A few minutes later, when Ella and Jessica returned, I brought out the cold pasta salad I’d made, which had asparagus and chicken in it. With her mouth full, Ella said to all of us, “Want to hear what Jessica taught me?”
“Swallow, honey,” I said.
Ella had been sitting with one leg folded beneath her on a wrought-iron chair, and she stood, still holding her fork while she flung her arms in the air and twitched her hips:
“Basketball is what we do,
And we’ll cheer it just for you.
Shake it high and shake it low,
In the hoop the ball will go.”
“Impressive.” I clapped a little, and Yvonne and Jessica did, too, but Miss Ruby didn’t. I turned to Jessica. “Are you a cheerleader?”
“Nah, I just know that. Maybe in junior high, I’ll do cheer.”
“I hear from your grandmother that you’re quite an English student. What books did you read this year?”
Jessica shook her head, smiling. “Grandma just likes to brag on me. No, let’s see, we didn’t read too many books for English, we did more workbooks. The only real book we read is The Call of the Wild—you know that one?”
I nodded. “Of course, where Buck goes to the Yukon.” I turned to Ella. “It’s a book about a dog who helped pull sleds when men went looking for gold.”
Suddenly, and for the first time, Antoine began to cry, and Yvonne said to him in a singsong, “We’ll never send you to the Yukon. No, we won’t. So why are you crying, Baby A?”
“Pass him here,” Miss Ruby said. Yvonne rolled her eyes but obeyed her mother, and Miss Ruby walked him around the edge of the patio, gently patting his back. Within a minute, he was quiet.
“Most stuff I read isn’t for school, but I just like it,” Jessica was saying. “I’m into Agatha Christie, you ever read Agatha Christie?”
“Oh, sure, Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot. I haven’t read those for a long time, but I devoured them when I was a little older than you.”
“I just finished Murder on the Orient Express,” Jessica said. “Ooh, I loved that one! You ever hear of V. C. Andrews?”
“Oh, Jessica!” I couldn’t help voicing my disapproval, though I was laughing a little, too. “V. C. Andrews is so creepy.”
“Yeah, but you can’t put it down,” Jessica said. “Grandma, remember you came in one night at three in the morning, there I was in bed, I couldn’t stop reading. I just could not stop. Okay, Mrs. Blackwell, I bet you won’t like this, either, but you know the Harlequin romances? Some of those are good, they really are. The one that’s called Storm Above the Clouds, I’d say that’s my favorite because the lady goes to Rome, Italy.”
“You know I don’t mean to pick on you, Jessica,” I said. “It’s great you read so much.”
“My dad and me just finished The BFG,” Ella announced, and Yvonne indulgently asked, “Now, what does BFG stand for?”
“He only eats snozzcumbers, but he doesn’t like them,” Ella said, and I said, “Ella, maybe you should try eating things you don’t like.” To Yvonne, I said, “It stands for Big Friendly Giant—it’s by Roald Dahl.”
“Mommy, can Jessica go to the pool with us?” Ella asked.
“Oh, that water is way too cold,” Jessica said. “I dipped my pinkie finger in one time, and I pulled it right back out!”
“Can she?” Ella persisted, and I hoped, with great uneasiness, that it was not evident to anyone else that Jessica was talking about the pool at Harold and Priscilla’s—now that my parents-in-law were in Washington, they left the cover on it year-round—while Ella was talking about the pool at the Maronee Country Club. It wasn’t that black people were officially barred from the club, at least not as far as I knew, but even in 1988, there were no black members; club trustees would have said it was because none applied, because so few blacks lived in Maronee. Even the staff, the waiters and waitresses and bartenders, the lifeguards and the trainers in the weight room, were all white, with the exception of one housekeeper who looked to be Latina. Perhaps twice a summer, you’d see a black person at the pool—it was usually a child who’d been invited to a class birthday party—and around the pool’s perimeter, among the various swimmers and sunbathers, it was possible to feel a discomfited alertness; whether the discomfiture came from shame at the exclusivity of our club or outrage that the gates had been breached no doubt depended on the individual.
“And they have milk shakes, too,” Ella was saying and Jessica said, “Grandma, you been making milk shakes for Ella Blackwell and not for me?”
