The House on Olive Street (20 page)

“You don’t have to trouble her. If you’ll just—”

But he was already walking toward the house. Sable felt her spine grow tense and was conscious of her palms becoming damper at the prospect of seeing Dorothy’s grim expression. And there it was, suddenly, as she came out of her little house. Dorothy protectively drew her sweater around her, though it was in the eighties and humid, and the corners of her mouth drew down in her perpetual frown. But Sable was too drained to be angry.
It only made her feel more tired looking at Dorothy’s scowl.

“Hello, dear,” Sable said kindly. “I’m terribly sorry if you and Art have been bothered by all the publicity and fuss. I just wanted to come here personally to tell you that I’m staying with friends for the time being. I feel a lot better being around people who I know love me than I would feel here, mostly alone. Here’s a number if you need anything,” she said, handing Dorothy a small envelope. “Your check for June is there, too. Are things all right with the house, Dorothy?”

She nodded. “The house don’t change much, day to day.”

“Well, don’t knock yourself out,” Sable said. “As I told Art, I have no intention of popping in here unannounced and giving it a white-glove inspection. I don’t expect you to spit and polish an empty house. Are the two of you all right about staying on with me, even after all the terrible publicity about me?”

“Oh my, surely yes,” Art said emphatically. “That don’t matter to us in any way, Miss Sable. And we don’t say anything to anybody about your business, not even to our kids. We just mind our chores and worry about our own business here.”

“That’s very kind of you, Art,” she said, though she couldn’t imagine what dirt they could possibly share about her. This was where she was perfect, after all. “Then I’ll be going. Call me if you need anything from me, and thank you for all your good work.”

She turned to leave, taking Jeff’s arm and walking toward the car.

“Sable?”

She stopped and listened for a second before turning back. Was that Dorothy? She couldn’t recall Dorothy
ever willingly calling her by name in the four years she’d been there.

“We been worried about you,” she said. Her face still looked pinched and unhappy, but her words couldn’t have sounded more sincere.

“Thank you, Dorothy. Thank you very much. I’m really getting along just fine.”

When she got in the car, she was smiling. “I’m starving,” she told Jeff.

“Good. There’s a little steak place in Placerville. It’s out of the way, old and quiet. They have good food and good wine.”

She reached for his hand and pulled it toward her lips. She kissed his palm. “You are absolutely the best employee I’ve ever had,” she said.

He threw back his head and laughed in genuine pleasure. “Am I now? Well, just wait until you get the bill.”

“Whatever it is, you’re worth it.” After a short pause she continued. “I think going to Tommy’s grave helped me.”

“Sometimes it does,” he said. “Depending on what you need at the time.”

“But Gabby doesn’t have a grave. I wonder if we should have insisted she have a grave, if only for her ashes?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said. “From what I can tell, she has something even better.”

O
nce Beth told her mother about Jack, the entire family was informed. Word traveled fast; Beth received four or five phone calls a day. It wasn’t only her siblings, but brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law also called. They seemed to have created some kind of schedule, like people do about visiting the sick and infirm, so that they didn’t all call her in one day, but every single day there were calls of support. Or pressure, depending on your perspective.

Her mother and oldest sister wanted to fly to Sacramento at once to see her, to assure themselves that she was all right, but she held them at bay. She explained, over and over, why she was at Gabby’s house and who she was with. It would be better for everyone, especially her, if they would just be patient and wait for her to come home. “I need to stay here where I’m getting help. I have a counselor, plus I’m in a support group. I have to learn about this, Mama. There’s something in me that’s sick, too, that allows this abuse to happen. If I don’t want it to ever happen again, I have to find out what it is.”

“I’d like to know what it is, too,” Sable said. “I am
astonished that someone like you, who has all those people to love and support you, would endure abuse from anyone. You could have run home to your family the first time he snapped at you!”

“But I would have been running home in shame. A failure,” she said.

“How could you have failed?
He
failed
you!
”

“I guess you don’t know what it’s like to come from a perfect family,” she replied.

“Now there’s an understatement!”

But that was its own burden—being one of eight children, nurtured and controlled by the soft yet iron hand of Mama. Oh, she was all love and tenderness, but she had a strong will and an absolute rule. She had God and the Church on her side. Beth grew up thinking that God had personally appointed Elba Sherman to conceive and raise the Sherman children because no one else could do it properly. Elba had proven herself to be the most remarkable woman in Kansas City, Missouri, and had been given the city council’s Mother of the Year award. She had turned out eight perfect children with her gift of pride, faith, integrity and guilt—most of all guilt.

