The House on Olive Street (14 page)

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” she said. “I’ve never known you to be cruel.”

“Cruel? I’d just like to know who the hell you are. I’ve felt, for all practical purposes, like a mother to you. At least a favorite aunt. I’ve loved you, I’ve taught you, I’ve defended you, I’ve lauded your accomplishments. But most of the time I wonder who you really are. You know, I don’t have the first idea how you’re dealing with Gabby’s death. And aside from hiding out, I’m not sure how you’re dealing with this!”

“I’m terrified, all right?! I don’t know if I’ll have
anything left
because of this! I may not have a way to earn a living, I may not have any friends left, and I might never—sleep. I don’t sleep anyway. I toss and turn. I have nightmares. I’m scared to death to be alone! That’s why I have Dorothy and Art living on the property! Every single night before I turn in, I check the locks in the house fifteen times, and then I can’t settle down until I’m sure the light’s on in their cottage. Every time I made some money, I could at least surround myself with more people, to insulate me. To keep me
safe.
The secretary can shield me from the calls, my publicist can shield me from the reporters, my agent from the publishers…. I have to have
protection!
”

Elly sat back, satisfied. She gave Sable a minute to collect herself. Then she stood. “Well, I can’t speak for Barbara Ann and Beth, but I’m not going anywhere. I can’t help you fall asleep or protect you from the boogeyman, but I will be your friend, one hundred percent, no matter what crap you reveal about yourself. Not your insulation, but your
friend.
I can’t be scared off by your distance or this adverse publicity that’s going on all around you. Coffee? I’ll bring the pot.” She clomped off the deck and into the house.

There was a moment of silence all around. It was Barbara Ann who finally spoke. “I have never seen a
display like that in my life!” She reached from her chair to Sable’s, covering her hand. “Are you all right?”

“She was just making a point. I’ve been dishonest.”

“I don’t think keeping your worst problems to yourself is really
dishonest.
More like, private.”

“That’s the excuse I used, too,” Sable said.

Eleanor came back in time to hear those last remarks. She began filling coffee cups. “I’d hate for you to misinterpret what just happened between Sable and me, Barbara Ann. I hardly think anything can be gained by public sniveling or chronic complaining, but Sable’s fears and anxieties come from the cradle. If she complains, they won’t love her. If she isn’t perfect, they’ll abandon her. And above all, she’ll be left alone and frightened, no matter what she does. Harboring fears like those keep people from being intimate. It’s only through a willingness to be vulnerable—admitting to the weakness of such fears—that one can become intimate. With friends, with mates, with family. It’s time, I think, to put that to rest once and for all. It’s safe for you to be yourself now, Sable. You aren’t as alone as you feel. There
are
people who will love you as you are.”

“There are,” Beth said softly.

“That was always the hardest part about being your friend, Sable. You didn’t need anything,” Barbara Ann said.

“I apologize, Sable, if my timing was bad,” Eleanor said. “I’m not very good at these things, but I do know the drill.” She sighed heavily. “You can’t imagine the things I’ve been forced to admit.”

“Did it help you, Elly?”

She actually had to think for a moment. “Ultimately,” she said. “I was a hard sell, but eventually I learned that it was more than gin that caused me to tuck the back of
my dress into my hose before walking on stage at a baccalaureate ceremony. I mooned the class of ’76. It was a magic moment, one of my brightest displays.”

The women began to laugh, in spite of themselves. Barbara Ann was laughing through tears.

“Get ahold of yourself,” Sable said. “Obviously, I’ve gotten through it.”

“Oh, that’s not it. I never thought there could be this deep, horrible reason you behaved like such a bitch sometimes.”

“Funny, I thought that deep down inside you might be secretly relieved to know I wasn’t so cool.”

“Relieved? Gimme a break! It was hard enough for me to deal with all you had in your life! Now, in addition to everything else, you’re
tragic.
Jesus, Sable. I’ve never felt so ordinary in my life!”

“Well, if it’s any comfort, I’d prefer to be the way I was when people hated me.”

“I never hated you, Sable. You didn’t have to go through all this to get my sympathy. You could have just spilled chocolate syrup on your blouse to make me feel vindicated.” She blew her nose. “You’ve always got some strategy,” Barbara Ann said. “What’s your plan now?”

“I have a non-plan,” she said. “I’m not going to do anything.”

