Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (9 page)

  "After Rosemary died . . ."

  Sarah nearly gasped. In all the months since Mike had been back in Kettle, she'd never once heard him mention Rosemary's name, nor had she heard from anyone else that he had. He'd given Sarah quite a gift on this thoroughly unusual day.

  "Yes, Mike?" Her voice came out a reverent whisper, as Rosemary's memory deserved.

  "After she died, I lost my mind. I was so fuc—"

  Sarah blinked.

  "—messed up, that I couldn't stay here without exploding. So I left. I behaved badly. I got into fights. I drank too much. I screwed around."

  "Oh no, Mike. You didn't do that." The protest poured from her, and she didn't even realize how ridiculous she sounded until she saw Mike looking at her as if she sounded ridiculous.

  "I'm sorry." She gestured with the plate; the apple wobbled and the cookies very nearly slid over the scalloped white porcelain edge. "It's just so . . . unlike you."

  "That's my point."

  She had to stare at him while her brain rewound their conversation to try and figure out what point that was exactly. When her brain fi nally came up with it, she wanted to gag.

  "You're comparing what you went through to . . .
her?"
Bad enough when Vivian made the same comparison the morning Sarah brought her a carrot cake. "Mike, she's nothing like you. I'm sure you had . . . troubles when your grief was so overwhelming, but she's . . . she's
always
been like that."

  "Oh?" The rest of his thought couldn't have been clearer if he'd said it out loud.
How do you know?

  Sarah gaped at him. Because how could anyone possibly answer a question like that? How did Sarah know? Just by
looking
at her. "The trial. All those stories."

  "All I know is she's a mess right now."

  "She's a murderer." Her voice came out so high and desperate, she couldn't tell who was more startled, her or Mike. "She killed someone she'd lived with for fourteen years."

  "The jury said she didn't."

  Sarah's gasp couldn't be stifled this time. He was putting her world into a large -sized Cuisinart and holding down the pulse button. "But you can't possibly believe . . . She's guilty. She has to be. All that evidence . . ."

  He shook his head, turned his back, and started up his saw. The blade bit into the wood, steady along his mark, sawdust spewing over her lawn until the board broke cleanly, and Mike examined the edge as if it held more of his interest than she did.

  Sarah suddenly had trouble breathing. She put the plate down on the sawdust -sprinkled lawn, not even caring that he might step on it and break her Limoges. She never cried. She never had a single reason to cry. She and Ben were so happy here.

  "Excuse me. I need to go water my pumpkins." She stumbled toward the field, ignoring Mike calling her name, doing her best not to break into a run and throw herself face fi rst into the glorious tangle of vines she'd made possible next door.

  Panting, she sank down among her very favorites, Baby Boos, adorable miniature white pumpkins. They looked so sweet and pure and picturesque against the green vines and leaves and the black plastic she laid down to conserve heat and moisture and discourage weeds. It wasn't really necessary to water them, in fact it could be detrimental to create too much humidity in the late afternoon, making the vines vulnerable to mildew. But she had to get away from Mike somehow. And she always found peace among her pumpkins.

  She waited, inhaling the familiar earthy vine scent, for the peace and sense of purpose and calm. Instead she heard Vivian's bitchy voice,
I don't know, but how many people around here really get excited about pumpkins?

  Deep breaths, many of them, while she reminded herself that Vivian's need to destroy something important to Sarah reflected more on Vivian than it did on Sarah. Being upset would only hand Vivian the victory she sought. The other women in the meeting had stood behind Sarah. Selling pumpkins at the town's Halloween party was a good idea. And Helping Others was a fi ne theme for the party.

  A gust of wind brought a chill, and she tenderly stroked the smooth skin of a nearby Baby Boo. Frost would come soon. If it threatened before the party on the twenty -ninth, she'd have to harvest the pumpkins to avoid damage. Cut them from their green umbilical cords and pile them in her shed to protect them.

  She imagined herself displaying the pumpkins at the party, by size, by color, some for cooking, some for decoration, some for carving. Imagined how people would be impressed—those who didn't know she grew pumpkins would think back to the previous months and all the hard work Sarah must have been doing while they didn't even realize.

