Quartet – Sixth installment

Olivia

Margo was right. Walking on the beach felt good. My friends complained of the chill, but by Chicago standards, this was not winter at all. It was even sunny. I had forgotten that there is no scent as wonderful as the ocean. Margo and Ruby were a little ahead, talking, huddled together, jackets wrapped around them, but then Margo stopped to pick up some shells, and Ruby pressed on. I caught up with Ruby, and we pushed against the wind together. I took her hand. “I wish I had done more.”

She turned to look at me and her lovely auburn hair blew against her face. “When was that, sweet woman?” She peeled her hair back, and I could see the pain in her expressive brown eyes.

“After Callie’s funeral. You told us to go, but I should not have listened. You needed … someone, and I could have been that one.”

“Olivia, darling, you were the best. You called me, you sent cards—scads of them, if I remember. Please don’t be hard on yourself.”

“I believed you had your parents to support you.”

“Ah, yes, well that was complicated, wasn’t it? I never got over blaming them. Their pool in their home. Said they were watching Regina—just three years old herself then—and lost track of Callie. How the hell could they let her drown? I couldn’t get past it.”

“What happened to them?”

“Yeah, that’s what I wanted to know … oh, you mean are they still in Miami?”

“Yes, this is what I wondered.”

“They sold the house in Miami and moved back to London where my brother lives. It was for the best. I was sorry Reggie got deprived of a set of grands, but she had my husband’s parents, and then the young woman he married. She’s lovely, Walter’s wife. Reggie’s stepmother. From hating her to hell and back, I’ve come to quite like her.”

Zan had jogged a way up the beach until she was a tiny figure in the distance, but she had turned and was heading back our way. As she reached us we could see her hardly breathing hard. The three of us linked arms and turned so the wind was at our backs. We caught up with Margo, who was still was picking up shells and tucking them into her shorts pockets that were bulging.

“You taking all those home?” Ruby asked her.

“I might,” Margo said. “They’re different than the ones on our beach.”

Ruby grabbed Margo’s arm and guided us toward the tall sea ferns, where we sat, Margo and Ruby on a driftwood log and Zan and I on the sand. I was leaning against the log watching the ocean, listening to the whisper of the waves encroaching and then receding, endlessly. Such a familiar thing to do—one we had often done much younger and without so many troubles. Or different kinds of troubles, anyway, lighter, less dire, even if we didn’t think so at the time.

“How many nights, at sleepovers, did we—”

“Not sleep?” Ruby asked. We all laughed. “Don’t remember sleep then, for sure.”

“I remember Ruby sneaking out to meet a random guy,” Zan said.

“Hey, they were never ‘random’. And I was always back in time for middle-of-the-night gossip.”

“Yes, this is true, but barely,” I said. “And then, before dawn, we would drive to the beach to sit together like this and watch the sun come up? I remember many happy times.”

“Me too.,” Margo said. “We should sing.” Zan and Ruby groaned, but I loved the idea. So, I started, with “Nobody Does It Better,” poking Margo, nodding to her, and everyone pitched in. When we got to the line, “Baby, you’re the best,” we pointed to each other and grinned. Ruby started, “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” and when we got to the line about wanting to walk in the sun, a couple out walking were smiled and waved to us. A woman applauded, and one man yelled out, “Sounds great, ladies.” I remembered my abuela saying, “Nothing is so bad it cannot be cured with music. I hope that she was right—for all of our sakes.”

Finally, Zan stood up as if she was twenty, not fifty, and we insisted that she pull the three of us up, all of us groaning. We used the hose to wash the sand off our feet, and when we entered the house, we felt a blast of air conditioning.

“Shall we start drinking?” Zan asked.

“Smashing idea,” Ruby said.

“How about mimosas?” Zan asked.

No one objected, and she began making them. I heard the pop of a champagne cork. Ruby and I perched on the comfortable bar stools and watched Margo spread smoked fish dip on crackers, place them on a platter, and add a small bowl kalamata olives.

