The Tolling of Mercedes Bell: A Novel (31 page)

“I could say the same to you,” she said with a glare. “And don’t threaten me.”

T
HE ROOM WAS STILL DARK
when the alarm went off and kept sounding until she clambered over Jack to shut it off. He stirred only slightly. It was a moment or two until she became aware of the dampness of her nightgown. She lay back down, still groggy, and felt the bottom sheet around her. Then she spread her hand toward Jack. The closer to him she felt, the wetter the sheet. She touched his back. His pajamas were soaked. She smelled the salty scent of sweat. He lazily
rolled over on his back and reached out his arm to hold her, as he did most mornings, but she was not in the mood. She was chilly and sat up.

“Jack, you’re all wet, and the bed is soaked.”

He felt his torso with a start and sat up too. After a moment and without a word, he swung his legs around and sat on the edge of the bed. He held his head in his hands, then rose and marched into the bathroom, peeling off his pajamas as he went. He stood naked before the shower while the water warmed up, his bare back to her. She beheld her complicated husband, poised as if he were a statue. He rubbed his eye with the back of a hand and ran his fingers through his hair, then stepped under the hot water.

She pushed back the covers, pulled off her nightgown, and slipped on her winter bathrobe and slippers. She got out Jack’s and left them for him outside the shower. He ignored her, scrubbing himself under the torrent.

She removed the top layers of bedding. The sheets were drenched through to the mattress pad. She peeled them all off and felt the mattress, which also was damp. The down duvet was obviously too hot for him, even in winter. She turned up the thermostat and went to make coffee.

An hour later, Jack was shaved and dressed in a bronze shirt and the burgundy and gold baroque tie from their shopping spree in Milan. He was drinking coffee and reading
The New York Times
at the kitchen table when Mercedes returned to the kitchen in jeans and a flannel shirt. Germaine sat beside him finishing the breakfast he’d fixed for her and simultaneously studying the crossword puzzle folded on the table between them. “Oh!” she exclaimed, grabbing the pencil to write in a word, then resumed chomping her cereal and bananas in milk. Jack took note of her entry and nodded.

“Germaine, it’s time to get ready for school,” Mercedes announced. “You’ll have plenty of time for crosswords over Thanksgiving.”

When the girl was out of earshot, Mercedes asked, “Jack, are you all right?”

“Of course,” he said nonchalantly and continued reading the newspaper.

“I’ve never seen you sweat like that, not even last summer in Italy.”

He shrugged. “It’s just stress from work. We have a lot going on. Lots to juggle.” He looked up and blazed his most dazzling smile into her face. “Bella, don’t worry.”

“That’s more easily said than done, I’m afraid.”

He put the newspaper down and took her hand.

“Right now things are hectic, but after I get better situated at work we’ll go away somewhere on vacation. Maybe we’ll take Germaine to Hawaii or go skiing. This is only temporary.”

“You changed the subject. I’m worried about your health. I don’t think it’s normal to sweat like that.”

Just then Germaine came back in to ask for help with a zipper.

“Are you turning in your science project today?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“You did a great job on that. Good work.”

He carried his coffee cup to the sink, patted Mercedes on the bottom, and bade them both a happy day. He was off to the races. Mercedes was taking the day off to begin cooking the feast for the following day.

When she dropped Germaine off at school she said, “Remember who you are and just tell the truth. It will all work out, Sweetness.”

“I hope so, Mom, but it still makes me mad that I have to do this.”

T
HE THANKSGIVING TABLE WAS SET
with sterling silver and crystal, and dressed in elegant linens that had once belonged to Mercedes’s grandparents. A cornucopia of gourds and autumn leaves was artistically arranged in the center. Janine Reneau, tiny and fragile, sat in a chair to Jack’s right, with velvet cushions cradling her frail body. As always, she wore her mother’s brooch. She squinted to make out the objects in her immediate vicinity and the many colorful, aromatic foods on her plate. She spoke little, but beamed with pleasure and kept touching Jack’s arm.

Germaine sat next to Mercedes, fidgeting excitedly over the beautiful feast and their first Thanksgiving as a family. Seeing Janine squint at her plate, she tried to help her by describing the various foods that she and her mother had prepared. This seemed to agitate the old lady, who stopped smiling and leaned toward Jack.

“You remember Germaine, don’t you?” he said. “Flower girl at the wedding? Wicked at crossword puzzles, student par excellence, daughter of the loveliest mother in the world?”

Mercedes sat across from them. She couldn’t blame Janine for wanting Jack to herself. He proceeded to cut her turkey, feed her small bites, and tenderly wipe her mouth with the cloth napkin.

Germaine noted the old woman’s wrinkles and birdlike hands. Janine had shrunk even more since the wedding, and her pale eyes looked cloudier.

When Germaine had eaten all the food on her plate, she asked their guest what Jack had been like when he was a boy.

Janine brightened. “Well, he wasn’t very happy, but he was always a good boy,” she began.

Jack pretended to ignore the conversation.

