A Notion of Pelicans Read online

  Lord knows what Amber was thinking. I spent the next minutes babbling about columns and sizes of print, trying hard to look normal. The whole time, I was working to lower my pulse, repeating, repeating my name, silently, as if it were a mantra. Serena . . . serene-a . . . serene . . .

  I wasn’t just being paranoid.

  Well, maybe I was. But at times paranoia is called for. Just the other day, I read an article in the waiting area at the clinic that said the urge to be unfaithful is built into our genes. It came as no surprise to me.

  It was last winter that Richard tipped the apple cart. We’d been having difficulty for a while, for no reason I could hone in on. It was just there, not overt, but a feeling, hanging between us, not spoken of. So I was both shocked and not shocked when, over first cups of coffee one morning the week after Christmas, he said, “I don’t know what to do. I’m feeling . . . I’ve been . . . What I’m trying to say is . . . I’m finding myself . . . wondering about our life.”

  Silence pulled up a chair, dropped elbows on the table.

  “Wondering about our life?” I said, at last. My voice sounded small, which was good, since the kids were upstairs asleep. My first thought was that he was . . . he must be . . . interested in someone, some woman. “Our life?” I said. “Don’t you mean, wondering about some woman?”

  “No, that’s not it, at all.”

  “Oh?” I hissed it at him. “You need to find yourself, suddenly? You with the exact life you wanted, the life I helped you to?”

  He cocked his head, kind of quizzically. “You’re going to make this about . . . ? No. Wait. I see . . . this was a mistake. I thought it was something we needed to . . . no . . . I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “Too late to put this horse back in the barn. I’ll remind you—you were the one so hot to get married. Or have you forgotten? If I’d known then we’d end up here, having this conversation, I’d have taken Toni’s advice and told you to bugger off.”

  He winced, turned his face away.

  I wanted desperately not to cry. But tears welled and burned out in an intense flash. I said, “Yeah. The sad fact is, Toni saw both of us clearer than either of us did.”

  He said, “That may be. . . . Look, Rena. You’re like marrow to me, you and the kids. But we’ve got a problem. You know it as well as I do.” He uncrossed his legs, re-crossed them the opposite way, and looked out on the driveway. He said, “Whether you like it or not—whether you’ll admit you have those moments, too—I’m feeling, so much feeling, I missed something.” He was miserable, I could see it, and confused. And he was right. I’ve wondered more and more if we stay in this just because we said we would. But it’s not a thing I’ll admit to, or dare speak out loud.

  We spent the next weeks being polite, civil, but only because we avoided discussing anything beyond garbage detail or who was up for chauffeur duty. There was a time I would have taken Richard at his word. Now I wasn’t sure. There had to be someone turning his head. I walked around feeling heavy. Going over to the church, glancing into the sanctuary, killed me. I’d thought, I’m doing my part, the Lunatic has my back. Now I wasn’t sure about that, either. I was alone, and there wasn’t a soul I dared talk to. Not even Toni.

  Truth is, Toni’s hard to be around these days. She’s a far cry from that girl covered with puke. In April, she separated from her husband, and since then she’s been making up for lost time. Her hemlines took a sharp north turn—think of her knees as the equator—and she’s taken to wearing this obnoxious black beret. Worst of all, every time I see her, she goes on and on about her latest dalliance. She’s a sociologist, so used to blathering she forgets who she’s talking to. She sounds like the Great Poobah of Lust, like it’s some religion she’s discovered. She’s got the zeal of a convert, complicated by the strange way people in her field view marriage. The strange way they view everything. Under all her kookiness, Toni has the softest heart—it’s what I love about her—but, depending on how things are between Richard and me, her progress reports can set me off.

  After the Christmas revelation, Richard and I didn’t even go for counseling. Clergy have this tendency to struggle alone— I mean, who can you talk to without feeling like a failure? The weeks went by, the pain got duller and duller, we drifted farther apart. Finally, I don’t know, I walked off the pier. When Cousin Terry’s oldest daughter got married back home on the weekend before Valentine’s Day, I went alone. Richard manufactured an excuse at the last minute, and Chelsey begged off because she had a date for a dance. “Mom-m-m-m!” she whined—I guess she was always masterful at dragging the syllable out—”I’ve been waiting for him to call since Christmas.”

