Stephanie Hale said, “You embarrassed me today.”
Ellen, folding underwear into a suitcase, stopped and confronted her, hands on her hips. “I embarrassed you?”
Stephanie looked at Ellen, ocean-gray eyes cool. “As soon as you called, I came. Didn’t I? You were upset enough to call me in the middle of a class, weren’t you? I came all that way as fast as I could. Through that rotten Westwood traffic.”
“I didn’t ask you to come. I just needed to talk to you. We love each other, don’t we? But no, super butch has to try and drag her little hot house flower home, her little shrinking violet!”
“Ellen, you found a dead man. You could’ve been killed yourself!”
They were shouting; Ellen lowered her voice and hissed, “Well, I wasn’t. And the detective in charge told me I handled myself with great presence of mind.”
“So what does she know? When I got there you’d been crying.”
Stephanie had taken her jogging shoes from the closet to bring with her, and Ellen picked them up off the bed and hurled them into the suitcase. “For God’s sake, you of all people should know tears are emotion, not weakness!”
Calmly Stephanie picked up the shoes and slid them into a plastic sack and stacked it neatly on top of her socks. “I had every right to want you out of there, not have you any more upset than you already were.”
“Answer me this,” Ellen said icily. “If you’d been me, if this had happened in the hallowed halls of UCLA, would you let me take you home because you were upset?”
“There are simply some things I handle better than you.”
“What goddamn bullshit.”
“So you can swear like a man,” Stephanie said contemptuously. “I’m impressed.”
“Good,” Ellen said. “Fuck you.”
She stalked into the living room and sat on the sofa with her arms crossed, furious, as Stepahnie finished packing and walked past her into the kitchen.
Carrying plates of food, Stephanie came into the living room. She deposited the plates on TV trays and sat in her usual armchair, eyes drifting to the television screen as she pushed at the contents of her plate. She lifted a forkful of Stouffer’s pasta shells and looked at it. “This stuff,” she said.
“You used to love it, raved about the sauce,” Ellen said nastily. “Good for jogging, you used to say. Before I decided to go back to work.”
“You really want to get into all that again? The food’s fine, my taster’s off. Okay?”
For some minutes they ate in silence. Grudging the conciliation of changing the subject, Ellen muttered, “I can’t stand Dan Rather.”
Stephanie contemplated the TV screen, drawing curly strands of graying hair over her forehead with the absentmindedness of habit. Twin furrows formed between her deep set gray eyes. “Honey, what do we do next week when Julie comes and you’re not here?”
Ellen sighed inaudibly. “What we did before when I was working. Stephie, why do we have to do anything? She’s nineteen. Your kids are both old enough to amuse themselves.”
“Ellen honey, we see little enough of them.”
Ellen smothered a yawn and tucked her legs up under her, thinking that she was exhausted from this day, and that she saw more than enough of Stephanie’s teenage daughters.
Stephanie rose, pulling a gray UCLA sweatshirt down over pale blue jogging pants, and carried their dishes to the kitchen, padding off in her stocking feet, wide shoulders slightly bowed. To the sound of plates being scraped, water running, Ellen punched the remote control impatiently, flipping the TV from channel to channel. She thought: Is it really worth it? Is my heart really into working? Since she hates it so much?
Stephanie came back and sat next to her, thin legs folded under her yoga-style. They sat in silence, watching Richard Dawson joke with contestants on Family Feud. Stephanie gestured at the TV. “Turn that idiot off, will you?”
Ellen punched the channel selector. “Right there,” Stephanie directed as USC cheerleaders danced across the screen in their maroon-lettered white sweaters and gold skirts, and basketball players shot dozens of basketballs in pregame warmup. “Business is Death Valley,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t teach. Be a gardener, maybe.” Her eyes were fixed on the screen where players were stripping off their warmup suits.
“I don’t feel that way. I wish you’d respect that. What I want to do, I wish you’d take it seriously.”
“Baby, I do.”
“Last night,” Ellen accused, “my first day on the job, you expect a home-cooked meal and a night out on the town.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Ellen. You’re not running the damn company. If I can work all day and go out so can you.”
Ellen said with dignity, “I had material to read. Technical manuals.”
“All in one night?”
“I don’t like feeling stupid on a job any more than you would.” Anger was swiftly gathering.
Stephanie rose and walked toward the bedroom, pulling her sweatshirt over her head, to change clothes for her flight.
On the way to the airport Ellen rolled down the window, the traffic on the San Diego Freeway drowning out possibility for conversation. They did not speak until they had threaded their way through the airport traffic and pulled up in front of the PSA terminal.
Stephanie set the handbrake on the Fiat. “Ellen darling, it’s been too long since we talked. Really talked.”
“Months,” Ellen conceded sulkily. “For that kind of talking.”
“I get back Thursday, Julie comes out next week. Let’s talk this weekend. Okay?”
They got out of the car. Stephanie pulled her luggage out of the tiny trunk and then kissed Ellen’s forehead, her lips warm and firm. “We have orientation meetings till late tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Ellen touched Stephanie’s face, suddenly afraid of her leaving, and kissed her cheek, smoothing the fine gray-brown hair back into place behind her ear. She gripped her shoulders.
Stephanie’s eyes searched her face gravely. “Ellen? Are you okay?”
She nodded. “Sure.” But she was not okay, and did not know what was wrong, nor how to tell her.
She watched Stephanie walk away, garment bag slung over a shoulder; Stephanie looked dignified and distinguished in her herringbone jacket and gray slacks. Stephanie Lewis Hale, Professor of Economics at the University of California at Los Angeles—Ellen was proud of her.