A Long Island Story Page 12

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘The girl! Nothing to be alarmed about!’

  ‘Your dinner’s on the table,’ said Perle. ‘We already ate.’

  He wondered what he’d done wrong this time.

  Addie had been coming to the bungalow for many years, even before the children were born, but she’d never got to know the village very well. She could navigate between the high spots, up and down Main Street, and onto New York Avenue: the supermarket, the delicatessen, baker’s, butcher’s, one or two shops for basic things, the pharmacy – but it surprised her that there were so many roads, so complexly intertwined. She laughed at the description. So many? Five? Six? Complexly? Intertwined? What a dope she was, how lacking any sense of direction. Ben used to joke that when they had a new apartment it took a week for her to find the kitchen. When, occasionally, she had to drive in DC she invariably left an extra hour to find her way, correct it, ask directions, consult a map (she wasn’t very good at maps, too much plot and not enough character) before arriving, usually a bit ahead of time, sometimes late. Once or twice she just turned around and went home. She got lost then, too.

  She looked at the note in her hand. Huntington Paediatric Practice and an address somewhere on Green Street. That was off Main, according to her local map, quite a large road running to the left as you went up the hill. She’d only been there once and had no memory of where it was. She’d passed Green Street many times but never learned its name or turned up it; it might as well have been Timbuctoo. Unsure of whether or not she would actually go, or if she did whether she would find it in time, she’d called to enquire about their opening times and a haughty receptionist asked if she needed to make an appointment.

  No, I’m casing the joint for drugs, she wanted to say. I’m addicted to aspirins, can’t get enough of the little darlings.

  ‘No, that’s not necessary. I just need to know when you close.’

  ‘Four o’clock,’ came the voice, even cooler and more distant. ‘Sharp.’

  At four-fifteen Addie was outside the front gate, trying to look relaxed and natural, as if just walking by, which she did several times, in each case keeping an eye on the door. Jonathan’s maroon Buick was parked by the side of the white shingled house, which before its conversion might have housed a small family. The rooms were painted in warm colours, light yellow, pink and sky blue, with pictures for children of all ages; toys and games were kept in a box by the sofa, a table was set up for children to draw or crayon on. It was welcoming, and the timid children and concerned parents who availed themselves of it must have felt reassured. Until they met Mrs Downing, looming behind the reception desk. Every childhood space has to have a dragon. It said little for Jonathan’s attentiveness that he hadn’t slayed his.

  Just past four-thirty, as Addie walked back towards the house from the Main Street end, he appeared at the door, closed it gently and trod down the steps. His right hand combed through his hair, not so much to rearrange it – it was short and neat – but in a gesture of weariness. God knows what he’d seen that day. She thought of his voice when he’d described the crippled children, his distress that he could do nothing to cure or to ameliorate such suffering. Had he seen one today? Or perhaps just a child with leukaemia? Too bad: not enough strep throats to go around.

  She halted by a picket fence fifty yards away, shrank back slightly, gave herself a sharp pinch on her fleshy upper arm. It hurt, but propelled her forward. Why would pain and an incipient bruise do that?

  He was about to get into his car as she walked up the drive, uncertain what sort of noise or language might catch his attention in a natural way. A cough? A cheery hello? But he heard the sound of her shoes against the drive and turned, caught her eye, paused, didn’t say anything, let her come to him.

  She suppressed her quick response – Christ, you’re good at this, you’ve done this before – in favour of a nod, a shy smile and hello.

  ‘So sorry to bother you. Have you got a minute?’

  She was a few feet away now, standing still.

  ‘Of course.’ There was a pause that was a couple of beats too long. ‘And tell me, how is . . .’ He stopped to think for a moment – was he putting her in her place? What place? – ‘Becca? Better now, I hope.’ He paused. ‘Presume.’

  Presume! What presumption! He was as uneasy as she was, had reverted to being a doctor, formal but – she could see it in his stance, the slight lean forward, the too insistent eye contact – incipiently available.

  ‘Becca. Better, she’s getting better now.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Thanks to you, Mother and I were so grateful for your help.’

