Time and Trouble (20 page)

This wasn
’
t where he should be or what he should be doing. This wasn
’
t anything like his so-called
“
normal
”
behavior and it was therefore frightening.

She squelched an impulse to clamp down her mind, to stop knowing anything more, the way her mother did. Pretend it
’
s okay, that it makes sense, that there
’
s a good reason for it, even if you can
’
t think of one.

Arthur had a secret. She was sure it was another woman. She
wanted
it to be, wanted her mother to feel as miserable and hate Arthur as much as Penny did.

What if she was wrong? After all, this was only a market. Maybe Arthur had suddenly discovered a kind and charitable impulse, making history, and he was saving a starving family.

In Sausalito. Right. In which of the picturesque million dollar hillside homes?

The fierce, hot pressure she felt gave way to a sense of peace.
Good.
Something real, finally. This would force her mother to notice. Provoke a break. She
’
d have grounds, even if this was a no-fault state. She
’
d have reason
—
as if she didn
’
t already with his foul treatment of his stepdaughter and natural son.

“
How could I leave him?
”
she
’
d said too many times.
“
I don
’
t have money or skills, and I do have two children
—
one not his
—
and I don
’
t even know if the law would make him provide for you.
”
Her mother always told her both more and less than she wanted to know.

Penny had said that as soon as she graduated, she
’
d get a job, help out
—
that away from Arthur, Wesley wouldn
’
t cringe and try to disappear all the time and her mother wouldn
’
t be weepy and crippled. Would stop playing helpless and waiting to die.

The words blew through the house and were dusted away by her mother. No job Penny could get would make enough money. Then maybe this sighting would do the trick, much as Penny didn
’
t want to know this, not really. She detested him, but the idea of the delicacies he was probably buying, or how much he
’
d pay for sex on the side, made her literally ache with rage.

The smart thing would be to leave now and have the pleasurable day she
’
d envisioned. Contemplate the sailboats on the bay and drink a latte. She walked her bike to the end of the lot, and waited, not sure what she was going to do next.

There were no questions, however, when she saw him emerge from the store, a shopping bag in his arms, the tops of two champagne bottles visible. She was galvanized by her fury. When his car pulled off the lot, she followed without thinking it through. Odds were, she was on a futile trip and wouldn
’
t be able to stay with him for long. He could be on the freeway in seconds, or heading away from the water up toward the hills where her pedaling power had no chance against his horsepower.

She was in luck. He stayed on the flats, turning right on Bridgeway, then right again, into the marina and the houseboats.

She wouldn
’
t have thought of an assignation in a village of beached boats in Richardson Bay. She had always thought the Sausalito colonies were romantic, but not for Arthur! It made him still more disgusting.

She followed at a distance, watched him park, then walked her bike as he and his groceries progressed past the recycling hut to the entrance to the boats and then, onto the walkway between the two lanes of them. At least he couldn
’
t lose her there. There were no side
“
streets
”
or off-roads. She stayed well behind him, somewhat hidden, if he turned, by the dock
’
s angles and the potted foliage that lined both sides.

Still, she felt foolish, a kid playing detective games. Nervous, too. But more than any of that, she felt compelled to find out and expose his secret.

They passed houseboats with spiral staircases, roof gardens, fantastic towers with stained-glass windows, but the one he finally entered was a small, stubby thing, more boat than house, more box than boat. The sort you
’
d pass right by.

She waited to move closer when it felt safe, but he came out again within minutes and without his groceries, heading back toward the parking lot
—
and her. There was no place to hide, only the walkway with short-planked entries like side roads into each boat, so she turned and hurried off, waiting behind a car in the parking lot in a state of confusion. Was it really possible he had been dropping off groceries on a mission of mercy?

She felt foolish until she wondered what variety of mercy required two bottles of champagne.

Then it appeared he wasn
’
t leaving. He leaned into the backseat and brought out an undersized violin case, one a circus midget might use. Then he extracted a silvery tube
—
a music stand, she thought, the kind an orchestra used.

He wasn
’
t musical in the least
—
didn
’
t even like listening to it. Would never have provided such luxuries for Wesley.

He checked that his car doors were locked, and headed back to the dock.

She waited, then edged all the way back out to the house. But she couldn
’
t see anything because the drapes were drawn over the small front windows. She couldn
’
t remember if they
’
d been that way earlier.

Couldn
’
t hear anybody playing the tiny violin, either. Maybe the child for whom it was intended was in school now, didn
’
t have a teacher
’
s workshop. Maybe Arthur was using the instrument as a bribe, a gift to the child via the mother, when it was the mother he wanted.

She couldn
’
t tell anything about the inhabitant from the blandness of the exterior. One semi-alive plant slumped over in a clay pot on the step at the front door. The most a person could say was that this place was easily forgettable. She made a point of memorizing its number.

Finally, she rode off, leaving him to his mistress. Or, for all she knew, his entire other family including the musical midget. On the way off the dock, she tried the mailbox for that number. It, like all its unidentified neighbor boxes, was anonymous and locked.