“This kind of cooking I can do,” Margo said. Was it my imagination, or did she look better after unburdening herself? Her grey eyes were clear, and she was smiling.

Zan poured champagne into four flute glasses that were partially filled with orange juice. Not quite half. I went behind Zan and added more juice to mine.

“Alexa, play us some bloody soft friendship music,” Ruby said, and Alexa’s blue ring lit up as James Taylor complied, singing, “You’ve Got a Friend.” Zan lifted her glass and said, “To friends.”

“Brilliant, mate,” Ruby said, sipping her drink and then nodding to Zan. “You can tend bar for me any time.”

“Anybody else chilly?” Margo said as she went to the thermostat on the wall. I nodded, and she looked at me as if she had remembered something. “Olivia, I dominated the conversation last night,” she said, as the air conditioner grew silent. “And I’m sorry. We never got hear about your trouble with your sister and her kids. They’ve come back to live with you again?”

“Matias and Mariella are with me again. This is true. Because Isabella has relapsed.”

“And this time, will she go to rehab again?” Margo asked.

“I do not know if she can afford that. As you might remember, I had been with Mr. Drakos for only three years when my sister entered treatment the first time. Drakos was a smaller company then, all of us working in close proximity on one floor. I had frequently shared stories about Matias and Mariella with my boss, and Abuela even brought them in to meet Mr. Drakos. He never had children and seemed to enjoy them so much. He asked after them quite often. When I told him about my sister’s trouble, he insisted to pay for her rehabilitation.”

“Blimey, how kind of him. Were you surprised?” Ruby asked.

“Yes, that was such a surprise to me, but I was ashamed, too, and learned quickly not to tell him this kind of thing. Isabella has relapsed several times since that first time, but I will never again allow my sister to take advantage of his generosity. God willing, she will find her way.”

“Good for you, Olivia,” Ruby said. “Sounds like you’ve learned some valuable lessons.” She was pulling her thick hair into a ponytail.

“Al-Anon has helped me. Now, it is my fear that she will do harm to herself by her associations with—”

“Dodgy characters?” Ruby asked.

“Dodgy, yes, as you say, but also dangerous. Drug dealers are criminals. She could be arrested, she could die of an overdose, and she would leave two beautiful children without a mother.”

“Sounds like she’s not much of a mother anyway,” Zan said.

“This is true, but she is the only mother they have.”

“Are you close? I mean like some sisters are?” Margo asked. She tipped her glass up, finishing her mimosa. “Speaking as a person with no siblings, that is.”

“We are not close, Margo. She can be hostile. I have guarded myself against her cruelty. She told me one time that I was born in Cuba. She accused our father of paying a midwife to swear she delivered me in Miami, and she said her mother, my stepmother, told her this thing. I hung up the phone on her, and she claimed she had no memory of it the next time we spoke.”

“That’s harsh,” Ruby said. “Did you believe her?”

“I did not, but her words caused me to doubt Papi and my abuela, and that was hurtful. Isabella has never apologized for those words—or any others she spoke in spite. But she had been sober for over two years this time, and we had begun to talk more often and to have pleasant conversations. She kept a job, paid her bills on time, and attended her meetings. And she was more responsible about proper food for the children. I allowed myself to let my guard down. And now this.”

Zan spoke up. “When we were in school, you never talked about a sister, Olivia.”

“This is true. Isabella is my half-sister. She is ten years younger than I am. See, I had been told, and I believe it to be true, that my father and mother came to Miami from Cuba when Mama was pregnant with me. And I was born in my aunt’s home—my father’s sister. Soon after they arrived. No one in that house spoke English, and they did not go to the hospital when I came.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Margo said.

“When I was in second grade, my mama died. A year later, Papi re-married, and in two years he and my stepmother had Isabella, my baby sister. Three years later that woman took her and left Papi for another man. I was thirteen—the age my niece is now—and that happened one year before we all met, my friends. That is why I never spoke of her to you. She was not in my life then.”

Zan began collecting our glasses to make more mimosas. “When did you see her again after that?” she asked.

