Tell Me No Secrets (43 page)

Jess laughed and Tyler cried louder. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said, bending down to her nephew’s height while keeping her arm raised, allowing Sherry to wrap the gauze around her injured hand. “I wasn’t laughing at you. It’s just that I know exactly how you feel. I don’t like throwing up either.”

“Who does?” Barry asked, reaching for the phone on an end table beside the sofa. “What about it, Jess? Is medical attention required?”

“Not for me.” She let her father lead her to the sofa where he carefully positioned her between himself and his new love. “I’m tough. Remember?” But if Barry recalled the details of their last argument, he gave no such acknowledgment.

“Did they ever find out who trashed your car?” Maureen asked.

Jess shook her head, feeling Rick Ferguson’s eerie presence in the room, like the ghost of Christmas Past. She
shooed it away with the sound of her voice. “So, I understand you’re quite an artist,” she said to the woman sitting beside her.

Sherry laughed. It was a charming laugh, like wind chimes in a warm breeze. Jess heard her mother’s more raucous laughter in the distance. “I just play around really, although I’ve always had a very deep love of art,” Sherry explained, looking over at Jess’s father for approval, something Jess’s mother would never have done, Jess thought.

“Is that art or Art?” he asked playfully.

Again Sherry laughed. “Both, I guess.”

“Do you prefer oils or pastels?” Jess asked, not caring one way or the other, but anxious to get away from the subject of love.

“I’m better with pastels. Your father prefers oils.”

Jess winced. Her mother would never have presumed to speak for her father. And did this woman really feel it necessary to inform her of her own father’s preferences?

“Sherry’s being overly modest,” her father said, presuming now to speak for Sherry. Were all people in love guilty of such presumption? Jess wondered. “She’s quite a talented artist.”

“Well,” Sherry demurred. “I’m not too bad at still life.”

“Her peaches are terrific,” Art Koster stated with a wink.

“Art!” Sherry laughed, reaching across Jess to mockingly slap Art Koster’s hand. Jess felt vaguely sick. “Your father is better at the nudes.”

“Figures,” said Barry.

“I keep offering to paint her picture,” Art said, smiling at Sherry as if Jess wasn’t sitting between them. “But she says she’s holding out for Jeff Koons.”

Again the sound of wind, chimes in the air. Jess supposed she should know who Jeff Koons was, but she didn’t, although she laughed anyway, as if she did.

Jess wondered what her mother would make of this pleasant little family scene: Maureen standing beside Barry, his arm draped across her shoulder, her arms wrapped around her son; Jess snuggled on the sofa between her father and the woman he wanted to paint in the nude; the twins bouncing in their Jolly Jumpers, their saucerlike eyes keeping a guarded eye out for their mother. That’s right, Jess thought, watching them gently bounce up and down, like human yo-yos, their booteed toes barely touching the floor. Keep an eye on your mother, she warned them silently. Watch out that she doesn’t disappear.

“Earth to Jess,” she heard again. “Earth to Jess. Come in, Jess.”

“Sorry,” Jess said quickly, catching the look of annoyance in Barry’s eyes, as if her inattentiveness was some how a reflection on his abilities as a host. “Were you saying something?”

“Sherry asked you if you liked to paint.”

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

“That much was obvious,” Barry said as Jess caught the worried look that suddenly clouded Maureen’s eyes.

“It’s not important,” Sherry immediately qualified. “I was just making conversation.”

“Actually I don’t know whether like painting or not,” Jess answered. “I haven’t done it since I was a child.”

“Remember the time you, got a hold of those crayons and you drew all over the walls of the living room,” Maureen said, “and Mom got so mad because they’d just been freshly painted.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget it,” Maureen said. “It was the loudest I think I ever heard Mom yell.”

“She didn’t yell.”

“She did that day. You could hear her for blocks.”

“She never yelled,” Jess insisted.

“I thought you said you didn’t even remember the incident,” Barry reminded her.

“I think I can remember my own mother.”

“I remember lots of times she yelled,” Maureen said.

Jess shrugged, trying to disguise her growing anger. “Never at me.”

“Always at you.”

Jess stood up, walked to the Christmas tree, her hand throbbing. “When are we going to decorate this thing?”

“We thought right after dinner,” Barry said.

