A Slender Thread (17 page)

“You look great, Mom.”

“That's what everyone tells old ladies.” Janet laughed and reached for Margot's hand. “I'm so glad you're here,” she said. “I hope my boy is behaving.”

“So good to see you,” Margot said. “Happy holidays.”

“You remember my neighbor Mrs. Keller? You may have met her here last year.”

They both turned toward to the small old lady seated next to his mother. She had wispy, unruly hair and she wore a misbuttoned cashmere sweater with a scattering of stains across the front.

“Why, I remember your son, Janet. The artist, the famous one.”

“Good to see you, Mrs. Keller.” Oliver reached for her hand but saw she was twisting a tissue in her lap. He pulled back.

“This must be your wife.” Mrs. Keller smiled up at Margot.

Oliver glanced at his mother. Margot reached down and took the old lady's hand.

“Mrs. Keller, I'm Margot Winkler. Oliver and I live in the city.”

“Do you have boys? Nancy has these two handsome boys.”

Oliver wanted to say yes, they had six illegitimate kids stashed in their apartment, but he didn't think she would get the joke. Unlike him, his mother seemed to find her neighbor's inquiries mildly entertaining.

“Mom,” he said, “would you like me to bring you a drink or some food?”

“No, darling. I've already had plenty. I want to hear about what you're showing next.” She turned to her neighbor. “Oliver shows in the best galleries in New York.”

Margot handed Oliver her wine. “I'm going to go say hello to Ken and the boys.” She gave him an indulgent smile and slipped away before he could stop her.

Oliver looked once again at his mother. She seemed to be studying him carefully, as if looking for signs that something was wrong. Janet Levin was a woman who didn't miss much.

 

Alex had thought they were going to make it through Christmas Day without a glitch until Wink pulled him aside as he was turning out the lights before going up to bed.

“Dad, can we talk a minute?”

He stepped into the hall. “Sure, Winky, what's up?”

“I think something's wrong with Mom.”

“What do you mean?” They both listened as Toni's footsteps clattered up the stairs. Lacey had gone up to bed a few minutes before.

“She seems so scattered these days.”

“Wink, it's the holidays. Mom's been busy. You know that.”

“They say women get forgetful because of menopause.” Wink looked away on saying that word. “But she doesn't really forget stuff. It's more like her mind gets jumbled when she's trying to talk.”

Alex felt his chest tighten. “Mom's exhausted,” he said. He turned and switched off the downstairs hall light, leaving them in near dark. “We're all tired. Let's get to bed.”

“But, Dad—” She leaned against the banister.

“Not now, sweetie. I'm beat too.” He kissed her on the cheek, a dismissal.

Wink shrugged and went on up to her room.

When Alex went upstairs Lacey was in bed reading. The book, a history of textiles that Kate had given her for Christmas, was propped against her knees. He pulled the curtains at the window. The night was black. Not a star in the sky. He quickly got ready for bed.

“We need to talk,” he said, getting into bed. He put his hand gently on the curve of Lacey's hip.

“Not tonight,” she said. She closed the book and placed it on the nightstand.

“Please,” he said.

Lacey said nothing and clicked off the light on her side of the bed.

“Come on, Chief.” He arranged the covers and moved beside her. Her hair smelled of cooking and a woodsy botanical shampoo. “We haven't had a moment alone all day.”

She turned toward him and kissed him once and rested her hand on his face. “I'm tired. Okay?”

He nodded. He knew it was late. What would they accomplish raising these tough issues now? Lacey must have picked up on Wink's concern, and even Toni had seemed more watchful of her mother while they were preparing their contributions to that night's meal. They had all gone to Kate and Hugh's for Christmas dinner, taking with them a roasted beet salad, a sweet potato casserole, and Lacey's signature Christmas log cake. Wink had spent the afternoon making tiny mushrooms out of meringue to decorate it. With the Martins' extended family, they had been sixteen around the table. The meal had been festive, everyone talking and laughing at once, making their own household seem especially quiet when they returned to it.

“I love you, Chief,” he said, taking Lacey's hand and kissing her fingers. She squeezed his hand, a wordless reply, then turned away from him, drawing her knees toward her chest. Alex reached for the switch of his own light and pulled the covers up to his neck.

He found it impossible to let go of the day. His brain began to unleash a litany of worries he had kept coiled inside him like a snake under a rock. Hugh had asked him if he had contacted Margot to enlist her help in convincing Lacey to tell the girls about her illness. They had been alone in the kitchen, opening the wine before dinner. Alex confessed that he hadn't spoken to Margot or told Lacey about the consulting job in Chicago either. How could he go so far from home when so much was at stake? He hadn't even found the right moment to bring it up.

Now, lying in the dark bedroom beside his wife, he felt all the pleasures of the day—the fun of exchanging presents, the solace of food and friendship, the joys of a celebration—evaporate. A painful new feeling swelled inside his chest. Suddenly Lacey, a few inches from him across the bed, seemed oceans away. He moved closer to her, her warm body so familiar and sweet. Gently, he pushed her nightgown aside and brought his mouth to her shoulder. He rested his hand on her arm. He knew the feeling of her, every inch—the softness of her breasts, the length of her thigh, the curve of her waist—yet he never grew tired of her. Lacey's breathing had deepened. Alex wanted her, but he would let her sleep. He was possessed with an unfamiliar longing. Would he ever again be able to think of her the way they were before her illness? He withdrew his hand and rolled away.

A
lex stood by the window staring out at the whiteness. It was a week after Christmas. New Castle was covered with snow. There had been no wind in the night and the change in weather had crept up on the town unexpectedly, silently, more like a snowfall in a dream, making one wonder at daybreak if the newly white world was truly real. The morning was still. The bird feeder dangling on a wire between two trees was empty. He was sipping his first coffee of the day when Lacey came into the kitchen. She reached for a mug on the open shelves near the stove.

