Twillyweed (4 page)

“Yes, that is dreadful.”

“Well, she knew he'd be taken care of. It wasn't like she dumped him in a garbage bin or nothing.” She made a face. “Took off with a doctor from St. Francis right over here in Roslyn. Her doctor, you know. Fertility.” She cocked a brow meaningfully. “
Woman's
doctor.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I knew she liked him from the very start, the way she'd come back from seeing him all aglow. Talking what a wonderful doctor he was! I smelled something fishy right from the start.” Her fat face crumpled. “She isn't a bad woman. Just … silly, you know? Likes pretty things.” She leaned in and gave a scornful snort. “Oliver—Mr. Cupsand—he likes them, too. Anything beautiful he likes. That and the Red Sox. He thinks
art
is the end-all, see? That's what sold him on you as an au pair, if you want to know. It was my friend Darlene at the rectory told him you was an artist from her village in Skibbereen.”

“Oh, I must go and see her.”

Patsy's face grew thoughtful. “Sometimes I think she felt like she failed him somehow, you know? Annabel? Because she was content all along just to be a housewife. Trouble was, all she ever did was spend money and fancy the place up. Shop, shop, shop. And she'd drag the kid! Americana Mall. Home Goods.” She licked the cream cheese from each finger with a smack. “'Course his sister's supposed to be filling in and all. Mr. Cupsand's sister, Paige. You'll meet her soon enough.”

“Oliver and Paige.” Jenny Rose scoffed. “Nice, that is. Shame on their parents naming them British, like that, and them being Irish! But that's typical of your self-loathing Irish, naming their kids what they think are the King's English highfalutin' names. Disgusting.”

Patsy Mooney eyed her carefully. “You should know. Jenny Rose isn't what you'd call an Irish name, is it? Eh?”

“Oh. Well. You're right there. My adoptive mother was utterly enchanted with anything at all Italian.”

“Anyways, like I was saying, Paige—the sister—just moved right in after the wife, Annabel, took off. It's only she …” She hesitated. “You can't say she don't try with the kid. The truth is the kid just don't take to her. Like he don't warm up to her. … She don't have no maternal instinct, if you get my meaning?”

But this was running too close to gossip. “When will I meet Mr. Cupsand, then?”

“Maybe not today. He stays in Manhattan some nights. More often than not he's on the boat. Got a fancy sailboat right here in the port.” She shivered demonstratively. “They race them things, too, now spring's here. Fly like the wind!” Patsy Mooney chattered on and Jenny Rose tuned out, wondering how to throw away the ghastly tea without offending her.

“You won't get me on one of them, though. Not me. ‘
Come along
,' he'll say sometimes, ‘
Come have a ride on the boat.
' But I won't. Not me. Things go wrong in life. Well, they do. And I'm no swimmer.” She leaned her head in confidentially. “That was the last straw for the missus, if you ask me. He took her out on that boat of his and she didn't want no part of it. She told him time and time again but he would insist …”

“Me, I'm a great swimmer,” Jenny Rose bragged.

“All that money.” Patsy Mooney shook her head, ignoring Jenny Rose's remark. “Hundreds he spends on gas when there's no wind! Brings trouble along with it, spending like that, you mark my words. …”

This reminded Jenny Rose of the stones in her satin sack. She wasn't keen on hiding something. She'd report them to Mr. Cupsand straightaway. That's what she would do, she decided, present the stones to him the moment she met him. Suddenly, at the thought of a morning all to herself, she had no jet lag at all. She walked her plate to the sink, shooting the tea down the drain. “Mind pointing me in the direction of town? I'd like to buy some things.”

“Buy?” Patsy Mooney frowned disapprovingly. “Before you get your first paycheck!”

“Just necessities. I'll have a jog. And I must find the rectory and thank Mrs. Lassiter.”

“Darlene?” Patsy Mooney gave a guilty look. “She was here yesterday, bringing the soda bread for you. I forgot to mention it.” She made a sullen, cud-chewing face, having finished it off herself late last night. “Pretend I told you right away. She won't know the difference.”

Jenny Rose looked her steadily in the eye. “She's a pen pal of my adoptive mother, Mrs. Lassiter is, if you must know.”

