Then we went in and ate, and he got to telling some of his favorite war stories, and the happiness my mother wanted came pure and natural to each of us. There was even laughter in the McCain household.
I was pushing open the back door when the phone rang. Wouldn’t be for me. Didn’t live here any more. All grown up. More or less. For her last birthday, my mother was the recipient of a yellow wall phone for the kitchen. She was as proud of that phone as I would have been of a 1939 Ford Woody. I had one foot on the rear steps when she said, “It’s for you, Sam.”
When I was just a few steps away she covered the phone and said, “It’s a woman.”
“A woman?” my father smiled. “Did you hear that, Sam?”
“It’s fun to be back in seventh grade,” I said. “Our little Sam has a girlfriend.”
My mother swatted me on the arm and winked at my father.
“Hello.”
“My mother always told me that boys didn’t like girls who called them,” Wendy said. “Too forward. The boys lost all respect.”
“I think she was right. I’m so disgusted I’m going to hang up. By the way, we have an audience. My folks. They just told me I have to be in by ten.”
“Well, I’m hoping I can keep you out a little later than that. I’d like to see you, and I also have a little bit of information about Lou Bennett you might find interesting.”
“I’d like to take a shower and change clothes.”
“I was thinking the same thing myself. How does eight sound?”
“Sounds just about right. I’ll pick you up.”
“I really enjoyed seeing you, Sam. That’s all I’ve been thinking about all day. It’s just so weird how things happen sometimes. Good things and bad things.” Then: “By the way, let’s go someplace where we can dance. It’s been a long time for me.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Well, I’m no ballerina, so we’re even up. See you at eight.”
After I hung up and peeked around the kitchen door into the dining room, I saw my folks sitting there with their after-dinner coffee smiling at me. They’d seen me forlorn ever since Jane departed.
“And may a mother ask who that was?”
“Wendy Bennett.”
She glanced at my father. “A cheerleader and one of the prettiest girls in the whole high school.”
“Well, Mom, we’re ten years out of high school, so I don’t think stuff like that matters any more.”
But yeah, it still did to immature guys like me. I wanted to call up all the popular boys I’d gone to high school with and say, “Guess who’s got a date with Wendy tonight?” Eat your hearts out.
17
“There’s a letter.” I’d sketched in what I was working on. She looked fascinated.
“What kind of letter?”
“That part I don’t know. All I can tell you is that when I went back to see Linda, I heard David and Roy Davenport arguing about a letter of some kind. I got the impression they couldn’t find it. I was surprised Davenport was even there. Linda hates him.”
We’d had small steaks and scotches and waters and a number of cigarettes. We’d said hello to a combined total of a dozen people (mine were clients, hers were friends). And we’d danced slow to a medley of Platters songs played by a house band that had been in grade school when the Platters had been popular. We’d even danced fast several times. Now we were having our second drinks, sitting in a tiny dark alcove that overlooked the dance floor.
She wore a pale-blue dress and matching one-inch heels. Her face was lightly made up and even prettier than usual. She’d always been a sort of sophisticated version of the girl next door, and adulthood had only enhanced that impression.
She was also stubborn, a quality I’d forgotten about. Not until now was she willing to go back to the brief conversation we’d had earlier about the letter.
“This letter you were telling me about two or three days ago.”
“Very funny. It was just about an hour ago. You’ve held up pretty well for a geezer. I was afraid you might fall asleep on me.”
“They were arguing about a letter.”
“They sure were. Davenport said they had to get busy and find it.”
Somebody looking for a letter might explain why somebody had tossed my office and Kenny’s trailer, knocking out both Turk and Kenny in the process.
“Tell me about Linda’s husband.”
“Do I have to? This soon after eating?” She reached over and patted my hand. “Only because I’m having a good time.” She sipped her scotch and said, “I read a lot of British mystery novels. They’re like fantasies for me. Pure escape. Murder in all those little villages. And David fits right in there. He’s the bounder who seduces all the beautiful married women and lives off his wife’s inheritance.”
“You mean that literally?”
“The part about sleeping with beautiful married women? Of course. My parents are big at the country club, and they always have stories about who David is sleeping with on the side. He’s even been beaten up a few times. Once badly enough to put him in the hospital for a week. Lou despised him. He always begged Linda to get rid of him. But that’s the irony. You know what a snob she is. A very arrogant woman. But she’s completely at the mercy of her husband. I never thought I’d feel sorry for her, but I can’t help myself. It’s almost as if she’s deranged. Obviously she knows what he’s doing. And she also knows that he practically destroyed the two small businesses Lou put him in charge of. Lou had to step in to save them from declaring bankruptcy. She could have so many men-men just as handsome but men who’d treat her the way she deserves. It’s pretty sad when you see them together. The way she looks at him. It’s like puppy love to the highest power. Bryce used to talk about it, too. He and David loathed each other.”
“But Lou put up with him living under the same roof?”
“Well, the north section is kind of separate from the rest of the house. You know how big the place is. Linda and David have their bedroom and study and living room over there. And their own separate entrance when they choose to use it. And they take most of their meals in the living room. The maid always makes two separate meals-excuse me, ‘made’ two separate meals-one for Lou because of his health, and the other one for Linda and David.”
“Does David work?”
“Oh? You didn’t know? He’s a writer. Or says he is. He’s been working on this novel for a couple of years now. He won’t let anybody read it until it’s finished, Linda says. I doubt it even exists.”
A waitress worked her way over to our alcove. The white silk blouse and the black skirt with the large sash- like black leather belt combined with her long dark hair and exceptional height to give her a dramatic effect.
We decided on one more drink, and then Wendy said to the young woman, “I’d like to wake up some day looking like you.”
The waitress had a wide TV-commercial smile. “Are you kidding? You’ve got those aristocratic facial bones and those beautiful eyes. I’ll be happy to trade you.”
“You’re going to get a very nice tip out of this,” I said to her. After she was gone, I said, “She’s striking, but you’re a lot betterlooking.”
“Maybe. But there’re a lot of women who look like me. Young housewives. Millions of us. But she-” She picked up her cigarette, took a deep drag, and said, “Does it bother you that we’re getting older?”
“Well, if we weren’t getting older we’d be dead.”
“That’s very cute, Sam, but how about an honest answer? I wanted to do something with my life after I finished college, and I didn’t. I wanted to make Bryce love me, and I didn’t. I wanted to have a child, preferably a daughter, and I didn’t.”
