Man, Woman and Child (12 page)

"Well . . ." Sheila began with the innocuous: ^'Evelyn asked me to come up today for a special rush project. We're reissuing three of Gavin Wilson's books."

"That's rather on the ball for them/' offered Margo. "He's certainly a rising star. But couldn't it have waited till the end of your holiday?"

"Not really. Gavin was only up in Cambridge for the day/'

124

"Gavin?*' Margo grinned. "We're already on a first-name basis, are we?"

"Come on, Margo—it's just work."

"Of course," she answered sarcastically. "Is he as handsome as his photographs?"

"I suppose so," Sheila answered noncommittally.

"Does he have an English accent?"

"Well, he does come from England."

"English accents are seductive, don't you think?"

"They can be."

Sheila would have preferred simply to chronicle the events. But Margo's radar was picking up the unspoken signals.

"Did he like you?"

Sheila paused.

"Well, he thinks I'm a good editor."

"Editor shmeditor. Where did he take you for dinner?"

"La Groceria in Central Square."

"Ah, candlelight—very romantic. And of course you only discussed revisions?"

"Certainly."

"Liar."

"Well, it's normal to chat about other things too."

"Of course," said Margo. "And when did he make his pass?"

"What?"

"Come on, Sheil. He's gorgeous, he's eligible, and he's notorious."

"But I'm-"

"And you're a very pretty lady."

"I was about to say I'm married."

Margo looked at her with eyebrow raised. "And the world is round," she stated, "none of which has anything to do with Gavin Wilson."

Sheila took another sip and said, *'This is good wine."

"Ah, so Fm right. Now tell me what he said and I'll tell you what he meant/'

"The whole evening?''

"No, you idiot. Just the postprandial pitch."

"There was none. He drove me to my car. That's aU."

"Silently? No dialogue?"

Sheila paused. Now she had misgivings about saying any more to Margo.

"Well, he did ask me for a drink. I don't think it was anything."

Margo's eyes widened. "A drink? Where?**

"At his hotel."

"I would say that was a pretty definitive pass, wouldn't you?"

"Maybe," Sheila conceded, "I guess so."

^'Then what the hell are you doing here?**

^'That sort of thing is hardly my lifestyle," Sheila answered.

Margo got up and sat next to her on the couch.

"Listen lovey," she said quietly, taking Sheila's hand, "you've always been the perfect wife and you've just had your ego flattened with a steam roller. Doesn't it make you feel good to find out that a really super guy thinks you're terrific?"

"I ... I was sort of flattered, yes."

"Then I repeat my question—what on earth are you doing here?"

"Margo, I've been through enough humiliation. I don't have to be some English Casanova's little nocturnal distraction."

"Is that all you think he wants?"

"It doesn't matter, Margo. Because despite this wretched mess, I still love Bob and I don't want my marriage to suffer any more than it has."

"What makes you so sure your marriage would suffer?''

Sheila tried to read Margo's intention from her face. She seemed genuinely concerned. This was not the pseudo-sophisticate of Josselyn Hall, the advocate of Free Love who had remained a virgin till her wedding day. This was someone who was trying to tell a friend she really cared for that, sadly, nothing in life was perfect. A fact that Sheila evidently had been slow to learn.

"Look, Sheil," Margo continued, "this has nothing to do with revenge or getting back at Bob. He doesn't ever have to know. . . ."

"But he loves me," Sheila murmured, "and he's really been making such an effort."

Margo looked at her wounded friend. What more could she say without alienating her?

One more thing.

"What about the gorgeous French doctor?"

This really hurt.

"Damn," said Sheila. Her teeth were clenched in anger. She did not really wish to think about the beauty of the late Nicole Guerin.

The two women sat in silence for a moment. Finally Margo asked, "How exactly did you leave it with Gavin?"

"I just told him I was tired."

"Oh? So you didn't slam the door and bolt it, did you?"

"No is no."

"Weren't you the slightest bit tempted?"

What was the point of denying it now?

"Margo, where could it lead?"

"Nowhere, probably. But it might just make you a little less unhappy. Anyway, you'll never know unless you follow it up."

