“Sarah,” she said, “let’s sit down for a minute first.”
Sarah looked surprised and a bit disappointed. “All right.” She walked across the small living room and took a seat on the couch. Laura sat in one of the chairs.
“I was wondering if it would help you to know exactly when I’m coming,” Laura said. “That way you’d know when you’re going for a walk. It wouldn’t be a surprise. And you wouldn’t be disappointed if you think I might show up one day but I don’t.”
“That would be good.” Sarah nodded.
“Today’s Wednesday. What if I come every Wednesday? Unless it’s raining?”
“Wednesday is Bingo.”
“Oh. So, Wednesday is a bad day for you?”
“Bingo is at night.”
“Is Wednesday okay, then?”
“Yes.” Sarah still didn’t look too certain. “Isn’t today Saturday?” she asked.
“Oh. No, dear.” She surprised herself with the word dear. She didn’t think she’d ever used it before in her life. “No, today is Wednesday. Do you have a calendar?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll get you one, and we can circle the Wednesdays. Then you’ll know when I’m coming.” She hoped Alison would be able to watch Emma every Wednesday afternoon.
“Good. Can we go now?” Sarah sounded like a child, and Laura smiled.
“Absolutely.”
On their way to the door, Laura noticed a calendar on the kitchenette wall, the pages turned to the previous month. She said nothing.
Once outside the retirement home, Sarah began her springy step.
“Do you remember last time we talked, I told you about my little girl’s birth father, Dylan?” Laura asked after they’d walked a short distance.
There was a crease between Sarah’s eyebrows. “Dylan?” she asked.
Sarah had no idea who she was talking about, Laura realized. “He flies hot air balloons,” she said. “Remember, you told me about the train crash?”
“Ah, the train crash,” Sarah said. “I was a stranger on a train.”
“That’s right.” She felt disturbed by Sarah’s confusion but knew how to turn it around to hear the older woman sound lucid and in control. And maybe that’s why Sarah loved her walks, it gave her a chance to go back to a time when she was exactly that—lucid. In control.
“I’ve been wondering about the train crash,” Laura said. “What happened afterward?”
Sarah, 1955–1956
Sarah had finished dispensing medications to the patients in her ward when the receptionist arrived at the nurses’ station, carrying a vase filled with red roses.
“Sarah Wilding,” she said. “These are for you.”
For a moment, Sarah wondered if it might be a joke of some sort. She had never, not once in her life, received flowers from a delivery service, and today was not even a special occasion. Her parents had given her a beautiful arrangement of poppies and baby’s breath when she graduated from nursing school—to make up for the fact that they had not been with her in person, she figured.
“For me?” she said, accepting the vase. She carried it behind the desk of the glass-enclosed nurses’ station, and a few of her co-workers gathered around her. Even a couple of patients peered through the glass to see who had received the flowers.
“Who are they from?” Pauline, one of the other nurses, asked.
Sarah plucked the envelope from among the flowers. There was no card inside, merely a ticket to Cat on a Hot Tin Roof for Saturday night. Seat 32, row F. She showed the ticket to her friends wordlessly.
“Who on earth sent it?” Pauline asked.
Sarah shook her head. “I have no idea,” she said. But actually, she did. She was afraid she might be wrong, though, and she didn’t dare hope.
“Sarah has a secret admirer!” Pauline said, giving her a hug.
“There are only eleven roses,” said one of the nurse’s aides.
“That’s strange,” Pauline said, counting the roses herself.
Sarah stared at the ticket. She’d wanted to see this play for so long, and there were only two people to whom she’d recently confided that fact.
