Souvenir of Cold Springs (6 page)

“Thanks,” he said. “You should talk.” They smiled at each other and linked arms and went into the living room where there was a weak fire burning. Dinah the cat sat washing on the rug. Heather's father poked the fire, and it flared brightly then subsided to a glow. “I'm so glad to see you, baby,” he said. He sat down in the old easy chair; the cat jumped immediately to his lap and settled herself. “I was worried about you yesterday. I must have called the airport ten times. They finally told me your flight was delayed.”

“There was a terrorist or something. And then just now I had this bizarre cabdriver. A really sick guy. The world is starting to give me the creeps.”

“I got so depressed when you didn't show up last night.”

“Oh, Daddy. Can't you wait until I've been here a while before you start laying the guilt trip on me?” She sat down in a chair opposite him. “What's wrong with my outfit?”

“A bit preppy,” he said. “Is this what you kids at Berkeley have come to? Monogrammed shetlands and penny loafers? You look like my girlfriend Patty back in tenth grade. You look like you're on your way to the hop.”

“Everyone's wearing them. Back to basics, Daddy.”

“Well, you look nice, anyway. You always look nice. You look like your mother.”

“With you, I don't know if that's a compliment or not.”

“Definitely,” he said. “Definitely a compliment. How is the old girl? Where was she supposed to call from?” There was a glass of something colorless on the table beside him. He picked it up and drank. “And what made you think she was going to call, anyway?”

“I don't know, I just had a feeling.” Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked frantically. “Actually, I'd kind of planned to see her on this trip, but she's gone to Palm Beach, presumably with one of those playboy types she hangs around with.” She kept the tears back, but the threat of them was ominous: she had sworn she would keep her cool on this trip, in the face of no matter what. She changed the subject. “Peter's not coming, is he?”

“He's in Mexico with some friend of his. He'll probably come north for Christmas to see your mother.”

Peter was a sophomore at a branch of the University of Alabama, where he had acquired a Southern accent and a rifle. He had taken Heather to a rifle range last Christmas. She spent a long, frightening afternoon watching Peter score bull's-eye after bull's-eye and talk to the men there about gauges and ammo and telescopic sights. He made her try some shooting, and she had been so scared of the noise and the way the gun kicked when she pulled the trigger that she felt sick and shaky for hours afterward. And Peter—she'd been scared of Peter, too.

She said, “I guess I'm supposed to spend Christmas at Mom's, but I'll come up to Providence and see you afterward.”

“For New Year's?”

“I have to get back to do New Year's Eve with Timmy.”

“And how's our boy Tim?” He tossed it off, but she knew he was hoping they'd get married when Heather graduated. He thought of Timmy as a solid, stable type just because he was in law school.

“He's all right. Same as ever, I guess.”

“Sounds like a wild and torrid romance we've got here.”

“He's all right, Daddy. We're getting along just fine.”

“One of those towering passions that sweep all before it—a love for the ages.”

“Cut it out,” she said, but she had to laugh. “Where is everybody?”

He ticked them off on his fingers. “Two aunties, one great and one regular, in the kitchen cooking dinner. One deadly uncle down in the cellar attempting to fix the washing machine, which overflowed this morning. One arty great-uncle and his unsuitably young wife out in the studio looking for some precious artifacts he left behind when he scuttled away to England. One teenybopper cousin up in her room listening to the hideous music of her generation.”

Heather listened. Something by the Police floated faintly down from upstairs. “Oh God,” she said.

“Be nice to your cousin. She looks up to you as a role model.”

“Oh definitely.”

“And you should probably go out right now and say hello to Aunt Nell.”

“I should. I will. She's mad at me—right?”

“Well—” He drained his glass and looked around distracted. “Maybe a little.” He started to get up. The cat raised her head, looking alarmed.

“Let me.” Heather went over to the cupboard by the piano where Aunt Nell kept the booze and returned with a bottle. “This?”

“Your auntie's blessed Tanqueray.” He stroked the cat, and she curled up again. “Fill it to the brim—with gin.”

She filled it halfway. “I don't know how you can drink straight gin.”

