The Deep End (8 page)

“What?”

“I know you don’t like to talk about these things, but we have to get to the bottom of this.”

“Our sex life was fine,” Joanne told her, feeling her face redden. “Maybe not like yours and Brian’s …”

“Whose is?” Eve deadpanned, and both women laughed. “How often did you make love?”

Joanne squirmed in her seat. She noticed that Eve’s chair was absolutely still, her friend leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “I don’t know. I never kept track. Once, twice a week, I don’t know. As much as either of us wanted.”

“Are you sure?”

“Are you kidding? I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

“How adventurous were you?”

“What do you mean, adventurous?”

“You know, did you try new things, did you …?”

“Eve, I really don’t want to talk about this. I don’t see any point. I’ve gone over every possible reason Paul could have had for leaving. Maybe it
was
our sex life, I don’t know. He never complained, but maybe I wasn’t … adventurous enough. Maybe I wasn’t a lot of things. In fact, I’m
sure
I wasn’t a lot of things. I’m sure it was all my fault.”

“Hold on a minute,” Eve insisted, standing up abruptly and sending the small chair spinning in circles. “Who said anything was all your fault?”

“Nobody has to say it. Obviously it was. Why else would he have left? I didn’t do
anything
right.”

“Oh, I see. In twenty years? You didn’t do anything right?”

Joanne nodded.

“What about Robin? What about Lulu?”

“They don’t count. They’re separate people.”

“Who made them separate people? Don’t tell me you didn’t do anything right. You have two beautiful daughters …”

“I have two beautiful,
obnoxious
daughters,” Joanne corrected and looked guiltily around her in case one of them had crept, unnoticed, into the room. “I mean, I love them more than anything else in the world, but I don’t know what happens to girls when they get to a certain age. Were
we
like that?”

“According to my mother, I still am.” Eve shook her head. “Maybe it’s a good thing I had that miscarriage,” she continued matter-of-factly, sitting down again, this time on the blue-and-beige-striped velvet sofa facing the two cream-colored chairs. “She’s always wished on me a daughter like the one I was. That’s the only reason she wants grandchildren, you know. So she can watch me suffer. Anyway …” She clapped her hands on her knees. “We are not talking about my mother, we are talking about you, about how you haven’t done anything right in twenty years and probably your whole life for that matter.” Joanne tried to smile but failed. “You’re not a great cook? Is there anyone on earth who makes better pies and cakes than you do?”

“That doesn’t count either.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t count?”

“It would only count if I had a full-time job.” Joanne stood up, moving her hands in front of her body as if she were physically collecting her thoughts. “I’ve been baking a
lot
of pies and cakes this week,” she explained, nodding as she spoke, “and while I’ve been baking all these stupid pies and cakes, I’ve been thinking about the last twenty years, and how I’ve spent them … what I’ve been doing and what everyone else has been doing … and can’t you see, Eve? I’m an anachronism. Everything I was brought up to be went out of style.”

“Being a loyal wife went out of style? Being a good mother went out of style? Being a terrific friend doesn’t count anymore? Says who? Show me who says it and I’ll beat him up right now, the bastard, may he rot in hell.” She stopped. “Anyway, I better not say anything else because if I do, and you and Paul get back together—which you will—you’ll hate me and I’ll have lost my only friend in the world.”

“You’ll never lose me,” Joanne smiled. “You’re the one constant in my life. I can’t imagine a time that we wouldn’t be friends.”

“I love you,” Eve said simply, walking toward her.

“I love you too,” Joanne repeated. The two women drew together in a long, comforting embrace. “What time is your doctor’s appointment tomorrow?” she asked, the first to pull away.

“Oh, forget it, you don’t have to take me.”

“Don’t be silly. Why should you go alone? Besides, if I stay home, it just means I’ll bake more of those dumb pies and cakes.”

“Okay, you talked me into it. I’m supposed to be there at nine-thirty. And I can’t eat anything after midnight, so don’t mention those pies and cakes again.” She caught sight of her reflection in the glass of one of the many paintings that lined the walls. “Oh God, who
is
that woman? Look at me! I look awful.” She pushed some stray hairs away from her forehead. “Look at this.” She rubbed the skin around her eyebrows so that it produced small flakes which fluttered into her lashes. “I’m falling apart.”

