The Land of Mango Sunsets (11 page)

“No! No way!”

“Yes. Way. He is married to Agnes Willis and we volunteer at the museum together all the time. I have known them for twenty years. When
Charles was my husband we sat together at all the benefits. Apparently, he has no idea this is my house.”

“Or he doesn’t care. Ohmagawd! That creep! Another married creep!”

“You didn’t know?”

“No! How can men just lie like that? What’s the matter with them?”

“Honey, the divorce courts are filled with them. Look what Charles did to me?”

“Same thing?”

“Worse. He had children with her.”

“Jesus!”

“Taking the Lord’s name in vain won’t change the male species, you know.”

“Sorry. It’s just that—”

“Look, let me just say this and get it off my chest. I’m not thrilled to have a tenant who sleeps with married men under my own roof. That precise act is what brought me to the point of renting out the rooms that used to house my family.” I stood and said, “I’ve got a chicken waiting for me that needs attention.”

“I understand. It won’t happen again. Sorry about the mail.”

“Sorry about Truman,” I said, and left. “In the future, just take yours and pile the rest of it on the table.” She didn’t know about Truman’s marital status? My big fat fanny!

“No problem,” she said, “and I’ll see about rugs tomorrow.”

I went down the stairs, leaving her alone with a cold pizza. Poor me, I thought as the hour became late and I ate alone with no knowledge of Kevin’s whereabouts. “Poor all of us,” I said out loud as I covered Harry’s cage with a sheet.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night, sweetheart,” I said, and wondered if she would continue to see Truman anyway. That would tell me a lot about her.

The morning came cold and clear and I rushed around gathering ad
ditional address lists from prior events. I was determined to do such a wonderful job on the invitations committee that everyone would surely notice. Maybe I would make a new friend. I mean, who knew? Anything was possible!

I walked over to Park Avenue, and for the life of me, I couldn’t get an uptown cab. I walked over to Madison and found someone getting out of one, so I hopped in. Normally I would have taken the Madison Avenue bus, but I felt like treating myself to a private car.

“Fifth Avenue and Eighty-second, please,” I said.

No response, which suited me fine. And inside of the proverbial
city minute
I wondered why I had thought a cab ride would be such a treat. This lunatic jerked the car this way and that and it was absolutely nauseating. I ate a mint.

Soon I was showing my volunteer ID to the security guard and taking the elevator down to the bowels of the museum and the volunteer room. When I opened the door it was madness inside. About forty women, many of whom I knew casually, were chatting, drinking coffee, and eating bagels or Danishes, carrying boxes from one side of the room to another, talking on cell phones and so on, and all of them were dressed like they were having lunch later on at La Grenouille.

Long folding tables were placed all around the room in a large horseshoe. Boxes of the invitations were on one table, the response cards and envelopes were on another table, and the directions were on a third. The Mount Fuji of outside envelopes were given by the box to individuals charged with the task of writing out perfectly spelled names and double-checked addresses. I was to be one of the chosen.

The rest of the volunteers walked in circles, from table to table, box to box, collecting and collating the inserts in appropriate little stacks to slip in the outside envelope. When they were sealed and stamped, another team of efficient women arranged them alphabetically by zip code in stacking baskets provided by the post office.

“Oh, Miriam! I’m so glad you’re here! Why don’t you sit by Diane over there?”

It was Laura Routentout, a young woman whom I privately called Rotten Tooth, as her bulimia resulted in frequent replacements to the caps of her teeth.

“Oh! Of course, Laura! How are you?”

“Fine! Good! You know…just hoping we don’t have too many duplicates and too many errors. The usual. Can you stick around and help me take the bins to the post office?”

“Why, sure…” I said, and felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Darling, ladies don’t schlep,” said Agnes Willis, who popped up from nowhere. “We simply call the maintenance men to bring a flatbed dolly, roll them out to the loading docks, and the post office will pick up. Two phone calls and we’re all set.”

“Oh,” Laura said, and turned scarlet.

Agnes smiled a prim little tight smile at me and said, “New girl,” referring to Laura. “Her husband’s firm endowed the Impressionist speaker’s series for the museum.”

“How wonderful,” I said, smiling, and wished she would drop dead for constantly reaffirming my downward spiral.

We worked through the morning, gobbling down half of an overstuffed turkey sandwich and countless cups of coffee and tea, and we continued into the afternoon. By four o’clock I was nearly cross-eyed from the scrutiny it took to make sure I didn’t make any errors. I felt like an eighteenth-century schoolgirl, painstakingly working with a quill and inkwell to avoid blots of ink or errors of any kind. Call me Elsie Dins-more, the poor little wretch of my childhood reading. But we all consoled ourselves with the rewards of our efforts. Thousands of invitations were ready to mail.

