Sure of You (27 page)

For a moment, remembering, she felt a rush of unfettered affection for Connie, something she’d never been able to manage while her old classmate was still alive. She flashed on Connie looking radiant in her
BABY
T-shirt—the one with the arrow pointing to her bulbous belly—and it struck her again how much single parenthood would have suited Connie.

When Shawna had repaired to her room with Connie’s python, Mary Ann dragged out her suitcases and made a few decisions about the stuff she would take to New York. Burke had reserved her a suite at the Plaza, and Lillie Rubin was furnishing her wardrobe, so she resolved to pack light and ship the rest of her things later. Anyway, Chloe had promised to take her shopping as soon as she arrived.

It would be cold, of course, so she went mostly for the tweed and cashmere. She made choices that were businesslike and neutral, so they would see she was an empty canvas, not the finished product. She would work on her look later, after she’d been able to analyze the setting they had planned for it.

Shawna seemed to sense that this was a good time to ask for the moon. It was by her decree that they drove to Mel’s Drive-In for chocolate shakes that night, following a roller coaster of a route, which included the steepest slope of Leavenworth.

“Look!” said Shawna, pointing, as they passed the Barbary Steps. “There’s Daddy and Michael.”

“Sit down, Puppy.”

“Look, there…see?”

“I see.” They were trudging up the steps, their backs to the street. She saw Thack’s pale, feathery head under the streetlight at the top. She decided that Mrs. Madrigal must be back from Greece.

She felt a brief pang of paranoia, knowing they would talk about her tonight—distorting the facts, no doubt—making her seem like an unfeeling monster. It wasn’t a bit fair.

Shawna made a lunge for the wheel. “Honk,” she ordered.

She held the kid back with an arm. “Sit down, Puppy. That’s very dangerous.”

“Honk the horn.”

“No. This isn’t the time. Put your seat belt on.”

The child threw herself back against the seat and pushed out her lower lip.

“We’ll call them when we get back.”

Silence.

“O.K.?”

“When is he coming home?”

“Soon.”

Shawna turned and looked out the window. “I want extra malt,” she said.

Not That

S
HE SOUNDED FUNNY
,”
SAID MICHAEL
,
AS THEY PICKED
their way along the ballast stones at the head of the lane. “Didn’t you notice it?”

“Not particularly,” said Thack.

“Well, she did to me.”

“It’s probably jet lag,” said Brian. “Unless you mean funny about…?”

“No,” said Michael, knowing he meant Mary Ann. “Not that. Something else.”

As they passed through the lych-gate at Number 28, a cat leapt from the mossy roof, clambering for safety up an ivy-wrapped tree. The windows of the old shingled house seemed to glow with gratitude for their mistress’s return.

There was music—a pleasant sort of new age ragtime—coming from Michael’s old apartment on the second floor. He had never met his successors and really didn’t want to now. Tonight he hoped it would just be family. He didn’t want to share Mrs. Madrigal with people he didn’t know.

When the landlady opened the door, the first thing that struck him was her tan. Her Wedgwood eyes went wide and actressy as she hugged them one at a time, in order of their appearance: Michael, Thack, Brian.

“You all look gorgeous!” she said, leading them into her parlor. “Sit down. There are joints on the table there. Some sherry if you like. I have a few adjustments to make in the kitchen. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Brian and Thack took the sofa. Michael remained standing, unconvinced and a little unsettled by this flurry of ferocious hostessing. “Can I give you a hand?” he asked.

The landlady seemed to hesitate. “If you like.”

In the kitchen, after slipping several cottage pies into the oven, she gave him another hug and said: “That was from Mona. She made me promise.”

“How is she?”

“Lovely. A very charming, grownup person.”

“
Mona
?”

The landlady smiled and closed the oven door. “I tried to get her to visit us, but, as usual, she’s completely wrapped up in that house of hers.”

“Can’t imagine where she gets that.”

Her smile turned a little wan. “I’ve missed you, dear.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call before you left.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“No,” he said. “I promised.”

