The Private Lives of Pippa Lee (5 page)

‘Am I late?' she asked.

‘I had time to eat all the bread,' said Herb.

‘Your hair looks wonderful,' said Pippa.

‘Thanks,' Grace said, running her hand through the light blond mop.

‘So. Tell us,' said Herb.

‘Oh, Dad, give me a second. Ben said to start without him. He's stuck in the library. He'll be here as soon as he can.'

‘It must be that paper,' said Herb.

‘Yes.
That paper
,' said Grace, making loving fun of her brother. ‘Can I have lamb chops, please? I'm starving.' They ordered for themselves and for Ben, then Grace put her portfolio on the table.

‘These are just work prints, but anyway it gives you an
idea …' She set the pile of photographs in front of Herb. Pippa had to look at them upside down. As Herb finished examining each picture, he slid it over to her. In one, a little boy bent over another, prone child, as if protecting her, his face pinched with fright. In another, a man pushed a bicycle, his large, dark, haunted eyes staring into the camera. The front wall of the house behind him had been entirely torn off; on the second floor, a bed, chair, and mirror were arranged like a stage set, open to the world.

‘Were you alone when you took these?' Pippa asked. She could feel Grace bristle.

‘No, I hitched a ride with Giles Oppenheim.' Two-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize, Oppenheim was a legend among war photographers.

‘How did you manage that?' asked Herb.

‘It's pretty common, people look out for each other there.'

‘Well, you've got courage, we know that much,' said Herb. He was nearly exploding with pride, and Grace knew it.

‘These are the best yet,' said Pippa.

‘Thanks,' said Grace, little red spots appearing on her pale cheeks.

Ben arrived, pleased to have his lunch laid out for him. ‘Has she told you about the bomb?' he asked, pleasantly.

‘Ben,' said Grace.

‘What bomb?' asked Pippa.

‘She was with that Oppenheim fellow, and the translator, and they heard a bomb go off down the street, and Oppenheim tried to drag her left, but she ran down an alley to the right, and he and the translator followed her, and a van exploded right where he was trying to take her; if they had gone left they would have been pulverized. So now she thinks it's destiny.'

Ben was lighthearted in his delivery, but he was furious with his sister, who was becoming, he felt, dangerously, arrogantly brave. Herb and Pippa just sat there, taking in the story. Pippa felt sweat coming up on her brow, a wave of nausea.

Grace looked at Ben, her face set. ‘Can't you ever just
not say
something?'

‘Well, it seemed kind of important,' said Ben.

‘Just use your common sense,' said Herb quietly. ‘That's all I ask.' Then, turning to Ben: ‘So when are you going to let me read this famous paper?' Ben began to talk about his course work. Grace listened to their conversation in a distanced way, her chin resting on her fist, and Pippa observed her daughter. In spite of the camaraderie Grace seemed to have with her colleagues in the field, Pippa sensed a growing remoteness in her that she found alarming. It seemed to be harder and harder for Grace to return from her photographic odysseys. She was entering other, mirror worlds so violent and intense that the West must seem cold, trivial, and meaningless in comparison. Grace was sealed inside her own experiences, unable to relay what she had seen and felt; the photographs bore mute witness to stories Pippa would have loved to hear every detail of, but she didn't dare ask for fear of the silent rebuff she knew she'd get from her daughter in return for meddling. And to think – such a short time ago, Grace had been a little girl! Within this severe young woman, Pippa could discern, flashing in and out like an image in a hologram, Grace's former, child selves. It was so lonely, knowing things about her children that they no longer remembered. Layers of experience eroded from their minds but petrified in her own. As often happened when she saw Grace, Pippa remembered a day which, she had come to believe, had changed her daughter's life.

