French Braid(23)

She phoned Robin at the store and read it to him. “Huh,” he said. “I guess now he wishes he’d paid more attention in math class.”

“He paid attention!” she said. “It’s not his fault he’s not mathematical!”

“Huh.”

Robin was still unhappy that David planned to major in English. (He wanted to be a playwright.) To hear Robin tell it, English was the most useless subject possible. (And let’s not even talk about playwriting.)

She called Lily next. One of the benefits of hearing from David was that it gave Mercy an excuse to get in touch with her. “So,” she said, after she had read the letter aloud. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”

“I’m feeling fine.”

“I mean—”

“Yes, I know what you mean.”

“So did you…have you thought about—”

“Don’t push me, Mom! Okay? I can handle this!”

“Yes, of course you can, but—”

“I’m sorry now I told you.”

Well, at least she wasn’t crying anymore. That was an improvement. Mercy cleared her throat. “I’m wondering,” she said delicately, “whether you might consider having a nice long talk with B.J. and telling him the truth straight out and asking if the two of you could start over.”

“Mom, you do not have the slightest inkling what I’m dealing with here.”

“No,” Mercy said, “I don’t. I certainly don’t. But you’re going to need someone to support you, sweetie. And I do know this much: marriages have stages. They have incarnations, almost. You can be in a good marriage and you can be in a bad marriage, and they can both be the same one but just at different times.”

“Well, mine is bad and then it’s more bad,” Lily said.

“Oh, that can’t be true!”

“We have absolutely nothing in common.”

“Lots of couples have nothing in common,” Mercy told her.

“That may be fine for you, Mom, but I’m not going to settle.”

“Settle!” Mercy burst out. She felt stung. “Well, aren’t you special!”

Click. Lily hung up.

Good riddance, Mercy thought. And then she spent some time stalking around the house making exasperated tch! sounds and coming up with other, more pointed things that she could have said to Lily.



* * *



—

Ever since Robin had been able to afford an assistant, he had made a practice of taking Saturdays off. This was Mercy’s idea. She’d told him he should spend more time with his children. As it turned out, though, his children were fairly busy with activities of their own, and so he ended up retreating to the basement, where he happily puttered away at various projects while Mercy took the car and ran errands. Then in the evening they would have a nice dinner together, occasionally at a restaurant but more often at home. Robin said the way restaurants marked up their prices was highway robbery.

This Saturday, they stayed home. Mercy fixed Polish sausage links with hash browns, a favorite of his, and she opened a Natty Boh for him without his asking. She herself had a glass of Chianti, and she put some Frank Sinatra on the record player, and she wore the V-necked dress he liked and a little makeup, although not so much that he could say he preferred her to look like her natural self. He did notice the effort she’d gone to. “Well, isn’t this nice,” he said when he sat down. “A vase of flowers, even!”

“It’s our first Saturday night as an old couple,” she said jokingly. “I thought we should make an occasion of it.”

“Aw, honey, you could never look old.”

She unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap. “Speaking of old,” she said, “I’m thinking I’ll just be twiddling my thumbs now that I don’t have anyone to do for anymore.”

“You’ve got me to do for!”

“Yes, but…and so it occurred to me I might step up my painting some.”

“Excellent idea,” he said. He helped himself to the mustard.

“Even try making some money, if I can.”

He set the mustard jar down. He said, “Now, Mercy, we’re doing fine for money. There is no need whatsoever for you to go out to work.”

“Oh, I’m not going out to work! I’m just thinking I could sell my paintings to customers.”

He knotted his eyebrows. He said, “Well, fine, honey, but I’m not sure if—”

“Here’s the thing,” she said. “You know how house-proud some people are. Even you and me! Why, I am just always so pleased when our wisteria starts blooming up the left-hand side of the porch and passersby stop and tell me how pretty it’s looking.”

“Yes, well…”

“So, house portraits! Get it? Portraits of people’s houses! I would advertise; I’d say, ‘Artist willing to come to your house and figure out its aura.’?”

“Its what?”

“Its special, unique character. You know? Like, well, if I was to paint our own house I’d zero in on that wisteria. Or, remember the picture I did a while back, the one of little Robby’s high chair in the dining room?”

He cocked his head.