Grand Avenue (16 page)

“Dummy Mommy! Dummy Mommy!” Rowdy said.

“Dummy Mommy! Dummy Mommy!” the other children chimed in, picking up the chant, carrying it with them back up the stairs.

Chris stood in the center of the commotion, too numb to speak or offer any resistance. Around her she was aware of bodies jostling for position, of Owen in the doorway, of Jeremy and Ron lingering just behind.

Tony lifted his hands into the air. “I don’t know what stories my wife’s been feeding you.”

“How could you?” Barbara asked.

“Barbara,” Ron said, coming forward, touching his wife’s arm as if advising her to back off. “We shouldn’t be getting involved here. This is obviously a private matter, something between a husband and wife.”

“You don’t know,” Barbara said, refusing to be silenced. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“What I’m capable of?” Tony asked. “Well, let’s see. Am I capable of cheating on my wife every chance I get with every little coed who crosses my path?”

“That’s enough,” Ron cautioned.

“Your husband fucks anything that moves and you don’t do a damn thing about it,” Tony told Barbara. “I hardly think you’re in any position to be advising my wife.”

“I think you’ve said quite enough,” Jeremy Latimer interrupted as Barbara’s face went white behind her heavy layer of blush. “Party’s over.”

Tony smiled. “I couldn’t agree more. Chris …” He held out his hand, beckoned her forward.

“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Barbara told him. “How dare you lay a hand on her. You’re nothing but a weak, despicable little man.”

“And you’re nothing but a washed-up second runner-up to Miss Ohio. Not even first runner-up, for Christ’s sake. You can’t do anything right, can you? Can’t satisfy your husband, can’t have another kid—”

“Shut up, Tony,” Owen said.

“Another quarter heard from. The good doctor, no less. Tell me, doctor, what’s it like being married to Moby Dick?”

Susan shook her head. “Just ignore him,” she cautioned her husband.

Tony laughed. “So, the little woman calls the shots, does she? The not-so-little woman, I guess I should say. Don’t blame you, Doc. She’s pretty formidable.”

“A rather big word for you, isn’t it, Tony?” Vicki asked bitterly.

“I guess it is,” Tony said, obviously in his element. “But
maybe we should check with the professor here. Make sure I got it right. Poor guy, can’t be easy being married to a dyke. No wonder he can’t keep it in his pants.”

“You bastard!”

“What’s a dyke?” a small voice asked as all eyes turned toward the sound.

“Tracey, honey!” Barbara said, racing toward her ten-year-old daughter, who stood in the doorway of the massive master suite, dark, wet curls clinging to her doll-like face, her bathing suit dripping chlorine onto the carpet at her bare feet.

“I heard yelling.”

“It’s okay, sweetie.” Ron scooped his daughter into his arms and carried her quickly from the room.

“What’s a dyke?” the child was asking as they disappeared from view.

“You’re a class act,” Vicki told Tony.

“You know what you need, don’t you?” Tony whispered, just out of her husband’s earshot. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my wife and I will be leaving.”

Tony broke through the women forming a protective cocoon around his wife and grabbed Chris’s hand, pulling her to his side. Chris offered no resistance. What was the point?

“Oh, God, somebody do something!” Chris heard Barbara cry as Tony opened the front door and pushed her outside.

“What can we do? It’s her choice to go with him.”

“But he’s liable to kill her one of these days.”

It’s okay, Chris wanted to tell her, as Tony pushed her down the front path toward their car. You don’t have to worry. Tony promised it would never happen again.

1988–1990

B
arbara woke with a start from a dream in which she was being chased around her bed by a knife-wielding toddler in diapers. “Dear God,” she whispered, reaching over and shutting off the alarm before it could go off. “What was that all about?”

Beside her, her husband snored peacefully. Ron was lying on his side, his back to her, his dark hair starting to thin a bit on top. Still he was handsome, she thought, watching the green-striped comforter rise and fall with each breath, fighting the urge to kiss his bare shoulder. It might disturb him, and she had a lot of work to do in the half hour before he got up. Barbara reset the alarm for six-thirty and slipped out of bed.

