Leftovers: A Novel (8 page)

Irene now lived in an historic row house in the affluent neighborhood of Beacon Hill in Boston. The Abbot mansion proved to be too much property for her. She had plenty of money for the upkeep but it was just too cavernous and full of unpleasant memories for her. Plus, the number of household staff had dwindled.

Shortly before Vivian married Paul and after decades of pushing and pulling a heavy iron back and forth over Irene’s wrinkled belongings, Maid 2 was forced to retire due to rheumatoid arthritis. Irene tried to bribe her to come back against her doctor’s orders, and she wanted to, but sadly the bones in her right shoulder were so fused it’s as if the joint had been soldered together making it one solid piece of stone.

The next year, Maid 1 was waxing the kitchen floor and complained of a sore back. Irene reluctantly allowed her one day off to rest and the situation became worse. The next day an ambulance arrived at the house and took her to Bon Secours Hospital in the neighboring town of Lawrence where she had every test done imaginable. The following day and before any of the results had a chance to come back, she died. An autopsy revealed that her spine was riddled with cancer. Vivian had often thought she was the most stoic of all the maids. But not to feel, or maybe to hide the symptoms of a growing cancer like that, was quite remarkable.

Less than a year later, a 4 foot 11 inch Maid 3 was tipping the scales at 220 pounds. Although Irene ate like a bird and preferred a diet primarily consisting of vegetables and grilled fish, Maid 3 had a passion for fried foods. Anything and everything that she could fry, she did. On one occasion Vivian walked in on her deep-frying batter dipped bacon. So it was no surprise that on one Saturday night while devouring a second helping of southern fried chicken plus a dozen fried hush puppies and downing it all with two large glasses of buttermilk, her heart exploded killing her instantly where she was most comfortable, in the kitchen. It was just Maid 4 and Irene left.

Irene put the estate, which William had built for her, up for sale. It boasted seven bedrooms with seven attached baths, two formal livings rooms, one formal dining room, one casual one off of the solarium for breakfast and lunch, a library, a billiards room, a sewing room, four maid’s rooms, two maid’s baths, a professional kitchen and eight fireplaces. It also had five acres of land, a guest cottage, a tennis court and an Olympic size swimming pool. In 1952 when the average cost of a house was $9,050 the Lawson’s mansion sold for a whopping $849,250.

The row house Irene purchased on Beacon Hill was situated on Pinckney Street. The gaslit cobblestone lane proudly displayed one exquisite brick house followed by another, each adorned with brass knockers and intricate ironwork.

Irene’s house was rumored to be haunted by its former tenants: Louisa May Alcott, Henry David Thoreau and Henry James. And, although not part of the famous literary scene, now Irene Lawson was bound to add her own peculiar ghost to the list. The four bedroom, four bath house that Irene and Maid 4 moved into was practical, except for its narrow footprint. Space had to go up, rather than out and the amount of stairs proved challenging for both women.

Once Irene moved into the city she realized how plebian it was to be living up in Abbot. Now she had the opportunity to go to the theater, opera, concerts and museums whenever she wished. Not that she necessarily had an interest in the arts, Irene just wanted to be seen. She dove into the social scene head first starting off with joining the very exclusive Banam Club. A combination private restaurant and meeting ground for the very elite, the stately property was situated on Beacon Street facing Boston Common, just three walking blocks from Irene’s house.

•  •  •

As Vivian passed through Everett and approached Chelsea just outside of Boston, she encountered a sea of potholes on the highway. Trying to dodge the pockmarks, she narrowly missed hitting another automobile but managed to catch the back tire of the Buick in a giant crater. Instantly the car’s muffler was ripped off and went flying off the edge of the highway. Frightened to stop on the shoulder, Vivian continued on her way into the city driving what sounded like, an out of control rocket engine.

She crossed the Mystic River Bridge and once in Boston she managed to get herself over to the Charles River. Following it south she wormed her way down to Beacon Street and then hoped to find an on-street parking space. To her amazement she found one almost in front of the Banam Club. While only hitting the car in front and in back of her three times trying to parallel park the car, she very noisily squeezed herself into the spot. Vivian waited for the delayed snapping and popping to quit as the engine shut down, then checked herself in the rearview mirror.

Vivian kicked open her door and slid out of the Buick wearing a threadbare beige raincoat spotted with stains. She stood outside the Club, which was located in an historic townhouse, took a deep breath and then climbed the steep steps up to the front door.

She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to knock or ring the bell, so she just opened the door herself. Upon entering there was a spiral staircase leading up to the next floor and tucked under the case was a woman playing a harp. The walls of the foyer were a dark rich paneling and the floor, an imported black and white marble.

Clearly annoyed that she let herself in, a maître d' dressed in tails and white gloves quickly approached Vivian.

He looked her up and down, gave her a displeasing glare and then raised his hawk-like nose high into the air. “May I help you, Madam?”

Totally out of her element, Vivian tried to disguise the tremor in her voice. “I’m meeting Irene Lawson.”

“You mean Mrs. William Lawson?”

His pretentiousness cured her of her self-consciousness. “No,” she said with attitude, “I mean my mother.”

Another butler type character appeared and surprised Vivian by trying to take off her raincoat. She resisted at first but then realized she was going to have to surrender it. After a firm tug, he pulled it off her and there she stood in what she thought was her best outfit. Unfortunately, it was also a summer dress. Another hand me down from Babs, the loose fitting white cotton dress with bright orange floral print would have been perfect for an afternoon lunch by the pool but looked shockingly out of place in this stuffy supper club towards the end of November.

With great reservations the maître d' stepped into the opulent salon to the left and gestured to Irene. “Mrs. William Lawson,” he said to Vivian as his upper lip curled, disapprovingly.