Some of the women were picking up the sandwich trays, and Diane and I decided to take the coffee urns down to the kitchen to help out. We
unplugged them and felt their sides—still warm but not dangerously hot.

“Let’s go,” I said.

Diane went in front of me, and as she opened the door, someone else pushed against it from the other side. It was Agnes Willis. Diane backed into me and regained her balance. But I was midstep, lost my footing, and went flying like something from an Abbott and Costello slapstick routine. The entire contents of my urn, the muddy coffee and the soggy nasty grinds, spread themselves in drips and clods over three huge bins of sealed, stamped, and hand-addressed envelopes.

The room became silent for the first time that day and then the gasping started.

Oh no! The invitations! What happened? Oh no!

With a quick glance from where I was lying across the center of the floor, I could see that more than half the invitations were completely ruined.

“Get up, Miriam.”

I looked up to see Agnes Willis standing over me. I struggled to my knees. My stockings were ripped, my knees were bleeding, and my reading glasses were swung around, dangling down the center of my back. Needless to say, I was mortified right down to my DNA. Finally, Diane offered me her hand and I got up to my feet.

“You stupid clumsy sow,” Agnes Willis hissed in my face. “Just get out.”

The room inhaled a collective gasp and I knew they waited to see what I would say in response.

I looked at her squarely and so many things went through my mind. Yes, I was deeply embarrassed, but Agnes had broken the golden rule of the volunteer world and of the polite world at large—that you never humiliate anyone, especially someone less fortunate. I had her securely in my crosshairs.

“Agnes?”

I crooked my finger at her face and motioned for her to move closer so I could whisper my response. For a split second she hesitated, probably unsure that I might or might not deliver the well-deserved slap across her wizened face. Finally, she moved in and so did every other ear in the room.

“What?”

I looked her straight in the eyes and decided against whispering. “Your husband is screwing the ever-loving daylights out of my beautiful, blond
young
tenant.”

“What! How?”

Large eyes seemed to be a popular phenomenon.

I removed my security ID from around my neck, held it between my two fingers, and let it drop to her feet. “How?” I said, threw my tote bag over my shoulder, and held the door open for myself. “With enthusiasm, Agnes. With great enthusiasm.”

Hot angry tears of bitterness drenched my cheeks. I couldn’t make them stop. I ambled home from the museum in a state of disbelief, literally stumbling here and there on cracks in the sidewalk and accidentally bumping into people. The full force of the degradation, the terrible embarrassment I had just experienced, continued to send shock waves through me. I relived it over and over. I didn’t know what to do at first—where to go, whom to call—I just wanted to run, run away and never see any of them again. The only place I had to run and hide was Sixty-first Street. There was no girlfriend to call, no husband who would say there, there, it’s all going to be all right, that those women were a sorry lot of pretentious eating disorders who thought they were important because of their husbands’ careers and bank accounts. That they were nothing, that I was someone worthy of consolation. And I had not heard from Manny since my return, not that I would have told him this story anyway.

It was so deeply disappointing that no one had come to my aid besides Diane, who had helped me up from the floor. But she had her own agenda. She had probably moved to help me get up because in that act, her humanitarian stock would rise with some of the others who thought Agnes Willis was the epitome of every evil thing that encompassed the reputation of the imperious society matron. Her kindness had nothing to do with any loyalty to me. But, I thought, if my misstep could serve as a cata
lyst to ignite a backlash against the Agnes Willises of the world, it was the only redemption in the entire debacle.

I went over it again. It was so hard to believe that not one woman there had taken a moment to reassure me that it was just an accident, that it could’ve happened to anyone, or was I all right. The bitter truth began to sink in through my thick skull. That no one cared. It was a terrible sin that they considered themselves ladies when they showed so little compassion to the world. And none at all to me.

That one unfortunate moment, that one accidental flight across the room, had no doubt ended twenty years of hard work at no pay, with no recognition, no wooden plaque with
VOLUNTEER OF THE YEAR
engraved on a little brass plate, no anything but a legacy of horrible embarrassment. I would go down in infamy as the volunteer who ruined thousands of invitations and hours and hours of work. I knew I would certainly be the laughingstock of the year over so many dinner tables that night, and after that, the story would be retold all over Manhattan at every volunteer organization for years. No one would ever enjoy a cup of coffee or tea during an invitations committee meeting for the rest of recorded time. People would say, “You can thank Miriam Swanson for that.” Botched paperwork would be referred to as “a Miriam.”

I wandered more than walked the entire way down Fifth and then Madison avenues crying all alone. I passed so many people, hundreds, maybe thousands, and no one said, “Hey, lady, are you all right?” I cried for my embarrassment and with regret over the accident and for the revulsion it had unleashed in Agnes Willis. What had she called me? A sow? How hateful! What a horrible woman she was.