  ‘Lovely woman, your Mother. Makes great strudel! How is she?’

  ‘Fine, just fine, for a while . . . She’ll find something else to fret about!’

  He laughed.

  ‘Look,’ he said, touching her upper arm just where it hurt. ‘I don’t have anywhere special to go. Would you like to come into the office and have a coffee? Or perhaps something stronger?’

  She drew away.

  ‘Not just now, I have to get away. I’ll be missed . . . But perhaps some other time?’

  ‘I’d like that very much,’ he said.

  She had an impulse to shake hands, to find a way to touch him as he had touched her, pat him on the shoulder perhaps, but turned and retreated down the drive. Her legs were working, just.

  She didn’t look back at him until she had turned onto the sidewalk. He was standing still, looking after her.

  She walked back to Main Street, turned left and crossed the street towards the supermarket (and the dreaded Nathan Hale Drive), thinking to get some cough drops for Becca, something soothing for her throat, maybe those root beer ones, when she was startled by a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Addie! What are you doing here?’

  What was she doing there, indeed, she hardly knew. The uncertainty must have passed across her features, or perhaps something more telling, evasiveness perhaps, or humiliation?

  Michelle looked at her more closely, put the brake on the baby carriage, checked that baby Charlotte was asleep, her little darling, her best, with her captivating smile, a good sleeper, a wonderful feeder, just looking at her made Michelle yearn to offer a breast, all those babies being fed that disgusting formula, it was shocking!

  Addie knew Michelle breastfed the girls, had often seen her in her own apartment, or in a shaded recess at the bungalow when the men weren’t around, or knew enough to withdraw, had seen her unbutton her blouse, pull her bra aside, release the enormous breast, place the engorged brown nipple into the hungry mouth, baby and mother intensely satisfied, smiling into each other’s eyes. It was disgusting.

  Addie looked odd, flushed and anxious. Michelle was unused to that, usually felt immediately on the defensive around her sister-in-law, but now for some unaccountable reason she was in the ascendency. She didn’t know, quite, how to press home this advantage, was unsure whether it was right to do so with Becca still sick in bed at the bungalow, Ben in Washington, Addie marooned with her parents. Michelle wouldn’t have minded so, was always happy to spend days at the bungalow and beach with the kids, but she had a home to go back to, a loving husband and growing family.

  She’d read an article once – was it in Reader’s Digest? – that only children were confident and assertive, not having had to fight for attention with needy siblings. But her childhood experience was just the opposite, she’d felt taken for granted, and if she was to get any attention, had to clear a space, make herself agreeable, assert, quietly, her value in the household. She should have been adored – if she were a boy she would have been! – but her parents were simply too busy scratching a living in their small shoe shop in Long Island City to pay her much mind. Except, of course, that she could help out, and from her earliest days they regarded her as one of the staff. She could dust, sweep up after the shop closed, stock the shelves where she could reach high enough. Unpaid, of course, without holidays
or rights. But of course, for her parents too, there were no holidays and no rights, and if they were paid, by themselves, it was never enough.

  A functionary whose existence was defined by the needs of others, she had no right to an education. Though studious by nature, anxious to learn, to please, to excel, she was withdrawn from school at fifteen to work full time behind the counter, sometimes helping ladies to fit too-small shoes on their too-large feet. It was her fate, if she acceded to it, but she did not. If she was not going to be granted an education, she would have an even better thing, a husband. She kept an eye out. She was a pretty girl, always slightly overdressed and made up, to her mother’s consternation, but who knew on which day Mr Right, or even Mr Pretty Good, might pass through the shop door?

  Her parents, their cramped shop and tiny apartment, were like metaphors from which she longed to escape. Not in some worthy way to better herself – though she ardently wished to do so – but simply to get the hell out of there. That was how she had put it, it was accurate, a bit risqué, a bit dismissive. Modern. She said it to herself every day, a mantra to keep her going, I have to get the hell out of here, and felt both proud and ashamed as she did so.

