American Wife (45 page)

When our embrace was finished, Harold patted Charlie on the shoulder. “Look after her, son,” he said, and Charlie said, “Think you’ve got room in your Batmobile for two more?”

“Sweetheart, you can stay,” I said. “You really won’t be in the way.”

Charlie didn’t make eye contact with me as he said, “Yeah, see, I’ve got kind of a work thing that came up. Kind of a major thing, actually, otherwise you know I’d postpone it.”

“Your brothers understand that you need to be with Alice today,” Harold said, and I said, “What is it?”

Charlie hesitated. “I’d prefer not to get too specific. Word of honor, I’ll tell you both the minute I can. Lindy, you’re thinking you’ll be home, what, around five or five-thirty?”

“Are you sure you can’t say what it is?”

His lips stretched into an apologetic wince. “Give me a couple days, can you do that? It’s come up all of a sudden, and I want to hold off on talking about it until it’s more of a done deal.” To his father, he said, “I’ll collect Ella and meet you out front?” He leaned in and kissed me. “See you tonight by dinnertime?”

When Charlie was gone, I felt that Harold and I were implicated in a shared embarrassment—we were, after all, Charlie’s father and wife. In a tone of feigned lightheartedness, I said, “I fully expect you to get it out of him on the ride home and report back to me!” I expected no such thing.

“All very cloak-and-dagger, isn’t it?” Harold shook his head. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

ONE OF THE
last people to leave the reception was Lillian Janaszewski, Dena’s mother. I had already started carrying plates and glasses into the kitchen when she stopped me, saying, “Alice, you haven’t sat still all afternoon. You’re just like Dorothy.”

“Thank you for coming,” I said. “It’s so nice to see you.” I had repeated these words, or slight variations on them, so many times that day that they’d become automatic, as had the micro-update I provided on my life, as had the fleeting remembrances of my grandmother:
Yes, Charlie and I are still in Milwaukee. Ella’s nine now, she’s finishing up third grade. She’s over there, yes, that’s her with the long hair.
Or,
She just left—I know, I’m sorry you missed her. Charlie and I are very lucky.
Or,
I know, my grandmother was wonderful, wasn’t she?
This part of the funerary proceedings also seemed to have far less to do with my grandmother as a person than with decorum, to the extent that, as I listened to myself chatter, I felt pangs of disloyalty. But what was the alternative? How could I bear to vividly and realistically remember her with everyone?
She found Riley somewhat dull. She was an excellent bridge player. She never lifted a finger to cook or clean, even when she was younger and more spry and easily could have done so, and she smoked constantly, including around her granddaughter. She liked
Anna Karenina
because she loved the characters, but she thought
War and Peace
was tediously political, and she stayed abreast of current fashion into her nineties, despairing of the trend toward wearing exercise clothes at all hours of the day; she also claimed Laura Ashley dresses looked like they were meant for peasants. She had a longtime love affair with another woman, which none of us really talked about, and then they broke up, and we hardly talked about that, either.
There was a way in which my grandmother’s true self was not these guests’ business; no one’s true self was the business of more than a very small number of family members or close friends. In any case, I told myself, making superficial remarks didn’t have the power to eclipse or insult the dead any more than missing them had the power to bring them back.

Mrs. Janaszewski took my hand, gripping it in hers, and her skin was unexpectedly cool, given that it was a warm May afternoon. “It just breaks my heart about you and Dena,” she said. “She’s living back here, you know.”

“Is she not involved with D’s anymore?”

Mrs. Janaszewski said ruefully, “Clothing stores are a difficult business, Alice. Customers are fickle, and in Madison, there’s all the turnover with the students.”

This surprised me, because D’s had always been buzzing whenever I’d been by. Then I realized that my most recent visit to the store had been over a decade earlier; though I occasionally went back to Madison—to have lunch with Rita Alwin, my old friend from Liess, or to see an exhibit at the Elvehjem Museum—I avoided State Street because it made me sad.

“Dena’s a hostess over at the steak house in the new mall, but the real news is she has a steady beau,” Mrs. Janaszewski said. “You probably know him—Pete Imhof.” I suppose an expression of alarm appeared on my face, because Mrs. Janaszewski brought her hand to her mouth, saying, “Oh, Alice, he’s the brother—Oh, I’d forgotten all about—Forgive me.”