“Well, you had so much on your mind. Oh…here, before I forget.” She dashed off to the bedroom and returned with a small cardboard box. “Lady Roughton said to tell you this is the last trace of Sappho on the island.”

It was a key ring with a green enamel medallion bearing the poet’t likeness. He smiled and enjoyed the smooth feel of it beneath his thumb. “Did she fall in love?”

“She wouldn’t tell me,” said Mrs. Madrigal.

“I’ll bet.”

“I don’t blame her, really.”

“How about you?”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged.

She batted her eyes at him in a way that suggested he was being impertinent. “I had lovely walks in the hills.”

He chuckled. “Good.”

She turned away and began rinsing spinach leaves under the tap. “I’ve some pictures to show you later.”

“Great.”

After a silence, she asked: “Is she leaving for good?”

“Looks like it.”

She gave a little murmur and continued rinsing.

“It’s a big break, really.”

“Is he all right?”

“No,” he answered. “Not particularly.”

“When does she leave?”

“Day after tomorrow, I think.”

The landlady dried her hands on an Acropolis dish towel. She had about her such an air of quiet competence that he imagined for a moment she would set to work fixing things. Like a doctor who’d been given all the symptoms and was ready to prescribe the cure.

Instead, she opened her ancient refrigerator and removed a tray of stuffed grape leaves. “Take these in for me, would you, dear?”

Snaps

“…
AND IN PETRA
,
WHICH IS THE NEXT VILLAGE OVER
,
THERE
is something they call a tourist collective, which is made up solely of women. They sell crafts and rent out their homes and such. And it’s the first time the women of that village have ever made a penny—or a drachma or what have you—independent of their husbands. They just sit there with their little trays of lace, with these enormous grins on their faces…”

After several joints and a long dinner, Brian’s mind had begun to wander, but this part of the landlady’s travelogue, drifting toward him out of nowhere, seemed somehow pertinent to his pain. He wondered if she’d if she’d intended it to be.

“I thought you had snapshots,” said Michael.

“Now, dear…are you sure you want…?”

“Absolutely,” said Thack, flicking his worry beads vigorously. The landlady had given them each a string, marking their places at the table with them. Blue ceramic for Brian, orange for Thack, olive wood for Michael. Somewhere, undoubtedly, there was a string for Mary Ann.

Mrs. Madrigal left the room, apparently in search of her snapshots.

Across the table Michael smiled drowsily. “She looks good, doesn’t she?”

Brian nodded.

“Something agreed with her,” said Thack.

Mrs. Madrigal returned with the photographs, fanning them out like playing cards on her velvet-draped sideboard. “I’ll let everyone look for himself. You can do without my narration for a while.”

Brian joined the others at the sideboard.

“I didn’t know you owned a camera,” said Michael.

“I don’t, actually,” said the landlady. “Someone else took these.”

The shots were largely what Brian had expected, except maybe for the absence of whitewash. Parched hills above vibrant blue water. Random donkeys. Brightly painted fishing boats. Anna and Mona squinting into the sun, the family resemblance more evident than ever as they held up middle age from either end.

“The villa looks wonderful,” said Thack. “This is it, isn’t it? With the terrace?”

“That’s it.”

“This is Mona.” Michael showed one of the snaps to Thack.

“Yeah. I recognized her.”

“How?” Michael asked.

“That shot she sent us last Christmas.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Brian was drifting again, dwelling morosely on the consolation of “us” and how it was about to vanish from his own vocabulary. Mrs. Madrigal locked eyes with him and smiled with excruciating kindness.

Michael held up another snap. “Is this the one who took the pictures?”

“Which?” said the landlady.

“This guy who looks like Cesar Romero.”

Brian was sure he saw the color rise in the landlady’s cheeks.

“Yes,” she replied demurely. “That’s Stratos. He showed us around.”

Michael nodded, giving her a sly look.

“Who needs sherry?” asked Mrs. Madrigal, holding out the bottle and looking everywhere but at Michael.

“Here,” called Thack, reaching toward her with his glass. He had noticed Michael’s teasing, apparently, and was helping her change the subject. “This stuff is great, by the way. So nutty.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Mmm.”

