Heart Troubles (20 page)

“Well,” Barbara said, smiling now, “how've you been? You look fine, just fine.”

“Me?” Dolly asked. “Oh, I'm just blooming. The Florida sunshine was just what the doctor ordered.” She picked up her glass and sipped from it. With the toe of her black pump she began a little rhythmic tapping on the rug. She crooked a silver-tipped finger and scratched the monogram that had been traced on the side of the glass. “Expensive,” she said.

Barbara laughed dryly. “Sure, everything here's expensive. Look at my shoes.” She extended one foot. “They were
very
expensive. Jeff likes things that way. Did you expect to find me living in squalor?”

“Oh, no!” Dolly exclaimed. “Of course not. But it's been such a long time. Three years, actually, since I've seen you. And when I last saw you Jeff was—you know—just getting started. Just struggling along.” She paused a moment. “I suppose he must be making all sorts of money now.”

“He does all right,” Barbara said. “We get along.”

“Your home is—well, it's
beautiful,
Barb. Really, from the way you described it in your letter, I thought—”

“You should see some of the houses around here,” Barbara said. “This place is nothing. I'll give you our twenty-five-cent tour of New Hope tomorrow. They say here that the mechanics live on Ferry Street and the fairies live on Mechanic Street. Tomorrow, we'll go out and laugh at the natives.”

“Well, I'd certainly like that,” Dolly said absently.

“You'd turn green.”

“Yes.”

“How was your trip?”

“My trip? Up here? Dreadful. All the way up in the plane I sat beside some terrible little I-don't-know-
what
with a bag of sandwiches!” She laughed. “And I think he must have taken a shine to me, Barb, because he kept offering—oh, well! Never mind the dreary details. Suffice it to say I'm here. And tired!”

“It's wonderful to see you again, Dolly.”

“Yes. Now, why did you ask me to come?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you want me to come? I mean, I'm delighted to see you, Barb. And it was sweet of you to send me the ticket. But I mean, why so sudden—after three years? You sounded so urgent in your letter—”

Barbara stood up and flipped her cigarette into the fireplace. Then she went to the sofa and plunked herself down beside Dolly. “I need your advice,” she said finally.

“You need
my
advice? About what?”

“I'm thinking about divorcing Jeff.”

Dolly gulped her beer.
“What?”
she asked.

“Yes. It's—well, it's a long story. It just doesn't seem to be working out, that's all. And you—you've been through the mill, Dolly. You've been divorced. I thought maybe you could give me some pointers.”

“Pointers?”

“Yes. How. Where. How much. Et cetera.”

“Are you serious, Barb?”

“Sure I'm serious.”

“Barb!”

“What?”

“I don't know what's come over you. You sound so—so callous. You sound as hard as nails.”

Barbara laughed. “Maybe I'm in with a bad crowd.”

“Well! I don't know, I just don't. I'm shocked, actually.”

“You never really expected it would work out, did you? Me, married to Mr. Suburbia, U.S.A.? A knight in shining black
attaché
case? Do you know why we live way the hell out here? Because he thinks that the farther away from the city you live the richer you look. So he spends nearly four hours a day on the goddam train.”

“Don't talk that way,” Dolly said. “Please.” She paused. “I mean—don't you love him?”

Barbara picked up her glass and held it in front of her face, staring through the amber liquid. “Love him? Oh, I love him, I suppose.” She looked sharply at her sister. “You loved Danny, didn't you?”

“Is there another woman, as we say?”

“Ha!” Barbara said. “I doubt it. He's too hooked on status to take on another woman. It wouldn't
look
right, you see.”

“Oh dear.”

“And besides he's too busy. He's very
busy
being busy because that's the way you get ahead, says he—by being busy. Work all day—come home at night and work some more.” She turned and looked at Dolly. “Do you realize that it's been weeks since he and I have had an intelligent conversation? About anything? He's so wrapped up in his everlasting business deals that he doesn't have time for anything else.”

“But you said he takes an interest in this house.”