“Oh, God,” she said as she confronted the mirror in her bathroom, the same thing she said every morning, although in truth she didn’t look half-bad. Her skin was way too pale, of course, but her eyes, courtesy of the lift Dr. Steeves had given her two years earlier—a fortieth birthday present to herself—were unlined and
alert. Maybe a little too alert for six o’clock in the morning.

“You’re crazy,” Susan had told her at the time. “What’s so horrible about a few tiny lines?”

“Why mess with perfection?” Vicki had asked. “Wait a few more years.”

Chris, of course …

Dear God, poor Chris.

Barbara closed her eyes, banishing thoughts of Chris from her mind. There was nothing she could do. Hadn’t the police told her as much?

Barbara replaced the silk scarf she always wrapped around her hair before going to sleep with a plastic shower cap and stepped out of her white nylon nightgown and into the shower, careful to keep the water tepid and away from her head. She soaped her newly sculpted breasts, kneading them the way Dr. Steeves had shown her to keep them from getting hard, then moved on to the problem area of her stomach. Probably she should see the good doctor about a tummy tuck, although she’d heard they were very painful and carried a high risk of infection. Still, exercise wasn’t doing anything. Three hundred crunches a day, and still the stubborn little pot refused to disappear.

Barbara finished her shower, dried herself off, brushed her teeth, stuck a handful of hot rollers in her hair, and sat down at the mirror to begin her daily ritual. First the eye cream, then the moisturizer. Almost $200 for a little false-bottom jar. Was she crazy? Her mother-in-law would have a heart attack if she knew. “Maybe I should tell her,” Barbara whispered,
applying a stroke of concealer under each eye. Next she covered her skin with a light makeup base, blending it into her temples and neck in a series of long, careful strokes before brushing powder blush across the apples of her cheeks. “And a little on the nose and forehead,” she said. To give the illusion of a natural tan. Not that Barbara would ever allow the harmful rays of the summer sun anywhere near her skin. Even in the heart of the grayest Cincinnati winter, Barbara always wore number 30 sun block.

She outlined her eyes with plum and her lips with cherry red, then applied rich black mascara and deep coral lipstick. She pulled out the hot rollers and brushed out her dark hair, teasing it where necessary, smoothing it around her shoulders, securing it behind her ears with several hidden bobby pins, wondering if her roots could use a touch-up. Barbara Bush might favor the more natural look, but the sight of even one gray hair was enough to have this Barbara reaching for the Prozac. She stepped back into her nightgown and returned to bed just before the alarm clock went off at six-thirty.

“Ron, honey,” Barbara whispered, her voice hinting at the remnants of sleep as she leaned across him, her breast grazing the side of his arm. “It’s time to get up.”

He made some sort of sound, more than a sigh, less than a grunt, but didn’t move.

“Ron, sweetheart. It’s six-thirty.”

He flipped onto his back, opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling fan whirring softly above their heads.

Barbara leaned over, planted a series of soft kisses across her husband’s throat. He barely stirred. “Are
you all right?” she asked, returning to her previous position.

He said nothing, continued staring at the ceiling.

“Ron, are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, sitting up, avoiding her gaze. “Just tired.”

“You’ve been tired a lot lately. Think you should see a doctor?”

“I don’t need a doctor.”

“What
do
you need?” Barbara asked provocatively, forcing herself into his line of vision, dropping the straps of her nightgown, pushing her newly inflated bosom against his chest. He may not have noticed when she’d had her eyes done, but he’d sure noticed when she’d come home with these. So what if they got a little cold in the winter? So what if her nipples weren’t as sensitive, as responsive, as before? At least they got his attention.

In the next minute, he was on top of her and inside her. Moments later, he was pounding his way to a climax while she faked her orgasm and wondered what she was doing wrong. Ron kissed her forehead perfunctorily as he slipped out of her, then left the bed without looking back.

Was he this way with his other women?

Barbara leaned back against the shiny ebony headboard, listening to the shower running in the bathroom. She had to stop torturing herself by constantly thinking about Ron’s other women, the possibility of infection, the horrifying prospect of AIDS. How could she expect satisfaction if she didn’t relax? Surely Ron used a condom when he felt the need to stray, she
prayed, too afraid to bring the subject up, to ask him to don protection when they made love. Asking her husband to wear a condom when they were in bed together was tantamount to admitting she believed all the whispers, the innuendos, the outright lies, that had shadowed her marriage from its inception.