“Not until fifteen years later. I left Miami, as you know, when I was twenty-eight. To work for Mr. Drakos. He offered me that job in Chicago, and I took a chance.

“I remember thinking you were brave to do that,” Margo said, “or crazy.”

“My abuela helped me with that decision. She liked Mr. Drakos, and she had good … wisdom about people. She disliked my former boss immensely.”

“Did she have a reason to? Was he a wanker?” Ruby asked.

“He was disrespectful toward women. Mr. Drakos saw him in a meeting touch my … hip when I was presenting a series of promotional slides about the company—ones that I had created. It was humiliating. Mr. Drakos told me he had been impressed by my work, and that if I went to work for him, I would never have to suffer that kind of indignity again. But I was afraid to leave my family.”

“But they went with you, didn’t they?” Margo asked. She was rummaging in her purse.

“Papi and Abuela did. We lived together in the house she bought. Papi was ill with cancer, but we did not know it yet. Isabella came there next, and Papi helped her buy a home in a nearby suburb—I think in order for him to watch out for her. She always worried him. Then he died.”

“I remember that,” Ruby said. “Weren’t we at a service for him?”

“You were. We had a memorial service in Miami. His brother, my uncle, and his friends were there, as were you and Margo. Zan was gone already.”

“Was Isabella there?” Zan asked.

“No, she did not come, that is why you never met her.”

“When did the kids come into the picture?” Margo asked. She was applying lip balm she had retrieved from the depths of her purse. “Seems like we had our boys when you talked about becoming an aunt.” She handed the tube to Ruby who did the same and then smacked her lips, mugging. Margo laughed at her and grabbed her lip balm.

“Margo, Your Bobby was I think a toddler when Isabella’s Matias was born.”

“And Jon, my oldest, was in grade school. I think I remember that. What about your nephew’s father?”

“Matias, his birth certificate says, ‘father unknown’. I believe Isabella did not know who he was. And then, a little over two years later, came Mariella. Her father was in their lives for about two years. I did not know him well, but then he died of an overdose. The children, with all that turmoil, they are fine young people and so wise. They are the best of her.”

“What are you gonna do?” Zan asked.

I finished my mimosa and placed my glass in the sink “I will do whatever I must do to keep Matias and Mariella safe. I am just not sure what that is.”

“It will come to you, Olivia. Your wisdom is legendary,” Zan said. She seemed a little drunk to me. I had not noticed her drinking more than we did.

“Thank you, Zan, but I’m not sure—”

“You know what?” Zan interrupted. “I think I’ve had one mimosa too many. Not only that, but I would love a shower. I did all that running, remember? And I don’t smell good.”

“I could stand one, me self,” Ruby said. “A shampoo, too. Get all the salt air off—and out.”

“Works for me,” Margo said. “I’m a little ripe.”

That was how I let Zan not tell about her home invasion again. I made the decision then not to press her. If there was more to it than we knew, perhaps that was Zan’s wish. We all took showers. Zan took a nap, Margo sat in her car and listened to her audio book, Ruby read on the porch swing, and I checked my phone for messages. Mariella had texted me a photo of her playing mahjong with Mrs. B.

 

Zan

I woke up with a champagne headache that even a long, hot shower and a pretty new dress couldn’t fix. I took a couple of extra strength Tylenol while I got ready. Olivia, I could tell, wasn’t going to let it go. She wanted me to tell them more about my ‘robbery’.  It was all innocent curiosity on her part: Did the intruder get caught? Did I get my jewelry back? She didn’t know what she was asking of me.

When I came back into the living room, Margo and Ruby were rocking on the porch swing, both cleaned up, fresh makeup, and dressed for whatever came next—presumably dinner out. Olivia was on her phone, but she had showered and changed clothes, too. She was drinking iced coffee.

We had no more champagne, but I was soaking some crushed fruit in brandy for the makings of Sangria. Thinking hair of the dog. While the flavors blended a little longer, I decided a distraction was in order. “How about it, girls. Is this as good a time as any for gifts?” I figured I was only delaying the inevitable, but gifts are always a draw. Everyone agreed. Because, of course they brought gifts, too. I knew they would.

