Good Intentions (15 page)

Renee adjusted her legs so that the chair’s buttons were no longer making holes in her thighs. She glanced toward the living room, where Consuela, the maid who came three times a week to clean the three-bedroom apartment and prepare meals, was vacuuming the white carpet in the center of the room. “It’s very white,” Kathryn had said, and there was certainly no arguing about that. Renee found herself remembering the bright clutter of the room she and her sister had shared as children, hearing their mother plead with them to put away their toys and keep things neat. She and Kathryn always ignored her until their father intervened. Renee remembered one occasion when their father had angrily ripped several prized posters off the wall and into shreds because he had warned them not to tack them up with Scotch tape. Several small squares of paint came off along with the tape, and he told the sobbing youngsters, surveying the wreckage of their once happy room, that they’d brought it on themselves. Renee had immediately filled in the ragged white spaces on the wall with bright colors from her set of Magic Markers, and had been spanked soundly for her efforts.

Now she surveyed the stark whiteness of her living room and wondered how she came to feel at home in a
place which, objectively speaking, resembled nothing so much as the lobby of an exclusive hotel. Even her office was more personal and warm. Renee turned her head back toward the pool area. There was certainly no warmth in the frozen perfection of her apartment.

Still, as Renee had told her sister, she wouldn’t have it any other way. When Philip was happy, she was happy, and there was no question but that Philip was in his element—Philip, a man of sweeping gestures and well-chosen words, words which, when delivered in his deep, confident voice, focused all attention in his direction. When Philip entered a room, he brought with him all the color the room required. Perhaps he had planned it that way.

Renee found her eyes starting to grow heavy in the sun’s harsh glare. It was just past four o’clock, and though her time in the office had been relatively short, she’d worked very hard. She’d come home early to find her sister sleeping on the balcony, and had quietly pulled over another lounge chair to join her. Kathryn hadn’t said anything further about why she had tried suicide. Maybe now was a good time to try to get her to talk. Consuela would be leaving soon. Debbie had announced plans that morning to spend the day on Singer Island with friends. Philip wouldn’t be home for another hour.

Renee found it a pleasant switch to be the first one home. Usually she didn’t get back until at least six, and often much later. She would rush in, all apologies and soothing phrases, hurrying to get whatever dinner Consuela had prepared on the table, asking Philip about his day, trying to give him the attention he needed, the attention he deserved. Philip dominated the conversation
as he dominated everything else in his home. Renee occasionally realized that he rarely asked her questions in return, that he seemed unconcerned about the mechanics of her day, and that he often disappeared from the table after dinner without so much as an appreciative glance in her direction. She would clear the table with no help from either her husband or her husband’s daughter, who she had overheard confide to her father that she thought Renee had the personality of a doormat. “She makes you want to step all over her,” Debbie had giggled, eliciting only mild objections from Philip. Since when could anyone refer to her as a doormat? Renee wondered, smarting less from the term than from Philip’s half-hearted defense on her behalf.

Her father had used words in the same way, as weapons, using them to ridicule and to wound. When she had been small, a large black snake had curled itself around her ankle while she was playing outside, and her screams had disturbed her father’s Sunday afternoon nap. He had called her a cry-baby and a selfish little girl and told her it served her right for playing where she shouldn’t. “Cry-baby, selfish little girl,” echoed inside her head long after the snake had been frightened away. She could hear them even now, still feel the pain they had caused her.

Perhaps that was why she had chosen law, so that she could fight back. “You’re too good with words,” Philip occasionally accused her now. Had she gone too far in the opposite direction? Could someone be too good with words?

Maybe her father had been attempting to toughen her up, to force his sensitive younger child to be strong. She
had to admit that if such was his plan, it had worked. She had a reputation for toughness. And her life had turned out better than even she could have hoped. She certainly had everything she could possibly want: a rich husband, a fancy apartment, a successful career. Everything but children, Renee acknowledged, and maybe Philip was right. Maybe children would be too much for her to handle.

“You make me sorry I ever had children,” she remembered her father saying, and she had understood, even as a small child,
especially
as a small child, that she was the reason for her father’s coldness, the source of her mother’s unhappiness. She was unloved because she was unlovable. They had told her that often enough, though perhaps more by what they didn’t say than what they did.

