Margo

Someone asked me once if I could have anyone’s life, whose would I choose. My own, I said. It’s as close to perfect as I can imagine. Lately I’d been looking out at the world rather than in, watching people going about their business and wondering what I would say if I were to be asked that question again.

Unable to sleep, I got up before anyone else. I could tell because I hadn’t heard the coffee bean grinder—our wake-up call. We had reservations for a tour of an antebellum plantation. It was Zan’s actual birthday, and that’s what she’d said she wanted to do. I’d found a scrabble game and was playing myself. I was winning.

One by one, everyone appeared. We were all pretty quiet until the caffeine kicked in. In such a short time, we had seemed to fall into a morning rhythm—Olivia cooked and the rest of us ate. No way was it fair, but it worked, and Olivia seemed to like it that way. Ruby set a beautiful table and made excellent coffee, in spite of the fact that she drank mostly tea.

Zan loaded the dishwasher with efficiency and her bartender talents were unparalleled, no question. I diced, sliced, stirred, and crushed as was needed and retrieved food items from the refrigerator. If we’d been on a reality TV show, we would’ve put the viewers to sleep with our drama-less domestic scene.

Olivia cooked blueberry pancakes, one stack with whipped cream and a candle stuck in it for Zan, and we sang “Happy Birthday.” It was the first of many times that day.

Nobody was moving fast, but we got ready and took off for Charleston. Colder weather was on its way, but for now it was a glorious day—cool breeze and sunshine. The plantation tour guide wore hoops under her frilly, authentic dress and gave us a Pollyanna version of plantation life. I did manage to feel sorry for the poor woman—all that finery. She looked truly uncomfortable.

“I thought it would be more realistic,” Zan said, as we got back into the car.

“Welcome to the south,” Ruby said. “You remember it don’t you? A thick coat of varnish over anything that might actually prick our bloody consciousness and make us ashamed of the way our—well, not mine, and not Olivia’s—maybe your ancestors behaved—”

“My ancestors are Jewish,” Zan said.

“Oh,” Ruby said. “Well, I’m flummoxed.”

I wasn’t letting Ruby off the hook. “Hey, woman, who do you think invented enslaving human beings? I think the United Kingdom might have done their part.”

“Well, it’s probably been around since Rome was an empire, but blimey, you’ve got a point. Jolly old England modelled it for the colonies, didn’t they?”

“Not sure if we can get to the bottom of this,” Zan said. “And besides, I’ve had enough ‘enlightenment’ for one day. Let’s go shopping.”

We shopped. Ruby, Olivia, and I bought Zan a nice picture frame for one of the hundreds of photos she had taken of our weekend. Then we had dinner at five-star restaurant, Magnolias. All of us ordered one kind of seafood or another. The presentation was exquisite and the food divine. I wondered aloud what it would take to cook like that, and then silently toyed with the idea of cooking lessons. With Ron. Clearly I needed help.

Even though the restaurant was crowded, all the soft surfaces and the deep, plush carpet muffled the noise. We went through two bottles of wine, but at some point I switched to water. For dessert, we had birthday cake and the wait staff sang—quite well, actually.

Zan passed on the cake, but she had an amaretto. She didn’t fight me about driving back to the island. I couldn’t stop thinking about what she had endured and her unwillingness to tell her husband. How could I not tell Ron about something that traumatic? Even furious with him, even disgusted by him, I’d have to tell him.

Most of the conversation driving back to our island home centered around memories we had of each other’s—or our own—earlier foibles, and we were all yawning when we pulled into the driveway. Knowing the weekend was over, the mood had become somber. Nobody seemed willing to sit up and talk anymore. It was as if we’d rather go to bed than admit the weekend was over, so we headed off to our respective bedrooms vowing to stay in touch. We had already promised to keep each other up to date on the issues that needed some resolution. It looked like mine wasn’t the only one.

