Smart Women (19 page)

B.B. watched Sara run down the front steps, jump on her bicycle, and head off to school. Then a sadness washed over her, a sadness so unbearable she had nothing to compare it to, except for the day that Bobby died.

T
HEY HAD REACHED HER
at the Millar house that afternoon, which she had been showing to a family from Pennsylvania, assuring them they could get it for under three hundred thousand dollars, if they didn’t waste any time, and that all they would have to do was paint inside and clean up the landscaping. They had told her over the phone and she had politely excused herself, had driven to the hospital, and hadn’t felt anything, hadn’t reacted at all until she had asked to see Bobby’s body. They had tried to dissuade her. But she had insisted and when they took her to him, when she held him in her arms for the last time, when she refused to let go so that they’d had to pry her loose, she had finally screamed and cried and cursed Andrew.

It had been his fault. She knew it. Never mind that the witnesses, the police reports, later Andrew himself, told her that the other car had crossed the dividing line, had crashed into their wagon. She knew that he had been talking over his right shoulder, the way he always did, to the boys in the back, probably telling them a joke, probably laughing, oblivious to the road. The boys in the back had been banged up, a bruise here, a cut there, nothing serious. Only one had required stitches. And Andrew had cut his head, had been in shock, had been hospitalized overnight.

But Bobby was dead.

Dead on Arrival.

Ten years old and still wearing his Little League uniform and his new cleats.

N
OW, AT THE IDEA OF LOSING
S
ARA,
B.B. felt as if she were surrounded by grayness, a thick cloud, separating her from the rest of the world.

Later, when she was in her office dictating a letter to Miranda, the tears came unexpectedly and once she began to cry she could not stop. She put her head on her desk and sobbed uncontrollably. Miranda left the room quietly and returned a few minutes later with a glass of water and two small yellow pills.

“Here, B.B. . . . take these . . . you’ll feel better.”

“What are they?”

“Valium. I keep them in my desk for emergencies.”

“No,” B.B. said, waving them away. “I don’t take tranquilizers.”

“I know you usually don’t, but in this case . . .”

“No,” B.B. said again. “I don’t need them.”

“All right,” Miranda said, tucking them into her pocket. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No. It was just a touch of the blues. It’s over now.”

Miranda nodded. “You’re supposed to meet a client at ten-thirty, at the Russo house. Would you like me to cancel, or ask someone else to show them around?”

“No, I’m all right. And I’ll go directly to Jazzercise from there, so I’ll be back here around one-fifteen.”

“Shall I get you something for lunch?”

“A container of strawberry yogurt would be nice.”

“Sure,” Miranda said, “no trouble.”

B.B. was late getting to Jazzercise because the clients, two women from Detroit, insisted on inspecting every square inch of the Russo house even though they weren’t serious buyers. B.B. could tell from the moment she met them. They were just tourists, looking for a cheap way to spend the morning, trying to see the
real
Boulder. And she’d told them so. Had even called them bitches.

They’d been surprised by her outburst and threatened to report her to the Board of Realtors. But she’d just laughed, telling them to go ahead, telling them that she was the chairperson of that Board. She’d laughed so hard she’d had to run back inside the house to use the toilet. She’d laughed until tears were rolling down her cheeks, but when she looked at herself in the mirror her face looked contorted, as if she were crying.
Control . . . control
she reminded herself as she drove to Jazzercise. She had never been rude to a client before. Never. Well, she could always explain it as a bad day. It happened to the best agents. That it had never happened to her until now proved that she was more patient than most and that’s why she was on top. Still, she could not stop her hands from shaking.

She came into Jazzercise in the middle of the second number. She stood in the back instead of at her usual place down front, between Margo and Clare. Jazzercise always relaxed her, relieved her tensions in a way that was different from running or yoga. The beat of the music, the burning sensations in her muscles, the stretching and toning. Yes, she felt better already. Just being here was therapeutic.

After class there was the usual scramble for the showers. Clare waved at her from across the crowded locker room, then disappeared into a shower stall. Margo’s locker was next to B.B.’s. Margo was humming the tune of the final number as she pulled off her leotard and tights. Humming and smiling to herself.

