Possessions (11 page)

“Well now, difficult to say. The market is bad; bad all over; we're all hurting. Now I'm aware that you need to sell—you have my sincere sympathies, by the way; an awkward time for you—what is it? What's wrong? Are you all right?”

Between laughing and crying, Katherine began to cough. Awkward, she thought. It is certainly awkward to be deserted. Catching her breath, she said, “I thought two hundred twenty thousand for the house. Is that about right? That's what our neighbors got two years ago.”

“Two years ago, Mrs. Fraser, it was a different market. For today that's high. And this is a small house. But we can start there and come down. How low will you go?”

“I don't know. This neighborhood—”

“One of the best. But in bad times people will take other neighborhoods if they have to. Tell you what, Mrs. Fraser. Leave it to me. You clean up the place; have the kids tackle the basement and garage; they'll look bigger when they're neat. You do that and I'll get plenty of traffic moving through here. We'll have an offer in no time and I guarantee you'll be satisfied.” He shook her hand, smiled brightly, and was gone.

*  *  *

As melancholy as they felt, it was a relief to have something definite to do. Jennifer and Todd, helping Katherine clean, began to accept the idea that they had to sell the house. “And someday build another one,” said Todd. “Just like this. Only with a basketball court.”

Then house-hunters came, tramping through the rooms, opening closet doors, peering into bureaus. One of Craig's favorite Eskimo carvings disappeared. But within two weeks the realtor called to say an offer had been made. “It's not as much as we'd like, Mrs. Fraser; in normal times, we wouldn't
even entertain it for a house in West Vancouver. But since you're in a hurry—”

“How much?” she asked, cradling the telephone and reaching for a pencil.

“One seventy.”

“Wait.” Katherine scribbled numbers. One seventy minus his commission was about one sixty. Their mortgage was one fifty-two. Which left her—

“I know it's not what you'd hoped for, Mrs. Fraser, but—”

Which left her eight thousand dollars.

“—but it's a bad time to sell a house, especially if you're in a hurry. I'm sure we'd do better if you'd wait a few months or a year, but as things stand, I recommend you accept it.”

Eight thousand dollars. For their wonderful house. “I'll call you back,” Katherine said. Slowly she walked through the house, running her fingers along walls and doorjambs and curving windows, sitting briefly on the stone hearth where she and Craig had sat in the evenings when the house was being built, imagining the rooms that would take shape from the skeleton of studs and beams silhouetted around them. Our house, Katherine thought. We dreamed of it for years, we watched it grow, we painted and tiled and varnished, finishing it ourselves to save money. We made it. It's our house. How can I sell it on my own, without Craig? It's as if I'm cutting us apart, cutting our marriage apart.

Within her, something seemed to slip, like a cloth sliding off a table, exposing its flawed surface.
That's what Craig has done.

In the vestibule, the mail was lying beneath the slot in the front door: more bills, an announcement of a sale at Eaton's, a letter, and two large manila envelopes from jewelry stores. Numbly, Katherine opened them. The last ones, she thought. All the photographs and sketches she had assembled so carefully and sent to jewelry buyers had come back, with polite notes. “Dear Mrs. Fraser. Thank you for sending us your designs. We regret that they do not meet our needs at present, but we wish you success in your career.”

“How can I be successful,” she murmured, “if I can't get a start?” She opened the letter: a paragraph from an insurance company where she had applied for a job as a receptionist.
They had hired someone with more experience, but wished her success in the future. How kind of everyone, she thought, to wish me success.

The telephone rang and she ran to it, thinking, as they all did whenever it rang—this time it will be Craig. But it was not. “Katherine,” Ross said. “I've been thinking about you.”

Absurdly, her heart leaped. She hadn't realized how isolated she felt until she heard his deep voice and remembered his smile. But then she thought—It's been five weeks since he said he'd call to see how we are. “I've been busy,” he said. “Or I would have called sooner. I owe you an apology for that fiasco at Victoria's, especially since I got you into it. We're a lot nicer than we seem, at least some of us are; I hope you'll discover that for yourself. Now tell me, how are you? What have you heard?”

