Social Lives (34 page)

 

 

 

R
OSALYN
B
ARLOW'S FACE CARRIED
a light expression. Half a smile, soft eyes. A slight giggle here and there as they made dull jokes about Democrats and Northerners, though most of them were either transplants or seasonal residents who migrated like a flock of birds the moment the temperature dived below sixty. They were an older bunch, the members of the admissions committee, with Rosalyn being the sole exception. It had been no small undertaking joining their ranks, but her mother's untimely death had suspended their sense of reason. In a fit of uncharacteristic sentimentality, they had given Mrs. Eddings's seat to Rosalyn, and whatever regrets they came to have later were futile against Rosalyn's determination to stay put.

Now here she was, playing the fervent advocate of Nick Livingston and his young wife, who happened to be sleeping with her husband. And the two of them had been shameless. Like a couple of teenagers, they had laughed and snickered through an entire round of laborious amateur golf, then lunch and drinks. It was of her own making, she knew, having decided to throw them together under the microscope of their spouses. Still, she had expected misery to ensue—torturous, untenable misery—as they were made to be so close but untouchable. She had expected them to writhe in their own longing, obsess over the impossibility of sneaking off for a kiss, or more. But that
had not been the case, at least not so far as she could see. Instead, they seemed downright giddy to be sharing this time together. And Rosalyn felt the sickness spreading inside her, right up to the impenetrable skin that was still holding a light expression when the main course arrived.

“Oh, how lovely!” one of the members said, eyeing the plate of filet, creamed spinach, and roasted fingerling potatoes.

The air was perfect. Warm, dry, and seventy-three degrees. They sat on the terrace under a starry sky, the Barlows, the Livingstons, and the two couples who were being courted.

“Did you know that Sara used to be a reporter?” Rosalyn said at an appropriate juncture in the conversation. There wasn't much time to shove Sara and Nick down their throats, and that was exactly what Rosalyn planned to do. Right along with the rare meat on their plates.

A collective
oh!
followed, making Sara blush.

“Almost. I finished journalism school, but then I met Nick and I never really got off the ground.”

None of this mattered. As far as they were concerned, she was a reporter—not something they got to sink their teeth into every day—and the questions began to encircle her head.

“What do you think will happen with the medical reform bill?”

“Well, I'm not sure—”

“Did you ever go undercover?”

“No, I never got—”

“Yes, yes—and were you ever in bed with the soldiers?”

“That's
embedded.
”

“Right. Embedded?”

“No. I never got to do—”

“And what about that teenage boy who's being charged as an adult? Has everyone heard about this case?” It was George Melman, senior member on the committee.

Rosalyn smiled politely as she cut into a soft potato. “No. What case is that, George?”

“Just awful,” his wife, Betsy, answered. “Right here in Palm Beach. A sixteen-year-old boy had
relations
with his girlfriend, who was fourteen. Totally consensual,” she added, waving her hand about dismissively. Her face took on a scrupulous expression, which perfectly conveyed her thoughts.
Obviously, the girl was trash. Then she sat back and sighed. “They charged this poor kid with rape and child endangerment.”

“Yes,” George added. “And they plan to try him as an adult.”

Nick looked at Rosalyn, Sara at Barlow. Of all the things to come up.

Sensing Nick's eyes upon her, Rosalyn gave him a cool smile before motioning for a waiter to pour more wine. Barlow, on the other hand, did not let go of Sara's eyes as he swallowed hard against the jarring image that had returned to him. Would it ever leave him, this vision of his little girl on her knees?

He smiled at Sara in that way that told her he was about to be incredibly irreverent.

“Here's what I want to know. Was he, or was he not, wearing a collared shirt at the time?”

Sara let out a burst of uncontrollable laughter, leaving the rest of the table confused, but also acutely aware that they were not meant to understand, that this comment or joke or whatever it was had been meant for Sara and Sara alone. That it was something private between Barlow and the young woman sitting across the table.

Having had about all she could take, Rosalyn raised her fresh glass of wine and proposed a toast. “Before the evening winds down, I would like to thank everyone for coming.” It was a bit out of the blue, and out of character for Rosalyn, who always found a clever segue before changing a conversation so abruptly. But something had shifted within her, just in that moment, as she watched the connection between her husband and another woman. There had been a time when
she
was the one on the other side of his inside jokes, when
she
was the one he turned to in a moment of discomfort like the one that had just passed. It was her daughter,
their
daughter, and instead of finding comfort with each other, she was guzzling wine and he was flirting shamelessly. This was more than jealousy, more than anger at her husband's midlife transgression. It felt like something was breathing its final breaths right before their eyes.

Everyone raised a glass. Clinks all around.
So glad to be here . . . great to meet you . . . what a beautiful evening.
Then they broke into the quiet paired-off chattering that was customary for main-course conversation at the club's Florida facility, where food was more important than God, and a close second to Republican politics.

Rosalyn was grateful for the respite, as she skillfully listened without engaging and picked at her food. Her mind was flooded with thoughts of Caitlin, the outrageous Conrad family, her husband and Sara Livingston, and the feeling that all the little balls she was juggling were about to come crashing down around her. She nodded once, smiled twice, all the while thinking quietly to herself, going over the list for the plans, the plans that would save her daughter and the family's reputation. And the plans that would punish the Conrads and her husband. She felt her blood slow as the thoughts calmed her mind and then her body. And after a few minutes, she began to believe that she would actually get through this dinner and whatever might follow.

