Three Women Page 2

  One thing she worried about now that she lived alone was getting weird. One of the few advantages she could recognize of being in a relationship was that there was someone always there to act as a check, a balance, a counterweight. If she was paranoid or unobservant or projecting, the other would knock her back on course. After all, what law said she had to see Jake when he came to Boston? If he did invade her territory, she could say she was in Europe. In Australia. Sick with the flu. In New York visiting her mother, Beverly. She was not obligated to begin an affair just because she had been flirting with him for two years on the Internet. For all he knew, she had flirtations going with seventeen other men.

  It had felt so very safe. She had told him things about her life and her feelings that she could not imagine sharing with a man sitting in the same room. She had male colleagues in the law school where she taught, on committees, in court. She had a decent relationship with Rachel’s father, Sam, as long as they weren’t in the same place for too long a time: they could handle about an hour safely. But she would never, never have started this long friendly flirtation if she had ever considered he might appear in front of her. It had felt totally disembodied, a meeting of two minds, an affair made of words alone. She began to remember some of those words. They had shared a fantasy that they were in Paris together, walking streets familiar to both of them. Climbing up among the strange stone houses of the dead in Père Lachaise, kicking up the autumn leaves. Eating crêpes at a pink restaurant way up on Montmartre with Paris stretching to the horizon. Competing in their knowledge and building up a map of their fantasy. He had taken her on a hike high into the Sierra Nevada. She had taken him into court with her, sharing the excitement of confrontation and victory, the desolation and guilt of loss. He had sent her diary entries from a trip to Greenland, on the ice field. She had watched condors take clumsy flight off a cliff in northern Arizona, released into new life in the wild.

  The house she shared in Brookline was a large turn-of-the-century wooden structure painted pale blue with cobalt trim on the gingerbread and railings and window frames. She had the downstairs with spacious rooms and deep closets. Marta had the upstairs and the tiny third floor, under the sloping roof. When they had bought the house together twelve years before, it had been lived in forever by two sisters and a brother, strange wizened spinsters and bachelor who had collected salt and pepper shakers, model trains that ran all over the top floor, matchboxes, postcards, and a great deal of junk. She remembered Jim finding a box labeled string too short to use. The last sister had died and the heirs—distant cousins—put the house on the market as it was, full of dust and old clothes and worn rugs and battered furniture, candle ends, and mismatched crockery. It reeked of sad genteel survival. Marta, Jim, and she had put a great deal of money into the house, dividing it into two apartments with modern kitchens, inviting bathrooms, air-conditioning, up-to-date wiring, while keeping the fine old woodwork, the fireplaces, the stained-glass windows, and the encircling porch. Their house sat upon a high hill, on the curve of Addington Road, a street of occasional brick apartment houses, a few Victorians, some modern houses, and many frame structures about the same age as their own, usually on lots too small for the houses—like their own small backyard sloping downhill to the garage. She had moved to Brookline from the South End of Boston after Elena’s disaster.

  Jim, Marta’s husband, was off at a therapists’ convention. When Suzanne ran upstairs to Marta, her friend was sitting at the table in her old plaid flannel bathrobe reading an article in the Yale Law Journal. Marta waved her hand at the plate of muffins and the pot of coffee. “I haven’t had breakfast,” she realized. “His E-mail has really thrown me off course.”

  “Look, so he told you he might be coming. He may feel that’s only polite. Maybe he’s just as nervous as you are.”

  At night Marta always braided her gray blond hair, now hanging in two long plaits over the shoulders of her bathrobe. Suzanne liked the way Marta looked before she was dressed up for court, for meeting clients. Marta was far more elegant than Suzanne, taller, with prominent cheekbones. They had been friends since law school. They had worked out of the same Women’s Law Commune in the late seventies and then gone into practice with their friend Miles. When they had bought the house together, Jim had still been teaching at Simmons. Now their children were out of the house—although Marta’s son, Adam, and Suzanne’s younger daughter Rachel still came home for school vacations.

  “You think maybe Jake doesn’t really care if we get together?”

