Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel

5


On Monday morning, right after Travis leaves for school, the phone rings. When I answer it, I hear an extremely irritated voice say, “What the hell are you doing, Sam?”

“Oh. Hello, David.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m standing here, David. I’m standing here talking on the phone. What are you doing? Where are you?”

“At work.”

Not in his car in the driveway, then, calling to see if I’ll take him back.

“I just had a conversation with John Hurley at the bank. Very interesting. It appears that a large check was written to Tiffany’s last week. By you.”

“That’s right. I needed some dishes.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I suppose this is one way for you to get back at me. Rather unimaginative, I must say.”

“I suppose you must. Not nearly as original as packing a bag and moving to a hotel.”

“Sam, I’m calling to tell you I’ve transferred most of the money into another account. I’m sorry, but you really leave me no choice.”

He …?

Oh, God.

Well, fine, then. Fine. What should I have for breakfast?

“I’ll provide adequately for Travis. And for you as well. But not so adequately that you can buy twelve thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise at Tiffany’s on a random Thursday afternoon.”

Shredded Wheat with strawberries? Eggs?

“Sam?”

“Yes?”

“Are you listening to me? Do you understand?”

I hang up. Then lift the receiver and hang up again, harder. Then take the phone off the cradle, lay it on the kitchen table.

I’ll get a job. I’ll make my own damn money. I’ll rent out David’s study, and maybe the basement, too. That will do nicely to help to pay the mortgage. I’ll keep the house, not sell it, as David said we must. I live here. Travis lives here. And I will stay here. I will, in fact, do whatever I want to do. Use the chain saw in the toolshed, which David said was too dangerous. Wear purple eye shadow, which David said was too tacky.

As for now, I’ll go out and take a long walk.

I start for the door, then look at the phone, lying on the table. We tried to reach you, Mrs. Morrow. But your line was busy. The principal signed the release form for the surgery.

I put the phone back in the cradle, take a step, and hear it ring. I pick it up. “I heard you.”

“Heard what?” my mother asks.

“Oh. Ma. I thought you were David. He just called.”

“And?”

“He needed to talk about finances. Nothing, really.”

“Well, speaking of finances, I found a coupon for forty percent off a permanent. Are you interested?”

“I don’t want a perm.”

“I think it might look very nice.”

“You use it, Ma.”

“I have a perm!”

“Well, I’ll bet one of your friends can use it.”

“That’s a thought. You remember Angie Ryan? I’ll give it to her, she needs a lift. Her husband should be institutionalized. Do you know what he did to that poor woman last week?”

Oh, well. I pull out a kitchen chair. Sit down.

Travis is upstairs doing homework, and I am sitting at the kitchen table, making a list.

1. CALL DAVID TO COME AND GET ALL HIS SHIT, I write. Then, fearing Travis will see it, I erase SHIT and substitute THINGS. In parentheses I add, SO HE WILL HAVE WHAT HE NEEDS.

Next I write: 2. POST SIGN IN FRANCO’S SUPERMARKET FOR ROOMMATE(S?).

Then, 3. JOB.

A job doing what? I imagine filling out the application. Last job? Girl singer in rock band. References? “Roach” Davis, lead guitarist.

I wonder whatever happened to him. He might have made a career out of being a studio musician; he was really good. He could roll joints with one hand, and he taught me how, too. Now, there’s something useful I might put on my application.

Oh, what can I do?

What do I want to do?

I rest my head on my arms, close my eyes, recall something that happened many years ago. When I was a first-grader, I once went to the bank with my mother. Outside, sitting against the wall on a red, worn blanket, was a man with legs that ended somewhere around his knees. His tan khaki pants were folded neatly beneath his stumps, and the matter-of-factness of this horrified me. The man held a cigar box out, rattled the change inside it, and smiled up at us, squinting against the bright sun. Then he tipped his straw hat and asked, “Can you help me out, ladies? Spare a little change?” I burst into tears so loud and heartfelt my mother immediately pulled me away, brought me back to the car, and rolled up the windows. “Shhhhh, it’s all right,” she said, dabbing at my face with a hankie and looking nervously about. And I said, no, it wasn’t all right, the man didn’t have any legs, he couldn’t even stand up. My mother said well, yes, that was right, but the man was here all the time, and he was happy, really, he liked sitting outside the bank and collecting money. This made me cry all the harder, until, exasperated, my mother finally pressed a dollar bill in my hand and told me to give it to the man, but to be sure not to touch him. I wiped my reddened face on the hem of my dress, then walked slowly over to give the man the money. “Thank you, little lady,” he said, and I told him he was welcome. And then I did touch him, I reached out and touched his arm and he put his hand over my hand and that was when I stopped hurting.

