All Things Cease to Appear (25 page)

Her husband could be difficult. Making friends wasn’t one of his specialties. But he had good manners; he knew how to behave. With pride and just a sprinkle of impertinence, she watched him introduce himself to George Clare. Unlike Travis, who was built like a grizzly bear and acted like a friendly one, George had a droopy handshake, like he’d rather wash his hands, and wouldn’t look him in the eye. Though, to be fair, people could act funny around cops. But still.

—

A FEW WEEKS LATER,
the Clares had a party, what they called “an open house.” To Mary’s surprise, she and Travis were invited.

Do we have to go? he asked.

Yes.

But we’re no good at parties.

Speak for yourself.

But it was true, and they didn’t get many invitations. It was something she’d gotten used to as a cop’s wife. Cops and priests, Travis would joke. Nobody wants us around.

It was nice of them to include us, Mary said. We’re going.

It was a Friday night. Travis was still at work, and Travis Jr. was at a friend’s for a sleepover. Wanting to be neighborly, Mary had made a chocolate cake for the occasion. After a long bath, she’d dressed carefully and put on some makeup. She was looking forward to a little excitement.

When Travis finally got home, he ambled up the walk in no particular hurry, twirling the keys in his hand. After eighteen years of marriage, she still liked the look of him, his big football shoulders, his loose gait—a man who knew who he was. As it turned out, that was no small accomplishment these days. Her husband wasn’t easily distracted or tempted by what most people considered the finer things in life. It gave her a certain assurance, knowing he’d never cheat on her, but, on the other hand, his imagination was limited when it came to romance. No, he was a man of routine. He’d been driving the same old pickup for years, she the same old station wagon. He favored home cooking to eating out—suspicious of restaurants, especially Chinese—and didn’t like surprises of any kind. And she’d learned to keep her thoughts to herself. If I want your opinion, he would say, I’ll be sure to ask for it. She did what he asked of her and never questioned it.

When she kissed his damp cheek she smelled the beer he’d just drunk over at Jackson’s with Wiley Burke. We have that party, don’t you remember?

Half lidded, bored. Aren’t you ready?

Let me get my purse.

Oh, so you’re not ready?

I’m ready, for God’s sakes, she said, thinking: What happened to the gentleman I married?

In the car, she filled the space with words—their son’s day at school, his soccer practice, the snack he’d had after, the Swanson’s TV dinner she’d made him—fried chicken, his favorite—and then he was off to his friend’s house. Travis drove, pretending to listen, which was better than bickering over this party.

He turned into Old Farm Road and the house was all lit up, rock-and-roll music spilling from its windows. A far cry from the old Hale place, and she thought Cal, who’d had little tolerance for disorder, would be rolling in his grave. The barns were freshly painted and the house was in the process, the shutters taken down and leaning up against the side. Cars were parked along the road. Travis pulled their dirty Country Squire up on the grass, behind an old white Volvo with a peeling green Jimmy Carter sticker on its bumper. That’s done a whole lot of good, Travis scoffed, pointing. He shoulda stuck to peanuts.

Oh, go on, she said. Don’t let’s start on that.

They got out and straightened their clothes. It was just getting dark, the sky a pretty blue—cop-blue, she decided. She took his hand and kissed it. What’s that for? he said.

Grump. She pulled him close and wrapped his arm around her like a favorite coat. They walked up the dirt road, and it occurred to her that this was all she’d really wanted, just these few moments, walking with her husband’s arm around her. Such a small thing, she thought, yet so fine and rare. But it didn’t last. She stopped abruptly to shake a pebble out of her shoe. Hold this, she said, handing him the cake plate, then kicked off her shoe.

What you wear them things for?

They’re pretty. Admit it.

Yeah, they are. And so are you.

She felt immeasurably touched by this. Thank you, Travis.

He nodded bashfully, like a man who in fact still loved his wife.

She put her shoe back on and took the cake. That’s better.

As they neared the house, the music grew louder.