“You could call your lawyers,” Barbara Ann suggested. “I’ve always been so impressed that you had lawyers. And stockbrokers. And financial planners. All those little bunnies, hopping around doing things for you.”

“I have a feeling that a lot of little bunnies could get rich off this without doing me much good, and I don’t want to participate. What would happen if I didn’t spend
a lot of money trying to head off what I can’t head off anyway?”

“Couldn’t it all get a lot worse?”

Sable laughed.

“Couldn’t they
find
you?”

“Now that’s a problem. I’d really like to have a break. I want to think things over for a little while. I want to stay here and work on Gabby’s office. I need to get some cereal and cold cuts—Eleanor eats like a prison inmate. I should do something about my house. I don’t want anyone to hurt or upset Dorothy and Art. I don’t want to watch any more television reports on me or read any of the shit they write…. I just want to rest for a while. Think.”

“Is there any chance these media types could question
us?
” Beth asked.

“I suppose. Maybe even follow you. Do whatever you want.”

“Come on, it’s not like we’d
say
anything,” Barbara Ann insisted. “We’d better make sure no one’s following us when we’re coming over here. Make a list of what you need, Sable. I’ll run to the store. You can’t change your life without good food. Then, I think we ought to head them off at the pass, if possible. Elly, I have an idea.”

“This is Dr. Jerome Edwards, calling for Mr. Arnold Bynum,” Elly said, deepening her already deep voice. Barbara Ann couldn’t help herself; impossible-to-control laughter pushed its way roughly through her nose in a giant snort. Her head fell into her arms, which rested on the kitchen table. Her shoulders shook and she began to squeak helplessly. “This is in regards to his client, Ms. Sable Tennet. I’m her physician. Thank you.”

Elly put her hand over the receiver and angrily demanded, “Why the hell do I have to be a
man?
”

But they’d been over this. Barbara Ann insisted there were only ten women in America who had a voice as low and raspy as Eleanor’s. And Eleanor, known to be Sable’s friend and having been heard speak in public, would be found out. She could sound like a young, male doctor or Eleanor Fulton, period. “Just do it!” Barbara Ann said through her laughter.

“Yes, Mr. Bynum,” Elly was saying. “Dr. Edwards here. I’ve been asked by Ms. Tennet to give you a call. She’s been hospitalized with…for…” Oh God, they hadn’t come up with her medical problem. Six eyes widened in total panic and stared back at Eleanor, useless. “It’s mainly a stress reaction that seems to have caused…diverticulitis. Inflammation of the bowel.” Sable slid to the floor in shock, hugging herself. She could almost read the headlines now! Sable Tennet Succumbs to Stress-Induced Bowel Inflammation.

“Diverticulitis?” Beth said, confused.

“It’s…the only…illness Eleanor’s ever…had,” Barbara Ann managed to choke out, trying to control herself. She sat on the floor beside Sable and covered her mouth to control her laughter, but tears ran down her cheeks.

“That’s why she eats that shit for breakfast,” Sable managed.

“You mean the forty gallons of coffee she drinks a day doesn’t run right through her?”

“Sometimes,” Sable answered. “That’s the other symptom. God, why couldn’t she just give me an ulcer? It’s not as though I haven’t earned it!”

“In fact, that’s the purpose of my call,” Elly was saying. “I’ve recommended that Ms. Tennet have no visitors and rest in a stress-free environment for a week
to ten days.” Sable began frantically waving her arms at Elly. “Actually, make that two to three weeks. To that end, I have been asked not to disclose the hospital or the location and to inform you that she is going to be fine and will be in touch with you when she’s feeling better…. Well, Mr. Bynum, she didn’t ask me to give you any instructions about how to handle her current business problems, so that indicates to me that she trusts your judgment….”

“Or she doesn’t give a shit,” Sable whispered.

“Even if she could discuss business right now, Mr. Bynum, I don’t think it would be very useful to you. She’s been medicated for pain and depression. She’s silly as a goose….”

“Silly as a goose?” Beth whispered. “That didn’t sound very medical.”

“Great idea, Barb,” Sable remarked. “I’m slayed with bouts of diarrhea and I’m silly as a goose. Arnie won’t believe a word of this.”

“Yes, of course I’ll tell her. And I’m sure you’ll be hearing from her as soon as her symptoms subside. I think we can treat this nonsurgically. If the medication can induce shrinkage in the diverticula, that is…. Fine, I can do that. I’ll give you a call in a week or so and keep you informed about her progress, but I can assure you, she’s in good hands. Edwards…Dr. Jerome…. Very well, then. Goodbye.” She hung up the phone and glared at them.