“I know that. We play bingo together Wednesdays. Who do you think told her we needed someone here?”

“Oh. Then it's you I should be thanking.”

“Not me. I just put the word out.” Patsy Mooney laughed then turned away. “Don't thank me yet. Plenty of heartbreak in this house.”

“Is it right or left when you come to the end of the drive?”

“Well, it's left. Town will be east of us. Not more than a ten-minute walk.” She stood with her hands backward on her hips. “Stores won't be open yet, though.”

Jenny Rose washed out her cup and placed it on the drainboard. “I'll be back well before one.” She smiled and took hold of her red jacket and was out the back door and whistling before Patsy Mooney could object.

Patsy Mooney lifted the white lace curtain and peered out the sink window at the departing figure.
Hmmph
. Not much to her. Washed-out little thing. Pretty smile, though. Light up the room. You had to give her that. She sat back down at the table and buttered her toast, then went back to reading the paper. Where was she now? Excitedly, she rode her pointer finger down the column to where she'd left off. Here it was, that doity business down in Broad Channel.

Claire

At Salerno's appropriately dark and red Italian restaurant, Enoch stirred his coffee. It's an old-fashioned, Fellini movie–look of a place in Queens, tucked away under the Montauk Line trestle. The local politicians come here, judges from the Kew Gardens courthouse, detectives with two hours to kill between hearings. In celebratory debacle, Enoch and I—who'd both long ago switched to green tea in the afternoons—drank fierce espressos today. I was miffed and tight. He was not, I thought, sufficiently contrite for the occasion. I began, “Look. I can't believe this. My children have just let you into their hearts!”

“Claire,” he said, “your children are grown. They're both away at school. It cannot have harmed them to have had a decent human being in the house after their father's drinking and gambling knocked them off their hinges. I gave them nothing but encouragement and support. Be honest, all they ever saw from me was decency.”

I flinched. It was true. “How am I supposed to be engaged to you and then find out the truth about you and just let you, let you—”

Enoch smiled a sad old smile. I realized I couldn't hate him. It was my ex-husband I hated. I couldn't hate the both of them. It would be overkill. I slumped, exhausted, in my seat. Enoch was supposed to have been my refuge. I'd thought we were settled. I didn't want to start all over again. I was tired of trying, tired of paying all that money up on Austin Street for highlights. This was all such a jolt. And yet, heaven knew Enoch had never asked to be gay. I slithered down still farther in my seat, abandoning all attempts at good posture.

“Claire …” He frowned, reaching across the table in his concern.

At that moment, it occurred to me that maybe I was overreacting. He was a nice man. He gave the most wonderful backrubs. And he didn't scrimp the way some people I knew did. He kept on, kneading and plowing through the stress knots. We'd had such fun together. Really. Staying up late eating rosemary, garlic, and olive oil popcorn and watching Bette Davis movies. And he'd enjoyed it just as much as I. Oh. Yes. I see. I should have seen.

“You know,” he was saying, “I could keep Jake with me while you look for a place.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “Thank you,” I said, “but Jake is my dog and I'll figure out—”

“Claire,” he interrupted harshly. “You can't just take a dog Jake's size to your mom's house. He's just too big. It's not fair to her. And not fair to Lefty.”

Lefty is my parents' dog. He is so named not because he is southpawed but because he was always to blame whenever someone
left it
. I know. It's crude. We're crude. “It's a little inappropriate for you to be telling me what is and isn't fair, okay?” I asserted. “And what makes you so sure I'll go to my mom's?”

“Where else would you go? He can come to the firehouse with me. He'll love it. And he might be your dog, but I gave him to you,” Enoch said in a tit-for-tat tone of voice I'd never noticed. I realized what was happening. He was letting his guard down. No reason not to now. And the truth was, Jake would be fine with him.

What had happened to me? At one time I was thought to be the next Diane Arbus. True, I was the only one who had thought that, but my photography
had
taken me around the world and given me access to the flow of easy money. For a while I had been flush, but both these advantages, my career and the money, had withered early on the vine. What was wrong with me that caused husbands to betray me, houses to burn down around me, boyfriends to change entire sexualities on me, and people to get themselves murdered while I visited their towns?