“Nothing.” She would have liked to tell him everything, but she couldn't: he was part of that family; he'd probably been thinking about her only because he wondered about Craig. Not much of a person to count on. “We're just waiting. But I've decided to sell the house and move to a place we can afford.”

“Sell—? Isn't that a rash decision? How much money do you have?”

“Enough,” she said evasively. “But not if we stay here.”

“But I might . . . you haven't sold it yet, have you?”

“I think so.”

“Look, you obviously think it's none of my business but—how much will you clear?”

“Eight thousand dollars. It's not—”

“Eight thousand—! On that house? Katherine, don't be a fool. That's a valuable piece of property!”

“Who do you think you are?” she cried. He was as arrogant and unsympathetic as the rest of his family. “The market is very bad here and I'm in a hurry; I can't make the payments—”

“I might make the payments. At least until you get a better price.”

“I don't want any money from you.”

“Damn it, it could be a business arrangement. To protect your property.”

I'd like someone to protect me, she thought wryly, but aloud she said, “I don't want to be indebted to anyone.”

“Especially not the Haywards.”

She was silent.

“But we could help you, if you'd let us.” He waited. “Katherine, you were the one who said you wanted a loan.” Still she said nothing. He let out his breath in a sigh. “There's only so much we can do, from this distance. If you were here, we could—” he paused. “Katherine, what about that? If things are as bad as they sound, what about your moving back to San Francisco?”

It was so unexpected she sat down abruptly on the kitchen stool. “Moving?”

“You grew up here, you know the city, and if you were close by, we could help you. Forget what happened at Victoria's; it was one night, not a lifetime. If you were here, my kids could help yours, Melanie could introduce you to her friends—”

Melanie. Sleek, polished, disdainful. “Ross, how many of Melanie's friends have no money? How many of them work?”

“None that I know of,” he conceded. “But you'd have a family waiting for you—”

Why is he doing this?
“I don't have a family waiting for me. They don't want me; they don't even want Craig. And I don't see how I could leave Vancouver.” The doorbell rang. “I have to go. Thank you. For calling and for thinking about me.”

A policeman stood at the door. Faintly, Katherine said, “You found him.”

“No, ma'am. Just stopping by to see if you've heard anything.”

She let out her breath.
Not this time.
“No, I haven't.”

“No sign of him, ma'am? He hasn't called?”

“No.”

Whenever we talk about Craig, she thought, the word we use most often is No.

The telephone rang again. When Katherine answered it, Frances Doerner said hurriedly, “Katherine, how are you? I can't talk; I'm late for my hair appointment; I just wanted to let you know, and I am sorry, but I'm afraid I was wrong about a job in Carl's company.”

Carl's company. It was Carl's and Craig's company a few days ago.

“There just aren't any jobs, and of course you wouldn't want them to fire anyone. I'm so sorry I misled you; Carl was very unhappy when he heard what I'd done. So that's the problem, dear Katherine; Carl is determined to keep costs down and I couldn't budge him. I'm so sorry; if there's anything else I can do—”

“No,” Katherine said. “Thank you for trying. Goodbye, Fran—”

“Uh . . . Katherine, one more thing . . . Carl asked me to tell you he needs the car.”

“The car?”

“The one Craig was using. It belongs to the company, you see, and Carl asked me to tell you he needs it. I am sorry—”

“It's all right. I didn't know it wasn't ours. I'll return it tomorrow.”

“It's so sweet of you to take it so—”

“Goodbye, Frances.”

Her budgets glared up at her—the payments that would be due in two weeks and all the money she had: three thousand dollars. She opened a drawer and took out the check from Ann Hay ward. She had turned down Ross, but this was different: one check, and it was in her hand. One thousand dollars. Plus the three thousand in the bank. And eight thousand from selling the house. Enough to move to an apartment and keep going until she found a job.