“Like this.” With jerky robot gestures, he raised the glass to his mouth. “See?” He drank and smacked his lips. “Piece of cake.”

“Yuck.”

“Actually, if you'd bring me a couple of rocks from the kitchen I'd appreciate it.”

Her great-aunt Nell was bent over the turkey, basting, and her aunt Lucy was patting some kind of gray mess into a bread pan. When Heather came in, Lucy was saying, “Her art teacher says she has real talent, if she'd only apply herself.”

Heather said, “Hi, everybody.”

Aunt Nell straightened up, her glasses misted from the oven, and said, “Well. It's about time.” She closed the oven door and set the timer before she went over to give Heather a hug. “I can't believe you went to a hotel when we had your bed all ready for you.”

Lucy kissed her cheek and said, “Don't you look nice, Heather. I love your skirt. Is that real camel hair? And look at this.” She touched Heather's sleeve. “It's sweet, with the monogram. But you look more like Cambridge than California. Doesn't everyone in California go around in jogging clothes all the time? You look very—what's the word? Pulled together. Something I've never been able to achieve.” She looked down at her jeans and bare feet as if they puzzled her—as if she truly didn't know what the alternatives were. Heather was aware that her aunt Lucy took pride in the way she looked—thought it showed how spiritual and caring and socially responsible she was. “I have a personal shopper who does it for me,” Heather said.

Her aunt gave a dubious laugh, not sure if Heather was joking, then quit suddenly and looked worried. “Teddy was really upset last night. Wasn't he, Aunt Nell?”

“To say the least.” Nell stood wiping her glasses on her apron. Heather could remember the apron from her early childhood: a red gingham skirt and white cotton bib embroidered with apples and pears. It was spotlessly clean and looked starched. Without glasses, Aunt Nell's eyes were old and squinty, pale blue. “He started on the gin right after dinner, Heather. He was so worried about you.”

“Well, he's drinking straight gin right now, and I'm here, so it's obviously not my fault. I refuse to take the blame for my father's drinking.”

“Nobody's talking about blame,” Lucy said.

“Oh really.” Heather poked at the bread tin. “What on earth is this?”

“It's for Margaret and me. Lentil loaf. It may not look like much, but it's very good. I hope you'll try it.”

“You guys are still vegetarians?”

“Being a vegetarian isn't something you get over, Heather, like an illness.”

“I know plenty of ex-vegetarians.”

“Well, I'm not one of them.”

“Get yourself a Pepsi, Heather,” Aunt Nell said. “Mr. Fahey is still sending it over. I don't know how to tell him I never touch the stuff. Thea drinks it once in a while with rum in it.”

They all laughed, but Heather was embarrassed by the mention of Thea. She was Aunt Nell's friend—companion—roommate: no one had ever inquired too closely, though Heather had once seen them embracing in the upstairs hall.

Heather let her laugh dwindle to a polite smile. “Where is Thea?”

“Down cellar with Mark working on the washing machine,” Nell said. “That damned thing. I'm going to have to get a new one, I guess, but I'm waiting until they go on sale at Sears. It's terrible to be a slave to your machines.”

“At least it's just the machines making trouble this year,” Lucy said. “So far, anyway. No family feuds.”

Heather turned her back on Lucy and went to the refrigerator for a Pepsi. The name hung unspoken in the room: Kay. What Lucy meant was: now that Kay's not here, no one makes trouble, no one starts feuds. God forbid anyone should ask, how's your mother, Heather?

Aunt Nell glanced at the clock. “Mr. Fahey should be here any minute. And I wish Jamie and Sandra would come in from the studio. He's out there rummaging around looking for some old sketches of his. I told him I haven't seen them in years, but he insists they're there.”

“Maybe he and Sandra are snowed in,” Heather said. She put ice cubes in her glass and looked out the window. Huge white flakes drifted down, as if in slow motion. The studio was over the garage. She could see a light on. Then it went out, and she saw her great-uncle Jamie and his wife, Sandra, come down the steps and begin to struggle up the back sidewalk. They were joined in the driveway by Mr. Fahey from next door, wearing a red cap and a red-plaid wool jacket. “Nope—here they come,” Heather said.