And things had been so much better between them since Tony’s horrible outburst that afternoon at Vicki’s some three years ago, the terrible things he’d implied—no, not implied, stated outright, called her a dyke, for God’s sake, accused her of not being woman enough to keep Ron in line, throwing her husband’s affairs in her face in front of all her friends, and her friends looking as if they wanted to melt into the carpet at their feet, because they knew, they knew all about Ron’s escapades, everyone knew. On the drive home, she’d actually apologized to Ron for Tony’s outburst, as if it had somehow been her fault. “That horrible little man,” she remembered saying. “How could he say such awful things?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ron had said. “Nobody pays any attention to that moron anyway.”

For a while after that, it seemed as if Ron were working overtime to prove Tony wrong. He was loving, charming, and attentive. And Barbara was determined to be the best wife she could possibly be, the best companion, the best cook, the best lover. She pored over sex manuals and exotic cookbooks—the only books she had the patience to actually finish—and spent hours concocting special recipes, so that her husband would want to be home in time for dinner, and indeed, he was always inviting guests over, fellow
members of the faculty, and then small student groups, groups that boasted an ever-increasing number of young girls who openly worshiped their handsome professor.

“You’re being paranoid,” Barbara whispered impatiently. Just because Ron had been a little distant these last few months didn’t mean he was having an affair. He was preoccupied, that’s all. He had a lot on his plate, what with the extra summer courses he’d taken on. A few late nights didn’t mean anything. She had nothing to worry about. Hadn’t they just made love, for heaven’s sake?

“Busy day?” she asked him when he emerged from the bathroom, freshly shaved, slender hips wrapped in a large white towel.

“The usual.” He opened the closet, rifled through his shirts. “I thought maybe we could go out to dinner tonight. Just the two of us.”

Barbara almost had to sit on her hands to keep from clapping. When was the last time her husband had asked her out for a romantic dinner? “Sounds wonderful.”

“I’ll make reservations at Fathom. Seven o’clock all right?”

“Perfect.” Fathom was Cincinnati’s restaurant du jour, the place to be and to be seen. It was always mobbed. “You think we’ll be able to get a table?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He got dressed quickly in a blue pin-striped shirt and black pants. “What’s the weather like out there?” He motioned toward the bedroom window.

Barbara immediately pushed herself off the bed and
pulled up the green-and-beige flowered Russian blinds, peering into the sun-soaked backyard. “Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.”

Fathom was located on Sixth Street in the heart of the Fountain Square District, in the very center of Cincinnati. Nearby, gourmet restaurants were bracketed by old-time chili parlors, exclusive boutiques framed expansive department stores, impressive new skyscrapers highlighted historic landmarks. The taxi let Barbara off in front of the graceful, century-old Tyler Davidson fountain that stood in the middle of one of the busiest public squares in America. People were everywhere, strolling, laughing, even dancing to the live music that wafted through the warm July night. Horse-drawn carriages lined the streets. Maybe she could persuade Ron to go for a romantic ride after dinner.

The restaurant was decorated to look like the bottom of the ocean. Brightly colored exotic fish swam in large aquariums that lined sea-green walls; lamps made out of coral and swathed in seaweed sprang from the blue-tiled floor. The bars at either end of the room were carved out of rock. The chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings resembled free-floating octopi.

“Is Ron Azinger here yet?” Barbara asked the pretty young woman at the front desk. The girl looked like all young girls her age—tall, curvy, blond, minimal makeup. She barely acknowledged Barbara as she led her inside the large room toward the glass-topped table where Ron sat waiting.

“Your waiter will be right with you.” The girl
smiled at Ron, lingering perhaps a beat longer than necessary as she deposited the large blue fiberglass menus on the table. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Have you been here long?” Barbara asked.

“Just got here two minutes ago.”

“Good. I was worried.”

He seemed surprised. “What were you worried about?”

He was right, Barbara thought. Why was she so worried all the time? “Susan invited Tracey over for dinner,” she explained anyway, “so I had to drop her off, and then I ran into Laura Zackheim, and boy, can that woman talk.”