How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved My Life (23 page)

I clutch my chest. Lavinia has twisted that knife and stabbed me right through the phone line. “He swore—” I cry.

“Are you an idiot, Abby?”

I grab a Filene’s shopping bag. I start to breathe into it.

“Your father always thought so. To think I used to defend you.
There are different kinds of intelligence,
I used to tell Uncle Griff.”

The bag has a hole. I crumple it.

“Earth to planet Abby. Are you there?”

“You’re wrong,” I gasp. And the minute I say this, I believe it. My breath comes slower. My voice grows stronger, more confident. Didn’t Lavinia always overdramatize everything?
Sarah Bernhardt,
Henrietta used to call her.
The Divine Lavinia
. What ever Lavinia’s position on anything means I now take the opposite stance. “Look, he’s writing a feature on what happens after someone’s been on
Antiques Roadshow
. Just about the chamber pot itself. The show. The business end.”

“And if you believe that, then I take back every good word I said about you to your father.” I hear the slap of a hand against wood. “Idiot,” she repeats.

“You don’t have to—”

“Wake up, Abby. This turd of a reporter said you told him everything.”

“I didn’t—”

“He gave me a few meaty examples. The kind of stuff you can only get straight from the source. From the horse’s mouth. The horse’s
big
mouth.”

“I can’t believe—”

“And he’s even read Ned’s book. Thanks to your practically providing him with the ISBN.”

“I—”

“Given his smarmy, insinuating tone, it’s pretty clear he didn’t use thumbscrews to get this out of you.”

“Lavinia…”

“Stop sputtering, Abby. Call this asshole up and read him the riot act. Not that he sounds like the type to pay any attention to”—she stops, then hisses—“the wishes of his
very close
friend.”

“I’m sure there’s a misunderstanding,” I offer. It’s a weak response.

She knows it. She’s yelling now. “It’s all your fault, Abby. We could have settled. We could have been spared this humiliation. You’re going to be very sorry.” Her voice goes quiet. She stretches out a dramatic Sarah Bernhardt silence. She clears her throat. “Just wait till I tell Ned.”

She slams down the phone before I have the chance to do it first. For my own benefit, I slam it down anyway. I lift it up and slam it down a second time. The receiver cracks. Two black chips fly off. My landlady will probably make me pay for a replacement. I stagger to the kitchen. I search for another paper bag. All I find are plastic. Once again I’ve made the wrong choice. This time I’ve failed the paper-or-plastic? checkout-counter quiz.

I open the refrigerator door. I take a swig of Chardonnay right from the bottle. I need to get hold of Todd. Is Lavinia right? She’s probably been coached in brainwashing techniques. In how to torture your adversary to surrender her chamber pot. A seminar in psychological intimidation held in the paneled conference room of Messieurs Snodgrass, Drinkwater, and Crabbe, counselors-at-law. This doesn’t make me feel better. Nor does the wine. It’s off. Vinegary. Acidulous. It sloshes in my stomach like landfill sludge.

I am going to paste myself to the telephone until I manage to reach Todd. What’s the matter with me? One minute the evidence all points to the fact that he’s a cad. The next minute, I plead extenuating circumstances. I make excuses, telling myself he can’t be that bad. After all, the article hasn’t come out yet. We don’t really know what he intends to write. One thing I’m sure of: I’d be a terrible judge; or the kind of juror all eleven of the others would grow to detest.

I dial Todd’s direct line at the
Globe
. Surprise, surprise, I get his voice mail. “This is Abigail Randolph,” I say after the tone. “Call me,” I order, imitating a Nazi commandant cowering her prisoners. “It’s an emergency.”

I formulate a plan of action. I decide to check Information for all the suburbs in the Greater Boston area. One of them should be able to cough up Todd Tucker’s number and tree-lined street address. I grab the phone book. I start to make an alphabetical list. I begin with Abington, move on to Arlington, Belmont, Billerica, through Mattapoisett, Newton. I stop. It occurs to me that the man who drove me alone to New Hampshire, the man I had that tryst with in the Old Man of the Mountain Room, the man I let do such remarkable things to my body, the man I put on and took off my underwear for, the man who was as close to me as a man can ever be to a woman, at least in the physical sense—that man, well, I didn’t have the slightest clue where that man lived.