“No, no, that was such a long time ago,” I said, and I might have then felt the same disloyalty toward Andrew that I’d been feeling toward my grandmother
—I will minimize my grief for social pleasantries; this moment of small talk matters more than our history, your memory—
except that I was so disturbed by Mrs. Janaszewski’s news. Dena was dating
Pete
? But Pete was awful! Dena was fun and cute and hardworking, and Pete was a dishonest layabout; he was a jerk. I even wondered, was she supporting him? How had they reconnected? Was it at all possible—for her sake, I hoped so—that he had changed since he’d swindled my mother? And then I thought, if Dena and Pete were dating, surely she’d have told him about my abortion. And my God, for him to find out all this time later that I’d been pregnant—would he be furious at me? Disgusted, or disappointed, or maybe just relieved I’d taken care of it? I said to Mrs. Janaszewski, “How long have they been together?”

“Oh, close to a year now. She says, ‘Ma, quit asking when we’re getting married. If I have something to tell you, you’ll know.’ ”

So if Pete were going to track me down, to confront me, wouldn’t he have done so months ago? Had Dena not told him, could it be that she didn’t remember? This seemed unlikely but not impossible. After all these years, Dena and Charlie were still the only people whom I’d told; confiding in Jadey felt too risky.

I said, “That must be great for you, having Dena nearby.”

“She just lives down on Colway Avenue,” Mrs. Janaszewski said. “Now, I may not know the full story of what happened between you girls, but if I know Dena, I’m sure she’d love to hear from you. I’ll give you her number, and she doesn’t go into work until five—why, I’ll bet she’s home right now.”

“Unfortunately, I’m headed back to Milwaukee shortly.” I grimaced, as if I didn’t yearn to return to my usual life, my own house and bed and kitchen and habits. “Ella and Charlie have taken off already. But I’m glad to hear Dena is doing well.”

“You and I both know she can be stubborn, but you girls were so close. I used to think, Alice is like the fourth sister, if only my own daughters were half as well behaved.”

I was surprised that Dena hadn’t told her mother why our friendship had ended. But if she had, would Mrs. Janaszewski have treated me as warmly? I’d never felt that I was as much at fault as Dena had believed, but I also had never considered myself blameless; the flourishing of my relationship with Charlie at the expense of my friendship with Dena wasn’t a subject I chose to recall with any frequency. Now, knowing she was dating Pete Imhof, I tried not to wonder whether, apart from the abortion, they’d ever compared notes on me.

I attempted to strike a regretful note as I said to Mrs. Janaszewski, “Maybe on another trip.”

WHEN EVERYONE WAS
gone, Lars and my mother and I sat in the living room, my mother sideways on the couch, her legs in black slacks extending in front of her and her feet, clad in sheer black stockings, on Lars’s lap, where he was absently rubbing them. I found the intimacy of the tableau both unsettling and sweet; certainly I had never felt Lars’s presence more reassuring than on this day, knowing that when I drove back to Milwaukee, he would remain.

“I don’t mean to be unkind, but did you see the nacho casserole that Helen Martin brought?” my mother said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!” My mother was in a surprisingly upbeat mood; I suspect she was relieved that the guests had left.

“No, it was quite tasty,” Lars said. “It had some kick to it, but not too much.”

“It just
sounds
so funny.” My mother looked across the room, where I sat in a recliner that had been one of Lars’s few additions to the household when he moved in. “Did you try it, honey?” my mother asked.

I shook my head. “But I had more than my share of Mrs. Noffke’s chocolate-chip cookies.” The phone rang—my mother had finally replaced her black rotary ones with cream-colored push-button versions—and as I walked to the kitchen to answer it, I said, “I think she put walnuts in them. Hello?”

“You’re still there?” Charlie said.

I looked at my watch. “It’s not even five-thirty.”

“Are you about to leave, or you think it’ll be a while?”

“Charlie, I told you I’d be home by dinnertime.”

“You happen to have Shannon’s number on you? I’m gonna call and see if she can sit for Ella.”

“I doubt she’ll be free on such short notice.”

My mother appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, frowning inquisitively. I set my hand over the receiver and shook my head. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just Charlie.”

“Just Charlie, huh?” Charlie said as my mother walked back out of the room.

“You know what I meant.” A pause ensued, and I said, “I really wish you’d tell me what your mystery errand is.”