“It’s called dry skin,” Joanne told her.

Eve laughed. “Terminally dry skin. I don’t know, I always used to have oily skin.”

“The joys of middle age.”

“I suppose. Anyway, I’d better go. I have a million papers to mark.”

“Eve …” Joanne’s voice stopped her friend as she reached the front hall. “What do you know about that woman in Saddle Rock Estates?” Eve regarded her quizzically. “You know, the one who was murdered.”

Eve shrugged. “Not much,” she said. “Just what I read in the papers. She was raped and beaten and strangled and stabbed. Anything that he could do to her, he did.”

“And you said she’s the third one this year?”

“According to Brian, it’s the same guy. Why?”

Joanne told her about the phone call. “He says I’m next.”

Much to Joanne’s surprise, Eve burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “Really, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just that you look so worried.”

“Well, I
am
worried. Paul’s gone and …”

“And some crazy phones you and tells you you’re next on his list. I know, I shouldn’t laugh. But do you know how many women he probably called? Half of Long Island, I’ll bet. He’s harmless, Joanne. Guys who get their kicks long distance rarely have the guts to do anything in person. This is some loony who gets his rocks off terrifying women over the phone. Do you have any idea how many sickies there are like that in a city like New York? Probably half the male population. Listen, I’m sure it’s nothing, but if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll tell Brian about it, okay?”

“I’d appreciate it,” Joanne told her.

“You don’t have to appreciate it,” Eve smiled, hugging her friend close. “Just don’t worry about it. You have
enough to worry about right now. And tell Lulu not to worry about failing that test. Remind her that I failed everything in high school and that I never would have graduated at all if my mother hadn’t gone to the principal and threatened to send me back the following year if he didn’t pass me.” She laughed, opening the front door. “The power that woman yields! Don’t forget about our tennis lesson tomorrow afternoon,” she called from halfway down the front steps.

“Meet you in the driveway at nine.” Joanne waved as Eve disappeared inside the house next door.

“You’ll just have to study harder,” Joanne was saying only minutes later as Lulu helped herself to a second piece of freshly baked cake. “That’s enough, Lulu, we’re eating supper in an hour.”

“Why’d you make it if we’re not supposed to eat it?” Lulu shoved the corner of the moist lemon cake into her mouth, making no move to wipe up the crumbs that spilled from her bottom lip onto the floor.

“I made it for dessert.”

“So, I’ll have some for dessert too.”

Joanne decided against pursuing the subject. “Maybe we could work out some sort of system that would help you to remember dates.” Lulu’s eyebrows narrowed together, accentuating her enormous brown eyes. “I always remembered the date of the Battle of New Orleans because there was a song about it when I was in high school. ‘In 1814, we took a little trip …,’” she began, then stopped. “Well, I don’t remember all the words, but I always remembered the date. 1814—I bet every kid in school knew it.”

“Maybe we could ask Michael Jackson to write a song about the Civil War,” Lulu suggested jokingly.

“That’s not such a bad idea.”

“Life isn’t Sesame Street, Mother,” Lulu reminded her, finishing off the piece of cake.

An eleven year old is telling me about life, Joanne thought. There was a sudden knock on the sliding glass door. Joanne turned in its direction.

One of the workers from the pool was smiling at her from the other side of the glass. Joanne rose slowly from her seat and unlocked the door to slide it open.

“We’re finished for today,” the man (tall, skinny, with windblown brown hair) informed her. “I was wondering if I could use your phone.”

Joanne backed out of the way to let him in. As she pulled the door shut behind him, she noticed the trail of dirty fingerprints he had left along the glass and the moist earth caked around his shoes that he was now scattering carelessly across the kitchen floor. “It’s on the wall,” she indicated, pointing to the white phone.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling at Lulu. When he turned toward the wall to speak, Lulu made a face in her mother’s direction indicative of displeasure. The man suddenly swiveled around again, his back slumped against the wall. “Got me on hold,” he muttered, and Joanne nodded understanding. “Your husband home?” he asked.

Joanne shook her head. “Do you need to speak to him?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.” His attention was rediverted to the phone. “Hello, yes, can I …” He snickered impatiently. “Got me on hold again.” He looked down at his boots self-consciously.

