Concrete Angel (19 page)

It would’ve been difficult to prosecute Mother though. Meticulous in her record-keeping (thanks to me) no single company had been badly scammed by her scheme. Who’d hire an attorney to seek a legal settlement for the return of twelve boxes of Rice-A-Roni? Only a class action suit from a large number of retailers would merit the legal fees necessary to claim a court’s time.

The eventual “homecoming” after the debacle with Roy, the pedophile (if that’s what he was), came with the proviso that Mother see a Dr. Richard Cox on Tuesdays and Fridays. Friday’s visit, in particular, tuned her up for the weekend. Maybe with Dr. Cox’s help, it’d be possible for her to attend some club functions or entertain Hank’s clients as she had a few years’ before. Maybe there was a way to find a way back to the time of my birth—the days of the gay and perfect wife and mother. The hostess with the mostest as was said of women like my mother.

“P
eople still ask for you,” Hank said. “You were a favorite at the Christmas Cotillion in ‘64.”

Eve didn’t remind him 1964 was many years ago now. She had little memory of that person, doubted she’d really existed.

“If that’s true, it was a side effect of the increased (or was it decreased?) estrogen levels after birth,” she told me.

Gynecological research, always a backwater science, was at a standstill on which.

Whereas a few years
later
, a more psychiatrically wised up, Eve would accompany me on trips to Dr. B, manipulating my treatment with great finesse, she went to these sessions alone—Hank insisting family counseling wasn’t required.

“His surname fits him to a tee,” she told Hank after her first visit. “Hell, his first name too. His parents must have been imbeciles, which brings his intelligence into question. Dick Cox, really. At least he could use the name Rick.” She was pacing the room.

“Unfortunate choice,” Hank agreed. “Perhaps in his day…”

“Well, it certainly suits him. He rarely gets off the subject of sex.” Eve lowered her voice slightly. “Gets off
on
it, I should say.”

“Shun the pun,” her husband reminded her.

I sat in the backseat of the car, listening to their back and forth for several minutes before we pulled into the driveway. When Mother said something lewd, Daddy threatened to send me upstairs.

“I’m almost ten,” I reminded them as we entered the foyer, and they briefly relented, although no conversation between my parents was PG-rated for long.

In my grandmother’s house, I’d been treated like an infant and acted accordingly by sitting on strange men’s laps to win Mother a beau. But back home now, I was nearly an adult—or as much of one as necessary to hold onto my father. I’d pulled up my socks, as Daddy often suggested, and taken on the role of caretaker again. Who else would do it?

“What does sex have to do with you being a thief?” Daddy asked, pulling the
New York Times
out of his briefcase and tossing it on his favorite chair. “You’re in therapy to discuss your stealing, not your libido.”

Mother shrugged. “Haven’t you heard therapists believe all problems stem from harm done in childhood and its effect on future sexuality? There’s an article in some magazine about it every month. Subscribing to
Psychology Today
keeps me abreast of such things.” She spun around the room, looking for a recent copy. “You’re the one who heard about this dope— at your
club.
” She said the word derisively. “Don’t blame me if he’s more interested in what’s between my legs than what’s between my ears.”

“You were stealing things long before that flower bloomed.”

Looking longingly at the newspaper on his chair, Daddy stroked his chin where an early seventies beard was making its first appearance. It would be a short-lived experiment since the beard turned gray within months. He wasn’t even forty.

“Did you fill him in on your early career? The juicy stuff from elementary school?”

“Elementary school? I never stole…” Mother blushed. “Look, I don’t volunteer anything with shrinks. I let them take the lead. If I learned anything at those last two snake pits, it was that. Otherwise, you get sent for a little electric pick-me-up or a sugar boost.” She waved the latest issue of the
Psychology Today
in the air and then tossed it to him. “A conversation can get tragically sidetracked by some silly thing you only said to lighten the mood, to be entertaining when the silence lasted too long. Words they’ll throw back at you when you least expect it. Oh, it’s quite a juggling act.”

Mother’s knowledge of the psychiatric process, its ins and outs, would prove invaluable when my turn came, and that night was growing closer.