My plan was to drive all the way home to Coral Gables the next day, this time in the same direction as the snowbirds escaping from the frozen north for the winter. No stopovers, since I needed to be at work on Tuesday. I said my goodbyes to everyone when we went to bed. “Please. Sleep in tomorrow morning. It’s supposed to get cold, and there’s no need for you to drag yourselves out of bed that early.”

“Thank you all,” Zan said. “This was the best birthday I’ve ever had.” Alcohol might have fueled it, but she was obviously sincere.

The next morning it was indeed gray and cloudy, and the temperature had dropped. They got up anyway, of course, and we hugged and renewed our promises to call and text and email. They insisted I take the food and alcohol back with me since all of them were flying, so my trunk got loaded with stuff I shouldn’t eat.

Two hours into my trip, I stopped in Savannah to drop off my Cracker Barrel audio book and picked up another. Thinking wasn’t my friend, and NPR reception was sketchy. I got Liane Moriarty’s, Big Little Lies. How appropriate. It was going to take more than fifteen hours to finish listening to it, but I figured I could walk around my house with earbuds and shut Ron out. That is if he was still there.

He had called me twice, leaving messages hoping I was having a good time and saying for me to call him ‘if I wanted to’. I knew nothing was wrong. Well, hah, everything was more or less wrong, but nothing was an emergency. No babies had drowned. Nobody was in the hospital.

I wasn’t too far down the road when my younger son called. I saw his caller I.D. and clicked in. I almost said, “Hola”, but instead said, “Hi honey.”

“Are you driving? I can hear you driving.” Bobby was a cautious driver, thank the gods.

“I am, but I’m not holding my phone, dear. Hands on the steering wheel at eleven and three. More like ten and two. But you kids with your digital clocks probably have no idea—never mind, not to worry. What’s up?”

“No, what’s up with you? Where are you?”

“I’m driving home from South Carolina after a weekend with my old girlfriends.”

“The singing group?”

“That’s the one.”

“Good for you, Mom. I’m proud of you. You don’t do enough of that, you know. You need to get away from dad and have more you time. It’s the twenty-first century, remember?”

“Thank you, Bobby. I appreciate your encouragement.” I started to ask him why he thought I needed to be away from Ron, but decided against it. “Your turn. What’s up with you, sweetheart?”

“Not much. Just checking in. I can’t believe all this will be over in two weeks. Graduation at last.”

“And you’re all set? Have everything you need? Robe, class ring, all that?”

He laughed at me. “Mom, yes, all that’s set. For a minute there I thought you were going to ask me if I had the rest of my life mapped out.”

“And do you?”

“Hardly. But after Christmas I thought I’d go spend some time with Grandpa and Grandma in North Carolina. That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Any objections?”

Ron’s parents had retired and moved to Hendersonville at least eight years ago. I wondered if they knew about their son. And I wondered mostly how we would get through the weeks between Bobby’s graduation and Christmas.

“Not at all. I bet they would love that,” was all I said.

“Yeah, they’ve been sending me ‘spending money’ for over three years now, and Grandma writes actual letters to me. On real stationary.”

“I didn’t know they made that anymore.”

“Hah. They’ve invited me to come see them, since they won’t be here for my graduation.”

“So this is a guilt-induced visit to the grandparents? Not that I’m opposed.”

“Well, somewhat, but I am grateful for their help, and I’d like to let them know that.”

He’s always been that way, Bobby has. He sends thank you letters, he chooses thoughtful gifts, he asks, and actually wants to know, how you are.

“And besides,” he said, “I liked that part of the country when I was a kid and we visited them. Maybe it will snow.”

Ah, there it was. Ron’s parents lived in a small but comfy home with a view, and it was lovely there. Not too much to do for a young man his age, but beautiful. The lure of the mountains.

“Lots of old folks there, you know. Jes’ settin’ and rockin,’ chawin’ and spittin’.”

“You’re a riot, Mom, you know that?”

