Reinhart's Women (21 page)

“That’s how it
usually
goes, doesn’t it?” Blaine asked. “You haven’t changed, and now it’s happened, hasn’t it? You’ve finally driven Mother beyond the point of no return.”

In another time Reinhart would surely have risen to this bait, but now he maintained self-control. “No, if that were true, you wouldn’t be calling me now. I’m not, ten years after the fact, the cause of her troubles, and you know it, Blaine. So let’s please have a minimum of horseshit.”

The admonition had the desired effect. Blaine was silent for a moment, and then he said, somewhat sullenly but without the accusatory note: “They’ll be examining her for a day or so, I guess. But what happens then? Will she be kept in the hospital? What will that cost? But if she comes out, where will she go?”

“That could be a problem. Has she really closed out in Chicago?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that she lived there nine-ten years. She must have made friendships, associations, had some kind of home. She wasn’t back much to visit here, if ever: am I right?”

“We were always in close touch,” said Blaine. “I saw her frequently.”

“In Chicago, though, right? What I’m getting at is—”

“I know what you’re getting at,” said Blaine. “You’re telling her to go back to Chicago. You’re saying you’re washing your hands—”

“No, I’m not saying that, Blaine. Not at all. I’ll do what I can to help. But what I
am
saying is that I
shall not live with her again.
”

“Then how
could
you help?” Blaine replied contemptuously.

Perhaps in involuntary resentment, Reinhart asked: “How is Mercer?”

“Mercer?”
said Blaine. “Why would you ask about
Mercer?”

“She’s my daughter-in-law, I think.”

Blaine said loftily: “I try to keep my own family matters from her, frankly. She was raised among a different kind of people.”

“And the boys?”

“Don’t worry about them. They’re being fed.”

This struck Reinhart as a bizarre thing to say, but he passed over it. “Look, Blaine, I’d go to see your mother at the hospital, but I suspect it wouldn’t help her to recover. I don’t intend to give her a home, and I could scarcely contribute financially if I wanted to. And, frankly, I don’t think I’d want to. When I was younger I wouldn’t have had the nerve to say such a thing, or when even younger, even to think it, but with age one gets morally braver.”

“Brave? You call it brave?” Blaine snorted. Reinhart was prepared to hear a vicious attack on himself, and was wondering how much of it he must tolerate. The boy had certainly been under pressure. Perhaps his father could do him some service by sustaining an assault, rolling with the punches.

But Blaine all at once changed his tune. “O.K.,” he said explosively, but without apparent rancor. “What I’m really calling for is to invite you and my sister to dinner tonight.”

“You’re joking,” Reinhart said quickly, and then apologized with the same speed. “I didn’t mean that. What I do mean is that I accept, thank you. I don’t know about Winona, but I’ll leave a message with her agency and get back to you when she calls.” He added prudently: “If she turns out to be busy, am I still invited?”

“No,” said Blaine.

Reinhart found it possible to laugh at this. “We’ll be there unless you hear otherwise. What time would that be?”

“Seven,” said Blaine. “It shouldn’t take long, tell her. Tell her I very much want her to make it.”

“Yeah,” Reinhart said and hung up. Some invitation! He dialed the agency and left the message. And then he called Grace Greenwood’s number, but her secretary told him she was out.

“Will you ask her to give Carl Reinhart a ring?” He still didn’t know about the future of his job. Winona had apparently come home the night before, after he was asleep, and then left for work this morning before he got up. She sometimes did this, with the energy of youth. Reinhart lacked in one symptom of age: he was not an early riser.

Before hanging up, he asked and received Helen Clayton’s home number.

When Helen answered he said: “Hi. This is—”

“Carl!” said she. “How’d it come out, Carl? I was thinking of calling you, but I didn’t want to jeopardize anything.”

He told her about Mercer’s adventures.

“Well,” she said finally, “let’s hope that’s the last we hear of the problem. It might have been a one-shot, and from now on she’ll keep her nose clean. You know, they talk about menopause, but a lot of women have their real trouble when they’re younger. Especially nowadays.”

“Is that right?” Reinhart continued to find new depths in Helen’s sense of things.

“Expectations are greater. That always leads to trouble. Just because people expect more doesn’t mean they’ve got it in them to deliver more.”

