Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (8 page)

  Vivian could imagine her fluttering over Mike early this morning, bringing him homemade breakfast rolls and tea, discussing her porch's needs, naughty bits tingling when his muscles got down to business. Oh, but they must stop that naughty tingle! Good girls never felt that special feeling for anyone but their husbands.

  How that uptight bitch Abby ever made Ed cheat . . . But then Ed was nearing sixty, slowing down. Maybe wild animal sex didn't enter into his new requirement list. Maybe Abby was a closet kink -freak, who knew. It didn't matter anymore. Abby didn't have Ed and neither did Vivian.

  But, thank God, she did have the Kettle Social Club.

  She wandered across a corridor that looked like it belonged in a public school building, smelling of cheap cleaning fluid and the faint appealing aroma of coffee. Voices sounded from behind a door, partly ajar. Vivian flipped her hair back, pulled her breasts up so they spilled farther into the vee of her sweater, and strutted inside.

  Immediately her vision zeroed in on Sarah, perched on the edge of her chair, drawn a little back from the circle, indicating leadership. She was talking earnestly, and when Vivian came in, she broke off to force a welcoming smile, but not before an expression of sheer horror came over her fl awless preppy features.

  Vivian lived for moments like that.

  "Hi, everyone."

  Unwelcoming silence.

  "I'm Vivian, your town murderess, and I'd like to be a member of the Kettle Social Club because I love parties." She gave a cheery wave and pulled a chair to Sarah's right, much too close to be comfortable for her. "So what are we doing?"

  "Hi . . . Vivian." Sarah edged her chair away with the pretense of moving it to welcome Vivian into the circle. "I wasn't sure you were serious about coming. I'm afraid we already started. We like to start on time, right at ten."

  "Fine by me, Sarah. I don't mind missing a few minutes." She looked pointedly at the frumpy older woman with a jet black dye job to Sarah's right. "And you are?"

  "Joan Russell." The woman glared at the gray -green pillar thrusting down into the room, arms crossed over an enormous, sagging bosom. Apparently that was all the conversation Vivian rated.

  And what a shame that was.

  Next victim subjected to Vivian's demon presence—in a
church,
no less—a mousy -looking, pale woman. She stared as if she expected Vivian to perform a miracle on the spot, only it wasn't clear if the anticipated miracle would be holy or satanic.

  "What's your name?" Vivian itched to whip out eyeliner and mascara, blush, and some lipstick to color in that bland, pretty face. But even that wouldn't do much unless she got the dullness out of her eyes. Was she stupid? Or just weird?

"Erin."

  The name, barely whispered, triggered the impression of a shared memory. Had Vivian met her before, maybe on a visit to Kettle? She couldn't really place her face, but the name jogged something. "Hey, Erin. What do you do for fun?"

  Erin sank back in her seat; her eyes darted side to side. The room grew creepy -silent, as if the other ladies really, really didn't want to hear whatever Erin did for fun.

  Erin blushed, which at least made her look alive. "I . . . paint."

  O-kay. Erin was weird. "No kidding, that's great."

  "Erin is Joan's daughter-in-law." Sarah made the announcement as if she'd explained the origins of the universe.

  Mother- and daughter-in-law sat rigidly next to each other, not sharing so much as an acknowledging glance. Zero love lost there. Having a mother-in-law like Joan would probably make Vivian weird, too.

  Next in the sacred circle, the skinny one, a disaster-haired woman named Nancy, whose sharp, turned -up nose seemed to be pulling her upper lip permanently clear of prominent front teeth. She kept flicking anxious glances to Sarah, as if she needed approval for each breath. Vivian dismissed her immediately as a Sarah disciple. Probably gay and didn't know it.

  Last was big, blond Betty, of Kmart maternity fashion, enormous and round -bellied, glancing at Vivian occasionally as if she was some fatal disease Betty's baby could catch.

