House of Wonder (19 page)

Bewitched

1972

T
he television was set on a metal stand against the wall, in front of which were arranged two avocado-colored armchairs occupied by Hattie and Lee Harris. Priscilla sat on the floor between the chair that held her father and the wall. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, and her arms were at her sides, propping her up. She flinched slightly at the sound of Hattie's laugh. It was a jarring noise, sudden and drawn-out; it consisted of a single “ha” followed by a sustained, nasal “haaaaaaaaaaaaa.”
Ha-haaaaaaaaaaa
.
Bewitched
was on and it was Hattie's favorite show, so there would be lots of
ha-haaaaaaaaaaa
s.

Hattie tapped her cigarette on the ashtray at the end of the armrest, her heavy cocktail ring sliding off center as she did so.
Silla's father rattled the remaining ice cubes around his otherwise empty glass.

Hattie looked at Priscilla, her eyes heavy and lidded, before she took another drag of her cigarette and turned back to the TV. “Priscilla,” she said, “your daddy needs a drink.”

Priscilla got up without speaking and took her father's glass. “Thank you, sugar,” he said, peering around her at the television.

Priscilla padded softly across the thick carpet, pausing to glance back at the TV as Hattie released another long
ha-haaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
. Then she turned back and made her way to the bar cart at the end of the living room.
Miss Texas,
she thought,
sitting around on a Friday night making drinks for her daddy and watching the television.
She had just set down his tumbler when the phone rang.

Lee Harris glanced at his watch. “Goddammit,” he said, as he stood with what appeared to be at least a modest effort. “It's after nine.” He was a few drinks into his evening and when he turned toward his daughter, she noticed his tie was loosened and the top button of his shirt was undone.

Hattie watched him stand, her gray eyes following him until doing so would have required an effort, at which point she turned back to the TV, her helmet of blond hair visible over the chairback.

Swaying a bit, Lee brushed past Priscilla as he hurried to the kitchen to silence that intrusive ringing. Silla lifted the lid of the ice bucket. On the other side of that wall was the phone.

She heard her father answer it. “Hello,” he said abruptly, effectively communicating the magnitude of the disturbance.

He was silent for a moment. “Speaking,” he said.

When Silla heard his voice again, it was only a whisper. “An aneurysm?” he said. “And that was . . . yeah. Yes, sir. No, I'm glad you did.” He made a noise, a quick rush of air that popped from his lips. He was silent again as he listened. “I'm assuming that that can all be handled . . . by mail,” he said. There was another pause. “In terms of arrangements, should I speak with someone . . . ? Good, fine. I'll call tomorrow.”

He was on the phone for no more than two minutes.

Priscilla heard the receiver being set back into its cradle on the other side of the wall and quickly placed three new cubes of ice in her father's cup. Then she poured in enough whiskey to cover them. She was cracking open a new can of club soda when her father returned to the living room.

“You got that drink, sugar?” he asked, almost sheepishly. Priscilla quickly poured in a glug of the club soda, threw in a piece of lemon, and handed the glass to her father without looking at him.

Priscilla saw Hattie eye him with curiosity as he made his way back to his armchair.

He sat down and leaned back, gazing heavenward for just a moment. Then he hunched forward, resting his forearm on his knee, his hand cupped around his drink, and angled himself toward Hattie. “Martha,” was all he said. He said it so silently that he practically mouthed it. And maybe that's what he had intended. But after a few drinks, Lee Harris was always a bit louder than he should be. “They said it was an aneurysm. Just a couple of hours ago.”

Hattie's hand slid onto his knee, her thin fingers looking stiff and petrified, her nails a slick pink. “Least it's over now,” she said. “Least it's over.”

Priscilla backed slowly out of the room. She lay on her bed that night, but she didn't sleep. No one came in. No one explained a thing. That was the first of many nights when she lay in bed, trying to remember what her daddy had told her about her mother. What they had told people when they'd moved from Corpus Christi to Houston. What her mother's parents had said, the few times they had conceded to a visit. In short, Silla tried to remember when “she's gone” had become “she's dead.”