“I should tell you, Helen,” said Reinhart, “I get a lot of comfort in talking with you.”

But now she showed her limitation, interpreting his speech in another way.

“Gee, Carl, I wish I could, but I can’t today.”

For a moment he was utterly perplexed. “Can’t what?”

“Meet you anyplace. I told you it’s tough for me.”

“Sure, Helen. That’s O.K. I really enjoy talking to you: that’s what I meant.”

Helen ignored this sincere statement. “I haven’t been able to get through to Grace. We’re on her shit list, Carl. You know how dykes are: let them hear about anybody with normal urges and they look down on you.”

There had been a time when Reinhart himself would not have found this assertion altogether irresponsible. Perhaps even now he might have his doubts that it could be easily refuted, but...

“I think she’s just busy,” said he. “Grace is a real professional at her job.... The thing that hurts is that in attacking me, my ex-wife got you as well. By the way, she didn’t settle down. They finally had to commit her.”

“Aw,” said Helen. “Aw, hell. I’m really sorry, Carl.”

“Yeah,” Reinhart said. “My own feelings are pretty complex. I hate her guts in one way, and then in another I—well, just in a human way you’ve got to have some pity. She has this paranoid idea of being persecuted.” He snorted. “For example, you know that Cadillac you got out of? She claims that the driver was a Mafioso and that he threatened to kill her.”

There was a long silence on Helen’s end of the wire. At last she said: “Well, she’s out of harm’s way now, Carl. She belongs there, I bet. Anyway, the doctors have the problem, not you. You’re not still paying her anything, are you?”

“At the time of the divorce I didn’t
have
anything. She had previously put the house in her name.”

Helen spoke softly through the telephone: “You’re a real nice, gentlemanly person, Carl.”

“Oh, I guess we’re even all in all. I’m not speaking in self-pity.”

“I hope I see you again,” Helen said, “whether or not we work together.”

“Oh, we will!”

“I don’t know,” said Helen, her voice drifting away.

“Well, I do,” he said sharply. “You know, the Top Shop demo wasn’t my idea. Grace came to me.”

“Uh-huh,” Helen said.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” he asked, almost aggressively. “I’ll tell you this: Grace wants to keep on my good side.” He was taken aback by his own recklessness, but was not entirely displeased. It was, after all, a symptom of vigor.

“Gee, Carl,” said Helen, “don’t go away mad!” She said this with mock petulance and a throaty chuckle. “You’ve got something on her? It wouldn’t be hard to get! Except I don’t believe she’d be ashamed. There’s a new attitude around, you know. How about having gay teachers in the schools? Would you want a daughter of yours in Grace’s clutches?”

Funny how the worst could happen before one knew it—and turn out not to be the worst, after all.

Reinhart was even able to make a joke: “Or vice versa!” And before she could react to this, he said: “I always thought that if I were king, I’d let my subjects be whatever they wanted to be, sexually. But to punish by execution anyone who mentioned
what
he or she was.” He cleared his throat. “What I meant was that Grace and I are old acquaintances. She enlisted me for the job because she knows I like to cook and she needed somebody to do that. Don’t ask me why she didn’t hire a professional chef. But she had to talk me into it. She’s not going to deny me now, when I want to continue. I really do enjoy working with you.”

An intake of breath was audible from her end of the wire. “Gee, Carl... I’ll
try
to make it this afternoon. Can I call you someplace?”

“Here, I guess,” said Reinhart.

Helen laughed gutturally. Oddly enough, she reminded him of certain guys he had known in the Army, for whom everything had an immediate sexual connotation. It wasn’t easy to get on to that style again, more than thirty years later and from a woman—though no doubt it was better.

Towards noon Winona returned his call. He told her of Blaine’s invitation.

“Can you make it?”

“Oh, sure.”

“He wanted you especially. Frankly, Winona, I must warn you that whenever your brother gets that earnest he undoubtedly wants something. So be prepared. I think it has to do with your mother.”

Winona seemed lighthearted enough. “O.K.”

“Seven, Blaine said. That’ll be all right? You won’t be on some overtime assignment?” It occurred to Reinhart for the first time that, in the standard style of the wandering husband (that stock character), Winona might sometimes have pursued romance of a kind while claiming to be held overlong at work. If so, was it not absurd of her? Why should she have needed an excuse?