  Vivian guessed these would not become her bestest -ever girlfriends.

  "When are you due, Betty?"

  "December twenty -fourth, the day before Jesus was born." Her hostility dissolved into pride.

  "Congratulations, is this your fi rst?"

  A ripple of amusement around the room. Betty laughed harder than necessary. "Oh no, the Lord has given me four others in the last fi ve years."

  "Your husband's not jealous?"

  Betty made solid eye contact with Vivian for the fi rst time, dull, curl -covered head tipped to one side in confusion. "Jealous of the babies?"

  "No. Of the Lord giving you children." Blank faces all around. "Instead of your husband giving them to you."

  Silence. Horrified. Except for a swiftly squashed giggle that might have come from Erin. Betty turned red; her lips tightened.

  Vivian was suddenly desperately tired in every possible way a person could be tired. "Betty, I was joking. I didn't mean to offend you, I'm sorry."

  Betty managed a tight nod. Women reshuffled their feet, adjusted their bodies on the occasionally squeaky aluminum folding chairs.

  "So. Vivian." Sarah managed to imbue her musical voice with the tiniest touch of disdain. "We were discussing the upcoming Halloween party."

  Vivian clapped her hands together; the sound reverberated off the gray -green cinder-block walls. "Cool. I love parties. What's the theme?"

  Expectant looks at Sarah, who cleared her throat. "This year's theme is Helping Others."

  "Really."
Helping Others?
Halloween was supposed to be scary and exciting and fun. What was wrong with these people?

  Her fatigue grew more desperate, as did her need for caffeine. She made her way to the refreshments, set out on a cheap folding table scarred and smudged with paint, probably from years of cutesy crafts or children's art. "Ed and I threw a Come As You're Not Halloween party once. That was a blast."

  A folding chair creaked, probably Betty's begging for mercy. Apparently no one else thought that sounded like a blast. Or maybe they couldn't handle her mentioning the man she supposedly bumped off.

  She sighed, poured herself a mug of what smelled like excellent java, and took an appreciative sip. "Mmm,
great
coffee."

  "Thank you." Sarah smiled, eyes wary. "I buy it online from a gourmet company in California."

  "Did you make these, too?" Vivian picked out one of the cinnamon rolls, oozing sugary icing and pecans, and took an enormous bite, sure Mike had been offered the same this morning. And hadn't Vivian predicted that one perfectly?

  "Yes. For others to enjoy." Still wary, Sarah couldn't quite keep her natural smugness from shining through.

  "They're fabulous." She spoke through a rich, sticky mouthful and walked back to her place, all eyes on her except Joan's, which were fi xed on the floor. "Helping people, huh?"

  "Yes." Sarah cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter, which Vivian would not have thought possible. "I grow . . . pumpkins in the lot next door to my house. We'll sell them at the party to raise money for a child in need."

  "Sounds like a plan." Sounded like self -indulgent crap.
Pumpkins
? How much money could you get from pumpkins? Sell shots of tequila and hold a drinking contest, then you could make some money. "How much do you fi gure you can raise?"

  All heads back turned to Sarah, who sat stiffly as if she were being questioned by a grand jury. "I'll have well over a hundred pumpkins this year. We can sell them for fi ve to ten dollars each, depending on the size and variety. I grow several different kinds."

  "Really." Vivian took another sip of coffee. Who the hell would go to a party at Halloween still needing a pumpkin? And who wanted to buy anything but the standard big orange kind at that time of year? "So even if you sell them all, that's probably only going to make around six hundred dollars."

  The women shifted nervously. Color started climbing up Sarah's neck. "Yes."

  "How much need is this kid going to be in?"

  "We haven't selected a child yet."

  Okay. Save the eye rolling for when she got home."Have you thought about other ideas that might be more lucrative?"

  Sarah turned her head and fixed Vivian with a please -dienow stare. "Like what?"

  "I don't know, but how many people around here really get excited about pumpkins?"

