Between Husbands and Friends Page 5

  Just then Matthew Cunningham streaked past the bleachers, his mother in hot pursuit. Kate grabbed her son up, seized the Popsicle someone else had discarded from his hand, dumped it in the trash, then came toward me. She wore another simple linen sheath, this time in lime green, and her blond hair was tied back with a green ribbon. She wore sandals. Her toenails were painted the same color as her perfectly shaped fingernails. The polish matched her lipstick.

  “The boy down the road plays on the Yankees,” she said, bouncing Matthew on her hip and wiping his face with a tissue from her pocket. “Matthew adores Gary. I thought he’d be fascinated to watch Gary play.”

  I laughed. “My husband’s an umpire. I thought Margaret would like to see him, and look where she is.” I pointed to the shady area beneath the bleachers where Margaret and Amy were exchanging their dolls’ clothes.

  “Which one is your husband?”

  I pointed. “At home plate.”

  At that moment someone called time out and Max lifted off his face mask and wiped the sweat off his face. His hat had mashed his black curls down around his head.

  “He’s cute,” Kate said.

  “Yes, I guess he is. He looks even better when he’s not covered with sweat.”

  “Oh, I kind of like them that way,” Kate said, and before I could respond, Matthew squirmed. She set him down, he raced off, she followed.

  I watched the game. The pitcher caught a line drive by simply lifting his hand in the air. Then he had two strikes on the next batter, a boy so thin he looked like he was made from coat hangers, when the thin boy whacked the ball so hard it flew over the heads of the outfield, and into the soccer game. There were two runners on base; the thin boy hit a home run; everyone screamed and jumped up and down until the bleachers shook. The pitcher struck the next batter out and ended the inning, but damage had been done. The Yankees were behind. This was good training for real life, I thought; this would teach kids all sorts of things: team spirit, self-control.

  The pitcher raced off the field, his mouth clenched, looking ready to cry.

  “Wally.”

  I turned to watch as a young man about twenty approached the wire fence near the wooden dugout.

  “Come here. I want to talk to you.” The young man’s voice was low but husky and strong. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt. His shoulders were wide, his stomach flat, his thighs long and thick.

  He must have been the pitcher’s older brother. The pitcher took off his cap and I could see that they both had thick sandy hair and handsome, wide, all-American faces. The brothers faced each other through the fence.

  The older brother hooked his hands into the wire. His arms were muscular and the blond hair on them glittered in the sunlight. “Don’t let it get you down. It happens to everyone.”

  “I sucked, Dan,” Wally said.

  “Yeah, you did, but just for a few seconds. The rest of the game you’ve been brilliant.” Dan squatted to get on a more even level with his younger brother. “Remember what the coach said about concentration. Forget what happened. Focus on right now.”

  When had Max last worn jeans? I couldn’t remember. It was cords or flannel in the cold weather and khakis in hot. What was it about jeans that was so sexy? Dan, brother of Pitching Wally, was oblivious of the way his jeans outlined the sleek thick curve of his thighs and the tidy bulging packet at his crotch.

  What would it be like to spend an afternoon alone with him? To run my cool palms against the hot length of his back? To lift his T-shirt and see the sun catch fire in the twists of hair on his chest and belly and groin? Embarrassed, I forced myself to look away from the young man.

  As if pulled there by her own magnetism, my gaze landed on Kate’s face. She was smiling at me, a smile full of mischief and insolence. She wiggled her eyebrows and glanced over at Pitching Wally’s sexy brother, then glanced back at me and nodded. She knew exactly what I was thinking. She was thinking it, too. I laughed out loud, and for a few more seconds I felt free of my responsible, reliable, good-citizen persona. It was like lifting off the earth, like being weightless, like breathing an atmosphere made of the driest champagne. It was a little bit like falling in love.

  A few days after the baseball game, Kate called to invite Margaret and me to their farm.

  “Wear old clothes,” she told me. “And warn your little girl that we’ve got an overaffectionate puppy.”

