On Turpentine Lane(39)

“Was she there?”

“No, of course not.”

“That’s next. Mark my word. Did you see the painting that was the catalyst? It had other symbols in there that only the artist and his patron-paramour could translate . . . hearts, arrows, and apparently a bed floating in the sky. The nerve!”

I’d looped my arm through hers, pretending it was weather related, the sidewalk slick. I said, “I can’t tell—are you more sad than angry? Or vice versa?”

“I’m filing for divorce is how I am! I want the house and alimony and whatever else I can get.”

“We have no-fault divorce here,” I reminded her.

“I don’t care! There must be a loophole! And don’t worry—I’m not using Joel’s spineless divorce lawyer. I’ll drive to Boston if I have to. I want a shark.”

“Is a divorce worth the trouble? At this stage of life?”

“What stage? The stage where your husband thinks he’s forty years old and can’t keep it in his pants? That one?”

I said, “I think I’m getting a clearer picture of angry versus sad.”

“It’s bubbling up. In a good way. Maybe I just needed some fresh air and a sounding board.”

I asked if she’d told anyone else.

“Not yet. I considered confiding in Aunt Elaine, of course. And Marjorie and Naomi. But then I thought, Everyone knows that my husband moved out. They didn’t like that one bit, but they got used to it. So I decided to let sleeping dogs lie. Do I really need to say, ‘I have an update. Henry has a girlfriend, in fact, his soul mate, and he’s moving into her swanky house with her and her two children.’?”

I said, “I wish you’d come to me when you found out.”

“But you were a mess—first that nonsense with the job, then your nerves about buying the house, then breaking up with Stuart.”

“It would’ve taken my mind off all of that.”

She patted my arm and said I seemed to be doing better, parents’ divorce notwithstanding. And she wanted me to keep the hat, which made me look like a Lapland schoolgirl—in a good way.

By now we’d walked all the way to Turpentine. “Do you want to come in?” I asked. “Or do you want me to drive you home?”

“That’s going to be hard since you left your car in my driveway. But whose car is this?”

“Nick’s. My coworker’s. He lives here now.”

“Well, well,” she said.

“Not like that. He needed a place, and there wasn’t anything good on the market.”

“Have I met him?”

Had I dragged her to a recent ECD fund-raiser/game/dance recital/theater production/reunion? If you’d met Nick, you’d remember, I thought. “Unlikely,” I said.

She asked the time. I checked my phone. “Almost six.”

“Let’s have a drink,” she said, on the porch now, hand on the doorknob. “A good stiff one.”

“Is it all right to speak freely in front of Nick—about you and Dad?”

“I look forward to it,” she said. “You know how long I’ve had to keep this quiet?”

“Weeks.”

“At least.”

“Nick?” I called, as soon as I closed the front door behind us. “My mother’s here.”

“Nancy,” she corrected.

“Want me to come down?”

“Please do,” my mother called back. “I’m dying to meet you. Do you have any vodka?”

Within seconds, Nick was descending the stairs in jaunty fashion, looking Country Day casual in corduroys and flannel. Halfway down, he asked, grinning, “On the rocks?”

“Way past that,” my mother said. “Heading for divorce court.”

I put my arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “My father is having an extramarital affair. She’s doing amazingly well, though, aren’t you?”

“She’s half his age!” was her next outburst. “I’m usually a dignified person, but it’s been bottled up for weeks.”

“I know it’s very hard,” said Nick. “I haven’t gone through a divorce, but I’ve recently broken up with someone. Maybe we should have that drink and toast . . . what shall we toast? Eyes forward? Happier days ahead?”

Was that a nudge from my mother’s elbow? Probably.

Many hours later, after vodka martinis, a bottle of wine, all the cheese, salami, nuts, and crackers on hand, and back-to-back Spencer Tracy movies on Turner Classics, my mother was still there. The snow was coming down, wet and heavy. Nick’s car didn’t have snow tires, his blood-alcohol level was DUI-worthy, my mother hadn’t worn boots, and multiple calls to Joel had gone straight to voice mail.

“Nights aren’t great,” I heard her confide to Nick.

He had toothbrushes at the ready for potential lady guests. I lent her a nightgown. She got my bed, and I slept on the couch.





26





What’s This About?


HUNGOVER AND ACHY from a lumpy night on my three-cushion couch, did I need the doorbell ringing at 8:35 on a Sunday morning? Barefoot and annoyed, I padded to the front door. Pulling aside an inch of its curtain, I recognized Brian Dolan, who, like everyone else, was an acquaintance if not a classmate of my brother’s. Less pleasant update: he was now on the Everton police force, in full uniform and unsmiling on my front porch.