The Crawford Affair: a literary novel in three parts (Book 1) Page 7

  But Margaret McPhee wanted the boy. And she’d have him. Or maybe not. It didn’t matter. She’d enjoy pursuit for pursuit’s sake. No sense bringing your life to a stop for one man just to do it for another, even if he was younger, and probably more well endowed. But this wasn’t about proving her virgil–virility. Wait. What was the female word? And God, where was Agnes with that martini? Shit, she hadn’t asked. All she had to do was ask and–enough. It was about the flirtation. The expression of the charge. That inner charge in the chest that pulled and tugged. The safe flutter of desire, but if she could taste the dew as she flew through the air, then why not? They’d be consenting adults. It would cause a scandal sure. But what did she care? She had kissed their asses long enough for Carl to make his money, and now she was seeing her return monthly. She got what she needed from them. And she paid her dues: hosting teas, throwing charity events, bleh bleh bleh, and Carl got his fancy title because she didn’t piss off the wives of the powers that be. She did her job, and now she was retired. Ha. And she got to do it early. At fifty-five. Forty-eight. Forty-five. Ah, life was good. Her face was already brighter: the eyes lifting; the mouth puckering; the sunken cheeks puffing. Joy was the true facelift procedure, the true anti-aging medicine, prescribed by Dr. Mother Nature. Always did take a woman.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Family Time

  The Crawfords sat in their living room: Horatio in his patched upholstered chair, Jessica at his side on the egg-white on egg-white floral sofa, and beyond them, passed the circular table on which stood a vase of “merlot” red roses, Christopher, sitting in the sill, before the picture window, a book on his lap, a pad and pen to his side.

  Horatio took up his newspaper from his lap and flicked it with a fling of his wrists to give it some backbone. He read, “ECON–” He should’ve called Eliza to inquire about the roses, see if the florists had the samples of various dark reds prepared for inspection and selection. Gut feeling said crimsoner (but he’d find a less crude way to say this) and he needed to see the swatch samples again for the tent–silk, mocha, may be too unrealistic but he’d take something close to silk, something silky, creamy. And then there were the table settings, the pièce de résistance (as far as decorative measures): cushioned, golden gilded chairs circling tables bathed in bone-white cloth with royally blued and purpled bamboo centerpieces. But the place settings? Gold plate warmers? Should the settings be the same or different; homogenized or individualized? He didn’t know. And he needed to know. Time–the paper drooped–time was slower. Now. But had been. So quick: summer had begun, Robert home, Jessica graduated, Mertyl re-retired and re-unretired, flowers coming by the bushels, swatches coming by the cases, the flowers decided (and now undecided: the color, like so many other factors, not ripened enough in the mind to concrete certainty). Now, it was all lagging–dragging–chugging. The chugging of time, awakening from sleigh bed to years gone by then awakening from patched chair to only minutes gone by, to probably awaken once more either from bed or chair to more years gone by: Christopher at university, Jessica at some jet-setting job, and Robert–. Robert...hopefully claiming his life, realizing that any pressure he perceived coming from outside him came more from within him, relinquishing his fear to harness his potential by claiming some kind of autonomy, as opposed to keeping his decision process so democratic. Life is not government.

  Horatio dropped the paper into his lap and massaged his forehead with his fingertips, hoping to rub away the ache under the skull. That conversation they had had. There had been so many. But that one. In his office. Like again so many. But this one: the one that made him realize how insecure–how afraid–his grandson truly was. “It’s your second year,” he had said. “I know, Grandfather. I’m still working on a major,” Robert replied. The anticipation of a judgment. A preemptive strike. Horatio knew he was stern with so many, insisting that roses be colors he may as well made up in his head and forcing them to equate compliance with alliance, but his family should’ve known better, knowing how loose they all were: Robert coming and going as if the manor was his hotel, Christopher lounging around all day, and Jessica sneaking in all hours of the night–and morning. The only mandate they had was to show up to some events this summer. Other than that, they could do as they pleased. He knew what it was like to be awoken moments before dawn by having the covers thrown off you so you could help your mother cook bacon and grits before helping your father carry feed to the truck before walking the three miles to school, and he would’ve been damned if his family ever lifted a finger. Surely, they should’ve appreciated this and realized that when it came to them, they were allowed freedom unimaginable to many.