  “He may have doubts too. Why wouldn’t he?”

  “So maybe he won’t press me.”

  “So maybe he won’t.” Marta grinned. “Will you be disappointed?” Marta was enjoying this conversation. In their long friendship, Marta had always been the volatile one; Suzanne was the more practical, the one who smoothed things over, the negotiator. Marta was deriving pleasure from seeing Suzanne discombobulated over a man, of all things. “Have you considered maybe you’re just an excuse to stay over Saturday night so he can get a cheaper airfare?”

  As they lingered over muffins and coffee, Suzanne regretted that she had not done her morning exercise routine. She would feel a little off her pace all day. Maybe if she got home at a reasonable time, she could make it up tonight. “I had one of those messages from Rachel that she knows I can’t relate to. It’s like she’s rubbing my nose in it.”

  “You thought she’d go to law school.”

  “Well, why not?” Suzanne ran her fingers through her thick short hair, setting it on end. “She’s bright, she has a good memory, and she’s picked up a certain amount just by osmosis. Looks like we both failed to breed lawyers.” Adam was studying film at NYU.

  “Well, Suzanne honey, don’t despair. Studying to be a rabbi is not quite like becoming a stripper. It’s an honorable profession.”

  “Or a maître d’.” Suzanne shook her head. “Don’t get me started on Elena. In and out of four different colleges and now she seats people in a restaurant.”

  “Kids do what they can,” Marta said. “The carpenter who’s carrying out the renovations at Rackham, Klein and Forbes has a degree from Harvard. He was in computers. Now he makes cabinets.” That was Marta’s firm: she was the Klein.

  “Time to hit the road. Classes, and then I meet my policewoman. Do you want to sit in?”

  “Let me see how my day goes,” Marta said. “I looked over what you gave me, and I think you can make a strong sexual harassment case—provided you get a decent judge. You don’t know yet who you’re going to pull?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Knock ’em dead.” Marta rose, and they went their separate ways into their separate days. Usually they touched base mornings and evenings. They were part of each other’s support system. At times they had been the only support for each other. When Suzanne thought of getting old, of some dim future when she was emeritus at the university, she did not assume her kids would be around, but she always assumed Marta would be.

  She decided she would reply to Jake tonight. She would just acknowledge his mention of a trip east and go on at some length about how busy she was now. That was a nice safe response and committed her to absolutely nothing—which was what she supposed she most desired.

  2

  Suzanne

  Suzanne had just got back from court Thursday and was running a bath when Elena walked in, yelling from the living room, “Mother? Mother!”

  “You startled me!” Suzanne cried, hastily pulling on her terry robe. She shut off the water. “Why didn’t you call?”

  “You know you’re never here, Mother.”

  “Here I am right now. Besides, what are answering machines for?”

  “I always thought it was so you could stand and listen and decide if somebody was worth your attention, before you’d pick up.”

  Suzanne drew a deep breath. Be calm, be calm. She felt rising in herself the particular sharp anxiety tinged with fear she always felt when she had not seen
her elder daughter for a while. “I’ll be right with you.” She rushed into her bedroom to throw on slacks and a sweater. Suzanne was systematic, orderly. She made a joke of it. “I’m the only daughter of an organizer, and wow, am I organized.” She called before going to a friend’s house (except for Marta upstairs), made appointments with everybody including her daughters. She had a daily calendar of activities, appointments, and projects from the mundane (take suit to cleaners; put recycled goods at curb) to the important (work on speech for Harvard women’s law alumnae meeting). She reminded herself in advance to buy presents for her children and her friends, all of whose sizes were kept up-to-date on her computer. Six months in advance, she made appointments with the dentist to have her teeth cleaned, and every November she arranged for Marta and herself to go and have their annual mammograms in January. Marta’s mother had died of breast cancer, so Marta could never bring herself to make the phone call.

