Acts of God (24 page)

I knew I had to get out of there or I never would. “Look,” I told him, “I'd love to see you. When you break up with Margaret, when you really leave her, why don't you give me a call?”

“I'm not going to be married much longer,” he said thoughtfully, “and you don't have to live here.”

“No,” I said, “I don't, but for now I do. And this is my home. My children are here and I don't want to be responsible for breaking up someone else's family.”

“You are not responsible,” he said with a little laugh. “I absolve you.”

We left the restaurant and as we walked down Grant toward Union Square, where I'd left my car, he kissed me. Not a gentle, tentative first kiss, but a hard one, his mouth pressed firmly against mine. I felt the strength of his arms, his tongue moving between my teeth. He kept his arms around me as we wandered back to his hotel. “Come up to my room. Have a drink with me.”

In his hotel room, he poured two scotches from the minibar. He put on the radio to the best jazz station in San Francisco. Stretching out on the bed, he listened to the soft horn. I sat across the room until he said, “Why don't you come and sit here.” Then I walked over and he pulled me against his chest.

I wanted to nestle there, to feel safe, but then I felt his mouth hot against my mouth, his tongue working its way between my lips. I was conscious of every moment, each gesture, and at the same time I was swept up in it. For all his bulk, he was gentle as he unbuttoned my blouse, slipped his hands on my breasts. Finally I found myself pulling away. “You know,” I said, “I'm really not going to do this.”

He sat up, his face flushed. “But what harm would it do?”

I didn't want to leave, but I knew I had to. “I've got to go,” I said. “You're still living with her. It's not right.”

“Tessie, please…”

“It's not just about her; it's about me. I'm already finding myself thinking about you. Wanting you. This isn't what I should be doing. Not now. Not yet. When you leave her, give me a call.” Nick lay back, arms folded behind his head. He closed his eyes as if he were going to sleep as I opened the door.

I drove fast along the highway, taking turns faster than I should have. At any moment I could careen off the cliffs or have a head-on, but I still drove fast. I don't know what the rush was. I returned to an empty house. There was no message or note from Jade. There were several messages on the phone machine, including one from Charlie's lawyer, informing me that his client was ending his child support since neither child was in school. This didn't surprise me, but still it was another blow. But my thoughts were far from support payments and bills and how I was going to make ends meet. And then, there were several hang-ups, some of which lasted a long time.

When the phone rang, I was sure it was Nick and I rushed to answer it. “Hello,” I said, “who's there?” but no one was. Wondering if it was another crossed wire, I listened for a long time to the breathing at the other end, as if somehow I would be able to recognize it.

*   *   *

In the morning I was awakened by the ringing again and once more no one was there. But this time the person was slower to hang up and I heard the breathing more clearly. “Who is this?” I asked insistently this time. “Is anybody there?”

And then I heard her speak. “Tess, it's me, Margaret. I need to talk to you about Nick.”

“What about him?” I asked her.

“It's just that I know he's in San Francisco, but I haven't been able to reach him. He's not staying at the hotel where he said he'd be. Danielle is worried and so am I. I thought he might contact you. Do you know where he might be staying?”

“No, I don't. I haven't seen him.” I wasn't sure why I felt the need to lie to her, but I did. Even as I lied, I wondered what Nick had said. Did she know if he'd seen me?

“Well, he was depressed when he left and I'm worried about him.”

“He was depressed? Well, I'm sure he's all right.”

There was a long pause. “Yes, he probably is. But if you hear from him, would you have him give me a call?”

Later when I phoned Nick at his hotel, he said she knew where he was. He'd spoken to her that afternoon. “She's just trying to trick you,” he said.

“But why would she do that? Does she know anything?”

“It doesn't matter,” he said. “It's just the way she is.”

30

In eighth grade Margaret began
to dress like me. It was fall, a bright September day. The first day of school. In just a few weeks Kennedy would be elected president and his Thousand Days would begin. The Cuban missile crisis would follow and Vicky and I would sit, spellbound, clasping hands in my finished basement, listening as the handsome young president told us we might be going to war. Soon I would know that there was a world that was not of my making. That the safety of our homes, the quiet little niches our parents had created, were just that—small corners tucked away from the real world.

