The Good Neighbor (46 page)
Getting Ready
I
n the days since her obligatory visit to Colt in the hospital, Fran cie had busied herself with getting Adencourt in order. Not the
whole
house—that task was far too large. Instead, she concen trated on the parts in which she would spend most of her time: the bedroom, the kitchen and living room, and the oak-paneled den, which she had decided to turn into her office. Not office: Colt had an office. She would have a writing room. Of all the rooms in the house, it was the best to work in. The east wall had a large, deep window that looked out over the property. From there she could see the barn, its spine snapped as if under some tremendous weight, and the stunted apple trees, which—if they still blos somed—would fill one corner of her view with white petals, come spring. And she could just see the pile of earth that marked where the cemetery had once been.
She went to an antique shop in town and purchased a used draftsman’s table, which the owner was kind enough to deliver for her, since it weighed more than she did. Here she could scatter her papers and books at will, when eventually she retrieved them
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OWALSKI
from New York; and she could lean on her elbows and stare out at the yard in an endless daydream that would rest her mind and prime it for the work that lay ahead of her.
There were still, she felt, some impediments to her creativity. First was the terrible wound in the earth where the Musgroves had lain—she was going to have to have that filled in, for it pained her to look at it. Second, and more to the point, was the fact that she still had not had a good idea for a poem. She had many ideas, to be sure, but none of them was the kind of idea she used to have, years ago. Now, she could only hunt wistfully through the corners of her mind, lamenting the loss of the light that had once shone there and praying for its return.
Her third concern was of a more venal nature, and that was simply the fact that she had no money. Throughout their mar riage, she had relied on Colt for her spending money, never giving a thought to savings of her own; she saw now what a mistake that had been. Colt had given her a household spending account in their first year together, into which he dumped a pile of cash every month. From it, she had withdrawn the money to pay their bills, as well as to buy whatever things struck her fancy: usually books or antiques, occasionally clothes. She had never been much of a clothes shopper. Perhaps if she’d had girlfriends to go out with, she would have shopped more, but when she looked back at the last decade of her life in the city, she realized she had never made any close friends—besides Walter, who owned the book store and was her only fan, and whom she hadn’t seen in months, anyway. That, too, she thought, must have been one of the effects of Benedor. She had spent most of her time alone, reading, walk ing, going to movies. That was it. It had been a long, dry season for her, a season that stretched over ten years; but now it was coming to an end, and even though it was winter outside, she could feel something like a warm spring rain falling, soaking in, waking things up.
And that was very good indeed, but it didn’t change the fact
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that she was flat broke. She had at most a few thousand left in her account. It pained her to think that even after the dissolution of their marriage, Francie was going to have to depend on Colt for her survival. Even her new desk had been paid for with one of the credit cards that was in her name but paid for by him, and it was only a matter of time before that card was taken away. Part of her dreaded that moment, and part of her welcomed it, so she could be free of him; yet another part suggested that she go out and in dulge herself in a massive spending spree at his expense, one last hurrah before the cord was cut. But if she hadn’t been a binge shopper during her marriage, she couldn’t see herself becoming one just because she was getting divorced. She was simply going to have to figure out a way to make it on her own. And as long as the house stayed hers, she knew she could find the strength to do it. She had begun to develop that unshakeable strength that comes from standing in one’s proper place in the world.
❚ ❚ ❚
Amid the cleaning and organizing and setting up, Francie heard nothing from Colt himself—but she did get a call from his lawyer, one Mr. Gibbons, who had begun the divorce paperwork, and was calling to tell her that she ought to get a lawyer of her own as soon as possible. Yet the formalities of the divorce itself did not in terest her in the slightest. As far as she was concerned, it might have been something that was happening to someone else, on the other side of the world. She had only one true concern, beyond how she was to survive: that she should be allowed to keep Aden- court for herself.
Mr. Gibbons, who seemed affable enough for a lawyer, said that he would convey back to his “client” her wish that things proceed as rapidly and smoothly as possible, and her desire to retain “the Pennsylvania property.”
“Can’t we just get divorced?” Francie asked Mr. Gibbons. “I
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OWALSKI
mean, nothing personal, but do lawyers really need to get in the middle of it?”
“That’s actually up to you,” said Mr. Gibbons. “If you want to contest the divorce, or if you want to ask for something, then it’s going to be up to lawyers to sort it all out. I know that my client is eager for things to proceed smoothly.”
“I was married to your client for almost ten years,” said Francie. “Your client is an asshole.”
There came a knock on the door, and Francie interrupted Mr. Gibbons in the middle of his reply to tell him that she had to go. When she answered the door, she saw Jennifer Flebberman, who over her housedress was wearing a hooded sweatshirt. Men’s workboots came up to her stubbly ankles. Her lips were blue, and her teeth were chattering.
“For heaven’s sake,” she said. “Mrs. Flebberman! What are you doing out in this weather with no coat on? Come in right now!”
“I just—walked down the hill,” Jennifer Flebberman said. “Din’t think it was all that cold out ’til I got halfway down.”
Having discovered another, drier stash of wood in the base ment, Francie had a fire going all the time now, and she led Jen nifer Flebberman into the living room and pulled the wingback chair closer to the hearth, forcing the woman to sit down.
“Where are your children?” she asked.
“Melia’s watchin’ ’em,” said Jennifer. “I ain’t got long.” “Was there something I could help you with?”