“After his mother died and his brothers were gone I tried to help out.”

Jack shifted uneasily in his seat.

“What was he like when he was my age?” Germaine asked. “Did you meet his friends?”

“He was—he was—lonely, I think. He was home alone much of the time. No, I didn’t meet his friends. He was such a thin, sad little boy when I first got to know him, but then he was forever outgrowing his clothes.”

“Mercedes, I think we’re about ready for dessert, don’t you?” Jack interjected.

His attempt to disrupt the conversation only piqued Germaine’s interest.

“What was Dr. Soutane like?” she asked.

“Oh, he was a lovely man. Very dedicated to his work and an excellent physician. Went to Stanford, you know. He was unlucky financially, though.”

“Underinsured and irresponsible, you mean,” Jack said. He abruptly got up from the table and uncharacteristically busied himself clearing plates. Mercedes sat still, drank wine, and watched Germaine in action.

“How old was Jack when you first met him?”

“He was younger than you. He missed his brothers, who were grown and gone, and of course he was so young to lose his mother. He had to fend for himself without a lot of guidance.”

Plates clattered in the kitchen. Mercedes remained where she was.

“Jack takes after his mother in his facial features, but his father was very tall,” she said wistfully. “I was one of his patients and was very ill for a time, so I had much occasion to see him. He saved my life. Then I found out his wife was in an institution and that he had a little boy.” Janine turned her clouded eyes in Mercedes’s direction.

“Jack has always spoken of you with the utmost affection and respect,” Mercedes said in her low voice. “I think you
are
his mother in many ways, Janine. In his heart, most certainly.”

Janine smiled. “I never knew Mrs. Soutane. She died not long after I found out about her. Unfortunately, there had already been some financial reverses. They had to sell their nice home in Atherton to pay for her medical care, and they moved to a small apartment in Burlingame, not far from the hospital where Dr. Soutane had privileges. Jack had to go directly to the apartment after school and wait alone until his father got home from work, which was often very late.”

Germaine’s face darkened and she wrinkled her brow. She imagined herself alone in the pink palace day after day, waiting for Mercedes to come home from work—no dinner hour, no company, no reading together or help with schoolwork.

“That’s when Jack and I began to go on our adventures,” Janine said. “Sometimes I picked him up from the apartment and we’d visit a museum or go shopping or just have a meal together.”

Jack entered and set one of Mercedes’s beautiful pies on the table with four china plates. He disappeared into the kitchen. The aroma of pumpkin pie made Germaine’s mouth water.

“After a while he used to come see me in San Francisco and stay over,” Janine continued.

“Why didn’t Jack go to an after-school program, or have someone taking care of him?” Germaine couldn’t understand why a little boy would be abandoned like that.

Janine hesitated before replying, “I can’t answer that.”

“Did Dr. Soutane marry again?”

“I don’t think he wanted to.”

“Why not?”

“He had his reasons.”

“What happened to him then?” Germaine asked. Pain flickered across Janine’s face.

“He died when I was in college, Sweetie,” Jack said, returning from the kitchen, “and left my brothers and me a mess to straighten
out. But enough about the old man.” He placed a pecan pie on the table and handed the ornate silver pie server to the chef. Mercedes could tell a speech was imminent, so she waited.

“Janine, I’m a very thankful man today. I never imagined that you would live to see me with a happy family of my own, living in a beautiful home. I had no idea I would find a woman like Mercedes, or that there
were
women like Mercedes, who is so skilled in so many ways and so kind and down-to-earth.”

Mercedes looked into Janine’s face and wondered what she was thinking.

“I never imagined I would have a daughter, so smart and brave and inquisitive, and so much fun.” Germaine swung her legs under the table and grinned. He continued, “I am happiest of all that you’re here to share our first Thanksgiving with us. May many more follow! Mercedes and Germaine, thank you for this incredible feast.”

L
ATE THAT NIGHT,
after Jack had driven Janine back to her apartment and Germaine was in bed asleep, husband and wife sat opposite each other on the long leather sofa facing the fire that crackled in the hearth.

“Did it make you uneasy hearing Janine talk about you that way?” she asked.

“No more than you’d expect. Those years are best forgotten.”

“There’s something I’m curious about. Was Janine in love with your father?”

“God, I hope not. He was a mean son of a bitch.”

“But she gets so soft-eyed when she speaks of him.”

“Yes, well, we all have many facets to our personalities. When he wanted something from you, he could charm the shirt off your back.”

He picked up Mercedes’s foot and began caressing it.

“What did he want from Janine?”

“Female companionship, I suppose.”

“But not enough to marry her?”

“He must have known he was unfit. I suppose he was afraid to ruin a good thing. I never asked about their relationship. Her love was enough for me. Without Janine, I would never have survived. And I wouldn’t have found you.” He rubbed her other foot. “I just couldn’t live without you now, Bella, now that I know what I’ve been missing all these years.”

She scrutinized his face, freshly reminded about the cold sex of the previous night and his mention of “accounts to settle.”