“Diverticulitis? You couldn’t think of anything else?” Sable asked.

“It’s the only disease I know how to treat,” Eleanor replied self-righteously.

Sable heard the distant sound of her cell phone twittering in her purse. That would be Arnold. She ignored it.

Later in the afternoon when Barbara was leaving for the day, she stole a moment alone with Sable. “Just tell me one thing,” she whispered. “Did you have those perky little tits lifted, or do they stay on your chest of their own accord?”

“Lifted,” Sable admitted. “And, tummy-tucked.”

“Oh thank God,” Barbara Ann sighed, embracing Sable warmly.

Sable had never been an overnight guest in Gabby’s house, not even when she first returned to the Sacramento area. But now, as she sat in the guest-room bed, propped up against the pillows, she regretted that. There was something about the whole environment that was soothing. There was no television in the room, for one thing. It was early in the evening for her to be in bed, only nine-thirty.

She felt relaxed, though she couldn’t imagine why. Her life was coming apart; she should be in a psych ward somewhere, sedated. But strangely, she didn’t feel she needed it. What she needed—wanted—was to be away from everything.
Everything.
The phones, the faxes. The perfect white house. The servants. The jewelry. The clothes. In this guest room, cluttered with books, a little dusty, small and densely furnished, it was like burrowing into a cocoon. She felt safe.

Elly came into the room. She was wearing her old flowered robe, had a folded newspaper tucked under her arm and carried a steaming cup. She sat down on the bed beside Sable. “Cocoa,” she said. “No caffeine, warm milk.”

“Are you suggesting I forgo the two vodkas I usually take like a sleeping pill?”

Elly shrugged. “I’m a little sensitive to that. No reason to push your luck.”

“It’s really never more than two,” Sable said.

Elly put the cocoa down on the bedside table. “That’s not the point, really. The cocoa’s there if you want it.” Then, strangely, Elly opened her arms. Elly had
never
embraced Sable. Not really. The other women were all huggers and Elly allowed herself to be put upon in that fashion, but it always seemed as though she was going along with it, indulging them. Yet within Elly’s strong arms was a great nurturing. Elly’s bosom was soft and thick against Sable’s; her shoulder was solid under Sable’s cheek. “It’s been a long, long day,” Elly said, massaging Sable’s back in slow comforting strokes.

Unbelievably, Sable began to quietly weep.

“It’s going to be all right,” Elly said. “Awful as it seems, this is going to pass. My dear, dear girl, there is no way I can explain the horrors of what’s being done to you, but I do know that my own blackest days have often led to something I needed in the end. It will pass. It will.”

“That’s not what I’m crying about,” Sable whimpered. “Thomas Adam,” she said softly, sniffing. “And Gabby. And you.”

Elly pulled back. “Me?”

Sable’s cheeks were wet with the first tears she’d shed in twenty years. “My losses. You can’t imagine how I loved that baby, how I loved Gabby.”

“I can,” Elly argued. “But have I hurt you so badly, Sable?”

“Oh no, Elly!” she said, falling back into the embrace, holding Elly close. “I had no idea you loved me so much!”

“Ah,” Elly said, resuming her consoling massage. “That, my dear girl, will not pass.”

T
he women made the decision to combine their efforts in sorting through Gabby’s office with the understanding that it was Barbara Ann who had the most commitments with her writing and family. She had the least amount of extra time, yet she was at Gabby’s house every day. She arrived in the morning by ten; she left by three-thirty so she could stop at the grocery store on her way home (if necessary…and it was
always
necessary), give her house a second straightening while she cooked dinner (it would already be a mess after her first attempt to tidy it in the early morning), run a load or two of wash, hose down the kitchen after dinner and then attack her evening reading and chores.

“Why don’t you stay home and work on your book?” Sable had asked, offering Barbara Ann a way out, an excuse.

“Right now I’m just waiting to hear how they liked the one I just sent in, and what they want by way of revisions,” she said, as though everything was business as usual.

“Don’t you usually crank up a new proposal between books, while you’re waiting?”

“Everything has been sent in,” she said.

“Barbara Ann, you are absolutely amazing. I’ve always wondered how you do it.”

“I’m well organized. Besides, if I don’t help you, who knows what kind of a mess you’ll make of things. Somebody has to keep things straight around here.”