But it was short-lived. Standing at the small desk by the club's exterior door, the dining manager gently set down the phone and began to walk to their table. Barlow was the first to notice.

“Mr. and Mrs. Barlow,” he said after reaching them. Bent slightly at the waist and visibly uneasy with the task of delivering the message, he spoke softly to Rosalyn, though everyone at the table heard the words that are universally feared. “You have an urgent call. It's from home.”

 

 

 

 

 

R
OSALYN'S KNUCKLES WERE WHITE
as she gripped the phone and rocked back and forth against the seat. Strapped in for takeoff, she had no other means of displacing the raw, bitter anguish.

Across the aisle, Barlow sat still and let the tears fall.

They heard the pilot's subdued voice over the speaker. “We're cleared. I'll have you home in no time.”

They were so damned lucky their pilots had stayed in the area. The men were tired from a long day at the beach, but otherwise ready to fly. There'd been no time to find an attendant, but now, sitting alone in the dark cabin, both of the Barlows were thankful in their own way for the privacy.

“Why haven't they called?” Barlow asked through his sobbing, though he didn't expect an answer. The only thing either of them knew was that Caitlin had crashed the Corvette and was at the hospital.

“They'll call when they know something.” Rosalyn's voice was steady as she braced herself like a piece of steel against the back of the chair. “That's what Eva said. She'll call when they know.”

The plane took off, jolting them backwards and drowning out Barlow's sighs. Rosalyn closed her eyes as the sound of the engine filled her head, numbing her to her own silent cries. They had all been in a hurry. The boys,
Eva. And there were no cell phones allowed in the ER. Still, there hadn't been one call since the first one at the club over an hour ago.

They reached cruising altitude in a matter of minutes, the plane leveling off, the engines growing quieter.

“She was conscious. The whole time. She never blacked out.” Barlow was talking again.

“Yes. That's what Eva said. They have to make sure now, that's all. Absolutely sure.”

Barlow ran his hands over his cheeks, pushing aside the tears. “I need a drink.”

He unbuckled his seat belt and walked to the front of the plane where he kept his scotch and the Waterford rocks glasses his wife had bought him when he'd purchased the jet. Pouring a tall one, he moved to the couch and sat down, just behind the row of chairs that held Rosalyn.

He took a long drink and calmed himself with the facts. The air bags had saved her from crashing through the windshield. She hadn't bothered with a seat belt—why would she? She was “under the influence,” whatever that meant, chasing through the dark with no headlights after a boy who had thrown her out like trash. Who had time for a seat belt in the face of such exigent circumstances? She had no visible injuries, and that should have been enough. Knowing that should have settled the initial impact he'd felt upon hearing the words
car
and
crash
used in the same sentence with one of his children's names. But knowing she had escaped this one incident was close to insignificant in the face of everything else he knew, everything else that was happening to her inside her own head. He could lock her up and throw away the key, but he could not save her from that, from her own mind.

“Why?” It came out as a mumble, but it was heard.

Rosalyn got up and walked to the chair across from Barlow. She sat down, crossed her legs, and looked at him, at his red-streaked face and the drink that was again attached to his hand. “Why? Why what? Why has this happened?” Her face was hard, her tone sarcastic, almost mocking him.

“I'm sorry. Is that a stupid question to ask? Should I know why our daughter almost killed herself tonight?”

“No, Barlow,” Rosalyn said with controlled hostility. “I wouldn't expect you to know with all of the things on your mind. All your little . . . what should we call them? Hobbies, I suppose.”

Barlow looked at her curiously, wondering if she was referring to Jacks, if she somehow knew. It was true—he was guilty as sin. Even so, was he not entitled to even a shred of decency? To even the smallest hint of humanity in the face of this nightmare that they alone shared? Nothing he had done with Jacks was the cause of this horror.

He drained his drink, then got up to pour another. As he walked past his wife, he placed his hand on her shoulder, and for a split second she thought of placing her hand over his. Of touching him.

But then he spoke. “Just checking for a pulse.”

His words cut through her, inciting a silent fury that took her breath away. “That's right. Get another drink. That should help.”

In the front of the dimly lit cabin, she heard the ice against the glass, then the sound of the scotch poured.

“Actually, it does help. It's helped for years.” He walked back to the couch, cradling the drink so it wouldn't spill. He settled into his seat and took a sip, studying her face for a long while.

She did not look away.

“I don't know when it happened. Do you remember?” Barlow asked. His voice echoed the defeat that he had accepted years before.

Rosalyn was annoyed. “What are you talking about now?”

“About us. I'm talking about when
this
happened to
us.
”

Nodding her head sharply, Rosalyn felt ready for this battle because it was a battle she could actually fight. “Okay. Let's have it. Let's hear how I made you so miserable, you had to work all day and drink all night—and now just drink all day and night. Let's hear about that.”

Barlow leaned forward and searched her eyes for some sign of comprehension. Had they even been living the same life all these years? “God, you don't even see it, do you? You can't even feel how cold you are.”

“Cold?”

Sitting back, Barlow let the words fly. “Like fucking ice.”

Rosalyn nodded again, acknowledging sentiments that he'd finally said aloud. They both knew he'd been thinking them for a long, long time. “Then why did you marry me? If I'm so cold, so cold like fucking ice . . . why did you drive to Wellesley every weekend, beg me to go out with you? There were plenty of cold bitches at Harvard, weren't there?” Her voice was hard, her face so constricted it was nearly trembling.