  The women looked at Sarah and provided Vivian's answer: one.

  "How about something with broader appeal, shoot for a signifi cant amount of money?"

  "What do you suggest?" Ice formed around Sarah's words.

"Oh, I don't know . . ." Vivian shrugged. "A hand job booth?"

  Erin snorted suddenly, like a horse with something up its nose. The rest of the women achieved instant rigor mortis.

  "Hello? Ladies? I'm kidding." Vivian winked at Erin, who actually smiled, though she immediately ducked her head to hide it. Okay, Erin was weird, but at least she had a sense of humor. "In New York I organized a fund -raising party around a fashion show for a bunch of Ed's friends. The designers and models donated their time and everyone came, because that's what those people were into. We made ten thousand dollars for cancer research."

  She looked around the room, surprised to fi nd herself feeling mildly excited. Planning parties was something she was good at, something she liked to do. One look at Sarah's face, however, and she realized her little moment of semi enthusiastic sincerity had hailed poopballs on the Queen's pumpkin patch.

  Tough. If they wanted to help a child in need, and undoubtedly they had no idea how staggeringly many kinds of need there were, six hundred dollars would be a drop in the Pacifi c. They might as well do it up right.

  She studied the squirming ladies, colorless Erin, Nancy with her thick glasses and A -line hairdo that made her look like an Afghan hound, Betty with tresses screaming for highlights and clothes that fought her body shape, Joan . . . okay, well, never mind . . . and an extremely obvious idea popped into her head. "Why don't you sell certifi cates for makeovers? Women love them and men can buy them for—"

  "What, would
you
do them?" Joan finally came to life, glaring witheringly at Vivian's outfi t. "Who'd buy one?"

Murmurs in the room. Nancy glanced anxiously at Sarah.

  Sarah was still indulging tasteful rage in her Chair of Leadership. "I'm happy with how I look."

  Vivian bit her tongue. Literally. Because the remark on its tip would serve no purpose.

  "And let not your adornment be merely external—braiding the hair, and wearing gold jewelry, or putting on dresses; but let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the imperishable quality of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is precious in the sight of God." Betty folded her hands across what was left of her lap and looked at Vivian with a Jesus -clock expression. "Book of Peter, chapter three, verse sixteen."

  For the first time since her not -guilty verdict was announced, Vivian found herself speechless.

  "I might want one." Erin nodded too many times, gazing at Vivian. "I would want one."

  "Be serious. You don't want one." Her mother-in-law snapped the words out and Erin deflated like a Whoopie cushion, though thankfully in silence.

  Speech returned, and with it a strange protectiveness for weird little Erin. "I'm sorry, Joan,
you've
decided she doesn't want one?"

  "What would be the point?"

  "Ah, the point. Let's think about that one." Vivian gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Maybe . . . gee, I don't know, to look better? Feel better?"

  Joan blew a short raspberry. "She'd have no use for it."

  Vivian smiled sweetly. "And you know this because . . ."

  "Joe wouldn't stand for it."

  Erin's body jerked. Too much silence filled the room. Bad

silence. Choking silence. Vivian pictured this Joe person, ultra -conservative, smothering, preaching hellfire and brimstone, forbidding his wife to wear makeup or bright colors.

  Then another picture supplanted it, like the next in a mental slide show. Joe. At the bar last night. The huge, creepy, lecherous guy. Was he married to this little rag doll? No wonder he was chatting Vivian up last night. Big animal guys always married wimps so they could stay boss, and then were dissatisfi ed with the lack of challenge.

  Duh.

  Fine. To hell with it. To hell with all of it. What had she been thinking? That she could take on a town like this and make even the barest dent? She could come up with the mother of all fund -raising ideas, and still no one would give her or her ideas credence.

  She had better things to do than worry about Kettle's social life. Someday she might even fi gure out what they were.