But why had I told her about her husband? I must have been insane! Two wrongs were worse than one and I had stooped to her level. I regretted it.

I called Kevin’s cell but he wasn’t picking up. I left him two frantic messages. I didn’t know what to do with myself. It was six. I had no appetite. When I finally got home, my apartment had never seemed so
empty or so shabby. I knew that I had done a terrible thing to Agnes Willis. But she had done an even worse thing to me. I could never show my face at the museum again.

“It was a terrible day,” I said to Harry, and put a cut-up tomato in the food dish.

He whistled, and I thought, Oh, Lord, there is nothing in my future but sadness.

Finally, Kevin returned my call. “Petal?
What
has happened? Are you all right?”

“No.” I was sobbing then.

“I’ll be there in a flash.”

Minutes later, our front door opened and he rapped his knuckles on my door, which I opened and then buried my face in a tissue.

He put his arm around my shoulder and led me to my favorite chair by the fireplace. I sat down with my elbows in my lap and the tears just streamed from my eyes. I knew I looked frightful.

“Good Lord, honey! Did someone die? What in the world?”

“Oh, Kevin, the most awful thing happened today…”

I told him about the accident, the terrible name that Agnes Willis called me, and the crash and burn of my volunteer career. He sat patiently on the end of a chair, listening to every single word.

“Well, first of all, they can replace the invitations tomorrow. It’s the Met, for heaven’s sake.”

“I know, but all that hard work…”

“You’re right, but it will give all those women something new to complain about. Good grief. This is some mess, Ollie. I’m pouring myself a vodka. Do you want something?” He looked back at me with an arched eyebrow and said, “Why am I even asking you this question?”

He slipped into the kitchen and returned with two double, old-fashioned tumblers half filled with straight vodka over clinking ice.

“Lord, girl, look at your knees! They’re all bloody!”

“I told you I fell! And I wasn’t kidding! Oh, my word! I will
never
live this down!”

“I’ll go get something to clean you up. In the bathroom?”

“Yes, in the cabinet. Or maybe under the sink. There’s Bactine and Band-Aids.” I took a sip of the cocktail, went into my room to pull off my ruined panty hose, tossed them in the wastebasket, and met him back in the living room.

“Here, wipe your widdle knees with this. So, you never told me. What did you say to her? Agnes, I mean.”

“Oh, Lord. This is the very worst part of all of it. I told her that Truman was having an affair with Liz.”

He was quiet for a moment and then he said, “Please don’t tell me that. You did not.”

“What?”

“In another arena I would have said, well, touché. But, Miriam, darling, I would not depend on Agnes Willis’s hormone levels of self-control to keep that secret to herself. Nor would I trust anyone else who heard it. I mean, the odds of it getting back to Truman…”

“It’s too late now.”

“Yes, it rather is. Well, perhaps you should consider telling Liz so she knows what’s going on? You know? In case she sees him?”

I cleaned up the scrapes and put three Band-Aids on each knee.

“I’ll have to think about that.”

“Well, I think it’s only fair.”

“We’ll see.”

We were quiet for a moment. I had not considered the impact this might have on Liz. Kevin was right of course, but wasn’t it enough that I had told her that Truman was married? I wanted the entire business to go away, disappear and never return. It was why the world invented self-delusion.

“I
need
for chicken soup,” I said. “Want to go to Gardenia?”

Gardenia was our neighborhood café on Madison, where you could get perfectly poached eggs in the morning, a great grilled cheese sandwich or a burger for lunch, and at night, when the need arose, you knew they were serving hot roast beef or turkey sandwiches, fabulous meat loaf and mashed potatoes, and always, homemade chicken soup.

“Sure. A little comfort food would do you good. Go put on some trousers, wash your face, and I’ll walk over with you.”

I changed, freshened my makeup, and in minutes we were out the door, trying to cross Park Avenue.

“Do you think this winter is ever going to end?” I said as we hurried across the avenue against the light, Kevin holding my elbow as I was limping a little then.

“Whew! Made it! Do you mean the winter or the winter of our discontent?”

“Either one.” I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. “That was one of the nicest things about being on the island. The weather, that is.”

“Yes, you haven’t given me the whole download about this Harrison or Manny either.”

“Kevin? Why don’t we just make a list of all my humiliations and advertise them on the side of a building in Times Square?”

“You see? This is what happens. You go away for a few days and suddenly I’m out of step with what’s happening with you.”

“Not true. I’m freezing!” I shuddered, and although my knees were sore, I picked up our pace. Then Kevin had to work to keep up with me.

“Slow down, you wild thing! By the way, did you look under your bed?”

“Dust bunnies?”

“Treadmill. You owe me two hundred dollars.”

“Oh, fine. Thanks, I think.”

We hung our coats at the restaurant, got our table and menus, and although we knew what we had come here to eat, we looked over the specials anyway.