  A glow of pride lessened the feeling of dread, until she imagined Vivian again and saw the booth and the woman tending it through Vivian's eyes. With a sense of shock and horror, she saw a middle -aged, frigid woman with nothing to show for herself but a chintzy folding table brimming with attractive squash.

Nine

Letter home from Vivian's ninth grade teacher, Mrs. Castor

I'm concerned about Vivian's attitude this term. Adolescence can be tough for all kids, but she seems to be having an unusually difficult time. She's very bright, but has started turning in subpar work and skipping classes. Worse, she doesn't appear to care or give any indication she understands how sabotaging herself now could be detrimental to her future. I think she has a particularly bright one. I recommend we meet and discuss the possibility of getting her counseling to see why she appears troubled.

Note to Mrs. Castor, scrawled on the bottom of her letter

I appreciate your concern, but Vivian is fi ne. Just the usual teenage stuff. My wife and I are handling it.

Mr. Harcourt

  Vivian rolled her trash toward the curb. She'd been about to work out but remembered Friday was garbage day, so she'd better set the can out while she thought of it, in case they showed up to collect before her crow alarm went off. In New York, she and Ed could drop their trash down the building's chute the second any accumulated. Here she got to hoard it for an entire week. Must be completely disgusting in the heat of summer.

  Trash can positioned at the end of her driveway like everyone else's—and how much did she hate to be like everyone else?—she went back inside and attempted to lift the rolled up baby -blue shag carpet she'd torn off the living room fl oor, so she could drag it out the front door.

  Uh, right.

  She took another unsatisfying hold of one end, the coarse backing grating her knuckles, and lifted with all her strength, having given up any hope of attractive nails ever again. Instead of coming off the floor, the roll bent like a limp dick and only got heavier.

  Pulling, struggling, swearing, she managed to get the leading edge out the front door, where she stopped and glared at the stoop. Four steps, a curving walk, and yards of sidewalk to reach the trash area. Mike wasn't home from Sarah's yet. Her neighbors to the north, the most pudgy, Wonder Bread, typically Midwestern couple she could even imagine, had greeted her, the one time their schedules intersected, with such horror and disdain that Vivian was pretty sure help would not be given willingly there. At all. Ever.

  With a burst of Super Vivian energy, she dragged the carpet down the steps, where it gained momentum and sent her sprawling back on her superheroine ass on the lawn.

  "Need help?"

  Vivian twisted up onto her elbow and laid eyes on a teenage girl, sixteen, maybe seventeen, probably walking home from school—the first female Vivian had encountered in Kettle who didn't look like a Talbot's model or a Wal -Mart shopper. She wore a funky black -and-white check miniskirt, chunky black mid -calf boots, and heavy socks up over her knees. An off -shoulder, skin tight, black long -sleeved shirt, similar to one in Vivian's old -lady dresser upstairs, emphasized her well-developed breasts. In contrast to her chic outfi t, she was sucking on a lollipop, staring at Vivian with childlike curiosity. No hostility, thank God. Vivian had used up her hostility quotient for the day. Hell, for her lifetime.

  "Help would be great, thanks." She got to her feet and positioned herself at one end, expecting the girl to go to the other.

  Instead, Lolita stood about a third of the way into the giant roll -up and beckoned Vivian closer. "If we pick it up at either end, it'll sag on the ground in the center. This way we can lift it."

  Vivian rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. "I would have been here all day."

  They staggered with their load to the curb and dumped it. Relieved and a little out of breath, Vivian reached out her hand. "I'm Vivian."

  "No kidding." The girl shook. "Amber."

  "Thanks, Amber. I think if I had that carpet in my house another day I would have thrown up."

  "Yeah, I remember it." She shuddered comically.

  "You live around here, Amber?"

  The girl nodded and pointed back at the familiar white house with the chrysanthemum -filled wagon. "I think you met my mom."