B.B. watched as Margo undressed. Margo’s breasts were big and round with full pink nipples. In a few years, if she wasn’t careful, she’d look like a cow, B.B. thought, enjoying the idea. She’d seen Margo naked a million times, but today was different. Today B.B. saw Margo as Andrew’s lover. Andrew kissed this woman’s lips, Andrew caressed this woman’s breasts, Andrew lay on top of her or under her or alongside her and thrust his penis into her.

“What is it?” Margo asked.

“What do you mean?” B.B. said.

“You’ve been staring at me for the longest time.”

“I hear you’re sleeping with Andrew,” B.B. said. Oh, she shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have gotten started, but she couldn’t help herself. Maybe Sara had made it all up, maybe Margo would deny it.

Margo’s face turned red. “How did you . . .”

“Sara told me,” B.B. said.

“Sara,” Margo said. “How did she . . .”

“Andrew told her.”

“Andrew.”

So, it was true. B.B. grabbed her towel and headed for the showers.

Margo caught up with her. “Look, I . . .”

“He’s just using you,” B.B. said. “Can’t you see that? You’re nothing to him but a convenient hole.”

“I don’t think we should discuss it,” Margo said.

“Why not?” B.B. asked, her voice rising. “Everyone else is.” She turned around. “Well . . .” she said to the women in the locker room, “aren’t you all discussing it? Aren’t you all talking about Margo and Andrew fucking their heads off?”

“Please,” Margo said.

“You’re such a fool,” B.B. told her. “I never thought you’d turn out to be such a fool!”

Margo pushed ahead of B.B. and stepped into the shower. B.B. pulled aside the shower curtain and shouted into the steamy stall, “Does he still cry out when he comes? Does he call you his beautiful darling?”

Margo jerked the shower curtain out of B.B.’s hand. It had grown very quiet in the locker room, the only sounds were the water running in the showers and B.B.’s own voice. “What are you looking at?” she shouted at the silent women watching her. “Haven’t you ever seen a naked body before?”

They turned away and busied themselves dressing.

“B.B.,” Clare said softly. “Come on . . . let’s get dressed and go have a cup of coffee.”

Clare drove to the Mall. They went to the New York Deli, chose a table in the back, and B.B. sat facing the wall. “Well,” she said, biting into a piece of toast, “I certainly made a scene, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Clare said, “you certainly did.”

“I didn’t mean to, you know . . . it just happened.”

“I know.” Clare squeezed B.B.’s shoulder. “It’s all right.”

B.B. shook her head. “I can’t believe the things I said.”

“Look,” Clare told her, “we all blow it sometimes. You should have seen me when Robin ran off with the Doughnut.”

“He’s sleeping with Margo. Did you know that?”

Clare nodded.

“I guess everyone knows.”

“I don’t think so. Not until you announced it in the locker room. Anyway, what difference does it make?”

“It’s the idea of them together. It’s just so tacky.”

“Do you still love him, is that it?”

“No, but I don’t want anyone else to either, especially not Margo, especially not right under my nose.” She paused. “I guess that’s selfish, isn’t it?”

“Margo doesn’t want to hurt you,” Clare said.

“Then she shouldn’t be sleeping with my husband.”

“He’s your ex-husband.”

“So he’s really not cheating on me . . . is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s right,” Clare said.

“Well, he’ll be gone soon,” B.B. said, swirling the tea bag around in her cup. “His lease is up at the end of November. I’ll just have to hang on until then.”

B
.
B
. WROTE A NOTE
to her Jazzercise instructor, apologizing for her outburst in the locker room and explaining that she was transferring to the Monday–Wednesday class for personal reasons.

She toyed with the idea of making an appointment to see Thorny Abrams. Clare thought she should. But B.B. felt she could handle the situation herself, that the worst was over. It had been the shock of hearing the news about Margo and Andrew from Sara that had set her off. So instead of calling Thorny Abrams, B.B. called Cassidy, her masseuse, and set up an appointment for the following afternoon. During the massage, when B.B. told Cassidy she was going through a difficult time, Cassidy suggested that B.B. consult with Sensei Nokomoto, the acupuncturist. Acupuncture could do wonders for the mind as well as the body, Cassidy explained, by regulating the pulses. B.B. agreed to give it a try.

