Crazy in Love Page 5

  “You mean people knew?”

  “I have no idea. But they might have. That idea made me furious. The main thing was that Timmy betrayed me. He cut himself away from us by seeing that woman.”

  “Who was she?”

  Honora was carefully scraping thin curls of butter from the cold block. “Alice Billings.”

  I gasped. “You’re kidding! Mrs. Billings? I didn’t like her at all.” Suddenly I remembered the time Mrs. Billings had driven Rachel and me to the skating pond and my father was waiting for us. I hadn’t expected to see him. After helping me lace my skates, he had said he was going to sit in Mrs. Billings’s car and watch me. It had been cold, with snow on the hills and tree branches. I remember skating as daringly fast as I could, wishing I was in Mrs. Billings’s nice warm car with her and my father.

  “She was a scrawny little mouse,” Honora said. “She worked as a research assistant at the Fisheries. I used to wonder how your father could go for such a boring person, not pretty, without even an interesting job. But then it occurred to me that he wanted someone who would adore him. Who would think he was a real catch.”

  “He was one,” I said, feeling strangely defensive of my father.

  “That may be true, but it’s irrelevant. He behaved like a bastard. I never trusted him again after I found out.”

  “But you stayed with him.”

  “That’s true. I stayed with him for three years afterwards. I’d probably be with him still if he were still alive.”

  “Why? How could you stay with a man you didn’t trust?”

  Honora smiled her beautiful square smile. “I was raised a Catholic, dearie. Those rules stick, even when they stop making sense. Plus I’m half Irish. And you know they say Ireland is a vale of tears.”

  “That’s why? That’s the reason?” I asked.

  Honora’s smile collapsed. “And I loved your father. I loved him very much.”

  “G’morning,” Pem said sweetly, shuffling over to kiss us. “It’s bitter cold.”

  “Pem, it’s nearly the Fourth of July,” I said. As she turned to Honora I saw the wet patch on the back of her nightgown and looked away.

  “Come on, let’s have breakfast,” she said.

  “I have to change her,” Honora said.

  “I’ll run upstairs and get her a clean robe,” I said. By the time I returned to the kitchen, they were already in the bathroom. Honora opened the door a crack, and I handed in the robe.

  “Goddamn it, I don’t want to change,” came Pem’s voice.

  “You have to. You’ll be warmer if you do.”

  “But I don’t want to!” Pem shrieked.

  “Oh, Lord,” I heard my mother say wearily.

  I sat at the kitchen table, stirring my coffee, thinking about my father and Mrs. Billings. I hated to think of Honora feeling so betrayed. As a child I had always thought of her as being incredibly strong. People say that children feel responsible when their parents’ marriages go sour, break up. Sitting there at Honora’s kitchen table that summer morning, I was thinking, What did Clare and I do wrong? By the time Honora and Pem emerged, I had become a waif, the product of a broken home.

  “Don’t look so gloomy, Georgie,” my mother said. “Try to cheer her up.”

  Pem’s face was sullen. She refused to meet my gaze.

  “She’s embarrassed,” Honora mouthed silently.

  “Good morning, Pem,” I said. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  “Beautiful,” she mumbled. Honora placed a tray with toast, juice, and coffee before Pem. Pem prodded the toast with her index finger, as though she were inspecting something vile and inedible, then stuck out her tongue. “Stinks,” she said.

  Honora pointed significantly toward her own eyebrows.

  I glanced at Pem, her white hair splendidly wild that morning. Then I cocked my head and wrinkled my nose. She looked over, interested now. “What?” she asked.

  “I was just wondering, what do you do to your brows?” I asked.

  “So many people ask me that, it’s funny,” she said, her voice rising with mirth. “I do nothing to them.”

  “But they’re so dark!”

  “Well, my hair turned gray when I was only thirty years old, but my brows stayed dark,” she said, beginning to be absorbed in the story. “People always say, ‘What do you do to your brows?’ but I do nothing!”

  “They’re just naturally dark?” I asked, trying to sound skeptical.