We don’t have much, but what we do have we will keep clean, polished and perfect.
Beth had learned to iron clothes at the age of seven. She had a school uniform and four hand-me-down dresses for Sunday church. There was not so much as a mended tear, stain or ravel on her.
Didn’t Sister say that the way the paper looks is important? Isn’t both the content and appearance part of the grade?
The children’s schoolwork was reviewed each night and, if necessary, done over. God and Mama liked A’s.
Cleanliness is next to godliness. God can hear the words you’re saying and those you’re thinking, so make them decent. I don’t care what the other children
do—in our home we live by the laws of God and the Church and I am responsible, as God’s disciple, to see that you adhere to both.
That statement could have applied to short skirts, late hours or a messy room. In fact, that statement had to do with everything and ran up through college.
We must set a good example for our friends and neighbors because we are, each one of us in this family, disciples of the Lord.

They were Mama’s trophies. People turned their heads, smiled and whispered as Elba and Hank Sherman marched their brood down the street or down the aisle of the church, each child wearing spotless though well-used clothes, hair slicked back or pulled into tight braids, stockings whiter than white, faces shining and, until the age of eighteen, makeup free. Beth was mystified by the problems Barbara Ann had with her sons, she was astonished by the dirt and disorder they could live in. Not in Mama’s house.
Never
in Mama’s house! No one would dare leave a sock on the floor or a hairbrush on the bathroom counter. Not that Mama would be cruel or even harsh, but she was simply there, every second, like a bad dream, taking the offender by the hand and leading him or her to the untidy mistake and saying, “Is this where we leave our shoes?” “What is it we do with our towels?”

Each one of them got A’s. Each one went to college, though Mama and Daddy had no money to send them. Each one excelled, kept a perfect house, ate right, slept soundly and married well. Eight college graduates, most happily married—and one of them a priest! All just as Mama had indoctrinated them all through their childhoods.

Except Beth.

Oh, she got the A’s and went to college. She even got
a master’s degree. And her house was perfectly tidy, just as Mama would like. But she hurt inside and slept poorly. She hadn’t done things according to Mama’s plan, the way the others had. She was already twenty-five when she met Jack—and at a bar, no less! Her sisters had fiancés in college and married soon afterward, beginning their families right off, except Deborah, who had defiantly waited. Beth hadn’t had boyfriends. She was so shy that only the very dorky ones approached her. And while she might have been panicked, she wasn’t stupid. The only reason she met Jack was that one of the teachers at the junior high where Beth was the librarian manipulated Beth into going out for drinks every Friday night, mainly so Beth could drive her home if she didn’t find a guy to leave with.

Beth knew when she met this smooth-talking, handsome, flirtatious airline pilot that she’d met her one chance at getting a husband. She might be an old maid, but Jack’s words and touch thrilled her. Even in marrying Jack, a few concessions had to be made. Mama was concerned. (Disappointed.) He was ten years older than her for one thing, he wasn’t Catholic and he’d been married twice before—something she couldn’t let her family find out about. So, in an amazingly independent move, Beth married Jack, despite her parents’ worries about the life-style they would have—he traveling, she staying behind—and their embarrassment that the father of Beth’s future children didn’t go to their church. There was, of course, no question in which faith those children would be raised. But at least she got a husband! She got something right!

The first time Jack hit her they had been married a month and her most overwhelming emotions were guilt and shame. My God, I’m the different one again! Mama
would be appalled by this! Mama will never forgive me for getting myself into this mess! How can I keep screwing up and doing the wrong things over and over again? She didn’t waste any time thinking about what a badass Jack was. She desperately plotted ways to cover up the fact that she was the only one in her family who couldn’t just live the life that had been planned for her. She was riddled with guilt day and night, knowing that someday she would have to swallow her pride—pride that had been instilled in her as deeply as an organ transplant—confess her sins and do her penance. She would be the first divorce in the Sherman family.

What no one knew, except Beth herself, was that Elba Sherman’s love, forgiveness and benevolence was likely to be the most painful part of her journey—surely more painful than one of Jack’s left hooks.

He found her, of course. It only took him a week. Since Beth received so many phone calls from family members, male and female, the others in Gabby’s house found it a challenge to screen the calls. They tried, but he got right past them.

The first time he’d called, Eleanor had answered.

“Is Beth Mahoney there, please?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Her husband, Jack Mahoney.”

“I’m terribly sorry, but Beth isn’t here. I could give her a message if I hear from her. Would you like to leave one?”

“No thanks,” he said curtly, hanging up.

The second time he called, a couple of days later, Eleanor again answered.

“Is Beth there, please?” he asked.

“May I tell her who’s calling?”

“Stephen Sherman, her brother.”

“Just a minute, please.”

She came to the phone. “Stephen?” she said.

“No, Beth, it’s me. Jack. Honey, what are you doing there?”

“Jack!”

“Honey, we have to talk. I love you, baby. I know I really screwed up this time, but it doesn’t mean I don’t love you. You know I do. Beth, talk to me, please.”

“Jack, I don’t think we have anything to talk about. It’s over. I’m not going to take—”

“Baby, I lost my cool. You gotta understand how a guy can overreact to some things. I’ve done a lot of thinking about the baby, and I’ve decided I was all wrong about that. We
should
have a baby! You’ll be the most wonderful mother. You just hit me with it when I was worrying about money and things and I—”

“How could you be worried about money? Sell some of your toys.”