She spoke with Lewis almost every night. Talking with her was the highlight of his day, Lewis said. He had seen a beautiful ring, gold with three diamonds. Could he interest her in becoming engaged? And had she decided about Christmas in Hawaii yet?

“So many questions all at once,” B.B. said, laughing, not answering any of them.

“You’re my fantasy woman,” he told her.

“What happens when you find out I’m real?” she asked.

“I’ll love you even more.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

For a few moments each day her spirits lifted. But as soon as she hung up the phone she plunged deeper into grayness. It was so hard to go on pretending to be all that Lewis and the rest of the world expected her to be. Sometimes she wanted to tell him to forget it, to forget her, that it was just a game. But she couldn’t let go that easily. It was comforting to have him there, on the back burner. It wasn’t fair to go on using Lewis, she knew, but wasn’t he using her too, inventing her to serve his own needs? In the long run don’t we all use each other, she wondered, isn’t that the way we make it through the day?

When Andrew phoned a few weeks later, asking to see her, B.B. was not entirely surprised. Although she hadn’t mentioned it to anyone it was possible that Andrew was simply using Margo to make her jealous, to make her beg him to come back. This was a possibility she could not ignore since both Sara and her mother had hinted at the idea of a reconciliation.

She hoped that Margo hadn’t told him about her outburst in Jazzercise and that Sara hadn’t told him about her screaming fits because she’d been doing so much better lately. She had seen the acupuncturist three times and it was true that her pulses had been out of sync. She was following the diet he had prescribed and could feel the poisons leaving her body. She rarely felt out of control now, but when she did she was careful not to show it. She would lock herself into her bathroom and shred Kleenex, or she would go for a long run.

She agreed to meet Andrew on Thursday afternoon, at four, while Sara was taking her piano lesson at Mrs. Vronsky’s. She hadn’t seen Andrew in more than a month, since the evening he’d dropped Sara off while she had been outside walking Lucy.

She came home from the office early to shower and change her clothes. She dressed in white. He had always liked her in white. She wondered if he liked Margo in white too. God, she didn’t see how he was fucking Margo. She knew there had been other women in his life. After all, it had been six years. But the others were just faceless creatures who satisfied his physical needs.

When he rang the bell she was in the kitchen arranging crackers in a basket. She’d already put out the cheese, a sharp Vermont Cheddar she’d picked up at Essential Ingredients on her way home, along with a bottle of Blanc de Blanc.

“Hello, Andrew,” she said, opening the front door. “Come on in.” She felt calm, in control.

He stepped inside and followed her into the living room. “Nice,” he said, looking around.

“Would you like a quick tour?”

“I’d like to see Sara’s room.”

“Of course.” She led him upstairs and down the hall to Sara’s bedroom with its white wicker furniture, its canopied bed, its blue and white ruffles and pillows and curtains.

“Pretty,” Andrew said, “and so neat.”

“I expect Sara to keep her room in order and she does.”

She showed him the guest room and the hall bath, but not her own room, then led him back downstairs to the sun porch and the kitchen. He kept nodding and muttering,
nice.
The pots of geraniums on the kitchen window sill flourished in the late fall sun. Her copper pots and pans, gleaming, hung on a rack from the ceiling. The spices were arranged in alphabetical order.

He followed her back to the living room and sat on the sofa. B.B. sat on the love seat, opposite him. “Wine?” she asked.

“Please.”

She poured a glass for him and then one for herself. She cut a slice of Cheddar, laid it on a water biscuit, and passed it across the glass table separating them.

“Thanks.”

“Didn’t my mother knit that sweater for you?” she asked. It was dark green with cables.

“I think mine did,” he said. “Your mother made me a blue one that’s similar.”

“I remember this one,” she told him. “It always looked nice on you . . . made your eyes very green . . . still does.”

He took a bite of the cheese and cracker, followed by a long drink of wine. He seemed uncomfortable. Probably because they were on her turf. She tucked her bare feet under her and sat back seductively. She wanted him to want her. She wanted him to compare her to Margo and see that there was no comparison. If he would take the first step, she would take the second. She would prove to him that Margo was second best.