The twins were eight. She had decided to take them to the Dairy Queen on Sixth Avenue, after their piano lessons. It was the first spring day after a frigid winter, and the warm air felt liquid against Pippa's skin. People on the street moved languorously, as if drugged with relief. Pippa looked down at the twins, their messy, light blond hair shining in the sun, and swelled with gratitude for her good fortune. When they drifted into the ice cream store, a lady of about sixty in a blue skirt and loafers, white socks
pulled up past her ankles, gray hair held back in a ponytail, stood at the counter beside a dark-haired girl of about the twins' age. The lady was saying, in broken English, ‘How much is a milk-shake?' The bored man behind the counter told her. The little girl beside the woman had a tight, embarrassed smile on her face as the older woman counted out her change. When the lady saw that Pippa and the twins were waiting, she moved aside to let them order, scraping her coins a few inches to the left with her cupped palm. Pippa asked for two vanilla cones and gave the man a twenty. As he made change, Pippa noticed Grace gaping at the lady as she sifted through her little pile of coins, squinting up at the board with the prices on it anxiously, the little girl by her side stiff with shame. Pippa poked Grace, but she wouldn't look away.

‘And how much is a soda?' asked the lady, smiling. Her dark eyes were shining with kindness and a hint of apology for the fuss she was making. The man gave her a price, and she went back to counting her change. Pippa could feel tears coming to her eyes. This poor woman had taken her granddaughter out for a treat, and now she couldn't afford it. The clerk gave Pippa her change, and she crammed the bills into her wallet furtively, wondering if it would humiliate the lady if she offered to pay for the little girl's dessert. She decided against it; it would be condescending.

The man handed Pippa the cones. The soft white cream looked perfect, plastic, shiny, like ice cream in a commercial. Pippa gave Ben his, Grace hers. Ben licked his hungrily, but Grace didn't touch hers. Pippa began to move toward the door. Ben followed. Grace stood stock-still, glaring at the ground, clutching her cone. ‘Grace,' Pippa said softly. Abruptly, Grace bolted toward the little dark-haired girl, stood a foot away from her, and offered her the ice cream. The girl stared at the gift, uncomprehending. Grace stood still, the ice cream cone in her fist raised like a sword in the hand of a statue. The lady said something to the little girl
in some foreign tongue, and the child took the cone shyly, casting her eyes to the floor. Then Grace turned and fled the Dairy Queen. Pippa rushed out behind her. She could hear the woman calling out a thank-you as the glass door sighed shut behind her. When Pippa finally caught up with Grace, halfway down the block, the child's face was flushed, her gray eyes clouded with fury.

‘That was a lovely thing to do,' Pippa said.

‘No it wasn't,' Grace said. She didn't want to talk about it after that. She was quiet on the cab ride home and all through dinner. Pippa knew that something had changed in her child that day. She'd become angry at her own good fortune.

*

Sponge, spray cleaner, water, mop: time to clean the kitchen! Pippa liked things neat, but she was naturally chaotic. She had to use all her concentration to bend her mind to the task of cleaning, like a high wind forcing a tall tree to the ground. One stray thought and she would wander away from her scrubbing, end up staring at hummingbirds through her binoculars or checking a recipe for spaghetti alla primavera, only to return to the kitchen forty minutes later, surprised to see the dishes still piled high. This morning, however, Pippa was keeping an image of a perfectly neat kitchen in mind, trying to replicate it in reality. She took everything off the counter, sponged it down, then replaced the vitamin bottles and condiments, carefully lining them up. She wiped down the stove, scrubbed the pan encrusted with Herb's chicken sausage, emptied the dishwasher, putting away clean dishes and flatware, then filled it again with dirty dishes and flatware. She poured blue and white speckled dishwashing powder into the little rectangular box, slid its door shut till it clicked, turned on the machine, selecting ‘heavy duty wash' because there was a pan in there. She swept the floor, mopped it. She wiped out the sink, even opened up the fridge and threw out everything that looked sad or rotten. She made a list: eggs, soy milk, yogurt, aluminum foil. Grape-Nuts.
She folded the list, tucked it into the zip-up compartment inside her purse, and walked out onto the patio. Herb was on the phone. He looked at her expectantly.

‘I'm going shopping. Is there anything you need?' she asked.

He shook his head, waved, and went back to his phone call. He was talking about the book. Pippa wondered who the author of the cash cow might be. She walked through the livingroom, out the door, got into the car, and froze.