We congregated back in the living room and I gave each friend a little bag with a gold musical charm on a chain, a clef. It had the added benefit of looking so much to the untrained eye like an ampersand—an ‘and’ sign. I had mine on already, tucked under my new duds.

“Oh, Zannie, this is exquisite. You are too generous,” Olivia said, and she turned and held her thick, dark hair up off her neck to have me connect the clasp. I could smell her tea tree shampoo. She turned back to me with tears in her eyes and hugged me. The other two were gasping and exclaiming and helping each other hook the catches, and there we all were—connected by music.

Olivia passed out scarves, beautiful and soft. It looked like she’d put a lot of thought into the colors that each of us would love. Mine was soft turquoise, Ruby’s a deep red, and Margo’s a sunshine gold. Olivia had one around her neck like ours. Hers was a deep, royal blue and complimented her flowered dress.

“It’s the bee’s knees,” Ruby murmured, throwing her scarf rakishly around her neck.

“I love it,” Margo said, as she tied an expert scarf knot, which of course caused all of us to have her tie ours. She knew fifty ways, she said, lessons from her wealthy clientele. Olivia took pictures with her camera.

Ruby gave us five-by-seven beautifully framed photos of us—an old picture that was taken when we were high school seniors and singing at a school dance. I’d never seen it. We all looked so young.

“I will cherish this forever,” Olivia said. “Just as I cherish our friendship.” We all nodded our agreement.

Finally, Margo gave all of us a book. She had bought Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck, and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman, and it was exactly what was needed—some comic relief. She read from the inside flap, “For people who want a little candor and humor about not only hanging on but getting on, this book is for you’, says the New York Post. Fits us to a tee.” As bookmarks she had inserted small crystal nail files in plastic cases. Humor combined with practicality—Margo’s specialty.

Ruby read a passage. “…I feel bad about my neck. Truly I do. If you saw my neck, you might feel bad about it too, but you’d probably be too polite to let on.” She tucked her chin down into her collar and said, “So don’t look at it, you wankers.” We all laughed.

“Tonight we will read together,” Olivia said. “Ruby’s bedroom has a king-sized bed, and together we will crawl into bed and each one of us will read a chapter of that little book.”

I had four glasses in one hand, thanks to my days waiting tables, and I set them down. In the other hand I held up a pitcher of Sangria and asked, “In honor of Olivia’s Cubano heritage, who wants to join me for a Sangria?” I’d already downed one in the kitchen into which I’d added some vodka. They didn’t need to know.

Ruby said, “I’ll have a spot of that.” As I leaned closer and filled her glass, she looked into my eyes and spoke softly, “Zan, Olivia said you were robbed two years ago? Why don’t I remember that? I know I’m narcissistic, but I’m not that bad a friend, am I?”

It was her look of genuine concern. I wasn’t used to that from Ruby. She was usually downright snarky with me. It—or the alcohol—broke down my defenses. I stopped pouring and put on my best smile, but it missed by a country yard.

“Are you okay, Zan?” Margot asked.

Olivia, of course, read my reaction perfectly. “Zannie, if you do not want to speak of this, if it is too difficult for you—”

I sank into the sofa. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t. Not because of you, but because I’m afraid of what you’ll all think of me.”

“Zan, why on earth would we think badly about you because you were robbed?” Olivia asked.

“Because there was more to it than that. Because the person who robbed me took more than my jewelry.”

“What do you mean?” Margo asked.

“He was a rapist—that’s what I mean.” I leaned forward and set the pitcher on the coffee table. “And he raped me.”

My friends were stunned, as I knew they would be.

“This is not what you told me, Zan,” Olivia said. “I am so sorry I was insistent. Why did you not tell us?”