Sheila wanted to end—or at least postpone—further discussion.

''Look/' she said, "we'll be working on his books in the next couple of months. There'll be plenty of time to—'

"No," said Margo softly but firmly, "call him

now"

"What?"

"It's only 10:20; call him now. Before you lose your nerve."

"What could I say? It's so embarrassing."

"Just tell him you had a lovely evening. Let him make the next move. At the worst you'll have kept the door open."

Sheila took a deep breath. "This is wrong," she said aloud to herself.

"Where's he staying?" Margo asked.

"The Sheraton Commander."

In an instant, Margo was leafing through the phonebook. She found the number, scratched it on a piece of paper, and handed it to Sheila.

"Come on honey, call," she said.

"I can't."

"Then I will."

"Please, Margo."

"All right, Sheila, it's your life. I don't want to play Mephistopheles. Be unhappy on your own terms." She started to scrunch the paper into a ball. Then Sheila blurted out.

"Wait. I-I'U do it."

Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed the

buttons on the telephone.

"Sheraton Commander. Good evening."

"Uh—" Sheila's voice was suddenly dry and

slightly hoarse. "Uh—may I speak to . . . Gavin

Wilson, please?"

"Ringin' Dr. Wilson's room. . . ."

Sheila gave an anguished look at Margo, who nodded to assure her she was doing the right thing.

The next moments seemed endless. Then the operator returned to the line.

''No answer in Dr. Wilson's room. Would you like to leave a message, dear?"

"Uh—no, thank you." Sheila let the receiver slide from her hand back onto the phone.

Thank God.

J

ean-Claude was seated in his usual spot on the beach. Today studying Initiation a la Geographic. He had been there since early morning, having risen before the rest of the family and, in Sheila's absence, made coffee, drunk a cup and left the rest for Bob.

Jessica appeared on the quiet seashore some time later, carrying her paperback of Anna Karenina (with the new television-series cover), and walked to a dune far down the beach. They sat like book-ends for two hundred yards of silent sand and driftwood.

The sun was nearing its meridian when an unwelcome shadow cut off Jessie's reading light.

"Whatcha doing, Jess?"

She looked up. It was that philistine Davey Ackerman.

''Reading," she replied. "And I'd be grateful if you'd quit blocking my sun."

"I got something to tell you, Jess," he said.

"It couldn't be anything I could possibly want to hear. Buzz off."

"What'll you do if I tell you a secret? If it's good, will you like me more?"

130

^'If d have to be a really great secret/'

*'This one'll really shake you up."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

She closed her Anna Karenina and looked at Davey with her customary disdain. "What?" she said.

"Walk with me to the cove."

"Why?"

"Because it's gotta be in private, Jess. Where no one can even see us. I could get killed if anyone found out."

The thought of a man risking his life just to impart something to her piqued Jessie's interest. She stood up.

"Okay," she said, brushing the sand off her shorts. "This better be worth it."

They walked till they had rounded a dune in the cove and were absolutely invisible save for the low-flying gulls.

"Well?" asked Jessica impatiently.

"Okay, listen," he said, taking a deep breath to summon up his courage. "I heard my parents talking last night, see?"

"Yeah?"

"They were whispering kind of loud. About your parents . .."

Jessie grew slightly anxious. She had lately noticed a slight coolness between Bob and Sheila, but had refused to ascribe any importance to it. Not them, she had told herself. They're happy.

"What about my parents?" she asked, unconsciously biting her nail.

"Well, it was about the French kid, actually."

"What?"

"He's your father's."

''What are you talking about?" demanded Jessie, frightened that she might have understood.

''He's your father's kid. Your father is his father," Davey blurted nervously. "You get it?"

"You're a filthy har."

"No, I swear. He is. I heard my parents. I mean, they're so freaked you can't imagine."

"Davey, you're a dirty little bastard I" Jessie shouted, on the verge of tears.

"Cool it, Jess," he pleaded. Her unexpected tantrum was upsetting him. He had hoped for something more like gratitude. But she turned away.

"Come back," he shouted.

She had started running down the beach.