  Suzanne realized this habit of meticulously planned days must irritate her older daughter, for Elena had certainly chosen to go to the other extreme, exalting spontaneity. Elena would never say, “I am coming to dinner next Friday,” but would always hedge her bets. “I think I can make it, but I’ll let you know.” It was the adolescent hope that something more exciting than dinner with Mama would turn up, a belief that there were always other possibilities that might unfold before Friday. She understood, but nonetheless, it hurt her feelings.

  Suzanne rushed into the living room. “You’re looking good. Is everything okay, sweetheart?” It was impossible to tell from Elena’s appearance if she were doing well or poorly, for she always looked lovely. Often it startled Suzanne that she had given birth to such a beauty. Elena had her father Victor’s coloring, black hair and instead of Suzanne’s nearsighted green eyes, she had large, large dark brown eyes, doe eyes, dramatic and appealing. She was a good five inches taller than Suzanne (Victor, the Guatemalan politico, had been six feet two). Her skin was olive like her father’s, and her mouth was full and sensual. Nobody ever missed Elena in a crowd. She had a dramatic voice too, in a lower register; Suzanne herself was an alto rather than a soprano. She had often been told her voice led people to expect a bigger woman. Petite Suzanne and her statuesque daughter stood in the living room a bit squared off as always. Suzanne could not help the nails of worry that pounded into her.

  “So how’s the good daughter?”

  “I assume you mean your sister.”

  “Who else would I mean?”

  “She’s working hard at school.”

  “She’s always working hard. Even when she’s asleep, she’s working hard. That’s how good daughters are.”

  “Elena, did you come all the way over here to pick a fight with me about your sister? Please tell me what’s up. Please.”

  Elena threw herself down on the couch. She was wearing a tight short leather skirt that rode up. Suzanne had to control herself not to point that out. She had learned a few things over the years, one of which was never, never to comment on Elena’s clothing or any new body piercings or tattoos she noticed. Various earrings in both ears and her nose stud, but she didn’t observe any new mutilations. She was relieved. Her daughter’s body was so beautiful, and she was always devising what seemed to Suzanne new punishments for it.

  “Do you have a beer? Cold?”

  “Maybe, I’m not sure.” Beer was not something she regularly stocked in the winter. “Wouldn’t you like something to eat? I haven’t eaten yet myself.”

  “I’d rather have beer on an empty stomach. Then I’ll eat a big meal and go swimming.”

  “Elena, is something wrong?”

  “Of course not. What could be wrong with me, except for my existence? I’m sure you’re going to say I told you so.” Elena grimaced and turned away.

  “Told you so about what?”

  “That it wouldn’t work out living with Jennifer. So now she’s moved out on me and I’m getting evicted.”

  “Evicted, why? Do you need money for rent?” She was ready to write a check.

  “What use is that? It’s too late. They’re throwing me out.”

  “But why didn’t you pay your rent?” Suzanne had the familiar sense of being drawn deeper and deeper into a bottomless bog. “Don’t you make enough at that restaurant?”

  “That bitch fired me, that’s why.”

  “Ah. Why?”

  “You think she does anything that makes sense? She felt like it.”

  “If you’ve been fired without cause, I think you have a case.” Suzanne had a hopeful moment: she could be useful to her daughter. She even imagined Elena’s gratitude if she won a case for her.

  “Oh, Mother, don’t be such a lawyer prick. I slapped a customer.”

  “Oh…I’m sure you had good reason.”

  “So I’m going to be out on the street next Friday.”

  Suzanne was silent for a moment. Then she said what she had to. “Of course you can move back in. We can rearrange the rooms—”

  “Don’t act so martyred. I promise I won’t stay long. I wouldn’t move back here if everything wasn’t so fucked up right now.” Elena unfolded herself from the couch and paced to the fireplace and back. “Could we have a fire?”

  “Let’s have supper first. I’ll check about the beer.” Her evening was coming to pieces. She thawed a soup in the microwave. She would pull a couple of baguettes from the freezer and stick them in the oven. While the lamb barley soup heated, she washed greens and put together a salad. With a lot of work sketched out in her head, she had looked forward to collapsing on her comfortable leather couch, her feet in furry slippers up on the padded armrest and her papers for Sherry, the sexually harassed policewoman, on her lap.