“I didn’t tell you because I never told Trevor.” My voice was shrill. “He was in Dubai or Mumbai or some ‘bai’ place when it happened. I was humiliated that I’d been so dumb as to let the guy in the house. He had some cockamamie story about house sitting for the neighbors—he even knew their names—and he told me their electricity was out. He wanted to know if mine was as well. I didn’t know, because I was getting out of the car loaded down with packages. I even handed him a couple of bags of groceries so I could unlock the door like a fool.” They gathered round. Olivia held my hand.

Margo said, “I can’t … I’m … shocked. And so sorry, Zan.”

Ruby said, “Me, too, love. I don’t even know what to say.”

Olivia squeezed my hand. “Zan, how have you kept that from Trevor? And why have you done that?”

“Oh, Olivia, I couldn’t. My bruises had healed by the time he came home again, and Trevor’s … he lives in his job with think tanks and problem-solving consultations—all in a world we don’t live in and may never live in. For him to learn I had been attacked, beaten, and raped? He wouldn’t know how to classify it. How to make it controllable, to solve it so he could file it away somewhere. Never to be discussed again. That’s the way he is.”

Margo said, “Maybe you don’t give him enough credit.”

“The policewoman said that, too. She wanted me to call him, of course, and when she saw that I wouldn’t, she stepped up and took care of me. She even became a friend. She’s the one who encouraged me to get a dog—not necessarily three. Also to join a survivor’s support group. Went with me to the first meeting.”

“Are you still going?” Margo asked. “It’s been two years, right? I mean—not that—stepping in it here, aren’t I? I’m not indicating that you should have gotten over it, at all. Please—”

“Margo, it’s okay. Sometimes it seems like longer. Sometimes like yesterday. But I’ve been … affected, I guess. I know I’m jumpier. My concentration isn’t as good as it was.”

Olivia shook her head. “I had no idea.”

“How could you? I never told you. It was an impossible thing to say on the phone and we haven’t been together in person since—”

“Have you gotten any help?” Margo asked.

“The dogs’ve helped. A lot. At first they were just puppies needing me more than guarding me, but soon they grew quite protective, and now that they’re two years old, they’re fierce toward anyone or anything who threatens me. Or that they perceive as such.”

“He was caught?” Olivia wanted to know. “The rapist?”

“He was.  That helped, too. He was working the neighborhood under different guises—house sitter, pool cleaner, meter reader. And he was spotted by one of his victims—sorry, survivors. I went to a lineup and identified him. As did another woman. I didn’t have to testify when he went to trial. They had plenty of evidence. They didn’t need to put me through that. Luckily, Trevor was away for all of it.”

“So, he’s in prison, yes? Olivia asked, “the rapist?”

“He is. But for how long? That’s anyone’s guess. Sentencing isn’t always abided by.”

I didn’t tell them about the panic attacks. The nightmares. Or about the issue I was having with sex with Trevor—the dead feeling inside. And my feeling that I was diminished somehow. Some part of me had been taken and replaced with darkness. It got packed in there with the other dark stuff.

“I’m still knackered at you for not telling us,” Ruby said. “You know we would’ve come straight away, don’t you?” She took the clips out of her damp hair and it fell in waves around her face.

“I was ashamed, Ruby. I felt stupid, and I don’t like feeling stupid. I’m the strong one. I take care of everything. Besides, I hated being a victim again. Again.”

Tears were threatening by then, and we did the group hug thing which made it worse.

“Let’s go to dinner,” I said. “We’re all dressed, and I’m hungry.” I wasn’t, but I needed to break the mood.

Turned out there was Uber on the island, so we left three perfectly good cars in front of the house and were driven by a professional. A sober one. There was a local pub that served food. It had good reviews and we didn’t have far to go.

I didn’t notice what we ate; I rarely care, but they had a piano player who wasn’t half-bad. Olivia asked if he would let us sing. Carly Simon might have been insulted, but the audience was appreciative. They might have been over served. I know I was.

The ultimate was our rendition of “Nobody Does It Better” at top volume for the Uber driver. She was a good sport. At least I think she was. Things had gotten fuzzy.

Back ‘home’ in Ruby’s king-sized bed, I had to close one eye and hang onto the comforter, but we read about Nora Ephron’s neck.

 

To be continued…