  I didn’t object.

  Mom and Pops, I’ve got to say, were cool about it. They think the world of Richard, though a person might wonder about my mother, the way she rides him. The first time we let on that he intended to go into the ministry, she linked arms with him and said, “Now, Richard, was yours a calling on the phone? Direct dial? Or collect?”

  “Uh. Direct.”

  “Hmmm. And your name is Cross. Isn’t that interesting.”

  When I showed up without him, they had the graciousness, or the good sense, to act as if nothing were amiss.

  It was an evening wedding, a typical February evening, icy and way below zero. The combination made the sanctuary a bit surreal, awash as it was with orchids and candlelight. The ceremony was beautiful, I guess, but for better or worse doesn’t mean much when you’re young. One moment, I’d be looking at the bride and groom and thinking, You’ll be sorry. The next, I’d be biting my lip to keep from bursting into tears. By the time the pastor introduced Mr. and Mrs. Vranich, I had decided I was going to divorce the S.O.B. as soon as I got home.

  I was sitting next to Pops. He must have picked up that something was wrong, because as the bells pealed and we followed the wedding party to the back of the church, he put an arm around me. “You’re quiet tonight.”

  The wedding party was showering the newlyweds with confetti shaped like hearts. “Well,” I hedged, “you know how weddings are.”

  I had the devil in my saddlebag that night. It turned out the groom’s uncle had been in my homeroom senior year. He was one of a circle of boys I’d had a crush on—basketball jocks, every one. Incidentally, they don’t make athletic uniforms like they used to. The trunks were short and sweet. I still get faint at the memory of straining buns over muscular legs.

  Mr. Homeroom had become distinguished-looking—salt-and-pepper hair, an Armani suit—and very successful. He’d risen to senior partner in a Chicago law firm, at the regrettable, he said, cost of two failed marriages.

  “Regrettable?” I countered. The word rocketed from my champagne-emboldened tongue. “Isn’t that a double negative, regretting the end of something itself regrettable?”

  “Been married that long, have we?”

  “Long enough.”

  Our very cells were attracted. We danced and flirted, reminisced and flirted, drank and flirted—of course, being discreet about it. Afterward . . . well, there’s really not a way to be discreet about this. We went to his hotel. He led the way in a candy-apple red Porsche he wasn’t afraid to drive, even on ice. I could barely keep up. The entire drive, I kept saying to myself, “I’ll go as far as the bar.” But when he said, “Care to come up?” I heard someone with my voice say, “Why not?”

  It was after four when I dragged my cheatin’ genes home, feeling cheated myself. All the frigid slide to Mom and Pops’, I berated myself. Not for what I’d done, but for the miserableness of my choice. The barrister had a briefcase-full of Trojans and lousy technique. Worse than that, I’d been a small cog in the wheel of his making love to himself. If you’re going to throw sense to the wind, I thought, you ought to at least have a wicked good time. But I hadn’t. The next morning at the breakfast table, Mom looked me over hard. Her instincts were blaring, but, for once, she didn’t say a word.

  When I got home, I couldn’t do i
t. I’d remind myself constantly of my vow to leave—many times a day at work, during the Worship Board meeting, Stewardship Board, in checkout lines and in my car. I’d imagine swearing off God, scissoring myself out of the Cross family picture, but I couldn’t. Something in me wanted to stay more than the other thing wanted to leave. So I hung tight. An unexpected development was, it wasn’t so easy anymore to feel pissed at Richard. High ground had shifted.

  One morning when I came out of the bathroom, I found him standing by our bed. He said, “Rena,” and the floodgates opened. We wound ourselves up into a pretzel knot on the bed and cried. If we were going to make it, we’d need help, so we started seeing a counselor, a private one in a neighboring town. I can’t speak for Richard, but from my perspective it’s gone pretty well. Just when we seem to be back on track, though, something crops up, like Chelsey leaving. Or something in me will act out, and I don’t know why.