  “Yes! Go on!” she said, indicating that I should test for myself by rubbing them to see if any charcoal or bootblack came off on my fingers. I touched them, then held up clean hands for Honora to see.

  Pem chuckled. “So many people ask me that, and they call you a liar if you say you do nothing.” She took a bite of toast. The query had done its work. Honora and I breathed deeply. Casey, a poor eater, had had to be cajoled into each mouthful by images of planes flying into the hangar, pirates delving into the cave, here comes the pony express. Persuading Pem to eat her toast was getting to be the same sort of adventure.

  “Look out there,” Honora said. I joined her at the window. Across the lawn, at the edge of the bay, Clare was sitting at her easel. Eugene sat at her feet, drawing on the rocks with chalk.

  “A future graffiti artist,” I said.

  “He is a rascal,” Honora said. “How did Casey turn out so sweet and calm? Eugene keeps Clare on her toes. He takes after his great-grandmother.” Pem had finished her toast; we heard her rearranging the living room.

  “Did you see the portrait Clare did of the boys?” I asked. “She’s planning to give it to Donald for their anniversary.”

  “It’s a beautiful painting,” Honora said. “She caught their personalities, didn’t she? Also Eugene’s likeness to Donald. Does Eugene have a cowlick?” Honora asked, reaching for the telescope she kept on the shelf beside the toaster.

  “That’s a funny question,” I asked. “Of course he doesn’t.”

  “Because I could swear Clare painted him with one. Of course it was probably artistic license, giving him that Tom Sawyer look. Freckles, cowlick, and all. What a kid,” Honora said, turning from the window. Sunlight burnished her chestnut hair. “Is it wrong of me to wish Clare would do more with her painting? I love her sea paintings. And I’m sure Dina Clarke at the gallery would give her a show.”

  “Clare’s never seemed to want that,” I said. Clare, who always seemed in perfect control as a sister, daughter, wife, and mother, had shied away from succeeding as an artist. As her sister I was probably unqualified to rate her painting, but I had never seen a seascape I liked more than hers. One night after she married Donald she confessed to me that during graduate school she had been offered a one-woman show at Boston’s Drake Gallery. I had known enough never to tell Honora: Honora would have lost her mind with the idea her daughter could decline such an opportunity. Clare knew how to wisecrack, and she loved to tease me about “affair paranoia,” but my own theory was that she bore her own scars of my parents’ troubles, and they kept her very close to home.

  “Well, she’s a wonderful artist,” Honora said. “It’s ungenerous, in a way, to keep her work hidden. When so many people could enjoy it. But you’re right out there, honey. My little chicken, the Swift Observer.”

  “Mom, do you really think it makes sense? I mean, I’ve set myself up to observe families. I love doing it, of course, but I don’t want to give myself the voice of authority.”

  Honora gazed at me for ten long seconds, her mouth set to speak. “Of course it makes sense,” she said, “but you do seem to be devoting an inordinate amount of time to Mona Tuchman. I mean, I’m wondering how Nicky feels about that.”

  “How Nick feels about what?” I asked, my back stiffening.

  “Well, about the fact you’re so fascinated by a story about adultery. Isn’t that begging for trouble?”

  I sputtered. I guffawed. I was laughing so hard that Honora, now frowning, had to give me a glass of water.


  That was Honora—she said what was on her mind. She made it her business to tell Clare she should show her work in a gallery, to tell me my choice of subjects might be coming between me and Nick. God, how she annoyed me! But did I want the perfect mother, one who would say just the right thing without taking risks, without the cliff-edge passion that for me came along with love? Even family love, the kind that was supposed to be safest?

  “Do you find it so funny?” Honora asked glumly.

  “No. I find it disgusting, but I have to laugh,” I said. “Daddy hurt you. That doesn’t mean Nick’s going to do the same thing to me.”

  “I hope he doesn’t. I’m sure he won’t, but it doesn’t hurt to be on guard, sweetie.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Come on—let’s go take a look at Clare’s painting.”

  “You go. I’ve got to get your grandmother dressed.”

  I paused. I almost offered to help her, but instead I kissed her cheek and walked outside into the fresh air.

