Mrs. Kimble (12 page)

“I see,” said Joan.

He fumbled in his pocket, keys jingling. “I finished the lawn and the watering, so you should be all set.” He gave her a little salute. “Keep an eye on those oleanders.”

He disappeared around the hedge, the way he had come.

H
ealthy,” said George Beckley. “Everyone down here looks so darned healthy.”

Joan glanced around the room at the fit, middle-aged couples gliding across the dance floor. They were eating dinner in the Flamingo Ballroom of the Orange Grove Hotel, a double date: Hal and Dot Beckley at one end of the table; Joan and Hal’s brother George, a car salesman from Pittsburgh, at the other. Twice Joan had begged off, claiming a migraine; the third time she gave in. She was a single woman with no job and no family; there were a limited number of excuses she could reasonably invent.

“It’s the sun,” said George. “Nothing like a little sunshine for the complexion.” He was broad and fair-haired, square-jawed like a cartoon hero.

“No need to tell this one,” said Hal, nodding toward his wife. “She’s out there three, four hours a day.” He winked at Joan. “You ought to come over sometime and join her. We’ve got a wall around the garden now. Complete privacy.”

Dot laughed, a dry, crackly sound. “No tan lines.” Her hair was freshly set, the bangs swirled artfully over the bandage at her hairline. She butted her cigarette with a spotted brown hand.

The music ended; the dancers on the floor offered polite applause. The orchestra swept into a familiar tune, the opening bars of “String of Pearls.”

“That’s our song.” Hal stood and reached for Dot’s hand. “My dear?”

Dot smiled. “We believe in romance.”

George shook his head, watching Dot’s flat behind as she and Hal made their way to the dance floor.

“They’re something else,” he said. “Married thirty years, and they can’t keep their hands off each other. You don’t run into that every day, let me tell you.” He drained his glass. “You ever been married?”

“No,” said Joan.

He reached for the wine bottle. “I was. Twenty-one years in June.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Is it?” He refilled his glass. “We were high school sweethearts. I always knew I’d marry her.”

Don’t ask, Joan thought, but she couldn’t help herself. He so clearly wanted to tell her.

“What happened?” she said.

George raised his hands. “What happened? What happened was we had three children, a beautiful house, a perfect life. What happened was I gave her everything a woman wants.”

“Forgive me,” said Joan. “It’s none of my business.”

George sighed. “Truth is, I don’t know what happened. A friend of hers got divorced, a girl from the neighborhood. I could say that
was why, but I’d just be guessing.” He corked the bottle with a napkin. “How about you? How come you never got married?”

Joan blinked. She could think of no concise way to explain it: the years of dating, the (long, now) series of boyfriends. She’d watched all her Radcliffe friends succumb, leave promising jobs in banking or publishing for marriage and houses in Connecticut. By the time she was thirty-five, Joan was the only one still out in the world.

“It’s complicated,” she said. “I was always so busy.” Toward the end she’d traveled constantly. Often her editor phoned late on a Sunday night; the next day she’d be on a plane to Europe.

Across the table George Beckley looked perplexed.

“I guess it was never important to me,” she said finally.

Dot and Hal returned to the table.

“Look at you two,” said Dot. “Deep in conversation. What are you talking about? If you don’t mind my butting in.”

“Joan here says she’s too busy to get married,” said George. “What do you think about that?”

Dot squeezed Joan’s shoulder. “Joan’s a career girl.”

George leaned back in his chair, peering at her like a scientist examining an exotic specimen. “No kidding. A career girl.”

“I think it’s perfectly wonderful,” said Dot. “In fact, if I had it to do over again, I might be a career girl myself.”

Hal chuckled. He grasped his lips between his thumb and forefinger. “Watch me button my lip. I’m not saying anything.”

Dot leaned close to Joan. “Don’t pay any attention to him, honey. He’s living in the Dark Ages.” She lit a cigarette. “Have you talked to Nancy lately?”

“Not since the pool party,” said Joan. “She must be busy, with Moira in town.”

“Oh, honey. You haven’t heard.” Dot lowered her gravelly voice. “You didn’t hear it from me, but apparently Moira and her boyfriend—what’s his name?”

“Ken,” said Joan.

“Moira and Ken got themselves an apartment together on Ocean Avenue.” Dot’s eyes widened. “The wedding isn’t for months. Can you imagine?”

