Possessions (10 page)

*  *  *

On Dominion Day, July first, Ann Hayward called. “We want to see you, Katherine, before we go back to Maine. We can be there this afternoon.”

“Here?” Katherine asked. “Why?”

“To apologize, of course. Such a dreadful evening, and even though you can't really blame anyone—”

Oh, yes I can.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “We're busy all day; I promised to take Jennifer and Todd to the parade and then the fireworks—”

“Today?”

She thinks I'm lying because I don't want to see her. “Dominion Day. It's something like the Fourth of July, but not quite the—”

“Well, we'll go with you. Katherine, we want to get to know you. We certainly didn't have a chance the other night.”

Katherine hesitated. They were Todd and Jennifer's grandparents. But then she remembered Jason's harsh questions. “Does Jason want to come?”

After a pause, Ann said, “I may come alone. He's needed at home—we have a shop, you know, for pottery and things.” She fumbled for words. “And it's taking him a while to get used to the idea that Craig is alive—”

“That would please most fathers,” Katherine said coldly.

“Yes. Of course. But it's hard for him to think that Craig abandoned us, let us mourn . . . It's very difficult. We've started quarreling again, all the old quarrels about whether Victoria and I spoiled him too much, or Jason expected too much of him . . . But that isn't why I called. I want to see you and I'm sure Jason won't mind if I come alone.”

I don't want to be involved with your family, Katherine thought, and said, “Maybe some other time.”

“But we're in California,” Ann pressed. “Much closer than Maine. And I'd be representing the whole family.”

“Some other time. I promised Jennifer and Todd the whole day.”

“Katherine, you have no right to deprive me of my grandchildren!”

For a moment Katherine was tempted to say all right, to pretend Ann was the mother she'd never had and she was the daughter Ann had lost, to let Ann spoil Todd and Jennifer as her only grandchildren, and perhaps at last to have someone to talk to. But she couldn't do it. Ann was a member of the Haywards' private club; she had been silent, deferring to her husband and the others when Katherine asked for help.
“I'm sorry,” she said reluctantly. “Maybe some other time.”

“Well.” Ann sighed. “If you refuse to let us be friends . . .” Katherine said nothing. “I'm sending you some money. Not a lot, I'm afraid, but after I've talked to Jason I can send more.”

“I don't want it. We're fine; we don't need it.”

“It's already in the mail. Katherine, you should be more gracious; we're not as bad as you think and we can be very helpful to you and the children. It's true that we were confused when we met you; we'd had no time to get used to—”

Katherine listened as Ann repeated everything she had said before, but the evening at Victoria's had convinced her that she had her own life—hers and Craig's and the children's—and she had to hold it together by herself until Craig came back; she wasn't sure why, but she knew it was important. The only promise Katherine would make, because Ann begged her, was that she would not tear up the check when it arrived.

*  *  *

Two weeks later, she took it from the drawer where she had tucked it out of sight, and deposited it in the bank.

Her hand shook as she endorsed it and she wrote briefly to Ann, telling her she would repay it as soon as she found a job; as soon as she was earning her own money. The trouble was, she had almost no money, no job, and no prospects for one.

“Sorry, not now,” said most of the jewelry store buyers whom she called for an appointment. “We're full up with orders. Try us in six or seven months; sometime after Christmas.” Others told her to send in sketches or color slides of her jewelry. “However,” they added, “we buy very little from unknown designers.” Three agreed to see her.

And all three turned her down. “What is missing,” they all said in one way or another, while inspecting the necklace and earrings she had brought in, “is the meticulous touch of the professional. This has been your hobby, is that right? It shows, you see. Your technique is very basic, not complex and original; there is no touch of the artist. Truly fine jewelry should make you say, ‘This would be less beautiful if the design, materials and technique came together in any other way.' One cannot say that of your pieces. Look here, at this necklace . . .” And, like the teachers who had criticized her in grade school, each of them found fault with some part of her jewelry.

None of them suggested she come back another time. They
dismissed her and turned their attention elsewhere even before Katherine was gone.