  “Hey there,” Clare said, not looking up from her watercolor. I stood beside her, saw it was of the rocky archipelago that led from the bay into the Sound.

  “Doesn’t Mommy’s painting look like turtle shells?” Casey asked.

  “Well, yes,” I said. “If you look at it a certain way, the rocks do look a little like turtle backs. Gleaming in the sun.”

  “I told you, I told you, Mommy,” Casey said.

  “Mmm,” Clare said. “Box turtles? Sea turtles? Any particular kind?”

  “There are sea turtles in the Galápagos Islands,” Eugene said. He reached for my hand, pulled me close to the water’s edge where he had drawn chalk pictures. One of them showed a dog with a remarkable penis. Eugene grinned when he saw me notice it.

  “Isn’t that cute?” I said. “Want to have lunch at my place today, Clare?”

  “Sure. I’ll bring the brownies.” Clare loved to bake; brownies were her specialty. I started to walk away; Clare was concentrating hard on the view she was painting.

  “See you,” she said after I had turned the corner. Her voice drifted to me; she had barely noticed me leave.

  In my own kitchen I puttered around and wished I had someone to talk to. I started to call Nick, then remembered he was in an all-day meeting. We had not yet had to test his suggestion that I not check in to the Gregory; work had not kept him away since our dinner at Vinnie’s.

  I began to imagine him in the meeting. Over the years, he had described his work so vividly to me, I felt able to conjure any given situation.

  The Meeting: He would be nervous, just a little, before it started. He would go through the file, arranging documents in the order in which they would be discussed. He would check with Denise to make sure she had supplied enough legal pads and papers for the participants and to make sure she had arranged for coffee and doughnuts. He would fix his tie. He would feel sorry he had worn the red tie with the tiny stain. Then he would gather the documents, walk down the hall to the big conference room, and arrange the proper papers on the enormous oval walnut table. He would squint at the window, adjust the blinds to let in enough sun but not too much.

  The clients would enter with John Avery, the partner in charge. Since this was a friendly meeting, everyone would shake hands and people who had met before would ask about spouses and vacations. Nick would still be feeling nervous, but no one would know it because he could hide his nervousness extremely well. Nick would be asked to fill everyone in on what had happened since the previous meeting. He would start to talk. He would discuss the deal’s structure, the tax aspects, the percentage participation of each company. Within a few seconds, he would cease feeling nervous. The meeting would continue until lunchtime. Then Nick would ask everyone what kind of sandwiches they wanted. He would leave the room to call a messenger with the order, but first he would call me.

  I cut myself off there. I began to mash tuna fish for the sandwich I would serve Clare. With equal clarity I could imagine negotiations, smaller meetings between Nick and one partner or one client, shuttle flights to Washington, lunches at the Downtown or Broad Street clubs, places I had never set foot in but could envision perfectly, based on Nick’s descriptions. Following him through the day in my mind had once given me pleasure, but now I felt ashamed of it. It seemed like a secret vice, akin to following him into the city on the nights he had to work late. To Nick, the love of my life and husband of eight years, I now felt I was displaying my heart on my sleeve.

  I wanted to talk to Clare. I couldn’t wait for lunchtime. But the phone rang; it was Clare saying that the babysitter had a bad bee sting and couldn’t come to work, that Clare would have to take the boys to their swimming lesson. That she couldn’t come for lunch.

  I made myself a tuna sandwich, and I turned to the newspaper. I quit thinking about Nick, and I became the Swift Observer. I found the window on other people’s worlds quite consoling.

  4

  ONE EVENING THAT WEEK I COMPLETED MY report. My last case involved seventy-three-year-old identical twins, separated at birth, who had lived in the same Bronx apartment complex for thirty years but hadn’t discovered each other until they wound up playing bingo at the same table one night. The news account said they were dressed identically, including their jewelry. I tried to imagine a seventy-three-year-old woman dressing up for another night of bingo. Perhaps it was her only night to socialize. At the bingo table she had glanced up, and there was her mirror image. Information gave me a number for Doris McNaughton.

