Everything To Gain Read online

  I walked over to the refrigerator and brought out the other ingredients for the potato salad, all of which I had prepared at six o'clock this morning, long before her arrival. There were glass bowls of hard-boiled eggs, chopped celery, chopped cornichons, and chopped onions; these I placed on a large wooden tray, along with the salt and pepper mills and a jar of mayonnaise.

  Carrying the laden tray over to the old-fashioned kitchen table, I placed it in the middle and got another chopping board and knife before taking the chair opposite her. I began to methodically chop an egg, avoiding her eyes. I was seething inside.

  We worked in silence for a while, and then my mother stopped slicing a large potato, put the knife down, and leaned back in her chair. She sat gazing at me, studying me carefully.

  So intense was her stare, so acute her scrutiny, I found myself reacting almost angrily. She had always had that effect on me; I felt like she was putting me under a microscope and dissecting me like a bug.

  I frowned. "What is it, Mother?" I demanded coldly. "Do I have dirt on my face or something?"

  She shook her head, exclaimed, "No, no, you don't." There was a little pause, then she went on, "I'm sorry, Mal, I was staring at you far too hard. I was examining your skin, actually, gauging the elasticity of it." She nodded quite vigorously, as if confirming something important to herself. "Dr. Malvem is right. Young skin does have a special kind of elasticity to it, a different kind of texture than older skin. Mmmm. Well, never mind. I can't get the elasticity back, I'm afraid, but I can get rid of the sag." As she spoke she began to pat herself under her chin with the back of her hand. "Dr. Malvem says a nip and a tuck will do it."

  "Mother! For God's sake! You don't need another face job. Honestly you don't. You look wonderful." I truly meant this. She was still a lovely-looking woman who defied her age. The face-lift she had had three years ago had helped, of course. But she was naturally well preserved. No one would have guessed that this slender, long-legged beauty with the pellucid hazel eyes, high cheekbones, and the most perfect complexion, wrinkle-less, in fact, was actually a woman approaching her sixty-second birthday. She appeared to be much younger, easily fifteen or sixteen years younger, in my opinion. One of the few things I admired about my mother was her youthfulness and the discipline she exercised in order to achieve it.

  "Thank you, Mal, for those kind words, but I do think I could use just a little tuck…" Her voice trailed off, and continuing to stare at me, she let out several small, sighs. There was an unfamiliar wistfulness about her at this moment, and it took me by surprise.

  "No, you don't need it," I murmured in a gentler voice, a rush of love for her filling me. She suddenly seemed so open and vulnerable that I felt a rare touch of sympathy for her.

  Another silence fell between us as we continued to observe each other; but we were really caught up in our own thoughts and drifted with them for a while.

  I was thinking of her, thinking that vain and foolish though she might be, she was not a bad person. Quite to the contrary, in fact. Intrinsically, my mother was a good woman, and she had done her level best to be a good mother. There were times when she had been hopeless at this, others when she was more successful. Admittedly, she had instilled in me some excellent values, which were important to me. On the other hand, we rarely agreed about anything, and frequently she misread me, misjudged me, and treated me as if I were a witless dreamer.

  It was my mother who finally broke the silence. She said in an unusually low voice for her, "There's something else I want to tell you, Mal."

  I nodded, gave her my full attention.

  She hesitated fractionally.

  "Go on then," I muttered.

  "I'm going to get married," she told me, finally.

  "Married. But you are married. To my father. It might be in name only, but you're still legally tied to him."

  "I know that. I mean, after I get a divorce."

  "Who are you going to marry?" I asked, leaning forward and staring at her questioningly, unexpectedly riddled with curiosity.

  "David Nelson."

  "Oh."

  "You don't sound very thrilled."

  "Don't be silly… I'm just taken aback, that's all."

  "Don't you like David?"

  "Mother, I hardly know him."

  "He's very nice, Mal."

  "I'm sure he is… he's seemed pleasant enough, very cordial on those few occasions I've met him."

