Laura Rider's Masterpiece (22 page)

I imagine you are down the hall, and the nurse will wheel me, poor old Jenna Faroli, to Charlie Rider’s room in the evening…
.

If Dickie had given her any comfort, it was that the end of the world was nigh.

Laura also didn’t imagine Jenna’s second morning, the moment when Frank was finally settled on the deck with his book, the
moment Jenna went out to speak to him. She put a cold glass of tea by his side, and she said, “I’d like to tell you about
something.”

He shut his novel and closed his eyes, and she knew then that Sally had mentioned the message to him. It did not surprise
her. He and Sally had always loved each other, a fact that was clarified for her in that instant. Earlier, the two of them
had strolled down the beach, full of their intimacies, amiably knocking into each other, Sally telling Frank what was Jenna’s
to reveal.

She sat down next to him, brushing away her tears, but he, instead of waiting for her to begin, stood up. He put his hands
on her shoulders and, leaning down, chin on her head, spoke over her, into the brushy growth past the deck. “I don’t want
to hear about it. I’d rather you never said a word to me about the matter.”

It was of little consequence that she stifled her sob. He was gone before she could reach for his hand, back through the glass
door, back to his dear friend. There was no one to hear her. She moaned into her lap, “Don’t leave me to myself, Frank.” When
she lifted her head she could see him calmly pouring coffee as if nothing had occurred. “Frank!” There was no one in the world
for her now, nothing to do but go down the stairs toward the ocean, toward the morning light, already sharp and glinting on
the waves.

Laura didn’t imagine Jenna stumbling along the beach, pausing to fish her phone from her pocket, to answer Vanessa’s call.
Jenna had to kneel in the sand, holding the phone away from her face as Vanessa chattered. She knew that when she saw Charlie
at home, in Hartley, she would not recognize him. Not only would she blot out the joy of their Kewaskum Inn afternoons, but
she would not understand why he had thrilled her. “Mom,” her daughter said, “are you there?” She would no longer believe in
delight. “Mom?” Vanessa shouted. “It sounds like someone’s being strangled.”

Jenna hung up. She weaved along the dry sand and the wet sand as the phone, in her clutches, vibrated.

It wasn’t that Laura had stopped thinking about Jenna, not at all. She wondered, for instance, if most women truly wanted
children, if mothering was how they would wish to spend their lives if they were given enough guidance. Jenna was uppermost
on her mind on this subject because it did seem that Vanessa was a continuous pain in the neck to her mother. Laura could
imagine the stimulation, and maybe even comfort, Jenna took from having a brainy husband, how, back when Jenna was feeding
the baby, the judge would talk to her soothingly of case law and listen to her worries. Laura was certain that Judge Voden,
the old baldy, hung on his wife’s every word. It did occur to her that if Jenna were to disgrace herself in any way, the judge,
having seen the gamut of human conduct, would hardly bat an eye. So, if Laura wasn’t envisioning the particulars of Jenna’s
vacation, she was nonetheless mulling over ideas and questions that for her started with Jenna Faroli.

The list of what women wanted was growing longer and more complicated the more she thought about it. The first rule of thumb,
though—and this wasn’t a bad thing:

1. What women wanted was always in flux. There was always something more, something new, something different to want. In her
twenties, for example, Every Woman wanted to couple, to share, and if she was successful in that department, she wanted, by
the time she was forty, to be left alone to watch Comedy Central.

2. She did want to be the right woman for her man, easier said than done, but still, a goal. It was sad if the situation arose
that she irritated him, belittled him, or henpecked him. Because she absolutely wanted to honor who he was.

3. She wanted dominion in specific areas but with the knowledge that if she was way off course he would steer her straight
without ever bragging about or even acknowledging his superior navigation abilities.

4. She wanted a respectful and attentive and sympathetic audience, a man with advanced listening skills but not so advanced
he seemed like a phony or a girlfriend. His skills were male, his own, and empowering.

5. She wanted genuine appreciation for her creativity, her flexibility, and her generosity. In addition, she wanted genuine
appreciation for her own genuine appreciation for his
talents.

6. When it turned out that he had very few of the qualities on the wish list, and if the Serenity Prayer didn’t work, that
old saw about accepting the things you cannot change, then women wanted the perils of freedom.

Laura wasn’t saying that all of the above for both parties didn’t take a mind-boggling amount of dedication, generosity, forgiveness,
and consciousness. Of course, some women could think of nothing but Mr. Right, some women made bad choice after bad choice,
and others wanted to spend their lives wallowing in their yearning. Laura was above all of that wasted energy, in part, she
admitted, because maybe she did have a man in her life who was now pretty much calibrated exquisitely. Maybe the whole point
of love was to break each other so that from those shattered selves you could build a better, a sturdier self, so that you
could go forward—not hand in hand but a comfortable arm’s length apart. Ideally, if both parties were conscious in the romance,
Every Man and Every Woman would enter the relationship with arms spread wide open, ready for the adventure of being broken
to pieces and reassembled. As Laura wrote her book, she was going to be looking both within and down upon the plain of millions
of seekers, millions of women, and she was, she hoped, going to teach them what to wish for. Jenna was right, that there was
a lot to absorb, the whole long history of womanhood, from Queen Nefertiti to Britney Spears. It did occur to her that maybe
she, Laura Rider, was possibly the heroine of the story.

As for Charlie, if Mrs. Voden was truly moving on to greener pastures, he would mope for a while. The shine had gone out of
his eyes, but he was keeping busy up in his nook, probably online with his alien support group. Charlie’s great blessing was
the fact that he was constitutionally incapable of being unhappy for too long. If Jenna had stopped calling, because, maybe,
after all, the newsletter thing had gotten to her, if she was worried about her reputation, worried about the People of Hartley,
she should let that trouble go. Everyone thought Charlie was a homo. They were probably convinced that if he was going to
run off with anyone it was the illegal immigrants who kept Prairie Wind Farm afloat. Charlie was the Ideal Cover for Every
Woman who wanted a roll in the hay, the hero who could fake out the community.

After Laura had unpacked from the workshop, she went into her study and sat down at her desk. Before dinner was as good a
time as any to get started. She turned on her computer. She’d begin her book using what she’d generated at the Bear Claw Resort,
and see what happened. Right off, in her new ergonomic task chair, she felt balanced. She felt ready for what lay ahead. She
could see past the screen into the distance. Far off was a hotel ballroom filled with women in gowns, and as she focused she
could see herself in a satin bodice with a tulle skirt, up on the dais with authors such as Wanda Carol Newman. Just as she’d
known she’d marry lovely, funny, dear Charlie and acquire a beautiful farm, this vision, too, had the sheen of hard work and
inevitability. It was real, it was solid, it was true. There she was at the convention of romance readers and writers, a celebration
of new talent, an evening with dancing and toasts and champagne and an enormous sheet cake decorated to look like Laura Rider’s
book jacket. She might not say it out loud, but as she moved to the podium—careful to gather up her voluminous skirt—as she
flowed to the mike to describe her writing journey, she would inwardly thank those who had helped her, the Bear Claw group,
her husband, and, maybe most of all, Jenna Faroli.

She wasn’t averse to having her characters be part of a TV series or a computer game, as Jenna had suggested. The world was
changing—humanity itself, perhaps, was changing. There were so many new doorways, doorways upon doorways that opened into
story after story. Maybe the creative process wasn’t so different from being lifted up in the dark and guided into one bright
realm after another. Although she had only begun to ask the questions about Every Woman, it was through her art that she’d
find the answers. She crossed her arms over her chest, leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and said, “Take me.”