The Land of Mango Sunsets (3 page)

Mother had a morbid fascination with the final exits of others.

“He took the Fifty-seventh Street bus to paradise.”

“Don’t be cute with me, missy, or I’ll cut a switch and come right to New York!”

I had to giggle at that. I could see her stripping the leaves from a thin branch and stuffing it in her tote bag. “No, seriously. He really did. He died on the bus. Heart attack.”

“Mercy. Now what?”

“We cleaned out the apartment, Kevin is painting like crazy, and I’m interviewing a new tenant this afternoon. The snow seems to have stopped, so that’s good. Maybe he won’t cancel.” I pulled back the window sheers and double-checked. A few flakes were coming down, but when I spotted a slice of blue sky I decided that they were from a roof or a branch, caught in a swirl of wind.

“
He?
Another man? Is this one a possibility for, you know…”

“Good grief! No! The last thing I need in my life is another man.”

After all, but I wasn’t bringing this up to her, I had married one and given birth to two more and somehow lost the affection of them all. It didn’t matter what I left unsaid, my mother had an invisible umbilical cord from her brain to mine.

“Don’t fret, Miriam. You are still their mother, and believe me, the boys will come around. As for you and men? People are not meant to be alone. You still have plenty of vitality left in you. Heaven knows, if I do, then you must!”

“Yes, but you’re an original, Miss Josie.”

“Oh, sure! Butter me up so I’ll talk about something else.”

“No. You really are. Besides, I’m not lonely. Anyway, no matter, Kevin thinks we should rent to a young person.”

“Because Kevin knows you’ve become a dullard. A drip. B-o-r-i-n-g! And Kevin knows you need something to get your motor going…”

“I have to go, Mother. The doorbell is ringing.”

“I don’t hear anything. Maybe it sounds like that bird of yours is
imitating
the doorbell.”

Busted.

“Well, he is, but the real one is ringing, too. I’ll call you later this week, okay?” I hung up and looked at Harry. “Work on your doorbell voice, okay?”

“You got it!”

When I opened the door, there stood Kevin loaded with grocery bags, and beside him was a very nice-looking middle-aged man. I felt my neck get warm.

“Mrs. Swanson?”

“Yes. Won’t you come in?”

Well, I don’t have to tell you that I thought he was perfect for the apartment. He chuckled when he saw the color of the walls and said he would repaint them at his own expense. Then I saw him staring at my legs. Kevin saw him staring, too, and I could tell from Kevin’s bristling body language that he didn’t like him at all. I took a deposit check and his cell-phone number and told him I would keep his check, that I had two other possible candidates to see on Monday, and that I would let him know. But I’ll admit, I did practically let him think the place was his.

Kevin was furious with me.

“Why didn’t you just give him the keys?” he said sarcastically as he drained the pasta into my sink.

“Very funny. Do you want a glass of Chianti?”

“Already poured one for myself. Harry and I have been in here praying that guy didn’t do something terrible to all of us. I couldn’t wait to hear the door close! Harry kept saying ‘Good night! Good night!’”

“So that’s why he’s in his cage?”

“Yes! Even Harry had the good sense to worry!”

I poured myself a glass and looked at the kitchen table. It was simply but beautifully set for dinner with a cut baguette, wrapped in linen and placed in a sweetgrass basket from Charleston. Crystal goblets reflected the light of the candles borrowed from my living-room mantel; a glistening salad of butter lettuce and tomatoes, grated Parmesan and olive oil,
tiny dishes of coarse salt and freshly ground pepper all waited at attention; and my silver pitcher was frosted from the ice water it held.

How could I not value Kevin’s opinion? This was what he did. He went to great lengths to be sure everything was as lovely as it could be. So did I, most of the time, but the difference was that he did it with some innate joy as opposed to my joyless sense of duty.

That was me. If he had not set this glorious table I probably would have jumped down Kevin’s throat and told him he was wrong about the man I had interviewed and I would have just ignored Kevin’s instincts. Whether it was my family, my waning volunteer career, or a new tenant, I had to be right, have the last word. My way or no way. Maybe this was one of the rules that needed to be broken, one of the things I needed to change. In a rare instance of détente, I conceded the point and decided to let Kevin have his way.

