The House on Olive Street (22 page)

What bullshit, Sable thought. But then, Gabby just might have said that. She always acted as though she felt that way.

“It’s so hard to lose a child, especially one you fear you failed. Gabby was always so good to me, so loving and sweet, even though I’m sure I was not the best mother. I have so much regret. I’d give anything for another chance.”

“I’m sure she loved you very much, Ceola.”

“She did, she did, though I didn’t deserve it. How I miss my girl. I usually run to her when I’m out of sorts. I came here almost out of habit.

“Now, darling, where would you like me to sleep? Just any old chair—” She began to rise but then dropped back to the bed suddenly. “Oh. Goodness. I’m weak. Oh well, women my age should travel less and be sure to eat regular meals. I’m famished! But I’m also tired. I think I might be too tired to even walk to the kitchen.”

“You just settle back, Ceola,” Sable said, lifting the old woman’s feet up onto the bed. Defeated, and with hardly a blow.

“Oh no, I mustn’t! I think this is
your
room! Just give me a minute to catch my breath and then I’ll move….”

“No, no, you stay where you are.”

“But where will
you
sleep, dearest?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

“Oh my Lord, you are the sweetest thing. Just as kind and generous as Gabby said. Thank heavens. I don’t think I could get up now if my life depended on it. I think some of it is that I’ve been so upset. First Gabby’s death—such a shock, you know. No one expects to outlive their children. And then Martin. I’ve been overwrought.”

“What has you so overwrought with Martin? I thought he was such a sweet man?”

“Oh, he is, in his own way. It’s just that awful cardplaying at the club. Every afternoon. Day in, day out. I complained and complained about it, but my feelings just don’t matter to him.”

God, life can be cruel, Sable thought. First your only child dies and then you have to put up with your husband’s cardplaying. Ceola probably missed a manicure or two over it all!

“Do you plan to stay long?” she heard herself ask.

“I’m afraid not, darling. Only a couple of weeks. Until I get my strength back.”

Well, that should do it, Sable thought. Talk about an impetus to get your life together. What better incentive than two weeks of Ceola? Beth would probably hightail it to Kansas City, Barbara Ann would welcome the squalor of her house, Elly might cart all Gabby’s papers off to her own small home and Sable thought a press conference would be preferable to this.

“I’d fall asleep this minute, if I weren’t so famished,” Ceola said.

“Well, we’re cooking in the kitchen,” Sable offered.

“Oh thank you, dearest. Just any old thing you bring me would be welcome. And a little hot tea if you have it? Oh, and if there’s anything sweet… I always crave sweets when I’m depressed. But honestly, I’m not fussy. I think Gabby kept the bed tray in the pantry. Oh, and Sable, darling, I wouldn’t turn down a drop of brandy. To help me settle down to sleep.”

Amazing, Sable thought. She is to be studied. She has a gift. Her skills at manipulation should be written about.

“All right, Ceola. I’ll bring you a tray. This one time. And then you’re going to have to fend for yourself
around here like the rest of us, or it’s off to the Holiday Inn for you. We’re all busy, working. There are no special cases around here.”

“Of course, angel, of course. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone.”

Not much, she thought, but she thought it with some grudging appreciation.

All eyes were on Sable as she returned to the kitchen. Her expression was contrite, resigned. “Ceola’s going to be staying a while,” she said.

Sarah laughed. “Go Grandma! Is she good, or what?”

“Don’t look at me that way,” Sable said, shrinking under their glares. “After all, this is where she always comes!”

T
he finest sociological minds in the world could not have come up with a formula for it. It just worked. Some odd combination of qualities allowed Ceola to live there. It was an accident of fate. Or karma. Or insanity.

Beth, disabled by a long history of needing to please others, made Ceola’s half English muffin with marmalade, fruit cup and tea. Then she would sit with her for a while, chatting. “I can tell you a lot about men, darling,” Ceola said. “I can answer your most difficult questions. I married almost every man I ever met.”