Thinking of her friend Ella, she felt something catch in her throat. Her family and the Hales went way back. Every Sunday night there were bridge games, canasta, even mah-jongg. Mary loved going along, listening to the women talk, sneaking M&M’s from the candy dish. The mothers with their scarves and gloves and perfume. Their lives rich with such niceties as cigarette boxes, gold-plated lighters, monogrammed handkerchiefs. These days, you couldn’t even count on somebody to hold a door open for you. The courtesies she’d so diligently taught her kids seemed to be vanishing. They were what had defined this country, after all, what defined them as Americans! She was on her soapbox now. Well, she just didn’t know, given how some people behaved. Just last week she’d taken around a young couple from Westchester who wanted a summer home. They had a baby—a very disagreeable baby, she might add. Wouldn’t you know, a few hours later she detected an odor in her car and found a dirty diaper crammed under the seat! Who would do such a thing? This perfectly nice couple had. Sometimes it got to her, the things she saw in people. How careless they could be.

The air smelled of newly harvested fields, and it was a warm, sultry night. Already she’d begun to sweat. Her sleeveless cotton dress was the perfect choice for an evening like this, but she hated her flabby arms, better to keep the cardigan on. It would cool off soon enough, she hoped. They walked around to the backyard, where guests were standing around under paper lanterns that swung in the trees like hornet nests. There was a long table with food and bottles of wine and empty bottles with candles stuck in them. Chairs of all shapes and sizes grazed in the thick grass, some holding guests, others askew and others still where it looked like Franny had made a fort.

For a moment, she and Travis stood on the outskirts like children waiting to be chosen for a game, she thought, suffering all the emotions that went with it. She saw George across the yard, talking to a woman in a sleeveless blouse and a long skirt. Her arms were mottled like softened butter, but she didn’t seem to care, or about the tufts of hair beneath them, and Mary could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. It was Justine Sokolov, she realized. Justine and her husband owned a farm a few miles south. From what she’d heard, money wasn’t an issue and her father-in-law was some famous conductor.

That shouldn’t be allowed, Travis whispered to her.

Justine’s skirt was like a circus tent and a thin chain of gold glimmered around her ankle. Her feet were bare, and she was looking at George with something more than interest. Typically, he was wearing a linen suit and his standard white shirt. He had a girlish habit of brushing his scruffy hair off his forehead. Certain men could get away with longer hair, but not Travis. And men like Travis didn’t wear linen, either. Linen belonged in tablecloths and napkins. Her husband didn’t even own a suit, not even for funerals, where he wore his uniform instead.

I’ll need a beer for this, he said.

Help yourself. I’m going to bring this inside.

The meter’s running.

Let me just say hello.

Most of these were Saginaw people, of course, and she knew some of them if not by name, then certainly by sight. She spotted Floyd DeBeers over by the keg. Back in the ’60s, she’d sold him a side-hall colonial in Kinderhook, which he’d promptly wallpapered with mirrored hexagons and drawings of naked women, and where over the next decade he proceeded to marry three women in succession. When the second dropped dead of an aneurysm, it had driven him into depression; he’d show up at Hack’s in his pajamas and a velvet smoking jacket, chewing on Valium. But now he’d found this new wife, Millicent, who had MS, kind soul, and used a cane. Tonight Floyd was wearing a velour warm-up suit and smoking a clove cigarette, a clear indication to Mary that he was again in the midst of some crisis.

As she moved to the door, George saluted her. Hello, Mary. His tone, she noted, wasn’t what you’d call warm. Glad you could make it.

She raised the cake plate and nodded toward the kitchen.

Inside, it was roaring hot, and she found Catherine taking something out of the oven, her hands in mitts, her cheeks flushed. She set a tray of brownies down on a trivet by the sink.

I brought you a cake.

That was so nice. Here, let me get you some wine.

The counters were cluttered with empty bottles, ice trays, ashtrays, platters with remnants of leftover dip, limp vegetables, soggy chips. A metal fan rattled on top of the refrigerator. Catherine found a jug of Soave Bolla and poured them each a glass.

Cheers, she said.

They shared a moment of quiet as they sipped. The house looks wonderful, Mary said. What a change.

Amazing what a little paint will do.

She was about to mention Eddy Hale when his brother Cole came into the kitchen with Catherine’s little girl. Mary blinked at him, surprised. Well, hello.