  "I love him, Mal, and he loves me. We're very good together, extremely compatible. I've been lonely. Very lonely, really, and for a very long time. And so has David, ever since his wife died seven years ago. We've been seeing each other fairly steadily for the past year, and when David asked me to many him, last week, I suddenly realized how much he meant to me. There doesn't seem to be any good reason why we shouldn't get married."

  Something akin to a quizzical look had slipped onto my mother's face, and her eyes now searched mine; it occurred to me that she was seeking my approval.

  I said, "There's no reason at all why you shouldn't get married, Mom. I'm glad you are." I smiled at her. "Does David have any children?"

  "A son, Mark, who's married and has one child. A boy, David, named for his grandfather. Mark and his wife, Angela, live in Westchester. He's a lawyer, like David."

  A son, that's a blessed relief, I thought. No possessive, overly protective daughter floating around Papa David, one likely to upset the apple cart. Now that I new about it I was all in favor of this union. I wanted it to go ahead without a hitch. I probed, "And when do you plan to get married, Mother?"

  "As soon as I can, as soon as I'm free."

  "Have you started divorce proceedings?"

  "No, but I'm going to see Alan Fuller later this week. There won't be a problem, considering that your father and I have been separated such a long time." She paused, then added. "Fifteen years," as though I didn't know this.

  "Have you told Daddy?"

  "No, not yet."

  "I see."

  "Don't look so pained, Mal. I think he might-"

  "I'm not looking pained," I protested, wondering how she could ever think such a thing. I didn't have any pained feelings about anything. Actually, I was pleased she wasn't living in a kind of decisionless limbo any longer.

  "I was going to say, before you interrupted me, that I believe your father will be relieved I've finally taken this step."

  I nodded. "You're right, Mother. I'm positive he will be."

  The sound of heels clicking against the polished wood floor of the gallery immediately outside the kitchen made my mother sit up straighter. She brought her forefinger to her lips and, staring hard at me, mouthed silently, "It's a secret." gave her another swift, acquiescent nod.

  Diana pushed open the door and glided into the kitchen just as my mind was focusing on secrets. There were so many in our family; instantly I pushed this thought far, far away from me, as I invariably did. I never wanted to face those secrets from my childhood. Better to forget them; better still to pretend they did not exist. But they did. My childhood was constructed on secrets layered one on top of the other.

  Faking insouciance, I smiled at Diana. It was a beatific smile, belying what I had been thinking. I asked myself if she was my father's lover. And if so, would this sudden change in his circumstances affect his life with her? Would the seemingly imminent divorce make him think of marriage-to her? Was my mother-in-law about to become-my stepmother? I swallowed the incipient laughter rising in my throat; nevertheless, I still had to glance away as my mouth twitched involuntarily.

  Diana was cheerfully saying, "Good morning, Jessica dear. It's lovely to see you."

  My mother immediately sprang to her feet and embraced her. "I'm glad you're here, Diana. You look wonderful."

  "Thanks, I feel good," Diana responded, smiled her sunny smile, and added, "I must say, you look pretty nifty yourself, the picture of good health."

  I studied them as they talked.

  How different th
ey were in appearance, these two women of middle age, our mothers.

  Mine was all blonde curls and fair skin, with delicate, perfectly sculpted features. She was a very pretty woman, a cool Nordic type, slim and lissome with a special kind of inbred elegance that was enviable.

  Diana was much darker in coloring, with a lovely golden complexion and straight silky brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail this morning. Her face was broader, her features more boldly defined, and her large, luminous eyes were of a blue so pale and transparent they were almost gray. She was not quite as tall as my mother. "I'm a Celt," she had once said to me. "There's more of my Scottish ancestry in my genes than the English part." Diana's appeal was in her warm, tawny looks; she was a handsome woman by any standard, who, like my mother, carried her sixty-one years well, seeming years younger.

