Grand Avenue (6 page)

Again, Barbara checked the mirror, deciding she looked too pale. She immediately felt her forehead. Maybe she was coming down with whatever had felled Chris. Or more likely the shade of blush she’d recently purchased wasn’t quite right. Perhaps she needed something with a little more depth. Maybe that’s what she’d do now, she thought, returning the receiver to its carriage, smiling at the bartender without moving her lips, showing her the way it should be done, although the careless young woman failed to notice and was already busy chatting up another customer. Why was it that people were always hanging up on her before she was finished talking, or walking away from her while she was still standing there? She was still a strikingly beautiful woman; she presented herself well. What was it about her that failed to register?

Maybe it was her hair. People had trouble taking big hair seriously. Probably she should cut it. Barbara had once overheard her mother-in-law sniggering on the phone to a friend—“She looks like she was frozen in the sixties,” she’d said, then pretended she’d been talking about an acquaintance from high school whom she’d run into that afternoon. “You see how stylish Sheila’s short hair is,” her mother-in-law had remarked
just the other day. “There comes a time when a woman gets too old for long hair.”

Maybe such a time would come, Barbara thought, returning to her seat, but that time was not now. She liked her long hair. Maybe she’d grow it as long as Crystal Gayle’s, past her knees, right down to the floor. How would her mother-in-law like it then? Barbara signaled the waiter for the bill, feeling like a petulant child. “My friends won’t be coming,” she told him, bracing herself for his unpleasant scowl, but his back was already to her.

It was just as well the others hadn’t shown up. She could do without lunch, even if she did get headaches whenever she missed a meal. Besides, she’d eaten all those rolls. It wasn’t as if she would starve to death. And there were other things she needed to do. She’d promised Tracey she’d buy some fabric that matched a dress she’d recently purchased and have her dressmaker make the child one just like it. And there was that project Tracey’s first-grade teacher had assigned on spring flowers. Tracey wanted hers to be the best project in the class, so Barbara, who had quickly realized she knew nothing about spring flowers other than that daffodils were yellow and tulips top-heavy, had promised to get her daughter all the necessary information. She could stop at the library, maybe buy a bunch of fresh flowers for Tracey to give to Miss Atherton. Maybe she’d take a bunch over to Chris later on.

“Eight dollars for two glasses of water!” Barbara sputtered when she saw the bill, unable to hide her shock and dismay. What would her mother-in-law say about that? Probably that her son worked much too
hard for his wife to throw away his hard-earned money on something as frivolous as designer water. And she’d be right, Barbara thought, dropping a $10 bill on the table and fleeing the restaurant, pursued by her mother-in-law’s silent but steady recriminations. Did she have no regard for how hard Ron worked to support his family? A university professor’s salary wasn’t exactly a king’s ransom. Couldn’t she show at least a little restraint? Look at Sheila …

By the time Barbara stepped out onto Belvedere Street, she was blinking back the renewed threat of tears. Dabbing at her bottom lashes with the side of her index finger, careful not to disturb what she prayed was water-proof mascara, she reached into her purse for her sunglasses, shoving them none too gently over the bridge of her nose, trying to obliterate the image of her mother-in-law’s ferretlike face. Was it fair that her own mother, a woman as warm and caring as she was beautiful, had died of acute lymphatic leukemia shortly after Tracey’s birth, while Ron’s mother, who was as cold and mean-spirited as she was unattractive, would probably live forever? “Damn it,” Barbara said into the palm of her hand, realizing just how much she’d been looking forward to lunch with her friends, especially to seeing Chris.

Of all the Grand Dames, Chris was Barbara’s favorite. Susan was great—genuine and down-to-earth, if a little too practical for Barbara’s taste, and Vicki was … well, Vicki was Vicki, dynamic and lots of fun, but she could be very indiscreet. Barbara had learned long ago not to tell Vicki anything she wouldn’t feel comfortable seeing on the front page of the
Cincinnati Post
.
It was with Chris that Barbara felt the closest bond. Perhaps because neither worked outside the home, Chris always had time for her. She never made Barbara’s concerns seem shallow or unimportant; she never walked away from her in midconversation, never made her feel insignificant. Thank God Tony had finally found another job. Not that Chris had ever complained. Still, the situation couldn’t have been pleasant, which might account for why she’d suddenly come down with the flu. Didn’t the experts claim depression weakened the immune system? Although it had been weeks since Tony had started his new job, and still Chris seemed preoccupied. Something was wrong. She’d have to talk to Chris when she was feeling better, get her to open up.