“Okay. You and Harry win. I give up. What do y’all think I should do?”

The tiniest of victorious smiles crossed his face as he plated our dinner.

“Give me his check,” he said. “You know me. I’m not usually so suspicious about people, but something about him—no,
everything
about him—was inappropriate. I’ll have my friend in human resources run a background check on him.”

“Fine. Fine.”

Kevin looked down his nose at me with raised eyebrows, challenging my sincerity.

“No! I said
fine
and I meant it! Now let’s eat.”

I put a crisp five-dollar bill in the envelope and sponge-sealed it. Did twelve-year-old boys eat ice cream in the dead of winter? My sons would have eaten ice cream at three in the morning any time of the year. Oh, who knows? The little varmint next door would probably spend it on a ball of crack, I thought. In the next moment, I had an ever-so-fleeting pang of guilt when the mental image I had of
said varmint
included freckles on his little nose and braces on his teeth. Well, it was enough that I had recognized his good deed, and if I did truly contribute to a drug habit it would not have been my intention. Or problem.

I had bigger fish to fry, as Mother liked to say.

I had scheduled an interview with a lady from Ohio or Pennsylvania at eleven and then another young woman was to stop by at four. Both had references and both sounded very nice on the phone. The lady from Ohio (or was it Pennsylvania?)—Jean, I think—was a client of my hairdresser. The other gal was the friend of Irene Waddlesnotte’s niece—a most unfortunate family name. Originally from Alabama, I thought she had said. I’ll admit that my anxiety was growing. I wanted a tenant in that apartment and the money in my account.

It was ten-thirty. The
New York Times
crossword puzzle was completed (there was nothing quite so uplifting as a Monday puzzle), Harry was fed, the house was clean, the fireplace was crackling with another log of imita
tion wood, and I was dressed for the day. Even though I wasn’t necessarily going anywhere, I made it my habit to shower and dress nicely each day. I mean, maybe Charles’s home-wrecking vamp, Judith, might get hit by a truck or a taxi and I could be called on to identify her mangled body. What a cheery thought! I decided to write a note and make tea.

I put the kettle on to boil and placed cups and saucers on a tray with spoons, napkins, and a plate for some cookies. I spooned two heaping teaspoons of loose Irish Breakfast tea leaves in my favorite teapot. I used milk in my tea, but what if my visitor had a preference for honey and lemon? Well, guess what? I didn’t have any lemons, so that was just too bad for her. And honey? Too messy. The only reason I was serving tea was to have the time to grill her about her life and past. I had taken Kevin’s paranoia to heart and my intention was to find out everything I could before I signed a lease with anyone.

By the time the doorbell rang, I realized I had worked myself into an unpleasant state of crankiness. As you know, I deeply resented having to rely on paying strangers under my own roof in order to afford my home. The other, and perhaps more shameful, part was that my world had become so small that I hoped my new tenant would also be a friend. If my tenants were my friends, then I wouldn’t have to hate their presence as much.

I buzzed her in, went to my front door, and opened it.

“I’m Miriam Swanson,” I said, extending my hand. “Won’t you come in?” She was attractive in a coarse kind of way. Overprocessed hair worn in a style too long for her age, too much décolleté exposed for daytime…

“Thank you.” We shook hands. “I’m Jean Waring.”

Nails obviously fake…

“It’s very nice to meet you, Jean. May I take your coat?”

Cashmere? Who bought
that
for her?

“Thank you.”

She handed it to me and stood with her back to the fireplace. I folded it neatly and placed it on the arm of my sofa.

“Gosh! It’s so cold outside! Isn’t this weather unusual? I can’t recall winter being quite so nasty and cold.”

I nodded and said, “Won’t you sit down?” I indicated the wingback chair next to the fireplace for her and I would sit opposite her in the club chair. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh, yes! That would be lovely!”

“Yes, it is unusually cold this year.” I poured a cup for her. “Milk?” I poured another cup for myself and added milk.

“Oh, no. Just plain tea is fine. Anything hot…”

I put a cookie on the side of her saucer and handed it to her. “Anything with caffeine, I always say. Keeps me going! So, now, tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”

“I agree. Thank you! Well, I’m from Pennsylvania. Near Philadelphia.”