“No, at the club,” Ella said, and I was already talking over her, saying, “I don’t think anyone will be swimming anywhere today.” It had been sunny when we’d sat, but the sky had grown overcast, a washed-out gray. “Who wants to head inside for rhubarb pie?” I asked.
The Suttons had brought this dessert, and I’d exclaimed over it at length when Jessica handed it to me, then I’d hurried to hide the butterscotch cookies Ella and I had made that morning. We ate dessert in the dining room, and when we’d finished, Ella presented the gifts she and I had picked out the day before: for Antoine, from Miss n’ Master, a yellow romper and a very silly pair of shoes, little red leather booties that had baseballs above the toes—an impractical present that Ella had insisted we buy. For Jessica (it was under the guise of a sixth-grade graduation present, though really I hadn’t wanted her to feel left out when there were presents for Antoine), we’d gone to Marshall Field’s at Mayfair Mall and selected a Swatch watch that had translucent pink plastic straps and a pink flower on the face. Jessica fastened it around her wrist and was holding out her arm for us to admire when I heard Charlie’s voice in the front hall.
“Well, well, well,” he said, and when we all turned to look at him, he was grinning. “Am I allowed to crash a ladies’ lunch?”
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Yvonne said. “We thought you were working, Charlie.”
“How could I stay away?” he said. He had on pale blue shorts—not such a different shade from Antoine’s sleeper—and a white polo shirt and white socks; he’d left his spiked golf shoes in the hall. If there was any doubt about where he’d come from, he still was carrying his clubs, and in that moment, he set the bag against one wall of the dining room. His hair and shirt were damp, I noticed, and when I looked out the window, I saw that it had started to rain. “And this must be the man of the hour,” Charlie continued. He walked toward the car seat on the floor, where Antoine had fallen asleep. Leaning in, Charlie said, “That’s a darn good-looking baby. Nice going, Yvonne. Put it here.” He held up his hand for her to give him five, but before she could, he caught sight of the pie and exclaimed, “Vittles!” It was then that I realized he’d been drinking. After cutting himself a large slice of pie, he proceeded to scoop it up with his fingers. Silently, I stood and passed him my plate and fork, both of which he accepted, although he didn’t use them.
“Charlie Blackwell, you don’t have the manners of a barnyard animal,” Miss Ruby said, which made Ella and Jessica titter.
Charlie, too, was smiling. “Yvonne, if I didn’t have such an exalted mother of my own, I would have stolen yours years ago.” He wiped his hands on someone else’s napkin, then set a palm on Miss Ruby’s shoulder. “Jessica, your grandmother is a national treasure,” he said, and I wondered whether Miss Ruby could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Daddy, listen to this.” Ella, who, during the present-opening, had been standing close to Jessica in a self-appointed supervisory capacity, took a step back from the table, but when everyone was looking at her, she abruptly shifted modes, ducking her head to one side and looking at us from beneath her eyelashes. In a quiet voice, she said, “Never mind.” This was a new affectation—there was a girl in her class named Mindy Keppen who would freeze when called on by a teacher, and when I’d explained to Ella what shyness was, it had captured her imagination. (Oh, my drunk husband and my darling, disingenuous daughter.)
“You wan
t to show him the cheer, right?” Jessica said. “How about if I do it with you?”
Ella looked up, smiling and nodding rapidly. Jessica stood, and more or less in unison, they raised their arms and swiveled their hips from side to side.
“Basketball is what we do,
And we’ll cheer it just for you.
Shake it high and shake it low,
In the hoop the ball will go.”
For shake it high they rattled imaginary pom-poms above their heads, and for shake it low they brought them down to their knees.
“Outstanding,” Charlie said when they were finished. “Superlative!” My heart sank as he walked around the table and took his place next to the girls, saying, “So it goes, Basketball is what we do . . .” Giggling, they taught him the words. Ella was purely ecstatic, possibly unable to imagine a better scenario—standing beside a cool older girl, teaching cheerleader cheers to her father, with an audience—whereas Jessica was a good-natured participant but was also, I suspected, analyzing the situation, trying to figure out Charlie’s motives. Jessica and Charlie had known each other for her whole life and probably never had a real conversation.