“Did you ever have one hit you?” Beth asked, half expecting to shock the old woman into silence.

“My, yes. Rupert. Number three—the handsomest one. The more attractive they are, the more brutal. At first I was so shocked that a man would hit me, I didn’t even do anything about it. Of course, he may have loosened a few marbles, which made me confused about what was going on around me. He was also the best in bed,” she added in a whisper, leaning closer. “I haven’t figured out why that is, but it’s universal. The better-looking they are, the more virile, the more violent. I didn’t even bother to sue him for divorce. When I came
to my senses, I ran for my life. But there was only that one. Rupert. Handsomest one, too. And the most virile, did I say that?”

Barbara Ann, forever shopping for groceries—a habit hard to break—happened to be the one available to take Ceola to the store, the hairdresser, the manicurist, wherever she needed to go. She was also the one Ceola could safely approach and say, “I have these few things for washing out, darling, if you find you’re going to launder anything today.”

“She has to launder,” Eleanor quipped. “She’s addicted to the washing machine. This is a halfway house for addicts, haven’t you heard?”

Sable was mysteriously drawn to Ceola. Attention from a mother-figure, even one of the most manipulative, lured Sable. Ceola was far more refined than Sable’s own mother had been. She had no hard, abusive character flaws like a quart of alcohol a day, but she had the same marvelous ability to ask without asking, need without requesting. Sable fell right into it and found herself becoming almost fond of the old woman. “Sable, my darling, are you having your cup of tea soon? Do tell me when you pour your own. I’d share a cup.” And of course Sable would merely make Ceola tea rather than make her wait. Sable was fetching her a brandy, getting her reading glasses off the bureau “while she was up” and even tucking her in at night. “I’m going to just retire to my room now and let you girls have your space,” Ceola would say. “Sable, I’m going to bed now, but I won’t go to sleep right away, if you need anything.” Of course, Sable didn’t need anything. Ceola just liked it when Sable checked on her and made sure she was in for the night.

Sarah, who said she had no relationship with her
grandmother, always kissed her cheek when she arrived and brought her something sweet, which Ceola craved when she was depressed. Though she never once acted depressed, she said she always was. “For half my life, at least. I’ve had a very hard life. Do you think it’s easy to have been married eight times? The stress was sometimes unbearable.”

David hated his grandmother. He called her “the old bitch.” Not to her face, but in undertones behind her back. “Has the old bitch come to see if Mother left any valuables?” he’d ask. Or, “Are we serving the old bitch on her bed tray tonight, or is she up to dining with the unwashed masses?” The only problem with his unmasked hatred was Ed, his partner, who took to the old lady. “You’re a big enough boy now to stop being so angry with your grandmother for not fussing over you when you were small,” Ed would tell David.

Oh, and did Ceola love Ed. They sat on the couch almost like lovers or best friends. Ed was patient enough to listen to her talk about the soaps, or the latest gossip in
People
magazine. Or some fashion craze. Or movie. Ed would tease her and make her laugh. Once she delightedly said, “Oh, David, where did you
find
this dear boy?”

“He’s not a boy, Grandmother, he’s my
wife!
”

To which Ed, in his most effeminent whine, replied, “Now, David, I thought
you
were the wife!”

Ceola merely giggled like a girl. “Boys, boys, how you tease me. You’re terrible!”

“We’re not terrible, Grandmother. We’re
gay!
”

She drew herself up proudly. “And so am I. Even in the very worst of times.”

Later that same evening, when Sable was settling Ceola in her bed (literally, for Sable had been moved to
an uncomfortable roll-away cot in Gabby’s writing loft), she tried to have a heart-to-heart with Ceola. For David’s sake. “Ceola, David wasn’t teasing you about his relationship with Ed. And when he says ‘gay’ he doesn’t mean happy.”

“I know that, dear.”

“Then why don’t you acknowledge them? I think that’s what David wants.”