“And what brings you to New York?”

“A fresh start. I work in the banking industry and I just decided that since I’m single—”

“You’ve never married?” I didn’t believe that for a minute.

“Oh, well, yes, but a million years ago. I got married right after high school and had a baby six months later, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh!” I thought I might have kept that detail to myself.

“But that didn’t last long.”

“Young marriages usually don’t.”

“Yes. Anyway, I went to college, got an MBA, and my mom helped me take care of my daughter, who is now all grown.”

I drained my cup and reached over to pick up the teapot. “More?”

“Yes, thank you.” She held her cup out and I refilled it.

“And you never married again?”

“No, I didn’t. I had a long-term boyfriend. You know, married. I always thought he would leave his wife, but he never did. He broke my heart.”

My hands started to shake. The floodgates swung open and panic swarmed my brain. She was exactly the kind of woman who had ruined my family. Right here in my living room! What made them tick, this breed of woman who thought it was perfectly fine to sleep with another woman’s husband, steal his affection, and destroy a family? My cup rattled against the saucer, but I managed to place it on the tray. Even though I became completely unglued in the space of less than a minute, I wanted to know how she justified her life.

“And, so tell me, Jean…”

I couldn’t find the words to ask the questions. I could feel my throat constricting and I could hear my heart pounding in my ears as my blood pressure rose. I knew my face was red and suddenly I began to perspire.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Swanson? Can I get you a glass of water? Call someone?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you. I’m just getting over a nasty flu—fierce! I’m sorry. Now you were telling me about your
friend
?” I pulled a tissue from my pocket and blotted my face, composing myself.

“It was the same old story. I was young and pretty, he was married and bored with his fat wife. Every time I asked about her he always rolled his eyes and said she was just the most predictable, boring, and unsexy woman in the world.”

Had not my own mother called
me
dull?

“Right. So, you just thought, Oh, what the heck? Or what?”

“Are you kidding? I never thought that. God in heaven, I can’t believe I’m actually telling you all this!”

“No! Please tell me! I’m always so curious how these things get started, you know? Please, continue…”

Bathsheba looked around the living room and continued her sordid tale.

“Well, it’s hard to remember, it was so long ago. But he pursued me. I wasn’t interested in him
like that,
but he was smart and funny. Even though he was fourteen years older than I was, I got so used to being around him all day, the age difference disappeared. He was just Mark. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, I think I do.” Harry came hopping out from the kitchen, whistled, and arched his wings. The Banking Slut nearly jumped out of her jacket. “This is Harry. Harry likes to be a part of things.”

Harry continued to stare at her and wagged his red tail feathers. Even Harry knew an easy mark when he saw one.

“Oh! Well, he sure is a good-looking bird. What kind?”

“Thanks. Harry’s an African gray. So what happened?”

“The usual thing. Wife found out. I got fired. He said he was sorry and gave me a bunch of cash so I could start over again in another city.”

“Charles is a horse’s ass!” Harry said.

“Did your bird just say, ‘Charles is a horse’s ass’?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Who’s Charles?”

“Charles was the love of my life until a gal like you came along…and well, you know the rest of the story. But I suppose things worked out better for her than they have for you.”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?”

I couldn’t believe this tramp would dare to take umbrage with my words, but I answered her anyway.

“Just that she and Charles have two children and a nanny and scads of
money and that they are seen all over New York together having a wonderful time.”

“Jeez. If I were in your shoes, I’d move. Who needs it?”

I imagine she thought she had evened the score.

“Excuse me for just a moment. I’m going to put Harry back in his cage.”

I wasn’t angry. If anything, I felt a little sad. She had been duped and I wondered if there had been others that Charles had duped. How many women were there like her who had been taken past their childbearing years with no promise of a future?

I remembered then that Judith had once sent me a message. It said she didn’t want to take Charles away from his family, she just wanted to share him. What was Charles? A summerhouse in the Hamptons?

I gave Harry a piece of cucumber and went back to the living room. She was standing and had on her coat, which she was buttoning.