Don't think about it; just do it.
She called the realtor. A fool, Ross had said. Don't be a fool. But he hadn't said definitely that he'd pay the mortgage; only that he might. She wouldn't take it anyway. She'd manage alone, even if it meant selling the house.

But when she had told the realtor to accept the offer, she felt she'd made a terrible mistake. She'd been rash, just as Ross said. But he hadn't advised her; he'd only called her a fool. “Craig, I need you,” she said aloud. “I miss you. Please call; please come back.” She was crying again. It seemed everything made her cry and she was so tired of it, but there always seemed to be more tears, welling up.

She swiveled in Craig's chair and looked into her living room and beyond, to her dining room and kitchen, thinking, with a sick feeling, that they weren't hers any more. Outside,
the tall trees stood like sentinels among the bushes and flowers she had planted, but they were no longer hers, either.

You shouldn't have sold it. She heard Craig accuse her. You should have waited. The room was empty, but she heard his voice. You had enough money for two months.

“I couldn't do it,” she argued with his shadowy presence. “I don't believe you'll be back then. And what if I couldn't find another buyer? Craig, I had to do this on my own.” He did not answer.

Through the window she saw Jennifer and Todd get off the bus and run up the walk. Todd was disheveled, his face smudged; Jennifer's blouse was torn. What had they been up to? They were almost never rowdy. As they came in, she saw tears on their faces and jumped up to meet them. “What happened?” she exclaimed as they clung to her.

“It doesn't matter,” Jennifer said vehemently. “Because we're moving away from here and we won't go to back to camp. I never want to go there again; I don't want to see any of those kids ever again.”

“They're liars,” Todd delcared. “I beat up Eddie and I almost broke Mack's head open, but then somebody tripped me. If he hadn't I would've killed them all.”

“But why were you fighting?” Katherine asked, thinking—I know. I know why.

“They said Daddy stole money,” Todd said. “And ran away, because he was afraid of going to jail. So I beat—”

Jennifer stamped her foot. “We're never going to see any of them again as long as we live!”

Damn them,
Katherine thought fiercely. Damn the cruelty of children, and damn their parents who talked about us and gave them the ammunition to hurt my children.

“Tell me,” she said, sitting with them on the couch. “How did they make fun of you?”

“Oh—” Jennifer tried to toss off the words. “They said we should've put Daddy on a leash till he was trained to stay home like other dogs—” The words were lost in a storm of weeping and she burrowed her face into Katherine's shoulder.

“They said their dads were home,” Todd muttered. “And we should learn to keep our dad at home where he couldn't steal. But they're lying, aren't they? Just like Mr. Doerner.
All those bastards are lying, aren't they? Fucking bastards, shitty bastards—”

“Todd!” Katherine said. “It doesn't help to talk that way.”

“Yes it does. And they are bastards, Mom. They
lied!”

With her children pressing against her, Katherine sent a silent, futile plea to Craig. What do you want me to tell them? If you're coming back I can make up something, but if you aren't, what can I do? I have to face them every day and answer their questions; they're not infants; they deserve the truth.

“We talked about this,” she said at last, feeling Jennifer tense as she held her breath. “Remember? And I said there was a lot we don't know. I think those kids—stink. They're stupid and cruel and we should ignore them. But what they were saying . . . gets complicated, because it seems maybe Daddy did take money from the company.”

“No,” Jennifer said in a muffled voice.

“It seems he did. But he meant to pay it back. That's why he went away: to get money to pay back what he took. I don't know why he hasn't come home. Maybe he had more trouble getting it than he thought he would. We just don't know. And until he comes back and tells us—”

“If he's alive.” Jennifer sat up and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “We don't know that either, do we?”

“Not for sure.” What would the experts advise? Katherine wondered. Is it good or bad to burden children with the truth? She didn't have time to check; she had to decide for herself. Suddenly there were so many things she had to decide for herself. “All we can do is hope he's alive and wait to hear from him, or from someone else, if he's been in an accident—”