“So you’re manipulating him,” Daddy said, his eyes blazing. “It’s always a game for you, isn’t it?” He flopped down, opened the magazine, and pretended to read the table of contents page.

“Shouldn’t the good doctor be used to it by now? Know how to get past it? Isn’t it typical patient behavior? The guy must be sixty—at least. He graduated from the best schools. I saw a degree from University of Pennsylvania Medical School hanging on his wall. He should have learned some useful techniques for probing the reluctant or stage-managing patient during his studies.”

Mother was busy mixing a drink though it wasn’t close to cocktail hour. Mrs. Murphy had become adept at always having ice in the bucket, clean glasses on hand, a variety of whiskeys.

“Give him a chance, Eve. Stop trying to outfox him. Answer his questions.” Daddy sighed and flung the magazine aside. “Have you ever understood you really need help? Do you think other women—other people—spend their days acquiring so much stuff that no house can contain it. Things not even removed from their packaging on occasion. I recently found a—”

“Oh, give it a rest.” Mother took a long swallow. “I agree my troubles don’t stem from my libido. Or, lack thereof, to hear him tell it.”

“That’ll be the day.”

They both laughed suddenly, explosively. It was one of the few areas of their marriage that didn’t dog them apparently.

Daddy grew serious. “But maybe the two things
are
related, Eve. Maybe my penis
is
a glitter stick to you. One more toy in your box.” They both burst into laughter again at his inadvertent pun.

Mother looked over at me quickly, batting her eyes. I climbed the stairs reluctantly.

“M
ost shrinks think there’s a connection,” Eve continued as soon as they heard me climbing the stairs. I stopped midway up, hoping to overhear what I could.

“Perhaps women shoplift more than men because they don’t have the gold between their legs.” She breathed deeply. “Want a drink?’

“It’s not four.” He shrugged. “Yes.”

She mixed him a Scotch and water. “Oh, I’ve heard all the theories. ‘My father didn’t love me so I am trying to get attention through glitzy purchases, through sex.’ Trouble is he’s dead now, so I’ll never get his attention.”

The memory of Herbert Hobart making his way down the narrow aisle at Woolworth’s Dime Store would never fade. She could still remember the smell of parakeets and pet food as they marched through the store. Still remember eyes following them from behind every counter. Had some alarm gone off alerting them to the procession? She never sought her father’s attention—before or after. There may have been triumph on his face. He’d been proven right about his daughter.”

“Doesn’t matter to your ID, Eve. Or ego—whatever it is. Part of you is still trying to please your father. Even if he is dead.” Hank was stroking his chin again. Or what must have been his chin under that fuzz.

“Watching you play with the hair on your chin is making me itch,” Eve made a face and wiggled. “I wonder if they had sex at all. My parents. Can you imagine them doing it as uptight as they were? I never saw either of them naked, was never permitted to be undressed outside of my bedroom. The sight of me naked today is more than my mother can bear. My father’s only interest in my bath, for instance, was the amount of water in the bathtub, and my mother didn’t bathe me after age four, only inspecting me for missed areas when I was fully dressed. And mostly it was my ears—as if they harbored truckloads of dirt.”

“It’s not so remarkable. Their generation is—was—prudish. Anyway, no children can imagine their parents having sex. Ask Christine. I bet she’d be shocked to know we have sex.” He paused. “That’s always been all right with us. Right? The sex part of it.”

“Christine doesn’t know enough about sex to think about quantity. She’s immature in certain ways. Kids think adults do it only to have babies. In my parents’ case it was probably true.” Eve put the glass down and looked him right in the eye. “If you’re home, we have a lot of it, Hank. If we’re speaking to each other, if I’m not in the nuthouse or at my mother’s.” She felt generous giving him this. And what did she know about quantity or quality after only one man? She was almost embarrassed at that, in fact, knowing he surely had outdone her there.

“Still, it’s a healthy amount.”

Let him have this, she thought again. She hated that beard though. It’d have to come off. She could imagine the scratches on various areas of her body from the idiotic thing. But she couldn’t say anything right now. Reacquiring the upper hand would take some time.

D
r. Cox thought it’d be a good idea for Mother to get a job.