  It is only those who lack a college education who feel how important it is to have one, how wonderful an opportunity. Addie took hers for granted: two college educations, hardly referred to the experiences at all, was often rude about her former teachers, unwilling to acknowledge the gift she had been given. Maurice had paid through the nose for it, he always did. There was no evidence so far as Michelle could see that Addie was grateful. It was her due. She wore her education effortlessly, and Michelle, however much she tried, could not suppress her envy, nor her sense of inferiority. In Addie’s presence she felt ignorant, though she knew she read more, and more deeply, than her sister-in-law. Yes, in spite of the babies, was more attuned to the spirit of the age, kept up with the news, read the latest novels when she could sneak an hour before sleep. And lovemaking.

  ‘Is Becca any better?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe a little. She’s been pretty miserable.’

  ‘Poor thing. But those antibiotics are like a miracle, she’ll soon be on the mend.’

  Michelle had called and talked to Perle – Addie pleaded a headache and wouldn’t come to the phone – and was up on the news. Family, family was what mattered, and she rang each morning to get updates.

  ‘I gather Jonathan Rose called by . . .’

  Addie nodded. Michelle never missed a trick, without a change of inflection she nevertheless made it sound as if a doctor’s visit was a form of flirtation, of courtship.

  ‘He’s very attentive,’ she said. ‘Not many doctors make home visits these days, they like you to come to them, no matter how sick you are . . .’

  ‘It’s a matter of what the disease might be,’ said Addie darkly, unwilling to shift from medical to personal grounds. ‘These days you have to be so careful, it’s like a plague.’

  Michelle shuddered, looked at Charlotte asleep beside her, banished the invasive image.

  ‘You’re right, of course. And anyway, who wouldn’t welcome a visit from the dashing Dr Rose?’ She paused for a moment, for too long. ‘I saw you walking down Green Street. Did you go to his office?’

  Had she winked? It was intolerable. Had Perle noticed something, conveyed it over the phone with a grunt of amused disapproval? If not a wink, some sort of smirk then. Michelle’s face made an unusual set of grimaces and infoldings, as if she were sucking two lemons at once.

  ‘You have to watch him, that one, he’s a bit of a devil . . .’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve only met him a couple of times, last summer when Jake hurt his thumb, and before that when Becca had the flu. He was very helpful, very competent we thought. Ben likes him.’

  ‘Everybody likes him, he knows it, he courts it, ingratiates himself, craves admiration, needs to be doted on. Ever since his divorce . . .’

  ‘He’s divorced?’

  ‘Couple of years ago. She’s lovely, they had a couple of little ones, and she caught him . . . you know? Seeing another woman? I guess it’s like an occupational hazard. He spends his days with anxious young mothers, harassed and exhausted, who feel as attractive as yesterday’s leftovers, and there he is, right in their faces, an arm on the shoulder, warmth, eye contact . . . Like shooting fish in a barrel, isn’t that the expression?’

  She was looking Addie right in the face, would not withdraw her glance. She knew.

  Addie tried to still her humiliation, give nothing away, but she blushed easily and was not a good or natural liar.

  A fish! A barrel! How utterly demeaning to think of herself swimming in circles waiting for the shot to ring out, the splash of the bullet, belly turned up. So what would he do with her then, eat her with horseradish? Stupid metaphor, stupid goddamn woman!

  ‘I’m so sorry we haven’t been able to visit,’ said Michelle, ‘but it’s best to keep the children apart until Becca isn’t contagious any more. Perhaps you’d like to come to supper with us one night? Tomorrow maybe?’ She paused. ‘Maybe I could invite the Silbers for a drink. I gather you haven’t been in touch with them, what with one thing and another. They understand, I told them what’s been going on.’

  The Silbers! Addie had quite forgotten about them. Was it rude not to have been in touch, as Michelle was suggesting? Why? They had shown them the apartment, indicated when it might be available. They’d been told that a decision was in the offing but that it was complicated and might take a while. Presumably if Addie and Ben didn’t snap up their damn apartment some other dopes would?

