Maybe I just played my part in that.
I never bought her booze and I never facilitated her drinking in any way. I just helped her hide the signs. I harvested the bottles from behind the drapes before my father found them. I cleaned up things she’d spilled or broken. And for whatever reason, I got into the habit of hunting my mother down every night and putting her to bed.
It’s normal to sleep in your own bed, not face down wherever you passed out. It’s normal to wear your nightgown to bed, not whatever you were wearing when you started to drink mid-morning. And it’s normal to go to bed clean, not adorned with whatever body fluids happened to make an appearance.
Now, it’s not easy to wrestle a surly drunk into the bathroom, much less into her pajamas. It wasn’t unusual that my mother didn’t want any part of it or of me. She fought me, she struck me, she swore at me, but those insults and accusations always rolled right off my back.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that her anger was really targeted at my father. Compared to the things she said then, these telephone conversations are a piece of cake.
But I only found out why she was so angry with Father years later. I was in my first year at Harvard, after nearly killing myself to get good enough grades to be accepted, and I hated every minute of it. I wasn’t allowed to live in the dormitory—where I might have had some fun—and had to commute.
It wasn’t about money, and it wasn’t even about my mother. It was about my father’s ideas of feminine purity—and his desire to ensure that I kept mine. On the other side of the coin, I knew damn well that Zach was busily spreading the milk of human kindness as far and as wide as he could.
But I was always told it was different for boys. So, I called my little commuter car the Vestal Virgin Express and often took the long way home, just because. I certainly didn’t tell my father that if I wanted to lose my virginity, I could have done it any time any place that I so chose, regardless of where I was living. At the time, I was afraid he’d lock me in the basement if he thought of that.
I’m still not sure he wouldn’t have.
So, one night I came home to find a single light burning upstairs. My mom’s sitting room. My father’s car wasn’t there, but then, I would have been shocked if it was. James was already married by then, Matt had moved downtown for his articling post. Zach was living in the dorm, making merry and getting lousy grades. I’d had a crummy day myself and was having some real doubts about my future as a lawyer. I unlocked the front door and paused at the sound of Mom’s sobbing.
Given a choice, I’d take sorrow over rage any day.
I climbed the stairs, knowing there was no use avoiding the inevitable. She was on her hands and knees, and there was a spilled bottle, leaking sherry all over the carpet. At first I thought that’s what she was crying about, but she turned when she heard me and clutched something to her chest.
It was a letter.
In fact, there were a lot of letters scattered across the floor. They looked old, the corners of the envelopes rounded as though they had been handled a lot. There was a narrow ribbon discarded on the floor, so I figured she’d had them all tied together in a bundle. The envelopes were almost square, and had a deckle edge on the flap, like invitations or fancy stationary.
Or love letters. I saw that the one my mother held was wet in one corner, the sherry having made a stain. She was trying to blot it out, but she was too smashed to make a good job of it.
As soon as she recognized me, she held out her treasure and wailed, beseeching me to fix what had gone awry. It was a horrible sound, that cry of hers, like an animal in pain and I was quick to take the envelope from her. Sure enough, it was addressed to Mrs. R. Coxwell in a bold masculine hand.
It wasn’t my father’s handwriting. He scribbles, prompting jokes from the intrepid that he should have been a doctor.
This was a legible script more typical of an architect. And all the envelopes were addressed in the same decisive hand. The stamp was a commemorative of a laughably small denomination, adding credence to my theory that this was old news.
There are some things you just don’t need to know. I willed myself to not look any further, but took the letter and pressed the liquor out of it while my mother watched. Her crying stopped and she followed my every gesture as though fearful that I would ruin her prize.
Or tell on her. I gathered up all the letters and put them back in that little bundle, carefully tying that bow. Then I handed them to her, told her to put them away while I ran her bath.
And I left.
Because if I had known where she put them, then one day I might have been tempted to see what those letters said. You’ve got to know your limitations and I knew that in a weak moment, I might get curious.
But they weren’t my business. I wouldn’t go through my mother’s drawers—that would be too intrusive—so not knowing exactly where she put them was insurance enough.
When I came back for her they were hidden away. I never saw them again. We never spoke of them. It was as though that night had never happened. Maybe she didn’t even remember it.
I did.
And maybe I did idly flip through the book of commemorative stamps at the post office one day, and maybe I did discover that that stamp was from 1970.
Maybe my mother had another reason for not wanting to move to Rosemount. I guessed my father had an issue with Boston that hadn’t been mentioned to us. I’ll probably never know the whole truth.
But it’s because of those letters, whatever they say and whoever the man was who wrote them, that I cut my mother a lot of slack.
We may not have the same ideals of marriage, but my mother, for all her flaws, only wants me to be happy.
Maybe she can’t imagine that being alone is any better than being isolated in a marriage. Maybe she thinks the four of us make up for my father’s deficits. Maybe she never expected much more.
I don’t know. But the fact that she worries about it, about me, is the closest thing to love I ever had from my parents.
And that means a lot.
