The House on Olive Street (18 page)

When Sable finished reading, she dropped the sheaf of papers into her lap. “Damn,” she whispered with a tone of reverence. “How much of this have you got?”

“All of it,” Elly said. “In bits and pieces. There are gaps and rough places and unfinished chapters. The biggest problem is that I have five thousand pages of it. Except for the end, as near as I can tell. I don’t have the end.”

“She used David’s and Sarah’s names,” Barbara Ann said.

“For the sake of speed, I assume. That could be easily changed. She didn’t use the real names of John Shelby’s actual family. I found a book she has, a biography of Shelby. And pictures by the score, letters by the dozens, notes, postcards.”

“Gabby was the most wonderful writer,” Beth said. “What do you think? Is it publishable?”

“Not quite. It needs a little cleaning up, but it doesn’t need changing. She worked on it on and off for so many years, some of it’s in tatters. But if I’m not mistaken, it’s the book they’ve always expected her to write. It’s the
most adventurous love story I’ve ever read, or I’m a sentimental old fool.”

“Not if the rest of it stands up to this one chapter,” Sable said. “Is this what you’ve been working on?”

“I wanted to be sure I had enough of it to share with the rest of you. If it was too partial, we’d have to let it go, give it to Sarah and David in its original form and call it a day. But there’s enough of this novel to pull together, if there were four good heads to do it. Then, with their permission, I feel it should be sold.”

“If that’s what she wanted, why didn’t she even mention it?” Barbara asked.

“I’m not sure I can answer that,” Elly said. “Although she’d worked on it for years, she picked it up again only recently. She dates her originals. She’s had this current computer for five years now and the chapters from this novel have been worked on in the past year. The earlier work on this is less objective—she was still in love and in grief. She knew that and her marginal scribbles indicate she was objective about her lack of objectivity. I think it’s one of those special things that is worked on in secret until it’s completely ripe. She wouldn’t attempt to sell it based on a proposal or outline. She’d rather produce it suddenly, as if out of thin air, and blow their socks off with it. She was close, I think, to telling us about it.”

“A posthumous blockbuster?” Beth asked. “Publishers always want to know what’s next when they buy a book…and this is a loner.”

“Not exactly,” Sable argued. “Gabby wrote ten extremely good novels, but not very much was done with them.”

“That’s dead on,” Barbara Ann, the recent expert in her manuscripts, said. “Writers have been shaking their
heads in confusion about that for years. She was good. Used bookstores can’t keep her books, people don’t trade them. Everything she published should have sold huge numbers, but they were always published conservatively. We always figured it was because she couldn’t stick with one ‘type’ of story long enough to build a category readership. That, and a not very unusual run of lousy luck.”

“If you look at her work as a whole,” Elly said, “it isn’t as though she was floundering around, looking for a home. She always should have done better than she did. The critics loved her work, but the publishers didn’t take notice. The readers loved her, but they published each title as though it was the first for her— modest print runs, no special advertising, nothing much done. If one single book of hers got the attention it deserved, the fifteen previous novels would be considered a find. Gabby never wrote as though she was just warming up. They just didn’t see in New York what the rest of us saw. They’re myopic, too busy looking for trends. Gabby’s work transcended trends. It wasn’t faddish. It was always solidly good. Versatile, creative—”

“Versatility is a dirty word in publishing—”

“We can get back the rights on at least six of those earlier books,” Beth said. That was her area of expertise.

“Nothing will ever happen to those earlier books without a blockbuster to catapult them out of obscurity,” Eleanor said. “And I think this might be it. It’s really smashing.”

“What needs to be done?” Sable asked.

“A lot of sorting, organizing, cleaning up. Some writing, but hopefully not more than twenty percent of the novel. From her photos, letters and records, I can provide the facts for the small amount of fiction that’s
missing. She has outlined two missing chapters. Between the four of us, we should be able to faithfully replicate her style.” She paused. “And she said there was no hidden gem!”

“Is it right for us to do that with her work? Fix it? Write it? Publish it?” Barbara asked.

“Right? I think she commissioned us to do that,” Beth said.

“And if we do it well enough, Sarah and David will have pensions,” Sable added.