There is no touch of the artist.
Katherine huddled in the corner of the couch where she sat every night, waiting for Craig amid the shadows cast by the porch light's glare.
Your hobby, is that right? It shows
 . . . Craig had said she was good. Everyone said, “You're so clever, Katherine; so talented.” But it wasn't true; they'd said it to please her.

I'm not talented or clever, she thought. I'm not even good.

A wind came up, slamming the screen door back and forth. In the living room, shadows swayed, creating new shapes. Everything was changing but Katherine felt bogged down. People spend years becoming jewelry designers, but I expected to walk in and find stores, customers, a salary, all waiting for me. I thought it would be easy because I love doing it. But people don't pay you for doing something just because you love it. You have to be good; you have to be professional. And I'm not.

Leslie might have some suggestions, but Katherine still hadn't been able to reach her. And she wasn't sure she really wanted to talk to Leslie.
All my failures compared to her triumphs.
No, she thought, I'll manage. She walked through the swaying shadows to Craig's desk and put her samples and sketches into a bottom drawer. And the next day she went job-hunting.

“Ah . . . no experience, Mrs. Fraser,” said one personnel director after another, looking at her application. “Clerk in a jewelry store ten years ago. And since then—nothing?”

Only running a house, she answered silently. Bringing up two children. Being a wife.

“Skills, Mrs. Fraser?” They all skimmed her application. “No typing. No shorthand. No data processing. No computer experience at all?” She shook her head. “No accounting. No bookkeeping. Not even general office experience. You've never worked in an office?” Again she shook her head. “Or sold real estate?”

“No,” she said.

They shrugged. “Nothing we can offer you. No skills and you haven't worked for ten years. No track record. The recession, you know; we're cutting back. The only people we might hire would be ones with experience. Sorry. Good luck.”

Good luck. While all around her, doors were closing.

She curled up on the couch, tighter each night. What will I do if I can't find a job? I could borrow on the house. No I couldn't; not without a job. And anyway, how would I pay it back? What will we do if I don't find a job? Fear spun a web inside her. Of course I'll find a job. I just have to be patient. I'll find one tomorrow.

Two days later she swallowed her pride and called the friends who had offered help if she needed it, to ask if they knew of any jobs. Some worked in offices in the city; all of them were married to men who did. But they all said, “Oh, Katherine, there isn't a thing. The economy, you know; nobody's hiring. But I'm sure you'll find something; you've always been so good with your hands. And, listen, we should get together for lunch. Not this week or next—things are so busy—but one of these days we certainly will get together.”

None of them said a word about Craig.

The last name on Katherine's list was Frances Doerner, and she sounded as friendly as ever. “Of course I'll talk to Carl, Katherine, and I'm sure he'll find something for you; every company needs efficient people, don't you think? He's still out of town but as soon as he calls, I'll talk to him and get back to you.”

Not as friendly as ever, Katherine thought as they hung up. Once she would have invited us to dinner. But it doesn't matter. Carl will find me a job.

Still, whatever she earned would be far less than Craig had brought home. If they had been living beyond Craig's salary, how could they live on hers? She sat at the desk, adding and subtracting numbers, thinking of wild schemes that dribbled away to nothing. And the next morning, at breakfast, with no solution in sight, she forced herself to explain their finances to Jennifer and Todd, as honestly as she could. “So what we have to do,” she concluded, and without warning began to cry, “is sell the house.”

They stared at her, sitting stiffly in their chairs. “We
can't
sell the house,” Jennifer said. “We live here. And we have to be here when Daddy comes back.”

“We can't, we can't,” Todd chimed in. “Daddy won't know where we are; he'll think we forgot him; he'll think we don't want him anymore.”

“He's smart enough to find us,” Katherine said. She wiped
away her tears and swallowed the unshed ones. “We're going to rent an apartment in Vancouver and he'll call Information to get our new address and telephone number.”

“What apartment?” they asked.