  But then, there was that conversation. Robert silent–waiting–so he had said, “Would you like my suggestion?” “Of course” was the reply. Over eager. Even the way he was hunched forward. Christopher would’ve balked at the suggestion of needing a suggestion. As would Jessica. They clearly heard the voices in their head. (For what good that was doing them.) But for Robert, he ventured a suggestion: “I suggest take up English to pass the time. Fulfill your requirements. It’s a good gateway. It will leave the field wide open. You could teach, go into publishing, even law.” Robert cringed on the word “law.” Why had he cringed? Was he turning his suggestion into something more rigid? Why ask? He knew his grandson had, because look at where he was now: failing miserably his LSATs and now poking about Riverdale for a thesis when he should’ve been poking about the library. He graduated in the top three percent of his undergraduate class: he was too smart to not be good at law or literature. Clearly, Robert had reached that point where he could no longer learn for the sake of learning. It needed a purpose. He needed a purpose. As his grandfather, maybe he should’ve told his grandson some of this. But he wouldn’t. Robert needed to learn these things on his own. And he was progressing (shown by his increasing absence and discontent). If he hadn’t been evolving, then, as his grandfather, he would’ve said something.

  A stuffiness in his sinuses: he wasn’t breathing.

  Billowing his chest as he sucked in a deep breath, he sat up, then raised his paper once more. “ECONOMIC CRI–” He’d call Eliza about the next bouquet, cake, and swatch samples. Once family time was over. And his grandchildren were fooling themselves if they thought this was how every family time was going to be. This was just the beginning. Of a progression.

  Over his shoulder: Christopher, staring out the window.

  Bending the paper: Jessica, music pumping. Her mouth lip syncing. Eyes shut tight. Tighter. What fluff nowadays could elicit such a response? And there: a droplet squeezing itself free from the clamped eyelid only to be flicked away by the swaying of a hand as if shooing a fly. She rolled over, folding her arms tightly into her as another sentimental tear squeezed loose.

  She wiped the tear, and let her grip around herself relax. The lyric change got her every time in that song. Well, not every time. Just when she thought about how she needed a man. Not “needed,” but “had gone a prolonged time without the feeling of reciprocated emotion that is necessary for healthy living.” “Needed” was too loaded of a term. Needed. Neediness. Needle. Kneaded. She needed a grip. She needed to take control. Take this Rich matter–because she (and Claire) seemed to know where this was going–head on. All day she’d been obsessing on various levels of neurotic, and now she knew he had her number which meant–meant what?–that now she’d obsess over whether or not he was going to call while lying here being coerced by sappy, but gorgeous love songs to have emotions that were supposed to be some substitute for living? Like hell.

  She reached beneath the cushions and pulled out her phone, held down two, which led to “Claire” appearing on the screen, then Claire herself, to whom Jessica raised a finger to her lips; Claire nodded. Feeling along the phone’s edge she felt a groove and, using the tip of her finger, unsheathed a stylus. She tapped the screen with the stylus’s tip, causing the screen to release a white glow that radiated into a bluish gray halo.
On the screen, she used the stylus to write, “Rich #,” then the message disappeared with a double tap. She waited. For a moment. Maybe–the screen flashed, saying, “Ahhhh 599-7789.” “Thanks,” replied Jessica. [Claire:] “Go easy on him.” [Jessica:] “Not sleeping with him.” [Claire:] “I know, dear. Hehe. Go call. Ciao, bella.” [Jessica:] “Chau.” Double tap–the screen cleared. “Casino Night.” Tap. Dial Pad. 5. 9. 9. 7. 7. 8. 9. Tap. Waited. “Sending...” “Sending…” Sending…” Hurry up. “Sent.”