Barbara Ann had named herself custodian. You don’t raise four boys in a relatively clean environment by being disorganized. Sable had apparently forgotten how to clean a house in her decade of full-time help; Elly had never learned and was comfortable in chaos; Beth, who was extremely tidy, seemed at odds with someone else’s clutter; and so it fell to Barbara Ann. She started every morning by shopping from the list Sable had given her the day before: groceries, toiletries, odds and ends. Next, she cleaned the kitchen. Then she’d go around the house in search of messes that required a quick, capable hand. She didn’t overtake them. She didn’t bother their clothes, laundry or personal possessions. But there was no excuse for dirty dishes lying around, or scummy bathrooms, or filled trash cans. She couldn’t stop herself from washing a couple of loads of towels now and then. It seemed so senseless to Barbara Ann to have a washing machine sit idle if there was anything in the house that needed laundering.

She attacked the paperwork in the same efficient manner. Beth was organizing contracts, royalty statements and out-of-print books. Those works that were still bringing in occasional royalties would have to be converted into payments to Sarah and David. On several works that were out of print, the rights could be reversed back to Gabby’s estate for possible resale. Eleanor was working on the project that required the most space; she was putting together Gabby’s early articles and nonfic
tion with photos, letters, old calendars and miscellaneous writings. She had also found some original unpublished work from Gabby’s traveling years. Sable was organizing letters into files; some would be returned to senders, some destroyed, others saved for posterity through collection or publishing. Every single page of paper had to be read and considered for the job to be complete.

So, that left boxes and boxes of various manuscripts to Barbara Ann. She hauled them into the house from the garage and began the identifying and labeling process. Her job was also to arrange to have them donated to UC Berkeley’s Special Collections Library. From just the volume of paper they’d already handled, it was possible to finish in another week or two, if everyone kept working.

But, not everyone was working. There was a lot of dawdling going on. Then there was lost time when someone found something she wanted to share; a special letter, an outline of a book idea that was never written in full, or their favorite—which cost them a whole day—the Vitriolic Prose File.

The VPF, subheaded the WBNM file—Written But Never Mailed—was Gabby at her absolute best. It was a shame not to share it with the world. These were the letters she wrote when she was angry; letters condemned to a dead file for her private and regular amusement. Barbara’s favorite was the letter written to an editor fifteen years ago.

Gabby had written a wonderful book typical of her talent. It was constructed of many layers; a love story, a suspense and a lot of social commentary. Gabby was the only writer Barbara Ann knew who could pull off such a feat of blending plot types in such a stunning way.
Gabby’s editor had bought the book in a panic of thrill; she was going to hang Gabby’s star. Then the publishing company underwent corporate changes; Gabby’s editor left and the book was orphaned. The manuscript was finally assigned to a former cookbook editor who, it came to seem, didn’t think the book had been worth publishing at all. The novel—which in the end was very favorably reviewed and sold a respectable number of copies—did not excel to the greatness it might have achieved because the editor never liked it and never pushed it. The editor then rejected the next novel altogether. She was finally fired, her superiors eventually recognizing her complete lack of aptitude for fiction. Too late for Gabby’s book, of course. The letter was written—but not mailed—after the rejection of the second book but before publication of the first book, just when Gabby had had all she could take of being screwed around.

Barbara Ann only wished a few nasty letters, written but not mailed, would make her feel better. Sadly, she wasn’t as confident of her own work’s competence as Gabby had been. Suddenly, they weren’t buying her. God, oh God, she wasn’t sure why. A finished, contracted, revised and rewritten book had been refused with the vague explanation that “It never quite got where we thought it needed to be.” Immediately, her next proposal, a mere twelve-page idea, was ordered rewritten according to the editor’s special needs. Twice. Then it was rejected out of hand. “It just doesn’t do anything for me,” the editor had said. “I can’t feel the potential for enough romantic tension.” Three weeks ago Barbara Ann had e-mailed another finished novel and another twelve-page proposal. They were supposed to respond within thirty days, but they rarely made the deadline. If she didn’t have this project at Gabby’s house, she would go crazy. They were going to do it again, she could feel it. Throw her away. Chew her up and spit her out. She had no idea what she was doing wrong, and her editor—her sixth in as many years—had only vague explanations and quirky tastes.
This character is simply not multilayered enough.
Does that mean her hair should be frosted instead of brown?
There doesn’t seem to be enough personal conflict to drive her forward.
What should I add to the fact that she was orphaned, abandoned by her first husband and raped by her boss?

