Magnolia Wednesdays (11 page)

11

O
N SUNDAY MORNING at eight A.M. a Bagel Baron delivery truck pulled into the Melnick’s driveway like it did every week. It would make several private deliveries after this one: to their son and daughter-in-law’s house a couple of neighborhoods away; to Temple Judea for the youth group to sell for fund-raising; and the last to Melanie Jackson’s, though the Jackson order wouldn’t include the usual portion of lox. Ruth had long ago discovered that while many non-Jews had embraced the bagel, they often mucked it up with toppings like grape jelly and sometimes even ham.

By the time the driver knocked on the kitchen door and handed over their standing order, Ruth had already been up for hours; it was one of life’s great ironies that now when she could have slept all day if she wanted to, her eyes snapped open at six A.M. sharp no matter what time she went to bed or how many times she was up during the night.

Ira, too, was an early riser and had already been locked in his study with the Sunday papers—both the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
and the
New York Times
—even before Ruth got up.

“Bagels!” she called from the kitchen as she opened the brown paper bag and pulled out two still-warm bagels: an onion sesame for Ira, a poppy seed for her. In the center of the round glass-topped table, she set out a block of cream cheese, a small plate of lox, and another of tomato and red onion slices—everything the bagel purist required.

On the counter, a fresh pot of coffee dripped into the carafe, infusing the kitchen with a warm, homey smell. It was the one day of the week they made a point of eating breakfast together, supposedly keeping them in touch with each other and, as Ira liked to say, “the product from which they lived.”

Sports section in hand, Ira entered the kitchen eagerly, only hesitating when she didn’t greet him. Ruth wondered if he’d even noticed how little they’d spoken since she’d thrown down the gauntlet at their session with Dr. Guttman. They’d communicated when necessary: “Could you pass the salt?” “What time are we expected at the kids’ house?” “The white shirt is at the cleaners; wear the blue.” Not exactly deep or meaningful conversation, but apparently enough for Ira.

Ruth sighed as she bit into her bagel and chewed slowly. She had never been a big fan of the silent treatment, though she’d seen other women wield it effectively. When part of your problem was that your husband didn’t talk to you
enough
, shutting off all communication seemed completely counterproductive. Not saying all the things she wanted to say to Ira, now, that was hard.

Ira layered his bagel with cream cheese, lox, and slices of onion and tomato. Munching contentedly, too contentedly as far as Ruth was concerned, he ate and read. Soon he’d be done with both the sports and the bagel. He was already dressed for golf and after a couple of hours at the office he’d head out to the country club to play nine holes. If they didn’t talk now, when would they?

“You could at least come try a practice party at the Magnolia Ballroom with me. It’s an hour lesson and some dancing after. How big a thing is that?” she said this bluntly despite the fact that even Miriam Youngblood had suggested that a more subtle approach might yield better results.

Ira looked up at her in surprise. “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal about this. I haven’t been a dancer for fifty years, and now all of a sudden you want me to be Fred Astaire.” Ira wasn’t exactly a sugarcoater, either.

Ruth wanted to wipe the look of righteous indignation from her husband’s face. Could a man so aware of the nuances of business really be so oblivious of his wife’s feelings?

“I want you to share something that means something to me,” Ruth said calmly. Or at least as calmly as she could. “To have some time together that’s our own. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?”

Ira lay what was left of his bagel on the plate. It stared up accusingly at her, as did Ira. Inexplicably, Ruth felt the press of tears beneath her eyelids. Unwilling to cry in front of him, Ruth stood, picked up her plate, and carried it to the sink. Flipping on the faucet, she smashed the uneaten portion of her bagel down the disposal, then turned it on for good measure.

There was an exaggerated sigh and Ira’s chair scraped back from the table. He came up behind her and she closed her eyes, embarrassed. Both of them were more comfortable with her anger than her tears.

“Ruthie.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “What’s going on with you? What’s with all this
meshugas
?” He used the Yiddish word for craziness. Turning her to face him, he said, “You want me to work less. You want me to dance. You want a divorce. I can hardly keep up with all the things you want from me lately.”

He kept his hands on her shoulders. For a big man his touch had always been surprisingly gentle. She’d been much too angry at him for too long now to seek out his touch. Or to be receptive to it when it was offered. Ruth had a brief flash of the scene from
Fiddler on the Roof
when Golde asks Tevye if he loves her. What would Ira say if she asked him that question? She realized she was no longer sure of his answer.

She sniffed back her tears and looked her husband in the eye. She didn’t know why after all these years she needed proof of his affection for her. She only knew that she did. But it would mean nothing if she had to beg for it.

What did she gain if he gave her attention so grudgingly? If she had to force him to spend time with her, had to threaten him to get him to come to class, what
was
the point?

“Never mind,” she said as he watched her like she was some time bomb that might go off at any moment. “It doesn’t matter. If you can’t understand why I want you to come to class with me, I don’t want you there.”

Ruth eased out of Ira’s grasp and stepped away from him. For once she made no move to put away the food on the table or double-check his plans for the day. He could go and do whatever he wanted. The lox and cream cheese could spoil. The bagels could turn stale and hard. It wasn’t like there weren’t a million more where those had come from.