He wanted to know when his brother was due to show up and I told him not until the day after Christmas, since they were doing Christmas day at her parents’ home. “We’re celebrating three things. First, your graduation, next, Christmas, and finally, Jon’s engagement. In that order.”

“As the youngest, I love being number one. What do we know about this woman he’s engaged to?”

“She’s nice, Jon says. Religious. Evangelical-type religious. Mega-church. Her father is somebody important. Jon is going to go to work for him, I think.”

“Hmm. Well, good luck with that.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.” Bobby wasn’t a fan of organized religion. Or important people, for that matter.

I could hear someone calling my son’s name in the background. “I need to go, Mom. Thanks for being okay with my travel plans. See you in two weeks.”

We disconnected with “I love you,” and the narrator immediately began reading to me again. I stopped her and spent a few minutes breathing, talking myself down from feeling like a bad mother. Like my own mother. Maneuvering her way around my dad, she had more secrets than a double agent. She tucked me in bed at night with “Don’t tell your father, but …”

When the kids were young we made a pact with them. No secrets. No matter how bad something was, if they told the truth about it, the punishment would be mild, and fair. But if we found out, and they had lied to us or kept it from us, the punishment would be much more severe. We told them, “It’s not that we won’t be upset, but it will be much worse if we find out you lied.” Could’ve had it embroidered on a sampler, it was that much a part of their growing up. So much so, that all of us tended to confess when we screwed up, even if nobody would find out. Well most of us did that, I guess.

What it boiled down to was that my son’s trust mattered to me. Had I broken it by keeping something this enormous from him? Common sense—and Olivia—told me his was Ron’s to deal with. Then I vacillated. If I was the one bothered by the deception, then wasn’t I the one keeping the secret? There was something faulty in that logic, but I hadn’t figured it out yet.

If only I’d asked my husband a key question at a significant moment and gotten him to open up to me. Years ago. Then I would’ve had a chance to … what? Take my small children or my teenagers off and live without him? Be a single parent to two boys who adored their dad? Do the every-other-weekend thing? I could hear Ruby saying, ‘don’t be daft’.

“What difference does it make, Margo?” I said aloud to the windshield. “You can’t change the past. Olivia’s right. The question to ask is ‘what now?’ What happens with the kids isn’t yours to solve. Stick with what you can do something about, Margo. Besides, in your story nobody died. Oh, and nobody got raped.”

Talking out to myself while driving was a favorite activity of mine.