  Wear old clothes, Kate had said, and we were going to the country, and it was a hot summer day. Still, the memory of Kate and her cool perfection in her linen sheaths intimidated me. While Margaret napped after lunch, I tried on just about every item of clothing I owned, trying to find something that would look casual but chic. I settled on a pair of khaki shorts and a white linen shirt. When Margaret woke, I persuaded her to wear a pretty polka dot sundress and multicolored sandals.

  The Seldon farm—now the Cunningham farm—was tucked away on a hill to the south of the town of Sussex. I took a narrow two-lane road which angled off Route 169 and turned right at a vacant and dilapidated general store and gas station onto an even narrower road deeply rutted and bordered so thickly by trees and brush that we were suddenly enclosed in a dark green tunnel.

  “Mommy, the trees are trying to touch each other,” Margaret told me, and she was right. The wild tangle of growth on either side of the road brushed the roof of our car and made scraping sounds against the sides.

  “Daddy won’t be pleased if the paint’s scratched,” I muttered. I was just slightly unnerved by the solitary road.

  Then we went around a bend and the whole world seemed to open up before us. The brush was gone. Neat fences enclosed sweeping pastures and fields, and up on the right, a majestic brick house stood, lilacs and roses and mock orange and morning glories embroidering its trellises.

  Kate was waiting outside, holding the leash of an exuberant golden lab pup. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail; she wore shorts and a tube top. Her exposed midriff was as sleek, smooth, and flawlessly slim as a Barbie doll’s.

  I stopped the car in the gravel circle drive and helped Margaret undo her seat belt and jump out. She and the puppy were almost the same height, and Margaret stepped back, behind the protection of my legs, and peeked out at the dog, who whimpered eagerly and wriggled all over.

  Kate squatted down to my daughter’s level, keeping one arm tightly wrapped around the fat creamy pup.

  “Hello, there. You must be Margaret. I’m Kate. And this is Sugar. She won’t bite, but she likes to jump up on people.”

  Margaret smiled but stayed behind my leg.

  I bent to pet Sugar. “Hello, you sweet thing.”

  Sugar quivered and whimpered.

  “Margaret? Try petting her.”

  Kate held the puppy tight while Margaret stepped forward, stretched out a chubby hand, and touched the dog’s ear. Sugar extended her neck and licked Margaret’s face with a long pink tongue.

  “Oooh.” Margaret giggled. “She likes me!”

  “I’m going to let her off the leash,” Kate said. “If she jumps up on you, just say ‘down’ in your meanest voice, okay?”

  “Okay.” Margaret kept hold of my hand. “Where’s your little boy?”

  Kate’s brows drew together, but she said brightly, “We’re playing hide-and-seek. Want to help me find him?”

  “Okay,” Margaret said.

  “Let’s go in the house,” Kate suggested. She led the way, around to the back of the house where a door led into a low-ceilinged, dark kitchen. The windows were small, the walls white plaster and dark beams. “This is the oldest part of the house,” she told me. “These four rooms were built in the eighteenth century.”

  A round claw-footed table held a blue and white vase of pink peonies. A pine dry sink was set with bottles of whiskey and vodka and gin as well as several exquisite cut-glass decanters; a pine corner cupboard held what looked very much like Spode china.

  “Beautiful fireplaces,” I murmured, stunned. There were more
valuable antiques in the kitchen than in my entire home.

  “This used to be the borning room,” Kate continued, leading us on. “This is supposed to be the room where Paul Revere slept one night.” She indicated a small plaque set in the wall. “The former owners put it there; we didn’t. I don’t know whether to keep it or not.” Her eyes darted around the room, as if she were looking for something out of place, and her movements were brusque. “Matthew, honey!” she called suddenly, then sharply turned and left the room. I followed. Her shoulders were rigid with tension.

  The front of the house was Georgian, with high ceilings, long windows, and deep sofas. The rugs were thick Persians. Great porcelain vases holding ferns and other greenery had been set in the fireplaces.

  Kate dropped to her knees by a sofa and lifted the dust ruffle. “Matthew?” When she rose, her face was pinched. “Let’s go upstairs. He might be in his bedroom.”