“Because I find it unpleasant. And I refuse to be coerced into discussing things I find unpleasant. I think it’s actually against the law in some places. Besides, it’s time David learned he isn’t going to get everything he wants.”

Eleanor, it would seem, was the only member of the group who didn’t have some reason to be drawn to Ceola. She certainly wasn’t going to wait on her. She was the last person to discuss fashion, hairstyles or soap operas. And she was personally miffed with the way Ceola had treated Gabby and the children all those years. So, she was the only one Ceola couldn’t reach. Until Ceola said, “I can tell you what it was that made Gabby decide to be a writer.”

“Oh? Really?”

“She once said to me, she said, ‘Ceola…’ She always called me Ceola, even when she was a little bit of a thing. Because my own mother was raising her, I guess she didn’t really see me as her mama. She said, ‘Ceola, it’s just so much easier for me to tell a story about someone else who’s in love, or in trouble, or in grief than it is for me to talk about my own love or trouble or grief. In the end it’s usually my story anyway.’ Like that time she was in love with that world-famous photographer. You were her friend then, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was,” Eleanor said, immediately interested.

“Oh, that was a love. I don’t think in my eight marriages I ever loved a man like Gabby loved that one. It was more than love, it was sheer passion. I think she began to lose herself a little, she loved him so much. I used to warn her about that. I used to say, ‘Gabby, it’s not very wise to love a man more than he loves you.’ But she insisted that his passion for her was just as strong. I always wondered how that could be true, since he wouldn’t divorce his wife. It’s not as though it was hard to get a divorce then. I have always believed that if that man hadn’t died, he would have broken Gabby’s heart eventually. Just like Matthew White did, when Gabby was in her last year of college. Did she ever tell you about Matthew White?”

For someone who failed to mention to her college-freshman daughter that she’d be out of town over Christmas, it seemed that Ceola was awfully intimate with Gabby’s life. Ceola had all the details about her childhood as well, from the time Gabby lost her first tooth to the time she got her first period during the week the girls’ gym class had swimming. Eleanor had suspicions that Ceola could be making a lot of this stuff up, but on those things Eleanor could personally verify, she seemed to be right on. It was fascinating, Elly thought, that this woman who never gave of herself could cherish so many tiny details about her only child. It might have been nice if Ceola had even once called Gabby on her birthday. Or attended one of the childrens’ graduations.

But it was the small details of Gabby’s life that drew Eleanor to Ceola.

Ceola, for her part, had the instincts of a jungle cat. She knew who to approach, how to approach them, and timed it all perfectly. She would never suggest that Eleanor wash out her undies for her. Nor would she
even mention to Sable that she needed a ride somewhere, for Sable still did not have a car at the house and only went out with Jeff. She wouldn’t expect breakfast from Barbara Ann, chats about fashion with Beth or long conversations about her many marriages with Sable. Yet she had someone doing for her everything she needed to have done to make her comfortable. Before she’d been there three days the women were asking each other things like, “Has anyone fixed a plate for Ceola’s lunch?” “Does Ceola need to go anywhere today?” “It’s time for Ceola’s soap operas, where is she?”

To Ceola’s credit, she knew a few things about being a houseguest. She had developed the fine art of being invisible so that she was only a lot of trouble some of the time. She could spend a long time in the bathroom, bathing, powdering, primping and perfuming, but she seemed to do it only when no one else needed to be in there. She took long rests on the deck while the women were working. She kept the volume of her soaps down low and dozed on the sofa while she watched, disturbing no one. She retired early, even taking a dinner tray to her room at times so that the women didn’t feel the constant drain of her neediness through their community meals. And she rose late. For one person to have kept up with all her needs—her bubble bath, her afternoon sherry and then tea, her trips to the beauty parlor, her laundry, her breakfast, lunch and dinner—would have been exhausting, and everyone wondered how Gabby did it. But for the four women, plus Ed and Sarah, to cater to her was really nothing at all.

There was one danger, however. Ceola was very comfortable with the arrangement. And her feelings toward Martin’s cardplaying were not softening.