  "Well, I guess we're back to the original idea, then. Sarah?" She managed a conciliatory smile and gracious gesture at the now -victorious Queen. "Please tell us more about the pumpkins."

Eight

Excerpt from Sarah's diary

Sixth grade

Dear Diary,

I overheard Mom and Dad talking. This girl at school, Erin, her mother left. Erin came home from school and there was a note and her mom was gone. Can you believe that? Mom said Erin's father was violent. When I'm a mom I'll be good to my kids all the time. I bet Erin is sad. One time she showed up for school with a black eye. She said she fell, but maybe her father hit her. Maybe that's why she's so weird. I should be nicer to her.

  
Today Mrs. Jantzen asked what we wanted to accomplish in life. A lot of girls just wanted a husband
and kids. Not me. I'm going to be famous for something important, like curing cancer or being the fi rst woman president or a prima ballerina. No way will I be a housewife like my mom or Erin's mom, and just fuss with furniture and gossip on the phone, or get hit so much I'd have to leave. Ugh.

Sarah

  Sarah drove her 2001 Ford Windstar up their long, paved driveway. She'd chosen red for the car, since red was such a bright and cheery color, especially in winter when Wisconsin tended to fade to gray. Usually that didn't bother her, but for some reason this year the upcoming months of bare branches and cold loomed rather oppressively. Silly. Not like her to let things she couldn't control bother her. Generally she was one to roll with the seasons, and the punches.

  And speaking of punches, what a dreadful meeting this morning. That Vivian person had done her best to ruin not only the meeting, but also the party they were planning, which was going to be terrific. This afternoon Sarah would call area hospitals to fi nd the child her pumpkins could help.

  How Vivian thought she could raise so much money offering makeovers . . . Well, Sarah could only guess that Vivian had no idea people in Kettle didn't want to look like trash. Someone like Vivian thought she was the center of the universe itself. Like an adolescent. Like Sarah's daughter, Amber.

  Sarah had been feeling recently that Amber needed to see people less fortunate than herself. Maybe she needed to vol unteer in rural Appalachia or inner-city Chicago or the Deep South. Or maybe she needed to go to Europe and experience cultures that had existed so much longer than hers.

  Since Amber would need adult company on this voyage of self-discovery, Sarah favored the last option.

  She eased the Windstar into their garage, back much later than usual after her meeting. She opened the lift gate and got out the bag of groceries from Pick 'n Save, and the bag from Bed, Bath & Beyond, and the bag from Granley's Stationers, which made her smile. If anyone were watching, he'd want to know what made Sarah's smile that intriguing.

  She let herself into the house and heard hammering out back where Mike was working. Too bad she hadn't been here at lunch to offer him some of her homemade goulash soup or a sandwich, the kind men liked with lots of meat. He'd enjoyed her cinnamon rolls this morning from what she could tell.

  "Hi, Ben, sweetheart, I'm home." She set the groceries on the counter and started unpacking. Maybe Ben would come in and hug her, ask where she'd been all this time. That would be awfully nice.

  When not even an answer came, she got worried and left the groceries half unpacked on her beautiful granite counter.

  "Ben?" She walked into his study and stopped short when she saw him at his desk. Not a blessed thing wrong with him. Thank goodness.

  "Mm?" He frowned and tapped impatiently at a key.

  "I'm home, honey."

  "Oh. Yes." He glanced at her over the tops of his reading glasses, gave a little wave, and went back to work.

  She put on a sweet smile in case he decided to glance at her again. "I hope you didn't worry that I was late?"

  He kept typing, and she had to repeat the question a little louder. Her voice sounded strained when it got louder like that.

  "I didn't notice, actually. Is lunch ready?"

  Sarah laughed to dispel a sudden tight feeling in her stomach and moved forward, put her hand on his shoulder. "It's way after lunch. Didn't you eat?"

  "I must have gotten distracted." He patted the hand on his shoulder. Sarah saw the words
bloody dismembered corpse
on the monitor and shuddered.