  “Wow,” Margaret said when we entered the ultimate little boy’s bedroom. It was an enormous room, with sunlight streaming through the long windows onto the thick carpet. Two walls of shelves held books and every conceivable toy. A small desk was laid with pads of paper and crayons. Trucks and cars and trains were scattered across the floor.

  Kate crossed the room and opened first one closet door and then the other. “All right,” she said to herself. “All right.” To me, she said, “You can come into my bedroom if you want, on the condition that you tell no one about the mess it’s in.”

  “I promise.” I grinned and followed her across the hall, expecting to find more perfection.

  The room, a mirror image of Matthew’s, was large and sunny, with a marble fireplace and elaborate brocade draperies and a massive four-poster bed. Yet I immediately felt at home in it: Clothes were scattered over the chaise longue and the bench at the end of the bed, books were piled on the bedside table, and the bureaus and dressing table were cluttered with every kind of cosmetic imaginable. The woman who inhabited this room was a woman I could like.

  Once again Kate knelt. She looked under her bed, then rose in a fluid movement, dashed to her closets, and yanked open the doors.

  She looked at me. “The little shit. Excuse me.”

  “Who?”

  “Matthew. Come on. We’ve got to find him.”

  Margaret was still in Matthew’s room, slowly picking up each toy and studying it with the awe of an anthropologist scrutinizing ancient treasure, before returning it to its place and moving on to another toy.

  “We’re going outside now,” Kate said. “You can come back here later. I promise.”

  Something in Kate’s voice was so harsh, in spite of her glittering smile, that Margaret looked scared and guilty. Quickly she came to me and took my hand.

  Kate led us down the back stairs. There, in the kitchen, sat Matthew, out in the open on the fireplace hearth, picking at a scab on his knee, his strawberry-blond hair glimmering in the light, his head tucked to one side, as if he were deep in thought. He looked up at his mother, his face wary.

  Kate crossed the room in three strides, grabbed Matthew by the shoulders, and yanked him up.

  “Where have you been? Don’t you ever do that to me again, do you hear me?”

  Matthew raised his chin defiantly and glared at his mother, who suddenly folded him against her in a bear hug and began to weep.

  “Matthew, why do you do this? You know how it scares Mommy when you hide. I told you you could stay in your room today when our guests came. I told you you didn’t have to see them if you didn’t want to. I thought we had a pact. Didn’t we have a pact? Didn’t we?”

  She held her son away from her so that she could see his face, but Matthew kept his expression stony and he would not speak.

  “What am I going to do with you?” Kate said with anguish in her voice.

  Mother and son glared at each other, deadlocked.

  “Sugar made weewee on the floor,” Margaret said into the silence.

  Kate let go of her son and actually pulled at her hair with both hands. “I can’t stand this,” she said to the ceiling. “I just can’t stand this.”

  But Matthew was looking at Margaret. “Is weewee pee?” he asked.

  “What’s pee?” Margaret replied.

  Matthew walked over to the corner of the kitchen where Sugar stood, tail blithely waving, pink tongue lolling from her mouth, next to a puddle of urine. “That,” Matthew said pointing.

  “That’s weewee,” Margaret said.

  “That’s pee,” Matthew said.

  “So weewee is pee,” Margaret giggled.

  “Pee is weewee!” Matthew crowed, laughing hysterically.

  “Peewee!” Margaret chortled.

  Kate’s eyes met mine. She smiled. “Want some Popsicles, kids?”

  “Yes!” they both answered.

  “Want alcohol, Mom?” Kate asked me. “I know I do. It’s almost four o’clock. That’s late enough for me.”

  Something light, I said. Kate opened a bottle of sparkling wine. She put a triangle of brie and some wheat crackers on a cheese board and carried them outside. We sat in wicker lawn chairs and watched Margaret and Matthew roam from the jungle gym to the swing set to the sandbox. The puppy beat a path between the children and us, enticed by the smell of the cheese until all at once she collapsed next to Kate, nibbled on her tail, curled up, and slept.

  Kate asked, “Did Jiffer Curtis phone you? About joining the committee for the fund-raiser for the Little Red Schoolhouse?”