“I’m assuming we won’t be neighbors?” she said.

“I’m sorry. You seem like a very nice woman but I just couldn’t…”

“I understand,” she said. “I’m sorry, too.”

I let her out and from behind my curtains I watched her walk down the street all the way to the corner. She didn’t want to live with someone who would always be judging her and I didn’t want a reminder of Judith in my home. At least she understood that. She was the kind of woman who would be better off in a high-rise apartment building with the degree of anonymity it offered.

I looked in the other direction and saw Kevin just barreling down the block, carrying a sack that I guessed was his lunch.

“Hi! What’s the rush?”

“Thank God you’re home! Come inside. You’re not going to believe what I have to tell you!”

“What on earth?”

We all but jumped through the door and into my apartment.

“Want to split a chef salad?”

“Sure. I’ll get plates.”

“Okay. Here’s the skinny. You know that nice man you interviewed yesterday?”

“Yeah. I was just going to call him. Why? What?”

“Miriam? He’s a registered sex offender.”

“Stop! No way! How did you find out so fast?”

“My friend in HR? She dates a detective. He looked him up for her. He even double-checked it. Miriam, we almost had a perv living with us! She ran to me as soon as there was no doubt.”

“Merciful mother!” My heart was racing again. This was too much for one day.

“Miriam? He has a
criminal
record!”

“No! He seemed so nice!”

“Nice? Nice? Miriam Swanson! Didn’t I tell you he gave me the willies?” Kevin opened my refrigerator and stared inside.

“Yes. You surely did. Thank the good Lord and all His angels and saints that your radar works, Kevin. What do you need, hon?”

“Salad dressing. They forgot to put it in the bag.”

“Here,” I said, and scooted him aside. “Blue cheese okay?”

“Perfect.”

I dumped the chef salad into a bowl, spooned in some salad dressing, and started tossing it all around. Then I ground some pepper over it and gave it a sprinkle of salt. Kevin handed me two plates and I mounded the salad in the center.

“Voilà,” I said. “And thanks for saving our lives.”

“Voilà, indeed. You’re welcome. So call the guy today and tell him no thanks so that he can start forgetting where we live.”

“No kidding. Right after lunch.”

“Want to know what’s even more bizarre?”

“Go on…”

“That he was a friend of Mr. O’Hara.”

“Oh! I hadn’t even thought of that! Well, it just goes to show you.”

“That you never know about people, right? Let’s sit at the dining-room table. A change of venue. Do you think O’Hara was a deviate?”

“Heavens! Absolutely not! I mean, he subscribed to
National Geographic,
for goodness sake.”

“Right. Harmless. Hmmph.
National Geographic
. When I was a young lad—”

“Kevin, you’re not going to tell me stories about gaping at photographs of topless Aborigines, are you?”

Dead silence. I giggled.

“Well, he’s dead,” Kevin said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“And, I’m sure it’s not true. Are you home for the day?”

“No, but you could twist my arm. Don’t you have another candidate this afternoon? Oh! I forgot to ask. How was that woman this morning?”

“Unsuitable.”

“You’re not sharing, Miriam. Come on, honey, let’s have it.”

I told Kevin the details of Jean’s interview and he shook his head. “I’m definitely sticking around for the afternoon. I want to meet this gal from Birmingham. What’s her name?”

“Liz. Liz Harper. Works in admissions at Hunter College.”

“That can’t pay much. Does she come from money?”

“I think not. Turns out she’s the daughter or niece of a friend of mine.”

“And we care, why?”

“Exactly. I mean, does she think I’m running a day-care center for adult children? I raised my kids, thank you.”

“Well, maybe she’ll be okay.”

“We’ll find out at four.”

By three forty-five that afternoon I had made the dreaded phone call to the pervert and lied very nicely that my niece was going to be using the apartment. Kevin was upstairs painting and blasting an old recording of
La Bohème
. The doorbell rang. She was early, which I took as a good omen. I flipped on the gas burner to heat the kettle for tea and buzzed her in.

Kevin was bounding down the steps as she was coming in and I was opening the front door to my apartment. We nearly collided head-on in what would surely have been an auspicious beginning to our relationship.