When he’d memorized the words, the three of them recited the cheer together, and at the end, Charlie shouted, “Go, Brewers!”
Ella laughed and clutched at his belt, saying, “Not baseball, Daddy, basketball.” He lifted her into his arms, something I could no longer do, and the two of them grinned together. Clearly, this was the climax of the afternoon, and the Suttons sensed it; they soon stood to set their exit in motion, gathering Antoine’s diaper bag and car seat, the presents and the pie dish. I put on a raincoat and walked out to the car with them. In the driveway, I said to Jessica, “Do you have plans for the summer?”
She was carrying Antoine, and she nodded down at him and said, “Here’s my plans right here—Baby A and V. C. Andrews. No, I’m teasing about V. C. Andrews, Mrs. Blackwell.”
“Well, we loved having you all here,” I said. I thought of Ella’s upcoming activities: swim team, the art camp she’d attend the last week in June, then in July, we’d be off to Halcyon.
When I reentered the house and closed the front door, Charlie was no longer in the dining room. I carried the plates and glasses into the kitchen, pushing back and forth through the swinging door, and I could hear the television in the den. As I loaded the dishwasher, I realized I had a headache. How large and empty our house abruptly felt.
I had squeezed the sponge a final time and set it in its spot next to the soap dish when Charlie came in and pulled a beer from the refrigerator. “That was one handsome Negro baby.” He grinned, and I couldn’t have said if he was trying to provoke me or if he was simply being himself.
We stood there facing each other, standing about five feet apart, and I thought of berating him, but I didn’t have the will. I had the energy for a disagreement perhaps once every few months, not twice in one day.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he said.
“I have a headache. I’m about to go upstairs and read.”
“Aren’t you curious how golf went with Cliff and Langenbacher?”
“I assumed it got called off because of the weather.” I could hear the rain outside, soft but steady.
“You wouldn’t believe how pumped Langenbacher is to have me on board. It was Cliff who suggested me, which means I’m eternally indebted to him. But Langenbacher couldn’t be happier with what I’m bringing to the table—I’m a huge fan, I don’t have to fake that one bit, but I also have the business expertise.” Charlie’s cheeks were flushed, either with pleasure or with alcohol. “You’re not mad because I missed lunch, are you?” he said. “I’d say by the end, they got their money’s worth of the old Chas Blackwell charm. Come to think of it, maybe you were in cahoots with the meteorologists today.”
“As a matter of fact, your showing up was awkward, because I’d told them you were at a meeting.”
“I was.”
“A real meeting.”
“I was. Jesus, Lindy!”
“Then I guess I’m surprised Zeke Langenbacher doesn’t mind people drinking so heavily on the job.”
Charlie scowled. “What’s your problem?” he said. “This is a professional dream come true, and I don’t know why you’re being such a god-damn killjoy.”
“Of course I’m happy for you.” As if balancing out his force and volume, I spoke more quietly than usual. I said, “But I told you I have a headache, and I don’t feel very celebratory. My grandmother did just die.”
I had almost felt that I shouldn’t mention this, that however true, it was cheap, and the reminder would make him contrite but humiliated. I should not have worried. It is fair, I believe, to say that in that moment, he was glaring at me. He said, “For Christ’s sake, Lindy, she was ninety years old. What’d you expect?”
AS WE’D PLANNED, I walked to Jadey and Arthur’s house that evening before dinner, and as soon as she and I were a safe distance onto the golf course, she said, “Arthur came sniffing around my campsite this morning, but I ignored him.”
“Jadey, maybe you should give him a break.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Both of yours,” I said, but I wondered if I had it in me to have the conversation; I wondered if I should have canceled the walk. Since the Suttons had left our house a few hours earlier, I had been hovering between two possibilities: a torrent of tears or else—and I recognized this possibility as worse—a shutdown of all systems. It was the first time in over twenty years, the only time apart from Andrew Imhof’s death, that I had felt the pull toward nothingness, and I knew the impulse was far more dangerous now; I had the responsibilities of an adult and above all was in charge of Ella’s wellbeing. But how soothing it would be to give up, to sleepwalk—to quit trying with Charlie, or expecting him to try with me.