“They’ve got stuffed peppers tonight,” I said with a heavy sigh.

“I can’t eat peppers at night anymore. They give me heartburn.”

“Since when did you develop such a delicate constitution?”

Kevin looked up from his menu with pursed lips, raised both eyebrows this time, and sighed. “Honestly, Petal, you’re not the only fragile orchid in this jungle, you know.”

The first piece of a smile in what felt like forever crept across my face.

We ordered two bowls of chicken soup and hot herbal tea. When our waiter walked away I looked at Kevin.

“This has been a really, really crappy day, Kevin.”

“I’d say so. I’m just so sorry you had to go through such an ordeal.”

“I feel like I could start crying all over again and weep through the night.”

“Miriam? Just stop it right now. Do not waste a single tear on this incident ever again. Seriously. I am much more concerned that Agnes Willis, in some insane jealous state, might hide in the bushes outside and throw battery acid on our Daisy Mae or some other crazy thing.”

“Oh, please. Agnes Willis wouldn’t dare do such a thing. She talks a big game in her school yard but she wouldn’t cross over to a life of crime over Truman!”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, her pride may be hurt to have someone else know about her husband running around, especially that it’s me who knows. And especially that the others surely overheard what I said. But she knows Truman is unfaithful. I guarantee it. If she’s in love with her husband, a woman always knows these things.”

“But did you know about Charles?”

I was quiet then and thought about it for a moment.

“There were signs, lots of them, that I have to admit I chose to ignore. I knew that when I finally confronted him, it would blow up my world. And it did.”

“Well, that’s precisely what concerns me, Miriam. I don’t want either one of them to take revenge on anyone besides themselves.”

“Good grief, Kevin! Do you think I’m in danger?”

He looked around the restaurant, mostly populated with senior citizens at that hour, and then he looked back at me.

“I don’t know, Miriam. I just can’t answer that. But I hope not. Now, let’s talk about something more pleasant. Tell me about Harrison.”

“You’re right. Well, this is the conundrum. When I met him, I wasn’t impressed at all. But we had dinner—”

“Just the two of you?”

“No, Mother, Harrison, and me. Anyway, Harrison and I went downstairs to light the grill and I know I saw, I mean, there was, you know…”

“Interest?”

“Yes. I mean, he’s completely inappropriate for me because he’s a little like Jungle Jim or something, but he has this quality of, I don’t know, he’s just this extremely thoughtful man. Not to mention, I decided he’s definitely my mother’s boyfriend, which is weird in the extreme.”

“I’ll say. But being thoughtful is a greatly undervalued asset in today’s world.”

“Truly. Anyway, next thing I know, he and Mother are smoking you-know-what and I’m shocked, and the next day he introduces me to his friend Manny.”

“Who’s Manny?”

“A man.”

“God, girl, there ought to be laws passed against your jokes. Dreadful.”

“Sorry. Anyway, I wind up at this church dinner with Manny the Man dishing out quail stew and thinking we might be, you know, a possibility.”

“So?”

“He has not called.”

“Well, you
are
a thousand miles away.”

“Right?”

“He’s divorced, I assume?”

“Well, practically. His estranged wife lives in Charlotte. He’s been in Charleston for five years.”

“Sounds like somebody needs to do the paperwork.”

“Exactly, but if he doesn’t ever call me, then what do I care?”

“I’m thinking you do.”

“Maybe a little. Maybe it’s just pride.”

Things were quiet for the rest of the week. I had not told Mother about my museum disaster because I knew she would say, see, I told you so, that it was a message from the Universal Spirit that it wasn’t the best use of my time anyway. That one door closes so another can open. What door? The question was, how was I going to fill my days without my committee work? There was a time when I had served on committees at the library, a dance company, and two other museums. But over time I had reduced my responsibilities, thinking I would rather be meaningful in one institution than insignificant in many. Well, I guess that didn’t go according to plan, did it?

I needed something to do, and walking around the apartment, I decided it was as good a moment as any to clean my closets. I would give all our old clothes to Goodwill or anyone willing to come and haul them away.

I started with the boys’ bedrooms, thinking they would be the easiest. And they were not. I did not know that emptying their closets would yield yet another burst of emotional confusion, regret, and guilt. It was a little like dealing with the bones of my own motherhood.

First, I went to Charlie’s room. He had taken a good many things with him when he moved into his apartment, but the amount of youthful possessions that he had left behind was considerable. At first, I felt that sorting his clothes was therapeutic. When I got organized I always felt happier. It seemed like a good idea to stack his nicer shirts, pajamas, and so forth on the bed and ask him if there was anything he wanted to keep. But when I found his Little League baseball shirt and a sport coat that he must’ve worn when he was ten or twelve, I started breaking down.