"What was he like, Mom?" Paula asked, as Sheila unpacked her briefcase, piling Gavin Wilson's three books on her desk.

"Nice," she replied. "Actually I expected him to be a little conceited, but he wasn't." She was careful to place the volumes with the front covers facing upward. So Gavin's photograph would not stare up to remind her of what almost happened yesterday.

"What did you have for dinner last night?" she asked, hoping her daughter would not notice the blatant shift of subject.

"We had fun."

"And what else?"

"Dad took us out for pizza. It was fun," and then, realizing her lapse in tact, she added, "Of course, it woulda been better if you were there too, Mom."

"Thanks." Sheila laughed and kissed her on the forehead. Just then the front door slammed.

"Mom, where are you?" Jessie shouted.

"In here, Jess. I just got back this instant—"

Jessica entered the room, her face flushed and sweating.

"What's the matter, honey?" Sheila asked.

"Is it true?'' Jessie demanded, her voice quavering.

"What?''

"Is it true about Daddy?"

"Uh—I don't know, Jessie." At least I hope I don't, she thought.

"Then it is true. I can see it on your face."

"What's going on?" inquired Paula, anxious to participate in the family crisis.

Jessie turned to Paula. "Davey told me that Jean-Claude is Daddy's sonr

"What? You're crazy!"

Paula was wide-eyed. She could not quite fathom what she was hearing but vaguely sensed that it was terrible.

"Please," said Sheila, frantically trying to preserve all of their sanity, "let me try to explain. . .."

Jessie turned angrily on her mother.

"First admit it's true. Tell me Dad is really Jean-Claude's—" She couldn't bring herself to say the word.

"Yes," Sheila said quietly, "it's true."

Now Paula began to cry.

"No." She shook her head. "It's some big lie. He's our daddy. He's oursr

Jessie exploded at her sister.

"Don't you understand, you little idiot? He had an affair with Jean-Claude's mother."

"What's an 'affair'?" said Paula, wanting desperately not to understand.

"He went to bed with her and made a baby," Jessie shouted.

Paula looked helplessly at her mother.

"Is Daddy gonna leave us?'' she asked, voicing her deepest fears.

Sheila took the two frightened girls in her arms. "It'll be all right," she murmured, hoping to make herself believe it.

"How could you let him come here," Jessie sobbed, "into our house?"

Just then the front door slammed again. They froze. And Jean-Claude, book in hand,'walked into the room.

"Good afternoon," he smiled. He was especially happy to see Sheila again.

"He's our daddy," Paula exploded at him. "He's ours, he's ours!"

Jean-Claude was confused.

"What do you mean, Paula?" he asked.

"Our daddy is your father, and you want to take him away," she screamed.

"But no—" Jean-Claude protested.

"I'll bet your goddam mother isn't even dead," snarled Jessica, wanting to hurt him. To make him go away. To rescind his very existence.

Paula rushed toward the boy and began to pummel him. He did not raise a hand to defend himself from her blows. For he was beginning to feel that he was, in some inexplicable way, guilty of a crime.

"Paula, stop hitting him this instant!"

Sheila rushed to pull the two children apart. Jean-Claude was crying softly. As soon as they were disengaged, he glanced fearfully at everyone and retreated, first tentatively, then more swiftly, up the stairs.

In a moment they heard the sound of his bedroom door closing.

Sheila looked at her traumatized daughters. This was all Bob's fault. They were innocent victims

whose lives had just been permanently disfigured by the shrapnel of his infidelity.

And I was wrong too, she thought with anguish. I made the wrong decision. Now I see that I was only thinking of myself.

Just then a car pulled up outside. It was Bemie, dropping Bob off from their tennis match. Sheila watched her husband leap out, wave to his friend and start toward the house.

"It's Daddy," Sheila said. As if they hadn't sensed it from her face.

"Fll never speak to him again!" cried Jessica, who turned and started quickly for the stairs.

"Me either," Paula added, following her sister, leaving Sheila all alone.

She sighed as she watched her husband stride closer and closer.

She heard the door swing open.

"Sheila honey?"

"Fm in here, Robert," she said quietly. And knew she sounded like a stranger.