Part 8 (1/2)
”He's about eighty.”
”Oh. He's eighty,” said Jeffrey, so Ruth knew his wife was listening. ”That's different. Frida made him sound like some kind of gold-digger.”
”Harry isn't a gold-digger!”
”You mean Richard.”
”Yes, Richard. I've known him for fifty years. He isn't after me for my money.”
”But he is after you?” asked Jeffrey.
”I think, yes, he is after me. Is that all right with you, darling?”
”What are we talking here? Companion? Boyfriend? Husband?” There was a boyish tremor in his voice, but it seemed to stem from embarra.s.sment rather than anxiety. He mastered it by clearing his throat.
”I think it would be unfair on you boys to drag mud over the question of inheritance, at my age,” said Ruth.
”What?”
”I'm not going to marry him.”
”I know you need companions.h.i.+p. I worry about you out there on your own, I really do.”
”I have Frida.”
”And thank G.o.d for Frida,” said Jeffrey.
”Does Richard have your permission, then, to be after me?”
”You don't need my permission, Ma. This is about what you want. But I'd like to meet him before you make any decisions.”
”The lilies only have three weeks or so,” said Ruth.
”What was that?”
”He wants me to see the lilies. They're pink.”
Jeffrey cleared his throat; Ruth thought she might have said something wrong.
”Pink lilies, right, okay. Where does he live?”
”In Sydney, like your father.”
”Are you going to invite him for Christmas?” asked Jeffrey. ”So we can all meet him? Oh-but where would he sleep?” Small, practical details of this nature always bothered him, even as a young boy; and then he seemed to realize he'd asked a more personal question than he'd intended, and he said, ”I mean, with all of us staying.”
”And Frida already in Phil's room,” said Ruth. ”Or maybe she wouldn't want to stay for Christmas.”
”What do you mean?”
”She'll probably want to spend Christmas with George.”
Frida appeared, without sound, at the door between the kitchen and the hall. Her hair was now a light reddish brown, rounded and s.h.i.+ny, like a polished apple, and her face was terribly blank.
”But why is Frida in Phil's room?” asked Jeffrey.
”Well, she lives there now,” said Ruth, irritated; how many times did she have to say it?
”Is she there? Put her on.”
Already Frida's hand was stretched out. Ruth offered up the receiver like a heifer to Juno. Frida's voice sounded bright when she said, ”Jeff,” into the phone, but her flat eyes remained on Ruth's face.
”Yes, Jeff,” said Frida, with a n.o.ble weariness. ”Yes, that's right. I a.s.sumed she'd told you.”
Jeff's voice was so small on the other end of the line-just a pitch, really, rather than words-and this made it seem as if an argument was already over and he had lost. Frida stood, waiting, as Jeff's voice buzzed, and her eyes flicked from Ruth's face to her own fingernails, which she held away from the shadow of her body.
”Look, Jeff, this is between you and your mother. Who hasn't been well these last couple of weeks, just FYI. She didn't want to worry you-overdoing things, is all, with Richard and everything. She's no spring chicken. I wanted to be on hand. We talked it through, didn't we, Ruthie?”
Frida didn't look at Ruth, who retreated into the dining room, annoyed at her son for making a fuss. This is my house, she thought. It isn't Phil's room; it's mine. If I want to install one thousand Fridas in Phil's room, one thousand Richards in Jeff's room-in my room-then I will. And Jeffrey didn't seem to care one bit about the lilies, which would be long gone by Christmas.
”Just some tiredness, loss of appet.i.te, nothing serious,” said Frida into the phone. ”And we're much better now, aren't we, Ruthie?”
”Yes!” piped Ruth from the dining room.
”You go right ahead and do that, Jeff,” said Frida. ”Look, I didn't see the need. I'm a trained nurse, and the only person whose time I'm willing to waste is my own. All right, first thing in the morning. You're welcome. Not at all. There's no need, Jeff-I'm happy to do it. And she likes the company, the dear. Don't you, Ruthie? All right, now.” Frida turned and carried the handset, on the end of its long white cord, to Ruth, who held it with reluctance to her ear.
”Ma, if you're sick, you've got to tell me. I want you to tell me. All right?” Jeffrey's voice was exasperated, like a boy's, as if tired of these adult games from which he was unjustly excluded.
”Actually,” she said, ”I don't have to tell you anything. What do you think of that?”
And she hung up, or tried to; but she was so far from the wall, with all that cord between them, that she succeeded only in dropping the receiver. It rolled stupidly on the floor until Frida picked it up, looked at it as if she'd never seen its like, and then replaced it in its cradle.
”Thank you,” said Ruth.
The phone began to ring again, but Frida only looked at Ruth with that big, blank face and shook her head as she walked away towards Phil's room. The phone rang and rang, and Ruth didn't answer it until she heard a door slam; then she did. It was Jeffrey, of course, upset.
”Did you hang up on me?” he demanded, and Ruth, until that moment proud of her defiance, repented and said, ”I dropped the phone.”
Then he was warm and fatherly. ”I just feel that one of us should come out there and meet this woman who's living in your house,” he said.
”You'll meet her at Christmas.”
”She calls you Ruthie.”
”No, she doesn't,” said Ruth.
”What are you paying her?”