“What I could do?” she asked Daddy and me across the table at the Oak Ridge Country Club. “I didn’t finish college and can’t type worth a damn.”

Dressed entirely in white, she was drinking champagne and eating lobster and a hearts of palm salad, both dripping with butter. It was nerve-wracking watching her eat greasy food in a white dress, but she was unconcerned—never doubting her ability to remain pristine. I kept my eye on the bottle of club soda on the waiters’ station but, as usual, she ate only a bite or two before putting down her fork. Just a taste to keep the waist, I remembered her saying once. I dug in.

It was important to Daddy that we look nice. He’d approved my outfit grudgingly. I was skinny again, thanks to my months with Grandmother Hobart, but my exposed knees were scabbed from a fall off my new bike, and the dress Grandmother Moran sent over was too babyish for me. It looked like something Heidi might wear in the Alps.

“Why don’t you come and work at the new stationery shop in Hatboro?” Daddy said smoothly. “A job there will keep you busy.”

The Moran family had decided owning a shop where ordinary people could buy their new lines of lovely stationery, paper products, and wedding invitations was a good idea. Now was the right time for the family business to become more than an anonymous, if successful, factory operation in the backwoods of Bucks County. Retail was sexier in the new economy. Chic shops were replacing the pedestrian businesses of an earlier era. The new store had replaced one fixing irons, percolators, and toasters. Now people threw broken items away.

“A fire hazard,” more than one advertisement warned. “Don’t risk electric shocks.”

Even if our new shop didn’t turn a big profit, the Moran name would become more familiar to the general public. Daddy’s team of salesmen would have an easier time of it when they showed up on doorsteps. People would recognize the name before a salesman held out a business card.

“You mean stand at a counter all day long ringing up sales. A saleswoman?”

“Well, you’d be more like a designer. A decorator. Make recommendations on what items might look nice at a party. What weight and color of paper would be a good choice for a wedding invitation. What sort of font to use. You’d be terrific at it—with your great taste.” Daddy’s charm was turned on high, and I could feel its warmth; we were suffused with it within seconds. It was a rare demonstration of his salesmanship abilities, and it took us both by surprise.

Mother looked more enthusiastic. “You don’t have a fulltime job in mind? I still have Christine—and other things.”

I nodded quickly, always willing to back the myth she took care of me—that I was a fulltime job, a bit of a pest. It felt like little to ask, these small subterfuges. When had Daddy stuck by me? I put my fork down in alliance.

He shook his head. “Nah. I was thinking of three afternoons a week. The girl I hired—Debbie—recently had a baby and wants to work part-time. It’ll work out all around.” He smile grew a little brighter—if such a thing was possible. I basked in the light, waiting for Mother to protest.

“I might give it a try.”

I was horrified. How could I possibly monitor her behavior from that distance? What new shenanigans would she introduce while I was stuck behind a desk at school? Or sitting and eating cookies at the kitchen table with Mrs. Murphy. Disasters had come about in such circumstances before. My grandmother’s watchful eye had not been enough. Strange men had tried to have their way with both of us.

Mother, for her part, was probably already thinking about the personal fulfillment derived from offering advice to the ordinary town folks of Hatboro, setting a smart tone, being a style-maker. And having money in her pocket she didn’t have to beg from Daddy wouldn’t be half-bad. She didn’t give a thought to the cost her job would have on me. When had either of them stuck by me? I was alone.

E
ve’s employment at Moran’s in Hatboro began the next week. She saw Dr. Cox Tuesdays and Fridays, working afternoons the other days. The shop was not expected to generate huge revenues, so there was little pressure to make a lot of sales. As Daddy spelled out repeatedly, Moran’s Stationers was primarily to remind area businessmen that the family ran a successful printing business not ten miles away, a business that could take care of all their paper and printing needs—large or small.

The shop was small but nicely appointed with cherry cabinetry and ceiling moldings and highly-glossed, wide-planked flooring. The name was inscribed in a wrought-iron font over the front door. A jaunty awning, in the same color as the logo on the letterhead, hung above. Shops hadn’t begun to pay much attention to their façades in Hatboro so Moran’s Stationer was a scene-stealer.