I wasn’t lying when I told Nick that I’m a romantic. Those letters made me realize that I came by it honestly.
Chapter Eleven
Of course, Joel was already at Mrs. Hathaway’s by the time I rolled in.
Jez was waiting, ever patient, in the truck, her chin propped on the steering wheel as she awaited ‘he who fills the dish’. She thumped her tail and accepted a scratch of her ears, her gaze vigilantly fixed on the garden gate where Joel had last been seen.
Mrs. H. and Joel had hit it off, at least. I arrived to find him firmly settled in her kitchen, drinking Earl Grey tea, recounting anecdotes and making a dint in her fresh blueberry muffins. He’s quite a storyteller, our Joel, and I could see that Mrs. H. was charmed.
Something was going right. My apologies were waved off and we adjourned to the garden when I declined a buttery muffin. Joel glanced at my plans as though checking his memory, then gave me a surreptitious nod of approval. I paced off the measurements and explained the drawings, etching the shape and position of beds with fine chalk dust.
Joel dragged out stone samples and built an impromptu mock wall, butting a few pieces of the interlock for the pathway against it. I suggested leaving out some of the stones in the path, and letting thyme fill the gaps, since greening up the stone would soften the look.
She liked that the hellebores had center stage in the plan. They’d occupy the central bed beneath that hydrangea which would have to be moved after all. I tentatively suggested adding three pink ones to the collection, to zing it up, but could see that she had to think about it. People get fixed on all white floral beds and it takes them a while to agree to color, even when it adds subtlety.
I left Mrs. H. a catalogue, filled with pictures of hellebores and dotted with a few post-it notes from me, as well as a copy of the plans and drawings.
It’s a good idea, in my experience, to give people a few days to ru
minate over things like this—if you press for agreement on the first presentation, you’ll probably get it. But then a week or a month later, the client will admit that they wish the path was a little further to the left or something equally difficult to change. It’s a good-sized investment and one worth thinking about.
“Brilliant, Philippa. You can hardly tell the difference in the plans,” Joel said when we were alone in the street. He playfully punched me in the shoulder. “What a star.”
“It was closer than I like. Do you think the paths will be too straight?”
“Nah. It’ll be perfect. She’ll go for it before the weekend, I bet.” I didn’t quite share his confidence but waved gamely as he started his truck. “Say hi to Nick for me. He’s a keeper, Philippa.”
Well, there was nothing to say to that.
The Beast choked on the way back to the office, making a horrible grinding sound that faded into a whimper. I should have known that the comeback couldn’t last. I couldn’t get the engine started again. I couldn’t even get the Beast over to the shoulder and nearly had the door sheared off trying to get out to call for help.
Cell phones suddenly had a certain appeal.
I got took by the tow truck driver, of course, who ruminated over what a big job it was and how far it was to the garage etc. etc. My Visa card started to melt as soon as he had it in his greasy paws. This was only the beginning though, because the mechanic would almost certainly pillage our checking account before he pronounced the job done.
So much for being in the black.
I watched my baby being towed away to oblivion and conceded that it might be a mercy to let it die. There was a depressing thought. I couldn’t flag a cab for love or money and there was no one at the office when I found a payphone and called, so I finally took the bus and walked the last bit back.
A former client phoned as soon as I got in, all in a tizzy because the Japanese maple she had insisted on having wasn’t in bud yet. The tree had cost a fortune, because it was old and beautifully shaped. I had advised against it, recommending that a younger tree would be similar in five or ten years and would cost only a fraction of the price. Also, the older the tree, the less tolerant it is of changes in its living conditions.
Like people, I guess.
I bit back on the urge to shout “I told you so!”
I told her that it might just be slow coming into bud, because of the shock of relocation, but that I would come out the next day to have a look. She, of course, wanted a replacement, as though I could A. conjure a unique specimen from midair and B. afford to just give it away. Old Japanese maples can set one back a lot of bills—I saw one go for $65,000 last year. Yee-haw.
I left a message for Elaine on her cell, which she still wasn’t answering. I begged shamelessly for the loan of her car the next day so I could go and grovel, maybe hex the tree into bud. It was worth a try.
As the shadows fell, I realized that I was back on my familiar turf. Fighting valiantly against adversity, without a hope of winning.
Funny, it didn’t feel that comfortable any more. I felt older tonight, a little more burdened and certainly short of optimism. Nick’s backpack had been in the Beast and I had scooped it up with everything else before the truck got towed away.
Maybe it would provide some post-mortem entertainment value.
I tossed it over my shoulder on my way out the door. The phone rang as I was locking up the office but whoever it was could go stuff themselves. The cab I had called was idling in the lot though and I didn’t intend to let it get away.
They get nervous around here at night, because there aren’t a lot of potential fares. You have to pounce when you have the chance.
I left the phone ringing, and tried to feel some enthusiasm for raw carrots. That was all I had in the fridge and a fine dinner it would be.
Not.
* * *
Nick didn’t have a single thing that was interesting.
While my carrots warmed to perfect serving temperature—there’s an art to consuming a peeled raw carrot—I had unpacked Nick’s bag and spread its contents over the kitchen table.