“Really?” said Joan. She hadn’t seen Ken Kimble since the day in her kitchen; the next Friday a different gardener had come to spray the oleanders. She’d considered calling to request him specifically, but changed her mind. If she asked for him by name, he was sure to hear about it.

“Nancy’s heartbroken. And of course Dick is fit to be tied.” Dot frowned. “I don’t know how this could have happened. He seemed like such a nice fellow.”

Across the table Hal grunted. “A hippie, if you ask me.”

Dot giggled. “I thought he was handsome.”

“He needs a damned haircut,” Hal grumbled.

“Oh, don’t be an old fogey. That’s the look nowadays.” Dot turned to Joan. “Of course, I’m old-fashioned too. It’s wonderful to be young and in love, but for heaven’s sake, can’t they be discreet about it?”

Joan smiled absently. She remembered Ken Kimble standing on her patio, how he’d sized up her father’s house in a single glance:
A movie star should live here.
His deep voice filling her kitchen, resonant and warm; his blue eyes bright with curiosity, missing nothing.

“He seems a little old for Moira,” said Joan. “Did Nancy ever tell you how they met?”

“She doesn’t know. Moira won’t tell her anything.” Dot sighed. “First she quits college, and now this.”

Across the table George stared into his glass. “My wife wanted to go to college,” he said suddenly. “Can you believe it? We’ve got two kids at Penn State, it’s costing me a fortune, and all of a sudden she wants to go to college.”

Joan’s eyes drifted across the dance floor. The orchestra was packing up. Through the arched doorway a line formed at the coat-check window, husbands collecting their wives’ furs. November had come; at night the temperature dropped to fifty-five degrees.

“What did she want to study?” she asked.

George frowned.

“In college,” said Joan. “What did your wife want to study?”

“Beats me,” he said.

T
HEY DROVE
through town, George hunched over the steering wheel of Hal’s Eldorado. Hal and Dot had stayed behind at the Orange Grove; he’d booked the honeymoon suite and slipped the key into Dot’s baked Alaska—further evidence, Joan supposed, of their shared belief in romance.

You two be good,
Hal had joked as he handed his brother the car keys.
Or at least be careful
.

“It’s this one,” Joan said, pointing. “First house on the right.”

George pulled into the circular driveway. Promptly she reached for the door handle. “It was nice meeting you,” she said.

“Wait a second.” George cut the motor. “I’ll walk you to the door.” He followed her silently up the curving walk, his hand at the small of her back.

At the door Joan offered her hand. “It was a lovely evening.”

George grasped her hand with both of his. “Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry for going on about my ex-wife like that. You don’t need to
hear that.” His face was very close, broad and earnest under the porch light.

“I haven’t been on a date in twenty-one years,” he said. “I don’t know how to act anymore.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Joan. His large hands were very warm, trapping hers inside them. “You’re terrific company.”

He stepped closer. “You’re a good sport. I never met a girl like you.”

He’s going to kiss me, she thought. She took a step backward, into the stucco wall. Her legs felt dead; blood pounded in her temples.

He bent and covered her mouth with his. The wall at her back radiated heat, still full of the afternoon sun. His chest pressed against hers, the silicone breast heavy between them. She turned her head away.

“What’s the matter?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. And then, recovering herself: “It’s late. I should go.”

He stepped back from her, so abruptly she nearly fell over. “Okay, then,” he said, red-faced. “Good night.”

He turned his broad back to her and headed toward the car.

I
N THE KITCHEN
she mixed herself a drink, sipped it as she undressed. She lay in bed waiting for sleep, feeling her breast for lumps. The skin was smooth under her fingertips. She was perfectly healthy.

She closed her eyes and saw George Beckley’s face. He didn’t interest her; he was the sort of man she wouldn’t have looked at twice, before. At least she didn’t think so. Her old self was fading. She could barely remember the way she used to be.