“Have the eggs,” Enoch urged. “You always like them. C'mon. Feta cheese and spinach, with salt and pepper and tomato on the side. It will do you good. It's early. You've got the whole day to work it off.”

He was right. This wasn't about what was wrong with me. I might as well eat. I ordered the eggs. Enoch specified to the waiter exactly how I liked them. He would have an artichoke. My cell phone rang. It was my sister. I told you about her: Carmela, the bitchy one, the one in Italy. I have two sisters, actually. One's a peach, a cop on leave of absence—she recently married an Italian landowner; the other, Carmela, is a writer—or so she claims—and is as cantankerous as a woman can be. But Carmela is beautiful and so gets away with everything. She looks like Gene Tierney but underneath that Catholic schoolgirl face lies a Machiavellian heart. I say this not in good fun; she's sort of a sociopath. But people don't get it because of the beauty thing.
Beauty is as beauty does
, they think. But it's not true. Anyway the call came and went, and by the time I answered it, she was off on another. I know this not because her number climbed to the screen of my cell phone—I can never find my glasses quickly enough to read the numbers and answer it in time—but because she hangs up all the time if you don't pick up quickly enough. So I know when it's her—or isn't her, as it were.

The eggs arrived in all their glory. I regarded Enoch's innocent expression and decided to be frank. “Enoch, you asked me to marry you. Just when were you planning to tell me this?”

A crease appeared between his gentle eyes. “Claire. I keep telling you. It's nothing. These are things that men do. It's just …” He hesitated, looking for the right word, finally saying, “… release.” He pierced a slender fork hole in my egg and dappled it with A1 Sauce.

It was then I realized that there would be no end to the misunderstandings. Was I the last sexually loyal person on the planet? Suddenly I didn't care. I stood, upsetting my eggs.

“Come on, Claire,” he exclaimed, losing patience, “sit down and attend to your brunch.”

Maybe it was that fussy stipulation that finally did it. Brunch. How right he was. It wasn't breakfast and it wasn't lunch. It was brunch.

“I'm counting on you to watch the dog until I can make other plans then, all right?” I relented. Even as I said it I felt I was betraying my dog, but what could I do?

He bit his lip with those white-white uppers and lowered his head in acquiescence.

I spent that afternoon and night on my parents' lumpy sofa with their farting dog Lefty and by morning—feeling gritty, discombobulated, and in shock—I was anxious to shower and be off. I made my way over years of doggy saliva–coated toys to the kitchen. My mother, who mostly loves serial-killer stories but will settle for any horrific crime in a pinch, was enthusiastically relaying the details of a particularly gory heist out loud to my father. I caught the tail end. It was the follow-up story of that priest in Broad Channel who was whacked over the head for some holy statue. She reluctantly handed the paper over to my father when she saw me and, humming, set about making my breakfast. I had a soft-boiled egg in a blue cup painted with pagodas and fences and wise little men fishing from delicate bridges. Strips of buttered toast sprinkled with cinnamon my mother refers to as “soldiers” were presented on a cake plate from Vienna. I thought,
Gee, maybe I will stay here
. From the paper, the beat-up priest's brave smile grimaced up at me. My shoulders sagged and I heaved a downhearted sigh.

“Don't look so worried,” my dad said, pushing my foot under the table with his. “Is anyone shooting at you?” This was the prerequisite with which he, valiant survivor of World War II, would qualify any predicament.

My mother stood, her lips pursed. “I take it by your presence you've quarreled with Enoch.”

My father covered my hand with his own beefy mitt. “Everybody fights, Claire. A good fight clears the air.”

Look,
I reasoned with myself,
I'm alive and healthy and so are my kids. I've been through worse than this. Nobody's dead or dying—or shooting at me.
This realization did me good.

My mother hovered, hefting a pie dish of crullers above my head. “Are you going to tell me what's up with you and Enoch or are you not?'

“Have you done something wrong?” My father eyed me carefully.

“No.”

“Then you'll be okay.” He bit into his toast. “A clear conscience has the strength of ten men.”