Between the Tides (10 page)

“Matilde, it's okay,” I say. She should know that Charles's words don't hurt me, that I'll sign on for the night—for his sake. I wait for him to continue.

“Get that crap out of your hair, Lainie. God knows you have the ability, the wardrobe.… Why can't you do it the right way?”

Matilde grabs Claire by the shoulders. “C'mon, Claire, let's go. Let's go help Mom.”

“Hurry up, girls,” Charles says.

“Claire, c'mon.” Matilde carries her toward my closet. “We'll find Mom a plain black dress.”

Charles stations himself on the settee and frowns.

“We have twenty minutes, Lainie. Matilde, twenty minutes to help your mother.”

“Don't worry about me, Charles. I'll be ready.” I'm almost floating toward my girls.

*   *   *

Matilde holds up a choice of sheer stockings or black tights. Next she finds my pearl stud earrings and matching pearl necklace in the bottom of the jewelry box. She favors the first black dress that she finds, a sheath that I used to wear in the city for back-to-school night. Matilde hands me a pair of black stilettos.

“These are the kind every cool mother wears,” she says.

“Not those,” I say. “If I'm doing safe, let's go all the way.” I point to a two-inch heel. Matilde nods—I slip on the second pair of shoes and she zips my dress.

Claire puts her hands on my legs and hides her face there while Matilde holds up an evening bag with a whalebone handle, a “find” at the fair in Cape May last summer. “You could use it,” she says.

“Too funky.” I have completely converted. Matilde hands me the plainest black suede clutch. Then she hands me a gray-blue pashmina. “What about your hair, Mom?”

“My hair. That's the real problem, right?” I take off the hairband and pull out the starfish. As my hair falls down some of the shells that weren't glued well enough clatter on the floor.

“Maybe a ponytail or a knot. To make Dad happy?” Matilde hands me the hairbrush.

Claire opens the suede purse and finds a pinkish lipstick and a kohl eyeliner pencil.

“Give it to Mom, Claire.”

I use the lipstick and ignore the eyeliner, dropping them both back inside. Then I brush my hair for a second before tugging it into a thick coated rubber band. In the three-way mirror I am as wife/mother as possible.

“Okay, Charles, I'll let Candy know that we are off.” I sail past him and notice that he's pleased. For tonight.

 

PART
FOUR

Jess

 

TWELVE

By the way that William's office has assembled the dinner at the Wintergreen Country Club, a Thursday Rock 'n' Roll Night, I get the picture. Two new chairs of divisions and two other longtime chairs are mixed together to make a table for ten. William and I are pros at these evenings and we don't discuss the guest list until we arrive at the club forty minutes early.

“I know one of the wives, William.”

“What wife, Jess? What are you talking about?”

“The wife of your recent hire—chief of orthopedic surgery.”

Wives are fungible for William and rarely count, let alone have jobs as heads of departments at Elliot Memorial. They appear for hospital dinners and act relevant for the evening, that's the deal. He yawns.

“We were together when we were young,” I say. “In Cape May. Later on in college too—we overlapped for one year.”

William takes out his iPhone and moves his forefinger around the screen, then he holds it up to me. “Here he is, Charles Morris.”

I take the phone and angle it away from the light or else it reflects too much to see his face or read about him. He is alluring, fine-featured with brownish hair and a square jaw. That Dr. Charles Morris is quite accomplished I already know since William wouldn't have it otherwise. Without warning I'm slightly anxious and slightly intrigued, wondering if Lainie has him in a vase on the table as she had the lifeguards years ago or if her knockout husband takes the lead. I would bet buckets that Dr. Morris hopes to join Wintergreen. I'm sure that he's been told that the golf course is excellent and should he become a member by spring, his wife will be taking tennis lessons as will their children on the grass courts. Dream on, unknown husband—are you aware of your phantom wife? It's not likely that she'll be quite as eager. Yet it is a fine club or else William wouldn't belong.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Lainie.