  Far from suffering from the empty-nest syndrome her friends had warned her about in tones usually reserved for commiserating about a root canal, Suzanne had flourished. She had expanded deliberately and joyously to fill the apartment, to fill her life. She even had a little time to play now and then on the Internet, to read a novel, to listen to music. She loved living alone, absolutely loved it. She felt so marvelously irresponsible in small details, not judged, not tested, not pushed or resented. She had become used to doing as she pleased with her own space and her free time, such as it was. Now Elena would expect to be taken care of and resent every single thing her mother did for her.

  She had raised her daughters pretty much on her own since Elena was twelve and Rachel was seven, and before that, for Elena’s first five years. She had not been a particularly good mother, too busy, too interested in her own work, too demanding. She could hear Elena talking to Sherlock in the living room. “Sherlock, you’re so sleepy. What a sleeping Sherlock. That’s right, blink. Roll on your back and I’ll rub your wonderful striped tiger tummy…”

  Why couldn’t Elena ever address her with half that affection? Suzanne wondered—putting it on the agenda to bring up with Marta—if she was not a deeply irritating person, infuriating. Suzanne had always had good tight women friends, but she had also frequently annoyed many other women. They seemed to find her hard, uppity, lacking in the middle class kissy-face social graces. She never made much small talk or gave polite compliments. She was a good litigator, a good hired or pro bono gun, but a crappy hostess. Unfortunately, one of the women she most annoyed was her own daughter. Calm down, she said to herself, at least this time the problem is just money and a job. No drugs, no unsuitable men, Elena isn’t pregnant or in trouble with the law. She should be relieved, but her anxiety remained. When Elena was fifteen, Suzanne discovered how well her daughter could lie to her, and she had never quite recovered from that shock. The doubt always quivered there, was she being fooled, was she fooling herself about Elena?

  Over supper, she thought aloud. “So you need to move in probably over this weekend?”

  “I’m not working, so one day is like another.”

  “Not to me,” Suzanne said, then softened her voice. “So we should get my gym equipment out of the old playro
om.”

  “I am not going to sleep in that room off the kitchen. You’d wake me every damned morning at six. No thank you.”

  “All right, you can use Rachel’s room. She isn’t about to come home until spring break at the earliest.”

  “I don’t want Rachel’s room. I want mine.”

  Suzanne took a deep breath. “Elena, that’s fixed up as my office. It has been for six years. I have no place else to put my files, my computer—”

  “You have an office at school.”

  “I don’t keep my case work there. It isn’t secure and the university doesn’t approve of law school faculty conducting private practice on the premises. I have to work at home and I can’t move six years of accumulation out of my office.”

  “It was supposed to be my room.”

  “Elena, you moved out with great fanfare six years ago. Did you want me to keep it as a shrine?”

  Elena laughed. “With candles burning day and night and incense and flowers.”

  “Incense makes me sneeze,” Suzanne said reasonably. “I can go buy some flowers.”

  “It’s only for a month or so till I get another job. Rachel can stay in that stupid room off the kitchen. I’m sure she gets up at six every morning and thanks God he didn’t make her me.”

  “In some ways, your sister has always admired you. Sometimes she envied you.”

  Elena grimaced. “Because she has no idea how to talk to men.”

  Because Rachel looked like Suzanne except for lighter hair. She remembered Rachel crying in high school, My life would be so different if I were beautiful like her, my life would be much better. Suzanne had a brief impulse to tell Elena about Jake and his plan to appear in the flesh. Once she had almost told Rachel when they were chatting about the Internet, but on reflection, she had not considered it becoming to inform her daughters that she had a long and intense flirtation going with a man she had never met, and was now terrified to meet: an environmental activist dogged by the FBI who wrote her an ecstatic two-page E-mail about butterflies in Costa Rica. This man who had lain down in front of bulldozers had sent her a perfect little carved seal from the Inuit and another time a salmon smoked till it resembled a piece of wood. This man had taken a ship into a nuclear test zone, and now was threatening to invade her own territorial waters.