“You never knew when to let go of things,” Maureen continued, as if there had been no interruption. “You always had to have the last word.” She laughed. “I remember Mom saying that she always loved having you around because it was so nice living with someone who knew everything.”

Everyone laughed. Jess was beginning to hate the sound of wind chimes.

“My boys were like that,” Sherry agreed. “Each one thought he had all the answers. When they were seventeen, they thought I was the stupidest person on earth. By the time they were twenty-one, they couldn’t believe how smart I’d gotten.”

Again, everyone laughed.

“Actually, we had a few very rough years,” Sherry confided. “Especially just after their father left. Not that
he was around that much to begin with. But his leaving kind of made it official, and the boys did a lot of acting out. They were rude and rebellious, and no matter what I said or did, it wasn’t right. We always seemed to be fighting about something. I’d turn around, and there I’d be in the middle of a confrontation, and I could never quite figure out how I got there. They said I was too strict, too old-fashioned, too naïve. Anything I could be, I was too much of it. It seemed we were always at each other’s throats. And then, suddenly they were all grown up, and I found that I was still relatively in one piece. They went off to college, eventually all moved out on their own. I bought a dog. He loves me unconditionally. He sits by the door and waits for me whenever I go out. When I get home, he smothers me with kisses, he’s so glad to see me. He doesn’t argue with me; he doesn’t talk back; he thinks I’m the most wonderful thing on earth. He’s the child I always wanted.”

Art Koster hooted with delight.

“Maybe we should get a dog,” Barry said, winking at his wife.

“I think every mother probably goes through periods when she wonders why she bothered,” Maureen said.

Once again, Jess saw her mother’s face.
I don’t need this, Jess. I don’t need this from you
.

“I mean, God knows I adore my children,” Maureen continued, “but there are moments. …”

“When you wish you were back at work?” Jess asked, watching Barry’s shoulders stiffen.

“When I wish it were a little
quieter,”
Maureen told her.

“Maybe we
should
get a dog,” Barry said.

“Oh great,” Jess exclaimed. “Something else for Maureen to take care of.”

“Jess …” Maureen warned.

“Sherry’s dog is the cutest little thing,” Art Koster said quickly. “A toy poodle. Beautiful red coat, a very unusual color for a poodle. When she first told me she had a poodle, I thought, oh no, I can’t get involved with a woman who could love a dog like that. I mean, poodles are such a cliché.”

“And then he met Casey,” Sherry interjected.

“And then I met Casey.”

“And it was love at first sight.”

“Well, more like love at first walk,” Art Koster qualified. “I took the damn pooch out for a walk one afternoon, and I couldn’t believe how absolutely everyone we passed came over to pet the damn thing. I never saw so many smiles on so many people in one afternoon in my life. It made me happy just to be part of it. And of course, poodles are very smart. Sherry says that when it comes to dogs and intelligence, there’s poodles and then there’s everything else.”

Jess could barely believe her ears. Was her father really engaged in an avid discussion about a toy poodle?

“Jess was always an animal lover,” her father was saying.

“Really? Do you have any pets?” Sherry asked.

“No,” Jess said.

“She has a canary,” Maureen answered at almost the same moment.

“No,” Jess said again.

“What happened to Fred?” Maureen asked.

“He died. Last week.”

“Fred died?” Maureen repeated. “I’m so sorry. Had he been sick?”

“How would you know whether or not a canary was sick?” Barry scoffed.

“Don’t talk to her in that tone,” Jess said sharply.

“I beg your pardon?” There was more surprise than anger in Barry’s voice.

“What tone?” Maureen asked.

“Are the boys coming home for Christmas this year?” Art Koster asked suddenly. For a minute, nobody seemed to know what he was talking about.

“Yes,” Sherry answered, snapping to attention, her voice a touch too loud, a shade too enthusiastic. “At least, that’s the latest word. But you never know what they could decide at the last minute.”

“Where are your boys now?” Jess asked, allowing herself to be drawn back into the conversation. Smile, she thought through tightly gritted teeth. Be nice. Be gracious. Don’t fight.

“Warren is a gym teacher at a high school in Rockford. Colin is at the New York Film School; he wants to be a director. And Michael is at Wharton. He’s my entrepreneur.”

“Three very bright young men,” Jess’s father said proudly.