“Well, that’s just it. I wouldn’t have spent all that money if I’d known we were going to have a baby! We’ll have to get a bigger place. I don’t want you walking up and down stairs in this town house if you’re pregnant! And I can’t be driving a stupid sports car if I have a son—there’s no place for a car seat. I’ll get him a sports car later. Beth, baby, I love you so much.”

“Oh God, Jack,” she said, tears coming.

“I need you to come home, so I can take care of you. What are you doing there? Who was that who answered the phone? Why are you there?”

Slowly, reluctantly, she began to regain her senses. “I’m here because you hit me, Jack. Hit me, knocked me down and demanded that I get an abortion before you came home from your trip. And I’m not moving back to the town house, no matter what you say.”

“Beth, now listen. You’re pregnant. That’s the way it is. You’re obviously intent on having this baby, so we’ll have the baby. But you can’t stay there. You have to come home—today.”

She hung up on him.

A couple of days later he got through to her again, using another brother’s name. The conversation went pretty much along the same lines. He wheedled and cajoled, claimed to be heartbroken at the prospect that she would take his child from him. She began to weaken. He begged her forgiveness and swore he’d never lay a hand on her again, but she stood up to him. He began to cry at the prospect of losing her and she felt herself wanting to pack a bag and go home to comfort him. Then she remembered. “No,” she told him. “It’s too late.” And hung up. But she cried and cried, torn up inside by his pleading.

When Eleanor took to asking male callers to give her the date of Elba Sherman’s birthday, Jack had a female call the house and ask for Beth. When she came to the phone, thinking it must be one of her sisters or sisters-in-law, it was Jack.

“Baby, I gotta see you. You’re killing me with this. I can’t take it. I want you and I want our baby. God, Beth, have some faith in me for once. Please, I’m begging you. At least
see
me.
Talk
to me.
Meet
me somewhere. Something!”

“No. You beat me up for seven years and I’m not giving you one more chance to trick me into thinking you can change. You’ve never changed before, even when you promised, and you won’t change now.”

“I’ll go to counseling! I’ve already talked to a counselor at the company and they’re going to give me a referral! Baby, I’ll do anything! Anything!”

“Good, you should go to counseling. Maybe your fourth marriage will be better.”

But she cried and self-doubted, rationalized and complained. “You have no idea how hard this is,” she tearfully told her protective friends.

“I do,” Elly said. “I stared into a glass of gin for four hours once. Four hours. Just sat there and stared. Almost got high on the fumes. I didn’t stop staring until I started to sweat blood.”

“But Elly, you don’t think this is some kind of addiction!”

“Undoubtedly,” she proclaimed. “He’s in your blood. His danger has sex appeal.”

“You didn’t drink it, did you?” Sable asked.

“No. But I had an advantage over Beth. I
knew
gin could kill me. I knew that in choosing gin, I was choosing death. Even knowing that, it wasn’t an easy choice.”

“At least, for you, it was only four hours,” Beth said to Elly.

“Beth, he doesn’t love you,” Sable said. “He only wants to be sure no one gets half his toys and investments in a divorce. Believe me.”

“I believe you, I do,” Beth said. But she thought that in addition to that, Jack might also love her. She couldn’t help it.

Beth went to see her counselor. She went to her support group. She let everyone tell her over and over that he would hurt her, maybe kill her, that he would hurt, maybe kill the baby. No matter what he said, he was a beater. She must
not
give in. So she gritted her teeth and hung on. She was temporarily safe, with everyone holding her down, hammering her with the facts. She felt, though, like an alcoholic staring into a glass of gin.
She was temporarily safe from Jack, but there was no one there to protect her from herself.

Sable and Barbara Ann were preparing an evening meal—low-fat—while Beth and Sarah, with Lindsey in her infant seat, sat at the kitchen table and talked about babies—something that could keep the two of them going for hours. Elly was also at the table, reading her evening paper. It was seven-thirty, which wasn’t late for the women because they always had a “cocktail hour” with some light snacks at five. From five o’clock on, there was no telling how many people might drop by, so they were always prepared to add lettuce and tomatoes to the salad, chicken breasts to the grill. David and Ed stopped by about once a week. Don had dropped in on them a couple of times and had been easily talked into staying for dinner. Mike Vaughan had brought some mail to Barbara Ann, and after a tentative appraisal of the situation, decided he was indeed as welcome as she claimed. The only one on a schedule was Ben, who came every Wednesday and Saturday like clockwork, and brought enough fresh fruit, vegetables and ice cream for everyone.

This was the time of day that everyone was at their happiest. The plagues of the workday were behind them, and so, it seemed, were the worries, guilts and fears of their personal lives. It was difficult to sulk or fret or whine when there was the community of food preparation, lubricated for those who were not pregnant or recovering alcoholics by a little wine. During this time of evening it was easy to pretend that the safety and security of living in a halfway house for lunatic women needn’t end.