Susan didn't quite know what to do with this sister she hadn't seen in three years, this brittle woman she didn't know anymore.
So she cooked. That was the Southern way—to busy yourself with the preparation and serving of food so you didn't have to think too much.
"Fried chicken?" Jo Lisa prowled around the kitchen, poking her nose into pots and pans. "Shit, Susan. You act like I'm company."
Thank goodness Jeffy was playing with his toys in the next room and didn't hear. Susan cast around for a safe topic.
"How long are you staying?"
"As long as I'm in the mood."
"What about your job?"
"It'll wait."
"Are you still singing at that terrific little jazz club?"
"No. The only time I hit the high notes now is when I’m having sex.”
What was wrong with Jo Lisa? How could she expect Susan to reply to such outrageous nonsense? She turned her back and plunged her hands into the chicken batter.
"God, it's hot here." Jo Lisa got an ice cube and ran it down the side of her throat.
Susan turned up the heat under the skillet and threw the first pieces of chicken in. The sounds of sizzling meat filled the silence.
"You want to know what I do now, Susan?" Jo Lisa moved close and held the ice cube to her red lips, sucking with deliberate smacking sounds. "I have all of Hollywood at my feet. While I'm onstage, they're drinking Jack Daniels and taking bets on who'll catch my panties."
"Why are you acting this way, Jo Lisa? Are you trying to shock me?" Susan covered the skillet, then washed and dried her hands. "I'm a grown woman, and far more worldly wise than you seem to think."
"Are you, Susan? Are you worldly wise?"
“Yes."
"What about Paul Tyler?"
"What about him?"
"Are you sleeping with him?"
"No." But not because she didn't want to. "How did you know about him?"
"Mother." Jo Lisa made herself a glass of ice water, then unfastened the rhinestone buttons at the top of her blouse and held the cool glass next to her skin. "Stay away from married men, Susan. They'll break your heart."
Susan stood in the kitchen staring at her sister. For some reason she felt a crazy urge to laugh.
“For your information, he’s getting a divorce.”
“Big deal. My advice still stands. If you’re smart, you’ll take it, kiddo.”
"You know that old saying—there's no use locking the barn door after the horses are already out? It's too late for warnings, Jo Lisa."
Her sister said a string of words Susan was grateful Jeffy didn’t hear. But she didn’t want to make a scene about it. Jo Lisa was volatile and unpredictable. She’d use any excuse to turn tail and run. And there was no telling how many years she’d stay away this time. Susan had to walk a line between firm and cautious.
She got a long-handled fork and stirred the chicken. "Set the table, will you, Jo Lisa? We're going to have a civilized meal . . . just the three of us. And I'll thank you not to use vulgar language in front of my son. This is my house, and when you're here you'll abide by my rules."
Jo Lisa stiffened as if she'd been slapped, then slowly a grin spread across her face. She fastened the top button on her blouse, then held out her hand to her sister.
"Truce, Susan?"
Susan took her sister's hand. "Truce."
o0o
Saturday nights were made for couples. Two at the movies sharing the same popcorn box, two at dinner holding hands across a candlelit table, two in the car sitting close and knowing it was a prelude to intimacy.
Such thoughts coming so suddenly upon Jean as she sat at her easel confirmed her hope that she was finally coming back to life.
"I'm going to be all right." She gripped the brush and spoke with determination. "I'm going to be all right." After all, she was a Beaumont, and no Beaumont for six generations had let life whip him.
She picked up her palette knife and spread swaths of paint on canvas, then tilted her head back to view her work. It wasn't great, but it wasn't bad, either.
The phone rang, and she thought about letting it go. She didn't like to be interrupted while she worked. On the third ring, she padded barefoot into the hallway and picked it up.
"I thought you might not be home."
"Paul!" A wave of loneliness and nostalgia hit her so hard, she had to lean against the wall. "How are you?"
"I'm better, Jean. And you?"
"I'm painting again."
"That's good."
Jean cradled the receiver under her chin. One of the things she'd loved most about Paul was his voice. She twisted the cord slowly around her finger, watching the way it circled her flesh.
"Jean ... I'd like to come over ... if you don't mind."
"When?"
"Is tonight okay?"
"Tonight's fine, Paul."
"See you in a little while."
She stood in the hall staring at the telephone as if it might suddenly come to life and tell her what to do. What should she do? Dress for Paul? She was wearing black stirrup pants and a white oversized poet's shirt. Speckles of yellow and purple paint dotted the right sleeve.
If she dressed he might think she was expecting something from him. Was she?
Lowering her head into her hands she breathed deeply. She hated the feeling of confusion.
In the end she decided to go on with her painting.
She jumped when the doorbell rang. Nerves. She used to be as unflappable and unsinkable as Molly Brown. But that had been before the tragedy.
She pulled open the door.