It takes me over half an hour to reach the end of the list. There are suburbs of Boston I’ve never even heard of, I who’ve lived here all my life. When I get to Somerville, I hit pay dirt. Of a sort. “The number you request is unpublished,” informs a dulcet-toned operator.

“Screw you!” I yell, even though I know the voice is computer-generated.

I will not be deterred. My stomach growls. Go, Abby, go! it seems to be coaching from its roiling, churning acid reflux pit. This is the new Abby, the one who gets to the bottom of things, who won’t give up. I riffle through the yellow pages and find the newspaper’s main number. I remember calling that number not so long ago in my due diligence attempts to find out if Todd was who he said he was.

“The
Boston Globe
. Phyllis speaking. How may I direct your call?”

“Oh, Phyllis.” I sigh as if I have been re united with my best friend after de cades of tragic separation. “Just the person I’ve been searching for.”

“How can I help you?”

“Let me count the ways. I need to get in touch with one of your reporters.”

“No-brainer. If you give me his name I can put you on to his voice mail.”

“That’s just the problem.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been leaving messages on his voice mail for the last two weeks. He hasn’t returned any of my calls.”

“Did you try his e-mail address?”

“Endlessly. To no avail.”

“Well.” She pauses. I can hear wheels churning. “Our reporters are very busy. Out in the field. Checking their facts. Why don’t you just leave another message.”

“It seems a lost cause. I’ve jammed his tape already. His machine is probably out of order because otherwise I know he’d get back to me.”

She offers a noncommittal
hmm
.

“His name is Todd Tucker. He writes for City and Region.” I twist the telephone cord around my wrist. “I hope you can give me his home phone.”

“We’re not allowed to reveal that information.”

“Maybe you might make an exception?” I wait. “Phyllis?” I purr.

“No exceptions.”

“I completely understand. But these are special circumstances. Extraordinary ones.”

“Under no circumstances are we allowed to give out home phone numbers.”

My throat catches. I produce a slight choking sob. “But I’m his sister.
Tanya,
” bursts from my mouth. Where did that come from? I wonder.

Does she laugh? Maybe she’s simply clearing her throat because then she asks, “His sister? Tanya Tucker? Isn’t that a country singer? Grand Ole Opry, if I remember right?” She groans. “Come on, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

I stop. I take a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you the truth.”

“Which won’t make me budge. But tell to your heart’s content. I’m just about to start my coffee break.”

I think about what to say. How to preserve my Tanya anonymity. I decide to leave out
Antiques Roadshow
and the chamber pot since Phyllis, surfing channels, might turn me up one night on PBS. Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear she’s a reporter-in-training, beginning at the receptionist’s desk like those crack L.A. agents who claim their humble mail-room origins. “It started out strictly business,” I explain.

“It always does.”

“He was doing a story on me.” I pause. “Then, later, pretty soon after, it became something more.”

“What more?” She waits. “The usual?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She lowers her voice. “Are you suggesting sexual harassment was involved?”

“I’d have to admit it was consensual. Though what wasn’t consensual was the information he extracted from me against my will.”

“In a moment of passion? When you weren’t thinking straight?”

“How do you know?”

“Been there, done that,” she confides. “Don’t get me started.” In the background a keyboard clicks. A coffee machine hisses. “And you want to find out if he’s going to use it? If he’s going to put it in the
Globe
?” she goes on.

“Exactly.”

“Men,” she says.

“Men,” I say.

We sigh in solidarity, followed by a mutual sisterly silence as we both scroll through our bad-men personal histories.

“Good-looking?” she asks.

“Very,” I concede. I picture the cleft in Todd’s chin. As soon as I do, I want to counter it. “But he’s a terrible driver,” I point out. “A lot of road-rage potential.”

“I hear you.” She clears her throat. “Listen,” she says, “I’m in this great support group, Women Addicted to Married Men.”

“That’s not quite my problem.”

“Lucky you.”

I don’t feel so lucky, but I’m not about to get into a my-problems-are-worse-than-yours contest with Phyllis, who is fast becoming my new best friend. Not to mention my therapist.