“If we do it well enough,” Elly said, “Gabby will live, which is what writers really want, I think. And what this particular writer, who was largely overlooked, deserves.”

June 30

T
here had to be a transformation of space. “A halfway house for insane women,” Sable had best termed it. “Why didn’t we think of this before?”

“I don’t know how much of this dormitory living I can endure,” Eleanor said. All the gang cooking, gabbing, psyche-probing, pajama-party-flopping—she had never shared her space with even one other woman, much less three. “There just better not be any childish screwing around….”

“As far as we know, Elly, you’re the only one with anyone to screw,” Beth pointed out. Everyone had been a bit too preoccupied to turn any attention to whether Sable’s relationship with Jeff was purely professional, and she certainly hadn’t offered anything on that subject. “I always secretly thought you were a lesbian.” She flushed when all eyes were suddenly on her. “I mean…”

“I love the way you’re learning to express yourself, Beth,” Sable said. “It’s like someone who’s just learning
the language. The most amazing things just pop out of you.”

“What did I ever do to make you think—”

“Beth sees the entire world in its relationship to love, Elly,” Sable said. “If you’re not completely enslaved to a member of the opposite sex, you must be gay, in which case you would be hiding the fact that you’re completely enslaved to a member of the same sex. Right, Beth?”

“No! I—” She paused and then said, “I guess I’m still all screwed up in love—”

“Did you think I was a lesbian, too?” Sable asked her, for any brief liaisons she had had over the years had been kept strictly secret. There were too few to even think about.

“Oh, no, Sable! I always thought you were in love with yourself! I mean—”

Only Sable did not laugh. “It could be a brain scar,” she muttered, shaking her head.

They rearranged the house and began disposing of Gabby’s personal effects to make room. Sarah and David took some things, from books to a sewing machine to old camping gear. Clothes were given to the women’s shelter where Beth was getting counseling, Gabby’s car was sold for a pittance, pictures were sorted through and given to Don and the kids and boxes of memorabilia and things that had long since lost their usefulness were divided, trashed, donated or carted over to Sarah’s for a garage sale. Then, when space allowed, things could be brought in to accommodate the women. The kids’ rooms, stacked high with their old things plus storage items, were cleared out so that each woman could have a bedroom. Elly had squatter’s rights in Gabby’s bedroom, Sable could not be budged out of the guest room, Beth got Sarah’s old room and Barbara Ann got David’s.

Each woman set up her own work area in her room, plugged in individual cell phones, had shelf space to put her favorite books, and her own clothes filled emptied drawers and hung in vacated closets. Beth had changed her cell number to avoid a possible contact from Jack that she’d be unable to resist. The four settled in as though the project of pulling together Gabby’s book might take blissful months, but they knew they weren’t that lucky. It would be only weeks. And then each one of them would have to decide what to do. Elly, they all thought, was the only one who could just go back to her former life as though she’d spent the summer out of town doing research. But Elly’s future was as muddled as anyone’s. Now that she’d brought Ben out of the closet, she would have to either go the whole distance, becoming a real significant other to his family as well, or end the relationship altogether. She was not certain she could do either.

Barbara Ann had only been gone from her house—her men—for three days when she went back there with Beth to pick up her computer and a few other things. Three days, she reminded herself on the drive over, was hardly enough time for a miracle. She remembered, from her days as a young wife and mother, how long it took her to figure out how to cook and clean and manage a family. She had to pick up tips from other women on how to keep up with things. She had to study other homes to establish her own sense of what made good housekeeping. Even though she had been an only child and didn’t come in a pack, her own mother had made it seem so effortless. It was like the bathrooms were scrubbed and the floors waxed in secret.

She was not prepared for how bad it could get.

Beth could not conceal her shocked gasp, but then,
Beth had recently begun to lose the art of concealing things.

The kitchen was stacked with dirty dishes and there was a fine layer of grime on everything. Cupboard doors stood open, goop was slopped over on the walls and stove, food was not put back in the refrigerator and sat rotting on the countertops, discarded packages from snack foods and empty cereal boxes lay everywhere and she stuck to the floor in those places her step didn’t crunch. She was afraid to count the empty pop cans—there could be fifty.