  "I'll fix you something now." She left the room, the tight feeling still in her stomach. She'd had lunch at Denver's today, all by herself, which she never did, a Cobb salad, which was unusually fatty for her. But today hadn't felt usual. Vivian had turned everything "topsy turvy," as Sarah's mom would say.

  She started leftover goulash soup heating and pulled bread down from the cupboard for his sandwich. The bread hit the counter fairly forcefully, and she nearly tore the bag getting the slices out. Ben wouldn't eat the ends of the loaf, nor would Amber. Sarah always ate them, because she couldn't bear the waste. It would be nice if Ben would eat them once in a while so she wouldn't have to.

  She poured Ben's soup into a bowl a little too vigorously so it sloshed over the rim and she had to wipe the bowl and the counter. She took him the soup and the sandwich and a large glass of skim milk, and set it on his desk with a thud that nearly made the soup spill again.

  "Thank you." He didn't look up from the monitor or pat her hand again, which would have been nice since she went to the trouble of making him a sandwich
and
heating the soup. Though probably the soup would sit and get cold and she'd have to throw it away in case of invading bacteria.

  "You know, Ben, I've been thinking that we've never taken Amber to Europe." She pulled a woolen pill off Ben's sweater and rolled it between her fingers. "She's sixteen and barely been outside of Wisconsin since we moved back here. I want her to have broader horizons. Besides, it would do her good to get away from that awful boyfriend of—"

  "Sarah." Her name came out as if he were saying,
Shut up
.

  She found herself inhaling sharply. "Well. We can talk about it another time. Eat your soup while it's still hot."

  He was already back to typing. She kissed his cheek to show she wasn't at all upset at being dismissed like a servant, then she left quietly, which was probably unnecessary because he'd most likely forgotten she was there at all.

  After she put the groceries away, she discovered the new bath mat in the downstairs bathroom looked fresh and neat without the thread -trailing edges of the old one, and it made her feel happier. She thought of calling Ben to come see, but what was the point? Ben wouldn't feel happier; he'd just feel annoyed.

  All her morning errands were cleaned up now except the box from Granley's. Just looking at it made her feel funny, which was silly, since all she'd done was march into the store and pick out some thank -you notes and pay for them.

  Tom had been there, and unless she was imagining it, on this unusual day he'd stared at her more longingly than ever. She'd put the thank -you notes on the counter next to his cash register and smiled at him, glad her cheeks were fl ushed from the chilly day so her eyes seemed brighter and she looked younger.

  He'd rung up her purchase, and she'd admired the devastating combination of dark hair only barely flecked with gray, and deep blue eyes. It had been nearly lunchtime, and she'd mentioned she was going to Denver's, just outside Kettle, by the Pick 'n Save and other larger stores. That she'd be eating alone. Then he'd said he went there sometimes, too, and looked at her questioningly, as if he wanted permission to join her.

  Oh my goodness. Her cheeks had certainly fl ushed hotter then. Of course she'd simply thanked him for the notes and walked out. She was a married woman; having lunch with a single man—even an old friend—out in public was a very bad idea. Though she tried to let him know with her eyes—the windows into her soul—that if things had been different, she would have enjoyed having lunch with him quite a bit.

  On her way upstairs to change into the slippers she usually wore around the house, she peeked in the gilt -framed mirror inherited from Granny and noted that her cheeks were still pink and that her heathery cotton sweater set, bought online from Nordstrom's, flattered her particularly well today.

  Maybe she'd go outside now and check on Mike. Mike would be normal on a day nothing else seemed to be. Too much normal could get dull, she supposed, but not enough became trying.

  Back in the kitchen, she arranged a plate of her oatmeal, dried cherry, chocolate chip cookies, and added an apple. Men didn't eat enough fruit when left to their own devices. Mike would appreciate her thoughtfulness.