She had loved men. At twenty she’d lost her virginity to an English professor. He was much older, thin and gray-haired; he had adored her body, treated her like a goddess. After that, boyfriends: writers, journalists, the young lawyer Howard Resnick, whom her father had wanted her to marry. She’d worked with Morris Brown for six years before they went to bed. The delightful shock of seeing him naked, the secret parts of a man she’d known a long time. In the summer they would sleep on the roof of her fifth-floor walkup, waiting for a breeze. One freezing night in November they made love on an old army blanket. They lay there afterward watching the first snow of the season, the tiny flakes melting instantly on their warm faces, leaving behind wetness, a lingering thrill. They did not fall in love; what grew up between them was an intense loyalty. He was the dearest friend she’d ever had.

They had all loved her. Yet a year ago she’d lain alone in a hospital room waiting to die, the men who loved her conspicuously absent. She had pushed them all away. Young, foolishly sure of her power, she’d always imagined there would be others.

Now what happens? she thought. Who’s going to want me now?

E
ARLY IN THE MORNING
a noise woke her. The room was still dark; the alarm clock read 5:15. On the bedside table sat an empty glass. It smelled of tonic water, astringent as men’s cologne.

Joan sat up in bed and listened. She’d been sleeping deeply; the nightcap—her first in a year—had helped. In the distance she heard water running. The pool, she thought groggily. Something’s wrong with the pool. She slipped on a robe and padded downstairs to the kitchen, unlocked the sliding doors. Across the patio a shadow moved.

“Who’s there?” she called out, her heart hammering.

A man stepped out from behind the hedge, holding a garden hose.

“It’s me, Joan. Ken Kimble.”

He’d come to check the bougainvillea, he explained: it was caterpillar season, and he’d noticed a few holes in the leaves the time he’d visited.

“It’s five o’clock in the morning,” said Joan.

“I know.” He coiled the hose loosely and hung it on the wall of the toolshed. “I’m sorry I woke you. I must have scared you half to death, prowling around your yard in the dark. Please forgive me.”

Joan frowned. She was very confused; her brain didn’t function before nine.

“Ken,” she said. “Come have some coffee.”

T
HEY SAT
at the kitchen table, cups of coffee between them, Kimble’s back to the glass doors. Behind him the sky had begun to lighten. A pale glow spread at the horizon. He sugared his coffee and spoke in a flat voice. He and Moira had been fighting; for two nights in a row she’d put the chain on the door, locking him out. He slept in the apartment in the afternoons when she was at work. She was as a lifeguard at the country-club pool.

“So where do you spend the night?” said Joan.

Kimble smiled sheepishly. “In the truck.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“It’s not that bad.” He sipped his coffee. “Anyway, that’s why I came so early. The sooner I get everything done, the sooner I can go back to the apartment and sleep.”

Joan put down her cup. “It’s none of my business,” she said, “but what’s the problem? Why is Moira so angry?”

Kimble hesitated. “Things are bad with her parents,” he said finally. “Her father especially. So I suggested we postpone the wedding awhile and let them get used to the idea. Not forever. Six months. A year at the most.”

“And?”

“She went crazy. She wants to get married right away.” He ran a hand through his lank hair. “I don’t understand it. She’s nineteen years old. She’s got all the time in the world.”

Nineteen, Joan thought: half my age. She’d been a virgin at nineteen, editor of the Radcliffe poetry review. She’d imagined herself an adult.

“Have you ever been married?” Kimble asked.

For God’s sake, she thought. Again with this question.

“No,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended. “And I never felt like I was missing anything. There’s more to life than getting married.”

Kimble clapped appreciatively, as though she’d performed a magic trick. “Brava,” he said. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I keep telling Moira she should go back to school, figure out what she wants to do with her life. Women have so many opportunities today. She could be anything she wants. Look at you.”

Joan flushed. She’d spent years explaining herself to the George Beckleys of the world, men mystified by the choices she’d made. To Ken Kimble she’d explained nothing; yet he seemed to understand.

“I wish Moira could talk to you,” he continued. “She’s getting some bad advice from her mother. Nancy’s a sweet lady, but she’s
led a sheltered life. Every day the two of them go shopping for a wedding gown. It’s all they talk about.”

Joan thought of the Moira she’d met that spring, restless and independent, ready to join the Peace Corps. Joan had envied her then, the discoveries awaiting her, her youth and energy and radiant health. The world had changed in marvelous ways. For her, anything would be possible.

“This doesn’t sound like Moira,” she said.

“I know. I barely recognize her anymore.” Kimble set down his cup and pushed back his chair. “Anyway, I’ve taken up enough of your morning.”