I switched back to the narrator reading Liane Moriarty. I was able to relate to the character Jane. The women were chatting about the horror of being so busy they left the house without makeup, and Jane, who never wore makeup, ‘inwardly shouted: What the fuck?’ It made me laugh, and I needed to laugh.  And that’s what I was going to do—for now at least.

~~~

I pulled into the driveway happy to see Ron’s car wasn’t there. And then unhappy to see it gone. How many times had I worked late and come home to find Ron had planned and started supper, made a salad at least, set the table. Ready to hear all about my day, ready to laugh with me at some of my client’s requests for hairdos that they hoped would make them look like the photo of a model who was thirty years younger than they were. Styles that needed a full head of hair when theirs was thinning, poor dears. He was quick to sympathize with them. I always loved that about him. “At least they’re still trying,” he would say.

Sometimes he would pour me a glass of wine and have me sit on the sofa while he rubbed my feet. Pure bliss to have your feet massaged when you’ve been standing all day long. When I asked about his day, he mostly talked about the partners and associates. Who was mad at whom, who was getting divorced, who was getting married, who was pregnant and wondering how she was going to manage. It wasn’t fair that men didn’t have to worry about that, he would observe.

Ron gave money to beggars on corners. Made sure he had a pocketful of ones and fives. People with dogs got two fives. And he hadn’t had it easy. His parents weren’t wealthy. Both of them worked for the government and had job security, but they weren’t great at putting away money. The only reason they could retire and move to the mountains—where Bobby wanted to visit—was because their family home ended up being in a revisionist neighborhood. With the newly historic labels, every home in the area tripled in value, or more.

My next-door neighbor pulled into her driveway and waved to me. She called out, “Everything alright, Margo?” She had every right to ask. What kind of doofus sits in her car in front of her house?

I pushed the button and let my window roll down and waved my earbuds at her. “Yes, thanks, Susan, just still listening to a good audio book on CD.”

She smiled, tentatively, probably somewhat confused. Who wouldn’t be?  How different things felt. A little over a week before, Ron and I invited Susan and her husband to have Thanksgiving dinner with us. Bobby had gone to Daytona Beach with a friend, and the neighbors had no family—at least none nearby. We’d played Hearts after dinner, women against the men, and beat them three games out of four. It was fun. My world had seemed normal then. Thanksgiving felt like decades ago.

“Hi to Ron,” she said as she locked her car and walked up her front steps.

I wished I could talk to my dad right now. Just thinking of him made me scramble for a tissue. My father, in his forties when I was born, was such a rules-driven guy. My biggest fan, he died of prostate cancer when my boys were ten and twelve, and Mom took less than two years to follow him to the grave. Cancer for her, too. Gave me something new to think about. Longevity genes weren’t on my side.

What if I knew, right now today, that I was going to get cancer—or if I already had it? That my days were numbered. Well, everyone’s days were numbered, but what if I knew I had only so long to live—say a year, two years, five at the most? What would I do? I wouldn’t divorce my husband, that much was sure. Ron would be the best damn caretaker anyone could want. When my mother was dying, it was him who cleaned her up while I was gagging in the corner. “There, there, Cora,” he’d be saying as he got her bathed, into a clean nightie, and back into bed. Him, not me.

And the boys. Don’t get me started on the messes they made. You’d think with all the chemicals I’d had to breathe over the last twenty five years, I’d be immune to foul odors, but sick is a whole different smell. Poop, too. Never bothered Ron. He was a better mother to them than I was. No sense in denying it.

I was sitting there in the driveway, paralyzed with indecision, when his car pulled up next to mine. “Hi, babe,” he said.

~~~

We were at opposite ends of the sofa in the spare bedroom. I wasn’t about to let him touch me, so I was hugging a pillow in my arms. It was a lousy shield. I knew his words were going to hurt, but I had to know everything. “Go over it again with me,” I said. “When did it start?”

He looked pained. “I was young. Close to eleven? I was naïve about porn, and besides it wasn’t easily available then. So, within a year or two it started with Jeff, like I told you. He would spend the night and we would compare penises. Erections. It excited me. Then there was touching, which led to mutual masturbating.”

“And you liked it?”

He nodded. His expression said, ‘duh’, but he didn’t say it.

“And when you got older?”

“I told you. There was a boy in middle school, several boys, in fact. Until we graduated.”

“And then?”

“And then I met you. If I hadn’t fallen in love with you, Margo, it’s likely that my sexual…activities would’ve been exclusively homosexual, but I did fall in love with you, honey. Our relationship was too important to me to give in to the urges I still had, and I resolved to change my ways. But sometimes I couldn’t fight it. Sometimes it just happened.”

“How does that work? Do you…go out looking?”

“No, I don’t. Someone has to know, or at least strongly suspect, and do the chasing. If they’re persistent, I might weaken and give in. I always feel terrible about lying to you, and I vow, ‘Never again’.”

“And then it does.”

He nodded.

“Do your parents know? Did they know?”

“Hard to say about my father. If he suspected, I’m sure he put that in some compartment in his head labeled, ‘Do not open’. My mother is more complicated. She had a customer once, an executive. He was moving his yacht back to New York and asked her if I would be interested in working as a deck hand. She told me about it, and I was excited to have the opportunity. Her boss overheard the conversation and said Mom shouldn’t let me do it, that the guy was a notorious homosexual who liked young boys. I was surprised at her, but my mother still encouraged me to go. I’m pretty sure she knew what I was.”

“What happened?” I shifted my position, trying to get comfortable.