Lainie and her husband are punctual, the first to arrive. I lean against the carved wood bar of the cavernous grill room as they sashay toward us. Four children, unending glue, yet the space between them is more than two feet wide. What an observation, a reminder of how time passes and the seismic shifts that become plausible. Lainie, who has been immune to how other women feel. Had she made an effort, tried to win us over those summers, we might not have hated her for her beauty and popularity.

“William.” I sound stinging. No impact. His right index finger moves over the little screen that rules so many lives. William, rude as hell, doesn't look up. Hasn't he always been rude? Then they approach us and William's interest is piqued. He places his iPhone in his pocket and while Lainie is invisible to him, his face lights up at Charles's presence. He beams at Charles as they shake hands heartily, nabbing the other's fists in glee. William, the kingmaker, Charles, a young king in the kingdom.

I look at Lainie again and it takes less than a minute to scrutinize her outfit—the uninspired, safe clothing of a surgeon's wife, a chair of the department's wife. The getup pleases him, the black sheath, the strand of pearls, the medium-heel Manolos, the angular face. Her hair, in a smooth knot at the nape of her neck, has an otherworldly sheen. Her lips are closed tight and I wonder, is she praised then vilified? A question that arises as I stereotype her husband, another overly confident, immensely important surgeon.

Then my gaze shifts to the actual man. He is a husky, hunky, brainy man. That's a first. A man I have imagined who has yet to exist. I smile the fervid Elliot smile that I know by rote. Charles holds out his hand to greet me and it runs right through me, an electric charge that ignites us. We have never been introduced before, not in this life. Lainie watches, her head tilted to the side, her eyes wide, perplexed. William radiates success at his latest conquest, who might be more appealing tonight than he was during the interviewing process.
Lure those doctors out of the cities and make them yours at Elliot Memorial
is William's slogan. I'm too busy with Charles to care. I'm too stupefied to breathe.

“Shall we?” William motions. “We'll have our other guests sent along.”

It's as if my husband is in some other country. I can barely hear him.

We exchange superficial greetings while we meander as two couples into the cocktail reception, but it's lost on me. Country club living has never been this perilous. At the bar Charles orders a Glenlivet and William follows suit. I need something very potent—I wish to be drunk for the foreseeable future.

*   *   *

Having tossed back two apple martinis during our cocktail hour, I find myself surrounded by wives. Wives who owe me for carpooling, invitations to charity luncheons and elite dinners that only I can arrange, discretion when it comes to their spending secrets, my ability to look the other way when their children have been unkind to others. Most important is how I “Henry Kissinger” the herd of women; at least once a week I play the role. Everyone sitting down bows to me and no one gives a rat's ass that the most beautiful player has just landed,
Lainie
. Tonight she has this wild look in her eye—or is it simply that caged-bird demeanor of the ill-fated wife? Now she's just like everyone else and she hasn't anything special to bring to the party. There isn't a woman at the event who exists as more than an accessory.

Wind yourself up, Lainie, for the arm-candy duet.
Ha, she can't escape it any more than the rest of us.
Husbands, houses, children.
I imagine Lainie at the Y pool about to start her regime, Lainie at the Wintergreen Country Club, Lainie driving the curvy country roads in the rain—my topography.

Of all things, William notices how I've guzzled the drinks and am about to order a third. He gives me a quizzical look that stops me. As soon as we are seated at the dinner, the band plays. A woman in an ill-fitting black skirt and tank top is the lead singer and she chooses a Karen Carpenter song, “Superstar,” as the first slow number. William, to my right, is robustly scouting the perimeters, taking inventory. Charles pushes back his chair and holds his hand out to Lainie. She stands up and follows without moving her mouth. They approach the dance floor, where she halfheartedly places her hands on his shoulders. Charles is facing me and I take his cue. William is sifting through the guests when I leave my chair and levitate toward the dance floor, solo. There is no playing nice or suggesting that my husband break in and dance with Lainie, thus producing Charles as my partner. It's up to me.

“May I have this dance?” I ask. Lainie backs off; her arms, those swimmer's biceps, go limp. Charles first puts his arms around me and then flexes his body into mine. It is stifling when he pulls me closer. I owe no one anything.