  Addie declined the invitation to supper – ugh! – promised to call the Silbers, waved an insincere goodbye with her index finger, turned her back and headed down the hill towards her car, if only she could remember where it was.

  She’d learned one thing, though. Jonathan Rose was attractive, she wanted him but would not and could not have him, and that her inner organs were intact and functioning. It came as something of a relief. Huntington was too small, she had no privacy even to make a phone call, though, come to think of it, she might sneak to Sally’s to make the calls. But then her friend would know, and though she wouldn’t be disapproving, quite, she would be interested, which was worse. And Michelle would find out, God knows how, but sure as shooting. No. No Jonathan Rose, best keep him as a figure of temptation and a reminder that she still had the old black magic, if only she could find someone to share it with.

  Dear Ben,

  Well, it’s been a bit of a business here. Becca has strep throat and has been in bed for a couple of days – I called you one night but you weren’t in, or not answering the phone – and the doctor came and prescribed antibiotics, which are starting to work. My mother got hysterical as soon as the little one got a fever – it came on at the beach – kept rubbing and examining her arms and legs, preparing them for the iron lung. It made me furious, but I got infected by it too, and by the time that oleaginous Dr Rose came we were both a little overwrought. It’s all settled down now.

  I bumped into Michelle in the village today and she intimated – a bit aggressively, I thought – that the Silbers have been sitting by their goddamn telephone waiting for us to confirm that we want their goddamn apartment. Well – surprise! – I don’t! They are moving at the end of August, and it is too much, too soon. This is not a decision we can rush, and I don’t believe for a moment – as I keep saying and keep saying – that Huntington is the right place for us, or for raising children, whatever the hordes of new suburbanites might think. It’s dull, it’s ingrown, it’s provincial, it is infected by relatives. Please, please, I beg of you, please keep an open mind on this.

  I know I keep saying this. I’m sorry. I don’t so much mind being a bore, but I don’t want to turn into a nag. And of course I know that the decision is more up to you than me, really, because you have to find the best place to set up a practice and make a living.

&n
bsp; Sally says that the local schools are going to be hiring more social workers in the coming year or two. I can hardly bear to think of it. I know you will see this as confirmation that Long Island is the right choice for us, and I find myself feeling that too, damn it. It would just be so nice, so utterly wonderful, to be at work again, having my own place and earning my own money, even if it is with my head down the social work toilet. I won’t drown, anyhow there’s other job possibilities. I’m looking into them, just in case . . .

  I knew I shouldn’t have told you about this, but I can’t be bothered to tear this up and start again. So try not to have renewed hope in your heart, or to be thinking positive thoughts, not about this place.

  There is no need for children to move school at the start of a new year, they can join a class at any time. I checked. So whether it is here (ugh) or somewhere else (hooray) there is no hurry save that generated at the DC end. How is that going? I feel a bit starved for news, or conversation, my mother clucks round Becca, strokes her, caters to Jake, spends her time in the kitchen. I hardly see Maurice, who makes himself scarce, either in the city or the garage, banging away. Banging away? Get it? I made a pun!

  I want to know what you are thinking and feeling. Do write me an extra good letter, like you can and used to.

  Love

  Addie

  PS I wrote two letters in a row! You owe me big time!

  Becca, being six years old, had never read The Magic Mountain, though she would have wondered from the title if it were some sort of children’s book. But unversed as she was in the ways of Swiss sanatoria and tubercular patients, she nevertheless did a reasonable impression of a delicate child taking the air, anxious not to exert herself, breathing slowly and evenly, waited on hand and foot, lest her infection deepen and a crisis occur. Doing nothing, elegantly. On her first day out of bed she put on her best dress, a sun hat with blue daisies against a yellow ground, and shuffled her way slowly onto the porch, demanding a glass of lemonade with ice. She rested on a recliner, pulled the awning so that no sun got in her eyes, closed them, lay back, it felt wonderful. Her throat wasn’t so sore any more, but she didn’t tell anyone, swallowed gingerly, gave little coughs, wiped her mouth delicately with a hankie.