  Their characters and personalities were totally different. Diana was a much more serious woman than my mother was, more studious and intellectually inclined. And the worlds they occupied, the lives they lived, were not remotely similar. Diana was something of a workaholic, running her antique business and loving every minute of it. My mother was a social butterfly who did not care to work, and who fortunately did not have to. She lived on a comfortable income derived from investments, family trusts, and a small allowance from my father. Why she accepted this from him I'll never know.

  My mother was actually somewhat quiet and shy. At times I even thought of her as being repressed. Yet she was a social animal, and when she wanted to she could exude great charm.

  My mother-in-law was much more spontaneous and outgoing, filled with a joie de vivre that was infectious. I always felt happy when Diana was around; she had that effect on everyone.

  Two very disparate women, my mother and my mother-in-law. And yet they had always been amiable with each other, appeared on the surface to get on reasonably well. Perhaps we were the bond between them, Andrew and me and the twins. Certainly they were thrilled and relieved that we had such a happy marriage, that our union had been so successful, so blessed. Maybe the four of us validated their troubled lives and diminished their failures.

  The two of them sat down, continuing to chat, to catch up, and I rose and walked to the far end of the kitchen. Here I busied myself at the sink, pulling apart several heads of lettuce, washing the leaves scrupulously.

  My mind was preoccupied with marriage, my mother's impending one, to be precise. But then my thoughts took an unexpected curve, zeroed in on my father. His life had not been a happy one, far from it-except for his work, of course. That had given him a great deal of satisfaction and still did. He was proud of his standing as an archaeologist. His marriage had been such a disappointment, a terrible failure, and he had expected so much from it, he had once confided in me. It had gone hopelessly awry when I was a child.

  What a pity my father had never been lucky enough to have what Andrew and I have. Sadness for him filtered through me; I was saddened even more that he had never found love with someone else when he was a younger man. He was sixty-five now; that was not old, and perhaps it wasn't too late for him. I sighed under my breath. I blamed my mother for his pain, I always had; he had never been at fault. In my eyes he had always been the hero in a bitter, thankless marriage.

  As this random thought surfaced, floated to the front of my head, I examined it as carefully as I was washing the lettuce leaves under the running water. Wasn't I being just a little bit unfair? No one in this world is perfect, least of all my father. He was a human being, after all, not a god, even if he had seemed like one to me when I was growing up. He had been all golden and shining and beautiful, the most handsome, the most dashing, the most brilliant man in the world. And the most perfect. Of course. Yes, he had been all those things to me as a child. But he must have had his flaws and his frailties, like we all do, hang-ups and weaknesses as well as strengths. Should I not perhaps give my mother the benefit of the doubt?

  This was so startling a thought I took a moment to adjust to it.

  Finally, I glanced over my shoulder at her. She was calmly sitting there at my kitchen table, talking to Diana, methodically making her famous potato salad, one she had prepared so religiously every Fourth of July throughout my entire childhood and teenage years.

  Unbidden and unexpected, it came rushing back to me, a fragment of a memory, a memory prodigiously beaten into submission, carefully boxed and buried and thankfully forgotten. Suddenly resurrected, it was flailing at me now, free-falling into my consciousness. And as it did I found myself looking down the corridor of time. I saw a day long, long ago, twenty-eight years ago, to be exact. I was five years old and an unwilling witness to marital savagery so shocking, so painful to bear I had done the only thing possible. I had obliterated it.

  Echoing back to me along that shadowy, perilous tunnel of the past came a mingling of familiar voices which dredged up that day, dragged it back into the present. Exhumed, exposed, it lived again.

  My mother is here, young and beautiful, an ethereal, dreamlike creature in her white muslin summer frock, her golden hair burnished in the sunlight. She is standing in the middle of the huge kitchen of my grandmother's summer house in Southampton. But her voice contrasts markedly with her loveliness. It is harsh, angry, and accusatory.

  I am afraid.

  She is telling my father he cannot leave. Not today, not the Fourth, not with all the family coming, all the festivities planned. He cannot leave her and her parents and me. "Think of your child, Edward. She adores you," she cries. "Mallory needs you to be here for her today." She is repeating this, over and over and over again like a shrill litany.