  She dug her feet into the cushions. She hadn’t thought about this part–the waiting. What was she doing? She should’ve just–the screen lit. “What?” said the phone. [Jessica:] “Friday. 8. Tux.” This shouldn’t’ve been a riddle. Surely, Grandfather invited his father. Out of obligation. The man was on the academy board. “Okay, call you tonight?” said Rich. [Jessica:] “No. See you Friday.” Give a meter; take a kilo. And she’d done enough against the grain moves for one day. She tapped the “X” in the top left corner–the phone shut itself down.

  It was done. And everything was so aligned. Claire was right at her phone. Rich at his. She tingled. Even Eliza fell into place. Now that she’d have to actually put thought into a dress, she could have Eliza man the racks of gowns that would now need to be sent. But she’d need an expert opinion on which to wear. She’d need Christopher, and to get Christopher she would need a game plan, his disposition so fickle: sometimes so ready to help like with prom when he sat in her room on the burnt gold hassock like Atlas, but mind projected more outward than inward, saying, “No, not those bracelets…the diamond pendant…hoop earrings?…dehoochify please…less Elizabeth…more Audrey.” Hm. His prom was about a year away now.

  Raising herself on elbow, she glanced over the egg-white sofa’s arm to see her little brother sitting in the window’s sill. What did he want? Where did he want his life to go? Where did she want her life to go? The sill. If he wanted to go outside–Christopher picked up the tome at his side and opened it.

  She squinted, but still couldn’t see that the tome, whose gold leafing glinted with the streaming sunlight so late after the noon was The Complete Works of Mark Twain, taken at Dr. Hibbert’s suggestion, and contained in that volume (contained because Christopher pushed it so deep in the creases and mentally chewed on it as if it were the published text) was a piece of paper, a portion of story he had written about a boy, waiting at a bus stop, thinking about the volleyball that had “accidentally” been spiked into his head, the friend who thought him blank, flat, a board for reverberated sound, and the green houses he used to build out of green blocks, but he never got far in reading the story he had loved writing–hand racing across the page, mind locked in, head abuzz, time lost–because of the comments–the criticisms–about how the story was self-indulgent (so what he wrote what he enjoyed?), unrestrained (wasn’t expression the point?), and bloated (everyone needed space to think) written at the bottom by one Dr. Hibbert which, to Christopher, proved true one of his theories: that the redundancy of “creative” in “creative writing” was necessary to mask how uncreative the craft could be and to create a disillusionment so the dronings of artistic authorities (an oxymoron?) could buzz like the humming of florescent lights in rooms undisturbed by the waves of genuine discourse, a.k.a. the generating and, most importantly, questioning of opinions veiled as conventional fact (a definite oxymoron)–creating an invisible contract with some conditioned stereotype that dictated that he, or anyone, should not be creating worlds uncentered on plotted conflict, or not driving towards a rehashing of some moral any literate learned when they were eight–six–five–or lacking some pop psyc insight that put the novel on par with a self-help book, because heaven forbid someone, a character, did something–like waited for a bus, walked into a rosery–for the all too simple purpose of just fulfilling some unconscious social obligation to go to school or to just shop around, taking in the roses crossed with peonies to create roses that blossomed fuller, bursting from the middle with more petalled layers, or tulipped roses whose buds shot up before frothing over into petals with arrow-like points, or lotused roses unfolding more broadly and sitting in giant leaves, floating on the river’s surface, growing from a thorny, vine-like stem that grew from the river’s bottom–viewed out of curiosity, a way to spend a day, a moment appreciated for a moment’s sake instead of being usurped, drained of all energy to fill some neurotic psychic void. He sighed. It was time for a change of mind, a new way, which honestly wasn’t that new.

  He let the tome fall between his legs; he wasn’t into Twain anyway, and he didn’t care to pinpoint why. In the time it took him to figure out why, he could’ve done something much more constructive, like pinpointing what he did like. What right did Dr. Hibbert have for devaluing his opinion, his feelings, just because they were emotion-based? This was writing. Not law.