“This house! Oh, yes, that's another story. Do you know why he takes an interest in this house—why he likes things like silver cigarette boxes? Like all this stuff?” She gestured around her. “It's because he thinks they're an asset to the damn business. He thinks this is the way we
ought
to be living.”

“Oh.”

“And I've got a feeling that's what he thinks
I
am—another damned cigarette box. That's why he takes such an interest in how I dress. Oh, he's generous! But it can't be
me
he's thinking about.”

“But you do love him.”

“Well, I just said. You loved Danny, didn't you?”

Dolly took a swallow of her drink. “Oh, yes,” she said softly.

“So you see?” Barbara stood up, her glass in her hand.

“Where are you going?”

“We're out of beer. I'm going to fix us something serious to drink.”

“Barbara, do you think you should? I mean it's only three o'clock, and—”

“Quiet. I'm getting us a drink.” She walked out of the room and banged open the kitchen door in the distance.

“Oh dear,” said Dolly to herself, looking again out the window. “It
is
raining.” She rose and stood uncertain for a moment, then stepped to the chair where she had left her bag. She removed her compact and, with a small soft brush, dabbed at her cheeks. “A fright, a fright,” she whispered to her image in the tiny mirror.

When Barbara came back Dolly was sitting on the sofa, stroking a cushion with one hand. “I love your slip covers, Barb,” she said. “Where did you get them made?”

“I don't know,” said Barbara. “Somewhere.”

“They're lovely.”

“Yeah. Here's your drink,” Barbara said, handing her a glass.

Dolly looked up innocently. “Oh, did you fix
me
one? I couldn't touch it. Really, honey, I never take anything stronger than beer.”

“Shut up and take it.”

Dolly hesitated, then took the glass and tasted the liquor. “Well,” she said, “it
is
refreshing. What is it? Scotch?”

“Bourbon.”

“Oh. Well, you can see I'm no connoisseur. Now if I say or do anything silly—”

“I'll forgive you,” Barbara said. “You can do no wrong. Blood is thicker than water.”

“Or bourbon?” Dolly asked, and giggled. She took another sip.

“I suppose it is funny,” Barbara said.

“What is?”

“Me. Getting a divorce. I suppose it doesn't strike you as being very serious.”

“Now, Barb,” Dolly said, “don't get scoldy. You said you wanted my advice. Now, please, just let me think about it for a minute or two. I want to have time to mull it over a bit.” She began the little tapping again with her foot.

“Mull away,” Barbara said. She went to the sofa, sat down, and kicked off her low-heeled sandals. “And stop that,” she said.

“What?”

“That tapping thing you're doing. It drives me crazy.”

“Sorry.”

Some time later Dolly's eyes were shining, and she was saying, “Well, as I just said, I got a divorce. But I was only twenty-two, twenty-three then. I'm thirty-seven now. If I were getting a divorce now, I might do it differently.”

“Thirty-
seven?
How differently?”

“Well—differently. Like, maybe not get a divorce at all.”

“You mean you wish you hadn't?”

“Oh, no. No, I'm glad, I suppose. At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do. Danny was—oh, you know how Danny was.”

“A lush.”

“Oh, yes, that—but—”

“You mean you're sorry now.”

“Oh, I don't know about sorry—” She broke off suddenly. “That plant,” she said, pointing. “It's huge—what is it?”

“Huh? Oh, I don't know. Some damn thing.”

“It's beautiful. Does it blossom?”

“Sure, I guess it blossoms. If I remember to water it. Guess who brought it home with him one afternoon. And set it right
there.
For me to take care of. Guess.”

“But it's pretty!”

“Don't change the subject. You're a damn subject-changer, you know that?”

“Oh, but I keep thinking—you have this pretty house, all these expensive things. They must count for something, Barb. If I had all this—”

Barbara spoke earnestly. “Look,” she said, “do you remember when you came home that time in Cleveland, after being with Danny? Do you remember what you told Mother? Oh, I know I was still pretty young, but I remember. You said, ‘Mother, I'm bored, bored with being married. I want to be a free agent.'”

