Part 12 (1/2)
”J.J. was a good man,” Catherine said, her eyes softening. ”I know losing their father has been a huge thing for both Shelby and Trip. Claire was devastated when her father and I divorced, and he hasn't disappeared from her life. She still sees him regularly.”
It made sense that J.J.'s death would affect Shelby and Trip's behavior. How could it not? But Vivien had no idea what would help other than time.
”Did you know J.J. well?” Vivi asked.
Catherine looked out at the field, her gaze seeking out her daughter. ”Oh, about as well as you know any neighbor. After Charles moved out, J.J. used to help me with things around the house when I needed it. I used to be in the neighborhood book club with Melanie.”
There was a roar as the Pemberton quarterback sent the ball flying down the field where it was caught handily. The receiver was taken down just a couple of yards from the end zone.
For the rest of the game, Vivi split her attention between her niece and nephew, the parade of students, and Catherine Dennison, who turned out to be a real font of information about Pemberton and the suburbs surrounding it. As long as she was able to get in the occasional boast about Claire, who was apparently not only a prodigy but one of Pemberton's most popular students, Catherine seemed happy to answer any question Vivien raised.
To supplement Catherine's insights, Vivien eavesdropped on the conversations around her. Mostly the parents complained about their children's demanding schedules, which depended on constant chauffeuring and frequent check writing. They complained of feeling overwhelmed, overscheduled, and overextended. But underneath the complaints Vivi heard their pride in all the things their children had undertaken. In how attractive and well rounded they would appear when all those things could be put on those all-important college applications.
”What are you doing?” Catherine asked late in the fourth quarter when she caught Vivien leaning perilously close to one of the players' mother who was complaining that the harsh economic climate had forced her and her husband to cut out their personal trainer. ”If you lean over any farther, you're going to be sitting in her lap.” She frowned slightly, though no corresponding lines appeared on her forehead. ”You certainly do ask a ton of questions.”
Vivien shrugged and smiled. ”Just curious,” she said as innocently as she could. ”Occupational hazard, I guess.”
16.
ON SUNDAY NIGHT while Melanie, Clay, and the kids settled in front of the family room television, Vivien went upstairs where she sat on her bed and pulled out her laptop.
Tentatively she began to turn her observations from Friday night's football game into a lead. There were a few false starts, but ultimately she typed, Greetings from suburbia, where children are the suns around which parents revolve. In truth, children are their parents' reason for being, not to mention their reason for being here.
Vivien thought about all that she'd seen and heard since she'd arrived: the hockey practices at six A.M. for children barely big enough to hold a hockey stick. Weekday volunteer s.h.i.+fts at school, afternoons, evenings, and weekends crammed full of extracurricular activities. Busy children were a badge of belonging. The overscheduling was something to complain about, only the complaints were a socially acceptable form of bragging.
They are driving before the sun comes up and long after it's gone down, she wrote. They are fund-raisers, boosters, ticket takers, concessionaires, burger flippers, timekeepers, and pregame meal providers. They fill the stands of every sport known to man and a few I'd never heard of before arriving here. They man the welcome desks, phone switchboards, media centers, and copy machines at their children's schools. They are involved in virtually everything their children do from the cerebral to the physical. On the weekends they are coaches and team moms, and there are teams for everything. Because clearly if an activity exists-it's even better if your child competes in it. They are exhilarated by their children's successes and depressed by their failures, though the word ”failure” is rarely used. Vivien made a note to address this concept in a future column.
Weekends are so jam-packed that fathers and working mothers are relieved to return to the office on Monday morning so that they can slacken the pace. They're exhausted from supporting their children's busy lives. It makes one wonder if this busy life is simply a subst.i.tute for ”parenting.” After all, if everyone is so exhausted all the time, less genuine interaction is required.
Vivien continued with this line of thought for several paragraphs, then reread what she had written. It was, perhaps, a bit harsh; she cringed at the idea of including Melanie, who worked and parented single-handedly, in this blithe condemnation. And it was possible that city dwellers did the same revolution around their offspring. But she left it as it was. There was not a line she'd written that was untrue.
When I was a child, she wrote in conclusion, children fit into their parents' lives. Today, especially in this suburb in which I've landed, it is clearly the opposite. Because here parents don't have lives of their own. They are much too busy revolving around their sons. And, of course, their daughters.
As always she signed it, Your stranger in an even stranger land, Scarlett Leigh. And then sent it on its way to New York.
But when she turned out the light and hunkered down under the covers, the murmur of voices from downstairs turned her thoughts from the exhaustion of the locals to her disturbing reaction to Clay Alexander.
She had no idea if he'd been this involved in the Jacksons' life before J.J.'s death; that was yet another detail of Melanie's life that Vivien had failed to tune into. But his continual presence struck her as calculated, and the way he hovered between friend of the family and head of the household left her unsure of what he was trying to achieve. He seemed attached not only to the kids but to Melanie, and yet there was no indication that they were ”dating.” She'd finally been able to set an appointment with Blaine Stewart for Tuesday. Presumably a look at the file would either confirm or eliminate her suspicions.
The whole thing reminded her of that movie with Richard Gere and Jodie Foster where an imposter comes back from the Civil War and even though the wife knows it's not her husband, she acts like he is. Not that she didn't think Mel and the kids knew the difference between J.J. and Clay. It was just that she had the weirdest feeling that Clay Alexander might be trying to eliminate those differences.