I sit up. Maybe I can get a job in the nursing home a few blocks away. Every time I pass it, I look in the window to watch bits of activity: a woman dressed in a pastel sweat suit being pushed in a wheelchair down the hall; a circle of people in what looks to be a community room, singing. I’ve always had the urge to go in there and offer something. Maybe I will now. “I don’t really have any job experience,” I imagine saying. “But I really like old people.”

The salary doesn’t have to be much, if I can find roommates. The important thing is that I do something that’s meaningful to me, that’s the truth for me. I’m going to start telling the truth. A woman I know once made a New Year’s resolution to tell the truth, and I remember thinking how extraordinary—and how difficult—that would be. You make such a resolution and no matter what someone asks you, you have to answer honestly. Think of it!

“I’m working in a nursing home,” I say aloud, trying it out.

The phone rings and I answer it distractedly. A man clears his throat, then says, “Yes. I’m looking for Sam Reynolds.” Reynolds. My maiden name. It must be a high school reunion, I think, and answer with some excitement that yes, this is Sam. I always loved Greg Mulvaney, the pitcher on our baseball team: dark, Italian, dimples. I never told him. Maybe he’s divorced now, too. A slow dance, a tentative confession … perhaps on both of our parts. Who knows what could happen? I push the bowl of potato chips I’ve been eating away from me.

But then the man says, “I’m Stuart Gardner. Your mother gave me your number.”

“… Oh?”

“She told me you might be willing to meet me. Say, for a drink tonight? She thought we’d have a lot in common.”

“Did she.”

“Yes, she did. For one thing—”

“What was your name?”

“Stuart. Stuart Gardner. Like the museum.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you know, I really think it’s a little soon, Stuart. My husband—did my mother tell you?”

“Yes, I’m very sorry. She said he’d died over a year ago, though, and she thought you might be ready for … just a drink, is all I’m talking about. Or coffee, whatever.”

“I’m sorry, Stuart. I really don’t think so.”

He sighs, a petulant sound that makes me sure I wouldn’t like him anyway, then asks, “Well, would you at least be willing to take my number?”

“Oh, sure.”

“You have a pencil?”

I do, of course, but I do not pick it up. “Yes, I have one.”

“It’s six-four-nine.…”

I repeat the numbers back slowly, then say, “Okay!”

“I really think we’d get along,” Stuart says. “Your mother’s told me a lot about you.”

“Maybe after a while. I’ll call you when I’m ready. But I’m still having flashbacks, you know. I still see his face when I, you know, shot him.”

“You …?”

“Just kidding.”

Silence.

I hang up, realize I have broken my vow to tell the truth already. But I will get back on track right now. I pick up the phone, punch in my mother’s number. When Veronica answers with her usual happy and expectant “Yes, hello?” I yell, “What is the matter with you?”

“Sam! Is that you?”

“Don’t get me a date! With anyone! Ever!”

“Oh, did Stuart call you? He’s the nicest man. You’ll just love him.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute! I just said, don’t do this! And you’re acting like I’m thrilled, like I just made plans for a rendezvous in Paris!”

Veronica chuckles. “Well, not a rendezvous. Not even a date. Just a drink, sweetheart. That way, you find out a little about each other. Then you date. Dinner, maybe a movie, although you can’t really talk in a movie, I never did understand going to a movie on a first date. But dinner in a nice, oh, say, French restaurant, flowers on the table, not too expensive, but something that—”

I lean against the wall, instantly exhausted. But I manage to say, “Ma. Listen to me. If anyone else calls me, I will hang up on them. I swear I will. I will just hang up.”

Silence.

“Do you hear me?”

“Sam, you sound awfully blue. I’m worried about you.”

“I will hang up!”

“Well, fine, then. You just mope all you want to. Little Miss Blue. Some people revel in their misery. Some people just love to be unhappy.”

“I need to find my own way, Mother.”

“Well, good for you. You want to weep and gnash your teeth and carry on, go right ahead. Have a good time. That’s really great for Travis, too.”

“I am not gnashing my teeth. I’m getting a job. And roommates.”

“Roommates?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to open your house to strangers? Oh, Lord.”

I hang up, refill the potato-chip bowl, and do not answer the phone when it rings again. I sit down with my list, add, LET MACHINE TAKE ALL CALLS.