Barbara Ann’s first dinner out with her family was very uncomfortable. The boys stared at their plates and had trouble answering her questions with more than one-word replies. She figured them out pretty quickly. It wasn’t their severe pain at having been abandoned by their chief cook and bottle washer. It was anxiety. They were afraid that one wrong move would set her off and she’d unload on them in the restaurant. She knew that was it the second time one of them said, ‘Don’t get mad, but…” She was in the lesson-teaching mode, after all. She’d staged the big speech and walkout. Anything could happen.

The second dinner with them was better. They talked a little more. They even laughed over a couple of things. When one of them started to say something and then quickly rethought it, biting it back, she decided to console them a little. “Take it easy, guys. I’m not mad anymore.”

“You’re not?” Bobby asked.

“No, I’m not mad. I was mad, but I did what I had to do and I’m not mad now.”

“Then are you coming home pretty soon?”

“No,” she said firmly, but nicely. “No, I’m not. I’m not mad anymore but I’m never going back to the way things were. If that upsets you, I’m sorry. But it just isn’t fair for me to do all the work while everyone else enjoys what I’ve done.”

“What if we promise to help more?” Billy asked her.

“Well, there’s something to think about, Billy. Now, I know this is going to be hard to grasp, you being males poisoned by the hormone testosterone, but just try it on for size. How are
you
helping
me
by washing the plate
you
ate from? And how are
you
helping
me
by washing
your own
dirty clothes? See, you guys still have the idea that you’re somehow helping me each time you do something for yourselves.”

“But Mom, you’ve always taken care of us,” Billy said pleadingly. “Don’t you want to anymore?”

Something about that touched her heart. “Sure, Bill. But I want to take care of you in a new way now, a grown-up way. That’s how it’s always been, through all the species. I only fed you until you could feed yourself. I wiped your butt until you learned how to do it yourself—”

“In his case, longer than usual,” Bobby said, laughing and punching a brother.

“Listen up, Bobby, this is also for you,” Barbara Ann said. “I dressed you until you could dress yourself and I even stopped shopping for your clothes when you developed your own tastes. I drove you until you got a license and then a car. See, in all areas of your development, you gained your independence and moved on when you didn’t need me to do it for you anymore. Except one area—the crud work, the stuff that’s no fun. The cleaning, cooking, laundering, bill paying, yard work, painting, putting away. You’re grown now. We still love each other, still need each other for lots of things—for love, emotional support, friendship. But we should have grown past the stage where one of us gets to be master and the other slave.”

“Mom,” Joe said earnestly, “we’re
cleaning
the house. You should see it!”

“And do you want me to come home so you can stop?”

He was stuck for an answer for a second. He hesitated too long, long enough for Bobby to roll his eyes. Then he said, “No!”

“Good, then you’re making great progress. You keep it up for a while, till you get used to having it nice, keeping it nice and liking it nice. Then we’ll talk.”

“Mom, listen, we—”

“That’s enough,” Mike said. “Your mother thinks we have a lot to prove and maybe she’s right. Let’s move on to something else. Tell her about school, Matt.”

“I’m not
in
school right now! I’m working full-time this summer!”

“Good,” Mike said. “Tell her about work.”

At her third dinner with them, they didn’t discuss the house at all. She wore a new dress, two sizes smaller than the clothes she had left in. She and Sable had been eating low-calorie food and exercising in the mornings with some trim blonde on a cable channel. Barbara Ann had been trying to lose weight for years, but had always been driven back to the Snicker Doodles by exhaustion, or frustration, or just plain inertia.

“I don’t know what it is, Barbara Ann, but you just look more beautiful to me each time I see you,” Mike said.

“Mom, are you
happier
now than you were with us?” Joe asked. “You look a lot happier.”

“You guys are such idiots,” Matt said. “She’s only lost about twenty-five pounds, that’s all. Jeez.”

“Actually, it’s only twelve. But have you ever seen twelve pounds of lard? It’s massive.”