Barbara stood for several seconds in the middle of the sidewalk in front of The Foxfire Grille, her stomach rumbling its confusion. She needed food and she needed reassurance that all was right with the world. She checked her watch. Closing in on 12:45. If she hurried, she could just make it to the university in time to take her handsome husband out to lunch.

Less than ten minutes later, Barbara pulled her black Sierra into a newly vacated spot on Clifton Avenue, more commonly referred to as Fraternity Row because of the plethora of fraternity and sorority houses that lined the right side of the street, and raced toward the campus of the University of Cincinnati, America’s second-oldest and second-largest municipal university. Hurrying past the towering white concrete structure that was the Brodie Science and Engineering Center,
she located the more modest two-story red-brick building that housed the Department of Social Studies, where her husband taught courses in basic psychology and human behavior. Nodding a vague hello to several denim-and-leather-clad students gathered near the front steps, Barbara pulled open the heavy oak front door and proceeded down the long hallway, her high heels in noisy contrast to the sneakers everyone else seemed to be wearing.

It was a beautiful old building, Barbara thought, picking up her pace just slightly as she turned right and continued on down the corridor, lined with old black-and-white photographs of long-ago alumnae. Lots of dark wood paneling, leaded windows, fine old archways. The way a university was supposed to look. Creaky and grand and just slightly intimidating. Not that she should feel intimidated, Barbara decided, climbing the wide staircase at the far end of the hall. Just because she hadn’t gone on to college after winning her title didn’t mean she was stupid, didn’t mean she had anything to feel inferior about. She might not be able to quote Shakespeare, the way Susan could, or spout legal precedents, like Vicki, and truth to tell, she’d be hard-pressed to differentiate between psychology and sociology, but she could still hold her own in conversations with her husband and friends. Besides, it wasn’t too late. If she was interested, she could always sign up for a few courses, work slowly toward her degree, the way Susan had been doing over the years, one course at a time, whenever home life and babies permitted. Of course she’d have to find something she was really interested in, and it couldn’t be so
demanding it would take away from her time with Tracey or Ron. Barbara shrugged, picturing herself as Scarlett O’Hara in
Gone With the Wind:
she’d think about these things later—tomorrow was another day. Quickly checking her image in the glass reflection of an old photograph outside her husband’s classroom, seeing Vivien Leigh stare back, Barbara pulled open the door and went inside.

The classroom was large, its seats descending, as in a stadium, from top to bottom, where her husband, a tall and ruggedly handsome man of forty, stood behind his podium in front of a large chalkboard and delivered his lecture to approximately three hundred students hanging intently on his every word. Barbara slipped into an empty seat at the back, aware of numerous eyes turning toward her, including those of her husband, who acknowledged her presence with an almost imperceptible nod of his head while continuing to speak to the class. “One of the major difficulties in the field of attitude research has been the tendency to oversimplify problems in terms of a narrow theory of motivation,” he was saying. “The gestalt school, to look at one such example, believes that people are always striving toward a more inclusive and stable organization of the psychological field, where the individual is constantly trying to reconcile conflicting impressions in order to make sense of the world around him, thereby maximizing his potential for fitting in.”

Barbara heard the frantic scribbling of pens on paper as, all around her, students struggled to record each word. Do they actually have any clue what he’s talking about? Barbara wondered, trying hard to concentrate
so that she could discuss these theories with her husband over lunch. But already she was losing the thread of his lecture, her mind wandering back to Chris, wondering how she was feeling, if there was anything she could do to help her.

“Another motivational model follows the reward-punishment pattern,” her husband was saying, brown eyes circling the room. “This model sees attitudes as part of an adaptive response to the social world where group norms are of primary importance and the individual seeks acceptance and support from his group.”