  Vivian choked back a giggle.
This
was Sarah's daughter? Oh yes, there was a God in heaven after all. Mother and daughter must have such a cozy time planning outfi ts. Vivian didn't have to be there to hear; she'd lived it with her own mother.
You'll go to school in that over my dead body, young lady
. "Yes. I've met her a couple of times."

  "And you're
so
going to be best girlfriends."

  Vivian laughed, already liking this little Gilchrist. "Possible, but unlikely."

  "What do you think of Kettle?" Amber's eye -rolling disdain made Vivian wish Amber was about thirty years older. Or that Vivian was thirty years younger and could make a few different choices. Many different choices.

  "It's so much like Manhattan. I can hardly tell I left." Vivian gestured toward her old -lady house. "I'm going in to have a beer, you want one?"

  "Really?" Amber's eyes lit up.

  "No." Vivian tapped her playfully on the shoulder. "But come on in. I have soda, too."

  "Soda?" Amber laughed. "Around here we say pop. Soda is like club soda."

  "Okay, I have some . . . pop." She overenunciated the word, and Amber giggled and followed her into the house.

  "Do you need to call your mom and tell her you're here?"

  "Oh, like
that
would make her feel better."

  "At least she'd know where you are."

  "I'm fi ne."

  Vivian turned and gave her a steady stare to see if Amber would flinch and start looking guilty, but she held up well. "Diet Sierra Mist? Or Diet Coke?"

  "Mom says caffeine after four will keep me awake."

  "Diet Sierra Mist? Or Diet Coke?"

  Amber grinned. "Diet Coke."

  Vivian opened her ugly gold refrigerator, handed a Coke to Amber, reached for a Leinenkugel, and decided against it. Easier to keep the demons back if she did without. And she'd been sleeping like shit, so yeah, maybe not Diet Coke.

  "How do
you
like Kettle?" She pulled a Sierra Mist out of the refrigerator and popped the top.

  "Too small, too boring, too gossipy. I want to move back to Manhattan and study art."

  "Excellent." Vivian took a swig, wondering what it felt like to have known all your life your future was secure. "What kind of art?"

  "I do a mixture of photo collage and painting."

  "Cool." At Amber's age, Vivian's art was doing a mixture of alcohol and males. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

  "Yeah." Amber tried too hard to act nonchalant."A new kid in school. His name's Larry, he's totally hot."

  Aha. She'd guess Larry was boyfriend number one and they hadn't been dating long. Mom Sarah probably wasn't the greatest sexual confidante. Maybe it wouldn't have made a difference if someone told Vivian she didn't have to screw every guy that asked, but it would have been nice. "You sleeping with him?"

  "Not yet." She blushed and traced the top of her soda can with her index fi nger.

  "You want to?"

  "Sure." She lifted the can to her lips in a jerky movement.

  She didn't want to. Vivian felt a rush of protectiveness. "Is he pressuring you?"

  "Geez, you sound like my mom."

  "Okay, okay." Vivian held up I -surrender hands. "But seriously, you don't have to. If he cares about—"

  "I know, I know." She rolled her eyes. "If he cares he'll stick around even if I don't want to."

  "Right." Vivian's soda—pop—suddenly tasted too sweet, and she wished for the beer. Why did everyone persist in feeding girls such Cinderella romantic -ideal bullshit? Men wanted into women's pants. And if they couldn't get into one pair, too bad, they'd try the next.

  Then brokenhearted Amber would be told,
If he moved on because you wouldn't sleep with him, he wasn't worth having
. Pleez. At sixteen that carried all the weight of a freeze -dried gnat. Girls wanted boyfriends, especially cool boyfriends, and if sex helped you keep them, what was the big deal, right?

  They had no idea what a big deal it could turn into.

  But then Amber wasn't Vivian. After her adolescent rebellion, Amber would marry a man like Daddy, settle in Kettle, become her mother, and live sappily ever after.

  "Did you really flash your boobs at Harris's?"

  Vivian nearly dropped her can.
Oh shit.
She expected the news would travel, but somehow when she stood in the bar with her shirt up, she hadn't been picturing young ears like Amber's hearing about it. "Yup."

  Amber hooted. "I knew it. The kids at school didn't believe it, but I knew you did."