She was shy, suddenly, about meeting Sandra, and she got another ice cube from the refrigerator and took it in to her father and dropped it in his glass. He was sitting as she had left him, petting the cat. She noticed that the pendant around her father's neck was the head of a dog or a wolf with grinning ferocious jaws. “One arty uncle and wife are coming up the path with one ancient neighbor.”

“So I hear.” The back door slammed, there were exclamations in the kitchen, a nasal English voice that must be Sandra, old Mr. Fahey's cough. Her father said, “Maybe you should go up and get Margaret away from that degenerate caterwauling. God. When I was her age I was listening to
Iolanthe
.”

“Yeah, but you're a wacko, Dad.”

“I am not a wacko. I am a person of culture and refinement.” He transferred Dinah gently to the rug and stood up. “Is Mark in the kitchen?”

“No.”

“Then I think I'll be sociable. Your new English auntie is quite a tomato,” he added, winking at her.

She watched him go, the cat trailing him. He never staggered, never acted drunk. She tried to figure out how much gin he had had. The green Tanqueray bottle was almost two-thirds empty. Some of that was from last night, of course, and the bottle may not have been full to begin with. But probably it had been.

She took the Pepsi and her bag upstairs to the room she always slept in, the cubbyhole next to where her great-grandfather had died and then her grandmother. As far as she knew, no one had died in this room. She took the barrette out of her hair and brushed it hard, and put the barrette back in, and took out her green wool dress and hung it up. Maybe she would die there. Let the dark devils come. She had death in her bag: the bottle of Seconal. She couldn't look at it without the thought crossing her mind. Wash them down with Pepsi, and—whammo: good-bye, Mom. So long, Daddy. Drink up, folks.

She burst in on Margaret in the middle of “Don't Stand So Close to Me.” As far as Heather could tell, Margaret had been lying on the bed staring into space, but she jumped up when Heather came in and looked caught. “Oh God, Heather, you scared me. I didn't know you were here.”

“Just arrived. How are you?”

“Okay. How about you?”

“Slightly alienated but otherwise okay.”

“They were really mad at you last night.”

Heather sat down on the bed. “So what else is new? How's it going? How's school and all that?”

Margaret propped herself up on her elbows and shrugged. Heather couldn't understand why anyone would dress the way her cousin did—worse than Lucy, who was just a slob who refused to take the trouble. Margaret obviously worked at it. She wore plaid pedal pushers over white tights, and a V-necked sweater striped in black and white. Her hair was bunched up on one side in a green rubber band. Her eye makeup looked like what Heather had removed in the mirror the night before.

“What're you in?” Heather asked her. “Tenth grade?”

“Yeah.”

“How's geometry?”

“I did geometry last year. I'm in the accelerated program. This year I've got trig.”

“Oh.” Heather laughed. “Well, how's trig? God, I hated math.”

“I kind of like it, actually. It makes things bearable. Just.”

“Really.” Heather searched for something else to say. Talking to her cousin filled her with a mathlike boredom and despair. From where she sat, she could see out the window: still snowing. “God, what uncivilized weather. Can you believe that two days ago in California I was hiking in the mountains?” Margaret looked at her blankly, as if she wasn't sure what hiking was, or mountains, and Heather said, “So. What's happening in your life, Margaret? Do you have any boyfriends?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Does that mean yes or no?”

“No.”

“You should do something with your hair.”

“I do,” Margaret said. “I put it up in this rubber band.”

“Want me to French-braid it for you?”

“No, thanks. I really prefer it like this.”

The tape ended, and Margaret turned it over. Oh God: Spandau Ballet. Must everyone be so predictable. Heather thought of her little sister, Ann, out at her new school in Michigan. Lambert Prep, Ann's fourth school in three years. Each one was slightly tougher, like a series of trials in some fairy tale. At her last school, they weren't allowed to listen to music or use makeup. They wore uniforms and were allowed to leave school only if they were accompanied by a parent. Their letters home were supervised. Ann had run away twice, and when they brought her back the second time she said to the headmaster, “So kick me out, asshole. Who gives a fuck?”