But for the moment what mattered most was that I had my books in a bag and a new outfit. A red cardigan, a blue-and-red-plaid pleated skirt. A white shirt with a Peter Pan collar. New saddle shoes. I loved the first day of school. Number 2 pencils, sharpened to a fine point. Pads of paper, erasers, the sound of cracking book spines.

The halls smelled freshly painted, the floor slick and newly polished. Everything about the school and its smells and my new outfit was filled with promise. The gang gathered in the hall. Ginger was lamenting the fact that she got Mr. Green's homeroom and that Lori Martin, Maureen Hetherford, and I were all in Miss Olden's, who was known to be easy. Samantha told Ginger not to worry because she was in Mr. Mitchell's and there wasn't anybody she liked in that homeroom.

We were looking at our class lists, peering into our new books, when I saw Margaret. She too wore a red cardigan, a blue and red pleated skirt. A Peter Pan collar. I put my hand to my mouth, but Margaret smiled at me. I had planned for weeks to wear just what I was wearing. Now Margaret stood in front of me wearing the same thing.

“It's not possible,” I shrieked.

Margaret laughed. “I can read your mind, Tess. I can read your mind.”

Our teacher, Mrs. Chilford, gave us an assignment: Describe the person you'd most like to be. I wrote about Jackie Kennedy because I wanted to be married to the president and live in the White House. Vicky did Jane Addams and the rest of the girls did Eleanor Roosevelt, though a few did their mothers, not thinking it meant they'd be married to their fathers. A few days after the assignment, Mrs. Chilford stopped me in the hall. “What a nice tribute to you from Margaret, Tessie!”

“What's that, Mrs. Chilford?” I asked.

“Oh, don't you know? For some reason I thought you would. Margaret said that out of all the people in the world, living or dead, she'd like to be you.”

*   *   *

Samantha Crawford invited us to a party in her basement. There'd be Cokes and boys. It was one of our first parties like this, but now that we were thirteen, it would happen more and more. Samantha Crawford had some records. Bill Haley and the Comets, Del Shannon, Frankie Avalon. Motown was just getting going and one of the boys had brought a new record by the Miracles. Then the lights went dim and Johnny Mathis came on. “Funny you're a stranger who's come here; come from another town.”

We chose partners and we were dancing. But there weren't enough boys to go around. The girls who were left began pairing up. “So dance with me,” Margaret said.

“I will not.”

“Dance with me.”

She pulled me to her, swept me into her arms. I felt her breath against my ear, her hand on my back as we moved slowly through Samantha Crawford's basement. She pressed her hips into mine. In my ear she sang along, “I'm a stranger myself, dear, small world isn't it.…” I was relieved when Chubby Checker came on and we could do the twist.

A few days later we were sitting in Mr. Whitcomb's class. He taught math and was very strict. You had to sit straight in your chair. You had to have your paper and pencil neatly on the top of your desk. You could never be excused. No matter what.

Margaret raised her hand. She had to go to the bathroom. Mr. Whitcomb said he was sorry, but there would be no bathroom privileges. No one was allowed to go before the bell. “But Mr. Whitcomb,” Margaret said, her voice pleading, “I really need to go.”

“You'll have to wait like a big girl.”

Margaret sat there staring straight ahead at him. As Mr. Whitcomb went on at the board about multiplication of fractions, she sat even as the mumbling began and someone pointed. “Look,” I heard a voice behind me say. We turned and stared. A small puddle of blood like a crime scene had formed at the base of Margaret's desk. Blood ran down her legs, pooled on the floor. Even as Mr. Whitcomb, a shocked, flushed look to his face, told her she could now be excused, she just sat there, not moving, staring straight ahead.

*   *   *

Of course they wanted her. All the boys. How they wanted her. It didn't matter who they were or what side of the tracks they came from. They whistled when she walked by, they called to her. They touched that long black hair. They dreamed of touching her milky white skin. And the breasts. They didn't dare dream of those, but they did.