Barbara Ann had been writing romances since the beginning. She began because she loved reading them.
She wrote three, sometimes four, a year. It took almost all the time she had, but she’d braved a couple of leaps into mainstream publishing anyway. She’d somehow found time to attempt a couple of other proposals for longer, more complex romance novels than what she’d become known for. If she could just snag a second publisher, one who was excited about her potential, she would be on her way at last. She wouldn’t have to write so hard, so fast, always hammering to keep up with the next deadline. True, she’d tried submitting to a new publisher only twice, but they didn’t take. There were only so many hours in the day.

Now a second publisher was the least of her worries. She just wanted to keep her job.

She hauled in another box of old manuscripts from the garage and plopped them on the kitchen table. Through the kitchen window she could see Sable standing behind Beth, brushing out her long, black hair. Sarah and the baby—frequent visitors since Elly and Sable had taken over Gabby’s house—were sitting across from Beth. There was a makeup bag on the picnic table. This was beginning to turn into some weird slumber party. She wanted to bark, “Let’s get to work around here!” But she couldn’t. A) You don’t deprive a poor twenty-two-year old girl who has just lost her mother of the only comfort she has, which seems to be visiting her mother’s friends in her mother’s house. B) You can’t snap at someone like Sable, who was going through a bizarre recovery from a lifetime of catastrophic problems. And C) Barbara Ann didn’t really want this project at Gabby’s house to end too soon because she, too, was feeling terribly lost and needed this to slow down time.

So, she got herself a soda and wandered onto the deck to join them.

“You didn’t put the money into a joint account, did you?” Sable asked Sarah.

“No, I did what you said. I opened a new account. But I have to pay some bills with it. I’m behind on everything because of Lindsey’s medical expenses. I need to catch up on the car insurance, for one thing. I can’t let that get behind.”

Barbara Ann put down the soda and reached for the baby. At six months, you could only tell around the eyes that the baby had Down’s syndrome. Lindsey immediately smiled at Barbara Ann. She was the most pleasant, most precious baby. She still couldn’t hold up her head. Barbara Ann felt her muscles immediately relax, her poor humor disappear. Babies did that to her. It was her doom.

“Of course, my dad wants me to move out on Justin, now that I have some money of my own,” Sarah said.

“You know,” Sable the wise said, “the only difference between your mom and your dad is that your dad wanted you to just listen to him and avoid all your problems, and your mom knew you’d have to do things your own way and come to your own conclusions. They were always both equally distressed by what you’ve been through lately. I don’t think Justin is a bad guy, Sarah. But it appears he’s just not up to all these responsibilities.” Sable was starting to French-braid Beth’s hair. Barbara Ann had
never
seen Sable do things like this.

“I know,” Sarah agreed.

“But do you love him?” Beth wanted to know.

“I’m not sure anymore. Ever since I got pregnant with Lindsey, he’s spent more time out with the guys than with me. I used to think it was just me, that when I wasn’t pregnant anymore, things would change. But it hasn’t. We fight all the time. I know it’s my fault. The minute he gets home, I start in on him. So he leaves.”

“Does he love you?” Beth asked.

“Beth, give it a break. What’s the use of having all this love shit if they can’t get along for five minutes?” Sable wanted to know.

“Because if they love each other, maybe it can be worked out,” Beth said earnestly.

“If he
loves her,
he needs to spend an evening with her and Lindsey and not the boys. There is this little thing about actions following intentions, you know.”

“But if he
does
love her, maybe she can find a way to make spending an evening with her more appealing than going out. Sarah, you have to stop needling him so much if you want him to hang around more.”

“Maybe she should meet him at the door in a garter belt and push-up bra?” Sable suggested sarcastically.

“That isn’t what I mean at all,” Beth argued. “But there might be a way to make coming home and staying home more desirable than going out with the guys. If you think about it, you know?”

“I used to try that a lot,” Sarah said. “But it hurt my feelings so much when it didn’t work that I just got meaner and meaner.”

“I don’t know how he can keep his hands off this baby,” Barbara Ann said, snuggling Lindsey close and breathing in the wonderful smell of her.

“He does love the baby,” Sarah said. “She’s the only reason we’re still together.”

“See,” Beth said.

“See what?” Sable reacted. “That’s not going to be good for the baby or their marriage. They have to work together to raise this baby. She’s going to require a lot of special attention.”