The laundry room was piled waist high in dirty clothes, as though someone had carted them there and then waited, amazed that they didn’t wash, dry and fold themselves. It smelled like the inside of an old tennis shoe. The sad reality was that, in the case of five males who changed clothes on a whim, this was three days of wash. That’s why Barbara Ann ran three loads a day, come hell or high water.

The family room was a spillover from the kitchen: plates, wrappers, glasses, cans, plus overflow from the bedrooms—shoes, socks, wadded-up T-shirts, towels, newspapers and magazines. Not surprisingly, someone was tinkering with a torn-apart stereo in the middle of the floor.

“Oh, Barbara Ann,” Beth said.

“I hope you don’t think I left it like this,” she said.

“But look what you were up against!”

“Kind of amazing I could gain weight, huh? Come on, let’s get my things. But prepare yourself, Mike’s had the bedroom to himself for three days now. I’m sure it should be torched.”

In her wildest dreams she hadn’t expected the bed would be made, but somehow it hadn’t occurred to her
that the spread, sheets, mattress cover and pillows would be on the floor, exposing a mattress that had been peed on by every one of her boys at some point in their young lives. How in the world had he managed that? He must be sleeping like a spinning top. The master bath was afoul with splattered mirror, scummy basins and countertops, and clothes, towels and shoes were simply dropped where they landed.

“Come on,” she said to Beth. “Let’s just get my stuff together and get out of here. Now don’t carry anything until I approve it. I don’t want you lifting heavy things. There isn’t that much I want from in here.”

She had timed it so that no one should be home. Cars parked in the driveway didn’t mean anything; one never knew who went off with whom. She stacked clothes from her drawers and closet on the bed for Beth to pack in two suitcases, a hang-up bag and small duffel, while she gathered books and papers from her work area into boxes. She began to carry things to the trunk while Beth folded and packed. She disconnected the computer and gave Beth the keyboard and cables to carry while she made several trips with the monitor, mini-tower and printer. She filled a small box with toiletries from her bathroom closet and handed it to Beth. “That’s all,” she said. “I’ll bring down the two big suitcases and we’ll be done. Go ahead. I’m going to take one quick look around and check to see if I have any mail. I’ll be right behind you.”

But one last look around was not at all what she wanted—she needed a little privacy. What had become of the home she had slaved over since they moved in ripped her heart out. She was not going to snivel in front of Beth, but she had earned a few painful tears over this stinking hovel. This was the impact she’d had on them.
They’d done nothing but settle back and enjoy their squalor.

She heard a familiar sound. Someone had just gotten out of bed and was peeing like a racehorse in the bathroom down the hall. She should have fled. She certainly didn’t stay so that one of her sons could see how the condition of her house made her cry. But she wanted to see one of them, just for a minute, because she loved them so much. That’s why this killed her and why she’d done what she’d done. She couldn’t take it anymore, loving them that much and feeling only their tread marks on her breaking back.

She stood in her bedroom doorway, a large suitcase on each side of her, when Joe emerged from the bathroom. She hadn’t heard the toilet flush, naturally. He was wearing only his boxers, his hair spiked and goofy, and he jumped in surprise when he saw her standing there. “Mom!”

“Hi, Joey. I just came back to get a few things.”

“Mom! Oh, man…. We were gonna—”

“No, it’s okay. Don’t say anything. I told you you can have it any way you want it now. You don’t have to keep it to my standards.”

“But Mom! Man, you don’t know…. I mean, Dad said for me to get it together because I’m off today. And Billy gets off work at noon. We’re gonna get the place all straightened up. Honest! Aw, Mom,” he said, devastated.

“I’ve got to get going,” she said, lifting her suitcases. “There is one thing you can do for me, though.”

“Sure! Anything!”

“Check through the mail every day. If there’s anything that’s just for me—just for Barbara Ann Vaughan and not Mr. and Mrs.—bring it to me at
Gabby’s. And if I get any phone calls, give them Gabby’s number. It’s written down by the phone.”

“Sure. But Mom, really—”

“It’s okay,” she said, hefting her suitcases.