“It was new down at Molinari’s…”

“I’ll take some,” Brian put in.

“Lovely.” As she poured she looked directly at him and spoke in a low, even voice. “Let’s take ours to the courtyard, shall we?”

Somehow, he felt as if he’d just been summoned to the principal’s office.

“You boys will excuse us, won’t you?”

Michael and Thack answered “Sure” in unison.

The bench where they sat was usually referred to as “Jon’s bench,” since his ashes had been buried in the flower bed just beyond it. The soil there was bare now, but by the end of winter, the air would be narcotic with the scent of hyacinths.

“Michael told me,” the landlady began.

“I know.” He smiled at her a little. “He told me he told you.”

“Are you all right?”

He shrugged.

She paused awhile, then said: “I won’t tell you it’ll get better…”

He finished it for her. “…because you know I know that.”

She chuckled ruefully. “Oh, dear. Am I that easy to read?”

“No. Not really.”

“I hate old ladies who have homilies for everything.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re not like that.”

“I hope and pray not.”

He smiled at her wearily.

“Have you spoken to her?” she asked.

“Not lately.”

She took this in silently.

“You think I should, huh?”

Mrs. Madrigal arranged her long fingers in her lap. “I think there are some scenes…we’re simply required to play. If we don’t, we rob ourselves of ever feeling anything at all.”

“Oh, I feel something.”

“I know.”

He snatched a little pine cone from the ground and flung it into the shrubs. “She’s leaving day after tomorrow. I was planning to be back then.”

“What about Shawna?”

“I’m still taking her to school every day.”

“I meant afterwards.”

“Oh. I’ll manage. That’s no problem.”

“If you need help during the day, you know how glad I’d be to keep an eye on her.”

“Thanks.”

The landlady cast her eyes around the courtyard. “She loves it down here, you know.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“She’s a smart little girl.” Mrs. Madrigal looked at him. “She’ll know how to deal with this.”

Another nod. “She’s already doing better than I am.” His embarrassment finally got the best of him. “I’m sorry we stopped bringing her by.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“No…I mean it.”

She reached over and took his hand.

They sat there in silence, staring into the shadows. Finally he said: “You think I oughta do it, huh?”

“What’s that?”

“Go up there and say goodbye like a man.”

She nodded.

“Bummer.”

“I know.” She sighed a little. “I just had to do it myself.”

He was thrown. “With Mary Ann?”

“No. In Lesbos.”

He thought about it for a moment. “The man in the picture?”

She nodded.

“So you had a little…?”

“Yes.”

“And you miss him.”

“Like a sonofabitch,” she said.

Stay, Then

N
O SHOW TOMORROW MEANT NO HOMEWORK
,
SHE
realized. With Shawna in bed and her bags packed, she felt oddly like a sixth grader on Saturday morning. Determined to enjoy it, she had taken a long bath, then curled up in her bathrobe on the sofa with the Linda Ellerbee book. She’d been trying to finish the damned thing for almost a year.

When a key rattled in the front door, she knew that Brian was home.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” She laid the book on her stomach and yawned so unexpectedly that “Excuse me” followed as a reflex. It must have sounded idiotic to him.

He walked past her and down the hall to the bathroom. She heard him taking a leak, then splashing water on his face. She sat up on the sofa but didn’t rise. If he wanted to talk to her, he’d be back.

He was, and he took the chair across from her. “I was down at Mrs. Madrigal’s.”

“She’s back, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Did she feed you? There’s some turkey salad if…”

“No, thanks. I’m full.”

She nodded.

“I’m not staying.”

After a pause she said: “I wish you would.”

He shook his head.

“I hate that it’s happening like this.”

He shrugged.

She gave him the gentlest look she could manage. “Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Stay, then.”

“It’s not a good idea, O.K.?”

He was obviously hurting, so she didn’t pursue it. “I picked up the laundry,” she said instead.

“Thanks.”

“I thought you might be low on shirts.”

He nodded. “Is Shawna O.K.?”