“Let me get your coffee, Chief,” Alex said.

“I'll do it.”

He pulled the pot from the heating base and took the mug from her. “You go sit. I'll get you some milk.”

“Fine,” she said.

“Did you sleep okay?”

She nodded, took a seat by the window, and stared into the garden. Alex placed her coffee in front of her and sat beside her. He liked the early morning when they could be alone together.

“I thought I'd make pancakes after the girls wake up,” he said.

“That could be hours.”

“I'll fix you something now.” He moved to get up. “Do you want eggs or an English muffin?”

She reached for his arm and pressed it. “Nothing.”

“You're sure?” he asked, hoping for a smile.

“I'm fine.” She looked away.

Alex thought Lacey looked pale this morning. The sun wasn't out, but the sky was opalescent, like the interior of a shell. He squinted in the brightness near the window and glanced at his wife. She was thinner.

He was trying hard to keep things going as normally as possible. At night when they retreated to their bedroom, Lacey still barely spoke at all, claiming exhaustion. Alex was afraid to say anything, not wanting to upset her. He didn't want to increase her worries by sharing his own. It was as if the calm they were trying to hold on to was extremely fragile, a brittle icicle that could suddenly snap and crash to the ground.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked.

“Because I want to eat later you think . . . I'm sick?” She gave him a quick glance.

“I'm only worried you might be coming down with something. Toni's been complaining of a sore throat. There's a lot going around. You need to take care not to get overtired—”

“Stop,” she interrupted. “You've got to stop this. I feel your eyes . . . b-boring into me . . . watching me . . . like I might . . .” Lacey leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

“I just worry.... Sorry. I can't help it.” Alex lifted his coffee. It was now cold. He carried it to the sink and poured it down the drain. He refilled his cup, emptying the pot. He would make more later.

“You haven't been . . . working much,” Lacey said.

Alex stood very still, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong. He took a breath and went back to the table, pulled out his chair. “I've been talking with a potential client,” he said. He sat and told Lacey about the new client in Chicago.

“When?” she asked.

“When do I have to tell them?”

“When would you start . . . start the job?”

“I'm not going to take it.”

“What do you mean?”

“This assignment is huge. I'd be gone a lot. It might take months, maybe half a year.”

“Take it,” she said, shoving her coffee away. The light brown liquid sloshed out onto the table.

“Let me get a paper towel,” he said.

Lacey reached for a cloth napkin in the center of the table and began to blot the mess with quick, impatient gestures. Alex went to the counter and ripped off a stream of paper towels. He balled them up and shoved them in Lacey's direction. She shook her head and pushed the napkin over the coffee, leaving the towels to slowly unfurl. The cloth in her hand was stained brown.

“I don't want to be away that much,” Alex continued.

“I don't mind.”

“Well, I mind.”

“Alex. I'm not sick. Not now.” She let go of the napkin and grabbed his wrist, squeezing tight. “Yes. One day it might get worse.” She gripped harder. “Now, we need to live our regular lives.” She withdrew her hand and brought both hands to her face. “If you want to help me,” she continued, “you have to treat me . . . like you used to.”

“Come on, Chief,” he said softly and patiently, as if he were speaking to a child. “I can't leave you to cope alone. The girls don't know what's going on. They can't help.”

“You've got to . . . take that job.”

“You've got to be honest with the girls,” he said. “You're keeping everything in. I know it's hard for you to talk. I mean . . .”

“It's the way I want it.”

“Well, it's not the way I want it.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “We've always been open with the kids. We need to share this with them. This has to do with our family and you won't let me say anything.”

“Alex, this is my problem. I will decide.”

He felt pressure building in his chest and tried to speak calmly. “Why do you think you have the right to decide everything?”

“I don't.”

“Oh, come on, Lacey.” He started to walk back and forth, punctuating each statement with a wave of his arm. “You said that Cornell has the best science program, so of course Wink should go to Cornell. In your opinion Columbia is best for journalism, so Toni should go there. So what if Wink might want a smaller college? So what if Toni wants to stay near her boyfriend? Can't I decide to pass on a job so I can be near my family? You won't let me do what I think is best for you.”

“Shhh. Not so loud.” Lacey pressed her hands to her temples.

Alex felt as if he might explode. He sat down again and crossed his arms on his chest.

Months ago, in the car while listening to a Schubert symphony, he had thought of how that experience was like being with Lacey. The pleasure of familiarity mixing with desire, like the harmonies themselves, was a gift. Knowing that the warmth, the richness of all this beauty was his, like a light shining inside of him, had made him swell with gratitude. What had changed since then?

Lacey rested her hands on the table and spoke calmly. “You've got to take that job.” That one sentence flowed easily off her tongue.

He looked over at his wife. “There you go again—always telling us what to do. You're always calling the shots.” Alex couldn't calm down. He felt pushed to the edge.

“That's not true,” she said tersely.

The sound of a toilet flushing came from upstairs. Lacey reached over and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Okay. I know I can be hardheaded.” She tilted her head and her mouth softened. “A little stubborn?”

He nodded and said nothing. Sometimes stubborn was good. In his second semester of business school he'd had a terrible time with a statistics course. He had wanted to drop out of school, thinking he might actually flunk. Instead, Lacey had tracked down a tutor for him and sat beside him while he worked the problems over and over until they made sense.

She'd been vigilant with the girls about homework, too, but she made it fun—making games of spelling lists and creating imaginary quiz shows when they had social studies tests. She soothed them by making hot chocolate and whipped cream, or fixing bowls of popcorn when they had an extra-hard day at school. No one was more encouraging or loving and willing to celebrate each success.