Once

I
was in the bathroom zipping Rose's toothbrush into a Baggie when my phone buzzed in the back pocket of my jeans. Slipping it out, I looked at the smooth black screen. It was my father's home number. With a mixture of gratitude and dread, I answered it.

“Dad,” I said, pressing the phone to my face.

“Jenna, it's
Lydia
.” Her name was an admonishment. “What's all this I'm hearing about Warren being a
suspect
in the
burglaries
?”

My eyes shut. “Lydia,” I started, trying to sound calm and unemotional. “Warren isn't a suspect.” Those words had a repellent flavor in my mouth, like something rancid. “The police just talked to him.”

“Well,” she huffed, “I think that means he's a suspect!” I felt my own panic rising to meet hers, rendering me mute. Lydia waited for me to respond, but all I could do was grip the phone. “And I had to find out about all this when meeting with a client! They wanted to know if Priscilla was somehow involved!”

“Lydia, that's
crazy
!” I said, losing my very flimsy grip on my cool. “Could you honestly imagine my mother and Warren masterminding some suburban burglary ring?”

Her silence answered for her.

From the family room, I heard Rose call my name. “Listen, I'm so sorry, Lydia, but I really do have to go. I have to bring Rose to a sleepover.”

“I'm sure I don't have to explain to you how terrible this could be for my business,” she said.

“No, Lydia,” I said. “You really don't.”

“Can you
please
keep me posted on all of this?” she asked sternly.

“I will,” I said.

“All right,” she breathed, in preparation for a brisk good-bye. But I preempted her.

“Hey, when does Dad get back?” I asked. I had left my father a few voice mails on his cell phone, but hadn't heard back from him.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “I'm picking him up at the airport and we're heading right to Russell's party at the Hyland Inn.”

I sat down on the closed lid of the toilet.
I'm so sorry, Warren,
I thought, as I pictured our grandfather's watch, elegantly wrapped in a box with a thick cream satin bow. Again Rose's voice sounded.
Hey, Mom!
“I really need to speak with
my dad,” I said, “before you go to the party. . . .” And then Lydia and I hung up. I sat there for just a second before I called back to Rose. “Hold on, Rose! I'm just getting your stuff together!” I glanced over at her slippers, which lay underneath her fuzzy pink robe that hung from the hook on the back of the door. “Do you want to bring your slippers to Sam's?”

•   •   •

Rose reached up to ring Maggie's doorbell, her mouth opened in a wide smile, her tiny white teeth all visible. I heard Sam and Henry roar to the door, the lock sliding. “Sammy!” called Maggie from inside. “Don't push your brother!”

The door opened and Henry's face appeared below Sam's. “Happy birthday, big man!” I said. Sammy roared in response, then charged back inside the house, flinging himself on the couch headfirst. Henry copied his older brother and followed suit. Maggie walked briskly across the family room and pulled the door open wider. “Come on in, Rosie,” she said.

Rose took Maggie's hand, but I saw her hesitate slightly. “It's okay, Rosie,” I said, laying my hand gently on her back. Rose had been to Maggie's house scores of times. And she and Sammy had been raised like brother and sister, even sleeping in the same bed when we all went to Maggie's family's cottage on Cape Cod. But Rose looked up at me with concerned eyes. “Is Gabby coming?” she asked.

“You know,” I said, picking her up into my arms and closing the door behind me, “I think that's a really good idea. We should introduce Gabby to Sammy and Henry. But Gabby is at her grandmother's house tonight, right near Nana's.”

Rose glanced over at the boys, who were attacking each
other with light sabers. I realized that the age when boys and girls naturally started to segregate themselves came earlier than I had remembered.

“Sammy! Henry!” commanded Maggie. “Knock it off!” Then Maggie reached out to take Rose. “They're just showing off for you, Rosie. All boys do it.” Rose slid into Maggie's arms. “We're going to have an awesome night. We got
movies
. We got
popcorn
. We got
cake
.”

“Cake!”
screamed Sammy from the couch, and this time it sent a giggle through Rose. She wiggled down from Maggie's arms and went to join the fray.