  She answered the phone, and I identified myself. “Excuse me for bothering you,” I said, “but your story is fascinating. How do you feel, meeting your sister after so many years?” The idea of it delighted me.

  “It was interesting, to say the least. I couldn’t believe it then, and I hardly believe it now. The phone has been ringing off the hook. You can’t imagine.”

  “Sure I can! I’m sure every reporter in New York wants to hear your story.”

  “But only one of us wants to tell it.” Pregnant pause.

  “That’s you, I take it?”

  “Yes. You see, I’m the one my parents kept, and Herself is sulking over the fact. She’s refusing to talk to any reporters at all. And believe me, the offers are much more lucrative if we talk together.”

  “Your parents gave up one of their twins? Do you mind if I ask why?”

  “We were on Ellis Island. Need I say more? The point is, you have to get on with life. I’m living on a fixed income, so naturally I want to sell my story. But Vivian is being a regular wet blanket. She’s crying day in and day out, refusing even to get out of bed.”

  “Well, think of how happy your parents would be,” I said.

  “It’s turning out to be a mixed blessing, to say the least. We’re not getting off on the right foot one bit.”

  After we hung up I lay on the floor, watching the sun’s declining light turn the bay’s surface silver, then purple. I felt empty and sad, thinking of rootless Vivian. I imagined Vivian lying across her bed, tears streaming from her eyes. I wondered whether Vivian had at least known she was a twin; that knowledge might have mitigated the shock. I wished I had asked Doris.

  Clare’s voice came from the back door, and then she entered the room. “The little boys are sleeping out at Billy Mendillo’s house, and the big boys are flying in late tonight. What say you and I keep each other company?”

  “Good idea,” I said, rising from the floor. We walked onto the porch and sat on rattan chairs. “I just spoke to a woman who was separated from her twin on Ellis Island.”

  “How horrible.” Clare shook her head. “God, you have a lifetime with a sister—like you and me. Can you imagine if we’d never known each other?”

  “I can’t imagine that.”

  “What made you call her?”

  “Her story is about sisters. Also, it’s sensational.”

  “Ah, escaping the old ‘Journal of Lipid Research Syndrome,’ ” Clare said, and we both laughed. As the daughters of scient
ists, we had been surrounded by people who appreciated the minute, the insignificant, the esoteric. We had spent hours in the cavernous library beside Eel Pond, wandering through the stacks of scientific publications while our father did research. There were years’ worth of the Journal of Liquid Chromotography, Geomarine Letters, the Journal of Great Lakes Research, the Journal of Insect Physiology, the Journal of Lipid Research. How, I had wondered, could so many volumes be devoted to lipid research? What was lipid research? There it was, in the Marine Biological Laboratory Library, that I learned my love for the large, the grandiose, the extravagant. I had sat at one particular scarred linoleum table in the northwest corner, listening to the wind scream through the windows, watching my father work on his latest article for Paleontology Today. Clare would do her homework while I had fantasies of Hollywood, New York, and St. Moritz. My fantasies were panoramic, like movies by Louis B. Mayer. One daydream could include Jean-Claude Killy, Bob Dylan, Prince Charles, John Lindsay, Virginia Woolf, and Roger Tory Peterson.

  Clare and I sat on my porch, looking west across the bay. It felt comfortable to be silent with her. She hummed a tune I couldn’t recognize, something she often did when she felt relaxed.

  “Get ready for a bombshell,” I said. “Honora told me the name of Dad’s mystery woman.”

  Clare’s mouth dropped open. “She did? Oh, I’m not sure I want you to tell me who it was. We knew her, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, but her identity won’t devastate you. I promise. Want to know?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Mrs. Billings.”

  After a considerable pause, Clare wrinkled her nose. “That drab little thing? God, I can barely remember her. That was his great romantic downfall? No wonder Honora could never bear to tell us—it’s shameful, to lose your husband to someone like her. I remember going over to Rachel’s and seeing her in the rattiest bathrobe I’ve ever seen.”

  “I remember how frail she looked. I was afraid she’d blow away in a storm.”

  “Maybe it would have been better if she had. How did Honora seem when she told you?”