Renee suddenly saw herself as a six-year-old child running toward her mother’s waiting car. Her mother was sitting there, her back rigid, the car engine running, and she was looking straight ahead, her lower lip trembling, her hands twisting nervously on the steering wheel as Renee crawled onto the seat beside her. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“All the other children were out ten minutes ago. You know how your father hates it when I’m late. You know how he always likes me to be there when he gets home.”

“I couldn’t get my ballet shoes untied. They were all in knots.”

“The other children had no trouble.”

“They didn’t have knots.”

“It’s always something, isn’t it, Renee?” She blinked rapidly, trying to stop several tears from falling down her
cheek and streaking her makeup. She succeeded only partially, and grabbed a tissue from her purse, dabbing furtively at her lashes.

“Are you mad?”

“No, of course I’m not angry,” her mother corrected, her voice so low Renee had to strain to hear her.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are. But ‘sorry’ isn’t going to get us home any faster.”

“Why do we have to get home before Daddy does?”

“Because that’s the way he likes it,” Helen Metcalfe said, checking her reflection in the rearview mirror, reapplying the mascara her tears had dislodged. “Your daddy works very hard to make sure we have a nice life. He doesn’t ask for a lot in return,” she continued, speaking as if she were reading from a prepared text. Renee watched her mother return the mascara to her handbag and pull out another familiar container. She observed her mother open the small, flat box and take out a worn brush, which she used to painstakingly add color to her cheeks. Renee realized she had never seen her mother’s face in its unadorned state. Even first thing in the morning, even at the beach, her mother’s face was always fully made up. Renee wondered what was so wrong with her mother’s face that she worked so hard to cover it up.

“Why do you put all that stuff on your face?”

“Because your father likes it,” her mother answered, as Renee had known she would. Helen Metcalfe returned the blush to her purse and snapped the handbag shut. She turned to her daughter for the first time since Renee had entered the car. “Do I look all right?”

“You look pretty.”

Helen Metcalfe permitted herself a brief smile. “Maybe your father will be late. Maybe if we hurry we can get home before he does.”

He wasn’t, and they didn’t. He was already pacing across the living-room floor when they got home. Her mother immediately abandoned Renee’s side, hurrying over to kiss her father’s cheek, running to mix him the gin and tonic for some reason only she could fix, explaining Renee’s class had gone late, trying to soothe his ruffled feathers, explaining, soothing, trying vainly to keep the peace, siding with her husband when Renee tried to intervene on her behalf.

“I don’t have to take ballet lessons,” Renee had offered, hating her mother’s abandonment of her, hearing only her mother’s words and not the fear behind them as she tried in vain to placate her father. “I don’t even want to take ballet lessons.”

“Well, you’ll take them, young lady, and you’ll learn to appreciate them.” Her father stared at her with barely concealed fury. “Honestly, Renee, you make me sorry I ever had children.”

Renee looked away from the image of her father’s face toward Kathryn, and envied her sleep. She hoped it was dreamless. “You shouldn’t upset your father,” she heard her mother say, dragging her back into the past with this familiar refrain. No one ever asked how her lessons had gone. Except Kathryn, she remembered, who had sat with her that night, patiently showing her how to tie her shoe ribbons so that they wouldn’t knot, begging her not to argue with their father, to accept what he said in silence and let it roll off her back.

But it didn’t roll off her back. It rolled over her head like a dangerous wave, pulling her under, ultimately robbing her of air, submerging her, drowning her. Perhaps that was why she disliked the ocean, Renee thought now, closing her eyes and listening to its protesting roar.

She wasn’t sure when she realized that someone was standing on the other side of the sliding glass of the kitchen door. Instinct told her to keep her eyes closed. She heard the door slide open, and tilted her head to the side as if lost in sleep. If it was Philip, and Renee was convinced it was—she thought she might have heard him saying goodbye to Consuela—perhaps he would choose to wake her up with a kiss, the handsome prince her just reward at the end of a trying day.

Renee heard further movement and lifted her lids a fraction so that she could see what was going on while retaining the appearance of sleep.

She saw Kathryn stretch and turn over, sitting back on her chair, unaware for the moment that she wasn’t alone. Kathryn turned her head, saw Philip and jumped, her hand moving to her mouth to stifle a scream.

Philip was immediately at her side, his fingers on his lips urging her silence. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He motioned to his left. “Renee’s asleep.”