The floor of the car was littered with cigarette butts. There must have been ten of them, stamped right into the carpeting. Pippa had quit smoking twenty years ago. The smell of smoke made her throat close up. Herb had never smoked cigarettes, and he had given up cigars on the advice of his heart specialist. So what the hell was this? She picked up the butts, dropped them into a Baggie she kept in the glove compartment, and hurried back into the house to tell Herb. He was still on the phone. She lingered in the living room for a few seconds, waiting. The car had been open. It could have been teenagers, some kids from the nearby town, out having fun. It could have been Chris Nadeau, in an oblique act of revenge for coming upon him as she had. Or it could have been Pippa. She felt her cheeks growing hot. And if it was she, if she had walked in her sleep, and smoked in the car, she might have driven the car. She found this thought terrifying.

Where did she get the cigarettes? A feeling of bottomless panic came over her; it felt like she was standing in an elevator with the cord cut, going down – down – down. Herb, unaware, continued: ‘Well, Phil, you can do two things,' he was saying. ‘You can get an agent, I can recommend an agent to you. You'll need one eventually anyway, you're a writer now. Or you can hold off, make this deal on your own, forget about their cut. The good news is, you get the entire advance. The other side of the coin is, an agent will be more interested in you if he has this book, and he'll be loyal, because you're gonna make him a lot of money.'

Pippa, feeling slightly dizzy, turned and walked out of the house, got into the car, then drove a very slow mile to the convenience store. They stocked simple groceries, and it was the only place in Marigold Village that sold
The New York Times
. She walked in, still wearing her sunglasses. Forgetting about her list, she distractedly picked up the newspaper, eggs, a packet of pancake mix. Her hands were shaking. She walked to the register and looked up. There was Chris Nadeau, his hair wet and slicked back, face freshly shaved, thick brows like dark brush marks on light skin, lips chapped. He smelled of aftershave. There was something hulking about him, strength coiled so tight it looked like relaxation. ‘Pippa Lee, right?'

‘Oh, hi,' she said, taking off her glasses. ‘You got a job already.'

‘I'm working my way to the top,' said Chris.

‘It's a beautiful day,' said Pippa.

‘I'm trying not to notice,' he said, punching in the items on the cash register; his fingernails were bitten down to the quick, Pippa noticed. Her eyes then wandered to the wall of cigarettes displayed behind him; she felt a sudden impulse to smoke clutching at her chest.

‘Oh, and, ah – a packet of … Marlboro Lights. Please.'

Chris turned around and found the cigarettes. ‘Costly habit,' he said.

‘It's just – I don't really smoke,' she said. And then, a thought dawning, ‘You don't work here at night, do you?'

‘I haven't yet,' he said. ‘Why do you ask?'

She felt relieved.

‘It's open all night, and I always thought it would be a terrible job, just waiting … all night, for someone to buy … you know, cigarettes, or something.' Tears were starting to come to her eyes, the breath catching in her throat. Chris looked at her with a patient, listening gaze, his face expressionless. She felt completely exposed before him. His total lack of mannerisms was almost offensive in its directness. Mercifully, her emotion began to recede.

‘Matches?' he asked.

‘Please. How's your mother?'

‘Recovering,' he said. ‘I'm sorry I skipped out on you the other day. I'm not a big party person.'

‘I shouldn't have – I shouldn't have interrupted,' she said. A man in line behind her cleared his throat. She put some bills down, fumbled through her purse for exact change. ‘Well,' she said. ‘Tell Dot to call me, if she wants to.'

‘You'll have to call her,' said Chris. ‘She's too mortified.'

Pippa left the convenience store, got into the car, ripped open the cigarettes, pulled one out and lit up. As the smoke filled her lungs, she felt a tingling in her hands and lips. Everything she looked at – the steering wheel, her hand, the gas pump outside – seemed saturated with color and detail. She hung her arm out the window. Why am I doing this? she thought. Her eyes wandered to Chris, tallying up someone's purchases. What a strange young man. Seems bright, but … She was beginning to know what Dot meant. There was something not quite right about him. Chris looked up and saw her through the glass. She waved at him cheerfully, put out the cigarette, and drove away.

Sam Shapiro and Moira Dulles were coming over for dinner again. It was too hot for warm dishes, so Pippa poached a salmon, made potato salad with vinaigrette dressing, and served it all on the patio. After dinner, the four of them sat quietly eating strawberries, looking out at the small artificial lake in the golden light and listening to the crickets. ‘Delicious strawberries, Pippa,' said Sam.