“I’m taking the day off,” she said, “so there’s no problem.”

“Glad to hear it, dear! You could really use a little vacation.”

“The agency’s not that understanding,” said Winona, “but the heck with them. They can just tell the client I’m sick for a change.”

“Damn right,” Reinhart agreed. “You have a nice time.”

“Wait,” said Winona. “Here, Grace wants to speak to you.”

Grace came on the wire: “Carl, sorry I haven’t been able to get back till now. Everything’s cool. We’ll have something for you in a day or so. Meanwhile you’re on salary, of course. Take care!” She hung up.

Reinhart remained for a while with the receiver in his hand, looking into the vulvalike thicket of lines in the etching that hung over the telephone table. Winona had brought that home one day.

He was chagrined to have so quick an answer to the question he had asked himself.
Q
. Why had Winona needed to pretend she was working late when in truth she was having fun with her friends?
A.
Look at her friends!

Hardly had he hung up when the telephone rang again.

“Mr. Reinhart? Edie Mulhouse.”

“Oh...”

“Remember last night? Winona borrowed my car.”

“Oh, sure, Edie. That was very nice of you.”

“Uh, was there anything wrong with it, do you know? I noticed it is still in its slot in the garage.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Reinhart, “as it turned out, Winona didn’t have to use it. But you were very kind to lend it, and on such short notice.”

“It isn’t a very fancy car,” said Edie. “She probably didn’t want to be seen in it.”

“Why,” he protested politely, “that isn’t so.” Large as she was, Edie seemed overfragile of soul. “It’s a lovely car, I’m sure, and you’re a very generous neighbor. I know that Winona was very grateful. I hope she made that clear.”

“She doesn’t owe me anything,” said Edie. “I admire her a lot.”

“She’s not all bad,” Reinhart said modestly, “if I do say so myself.” And then he added soberly: “It’s nice to know you, Edie. The only other neighbors I’ve met in the almost four years we’ve lived here are just at the end of this floor. You know, I never lived in an apartment till I was middle-aged. I spent all my earlier life in houses in suburban communities where you necessarily were acquainted with everybody else. But there are things to be said for privacy.”

“I hope I haven’t intruded on yours,” said Edie.

Something suddenly occurred to Reinhart. “Winona
did
return the car keys, didn’t she? Did you look in your mailbox?” She was silent too long. “Just a moment, please, Edie. Hang on.” He put the phone down and went back to Winona’s room, where he saw the alien keys as soon as he entered, on her dressing table.

Back at the phone he asked: “The tab is blue plastic, and it has a Chevy crest?”

Edie said in a land of horror: “I used to have a Vega, but this is a Gremlin. But I kept the same key thing. I guess I should get another. Is that why Winona didn’t use the car? Maybe she couldn’t find it? She was looking for a Vega? How stupid I am!”

Reinhart was annoyed with Winona, but there was also something regrettable about Edie’s self-abasement.

“No, no,” he said with a certain harshness. “You’re too generous. We somehow slipped up on returning the keys: each thought the other was going to do it, I guess. What’s your apartment number? I’ll bring them to you right now.” He suddenly got a better idea. “What are you doing for lunch?”

“Oh.”

“Are you calling from your apartment?” It always took him a while to remember that most people, even women, worked somewhere outside during the day. But Edie said she was at home. She stayed noncommittal on the luncheon invitation: Reinhart found her frustrating, but in a challenging sort of way. He decided simply to bully her into being his guest, so as to expunge Winona’s bad treatment of her, which seemed to bother him more than it troubled her, to be sure, but that was no excuse.

Edie met him in the garage. She wore jeans and a sweater today and over them a tweed coat. She was not a bad-looking girl, with pleasant clean features and very good skin. Something probably should have been done with her fair hair, which was cut short but, so far as Reinhart could see, according to no plan. And her expression tended towards the lackluster, though her blue eyes were, physically speaking, bright enough.

“I didn’t realize,” Reinhart said by way of greeting, “that when I got up this morning I’d have a luncheon date with an attractive young woman.” He surrendered the keys.