“But there’s another group across the hall,” she proposes. “Women Who Hook Up with Men Who Treat Them Wrong. They do these amazing visualization exercises…”

I can only imagine. “I’ll bear that in mind,” I promise.

“Good.” She clicks her tongue. “Okay. Just this once. In sisterhood.” She rattles off some numbers.

I write them down.

“And,
Tanya
…?”

“Yes?”

“You know where to reach me. If you ever want information on the group. If you ever want to talk.”

Despite the warnings from my stomach, I take another gulp of Chardonnay. My nerves are more important than my guts—though I’ll need strong nerves to have the guts to make this call. I slosh some more wine down my throat. I hope my words won’t slur. I dial.

A woman answers. “Hullo,” she says. In the background I can make out the blare of the television and the mounting excited tones of a quiz show host.
Will you choose the home entertainment system or go for the gold?
I hear him shout. Some countdown music strikes a migraine-inducing drumbeat. The audience cheers. A child starts screaming. “Where’s my Cap’n Crunch?” he or she yells.

“Quiet, Chip,” the woman orders.

“Excuse me?” I say.

“What do you want?” she demands.

I must have made a mistake. Maybe I dialed wrong. Or perhaps Phyllis misled me, keeping to her newspaper receptionist’s oath. “Is Todd Tucker there?” I ask anyway.

I’m waiting for the woman to say, Sorry, wrong number, to say, You’ve reached Tom Tucker’s Plumbing Supply. Instead she asks, “Who wants to know?”

“This is Tan—” I begin, then correct myself. “This is Abigail Randolph, one of Mr. Tucker’s interviewees.”

“He should have been here a half an hour ago. I’ve got a fetal ultrasound scheduled, and he promised to be home to watch Todd Junior. Wait, I think I hear his car pull in. That bum.”

I fall into the chair. That bum, I second. “If you don’t mind,” I say. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Depends. The minute his key’s in the lock, I’m out of here.”

“Do you have a dog?”

“No way. Todd’s allergic. Besides, he hates all animals.”

I start to hyperventilate again. I drop my head to my knees, telephone still at my ear. The wails of
Cap’n Crunch
turn into
Daddy! Daddy!
Behind that I can distinguish a few spousal
you asshole
s, underscored by
terrible traffic
. There’s such contrapuntal harmony I could have been listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir—
asshole,
sings the soprano;
Cap’n Crunch,
warbles the tenor;
traffic,
croons the alto; all voices meld, then rise toward a mutually orgasmic crash of cymbals just as the quiz show host cries out,
You’ve hit the ten-thousand-dollar jackpot!

“Someone’s on the phone for you,” the woman snarls.

“Who now?” I hear.

“One of those ditzy space cadets you’re always writing about.”

A door slams. The TV switches to the child-friendly sounds of
Sesame Street
. “Hello,” Todd grunts.

I take a running leap. “Is this Todd Tucker, the man who was married for two minutes, the dog lover, the owner of Wordsworth, the appreciator of Flush, the poet, the nineteenth-century English lit major, the Browning admirer, the reporter who had his way with his interviewee on a four-poster bed in a New Hampshire B and B in the Old Man of the Mountain Room?”

I hear a single, laser-sharp gasp. Then silence.

I go on. “Let me introduce myself. Abigail Randolph. The ditzy space cadet you’re writing about.” I wait a beat. “To quote your
wife
.”

More silence.

I count to twenty. “Well?” I demand.

No sound except for the falsetto of a Muppet singing a hymn to the number eight.

“Answer me!”

“Calm down,” he says.

“You have some nerve.”

“Charm and betray,” he answers.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Charm and betray. It’s what we learn in J-school. It’s the number one tool in any reporter’s bag of tricks.”

I open my mouth. I slam it shut.

“All in a day’s work,” he continues. “Nothing personal.”

Nothing personal?
This man’s bodily fluids have seeped from between my legs. He has inserted his penis into all of my orifices. He has pressed my nipple between his lying lips. He has stuck his two-faced face into my underpants.
Nothing personal?

“Did you tell my wife anything?” Todd asks. Faux casual.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Actually, I would.” His voice curdles with the milk of uxorial kindness. “We’re expecting a baby. I wouldn’t want her upset.”

“Funny how you didn’t think of that in the Granite State. In the Old Man of the Mountain Room.”