“I’m going to go lie down,” she said, not even bothering to look and see how he was reacting to his reprieve. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

And with that she left the Bagel Baron standing alone near the sink staring dumbly after her. But she didn’t think he had any idea that the bomb he’d been worried about had just been detonated. And she wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next.

THE SOUND OF the doorbell barely registered in Vivien’s consciousness. She was asleep, blissfully asleep. Subliminally somewhere she heard someone open, then shut the front door. Heard steps on the stairs; heard what could only be someone, probably Melanie, extracting Shelby from bed.

Melanie and Clay and the kids were going to church this morning, but Vivi had chosen getting sleep over being saved. For a time she drifted in a lovely fog, not quite as asleep as she had been but still mercifully not awake. The ringing of her cell phone pushed her unhappily back into the real world. She tried to ignore it, but the ringing continued.

With a groan, she reached for her phone and managed to get it up to her ear. “Ummphh?” she asked, her eyes still closed.

“Viv?” Vivien’s eyes flew open as Stone’s voice penetrated her fog.

“Mmmmm, I mean, yes.” She sat up against the pillows, her mind scrambling into consciousness.

“It’s not like you to sleep so late. Did I wake you up?”

“I guess I was a little tired from the week.”

There was a moment of silence while he registered what she’d said. “Are you sure you’re all right? Marty said the wound was pretty superficial but . . .” He stopped, realizing he’d admitted to checking on her behind her back. Normally Vivien would have given him some shit for acting as if she couldn’t take care of herself. But right now, especially, she was grateful that he cared enough about her to be devious.

Vivien drew a deep breath, wishing with every part of her that Stone was here right now so that she could tell him, face-to-face, all the things that he should know
.
So that he could, what? Give up chasing stories at the heart of the War on Terror so that he could come home and take care of her? Escort her to Tuesday’s ob-gyn appointment? Tell her everything would be all right? That he wanted to marry her? Have their child? Live happily ever after?

She didn’t even know if she wanted that.

“I had no idea how rough the suburbs were. I think Melanie deserves a medal. I’d pin it on her myself if she hadn’t forced me to take a belly-dancing class.”

“Belly dancing?”

She could hear him smiling and her own lips tilted upward. “Suffice it to say isolating and controlling individual muscle groups is even harder than it sounds.”

“I wouldn’t mind watching you try.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get too excited about the idea. As far as I’m concerned it was a one-time experience. I think my time would be better spent confirming that J.J.’s death really was an accident.” And researching her columns. Not to mention coming to terms with all the changes taking place in her body.

“What’s going on with that?”

“I finally got hold of Blaine Stewart. He’s still in the Atlanta regional office of the GBI, but he’s out in the field more than he’s in the office. The case is closed, and I’m a family member so there shouldn’t be a problem with him talking to me and showing me whatever I ask for, but it’s not exactly at the top of his to-do list.”

“Well, keep me posted,” Stone said. “I’m getting ready to head out toward the Pakistani border. I think I’ve finally found the right contact to get me a shot at the interviews I’ve been angling for. But communication may be sporadic for a while.”

She could hear the barely concealed excitement in his voice, knew he could hardly wait to be off, chasing the story, hunting down the sources he sought wherever they might be hiding. However murderous they might be. Vivien was awake now, uncomfortably so.

“Wow,” she said. “That’s great.” She was careful not to sound anything but thrilled for him. This was who he was. This was what he did. As an expert on terrorism, Stone was at the top of the network news food chain. His live reports were featured regularly in prime time, and TV Guide had recently begun referring to him as the Afghanistan Adonis. If Vivien had even been considering telling him the truth, and that was a big “if,” it was now out of the question. The last thing she wanted was for him to be worrying about what was going on at home.

“Yeah,” he said, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “The only downside is not being with you. I miss you, Vivi. A lot.”

“Me, too.”

“Hey,” he said. “Maybe we could meet up in Europe for a few days next month. Hell, if I get the footage I’m hoping for, I might even be able to take a week. I was kind of picturing us back at that little villa we rented last spring in Tuscany.” His voice turned low and intimate and Vivi could picture it, too. Mornings in bed. Long walks through the lush countryside. Late dinners on the villa’s ancient balcony.

His excitement built as he presented his plan. Everything was coming together for him now. For her, not so much. In fact, pretty much nothing in her life at the moment was of her planning. And a month from now? She’d be well into her fifth month. At which point, according to her trusty copy of
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
, she’d probably be showing.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Vivi began trying to think of some excuse that would sound reasonable. “I, um, don’t think I can do that.”

“Why not?” he asked, clearly puzzled.

Because by then her stomach and bulging breasts would be the first thing off the plane. Because she should have told him when she found out she was pregnant instead of waiting for the “right” moment, which was clearly never going to materialize. Because the time for decision making was long past. She was having their baby in April and he might still be traipsing through caves in Afghanistan then. Or on his way to cover some new war or natural disaster on the other end of the earth.

When he came back to the States he could decide whether he wanted to be a part of that. Telling him now would do nothing but make her feel better—assuming he reacted positively.

“I may have to be in New York then.” She didn’t know where that had come from. “I may have some new job interviews lined up.” Another big lie, though nowhere near as big as the thing she’d omitted. She just hoped that when everything came out, he would forgive her. It would be way too unfair to lose her career
and
Stone. It didn’t even bear thinking about.