That night, she asked him about his day, giving him a chance to come up with an alibi, a chance to make her suspicions foolish hallucinations.

“
What
’
s to say? Same as always, too much work.
”
He dunked a piece of sourdough into the chicken gravy.
“
Why do you suddenly care? What do you want?
”
He didn
’
t even glance at her. Her spying had gone unnoticed.

So she repeated the act three more Thursdays, cutting school to make a circuit to the houseboat parking lot at about the same time of day. Once nobody was there, but both other times, her stepfather
’
s car was parked in the lot.

On one of those days, while she paced at the beginning of the dock, two men carrying a green velvet sofa came through the narrow opening to the dock.
“’
Scuse us,
”
one of them said, and she pressed herself and her bike against the wall of mailboxes.

She watched them progress down the dock to, surprisingly, the mistress
’
s house. He was buying the bitch a sofa the day after he
’
d told Penny that if she went out for the play and had to rehearse at night instead of baby-sitting, he would not make up the difference, and she could forget about going to her own senior prom.

She watched them maneuver the green sofa into the house, and even though it hadn
’
t touched her, she felt its velvet against her skin
—
against the Mistress
’
s skin until she thought she
’
d be sick.

Leaving the dock, she passed a parked van that read, Rooms to Rent: The Comforts of Home in an Hour. She didn
’
t connect the sofa with the van until she was on the road home, but there hadn
’
t been any other commercial vehicle in the place. Maybe he wasn
’
t counting on this affair
’
s lasting too long and he only loaned his woman things. That would be like him.

From then on, when her stepfather punched or slapped her mother, blamed business reversals on his wife, treated Wesley as if he were a failure at age eight, called Penny a slut
—
the heat of her knowledge worked its way from behind her ears up into the top of her forehead until her brain was on fire with it. He called Penny a slut while he drank champagne with his whore and furnished their love nest.

“
Mom,
”
she said one afternoon when they were alone.
“
I have something to tell you.
”
She spoke as gently as she could, hating herself for deliberately hurting a woman who already looked down for the count, and she didn
’
t mean the wheelchair business.

“
I have bad news, but I
’
m sure you
’
d rather hear the truth than have me lie to you.
”

Her mother put down the calculator, deep worry-lines between her eyebrows.
“
Are you in trouble?
”

“
No. Well, maybe we all are. I saw Arthur
—”

Her mother winced. She hated that Penny called him by his given name, but damned if she
’
d call him
“
Dad
”
the way her mother wanted, and
“
Stepfather
”
sounded too weird, especially for this conversation.

“
I think
—
I
’
m sure
—
Arthur is having an affair.
”

Her mother
’
s mouth dropped open.
“
Why would you say such a thing? And how would you possibly know if it was true, which I can
’
t believe.
”
A sudden single tear hovered on the lower lashes of her mother
’
s right eye.
“
He wouldn
’
t,
”
she said, and the tear dislodged and made its way down her cheek.

“
I saw him. Three times.
”

“
With
…
with somebody?
”
Her mother looked pitiable. Penny wondered if she should hold her hand during the telling, or pat her head, but it all seemed so sordid and topsy-turvy, she stayed where she was.

“
Not exactly.
”

“
Well, then, how dare you say such an ugly
—”

“
First time was by accident. I saw him where he didn
’
t belong. Carrying champagne. And food.
”

Her mother shook her head; she all but clapped her hands over her ears. She looked old, and like a loser.

But the way she looked and the things she did weren
’
t to be trusted and surely not to be pitied. Penny had seen her mother get out of the wheelchair when she thought none of them could see. She
’
d seen her walk normally to go have a cigarette
—
also a secret, and denied
—
outside the back door. She thought she understood why her mother chose to live like an invalid, why she wanted the disability money. She also understood that she couldn
’
t trust her mother.

“
Arthur promised me he would never
—”
her mother said.
“
I was so shaken by your father when he turned out to be such a
…”
Her real father, whose mention was always followed by
“
bastard
”
or
“
liar
”
or
“
cheat.
”
Sometimes
“
whoremonger.
”
Sometimes all four of them in a string. Penny hadn
’
t seen or heard from him
—
although she
’
d certainly heard enough about him
—
since she was five, two years after he dumped her mother. But because he
’
d been so bad and had made her mother
’
s life so hard, she was never, ever, to say a word against his successor.

“…
I couldn
’
t stand it if it happened again and in my condition!
”

“
He brings her gifts. Champagne. Food. He brought a violin one time
—
a really little one. And a
sofa
next time, and you know how cheap he is with us.
”

Her mother
’
s mouth dropped open a little.
“
A violin?
”

Penny nodded.
“
She probably has a child. A musical child.
”

“
Where?
”
Her mother leaned forward in the wheelchair.
“
Where were you? How could you see this?
”

She was paying attention at last.
“
A houseboat. In Sausalito.
”
Her mother relaxed back to her normal slump.