  I began seeing a second counselor on my own. I’d asked for a referral to a woman. Since I have days when I feel I should just run away, I figured seeing a man could be asking for trouble. Dr. Price advised an HIV test—which I got, with some finagling and good results. She also said, “You’ll have to decide whether to confess the infidelity.” I chose not. I admit. I’m a master rationalizer. Sometimes I justify myself with, “Richard couldn’t handle it.” Other times, I think it would be hurting him just to get my guilty ass off the hook. But there’s more to it than that. A part of me is downright, secretly glad. There are moments when the knowledge that I broke faith with my husband haunts me—a man whose biggest mistake to date may have been he was too honest. Then, there are blinding moments when I don’t regret it at all.

  I had a few of those today.

  For having started out so well, the day sure ended up on the dung heap. Just before dinner, Richard and I had a knock down drag-out over Claire Collier. Well, we really only had time to get started, but it was going to be bad. I was basting the roast, feeling a bit uneasy. Not long before, an ambulance had yowled by. It passed the house and didn’t go very far before its siren cut off—trouble somewhere in the neighborhood. The screen door was banging, wind coming up hard. Just as I was making a mental note to get Richard to put on the storm windows, he walked in and leaned against the counter.

  I glanced up. “We need,” I said, “to put the storms on.”

  He nodded. “I know. I was just thinking it.” Then he brought up the last thing I wanted to discuss. He folded his arms and said, “We should go to the play. It’s important to Claire that I be there.”

  I closed the oven door and turned back to mixing a peach cobbler. “Well, good for her. Good for you. I’m not going.” I told him, point-blank, “I don’t like the look of it.”

  His jaw set, the way Andy’s used to when he was small and I’d tell him no. Of the twins, Andy was the challenging one.

  “It isn’t what you think,” Richard said. He stuck his hands into his pockets. “There hasn’t been anyone, since . . . since we . . .”

  “Since what?”

  “Not anyone.” He shook his head. “You’re never going to let me off the hook, are you? For admitting—” A look flitted across his face, frustration, guilt, for feeling what he did. “That was a misstep I won’t take again.”

  Something clicked in me, and I started at him with both barrels. “Good. Spare me. I don’t want to know what else—”

  And then the phone rang. Saved by the bell, an angel gets its wings. Richard shot me a pea-green look and went into the den to get it. He had on his pastor voice when he answered. It made me laugh. He said, “Oh, dear,” listened for a while, then said he’d be right over. I knew it had to be a parishioner, and I was glad. I remembered the ambulance but shook it away. What were the odds? I’d won. He’d be tied up for a while.

  He was so peeved, he left without telling me a thing—not who had called, or what had happened. Not where he was going, or when he’d be back. I was ignoring him, pointedly, but I heard the door close. It closed quietly—of the two of us, he’s not the one for slamming—then the Mazda started. I got furious. I was filled with self-righteous indignation. Go ahead, I thought, don’t tell me. What do I care who you’re with? At least I know who it’s not.

  It was a very satisfying thought.

  He hadn’t been gone long, though, before I was reconsidering, before I’d dredged up a little remorse. I thought, Serena Amanda Leann, you can be an idiot. I started to think, Maybe he’ll go to the play without me. I got this frantic feeling and started wondering if I should drive by to look for his car.

  But I didn’t.

  I brewed a cup of chamomile tea and thought about calling Toni. But I didn’t do that, either. I ran bath water as hot as I could stand and dropped in three pearly bath oil beads. Roses filled the air, an amnesic bloom. I stepped out of myself and into the tub, into the dog-eat-dog-eared world of Wuthering Heights—where I’ve been staring at the pages and wiping away tears, a wind as fierce as any from the Yorkshire moors rattling down the eaves of my heart.

  Closer

  It was well past sundown. Night seeped into the cracks.

  The kids at the convenience store had moved closer to the door. Two girls shivered and laughed their way to a blue convertible. They drove off, and a boy climbed into a dirty four-wheel-drive with Wash me written on the driver’s side window and followed them. But others came. There was more laughter, more smoke. When customers entered or exited with their lottery ticket, their gallon of milk or dozen of eggs, the kids separated, then came together as before.