“Maureen has an M.B.A. from Harvard,” Jess said, her resolve of only seconds ago crumbling.

“Have you met them yet, Dad?” Maureen asked, as if Jess hadn’t spoken.

“Not yet,” her father answered.

“I was hoping I could persuade you all to come for Christmas dinner at my place this year,” Sherry proposed. “That way I could introduce you. …”

“Sounds great,” Maureen said immediately.

“Count
us
in,” Barry said, pointedly. “What about you, Jess?”

“Sounds fine,” Jess concurred, straining for sincerity.

Smile, she thought. Be nice. Don’t fight. Stay calm. “Speaking of dinner …?”

“Ready whenever you are,” Maureen said.

Jess found herself staring at the woman who was poised to take her mother’s place. “Ready or not,” she said.

“T
his roast is delicious,” Sherry Hasek was saying, delicately patting at the sides of her mouth with her rose-colored napkin. “It’s so rare these days that I eat red meat. I’ve forgotten what a treat it is.”

“I’ve tried to wean Maureen away from red meat,” Barry said, “but she says she was raised on mother’s milk and good old-fashioned Chicago roast beef, so what are you going to do?”

“Enjoy it,” Art Koster said.

“I think as long as you don’t overdo things, you’re okay,” Sherry said. “Everything in moderation, isn’t that what they say?”

“They say so many things,” Maureen continued. “It’s hard to keep track. One minute, we’re supposed to avoid red meat; the next minute they tell us it’s good for us. They keep warning us of the dangers of alcohol, then they tell us a glass of red wine a day prevents heart attacks.
Something’s good for you one day, bad for you the next. Right now, fiber is in, fat is out. Next year, it’ll probably be the reverse.”

“To moderation,” her father toasted, lifting his glass of red wine into the air.

“Health and wealth,” Barry said.

“I was reading an article in the doctor’s office the other day,” Art Koster began. “It was an old magazine, and the reporter was asking this celebrity he was profiling, I didn’t know who she was, he asked her to name her favorite drink and state three reasons why she liked it. It’s a game. Why don’t we try it?”

“My favorite drink?” Barry mused. “It would have to be red wine. It’s tasty, it smells wonderful, and it’s intoxicating.”

“I like orange juice,” Maureen followed. “It’s healthy, it’s invigorating, and it’s refreshing.”

“Sherry?” Art Koster asked.

“I’d have to say champagne,” she answered. “It’s fun, it suggests celebration, and I like the bubbles.”

“Jess?” Barry asked.

“What?”

“It’s your turn.”

“Did you say you’d been to the doctor?” Jess asked her father.

“Haven’t you been listening?” Barry asked.

Jess ignored her brother-in-law. “What’s wrong, Dad? Haven’t you been feeling well?”

“I’m fine,” her father stated. “It was just my annual checkup.”

Where are you going? Jess asked her mother
.

Nowhere, she answered
.

Since when do you get so dressed up to go nowhere?

“So, what’s your answer?” Barry prodded.

“My answer to what?”

Barry shook his head. “Really, Jess, I don’t know why you bother accepting our dinner invitations if you’re not going to take part in the conversation.”

“Barry, please,” Maureen pleaded softly.

“What’s your favorite drink?” Art Koster repeated. “And the three reasons why.”

“This is the conversation we’re having?” Jess asked.

“It’s a game,” Sherry said pleasantly.

“I don’t know,” Jess said finally. “Black coffee, I guess.” She noticed they were all waiting for her to continue, “Why? Because it wakes me up in the mornings, it’s slightly bitter, and it’s good to the last drop.” She shrugged, hoping she had fulfilled all expectations.

“What did you say, Dad?” Maureen asked.

“I said beer,” he told them. “It’s simple, it’s straightforward, it makes me feel good.”

“So what does it all mean?” Maureen wondered.

“Well,” Art Koster said with appropriate flourish, “the drink represents sex. In my case, I like it because it’s simple, straightforward, and makes me feel good.”

Everyone struggled to remember their three reasons for liking the drink each had selected, laughter breaking out as each realized what had been said.

“So you think sex is tasty, intoxicating, and smells wonderful,” Maureen reminded her husband. “I think I’m flattered.”

“I think I’m lucky,” he answered, looking over at Jess. “Slightly bitter, huh?” he asked.