  She gazed at Vivian as if she were the not -very-virgin Mary, and Vivian had to turn away, retrieve a bag of chips from her duck -y cabinet, and pull out a handful while she thought over how to handle this one. "It was a bad thing, Amber."

  "It was excellent. It's such an old -guy place, and you did that like you were giving them the finger. The girls at school think it's great. Well, the cool ones. The rest, who cares?"

  "Right." Vivian crunched a chip. She really, really didn't want hero worship from kids too young to understand. "It's a pretty bad time for me, Amber. I was pretty messed up."

  "Drunk?"

  "No. Screwed up, and angry." She passed the bag of chips to Amber. "I wouldn't recommend it. Mike was there to pull me out; you might not get so lucky."

  "Mike did that for you?" She sighed. "He is soooo hot."

  "Ya
think?
"

  Amber giggled. "So are you going to try to date him?"

  "I don't think so." She dusted chip crumbs off her hands. "I guess he's still not over his dead wife."

  "Oh yeah." Amber's voice dropped to hushed misery.

  Vivian glanced at her sharply. Could hand -delivered casseroles be more than a few years away? "Did you know her?"

  "Sure, everyone knew her."

  "Let me guess, she was just like me, right?"

  Amber snorted. "
Not
."

  "I fi gured." Vivian smiled without meaning it.

  "They were so in love, it was like they were joined at the hip. They ran his business together; you never saw them apart. They never fought or anything. It was sooo romantic."

  
Romantic
wasn't the word that sprang up in Vivian's mind. Codependent, however, leaped up with no trouble. Too bad. She'd thought Mike had more strength in him than that.

  Amber crunched the last chip of her current handful. "Can I ask you something?"

  "Sure."

  "Can you help me do makeup like yours?"

  Hmm. Vivian studied her natural features. She'd look stunning with a little eyeliner, maybe mascara, some blush, muted lipstick. But put the amount of makeup Vivian was wearing on her, and she'd look like a hooker. "Sure. I can help you."

  "Cool! When?"

  "Right now okay?"

  "Sweet!" She looked at Vivian's exercise clothes. "But were you going to work out?"

  "I can do it later. Stay right there." She ran upstairs to get a tray of basics, enthusiasm stirring. Female girlfriend stuff— she missed that. She'd had a few do -lunch friends in New York, but most of her socializing had been couple -oriented, and her leisure time had been hers alone or Ed's.

Back downstairs, she put the tray on the counter. "Ready?"

"You bet."

  "Hold still. Now look up." She selected a soft brown pencil and drew a thin line under Amber's bottom lashes.

  "What kind of workout do you do?"

  "I have tapes." She smudged the line gently with her fi nger, marveling at the tiny pores and firm texture of Amber's skin. Hers had been like that once. "Step aerobics, free weights . . . I'm actually certifi ed to teach."

  "Cool. My mom works out. She used to be a dancer."

  "No kidding." Vivian wouldn't mention that she used to be a dancer, too, in Chicago before she met Ed. She was pretty sure in the kind of dancing Sarah did, she got to keep her costume on. "She carries herself like one."

  "Yeah, she's in good shape." Amber's voice held its fi rst note of pride regarding her mother. "My friends' moms are always moaning about their weight, but they never do anything about it."

  "Human nature."

  "Hey, I know." Amber's excitement put the makeup application on hold. "You can teach aerobics classes."

  "Oh, like they'd want to come to me to be taught."

  "I bet they would. Why don't you? I'll come. I bet my friends would, too. And once my friends are into it, their moms will, too, since they're always whining. Mom says it's just a question of getting off your fat ass."

  Vivian froze, mascara wand in hand. "Your mom said, 'fat ass'?"

  "She said 'duff.' " Amber made a face, then opened her eyes wide for more mascara. "I wish she was more like you."

  Vivian nearly smeared black gunk across Amber's nose. "I'd be a disaster mother."

  "But you're cool. You understand what I'm talking about. She just wants me to grow up to be her. I'm
not
her. I want to dress the way I like, and wear makeup and hang out with Larry. She wants me to take ballet and tour Europe."