  He took up his pad and his pen. There were centuries of literature–art–to be inspired by, and he wasn’t going to let the dear doctor’s insistence on preaching Hemingway, Twain, and their derivatives stand in his way, so he wrote, “Edna Chaste was walking and, struck by the beauty of the flowers, entered the rosery.” That was it? He read, “Edna Chaste was walking and, struck by the beauty of the flowers, entered the rosery.” On currents of rebellion and righteousness, that was what he had written. He’d go with it. But another time. He was tired: the pad and pen slipped through his legs and on top of the tome of complete collected works.

  He wanted to do something. And not in that world-changing way. Something selfish, but not self-centered (he was too aware of how little any thing had to do with him), but probably self-absorbed, within his right, because he was young, so he’d have to compensate by caring even more about himself because, with due reason, no one cared: Grandfather was helping those who truly needed help pursue great things with his scholarship; Father was ensuring their fates were as independent to this abstract notion of economy as possible, if possible, but maybe just the pursuit–the belief–did enough to ensure their security; Robert was off to become a man of letters, the future uptaker of dialogues on academic hills, a credit to the race; Jessica...Jessica...Well, she was just as self-absorbed as he was, and this mutuality was why they could bond over a distance even though it kept them from bonding in closer proximity.

  He could understand the need to help, but not feel it. He was lacking sympathy, but not unsympathetic, because he knew there was sympathy to be had. Maybe when he had gotten to Spain, felt love, talked with one eyed fishermen in forgotten ports, he’d be more capable of leaving himself, not just seeing, but feeling others. There had to be more to him than the smart ass exterior, the frustration, the anger that bubbled because he saw oppression in a mere fling of the hand or judgmental righteousness in a mere glance that could have just of easily been induced by floating on a stray strand of memory. There had to be more to an individual than some tendencies; if people wanted to distill themselves to a quantifiable fraction of an essence or a collection of achievements or a series of sympathies for inflicted injuries, then so be it, because life could be such a bitch–why not make it easier? But he’d take the trouble, the inconvenience, the responsibility, and hence the consequences–being friendless and argumentative–as long as it meant he got to believe he was more. And some day, he’d know what more meant.

  Sitting there: no thought, just Walter trimming hedges, and the gateway, the arch into the new garden he hadn’t yet visited, which he should’ve visited, perhaps–

  Creaking steps. Robert must’ve returned. But more than one pair of feet: he was with someone.

  Scooching down, he looked into the window pane: Nothing, just Walter; then two headless reflections–one green, one pink–bobbing into the room.

  Robert was the one in lime green; Stephen in pink. Both in khakis. Both wishing Stephen could’ve gone home. But Grandfather had insisted. They both consented and now stood before Horatio Crawford, Jessica to his side.

  “Grandfather,” said Robert. “Stephen Dawes.”<
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  Grandfather stood, extended his hand, and said, “My, you’ve grown; it’s been years. You’re reputation for photography proceeds you though. Your father talks about you admirably.”

  “Thank you,” said Stephen, taking the hand. “I’m happy to help anyway I can.”

  “You did a portrait of Mrs. Salloway.” Grandfather eased back into his chair. “She can’t stop...” Robert looked at Jessica staring at Stephen, who seemed to wobble under the attention. But perhaps he just had a long day. Or was reacting to Grandfather’s gaze instead. Or perhaps was still trying to think of ways to dodge Claire. Poor Claire. Putting up with such a dit wit. Robert had confirmed she was home, picking up Steven’s reader. She deserved someone who would’ve rushed to her the moment she touched foot back in West Umpton. Where had manners gone? And speaking of manners: Christopher, beyond the circular tables displaying the vase of roses–merlot, or perhaps a mutated batch that came out shiraz instead?–in the window sill, probably pining over some self-centered adolescent problem.

  Crrrrrrrrshhhhh.

  “Oh, sorry, and of course,” said Stephen. “I’d be happy to help Jessica plan the art exhibition.”

  “Excellent,” said Grandfather.

  Christopher was still, as if a conversation wasn’t even occurring in his presence.

  “Excuse me?” said Jessica.

  “We discussed this. At our meeting earlier? You are indeed wonderful at artistic organization.”

  “True.”

  Robert passed Grandfather, passed the roses dyed beyond their natural color, and furthered himself closer to the picture window until he stood over his brother, his rude, inconsiderate–