  Outside, she found him bent over, measuring boards laid across a workhorse. Mike was so capable. Ben didn't see the point of fixing anything himself if he had the money to pay someone else to do it. Though it was her money these days, from her grandmother's estate. Her money that made it possible for him to sit in his office for the past four years, writing about blood -drinking creatures instead of having a real job.

  Of course she agreed with Ben about hiring people, but there was something sexy about men who could do it all. She wondered if Tom could handle a hammer as easily as he did a cash register.

  Right now, however, she felt she could happily sit here and watch Mike's broad shoulders taper to his very nice, very male hips for the rest of the day.

  She walked around him, making sure the sun would hit behind her and bring out the strawberry -blond highlights in her hair, at the same time preventing her from having to squint unattractively when she faced him. "I brought you some cookies."

  He looked up from his board. "Thanks, Sarah. Those will be a treat."

  "You've made wonderful progress." She let her eyes hold a touch of awe. Men loved nothing better than to feel admired.

  He shrugged. "Pretty simple job."

  "Well, I'm grateful. I know how busy you are."

  He shrugged again and ate one of her cookies, biting into it with straight white teeth and crunching with relish. Mike was a good person. She felt so sorry that his sweet old -lady neighbor Edna had been replaced by someone as vulgar and trampy as Vivian. It must be very diffi cult.

  "How are you handling the situation with your new neighbor?" She made sure her voice came out gently so he'd know she didn't judge anyone, no matter how horrendous a human being.

  "The situation?" He finished the cookie and reached for another, which she'd offered as soon as his last bite disappeared.

  "I mean that she is so . . . infamous."

  "That has nothing to do with me."

  "Nor any of us, of course." Sarah's stomach tightened again. But Mike must be trying to appear as nonjudgmental as she was. "She's certainly different than Edna."

  "You could say that." He smiled then, the full Mike smile.

  Instead of returning it, Sarah found herself narrowing her eyes. Because she instinctively felt that smile hadn't been meant for her. "Vivian came to the Kettle Social Club meeting this morning."

  His hand hesitated on its way to reaching for a third cookie. Sarah stared into his young, handsome face and had the distinct impression that he wanted to laugh.

  Sarah didn't think what had happened this morning at her meeting was remotely funny. "She was extremely disruptive."

  "I can imagine."

  Again, suppressed humor in his voice. Sarah began to feel aggravated, which she'd never felt around Mike before, or indeed anyone in Kettle with the exception of Joan, who brought on aggravation like summer brought on mosquitoes. "She thought Helping Others wasn't as good a theme for the Halloween party as Come As You're Not."

  He outright chuckled. "I'd like to see what she'd wear to that one."

  This was too much. "I also heard she caused some kind of scene at Harris's last night."

  The laughter went out of Mike's eyes. "I was there."

  "I'm sorry you had to see something like that. I'm sorry anyone did." She was relieved he'd stopped laughing and waited for him to share her disgust in a moment that would bring them closer. Even Mike couldn't be nonjudgmental enough to approve of public nudity.

  Instead he seemed annoyed, and Sarah couldn't shake the bizarre feeling that it wasn't Vivian he was annoyed at.

  She rushed to smooth the moment over, fl abbergasted that she'd be required to. "You know how rumors are."

  "Right." He turned back to measuring his boards, leaving her holding out the plate of cookies in case he wanted a fourth. He didn't. Neither did he touch the apple.

  "Well, I hope she keeps that kind of behavior behind closed doors from now on." She brought the plate, which was starting to shake a little, down close to her body, not pleased at how prudey she sounded. She didn't want Mike, of all people except maybe Tom, thinking she was prudey.

  What she did want was to knock on Vivian's door and convince her to leave this town before she ruined it for Sarah and everyone else.

  Mike drew a line across his board and turned back, and since his eyes seemed kind again, she hoped her intuition had been false, and that he wasn't at all sympathetic to his new neighbor.