why won’t she communicate?” Margo asked Stuart. “Why won’t either of you commumicate?”

“Give me a break, Mom,” Stuart said. “I’m eating my supper.”

5

P
ROBABLY
S
ARA SHOULD HAVE
told her mother about Daddy’s plan to come to Boulder. Then Mom wouldn’t have been so surprised by his letter. On the day that the letter arrived Clare had been at the house when Sara got home from school.

“Where’s Mom?” Sara had asked.

“She’s in bed,” Clare said.

“What’s wrong . . . is she sick?”

“She’s having a bit of a crisis,” Clare said.

At first Sara hadn’t understood because Clare was talking very West Texas and when she did every word melted together, making it sound as if Mom had a
Bitova Cry Cyst,
which sounded serious. “What should we do . . . should we call a doctor?”

“No,” Clare said. “There’s not much you can do. It takes time, that’s all.”

“It’s not catching, is it?” Sara asked.

“No,” Clare said.

“That’s what I thought,” Sara said. “How long do you think it will last?”

“It has to run its course,” Clare told her. “Don’t worry. She’s going to be fine.”

That afternoon Sara heard her mother crying and saying things like,
He has no right . . . he can’t do this to me.
And then,
I’ve always known I couldn’t trust him and this proves it, doesn’t it?
So Sara knew the crisis had to do with her father.

She called Jennifer for advice, but Jennifer told her to just stay out of it. That parents have to learn to solve their own problems. Then Jennifer reminded her to eat lightly because of Arts Night. Sara and Jennifer were both in the dance program at school.

Sara was disappointed when her mother said she couldn’t get out of bed to go to Arts Night and disappointed again when Clare said that she wouldn’t be able to take her either because she had to go to some business dinner in Denver. So Clare asked Margo Sampson if she could take her and Margo said yes. Sara did not want to go to Arts Night with Margo. She hardly knew Margo. She would rather have gone with Jennifer’s family, but everything was arranged before she had a chance to say a word. Margo came by with her kids, Stuart and Michelle, and took Sara to Beau Jo’s for pizza. Stuart ate a whole pizza by himself, with pepperoni and extra cheese. Margo, Michelle, and Sara shared a large veggie supreme with whole wheat crust. Sara picked the onions and the mushrooms off her slice and Michelle picked off the olives. Margo said, “Maybe veggie supreme was the wrong choice.”

When Sara was younger and Michelle babysat her, Michelle never let Sara stay up late like babysitters are supposed to do. Sara’s first babysitting job was coming up soon and she was going to be really nice and let the kid stay up as late as he wanted, even if he fell asleep on the floor.

Sara didn’t finish her pizza. She was afraid she’d get gas.

When Sara came home from Arts Night she tiptoed into her mother’s room. Her mother was asleep. Her mother’s necklace, the one that Clare had given to her for her fortieth birthday, lay on the bedside table. It spelled out friendship in tiny gold letters. Sara thought it was very pretty.

Mom opened her eyes. “How was Arts Night?”

“Pretty good,” Sara said. Her mother’s eyes were all puffy from crying and her face had red blotches on it. “Are you feeling any better?”

“A little . . . but my head still hurts.”

“Do you want a cold cloth?”

“That would be nice.”

Sara went to her mother’s bathroom and held a blue washcloth under the faucet until it felt very cold. Then she squeezed it out and brought it to her mother. Mom lay back against the pillows and Sara placed the cloth on her forehead. “Better?”

“Much.”

Sara sat on the edge of the bed holding her mother’s hand. She loved the feel of her mother’s hands. Her skin was so soft and her fingers were long and thin, with perfectly polished nails. She wore two delicate gold rings, one on the ring finger of her right hand and one on the middle finger next to it.

As Sara tiptoed out of her mother’s room she saw the letter from her father lying face up on the dresser. She read it quickly, while pretending to be arranging Mom’s perfume bottles in a row. It was a friendly letter. It didn’t say anything bad.

Mom’s crisis lasted five days and when she finally got out of bed and went back to work she was really tense. When Mom got tense she yelled at Sara. Then Sara would start biting her nails, which only made her mother yell some more. For weeks after that Sara’s stomach felt queasy and she took Pepto-Bismol every day. She was glad when it was time to leave for summer camp. She figured that by August her mother would be used to the idea of having her father in town.