She had thought about Joe Tolley ever since that night on the train. After reading his article about the crash, she’d kept her eyes open for other articles he had written, checking the Post from front to back every day. She’d thought of calling the paper and asking for him, just to hear his voice again. It was silly. She had a crush on someone who was clearly out of her reach. He had to be at least several years younger than she to begin with, and he was attractive. She was popular, spirited, smart and capable, but beauty was not one of her attributes. The lighting, though, had certainly been poor in that overturned train. Still, it was ridiculous to think that the ticket and flowers might be from Joe Tolley. Perhaps they were simply a show of kindness from that dear social worker, Ann. Or maybe they were from Joe, and she was reading too much into the gift. Maybe it was simply a greeting from him, and she would go to the theater and sit alone as Cat on a Hot Tin Roof played out before her. After all, he’d already seen it. And he had carefully sent only eleven roses rather than the romantic dozen. Yet they were red. Oh, she was driving herself mad trying to think through all the possibilities! She would go to the theater Saturday night, and she would look her very best, just in case.
He was already in the seat next to hers when she arrived at the theater. The twelfth rose was in his hand, and he held it out to her with a smile. Her heart beat wildly as she took her seat.
“What a lovely surprise,” she said, smoothing the skirt of her borrowed black chiffon dress over her legs.
“Didn’t you know who had sent the ticket?” he asked.
“I was hoping it was you,” she said, unable to believe her bravery in making that statement.
He lightly touched the back of her hand. “I was hoping you were hoping,” he said.
The play began, but Sarah could barely concentrate on it, so aware was she of the man sitting next to her. He smelled wonderful; the sleeve of his jacket rested against her bare arm. This is a miracle, she thought.
At intermission, they strolled around the halls of the theater, chatting about the play and describing what each of them had been doing since the train crash. They wondered how Ann was doing, and the little boy, Donny. Sarah felt perfectly comfortable walking next to him, but when they stopped, when he turned to face her and she knew he could see her in the clear light from the lobby, she was consumed with discomfort.
Still, Joe looked at her with warmth in his face. His smile was ever-present and it lit up his eyes. He was looking at her, directly at her, and he seemed to be captivated with her looks. She began to feel lovely. By the end of the play, she’d been transformed.
After the play, he took her to a little café for coffee and dessert. They talked about movies and plays they’d seen. He was the first person Sarah had ever met who had seen every single one of her favorites. She told him she’d read his articles and offered her opinion about each one. He was clearly taken by her thoughtful critiques, jotting down her words from time to time on his notepad. “You are even more interesting than I thought you’d be,” he said at one point.
The café closed rather late, although Sarah could not have said what time it was. All she knew was that she and Joe were not finished talking. She had so much more she wanted to say to him, as though she’d been saving it up all her life for this evening. And the amazing thing was, he seemed to feel the same way. By the time she told him she was thirty-two, she had no fear that news would put him off, even though he’d already told her that he was only twenty-five.
They left the café. The spring night air was warm, and they walked across the street to a park, where they sat on a bench under the stars and talked until early morning. They stopped only for Sarah to call the woman with whom she shared her apartment to tell her she was fine, not to worry, and for Joe to call his mother to do the same. His mother was not
at all happy with the call, he said. But he’d told her he was working on an important story. “Maybe the most important story in my life,” he’d said.
She learned that Joe’s father had died a few years ago and that he lived with his mother and older sister, both of whom sounded quite dependent on him. “They are wretchedly conservative,” he said. He had been raised Catholic, and his mother and sister were devout, although Joe himself rarely attended church anymore. Organized religion was not important to him, he said. It was more important how people behaved in their daily lives than what they did on Sunday. She had been raised Methodist, Sarah told him, and although she did go to church most weeks, she agreed with him wholeheartedly.
She told him about her own family. Her father had died a decade ago; her mother shortly after. Except for a few cousins, she had no family.
He pulled a pipe from his jacket pocket and lit it, and she knew then why he emanated that rich, dusky scent. He let her try it. She loved setting her lips where his had been only a few seconds before, but she accidentally inhaled before he’d warned her not to. She choked, laughing, and relished the feeling of his hand on her back as he tried to help her.