“So this is sort of spectacular timing,” Maggie said to me, with a saucy lift of her eyebrows. A wink-wink, nudge-nudge.

I let my gaze fall. I had always wanted to be the sort of woman who was unflappable when it came to dating, who would scoot a man out of her bed and call him a cab when she was finished with him. But it wasn't in me. To my detriment, it wasn't in me. “I'm freaking out a little,” I admitted.

“Why?” she asked.

I thought about my body, how it had changed since I'd had Rose. “It's been a while.”

“Oh, stop,” she said. “It's just like riding a bike!”

Leaning against the wall, I felt Maggie's almost maternal watchfulness. “I'm happy for you,” she finally said. She had googled Bobby and found his picture on the hospital's Web site.
Oh
,
I totally get it now,
she'd said, staring at his image, and assuming his proximity was the reason for my visits to Royal Court.
I'd paint your mom's columns, too. I'd mow the lawn and power wash the deck and seal the driveway.

“Thanks, Mags.”

“So go, go,” she said, pushing me toward the door. “You need to get ready. You can't entertain gentlemen callers looking like you're chaperoning a field trip to the pumpkin patch.” A reference, I was sure, to my L.L. Bean boots and fleece jacket. “I'll call you if there are any issues.”

•   •   •

Later that evening I was sitting on my couch with my hands hidden beneath my thighs, waiting for Bobby to arrive. He was late, but not so much so that it warranted a phone call or undue concern. Playing softly on the stereo was the Velvet Underground. I brought my wrist to my nose, breathing in the perfume I rarely wore. The scent was deep and soft. Gardenia maybe. In front of me was a glass of red wine, the bottle from which it came, and another glass, an empty one, for Bobby. Taking its stem, I turned it, watching the light move through its bowl, waiting for the man whose profession was healing to arrive at my home.

A set of headlights turned into my driveway. As they beamed through the shades, I took a sip of wine, letting it mute—just a bit—the anticipation. Then I stood, walked over to the door, and smiled into the glass of its small window. As Bobby's car came to a stop, the outside light was tripped, illuminating the darkness. And as quickly as I saw him, I could tell that something was wrong, that he'd had the type of day that empties you. He opened the car door and stepped out. Gordo, now alerted to company, stood from his bed and spun in a few tail-chasing circles, then joined me at the door. Together we watched Bobby attempt a smile in our direction, then make his way up the gravel path, his shoulders sagging, his hands sunk
in his pockets. I opened the door as he approached, feeling the sharpness of the air. “Hey,” I said, with concern in my voice.

“Hey, Jenna. Sorry I'm late,” he said. “I couldn't get out of there tonight.”

“It's all right,” I said, beckoning him toward me. “Come in.”

I shut the door behind him and he seemed to slacken with relief, as if he was finally outside of the world's grasp. Reaching for my wrist, he closed his eyes and pulled me into him. His hand slid under my hair, bringing my head to his chest, and I wrapped my arms around his back, feeling its breadth. For a few moments, we stayed like that, silent and entwined. “What's wrong?” I finally asked.

“It was just . . . a hard night.”

“Are you okay?”

With his hand still holding my head, I felt his breath pull deeply in, then rush out. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I'm just trying to shake it off.” His words were a whisper, their warmth in my hair. “And I can't.”

I thought about the sights and stories that would make for a difficult night in the emergency room. The lives changed. The lives ended. “Are you supposed to?” I asked. “Be able to shake it off?”

He let out a small, sad laugh. “I don't know,” he said. “I think so.”

I waited for a moment, thinking perhaps he would continue. “What happened?” I asked.

Another stretch of silence came. “There was this little kid,” he said. “Seven years old.” I could feel his body tighten. And at that, he took a hard breath—a substitute for events he wouldn't repeat.

I raised my head. “I'm sorry, Bobby,” I said, meeting his eyes. But he pulled me back to his chest. And there, with his hand in my hair, with my body pressed against his, I felt something inside me shift. Running my fingers up his spine, I lifted my mouth to his neck.