“Aw, let me get those, Mom,” he said, the sound of choking tears coming into his voice. He could not have been more humiliated if she’d seen him naked and shooting up. Even given his shame and humiliation, she doubted he and his brothers and father could make the place right. They might be able to cart off trash, but despite all her efforts to teach and supervise them, they were sadly handicapped in domestics. The only thing her men could make shine like a star was a rebuilt engine.

“I’ll take it from here,” she said when he got to the front door. “Beth’s waiting for me and you’re not dressed.”

“Mom,” he pleaded, tears glistening in his eyes, his lips turning red around the edges. This was the boy who had cried so hard when he lost his girl. He was losing his mother. She felt terrible for him, but not terrible enough to drop her suitcases here and now and dig out the place.

She rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. He embraced her clumsily, his strong shoulders jerking a little as he fought back sobs. “I love you, Joey. I’ll be in touch about your birthday—we’ll do something special. I’ll take you to dinner or something. Tell your brothers I love them. And call me at Gabby’s if you need to talk to me.”

“I love you, Mom. You gotta know I love you, Mom.”

“I know, Joey.”

“Mom…what about Dad?”

“I talk to your dad every day. He knows I love him. That house is the only thing I don’t love. I’m just not up to it anymore. It’s too hard and I need a rest.”

“Mom, the pot wasn’t ours. It was some asshole friend of Bobby’s who left it there in the garage and we shouldn’t have let him, but he just did it. Honest, Mom, your leaving us is
killing
us!”

“I know,” she said. “I can smell it.”

Sable was going to spend a day with Jeff, taking care of some business, she said. She needed to go by her house and make sure things were secure there, that nothing terrible had happened in her absence, among other things. But she was much too nervous for business to be the extent of what she was doing.

“Just tell us the truth,” Barbara Ann pleaded. “Is he a boyfriend? That’s all I want to know.”

“No, he’s not a
boyfriend,
” Sable said. “Oh my God, my clothes don’t fit! Oh, God, what have I done to myself? I can’t button my pants! Jesus!”

“You’ve been eating, that’s what,” Eleanor pointed out. “After all these years of verging on anorexia.”

“I verged on a lot of things, but not that! I used to step on the scale every morning. I exercised every day, no matter what, even if it was just sit-ups in some hotel room. I was fit and weight-conscious and not a lazy pig, that’s all. Oh God, even my shoes are tight!”

“You were compulsive and obsessed,” Beth said. “And you hid your true feelings in your rituals of perfection.”

“Don’t you just love this girl? Two weeks ago the only way she knew if she liked something was if
Jack
liked it.”

“I think it’s good that you’re not suppressing your feelings anymore, Beth. Isn’t it nice that Beth is finally saying what she really thinks?” Barbara Ann supportively but unwisely asked.

“Well,” she said, pausing in earnest consideration, “I don’t think it would hurt you to give up Snicker Doodles for a while. Since you seem to want the truth.”

“Remarkable,” Elly observed. “Like someone coming out of a deep coma.”

“Barbara Ann, do you have anything that’s maybe a little
tight
on you that wouldn’t be too loose on me?” Sable begged.

“Sorry, I left all my out-of-style size eights in the trash heap so they have something to wipe up blood with while I’m gone. What’s the big deal? Are you going on a talk show or something? Wear one of your funny little dresses.”

“I wanted to look a little more fashionable for once. It’s not as though I don’t plan to ever wear decent clothes again. Oh God, how much weight could I have gained in two or three weeks? What was I thinking?”

Everyone had been drawn to Sable’s room by the ruckus. She’d been in and out of four or five outfits as they watched. Her sleek, tailored slacks wouldn’t close; her panty line stood out like a welt across her butt; her pleats strained until they went flat. It was a good ten pounds around the middle. “This is not giving me as much pleasure as I always thought it would,” Barbara Ann confessed.

Sable finally settled on a skirt that she held closed with a large safety pin, a wide belt that was moved to the last hole and a longish jacket that covered the whole mess. “I still look like a sausage,” she groused. “How can I have gained weight in my shoulders and toes?”

“Fat is wondrously and fearfully distributed,” Barbara Ann informed her.

The doorbell rang. “Oh my God, he’s here! And I’m not ready!”

“Late, and for your first prom.” Eleanor went to answer the door.