He wanted to travel all over the world, he said. Africa enticed him more than anywhere else because it sounded so exciting and primitive, and Sarah immediately pictured herself there with him, floating on a river, like Hepburn and Bogart in The African Queen. Joe had a wild streak. She liked that about him.
He drove her home to her apartment. She had trouble leaving the car, leaving him. She wondered if he would kiss her, and to her own amazement, she leaned toward him without waiting for him to make the overture. There was no need for games here. No need for cat and mouse. She wanted him. She wanted every part of him.
He kissed her lightly, then pulled back to smile at her. “So, do you want to skip church tomorrow?” he asked. “We can go for a hike in the mountains.”
That was the beginning. They spent every weekend together, except for a few hours each night when they gave in to propriety and returned to their respective homes. They saw each other frequently during the week, as well, and spoke on the telephone every day. Together, they visited the theater and the museums, saw nearly every movie that opened, hiked in the mountains and rode a tandem bicycle around the city. Joe was a risk-taker, hiking away from the well-marked trails, dodging traffic on the bike, yet she felt completely safe with him. Their relationship developed into the sort of intimate, passionate and loving union Sarah had never hoped to experience.
There was only one snag. Two, really. Joe’s mother and sister. They probably would not have approved of any woman Joe chose, their own emotional needs for him were so great, but Sarah was a particular affront to them because of her age and because she was not Catholic. Sarah also feared that they found her too unattractive for their good-looking son and brother. She felt beautiful in Joe’s eyes, yet she knew most of the outside world did not see that beauty in her.
She had not spent any real length of time with his mother and sister, Sarah said to Joe one day, having only spoken with them briefly on a few occasions. Determined to win them over, she suggested they all go out to dinner together.
Joe took charge of planning the outing. They would meet his mother and sister at Seville’s, he told Sarah. It was a cozy little restaurant, he said. Perfect for quiet conversation.
Once seated in the restaurant with Mrs. Tolley and Joe’s sister, Mary Louise, Sarah began to look around her. The dining room was indeed quiet and cozy, as Joe had promised. The lights were dim, and there was an understated elegance about the place. But as she looked further, she noticed that all of the paintings on the dark walls were of nudes. Every single piece. She looked at Joe, knowing instantly that he had brought his family here for the shock value. He was wicked. Yet she found herself stifling a laugh.
His mother and sister had not yet noticed the art on the walls. Mrs. Tolley was too busy complaining about the table they had been given.
“It’s too near the kitchen,” she said, although they were several tables from the swinging kitchen door. “And there’s a spot on my water glass.”
“And lucky us,” Mary Louise said, under her breath. “We get the colored waiter.”
Sarah cringed as the waiter approached their table, hoping he had not heard the comment.
Joe smiled at her across the table as his mother gave the waiter her exacting order, and Sarah wondered how such a warm, fun-loving, tolerant man could belong to this unlikable family.
“Oh, my God.” Mary Louise lowered her head after the waiter had gone. Her cheeks were crimson, and Sarah knew she’d finally noticed the walls. “Mother, don’t dare look at the paintings.”
Mrs. Tolley immediately raised her head to look at the wall to her left and let out a sound of disgust.
“Did you know these paintings were here?” she asked her son, anger in her voice.
“Well, of course,” he said. “I think they’re exceptional. I wrote about them when I reviewed this place last year.”
Mrs. Tolley glared at him, then shifted her angry eyes to her daughter. “We should leave,” she said.
Mary Louise leaned across the table to touch her mother’s hand. “We’ve already ordered, Mother. We’ll simply have to stay.”
Mrs. Tolley closed her eyes as if gathering strength. When she opened them again, she turned to Sarah, and, with strained politeness, inquired as to how she was enjoying her job “treating the insane.”
“It’s fine,” Sarah said. “I love the work I do at Mercy.”
“Could you get a job as a regular nurse?” Mary Louise asked, a touch of hope in her voice.