What a miserable display. Two T-shirts that could have been brand new, a sweatshirt, a plaid shirt and a pair of cords, a fleece jacket, some undies and socks. Everything was neatly folded and fastidiously arranged—heavy stuff at the bottom, wrinkle-ables on top.
Impersonal and replaceable. He could have packed in an Eddie Bauer store at the airport. A compact shaving kit was nestled at the bottom, including a small bottle of cologne.
I opened the bottle and took a whiff, and my toes curled. Just checking. It was the man’s cologne, not him per se, that riled me up. That was good information to have. I noted the brand, just to be sure I didn’t make this particular screw-up again.
I looked into the shadows of the bag, but there wasn’t another thing. Its contents were about as intimate as a government voice mail message. They told me zip, and the man who was the closest living replica to the Sphinx probably liked it that way.
I growled a bit and carefully put everything back, trying to make sure it looked as though I hadn’t touched it. I wasn’t sure why, since I probably had just inherited a couple of new T-shirts for my own. At least they were good thick cotton ones. The teal would suit me.
The phone rang and I picked it up before I thought too much about it.
Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered.
“Did you hear that the Post Office just recalled their latest batch of stamps?”
Number Three son calling in. “Hi Zach. No, I didn’t, but I bet you’re going to tell me why.” I leaned against the counter and smiled. Zach has that effect on people.
Well, people except my parents.
“They had pictures of lawyers on them and people weren’t sure which side to spit on.”
“That’s bad,” I told him, because he expected it. Zach has the greatest store of lawyer jokes known to mankind.
“How can you tell when a lawyer is lying?”
“I dunno, Zach.”
“His lips are moving.”
“Ouch.”
“What do you throw to a drowning lawyer?”
“Go ahead, tell me.”
“His partners.”
That one made me laugh, although I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that I wasn’t thinking of my father or his newest partner. “How are you, Zach?”
“I’m shocked and appalled.”
“Why?” I wasn’t sure whether to expect a confession or a punch line.
I wasn’t expecting him to break into song. His was a terrible cover version of a Tammy Wynette song, “’Cause Your Good Girl is Gonna Go Bad”.
He’d changed “your” to “our”, just for me.
“The world is a little bit poorer because you turned your back on music to become a lawyer,” I informed him, deliberately interrupting the chorus. There’s only so much abuse the ears can take.
“I’m not one yet.”
“Well, it’s just a matter of time.”
“Is it?”
Zach had his insouciant tone, which meant he was up to something. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind.” Not only was he not going to confess, but he changed the subject with lightning speed. There must be something in the drinking water, turning all thirty-something year-old men into clams. “What I want to know is what you’ve been up to. Father is pitching a fit about this Nick Sullivan thing. Is it for real, or are just trying to age him a bit?”
The heat was on.
“Why would I lie about something like that? You know what a lousy liar I am.” I made the carrots dance on the counter, because I was nervous enough that I needed something to do with my hands.
There was a long silence, sufficiently long to convince me that I had already blown my cover.
“Yeah, and I know what a goody two-shoes you are, too.” Zach was teasing, affectionate. “You always did have to show me up. Jeez, Philippa, you ne
arly killed me with the contrast. There you were, every time I screwed up, halo perfectly in place.” I smiled. “What did you do, save up your rebellious urges to use them all at once?”
I laughed. “Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced, so I got a bit bolder. “Maybe it’s true love.”
He snorted whatever he was drinking. “Give me a break, Philippa. Tell me what’s really going on. There’s no such thing as a prodigal daughter and I really don’t appreciate you infringing on my official black sheep turf.”
“Mixed metaphors.”
“So, shoot me. Come on, I want the straight goods.”
The carrots began to polka in drunken sort of way. Hedge, cookie, hedge. “Uh, sounds as though you already think you’ve got some wild theory figured out. Alternatively, you know, you could just believe me.”
“In your dreams. I’m not fooled for a minute, even if everyone else is.” My gut went cold—but then, I knew I was transparent. “The problem is, Philippa, that if you don’t produce Nick Sullivan for dinner on Saturday, everyone’s going to know you’re lying. Why’d you have to pick someone everyone would recognize? You could have pulled a name out of the air, then dragged in any poor sucker to play the part. As a scheme, this one is a bit short-sighted.”
“So maybe it’s the truth.”
“Not a chance.” Zach heaved a heartfelt sigh. “It’s just your sorry lack of experience.”
I chuckled.
“After all I’ve tried to teach you about diabolical planning, this is the best you come up with.” He sighed again. “Philippa, I’m disappointed in you. It’s a shame, a damn shame. Years of brilliant examples of ingenuity were clearly wasted on you...”
I hemmed and I hawed, I tried to buttress my lie, but Zach wasn’t going to let it go. He was on to me and he wanted a story.
The real story.
I wished it was better than it was. Maybe it was just pride that had me insisting the whole thing was true, because the truth was so lame. I got ticked at Mom, I made something up on the spot that would never hold up in the family court.