“Dad put the kibosh on it. Not sure what his objection was, but he won.”

“How much of your family life do you think…”

“Did my parents make me the way I am? No, Margo, I don’t think so. I was born this way. My relationship with my father was distant and cold, granted, but his father—my grandfather—was a kind man.”

He paused as if he was remembering his grandfather, drifted away, then shook himself back to the present and went on. “Okay, I was small for my age—still am you say?” He smiled. I loved Ron’s smile. “And I was bullied. I was also probably indulged by my mom. I’m not sure how much of that, if any, contributed to my acting on my urges, but when I did, it felt good. I wanted that feeling to happen again.”

“Do you love them? These men?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t like kissing, cuddling, or expressions of affection from a man. I love those things with you, Margo.”

“But—”

He looked unhappy. “But I’m sexually aroused by men.”

“And Vince?”

“Vince has excellent gaydar. He honed in on me and pursued me until I caved. He’s aggressive and dominant.”

“He loves you?”

“No. He loves—loved—what I did for him. He’s moved on to greener pastures.”

“Are you sure?”

“Couldn’t be surer.”

My stomach was in a knot. “I’m having so much trouble with this.”

“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. If I could change it—”

“If I hadn’t picked up your phone…”

“If you hadn’t found out, I don’t know that I would’ve ever told you, honestly. I couldn’t risk it. Selfish of me, I know.”

“Selfish?”

“Sure. In addition to keeping something that serious from you, I deprived you of the kind of love-making you should’ve had. I was anything but adventurous. I kept wanting to do better by you and yet kept worrying that I wouldn’t be able to … please you … I thought it was better to avoid sex rather than disappoint you.

“I wish you’d talked to me…”

“I couldn’t. Please believe me, Margo, I never meant for you to get hurt by any of this. I have loved you from the start. You’re my true North. You’re kind and funny and smart—I love the way you think. It amazes me how your brain works—how insightful you are. And quick.”

“I’m not ready to forgive you, Ron. It’s not about your … proclivities. I believe you had no choice, but for lying to me. For living a lie.”

He winced. “You’d have left me, Margo.”

“Maybe I still will. But I should’ve been told the truth. I deserved that much.”

“You’re right. You did.” He paused. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing—for now. But the longer we wait to tell our sons, the longer we’re living that lie. They deserve to know the truth, too, and that’s my biggest problem. Olivia says…”

“You told Olivia?”

“I told ‘em all, Ron. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I don’t know what I thought. That you would be too … ashamed?”

“Ashamed?”

“Of me. Of my being … the way I am, and of yourself for not knowing it.”

“I was lots of things, Ron, and ashamed isn’t too bad a word, but I was mostly angry, then sad, then angry again. Embarrassed, yes, that I’d been so stupid to not see what was right in front of my face. But I think I didn’t want to see it, and that’s on me.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t. Not yet. But besides what I felt for myself, I was worried about our sons and how they would take it. Take being lied to. Olivia said they would survive it and that they would find their own way to acceptance, that I had to believe that.”

“Do you?”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

 

 

Ruby

 

Business was booming at Margo’s salon. It was The Season on the Gold Coast, after all, and Margo’s posh clients were getting all gussied up. I was in the right place at the wrong time.

“Busier ‘n a one-armed paper hanger, aren’t you? Fuckin’ zoo in here. Thought we’d have a chat, but it’s not lookin’ good, is it?”

“Ruby, I’ve got one client in foils, another under the dryer, and one waiting for me in the chair.”

“Yeh, I can see my timing is rubbish.”

“Aren’t you going to work?”

“Yes, love, of course I am. But—”

“How about this. Why don’t we meet for dinner this evening. My last appointment is at six, and she’s a regular. I should be able to get out of here by seven. You up for that?”

“Smashing. Where?”

We picked a place. Well, I picked it. Alan was coming soon and wanted an answer. I had—still—little clarity about what I was to do with him.

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…