When she walked by, there was the smell of lilacs and cigarettes, of something moist and sweaty. They sang after her, “There she was justa walking down the street…”

We watched them want her. We watched and pretended we didn't see what it was all about. She was just the new girl, wasn't she? Even though she'd already been living in our midst for four years. She would never make it here. She'd never fit in.

I pretended not to notice the smooth curve of her hips, the shape of her arms. The way she walked, dressed like me. How was it that she was always dressed like me? And then in the summers stripped down, in two-pieces in the backyard. Margaret always called to see who was coming over. Who'd be there. One day we were all sunbathing in the backyard, all of us in our two-pieces, Cokes in our hands, and when I went inside for a pitcher of something, Jeb came up to me and said, “Squirrel, which one is that one?”

He pointed out back and I squinted in the sun to see. I couldn't quite follow his finger as it pressed itself against the glass. “Who?”

“That one. I've never seen her before.”

“Yes, you have. You know who that is.”

But my brother looked at me dumbfounded and then I saw a look I'd never seen in his face before, one I couldn't quite place, but I said to him more gently now, “You've seen her a million times. That's just Margaret. That's Margaret Blair.”

*   *   *

One day on my way to tell my brother to come home from the Idiot's Circle, I ran into Margaret. “I have to tell my brother to come home.”

Margaret laughed. “Oh, I'll come with you. Let me tag along.”

It was summer and we were in shorts. I was wearing powder-blue shorts and Margaret wore black and pink stripes that showed off her long, bronzed legs, her black hair pulled back. We were thirteen years old. Jeb was fifteen. As I approached, all the boys in leather started hooting, calling out names. I said to Jeb, “Mom says you have to come home.” I didn't have to describe for him Lily at home, tearing out her hair, slamming doors, muttering to herself about her kids running wild, her kids having gotten away from her.

He gave us a wink. “Sure, Tess,” he said, docile as a lamb, “I'll come home.” With a great flourish like I once saw Gene Kelly do before he was about to dance, Jeb took Margaret by the arm. “I'll come if you'll come too.”

We all went home and down into the rec room, where Jeb put on a Sam Cooke record. I stood against the bar, clapping, tapping out a beat, watching Jeb and Margaret. They danced close during the slow dances. Only when the music was fast would they dance with me.

31

Nick wanted to see where
I lived. He called to say he had some time. A meeting he'd been waiting for had been postponed and he could drive down. “I don't think it's a good idea,” I said.

“I want to see the objects you have around you.”

“Well, it's mostly feathers and shells. Stuff I find on the beach.”

“Well, then, I want to see that. The beach, those vistas you told me about,” he said. “Tessie, I want to see you.” For some reason I imagined he would come out here and we'd still be friends. But there was something inevitable about all this. I couldn't stop it anymore than the driver of a runaway truck on a downhill grade could. We seemed to have been heading here for a long while. I knew it even as I told him, “Yes, I want to see you too.”

I planned to have everything ready—table set, house cleaned—before I had to do my volunteer work at the aquarium. I was just finishing cleaning up the kitchen when there was a knock at the door. I was afraid it might be John Martelli. He had taken to stopping by. Once or twice he'd even dropped in. From time to time I thought I'd seen his car driving past my house.

I opened the door hesitantly, and instead I found Bruno Mercedes standing there. He'd come over to interview me about the house and to ask questions once or twice. But this was the first time he'd stopped by uninvited. He stood there, rocking on his heels in his navy slacks and tweed jacket. He had on glasses, which I didn't remember him wearing before. “Mrs. Winterstone…”

I gave him a little glare.

“Tess, I was wondering if we could talk.”

“I'd love to talk, Bruno. But it's not such a good time.” He stood there, looking so sad, almost begging. “Why don't you come in?”

He breathed a sigh of relief as I led him into the kitchen, where I poured both of us a cup of coffee. He took his light and sweet. “Lots of milk and sugar,” he said.