Maybe it was meant to be only a comfort, the kiss, but he gave a soft groan, and his hand slipped down past my back. “Jenna,” he whispered, and it sounded like a plea. Because what could take the loss away more entirely than my skin on his? What did either of us want more than that?

I hooked the tips of my fingers into the waistband of his jeans, pulling him in just as he backed me against the wall, the weight of him against me. We were eye to eye for a moment, and then our mouths met—all breath and hunger.

Lifting my hands above my head, he cupped my breast and I felt myself shudder. Then he pulled my shirt over my head and slid down one strap of my bra, so that it hung off my shoulder, his hand skating over my bare, uninterrupted skin. Without a word, I wove my fingers through his, and led him to the bedroom.

As soon as we stepped over the threshold, he found the clasp of my bra and unfastened it, letting it drop to the floor in front of me. I leaned back against him as his hands moved over my body. I turned around and his shirt was off, then my pants. I reached for his belt buckle and his hand dipped into his back pocket, discreetly removing a condom. We shifted to the bed; there was the tearing of paper. And then we were together.

With each movement, I felt something inside me slacken and fall away, like bindings loosening. I closed my eyes and lifted my chin and opened my mouth. And when it was over, he
lay on top of me, our hearts thumping, calling and answering in a disorganized rhythm. Then Bobby rolled onto his side and I onto mine, so that we were facing each other on the yielding white plane of my bed.

We stayed that way, in reflected contentment, until Bobby spoke. “Hi, Jenna Parsons,” he whispered.

And red-faced, my chin kissed raw, I beamed. “Hi, Bobby Vanni.” Bobby let out a quiet but glowing laugh and I reached for his hand. Pulling it up to my chest, I curved around it. “Who would have thought, right?” I asked.

Bobby rolled me onto my back, and moved his body on top of mine. Propping himself up so that he could see my face, we stared at each other until I felt a low churning grumble in his stomach; he probably hadn't eaten all night.

“All right, Dr. Vanni,” I said, sitting up. “You stay here.” I groped for my underwear and slid them on. Then I sat up and opened my dresser drawer, which I could reach from the bed, and pulled out the first top I laid my hands on. “I'll be right back,” I said, as my head emerged from the neckhole of an old gray NYU shirt.

I padded over the avocado-colored carpet of the family room and into the kitchen, finding my house, even its flaws, more charming than I ever had before.

Bending down into the fridge, I pushed aside a milk container to assess what I had on hand. Having assumed that we would order Chinese after he arrived, I had very few grown-up- friendly options with which to feed Bobby, but I figured he was too ravenous to wait for delivery. Finally, I pulled out the melamine Santa tray that my mother had given me, loaded it up with cheese, crackers, smoked turkey, pickle slices, and some
mustard, then headed back to the bedroom, grabbing the bottle of wine on my way.

Bobby was sitting up in bed, the white covers pulled over his lap. “This is going to be the very worst dinner you've ever had,” I said as I set the tray down on my dresser.

Bobby laughed. “I doubt that,” he said. “I eat in a hospital six nights a week.”

“No, seriously,” I said, as I began crafting him a triple-decker cracker sandwich. “This is the kind of thing you eat when you're stoned.” I handed him my creation.

Smiling as he took it, I had a fleeting thought, almost unnoticed: that my terrible postcoital meal would become one of our stories. That every year, we would eat turkey and Triscuits and pickles and cheese. And we would remember tonight.

Bobby tried to take a bite of my unruly sandwich, cupping his hand under his chin and seeming to contemplate the combination of flavors and textures. “I think you could have a future with Hewn Memorial dining services,” he teased.

I let out a quiet laugh while my eyes remained focused on assembling a sandwich of my own. “So is it definite that you're going to stay on there? After your residency is done?” I asked, taking a bite of my sandwich.

Bobby moved his head as if he had a sudden and painful twinge in his neck. “I don't know,” he said. “I don't know if it's going to work out there.”

“Why not?” I asked, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. “I'm sure they want to keep you.”

“They do,” he said. “They want me to work the same schedule.” He looked at his sandwich. “But I need better hours. I need to see Gabby more.”

“Well, there are other hospitals, right?”