“You don’t know what I’ve been through these past two years.”
“So tell me. What happened to your marriage?”
“Jeb turned fifty. Don’t men get strange when they hit middle age? I think it’s testosterone poisoning. Do you suppose anyone is working on a cure? We could organize a telethon.” She struck a pose. “‘Poor Baldy is doomed to a life of bimbos and NordicTrack, unless you help…’”
A. P. Hill sighed impatiently. “I realize that this humor is a defense mechanism, Mrs. Royden, and that you are probably experiencing a delayed shock, but I need to hear the facts. Do you feel up to talking about the divorce?”
“Why not? I’ve dined out on it for two years now. What do you want to know?”
“Well… what were the circumstances leading up to your separation?”
“My husband the legal piranha defended the bimbo landscaper against some unhappy clients, and he won the case, and out of gratitude or opportunism-opinions vary-she tapped his maple tree, to use a colorful plant metaphor.”
“Hmmm,” said A. P. Hill. “Can you tell me something a little more concrete about the second Mrs. Royden?”
“Well, she died young.” Eleanor Royden’s cackle of laughter ended in a smoker’s cough. She patted her chest and continued. “Oh, there wasn’t much to her that I could see except youth. A valuable, but perishable commodity. She was young and pretty, with a mind like an Etch-A-Sketch toy. She had a good figure, though. It pleased Jeb’s vanity to see the lust on other men’s faces when he walked into a room with her. Men would nudge him and say, ‘You sly dog!’ That’s puzzling, isn’t it?”
“How so?” asked A. P. Hill.
“It’s like being praised for buying a Mercedes. I mean, if you won one or even stole one, there might be some distinction in it, but any fool with a fat wallet can obtain one, so what constitutes the triumph? So if a fat, ugly, poor middle-aged bore managed to snare a young beauty, then maybe it would be a coup, but, hey, with Jeb’s money, he could have rented sweet young things by the hour, so why the to-do that one of them let herself be taken by him on a long-term lease?”
“You ought to recruit for convents, Mrs. Royden,” said A. P. Hill. “You make marriage seem like a disease.”
Eleanor smiled. “Yes, but it’s generally fatal to women only. In my small way, I hope to have changed that.”
“Will you stop!” A. P. Hill shook her head. “This is not how people facing a murder charge ought to talk. You should be contrite, tearful. You should be terribly sorry that you were overcome by emotion. You should be grieving for your loss.”
“Oh, honey, I did all that when we went through the divorce. All I did this morning was finalize the decree.”
“But why did you shoot them? Lots of women end up being divorced after years of marriage, and they don’t resort to violence. Why didn’t you just say, ‘Screw the bastard,’ and get on with your life? That’s what a jury will want to know.”
Eleanor Royden smiled bitterly. “Why? Because my husband considered divorce trials a blood sport.”
MACPHERSON & HILL
ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW
DANVILLE , VIRGINIA
(I would get my own printed, but I’m not sure what it ought to say. No job; apparently no husband, no life. A real identity crisis. How about: WATCH THIS SPACE? Elizabeth.)
Dear Cameron:
This is probably a letter that I would stick in a drawer even if I did know where to reach you, because the last thing my self-esteem needs is for me to publicize more evidence of my family’s eccentricity. I’d be afraid that someone, somewhere, would be saving it all up for my commitment hearing. (Hmmm. I suppose the same could be said for writing letters to you… People keep telling me I have to come to terms with your… um… absence, and get-on-with-my-life. I guess I would if I had one.)
I could talk about this new family development with Dr. Freya, but she would pretend not to know why I was upset, which would only make it worse. She loves to be politically correct, and seems to prefer it to common sense every time. And Bill always seems on the verge of crisis, so I can’t add to his burdens. Cousin Geoffrey, who actually can be sympathetic, though he tries not to have it known, would be no help, either. So I might as well pretend that I’m telling you. If you can’t be honest-and politically incorrect-in unmailed letters, when can you tell the truth?
So here goes.
I had lunch with Mother today so that she wouldn’t feel too alone, what with us kids grown and Dad in his second childhood with his Girl Banker. We all thought she was bearing up wonderfully well after the divorce. She seems busy, and cheerful-not at all bitter about Dad’s defection after nearly three decades of marriage. (I did wonder if all this serenity had been prescribed in tablet form by the family doctor, and if so, whether she could get me some of the same, but no, she is not medicated. Mother is just naturally a calm and forgiving person. A recessive trait, apparently.)
We went to the Long River Chinese Restaurant out at the shopping mall, because Daddy never cared for Chinese food. Mother seems to think that Oriental food isn’t fattening. As she says, Asian people are so little and delicate. In the interests of diplomacy, I do not say a word about sumo wrestlers.
Mother wanted to know how Bill was, and how I was, and if there was any word about your boat. It must be hard to get out of maternal gear after all these years of putting everyone else first.
“Let’s talk about you,” I said, because nothing is ever new with Bill, and if I tried to talk about you, I’d have started to cry right there over the kung pao chicken, which would have completely defeated the purpose of the luncheon, which was to Cheer Up the Aging Parent. “How have you been?”
“Quite well, thank you,” she said with a little smile. “I’m starting to meet new people. Now that I’m not tied down in the evenings by a comatose man in front of a television, I can get out more and socialize.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, thinking to myself how brave she was to put up such a good front. “You’re playing a lot of bridge, I guess?”
“Oh, no. I’ve taken up photography. Casey and I are doing a multimedia show about women in transition. Would you like to model for me? I could use a few more portrait shots.”
“Oh, sure, whenever,” I murmured. “But I didn’t know you were into photography.”
“I used to be very interested in portrait studies,” she said, toying with her shrimp lo mein. “I took it up again because Casey saw some of my work and said it was a shame to let my talent go to waste.”
“Casey?” I said, keeping my voice light. “This isn’t the fellow you went white-water rafting with, is it?”
Mother looked pleased. Her favorite sport lately has been shocking the children, meaning Bill and me. Big brother and I have tried to remain calm and behave like adults while our fiftyish mother went hurtling about on a killer river with a blond undergraduate named Troy. I have sweaters older than Troy. But with frozen smiles and careful attention to controlled breathing exercises, we managed not to get worked up over Mother’s little pregeriatric rebellion. It helped not to picture having a stepfather with an earring and light-up L.A. Gears. Now, sure enough, it appeared that Troy was history. Or at least he had been supplanted by Casey. Please, I thought to my fairy godmother, who has come to resemble Joan Rivers in my imaginings, don’t let him be the paperboy.
“So,” I said. “This is news. Tell me about Casey.”
Mother looked amused. “You’ll probably be relieved to hear that Casey is nothing like Troy. Much older, for one thing.”