  To the northwest, the storm drew closer. It pushed wind ahead of it and carried sleet. It was on track to merge at the edge of town with a train heavy with freight. At the cinema, late arrivals for the 7:30 show knew sleet was coming but paid no mind. It was to be expected, this time of year. They hurried inside. There was still time for licorice and popcorn, even a good seat. That’s the beauty of a small town. In line for tickets, everyone bantered about the first cold night.

  On a street corner by the bus station, a human clothes rack waited for a light. Its form was thick with layers, the sad total of what it owned. Its face was hidden, covered against the wind, and it was not clear if it was a woman or a man. A passer-by wondered, Have things come to that? And does it have a place for the night? The unidentifiable form crossed toward the station and disappeared.

  On the wind above the wind, the pelican flew.

  Lucinda Talbot

  That damn Marcus.

  Those were almost the first words out of my mouth. Funny. Looking back gives everything such a different slant. I’d told him to be home by five. We’re patrons of the Larkspur Theatre—they call us “Angels”—and we were supposed to be at opening night cocktails at 6:30. I told him, “If you want to eat, be home early. Any later than five, and you’ll have to go hungry.” He went on buttering his toast, like he hadn’t heard me. “Marcus, did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, Lucy.”

  Yes, Lucy. I got home late, myself—he was nowhere around. But it had been one of those days, anyway. The very first thing, the shipment of porcelain figurines I’ve been waiting weeks for came in—and two were broken. The spunky, pig-tailed girl in Little League blues had cracked her bat. The big-eyed cocker spaniel with the ruby collar had lost its tail.

  I’d also done something stupid. Doing the schedule, I forgot it was Friday—Friday the thirteenth, I could add, if I believed in such things. I’d scheduled both Claire and Eva not to come in until eleven, and then Claire had to leave early. She’s doing the play right now, and it eats up a lot of her time. I’m not begrudging her that, though. The girl’s got troubles. Man troubles. It hurts me, to see how hard she’s trying to find her way. “Go,” I said. “You deserve a little happiness. Besides, you’re useless the day a show opens. God knows where your head is sometimes.”

  “I know,” she said, “I love you, too.”

  “Don’t be fresh. I’m your boss, I’m older, and may be better lo
oking.”

  Claire laughed. I love her laugh. She’s a pretty thing, with skin like marble. I don’t mean stony-looking, but that kind of glow. She walks in a room, and the men in it climb over each other to get her what she needs. Once burned, though. Twice shy. None can reach her. They’re trying to hold smoke.

  The schedule snafu did leave us shorthanded much of the day. So, of course, every damn shopper in three counties had to decide today was the day to get just that special gift. And they expected us to tell them what it might be, though not a one of us has ever seen or talked to Lovey Cakes, or Sonny Boy, or Darling Girl, or tone-deaf Aunt Elvira. Sometimes, I get tired of it. I’d like to say, “Who gives a bleep? Give the young whippersnapper a boot, give the old broad a bird. Or better yet, flip ’em all the old canary finger and have done with it.”

  But I don’t feel that way every day, and anyway, you can’t talk like that and stay in business. So no matter how bad my mood, I at least try to look interested. If they’re shopping for an older person, I smile and say, “How about this lovely pillbox in fourteen-carat gold, or this lap throw, imported from Sweden?” If it’s a teenage girl they’re shopping for, I’ll say, “Have you considered a miniature blown-glass unicorn? Or a baby whale? Teenagers adore them.” You’ve got to target your market—have a little poet, a little used car salesman, in you—if you expect to succeed.

  I was in such a hurry when I got home, I didn’t even pull the car into the garage. Lorna had already gone for the day. But she’d left her mark. I unlocked the front door, and the odor of roast chicken wafted out. I kicked my aching feet out of my pumps and said a prayer out loud. “Thank you, Lord, for plush carpeting and good cook-housekeepers.” Lorna’s the greatest. The table was set for two. A spinach salad with poppy-seed dressing waited in the fridge. The potatoes were peeled and sitting in a pan of water in the sink. I poured off most of it, threw the pan on a burner, and checked the phone’s answering machine on my way up to change. Of course. He hadn’t called.