He sighed. “You know how I was talking to Zeke Langenbacher at the game Sunday? Well, he’s invited me to have a drink. This could be a huge opportunity—I can’t say more right now, but trust me, it’s big.”

“Are you going to work for his company?”

“Not exactly. Listen, do you have Shannon’s number? I promise I’ll explain everything.”

“Look on the fridge. No, you know what, don’t call her. I’ll get in the car now. What time are you and Zeke meeting?” I glanced at my watch; it was twenty past five, and it would take me fifty minutes to drive to Maronee.

“Six-thirty,” Charlie said.

“Then that’s fine—”

“No, but not at the country club, at Langenbacher’s office downtown.”

“Well, please don’t leave Ella at home by herself. If you need to leave and I’m not back yet, take her to Jadey and Arthur’s.”

“I owe you,” Charlie said. “Hey, how are things there?”

“They’re fine.”

“Are you mad?”

“I need to go.”

“Drive fast, okay?” he said. “I’m not trying to be a total asshole, but this is important.”

“I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” I could hear the tightness, almost a sarcasm, in my own voice, but this time Charlie did not remark on it.

I found my purse where I’d set it on a kitchen chair and carried it to the living room. “I think I’ll be on my way,” I said, and Lars said, “All’s well on the home front?”

“Charlie wanted to know if I could smuggle the leftover nacho casserole back to Milwaukee,” I said. “He claimed you two would never notice.” Though Lars chuckled, my mother seemed somber; the mood of the room had changed while I was in the kitchen. “You all right, Mom?” I said.

My mother tilted her head to one side. “I keep thinking she’s gone upstairs to read.”

I understood perfectly; now that the distractions of planning for and enduring the funeral were finished, there was only the long future without my grandmother. Would Lars be enough to fill the house, to keep my mother company, after all?

With more confidence, more optimism, than I actually felt, I said, “Maybe she has.”

OUR HOUSE IN
Maronee was a 1922 Georgian colonial, the clapboard painted pale yellow—it had been white when we’d bought it, but we’d redone it about five years before, and I thought the yellow was softer—and on either side of the front door, two extremely tall Ionic columns supported a second-story pediment that was purely decorative. On most days, when I turned in to the driveway, our house struck me as ordinary, merely our house; but sometimes when I’d been away, especially when, as on this evening, I was returning from Riley, I realized again how large it was, especially for only three people. The house sat on an acre of zoysia grass (mowed on a weekly basis, except in winter, by Glienke & Sons landscapers), and tall oak and elm and poplar trees stood at irregular intervals, providing shade and a kind of buffer from the road. Our driveway was smoothly paved asphalt, our three-car garage freestanding and also yellow; though we had only two cars, we had managed to fill the extra space with bicycles, rakes, a stepladder, and an assortment of other domestic clutter. On this night, as I approached our property, I saw Charlie and Ella throwing a Frisbee in the front yard; Ella was barefoot but still wearing her dress from the funeral. As I pulled into the driveway, Charlie held up his left arm in a gesture that was half-wave, half-halt sign, and Ella began a dance that, as far as I knew, she’d made up: She set her hands on her head, index fingers up like antennae, and moved sideways in little hops. The early-evening sunlight through the trees was dappled gold, and in spite of my irritation with Charlie, I found myself thinking how lucky we were; really, I was not sure it was fair to be this lucky.

I set my foot on the brake and rolled down my window, and Ella called out, “Daddy threw me a bear claw, and I caught it!”

“Ladybug, your dress will last much longer if you don’t play in it,” I said. “Let’s go inside and have you change.”

“Thanks for coming back,” Charlie said. “You’re a lifesaver, Lindy.”

“You’re a Tootsie Roll, Lindy,” Ella said, and Charlie laughed and swiped his hand against the top of her head.

To me, he said, “Mind if I take your car?” He opened the driver’s-side door, extending his arm with an exaggerated flourish and saying, “Madame.” I started to turn the car off, and he said, “Just leave the keys in the ignition.”

When I stepped out, he very quickly kissed me on the lips, then slid into my seat. “Adios, amiga,” he said to Ella, and to me, he said, “I should be home by ten.” He was already backing up when I shouted, “My purse!” He reached over and tossed it out the window; improbably, I caught it, and he said, “Hey there, Johnny Bench.” Then he reversed out of the driveway and disappeared down the street.