the way to the bar, was Zach’s unwieldy confession that he had had sex with Didi twice over the summer and had paid her a hundred dol ars each time.
“And I don’t think I was the only one, man,” Zach said. “I think she’s a prostitute or something.”
Now they were stuck in an uncomfortable silence, which was only partial y ameliorated by the pool chat ( nine ball, side pocket) and by the Bruce Springsteen cover band wailing their hearts out on the far side of the bar. If this was what Josh had been missing al summer, then he was glad he’d missed it.
Josh was relieved when his phone rang. He checked the display: It was Number Eleven Shel Street cal ing. It was nearly ten-thirty. They were probably just back from the beach, carrying the sandy, sleepy boys off to bed. And they were cal ing him because . . . ? It was probably Vicki, cutting his hours, or it might be Melanie. She had missed him at the picnic, she had been remembering the first picnic, when they . . . and wouldn’t he meet her now, tonight, one last time? How could it hurt? Wel , it would hurt, it was like any addiction—you couldn’t keep going back for quick fixes, you had to cut it out al at once, cold turkey. Didn’t she see that? Didn’t she get it? She was the one who was married! Josh watched Zach, formerly his best friend, bent in half over the table, shutting one eye in concentration and jimmying his stick back and forth in front of the cue bal . Josh could total y blow Zach’s mind with the story of Melanie. As far as shock value was concerned, it would be an even trade for the news of Didi (a prostitute? ), but Zach wasn’t worthy of the information. Josh let the cal go to his voice mail.
Later, much later, after Josh had dropped Zach off at home (the two of them shaking hands, Zach saying in an upbeat, conciliatory way, reminding Josh why they’d been friends in the first place, Hey, man, it was good to see you. It was good to hang out), Josh listened to the voice message.
Josh, it’s Ted Stowe. Listen, some things have come up here at the house. Vicki is in the hospital, she had an episode, she’s in for testing, we don’t know what the hell is going on, but her parents, my in-laws, are coming over in the morning and they’ll take care of the kids. So you don’t have to worry about coming to work on Monday. Vicki probably has your address somewhere; I’ll write you a check for this week, plus a bonus.
Vicki said you did a great job, and I really appreciate it, man. You don’t know how critical it was to have rock-solid help, someone to fill in the gaps, I know it couldn’t have been easy, and man, the kids . . . they love you and Vicki loves you and she’s going to be okay. We just have to keep believing that. Anyway, thanks again for your help. And good luck at school. I can’t believe I’m leaving such a long message. I hate talking to machines.
Click. Josh listened to the message a second time as he drove home. It was a good-bye, good-bye a week early, which was fine, in theory, and Josh was certain he would be paid handsomely, but the good-bye bugged him. It had come from Ted, who was the wrong person. Ted, who suggested the only form of closure Josh might need was a check. What about saying good-bye to the kids? What about finding out if Vicki was okay or not? Episode? What kind of episode? An episode serious enough that she had to spend the night in the hospital? Serious enoughthat her parents were coming in the morning? Josh, helped along by the tequila and the beers he’d consumed at the bar, was both enraged and confused. It was another murky question—was he part of Number Eleven Shel Street or not? Could he be dismissed with a phone message? Apparently so.
Thanks again, good luck, good-bye. Josh was tempted to cal back and inform Ted Stowe of Josh’s importance to the women and children of that house. He had loved those kids and cared for them better than anyone else could have. He earned their trust; he knew them. He became their friend. He had pul ed Melanie out of a quicksand of self-hatred and misery; he gave her confidence. He made her feel beautiful and sexy. He had confided in Vicki, he had treated her not like a sick person, but like a person person. He’d made her smile, even when she was on death’s door. He had confided to her about his mother. And Josh was going to help Brenda with her career; he was going to ask Chas Gorda how to sel a screenplay. He had done al of that—and Ted had written Josh off, cut him loose with a phone message. As if Josh were the plumber, the exterminator, someone who could be cancelled. I’ll write you a check.
Be careful. Not just because of Melanie, but because of the whole family. He had loved the family, and the family had broken his heart.
At a quarter to seven the next morning, Brenda heard what sounded like a suitcase on wheels bumping down the flagstone path, and then the creak of the ancient plank door opening. But no, she thought. It was impossibly early. Even people who went to church weren’t awake yet.
Seconds later, there was a tap on her bedroom door. Brenda opened her eyes to see . . . El en Lyndon poking her head in. Her mother. Brenda sat up.
“Mom!” she said.
The room fil ed, immediately, with the aura of El en Lyndon: her frosted-blond hair cut into a lovely bob, sunglasses pushed on top of her head, her permanent scent of Coco Chanel and vanil a, her pale pink lipstick. Her left knee was sheathed in a blue neoprene brace, and she wore tennis shoes in lieu of her usual espadril es. But stil , her pink tank was crisp and fresh and there were matching pink embroidered turtles on her Bermuda shorts. Who looked this wonderful so early in the morning?
My mother, Brenda thought. She goes to bed beautiful, she wakes up beautiful.
El en limped over to the bed, held Brenda’s face, and kissed her on the lips. Brenda tasted lipstick.
“Oh, honey!” El en said. “I’ve missed you!”
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Brenda said. “Already.”
“First plane. We drove until midnight and stopped in Providence. And you know your father. Up at five-thirty.” El en Lyndon eased down on the bed, removed her tennis shoes, and said, “Scoot over. I’m climbing in.”
Wel , it wasn’t exactly the person Brenda wanted to be welcoming into her bed that day, but it was a kind of salve—even at age thirty—to be held by her mother. To have her mother stroke her hair and say, “You have been such a pil ar, honey. Such a support for your sister. What would she have done without you? She was so lucky to have you here.”
“I didn’t do al that much,” Brenda said. “Drove her to chemo, mostly.”
“And you watched the kids and you helped out around the house. And you gave her moral support.”
“I guess.”