 

THIRTEEN

“Coffee today?” I ask Lainie as we are about to leave the Women's Y locker room. There is a mad exodus, as if everyone is on the same weekday schedule, although we aren't. She gives me a look as if she's torn about what to do and I realize that she is counting down to time at her drawing board. On the other hand, she ought to say yes or she'll never have a friend in Elliot. I'm not convinced that she knows how salient it is to join me. She might be the “artiste,” compared to mere mortals, but each of us compensates for lost hours—let her stay up the night long if need be to paint.

“Lainie? Coffee?” I ask again.

She nods. Bingo. “Let me check to see if Candy is on the train.” She squints at her screen. “Yes, she confirmed a minute ago. I am good to go.”

“I'll drive,” I offer.

Lainie sits in the passenger seat as the baby hills of Elliot show the first signs of autumn, a burnished top inch of every blade of grass and shrub. I take the road in one slick move, spiraling for a millisecond. Then we are there, pulling up in front of the Corner Books, as close a parking spot as one might wrangle to the Tea Tree. I lead her through the glass doors and commandeer the front table facing the window and overlooking Main Street.

She becomes anthropological, watching the women on the sidewalk, some swishing in the chicest day clothes, others sporting yoga gear. Their fast robotic motion—as if they are about to save the day, as if their mornings are complicated—can't be newsworthy if you've lived in the city.

“Where is everyone going?” Lainie asks.

“Appointments,” I say.

“Doctor's appointments?”

“Hair, nails, pedicures, Pilates … some women work,” I say. “You know, at home, freelance, part-time…”

“The very idea of
not
working on a canvas or on a sketch sounds so … easy,” she says.

“Sure, it has an enticing element to it. Think about it, Lainie, you could be sipping a macchiato and nibbling at a scone guilt-free.”

“Is that how it is, Jess? Is there a lightness to the days when they belong to you and your family and place is
enough
? When you don't need anything more?”

I am the wrong person to ask. I am one of them at a price. She too could cross over, run hither and yon, to the shoemaker, wine shop, tailor, the vegetable market. She too could be in search of organic apples, the best goose liver p
â
t
é
, the triple cr
è
me cheeses sold beside the low-fat Gouda. But it's ridiculous to expect this of Lainie, who is at one with sea grass, how the river bends.

“Well, some women like it more than others,” I say.

“Charles would love it if I could be involved with the community.… He'd like me to let go of my … I don't know … my commitment to my work. Ever since we moved here he seems frustrated when he sees me in my studio.”

During Lainie's lame confessional, I remain heavily invested in the others who are congregating. I welcome the women from the other tables who descend upon us, who pay homage to me.

“Jess, Jess!” they exclaim in these rehearsed tones.
“Jess!”

The tables are designated by age groups. Mid-thirties to early forties are seated by the window while those between forty-five and fifty-five are behind us. The older women have settled in the back of the Tea Tree. Everyone is coiffed and polished to perfection, hair is beautifully colored and foreheads are frozen in place. If anyone had a reason to furrow her brow, it would not be effective. A few women wear Herm
è
s scarves around their necks and others broadcast their d
é
collet
é
. Similar to the ladies who lunch in the city, I'm sure, except that there is no buffer, no diversity of street life once you step outside the restaurant. Lainie notices as she pulls the collar of her jacket around her neck.

“Cold?” I ask her.

“No, I'm fine.”

I sip my macchiato and am stunned. Evidently there's been a mistake made in my order. I motion to the server, who knows me very well. “Greta?”

Greta rushes over, harried and worn although the day is beginning and she is only in her mid-twenties.

“Yes, Mrs. Howard?” She should be repentant since it has unfortunately happened before.

“Greta, meet my friend, Mrs. Morris. She's moved to town and now that I've brought her here, she'll be a frequent customer. Right, Lainie?”

Greta is discontented with the idea but silent, knowing there is more to this than an introduction. She gives Lainie a doleful look.