“Oh, I—” Jennifer started and stopped. “I jus’ don’t—” Inter rupting herself again, the graying woman began to sob brokenly, leaning forward and putting her face in her hands. She cried so hard she couldn’t speak. Francie put a hand on her bony shoulder and tried to console her, but she cried on and on, trying to get con trol of herself and failing several times. When most of her tears had run their course and she was able to speak again, she said, “I jus’ had ta talk to yeh. I don’ know who else ta talk to!”
“I understand,” said Francie.
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“I don’ know what we’re gonna do! My kids need their dad! I— I jus’ can’t b’leeve Fleb would go and do something like this, and leave us hangin’! I thought—I don’ know. I thought maybe if I come down here ta see yeh . . . we could work things out a little bit.”
“What’s the situation, exactly?” Francie asked. “How much trouble is he in?”
“Big trouble. Lots of it. Kidnapping. Deadly weapon. State lines. All of it. They’re talkin’ about him like he’s some kinda killer, when he ain’t! He’s the kindes’, sweetes’ man I ever knew, and if we don’t get ’im back, we ain’t gonna make it! We’re gonna have ta move, and lose the house, and I don’ know what all’s gonna happen ta the kids!”
“You have my fullest sympathy,” said Francie. “If you ask me, my husband got what was coming to him. And I don’t blame Randy one bit for doing what he did.”
Jennifer looked at her with wide, wet eyes. She wiped her nose on her arm and tried to stop crying.
“I’m ashamed to be askin’ yeh this,” she said, “but I don’ work, and we din’t have much savin’s. An’ there ain’t too many people we can ask for help. I thought—oh, I hate askin’ yeh this when I hardly even know yeh—but your husband has such a good job, and—” Her voice trailed off, ashamed and hopeful. Francie nod ded.
“You need money,” she said. “Is that it?”
“Yes,” said Jennifer Flebberman. “Please. I’m sorry. I really am.
But I don’ know what else ta do.”
Francie sighed. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but my hus band and I are getting a divorce,” she said. “And I didn’t have much savings of my own. You and I are in the same boat, Mrs. Flebberman.”
“You can call me Jenny,” said Jenny.
“Jenny. He and I are not exactly getting along right now. So he’s not likely to give me anything I ask for. I have a little money of my
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OWALSKI
own. I could let you have some of it. Would—would a thousand be all right?”
Jennifer Flebberman nodded. “That would see us through a couplea months,” she said. “If we’re careful.”
“And I have another idea,” said Francie. “Your husband left some boxes of comic books up in the attic. They’ve been there for years. I had already mentioned to him that I might take them into the city and have a friend look at them. Some of them might be collector’s items.”
“Really?” said Jennifer Flebberman. She had calmed down now, and she looked at Francie with new eyes. “You think so?”
“They’re not worth millions, or anything. But there are a lot of them. They might bring in a few hundred dollars. And then— well, maybe by then things will have changed.” Francie was al ready plotting what she was going to do to get Colt to drop the charges against Randy Flebberman, or at least lessen them; if it came down to testifying against Colt, to prove that he had it com ing, she would, she thought, with pleasure. Oh, wait—spouses weren’t allowed to testify against each other. Or was it that they weren’t allowed to testify
for
each other? She couldn’t remember. She hadn’t watched enough television. Damn it, she thought. The more I don’t know, the more I need the lawyers after all.
“I’ll go into the city tomorrow,” said Francie. “First thing. Once I talk to Walter and get some idea from him of what they’re worth, I’ll get back to you. And I’ll try and have a talk with my husband. Or ex-husband.”
“I don’ know how I could thank yeh for that,” said Jennifer Flebberman.
“We’re neighbors, aren’t we?” said Francie. “We have to help each other out.”
Once More to The Apartment
A
s long as Francie was going back to the city, she thought she might as well stop at the apartment to retrieve the boxes in her
closet. They contained her old papers from college, a number of bookmarked and underlined poetry anthologies, and ten aging copies of
Poems from My Sinister Hand,
and of all the things she owned these were the only ones she really would have regretted losing if Colt decided to throw them away. She didn’t want to see him; she was content to talk with him through Mr. Gibbons. But she still had a key for the apartment, and, knowing him, she fig ured that he would have gone back to work as soon as possible. He wouldn’t let something as insignificant as a broken arm ruin his chances for making money. Not the Colt she knew.
She loaded her old-new pickup truck with Flebberman’s comic books and headed into the city, confident that she had timed her visit to miss seeing Colt completely. It was a covert mission—he would never even know she’d been there. She’d mastered the idio syncrasies of the truck’s transmission by now, and she had to laugh at herself as she chugged through the Holland Tunnel—the
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last time she’d gone under the river, she’d been a different person, leading a different life. She never would have imagined herself in the flannel shirt and jeans that had already become the uniform of her Pennsylvania self, driving a pickup truck full of comic books.
Upon arriving at the apartment, she was disconcerted to learn that Colt had changed the locks. It took her several attempts to figure this out; she thought perhaps the key was just sticking in the deadbolt, but no matter how she rattled it, it refused to open. Francie cursed. So he hadn’t changed after all. He was just being subtle about how he was going to make her life miserable, that was all. Out of frustration, she banged on the door.
“Damn you!” she said. “You asshole!
Now
what do I do?”
But much to her surprise, the lock clicked and the door creaked open.
“Francie?” came a small voice—not Colt’s. “
Michael?
” Francie said.
Michael was hiding behind the door, and he peeked out now, timid as a mouse.
“Are you—hi,” he said. “Are you still mad?”
Francie was unable to believe her eyes. “Oh, my God, Mikey,” she said. “I thought you went to Denver!”