Jadey said, “You might disagree, but I think my husband needs to work a little harder to win back my affection.”
We both were quiet—the storm clouds were long gone, sun shone through the leaves of the trees, the blades of grass glistened, and the locusts buzzed extravagantly—and I said, “Do you really enjoy playing these games with him?”
“Listen, not all of us have your perfect marriage.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” This was a far sharper exchange than the ones Jadey and I usually had, and I think both of us were surprised that it was still gaining momentum.
Carefully—it was to Jadey’s credit that the exchange did then begin to lose force—she said, “I didn’t mean to step in a prickly patch. I just meant that you have it easier than some of us.”
And then I did it, I burst into tears, and Jadey said, “God almighty, what did I say? Oh, sweet Jesus.” I had stopped walking and brought my hands up to my face, and she patted my back. “Alice, you know I love you to pieces. Is this about your poor granny or what?”
I wiped my eyes. “You think I have it easy?”
“Your husband worships the ground you walk on. Yeah, so Chas probably does drink too much, but you’ve got to pick your poison. At least you’re still hopelessly in love.”
“Jadey, I’m—I’m thinking of leaving him. Our marriage is far from perfect.”
“Leaving him like divorce?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know how it works. Would I move out of the house or would he?” Speaking these words aloud to Jadey marked the first moment I had truly, realistically considered ending my marriage. For months, I had heard whispers—separation, divorce—and though it had seemed that they were carried to me on the wind, they were really coming from inside my own head. Even so: They’d been abstract ideas, escapes of last resort. “Or facing Maj, think about that,” I added. (Though I did not, could not, call her Maj to her face, I was perfectly capable of using the nickname when discussing her with others. Not to would have been overly formal, drawing attention to myself.) “She’d be furious with me. I almost feel like she wouldn’t let it happen, you know what I
mean?”
“She doesn’t control us,” Jadey said. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean, but when you get down to it, there’s nothing she can do besides cut you out of her will.” Was I even in Priscilla’s will? I doubted it, though Jadey’s point did raise the question of what shape my finances might take. Would I receive alimony? Would I be able to afford a house in this area, even a modestone, and in any case, how many modest houses existed in Maronee? Did anyone a round here rent? I’d get a job, of course, and in some ways, that might be a good thing, but supporting myself and Ella (that I wouldn’t have primary custody of her was unimaginable) when both of us were used to a decidedly privileged way of life would be a far cry from supporting myself as a single woman in Madison.
“Okay, what if Chas gets treatment for his drinking?” Jadey said. “What’s that place in Minnesota called? He could go there.”
“He won’t do that.” Would living the rest of my life with Charlie’s moodiness be worse than splitting up? Divorce, when I thought it through, sounded dreadful—doable but dreadful. “We’re going to Princeton on Friday,” I said. “Maybe it’ll help to get away from here for a few days.”
“Oh, good God, you have Reunions?” Jadey looked horrified. “Alice, all anyone does there is drink. You know that. Don’t make any decisions while you’re there.”
I gestured in front of us. “Should we keep walking?”
As we headed forward on the asphalt path, Jadey said, “Wait, it’s his twentieth, isn’t it? God almighty, Arthur’s baby brother is twenty years out of college—when did we get so old?” Her voice contained the usual dose of Jadey hyperbole, but beneath it was a note of plaintive sincerity. Then she said, “Alice, you two can’t divorce, you just can’t.” When I didn’t respond, she said, “Because I don’t think I can be a Blackwell without you.”
ELLA AND I were in the kitchen when Charlie arrived home from work on Tuesday, and as soon as I heard him close the front door, I nudged her. “Go give Daddy a hug.” In the twenty-four hours since the Suttons’ departure, Charlie’s and my interactions had been guarded but not outright hostile. We hadn’t spoken on the phone during the day, which was unusual but not unprecedented; though he tended to call in the midafternoon, it was possible he’d been busy with the Brewers transaction. The thought had crossed my mind to do something festive for him, to make a cake in the shape of a baseball, perhaps, but I felt too stung by what had happened the day before to go to the trouble.