“I am a regular nurse,” Sarah said.
“I mean, taking care of people with, you know, real illnesses instead of…you know.”
“The people I take care of definitely have real illnesses,” Sarah said, keeping her voice as even as possible. “You’d only have to spend a day with them to know they can’t help the way they are.”
“Oh, do you really believe that?” Mrs. Tolley asked. “I think anyone who’s been raised properly and who eats well and keeps company among good people will rarely have any sort of mental problem.”
“Mother, that’s ridiculous,” Joe said. “What about your old friend, Mrs. Jackson? What did she do to deserve her transformation into a lunatic?” He turned to Sarah, a look of apology on his face. “Pardon my language,” he said.
“She’s a special case,” Mrs. Tolley said. “If she hadn’t married that lazy drunkard she would have been fine.”
“Did you see her last week at church?” Mary Louise asked. “She had a handkerchief on her head instead of a hat.”
“Oh, I know,” Mrs. Tolley said. She turned to Sarah. “You don’t need to wear hats in your church, do you?” she asked.
“Well, it’s not necessary,” Sarah said.
Mrs. Tolley nodded. “I didn’t think so. Not the same sort of respect there, I guess.”
“Mother,” Joe said. “Mind your manners.”
“You mind yours,” Mrs. Tolley snapped at him. She turned to Sarah again. “He can be so insolent! He’ll probably be your age by the time he grows out of it. Hope I live that long.”
“Mother!” Joe was really angry now. Sarah had never seen that flame in his eyes before.
“It’s all right, Joe,” Sarah said. “I’m not that sensitive.” But she was. Inside she ached from the insults, and she longed for dinner to be over. She maintained a polite and friendly demeanor as Joe’s mother and sister asked her patronizing and ignorant questions about the mentally ill, but her mind was no longer on her dining companions. Instead, it was on the artwork, a powerful escape from the reality of the evening.
Directly above Joe’s left shoulder was one of the most beautiful paintings she’d ever seen. The light in the restaurant was dim, but the images in the painting grew clearer to Sarah as the evening wore on. A man stood behind a woman, embracing her, and both of them were nude
. Only one of the man’s legs was visible, and his thigh was thick and muscled. Sarah could barely steal her eyes away from the seductive hollow of his hip. One of his hands was on the woman’s rib cage, the length of one finger lying beneath the swell of her breast. His other hand rested on the curve of her hip. The woman was beautiful, her hair long and red. Her nipples were dark and erect. The dark triangle of hair at the base of her belly was just within reach of the man’s fingertips.
Sarah’s own nipples tightened as she studied the painting. The conversation drifted around her until, suddenly, she glanced at Joe and knew he had been watching her. Surely he knew what she was seeing above his shoulder. He smiled at her, raising his eyebrows provocatively, and the gesture felt like an invitation to her. They had not yet made love. Right now, though, she wanted his idiotic sister and mother and the rest of the diners to disappear so that she could strip off her clothes and have her way with Joe right there on the table.
After their meal, she and Joe said good-night to his family and left the restaurant for the walk to her apartment.
“Go on,” Joe said. “Let it out.”
For a moment, she thought he was referring to her feelings of passion. “Let what out?” she asked.
“Everything you want to say about Mother and Mary Louise. Go on. I can take it.”
“Oh.” She laughed. “I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Better than letting it fester inside you.”
“Well, first of all, you egged them on by taking them to Seville’s.”
“You certainly seemed to like it, though,” he said.
“The food was good,” she agreed.
“I wasn’t talking about the food.”
She laughed again. Every line of that painting was etched in her mind. Her body felt hot when she thought about it.
“So,” he said, bringing her back to the moment. “Mother and M.L.”
They turned the corner, the street lined with row houses. “Well, they are hypocritical, bigoted, prissy and rather superficial to boot,” she said.
Joe laughed. “You left out ‘bitchy.’”