  I paused. Jiffer Curtis was enormous and enormously wealthy. She sat on all the important boards and terrorized people into generosity. On the other hand, she was dictatorial, paranoid, and mean-spirited. No one had warned me about her when I came to town, and I’d come away from all associations with her humiliated and exhausted.

  I took a deep breath. “I’d steer clear of Jiffer Curtis if I were you. She’s an effective fund-raiser, because she terrorizes people into giving her money. She’s a Valkyrie, and if you get on the wrong side of her, you’ll regret it, and it’s easy to get on the wrong side. And if you tell anyone what I’ve just told you, I’ll deny it.”

  Kate threw back her head and laughed, and all at once she seemed younger. “Town politics. Ugh.”

  “It’s not all bad.”

  “Okay, what boards should I join?”

  I considered. “Anything run by Sandy Granger. She’s rational and organized.”

  “Sandy Granger. She was at the preschool open house, wasn’t she? The one who looks like a chipmunk?”

  I laughed. I hadn’t thought of it before, but Sandy did look like a chipmunk. Matthew ran over to us.

  “Can we have another Popsicle? Please?”

  “No.” Kate was definite. “Absolutely not.”

  The little boy stared at his mother, quivering like the needle on a lie detector, gauging the strength of her response.

  “All right.” He sighed dramatically, slumping off. A moment later he and Margaret were giggling.

  “I know you think I spoil him,” Kate said. She hadn’t combed her hair after pulling on it and it stuck out all over, only part of it still sleeked back in a ponytail.

  “I wasn’t thinking that.”

  “I know he has too many toys. But there are no other kids out here except for Gary Gordon. He’s nice but he’s nine years old and a mile away. I do spoil Matthew. Whenever I have to work, I always bring him a really good present. It was a good plan in theory. I thought he’d connect getting a toy with having a babysitter, and eventually he’d become accustomed to being left with sitters. Eventually he’d look forward to it and be glad when I left. But it hasn’t worked out that way at all.”

  “Margaret operates differently. She doesn’t hide. She doesn’t even make a fuss. What she does do, when I lean down to kiss her good-bye, she pats my face sweetly and whispers, ‘Mommy’s so pretty. Pretty Mommy, stay with baby Margaret.’ ”

  “Ooh, clever girl.”

  Matthew and Margaret sat
on the edge of the sandbox, heads bent together, discussing something quite seriously. They began to make paths in the sand. We watched them for a while.

  “That’s the way it ought to be, all the time,” Kate said.

  “I’ll drink to that.” We clinked glasses and sipped our wine.

  We sat in silence, enjoying the golden afternoon, the peaceful sounds of happy children.

  Then Kate asked, “Did you ever think you’d end up like this? And so young?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean married. Monogamous. Spending most of your waking hours doing exactly what your mother used to do. Housework. Groceries. Obsessed with a little child’s every breath and movement.”

  “I guess I am surprised to find myself so settled, so young. I think about it a lot. I imagine where I’d be if I hadn’t gotten married. If I’d gone on to grad school.”

  “Parallel lives. Dream lives.”

  “Right. But I wouldn’t change it. I wouldn’t give up what I have.”

  “No. Nor would I. Still. And it’s not the professional stuff that I yearn for. I can always do that, no matter how old I get. It’s the stuff that happens only when you’re young and nubile.”

  I just glanced at her. We were verging onto hazardous grounds.

  “I mean,” she continued, “when I think of that beautiful boy we saw at the baseball game. The one who was being so nice to his younger brother?”

  I grinned. “I remember.”

  “Didn’t you just want to run your hands over that beautiful body? Press up against him? Lick the sweat off his shoulders?”

  I laughed, shocked, and uncomfortably thrilled. I closed my eyes and remembered the man. His muscles. His white T-shirt. “I wanted to kneel before him and put my hands on his thighs and unzip his jeans.”

  “Yeah,” Kate said.

  “I can’t believe I said that.”

  “Why not? It’s what everyone thinks. All the time. You know your husband lusts after other women.”