Vivian took a deep breath, held her chin high, threw her shoulders back and walked into the Banam dining room.

There she was, sitting at a table for two beside the roaring fireplace. Irene was holding a newspaper up in front of her face.

Impeccably dressed in a two-piece magenta tweed Chanel suit, she wore a diamond necklace and had her brunette hair neatly pulled up and back in a casual bun. In the spring she had had very successful plastic surgery shaving years off of her life. Now she could have easily passed for a woman in her late forties. But no matter how hard she worked on her outward appearance, what she was clearly lacking was inner beauty.

Vivian tentatively walked over to her table and waited to be acknowledged. After an extraordinary amount of time had passed, she stepped towards her and gave Irene a quick peck on the cheek as she continued to read the paper.

“Hello Mother.”

Vivian pulled out her own chair while glancing over at the judgmental maître d' and sat down.

Without moving the paper, Irene spoke. “Reichold Chemical is up 32 percent. Did you buy their stock when I told you to? Today it’s plastics, plastics, plastics.”

“Hello to you too, Vivian,” she whispered to herself.

Irene put the paper down. “I don’t get a kiss?”

Vivian rolled her eyes, got up, walked over to her mother, kissed her dispassionately on the cheek again and then sat back down.

Irene studied her. “What in God’s name are you wearing? A summer frock just before Thanksgiving?”

Vivian fumbled. “My other dresses were at the cleaners.”

Her mother looked at her suspiciously “Hmmm. What warrants this unexpected request? The last three times were about money.”

“Maybe I just wanted to have lunch.”

“Maybe you should wax your upper lip.”

Shocked, Vivian’s hand flew to her mouth as Irene signaled to the waiter.

“And have a professional show you how to draw those non-existent brows on. What did you use, a crayon? You look like a man.”

The waiter appeared as Vivian dropped her head.

Irene gestured to Vivian. “My daughter will have a drink.”

Vivian looked up at him rather anxiously. “A vodka marti . . . ”

Irene cut her off. “Seltzer with a dash of bitters. And I’ll have another side car.”

The waiter bowed and left the table.

Irene looked at her silverware and wiped a spot off of her knife with her napkin. “How’s Peter?”

“Paul.”

“Same thing.”

“Paul and I . . . ”

“I still don’t know why you ever married that man, not that beggars can be choosers.”

Vivian took a deep breath. “We loved each other.”

Irene guffawed in her face. “He loved your father’s money.”

“I’m sure you did too.” Vivian couldn’t believe what flew out of her mouth.

“I beg your pardon? I may not have gone to school but I invested every penny your father ever made and tripled his fortune. Technically, I made more money than he did.”

Vivian realized she had to get to the point, then get out of there as fast as possible. “Mother, I need to ask you . . . ”

“I need to ask you again, when are there going to be grandchildren? I want to be young enough to enjoy them.”

The question, to Vivian, seemed so absurd. Irene couldn’t stand the sight of her, why would she want her kids?

“Mother, maybe you should have had more than one child.”

“More? It’s not like your birth was planned. It was 1929 and we were in a depression.”

“The country was, you weren’t.”

Irene huffed. “I had to be practical. I’m a very pragmatic woman.”

“Yes you are,” Vivian said under her breath.

“Why are you being so impertinent today?”

There was a long pause as they both looked awkwardly around the room.

Irene fiddled with her pearl necklace. “What does Peter do nowadays?”

“He and I . . . ”

“Honestly, child,” she said cutting her off once again. “You always bring things back to you. I, I, I, me, me, me. It sounds so selfish.”

Vivian took another deep breath. “I don’t care what Paul does. I need to ask you if I can borr . . . ”

“You don’t know what your husband’s doing? Vivian, how cavalier. You’re lucky I set you up with the money I did after your father died. Spend it frugally and invest it well because you’re not getting another dime from me.”

Vivian bolted out of her chair and towards the door.

“Vivian? Vivian!”

The waiter arrived with the sidecar and seltzer.

Irene leaned around him to look at her daughter. “How rude.” She glanced up to the waiter. “When my daughter returns tell her I’m dining alone.”

The waiter nodded and left the table as she took a large swig of her drink and picked up her newspaper. “That’ll teach her.”

Vivian darted out into the foyer, startling the maître d'.

He pointed to the left. “Ladies lounge to the left.”

“I want my coat.”

“With pleasure.”

He retrieved it and held it out to her like he was going to contract a disease. She grabbed it from him and escaped out the front door, slamming it behind her. Amazed at her own fury, she had to hold onto the black wrought iron railing to steady herself as she walked down the steps to the street. She could have lashed out at her mother. She could have killed her mother. But she wouldn’t have gotten what she needed. As she made her way to the Buick wondering what she was going to do, it started to snow.

•  •  •

And it continued to do so, very heavily, during the drive back to Abbot. The only good thing about Vivian’s tank was its weight. Any other automobile, without snow tires or chains, would have skidded off of Route 1 and become stranded just outside of Boston. But Vivian’s Buick skied smooth and steady back to her house. Snow was drifting from north to south so she was even able to yank open the garage door and get it into the shed and out of the elements.

As freakish as the late summer’s extreme drought and heat wave was, it didn’t compare to the amount of snow that was dumped on this small New England town. It continued to snow up to and through Thanksgiving.

That morning Abbot looked like the quintessential picture postcard. Like royal icing used for gingerbread houses, gobs of snow clung to bare tree branches, piled high on windowsills of every building, and even made South Church’s steeple seem that much closer to heaven. And quiet. The blanket of snow created a deafening hush throughout the village.

As the day began, golden lights twinkled from homes here and there, as curls of smoke drifted up from chimneys into the sky and families began preparing for the day’s celebration.