“The one we're going to find tomorrow afternoon. We'll make a list of neighborhoods we like—”

“Not me,” said Jennifer. “And I'm not moving, either. I'm staying here until Daddy comes home.”

“Me too,” Todd chimed in. “I'm staying with Jennifer.”

“You'll do what I tell you!” Katherine's voice rose. “I'm selling this house because we can't afford it, because your father didn't leave me enough money to pay for it, and since you don't know anything about that, you'll keep quiet and do what you're told!”

Jennifer and Todd burst into tears. “Why did he go away?” cried Todd. “Didn't he like us anymore?”

“If he got mad at something we did . . .” Jennifer said, her words trailing off.

“He would have told us, though,” Todd asserted. “At least . . . wouldn't he?”

Katherine was slow to understand. “Told you what?”

“WHAT WE DID TO GET HIM MAD!” Todd bellowed. He scowled at Katherine. “Like, if he was mad at me and didn't want to be around me anymore—”

“Or me,” Jennifer echoed.

“I could maybe fix it,” Todd went on. “Or say I'm sorry or something so he'd come back. If he knew. We'd have to find him to tell him, and if we don't know where he is . . .”

“He wouldn't stop loving us, though,” Jennifer said. “Would he? And leave us? I mean, he never disappeared before, and I did lots of things he didn't like, so I don't see why—”

“Wait. Wait a minute, both of you.” Katherine shook her head. Where did they get such ideas? She leaned forward and held them, feeling guilty for the hurt in their eyes. They needed to believe the world was an orderly place where everything had a reason, but she had no reasons to give them. “Listen to me. You had nothing to do with Daddy's leaving. It's complicated, but you're not to blame. He loves you.”

Jennifer shook her head disconsolately. “What else could it be?”

Todd frowned. “Maybe he's hiding, to test us. And we have
to find him. Like the prince in that story who had to climb a hundred mountains and pick a special flower and kill a witch and slay a dragon before he could be king. Or something.”

“That's dumb,” Jennifer said, but softly, because Todd was trying to make her feel better. She said to Katherine, “If it wasn't us, was it because of what Mr. Doerner said that day?”

“No!” Todd shouted.

“It might be,” Katherine said carefully. “Nobody knows the whole story, though. We can't make any judgments yet.”

“But if he
was
mad at us,” said Jennifer, “and found a family he liked better, and they didn't do anything to get him mad—”

“That's enough!” Katherine's control began to slip. “He wasn't mad at you; he didn't find another family. He'll tell you that himself, when he gets back.” She hurried them through breakfast, and out of the house, to catch the bus for camp. And before she could begin to brood about whether she had handled them properly or not, she called the realtor and made an appointment for that afternoon.

He greeted her at her front door with the energy of an inquisitive terrier. “Mrs. Fraser, good afternoon, kind of you to think of us. Let's see what we have here, shall we?”

Clipboard in hand, he moved through the house, talking to himself as he took swift inventory and made notes. “Good views, good light; oh, very pleasant kitchen. This door goes to—? Ah, garage, yes, a bit messy, but the youngsters can take care of that and also—um, basement, dear, dear, we need a good bit of straightening here, too, otherwise can't see the—ah, water heater. The whole house—you'll forgive my frankness—could use a thorough cleaning. Of course you've had other things on your mind, if one can believe the newspapers, but you do want it to look its spanking cheerful best—purchasers pay more for a happy house than a sad one. Get your youngsters to clean up the garage and basement; it's good for them; help Mother sell the place, don't you know.”

Katherine watched the realtor sniff about the rooms, indifferent and unsparing, enumerating their faults, ignoring the love and laughter they had held. Once the house had been a refuge; now she was handing it over to be invaded and scrutinized by strangers and bought by someone who would not
know or care about the lives that had been lived within its walls.

I don't want to sell it; I don't want to leave.
She followed him back to the living room. Why couldn't it wait? A week; maybe two; maybe a month. . . . And lose it all, she thought. Because I can't keep up the payments. Clenching her hands, she thrust them into the pockets of her skirt. “I was wondering about the price. And how quickly you can sell it.”