6

A
NDREW HAD CALLED
B.B. on August 20 to say that he was in Hays, Kansas, and expected to arrive in Boulder by eight p.m. It had been six years since she had heard his voice. Six years since they had seen each other. She was a wreck all day, knowing that he was on his way. She gulped too many vitamin C’s and washed them down with too much cranberry juice. Her stomach tied into hard little knots, giving her spasms of pain. She had just rye toast and camomile tea for supper. Then she showered and tried to get dressed, but she couldn’t decide what to wear. So she sat on the edge of her bed in her robe for an hour, gnawing on the insides of her cheeks, until they were swollen and sore.

Finally, she got off her bed and dressed in jeans, sandals, and a baggy white sweater. She let her hair hang loose. She wore no makeup. What did she care how she looked to him anyway?

It was a matter of pride, she decided, spraying her wrists and the back of her neck with Opium, out of habit. She wanted him to be sorry he’d lost her. She wanted him to love her still, to desire her, so that she could reject him again. Punish him. Cause him pain. The way he had caused her pain. Damn him! She had worked it out so carefully. She had convinced herself that she would never have to see him again. At least not until Sara graduated from high school or college or got married. And each of those events were years away. One of them might be dead by then.

Once last spring, after a lengthy session with her lawyer, who had told her that legally she could not keep Andrew out of town, she had become so filled with rage that she had gone to her room after dinner and had screamed, surprising herself as well as Sara.

Sara had rushed into her room, her face ashen. “Mom . . . Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Get out!” B.B. had yelled.

“Is it about Daddy coming to live in Boulder?”

“He’s trying to ruin my life!” B.B. had cried. She’d picked up a shoe and hurled it across the room. It smashed the little stained glass window above her desk. “That goddamned father of yours is trying to ruin my life!”

“No, he’s not, Mom . . . really, he’s not . . .”

“Oh, what do you know?” B.B. had cried. “You’re just a baby.”

Now Andrew was on his way and there was nothing B.B. could do about it. She walked through her house, adjusting the pillows on the sofas, picking a wilted flower out of the arrangement on the piano, running her fingers along the oak dining table. Everything looked perfect. Everything was in order. She’d done a good job. And she’d done it on her own. She didn’t need anything from him.

She opened the front door and stepped outside. The sky was cloud-covered and the wind was picking up. There was a rumble of thunder in the distance and flashes of lightning over the mountains. She sat on her front porch swing, with Lucy at her side, swallowing hard each time she heard a car.

And then a battered Datsun pickup, the color of infant diarrhea, pulled into her driveway. He never did have any taste. He parked and got out of the truck. Lucy stood and began to bark. B.B. hushed her. He had grown a beard, darker than his sun-streaked hair, which was shaggy now. He was wearing jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and running shoes. During their marriage she had selected his clothes. He’d had nine cashmere sweaters with a color-coordinated shirt for each. He was the best-dressed reporter on the
Miami Herald.
She used to stand inside his closet, surrounded by his things—shoes lined up, jackets and trousers carefully arranged, ties hanging in a row—and she would get this warm, safe feeling. He was her man. Now he looked like some aging hippie. The kind of man Margo went out with. Boulder was full of them.

“Hello, Francine,” Andrew said.

At the sound of his voice, she felt the tea and toast come up, up from her stomach to the very edge of her throat. She had to fight to get it back down.

“I’m known as B.B. here,” she told him. “For Brady Broder.”

“I’ll try to remember,” he said.

She did not look directly at him.

“You’re looking good,” he said. “I like your hair that way.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re looking . . . different.”

He laughed and ran his hand through his hair. His laugh used to be enough to make her laugh.

“Is Sara asleep yet?” he asked.

“She’s spending the night at a friend’s.”

“Oh. I guess I thought she’d be here. You did tell her I was coming tonight, didn’t you?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. I thought it made more sense to wait.” She was pleased at how steady her voice sounded. Pleased and surprised.

He paused, kicking a stone away from his foot. “Okay. I’ll see her tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow she’s going to Denver to do some back-to-school shopping.”

He didn’t say anything.

She did not take her hand away from Lucy’s head. At that moment Lucy was her security, her connection to reality.

“Well,” he said. “I guess that will give me a chance to settle in.”