“My God, I must have been really out. I didn’t even know she was here. How long have you been standing there?”

“Just a few minutes.”

Kathryn checked her watch. “Everybody’s home so early.”

“Cancellation. I can’t speak for Renee.”

He walked to the railing and leaned over its side, looking with great intensity at nothing in particular. “I was just about to make myself a drink. Would you like something?”

“That would be nice.”

“Gin and tonic?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll just change my clothes first, if you don’t mind.”

Renee was about to open her eyes fully and announce she’d also like a drink, but Philip had already gone back inside the apartment. Why the charade? Why hadn’t she simply opened her eyes and told them she wasn’t asleep? Why didn’t she do it now?

Something stopped her. Maybe it was better this way, she decided. She’d been hoping that Kathryn would get a chance to talk to Philip alone. But he’d been so busy, or there was always someone around. Now maybe they could talk. Maybe Kathryn would open up. Maybe Philip could help her. Renee would have preferred not to be there at all, but if she tried to excuse herself now, Kathryn would only insist that she stay. Renee felt she was a reluctant eavesdropper. She also felt she had no other choice. One lie invariably led to others. The road to hell was paved with good intentions.

“Here you go,” Philip said minutes later, coming back onto the balcony and depositing a tall cold drink in Kathryn’s waiting palm. “One gin and tonic for the pretty lady.” He pulled up another chair, not a chaise longue, one with a straight back, and sat down easily, his legs wide apart on either side of the chair’s legs, holding his extra-dry martini in his lap. Philip always drank
extra-dry martinis, which he made himself, something for which Renee was still, even after six years of marriage, disproportionately grateful. Renee noted through half-closed lids the white pants and expensive black-and-white short-sleeved silk jersey and wondered absently how much money Philip spent on clothes in any given year. Certainly more than she did. Her clothes, while new with each season, had the look and feel of yesterday’s castoffs. “Classic” was the word Renee used most often to describe her wardrobe, but “matronly” was the better descriptive term. Loose-fitting shifts in navy or olive green, solid-color suits in fabrics that never wrinkled or distinguished themselves in any way, save for perhaps their plainness. Lots of black pants and long sweaters. Anything to disguise her bulk. How could she have let herself get this way? How could her fierce determination in most matters have so far eluded her when it came to controlling her diet? She’d never been such a big eater before. While it was true that her father had a tendency to put on a few extra pounds, that was usually when he’d been drinking more than usual. Renee rarely drank more than the occasional glass of wine at dinner.

Philip, on the other hand, usually enjoyed a few drinks before dinner, just as her father had always done. Renee’s lips curled into a wry smile, as if she were having a pleasant, if disconcerting, dream. How long had she been aware of her husband’s similarity to her father, at least on a superficial level? When had she recognized the way each looked just past you when you spoke, the casual arrogance that was at once so infuriating and so appealing, the almost childlike self-absorption that only
men as handsome as Philip and her father were able to get away with? Even physically, they were remarkably alike, although Philip was unquestionably the more massive of the two, probably a good three inches taller than her father’s six feet, with broader shoulders and a wider frame. A football player’s body, she thought, recalling that Philip had played the game in college before deciding on medicine as a career, the same career as her father, although the specialty was different. Ian Metcalfe was an internist, now retired. His wife was a former nurse. They had met in a hospital cafeteria and fallen in love. It was funny how both men had chosen women almost a foot shorter than they were. Renee pictured her mother standing primly beside her father, the image immediately superimposed on that of herself standing next to Philip, as if they were designs on a piece of paper, waiting to be traced. Such strange-looking couples, she decided, discarding the image. She had never accepted the notion that women married men like their fathers. Her own father was a taciturn, unpleasant man. Philip was neither. He was gregarious and charming. He had swept her off her feet when she was still light enough to lift. He had rescued her from a life of longing and loneliness, filling her head with words she had been desperate to hear at a time when she was most desperate to hear them. “You’re beautiful; you’re worth ten women; I love you because you’re lovable. I love you. I love you. You mean everything to me.” If the words came less frequently these days, if there was any trouble in their marriage—no, not trouble; surely trouble was too strong a word—it was less his fault than hers. Not his fault at all. If there was
trouble—no, not trouble; problems—then the problems—problems could be solved—were of her making, and hers to correct.