Hey, Mrs. Lawton. He glanced uneasily at Catherine, then added, I’m babysitting Franny.

That’s great news, son, she said, a little too loud.

Mary watched them run back outside and thought how good it was to see him here and looking happy. Well—that does my heart good, she said to Catherine.

She looked at her. What do you mean?

You know he grew up here, don’t you?

Her expression told Mary that she had no idea.

They live with their uncle now.

Catherine shook her head, confused, clearly wondering, Where are their parents?

Mary waved her off, not wanting to spoil the evening. It’s a long story. Another time.

I’ve got time right now.

She took Mary’s hand and led her into the living room. Through the large windows you could see the dark fields, just a whole lot of nothing, and it made her worry for Catherine, because all that emptiness could make you lonesome. They sat down on the sofa and Mary told her the story of the Hales, leaving out the details that still haunted her—the shrill telephone waking her that morning, Cole’s wobbly voice on the line, Something’s happened to my parents. I think they may be dead. It was six in the morning. She’d shaken Travis awake and he’d raced over here.

It was a terrible accident, she said, even though in her heart she knew it was no accident at all. They were good people. They were friends of mine.

Catherine’s face was pale. How sad, she said. Those poor boys.

It was a terrible loss, but we’ve moved on. All of us have.

Why didn’t you tell us? That first day, when we came up here?

I was going to, if you seemed interested enough to make an offer. But then it went to the bank. She reached over and took Catherine’s hand and held it tight. George knew, Catherine. I told him before the auction. You all paid a whole lot less because of it.

Well, she said, taking her hand back. That’s no bargain.

I know, hon.

He should have told me.

Men don’t know anything, do they?

Catherine looked at her with relief, then shook her head. He never tells me anything.

He probably didn’t want to upset you, that’s all.

George does whatever he wants, she said.

It doesn’t really matter now, does it? You’re here. You’re all settled in. You’ve brought this place back to life, Catherine.

I sometimes feel so…

So what, honey? Mary watched the younger woman’s face as she searched for the right word.

Lost.

Mary understood that feeling; she’d had it herself. You call me, all right? When you get those feelings.

I try so hard, she said, her eyes watering. To be a good wife.

I know.

He’s like a stranger sometimes, she said softly. I sometimes look at him and think: Who is that man?

It was the wine talking, Mary decided. And now wasn’t the time to get personal, not about this. She could hear George’s voice in the kitchen, and the pop as another wine cork twisted free.

Moving can be stressful, she said, squeezing her hand. Try to let things settle down a little.

Then Catherine raised her eyes very slowly and said, She’s here.

I don’t know what you mean.

Their mother. She’s in the house.

I don’t understand.

These two rings, Catherine said, spreading out her fingers. They’re hers.

With a start, Mary recognized them.

I found both right on the windowsill. I’d been washing dishes and saw a reflection of somebody in the glass. And the next morning they were just sitting there.

Mary shook her head, not wanting to believe it. That is so strange. She didn’t know what else to say, how to ease Catherine’s obvious distress. There might be a simple explanation, she said. It could only be a coincidence. You were too busy to have noticed them before. Maybe they’d been there all along, and Ella and Cal left a lot of stuff behind. But even as she said this, she remembered seeing these rings on her friend’s fingers at the wake, and thinking it was strange nobody had bothered to take them off. Somebody must have removed them afterward, she decided, and then the boys just left the rings behind, but that didn’t seem likely. Those boys adored their mother and never would’ve forgotten something like that.

To her relief, little Franny ran into the room, followed by Cole, a welcome interruption. They’d been running around. Cole was flushed and sweaty and his shirt had come untucked. Momma, me and Cole want ice cream!

Catherine put on her motherly face. Cole and I, she corrected her. So you do, do you? Ice cream it is! She took Franny’s hand. Come into the kitchen. Cole, what flavor?

Here, let me help, Mary said.

They went into the sweltering kitchen. Music was playing in the yard. George had turned his speakers out the window.
Our house is a very, very fine house with two cats in the yard.
A chorus of singing guests joined in, nearly shouting.
Life used to be so hard!
Through the screen, Mary watched Justine and DeBeers belting out the chorus, their faces full of joy. There was a sassy odor in the air, marijuana.