"Hello, Jean." Paul took her hand. A polite stranger. "You look good."
"So do you." She smiled at him. A gracious hostess.
Inside they sat on chairs facing each other, as stiff as strangers.
"Maggie tells me you're back at the hospital."
"Just barely. I've been back two days."
Suddenly they ran out of things to say. Their life together—the love and the laughter and the tragedy— swirled between them in memories so vivid, they seemed to be spectators at a surrealistic ballet.
"Jean ... I came back to get some personal items. Pictures of Sonny. The baseball cap I got for him at Yankee Stadium."
"I see."
"I don't have anything of his at my apartment."
She sat very still, her hands folded on her lap.
"When I left I couldn't bear any reminders. But now . . . I don't want a lot, Jean. Just enough to remind me of the good times."
She knew there was plenty of air in the room to keep her alive if she could only manage to get enough of it into her lungs. Forcing herself to breathe deeply and slowly, she stood up.
"You can take whatever you like, Paul."
"Are you sure?"
"Certainly. He was your son too. I'll just go back to my painting while you're here."
He nodded, and she left. She sat in front of her easel listening to his footsteps. Walk and pause. Walk and pause. He sounded hesitant, uncertain.
"Jean?"
She jumped. Paul was standing in the doorway, holding two photographs in brass frames and Sonny's well- loved, well-worn baseball cap.
"I'll take these ... if it's all right with you."
"Yes. It's fine."
He lingered in the doorway, a stranger in his own home. Jean clung to her stool, a wife in limbo.
"Jean, dragging this out is doing neither of us any good. If you want more, just tell me.”
She felt as if he had socked her. Hadn’t she had enough loss? Hadn’t she dealt with enough upheaval without him pushing her to cut the last tie that bound her to her son?
“It’s not the money, Paul.”
“Then what? “
“Please moderate your voice.”
He raked his hand through his hair in a gesture she used to find charming. Now, it simply made her sad.
“I’m sorry, Jean. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’m just trying to come to a civil agreement. What would it take to get you to sign the papers?”
Paul was being sensible, as always. But Jean didn’t want sensible. Actually, she didn’t know what she wanted, but not this, this unemotional conversation about divorce as if you could shed a husband as easily as you shed a pair of shoes you no longer liked.
She was not only uncomfortable with this discussion, but vaguely upset, too. Hurt, even. She felt cornered, and it always brought out the worst in her.
“Is there some reason you’re in a hurry, Paul?”
He went stiff with outrage. He was thinking of that Riley woman, of course. But his anger gave her no satisfaction. Instead, she wanted to curl into a ball on the sofa and have him come over and take her in his arms the way he used to. She wanted him to say, “I’m here, Jean. Everything’s going to be all right.”
He didn’t do any of that, of course, and even if he had said those words to her now, she wouldn’t have believed him. Nothing would ever be all right again.
Still, when her estranged husband stalked toward the door she felt something sitr, some faint notion that she ought to play hostess, at the very least. Once, she’d been very good in that role.
“Paul.” She started after him. “I’ll see you out.”
He wheeled around, his hostile stare enough to stop her.
"I know the way."
She felt the screams inside, and knew that if she let them out, she'd be sucked once more into the black vortex of a living hell. With slow, deliberate movements she went back to her easel, picked up her brush and began to paint.
o0o
On Wednesday afternoon Susan hurried toward the gate of the research center, and there Paul was, tall and still too thin, studying her with eyes that carried a hint of pain.
"Paul!"
"I want to be the one to tell you, Susan . . . I'm back in medicine now."
Did that mean she wouldn't see him anymore?
"It's partially because of you, Susan."
"I can't take the credit. You're a strong man, Paul."
"Susan . . ." Something moved in his eyes, something bright and unexpected, and he reached out to her.
His hand hovered close to her cheek, so close, she could feel its warmth. "I'll come back every Wednesday . . . for you and Jeffy."
He touched her then, touched her cheek with fingers both strong and tender. Hope sprang to life in her, and dreams so long buried, she'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be a woman. There seemed to be no oxygen left in the sultry air.
Did people die from longing? She thought she might. Hot color bloomed in her cheeks.
"I'm glad, Paul . . . for Jeffy's sake."
For Jeffy's sake. Her words echoed between them, and Paul let her go.
He squatted beside her son and took his tiny paralyzed hand. "How are you, pal?"
"Great!"
"Then let's get to work."
Forbidden, her mind whispered as Paul took fish from the bucket one by one and placed them in Jeffy's paralyzed left hand. Forbidden, her heart cried as he carefully closed the little fingers around the fish and drew back the scrawny arm to take aim at the water where the dolphins waited.
She touched her cheek where his hands had been. Paul glanced up, and their eyes met, held.
One look. That was all that had passed between them. But such a look. The kind that made her think of waking up hot and restless in the middle of the night and knowing why. Knowing exactly why.