Was he speaking English? Barbara wondered, feeling like a new immigrant, fresh off the boat. Where had he learned to talk like that? She surveyed the predominantly female gathering, the students hovered over their small desks, eager pens racing after each word. Not one of these girls knows a thing about makeup, Barbara thought, shaking her head with dismay. They may know plenty about motivational models, but they know zippo about contouring and blending.

“And finally, we have the personality theorist who emphasizes the internal dynamics underlying attitudes in which the individual’s need to preserve his self-image and integrity becomes more important than external rewards and punishments.” Ron stopped suddenly and smiled. “We’ll continue with this tomorrow. Please read page 121 through 139 in your text. Thank you.”

The students immediately rose from their seats, gathering up their belongings and ascending the stairs, ignoring Barbara as she made her way down the steps
toward her husband’s podium. “What a pleasant surprise,” Ron said, a smile spreading across his perpetually tanned face. “What brings you out here?”

“I thought I’d take my gorgeous husband out to lunch,” Barbara said, invisible fingers crossed behind her back, her eyes all but shouting, Please say yes.

“I thought you were having lunch with the girls,” Ron said, looking around the room as if for something in particular. “Amy,” he called out suddenly. “Amy, I need to talk to you for half a minute about your essay.”

Barbara watched the long-haired girl in the seemingly requisite tight blue jeans and black leather jacket stop near the top of the stairs, whisper a few words to her friends, then make her way down the steps. “It got canceled,” Barbara explained, “so I thought I’d take a chance and see if you were free.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Ron said, and Barbara breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Give me two minutes to take care of this.”

“No problem. Is there a washroom nearby I can use?”

“Top of the stairs. Turn right.”

“I’ll meet you in the hallway.”

“I’ll just be two minutes,” Ron repeated as Amy approached, nervous fingers pushing her long brown hair behind her ears.

A little mascara would give that girl all the confidence in the world, Barbara thought as she made her way back up the stairs. She turned back briefly, noticed that the girl was standing perhaps an inch too close to her husband, that the side of her breast was brushing against the side of his arm, that he made no effort to
move away. Don’t be silly, Barbara told herself, exiting the room. She was being paranoid again. The girl was standing only as close as was necessary to hear what Ron was saying. It only looked as if her breast were pressed against his arm because of where Barbara was standing.

Barbara quickly located the washroom, adjusted her hair and lipstick in the long rectangular mirror over the row of sinks, then tugged at the skin around her eyes until the small lines that surrounded them, like parentheses, disappeared. “You don’t look any older than any of those girls,” Barbara whispered to her reflection, wondering how Ron managed to maintain his youthful appearance without benefit of either diet or exercise. All those hours of lying out in the sun hadn’t seemed to hurt him either. He was still as handsome as the day she’d first spotted him sitting at the bar at Arnold’s, surrounded by women even then. Uh-oh, she remembered thinking as their eyes had connected. Trouble.

Of course she was aware of the rumors circulating about her husband. There’d been rumors throughout the ten years of their marriage. But Ron had assured her repeatedly that those rumors were base and unfounded, and she’d decided long ago to place no stock in them. She’d also decided that, even if the whispers were true, even if her husband did engage in the occasional outside dalliance, it meant nothing. Wasn’t that what Vicki had said about her own extracurricular activities? That it was just sex?

Barbara unbuttoned her blue jacket, tucked her white silk blouse inside her skirt, and was deciding
whether to use the toilet when the door to the washroom opened and the girl from her husband’s class—“Amy, I need to talk to you for half a minute about your essay”—walked inside and approached the mirror. “Hi,” Barbara said, as the girl dropped her books to the sink and immediately begin brushing her hair in a series of long, fluid strokes. She was a pretty girl, with a pale, thin face, and large, dark eyes that made her look more interesting than she probably was, Barbara decided, but still, she wasn’t winning any beauty contests. Miss Congeniality maybe, Barbara thought with a smile, trying not to notice the round little bottom filling out the tight jeans, the small, high breasts that could only be described as perky. The young didn’t have to be beautiful, Barbara realized. It was enough they were young.