  And my father is explaining that he must go, that he has to catch his plane to Egypt, explaining that the new dig is about to start, telling her that as head of the archaeological team he must be there at the outset.

  My mother starts to scream at him. Her face is ugly with rage. She is accusing him of going to her, to his mistress, not to the expedition at all.

  My father is defending himself, protesting his innocence, telling my mother she is a fool, and a jealous fool, at that. Then he tells her more softly that she has no reason to be jealous. He vows that he loves only her; he explains, very patiently, that he must go because he must do his work, must work to support us.

  My mother is shaking her head vehemently from side to side, denying, denying.

  The bowl of potato salad is suddenly in her hands, then it is leaving her hands as it is violently flung. It is sailing through the air, hitting the wall behind my father, bouncing off the wall, splattering his dark blue blazer with bits of potato and mayonnaise before it crashes to the floor with a thud, like a bomb exploding.

  My father is turning away angrily, leaving the kitchen; his handsome face is miserable, contorted with pain. There is a helplessness about him.

  My mother is weeping hysterically.

  I am cringing in the butler's pantry, clinging to Elvira, my grandma's cook, who is my best friend, my only friend, except for my father, in this house of anger and secrets and lies. ''

  My mother is storming out of the kitchen, running after my father, in her anguish not noticing Elvira and me as she races past the open door of the pantry.

  Again she is shouting loudly. "I hate you! I hate you! I'll never give you a divorce. Never. Not as long as I live. Mercedes will never have the pleasure of being your wife, Edward Jordan. I swear to you she won't. And if you leave me, you'll never see Mallory again. Not ever again. I'll make sure of that. I have my father's money behind me. It will build a barrier, Edward. A barrier to keep you away from Mallory."

  I hear her running upstairs after my father, railing on at him remorselessly, her voice shrill and bitter and condemning.

  Elvira is stroking my hair, soothing me. "Pay no mind, honeychile mine," she is whispering, her plump black arms encircling me, keeping me safe. "Pay no mind, chile. The big folks is always mouthing the stupidest things… things they doan never mean… things no chile needs hear. Pay no mind, h
oneychile mine. Your momma doan mean not a word she ses."

  My father is here.

  He does not leave. An armed truce is struck between them; it lasts only through the Fourth of July. The following morning he kisses me good-bye. He drives back to Manhattan and flies off to Egypt.

  He does not come back for five months.

  I closed my eyes, squeezing back the tears, pressing down the pain this unexpected memory, so long concealed, has evoked in me.

  Slowly, I lifted my lids and stared at the kitchen wall. With infinite care, I placed the lettuce leaves in the colander to drain, covering them with a large piece of paper towel. My hands felt heavy, like dead weights, and nausea fluttered in my stomach. Holding on to the edge of the sink, I calmed myself and endeavored to regain my equilibrium before I walked across the kitchen.

  Eventually, I was able to move.

  I paused at the kitchen table and looked down at my mother.

  It struck me, with a rush of clarity and something akin to shock, that she had probably suffered greatly as a young wife. I should stop my silent condemnation of her. All of my father's long absences must have been difficult to endure, unimaginably lonely and painful for her. Had there been a mistress? Had a woman called Mercedes really existed? Had there been many other women over the years? Most probably, I thought, with a sinking feeling. My father was a good-looking, normal, healthy man, and when he was younger he must have sought out female company. For as long as I could recall, he and my mother had had separate bedrooms, and this situation had existed long before he had left for good, when I was eighteen. He had stayed in that terrible marriage for me. I had long believed this, had long accepted it. Somehow, today, I knew it to be true.

  Perhaps my mother had experienced humiliation and despair and more heartache than I ever realized. But I would never get the real truth from her. She never talked about the past, never confided in me. It was as if she wanted to bury those years, forget them, perhaps even pretend they never happened. Maybe that was why she was so remote with me at times. Maybe I reminded her of things she wanted to expunge from her memory.