RUTH SPENT MUCH of that Wednesday afternoon at the Magnolia Ballroom working on a holiday mailing for Melanie. When that was done, she tidied the place up a bit, straightening the tables and chairs that bordered the dance floor, polis.h.i.+ng the beautiful burled wood of the welcome desk at which she often sat, stacking the CDs and miscellaneous items that acc.u.mulated in the DJ area. Mostly she just wanted to keep her hands busy and her body in motion. Her brain was completely occupied with Ira. Or rather her marriage to Ira.
They'd barely spoken since last Friday night's disastrous Shabbat dinner. Ruth had always believed in talking things out and, in fact, often erred on the side of too much talking. But now whenever she even looked at Ira the anger and disappointment rose up to clog her throat, holding her words and thoughts prisoner inside.
Seeing no reason to go home for dinner before cla.s.s, Ruth ran over to the nearby McDonald's for a burger, then came back to the studio to man the front desk. Smiling and greeting students as they arrived for that night's cla.s.ses, she could pretend that her world had not crumbled around her.
By eight P.M., they stood in their ragged line at the far end of the dance floor waiting for Naranya to finish setting up the speakers. The s.h.i.+pley sisters laughed identical trilling laughs as the uninjured one helped the other into a nearby chair. Melanie took up a spot in the back to help two newcomers who'd come for a free first trial lesson. Lourdes and Sally stood together chatting.
Ruth stood between Angela, whose clothes seemed far too big, and Vivien, whose clothes were clearly too small. In fact, Ruth had noticed that Vivien's b.r.e.a.s.t.s swelled precariously over the top of the camisole as if they'd grown a whole cup size in the last week. Her face looked fuller, too. The woman was definitely piling on the pounds, but what did she care how much Vivien Gray weighed? Or why? All she cared about was that she hadn't bailed out on Melanie. Yet.
The music wafted out of the speakers, slow and plaintive, matching Ruth's mood. Naranya pa.s.sed out the hip scarves, then stepped in front of them to begin the opening stretches. Ruth followed, bending to the right and then the left, reaching down to touch each toe before coming back to center. Slowly they rose up onto the b.a.l.l.s of their feet and stretched their arms up toward the ceiling. Ruth tried to clear her mind, but it was like trying to part a fog.
They circled their shoulders, then worked with their arms, forming S's, making them slither like snakes, but Ruth could barely force herself through the motions. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, something she'd noticed Vivien and Angela were careful not to do, and saw a solid block of a woman with a puff of white hair at the top; she might as well have been the Q-tip she resembled for all Ira seemed to care.
Naranya drew them into a circle to practice a walking step that looked suspiciously like the Israeli folk dance the hora. Ruth's hands, clasped in Angela and Vivi's, felt slippery with sweat as she thought of the weddings and Bar Mitzvah parties when she'd danced these steps joined with Ira.
”Are you all right?” The redhead asked her, holding tight to her hand. ”Can I get you something cold to drink?”
”No, I'm fine.” Ruth's response was automatic, though this time she wasn't sure it was true. Her shoulders drooped despite her efforts to hold them up and she was relieved when Naranya led them out of the circle and back into their lines.
”You all look very good today,” Naranya said. ”I think you have been practicing?”
She heard the others laugh at that and someone shook her hips so that her scarf jangled loudly.
”Thank you, Sally. I heard that. We weel work more with our hips. When your half-moons look good, I will show you the eights.” Naranya strode over to the computer to restart the music, and there was an excited buzz.
Ruth just stood there, silent and numb, one thought filling her mind: she'd drawn a line in the sand, and now she was afraid that Ira would refuse to step over it.
Not knowing where to turn, she raised her eyes to the mirror and her gaze met Melanie's.
”I need Ruth to help me with something,” Melanie said as she stepped up to Ruth's side and slipped an arm around her shoulders. ”Will you excuse us?”
Melanie led Ruth off the floor and into the empty office. Ruth was embarra.s.sed by how much the physical contact meant to her; she was far more used to offering comfort than receiving it. But she felt as if she might weep with grat.i.tude.
”It'll be all right, Ruth,” Melanie said as she closed the office door behind them and helped Ruth into a chair. ”I know it will. Sometimes it just takes men a little longer to figure things out.”
They sat for a while listening to the odd mixture of Naranya's oriental music and the insistent beat of a rhumba. But Ruth couldn't imagine why Ira was having such a hard time figuring this out. Surely even Ira at his most stubborn wouldn't choose divorce over a couple of hours of dancing? Her mind said, of course not, but her heart wasn't so sure.
IN HER ROOM at Melanie's, Vivien picked up her cell phone on the third ring.
”h.e.l.lo there, stranger.” Marty's voice was its usual teasing self. ”I thought we were going to talk regularly. I don't think once a month qualifies.”
”Sorry. Just haven't had much to report.” Vivien carried the phone over to the chaise lounge near the window and lowered herself into it.
”I think I may be going through Gray withdrawal,” Marty said. ”I don't even hear from your mother anymore. If I hadn't reached you, I might have broken down and called Caroline.”
Vivien smiled, realizing as she did just how much she'd missed the irrepressible Marty. ”Wouldn't she have loved that?”
There was a pause. And then because she couldn't help herself she asked, ”So . . . how's the Barbie doll doing?”
”Okay,” he said carefully.
”Are you shooting for her?”
”No, they a.s.signed Drew Haynes to her. I'm working with Terry.”