“Dad phoned,” Lulu said softly, newly reminded.

“When?” Joanne felt her hands start to shake and steadied them between her knees. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“You were in the bathroom. And I didn’t call you because he didn’t ask to speak to you. Just to me.”

Joanne felt the saliva stick in her throat. “What did he want?”

“To know how I made out in my test. To make plans for the weekend.”

“The weekend?” Joanne hadn’t given any thought to the coming weekend.

“He wants me to spend it with him in the city. I told him it was okay.”

“Don’t you think you should have checked with me first?”

“No,” Lulu answered defiantly. “He’s my father. I can see him if I want to.”

“Nobody said you couldn’t see him.”

The man at the phone cleared his throat as if to remind them he was there and then shifted back to the wall, speaking in a voice that was low enough to be a whisper. Joanne lowered her own voice accordingly.

“What about Robin?” she asked.

“Robin has a date Saturday night.”

“Okay,” Joanne gave in. “You can spend the weekend with your father. Just make sure he has you back early on Sunday night. You have school Monday.”

“I know I have school Monday. So does Dad,” Lulu informed her mother with no small degree of annoyance.

“Lulu, can you please watch the way you talk to me.”

“What’s wrong with the way I talk to you?”

“Excuse me,” the man at the phone interrupted. “I’m finished. Thank you.” He moved away from the wall. Joanne noticed the marks from his dirty fingers along the white face of the phone. “How do you like it?” he asked as he stepped outside, his large hands making a sweep toward the freshly laid stone slabs.

“Pretty color,” Joanne said.

“See you tomorrow.”

Joanne closed the door and snapped the lock shut after him.

“He gives me the creeps,” Lulu whispered, watching as, seconds later, the tall, skinny worker laughed easily with one of the other workmen by the deep end of the pool.

“Why?” Joanne asked. “He seems nice enough.”

“I don’t like the way he stares at people. He drills holes in you like he’s working on one of those pieces of stone.”

“You’ve been watching too much television,” Joanne said, feeling uncomfortable with the analogy. “Anyway, he won’t be here much longer. They should be finished soon.”

“I hope so. It’d be nice to use the pool before we leave for camp. What’s for supper?”

“Chicken.”

“Chicken again?”

“We haven’t had chicken in a long time.”

“Why don’t you make one of your lemon meringue pies?”

“Because I don’t want to!” Joanne snapped, surprising them both with her fury.

Paul had asked her to bake him a lemon meringue pie. His favorite, he told her. His mother always made them and he’d never found anyone else whose pies could match hers.

“I bet mine could,” Joanne told him, taking up the challenge and rushing home to ask her mother how it was done.

“He must be special, this Paul,” Joanne could hear her mother saying as she gathered together the ingredients she would need.

“He is,” Joanne heard herself agree.

“Okay.” Her mother smiled. “We’ll make him a lemon pie that’ll knock his mother’s oven mitts off. You watch carefully now. This is how it’s done.” She bent forward conspiratorially. “The secret is in the meringue.”

Joanne watched her mother mix together the various ingredients that went into the making of the filling and the meringue topping. “How come you’re using a frozen pie shell?” she asked, surprised when she realized that her mother wasn’t rolling her own.

“Pie shells are a pain in the neck to make. Besides, nobody ever notices the difference between a shell that’s precooked and one that you spend half the day slaving over. Trust me, darling, he’ll never know the difference.”

He knew the difference. Biting into the generous helping, the meringue a high, perfect arc, Paul chewed with deliberate slowness, then lowered the piece of pie to his plate while Joanne gazed on expectantly. “That’s the best meringue I’ve ever tasted,” he pronounced and Joanne inhaled a deep sigh of appreciative relief. “But I can’t understand it,” he continued, shaking his head.

“Can’t understand what?”

“I can’t understand how hands that could make this incredible meringue could also make this awful pie crust,” he told her, waiting for her response.

Her response was to go home and make him another.
And another. Rolling her own dough until she got it right. Until making pie shells was as ingrained in her as all the other baking skills her mother had taught her. Until he was forced to admit that his mother’s pies couldn’t hold a candle to hers and that he would love her forever and had he ever told her about his mother’s incredible peach cobbler?