“Bored! But I was only twenty-
two!
”

“Well, that's exactly what I want to be—a free agent. I want—it may sound silly—but I want to have fun. Perhaps a little career. Like you've had. Look at you these past few years. You've been to Europe, South America, California—now Florida—”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Dolly interrupted. “Yes, of course it's fun. And gay. No, don't think I'm bored any more. And I've had my little flings. But it's kind of—tenuous? Is that the right word? What I mean is it's uncertain. And don't think that because I live in Florida I have a mansion or something on Collins Avenue. I've been living in a greasy little walk-up apartment where all the exhaust fumes from the street come right up through my window—and—” She stopped abruptly. “Oh, I've had
fun,
” she went on. “I go to parties all the time, nearly every night. Remember how popular I was in Cleveland? Well, I'm still popular. I have lots of friends. Lots of men. When you get your divorce, Barb, you'll find there are lots of men. They'll
swarm
around. They'll take you out, buy you drinks. But do they want to marry you? No. Ha-ha.” She took a swallow of her drink. “Now I've got to go somewhere else.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I didn't tell you this, Barb. I wasn't going to mention it right away. But I'm not going back to Florida.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Well,” Dolly said, “it's funny the way things work out. You see, just before I got your letter, asking me to come up—just before that, I was going to write you. I was going to ask you if I
could
come.”

“Why?”

“Difficulties. No, not financial difficulties—I've got about a thousand dollars saved. But—well, I had to quit my job.”

“But I thought—”

“My employer—remember the man I told you about before? Well, your sister was called a homewrecker!” Dolly laughed. “Imagine! A homewrecker! Oh, and a few more slightly less printable things. At least that's what his wife called me. Oh, sure, he and I went out on dates. We went to parties and things. He—he misled me a little. I thought he was separated, or something. But he wasn't.”

“Oh.”

“So—if you want the whole, ugly truth, I'm slightly
persona non grata
in the state of Florida. I mean there's actually going to be some sort of legal action, I guess. Corespondent—that's what I'm being called. And then there's the stupid money thing—I don't even understand it.”

“What money thing?”

“Oh, some
things
—just bits of paper. Stocks or something that he gave me, and now she's claiming that they weren't his to give, that they were hers—I don't even pretend to know what it's all about. So, anyway, when I got your letter—and your plane ticket and all—I thought, What a stroke of luck! You must have been psychic! Isn't that a riot—the coincidence?” With a little nervous gesture, Dolly pushed her hair back from her temple with one hand.

There was a silence, and Dolly looked at her sister. Barbara sat, gently sloshing the ice cubes to and fro in her empty glass. “So, I thought I'd swiftly and silently steal away before little Mrs. Simpson really decided to bare her fangs,” Dolly said. “Honestly, Barb, you wouldn't believe the things she's been saying about me—and the evil letters his children have written to me, and even his grandson in Dallas—”

“Grandson!”

“Ed is a—a somewhat older man.”

“Good lord.”

“You're shocked, aren't you, Barb?”

“No.”

“I can tell you are! But it's not as though you were harboring an actual criminal. I have a friend who's a lawyer in Miami, and he said that an alienation of affections, or whatever it is, is awfully hard to prove. I mean it's not as though there were
photographs.
And as for that stock, I accepted that in good faith—”

“Does he know you're here—this lawyer friend?”

Dolly laughed. “Not yet! I, as we say, skipped town. You
are
shocked.”

“I'm not shocked. You're one of the family.”

Dolly laughed again. “Yes,” she said, “I guess we're two of a kind, Barb.” She held up her glass. “Say, I think I'll have another of these if you don't mind.”

Barbara looked at her for a moment. Then she said, “You bet,” and stood up, a little unsteadily, and tried to push her feet into her shoes again. Then, unsuccessful at this, she walked barefoot into the kitchen.

“Lots of ice!” Dolly yelled after her, and when Barbara came back with the bottle in her hand, Dolly curled her feet up under her on the couch, and held her glass out playfully. Her mood had changed. “Don't let's be gloomy!” she cried. “Let's not sulk. Let's let bygones be bygones. After all, this isn't so bad, is it? Haven't we both been naughty little girls now and then? I remember once, Barb, when you were about fourteen—”