The Lockhart Women, page 2
“We just saw O. J. on the freeway! He looked right at me.” Everyone seems suitably impressed, so she goes on. “He came into my restaurant once, a long time ago.”
“Your restaurant?” Franks laughs.
Linda gets up from one of the couches. “They say he’s heading to his mother’s house to turn himself in.”
Linda could not possibly have chosen a less attractive outfit. The elastic waist on her skirt bunches across her stomach. The paisley-printed tunic doesn’t go with the turquoise earrings or the clunky brown sandals. Her eyes are a nondescript color and her lashes and eyebrows are almost invisible. She doesn’t color her hair and she should. The woman needs a makeover.
“Let me get you a beer,” Linda says.
“Nothing for me,” Brenda says as Frank follows Linda out of the living room past the dining room table loaded with gift bags and cards. She could have easily put a housewarming gift together. Gift bags are her strong point. “I didn’t realize there was a party tonight. Frank didn’t give me enough time to change.” She knows it doesn’t matter what she wears to these things since no one gets dressed up. Sue and Julie still have on their uniforms. Still, she believes in making an effort. She glances down at her wide-legged jeans and midriff top, which suddenly feels a little too slinky, the way it gapes open above her cleavage. She adjusts the neckline and tries to ignore her daughters’ expressions across the room. They don’t think she should wear midriffs anymore. They’d rather she dressed like a nun.
Bill raises the glass of scotch in his hand in salute from where he’s leaning against the wall of the dining room, untucked shirt, loosened tie, face slightly flushed. He’s a softer and slouchier version of Frank with the same Irish coloring, nearly handsome with a tendency to be obnoxiously extroverted. “You always look glamorous, Brenda.”
“You’re definitely our fashion plate.” Sue’s tone borders on sarcasm, but Brenda lets it slide.
“We missed you at step class last night,” Brenda says. “We learned a new routine.”
Sue says she couldn’t talk herself into going. “It was PennySaver day. I was beat when I got home.”
The postal uniform doesn’t do Sue any favors. She’s slim and trim above her waist with narrow shoulders and small breasts but look out below. Her hips, ass, and thighs are enormous. PennySaver or not, Sue needs the exercise.
“You should have seen Brenda,” Julie says. “Up in front of the class with all the twenty-year-olds.”
“You were working hard too,” Brenda says.
Julie is skinny with ridiculously sized double-D-cup breasts, a hawklike nose, and thin hair that she wears in an unattractive bun. Last night she was in the back of the class, talking more than moving, but everyone needs a little encouragement.
“You know what I just realized, Brenda?” Bill says. “You look a lot like Nicole Simpson. No wonder O. J. was staring at you. He probably thought he was seeing a ghost.”
“Do you think so?” Brenda smiles. “We’re the same age, but Nicole’s chin is different than mine.”
“You’re not the same age,” Sue says. “Nicole Simpson was only thirty-five. You’ll be thirty-eight this year, won’t you?”
“Thanks for reminding me.” Sue will be forty next year, Brenda is about to say when Linda comes back with Frank and says, “There’s food in the kitchen if you girls are hungry and some Cokes in the fridge.” Linda turns toward Brenda. “Would the girls like to watch a movie upstairs?”
“We can’t stay long.” She tries not to stare at Linda’s big horsey teeth and crinkled neck and wonders how old she is and why she’s so anxious and awkward. The woman can barely maintain eye contact.
“What movies do you have?” Allison asks.
“I just bought When Harry Met Sally. I know it’s kind of corny.”
“They’ve seen it before,” Brenda says, but both girls nod and follow Linda up the stairs as if she’s the Pied Piper. Brenda trails behind them, taking in the framed diplomas and certificates. What single, career women hang on their walls, she supposes, instead of pictures of their families. Impressive, but sad.
“I might as well give you guys the nickel tour,” Linda tells Allison and Peggy, still ignoring Brenda. She laughs nervously. “My bedroom’s to the right.”
A beautifully embroidered Mexican peasant dress lies across the foot of the bed next to a ratty pair of slippers. Brenda walks closer to examine the dress. “This is pretty,” she says, fingering the hem. The colors are vivid, the design intricate. It looks like an expensive work of art.
“I spent my senior year of college in Mexico City. Let me pop in the movie. The VCR’s in there.” Linda hurries to the second bedroom.
I’ve made her uncomfortable, Brenda realizes, which isn’t unusual. Women can be jealous of her sometimes, especially women who do absolutely nothing to make themselves more attractive, don’t exercise, eat whatever they want, and barely run a comb through their hair. She glances around the room at the framed album covers on the walls and recognizes most of the classic rock bands Frank likes so much. Crosby, Stills, and Nash. The Eagles. Fleetwood Mac.
Linda crouches down on the floor and puts the video tape in the player. It spits out immediately. “I had it in backward.” She tries once more, but when the video starts, the picture jumps back and forth in a frenetic loop. “I always have trouble with this stupid player. Should I adjust the tracking?”
“Give it a minute,” Peggy says. “Ours does the same thing.” The movie starts, and Linda sits back on her heels, laughing with the girls at just about everything Billy Crystal says. Brenda leans in the doorway, watching. This is actually nice of Linda. Even a sappy comedy is a better choice than letting them watch O. J.’s Bronco coast toward Brentwood and certain death by police. She remembers the video of the Rodney King beating playing over and over again on the news not so long ago and shivers. She doesn’t want the girls to see something like that on live TV. Linda might be the kind of woman who would make a good friend.
“You want something to drink?” Linda asks, standing.
“White wine if you’ve got it.” Brenda follows her back down the stairs.
“You can use this.” Linda takes a glass out of one of the gift bags. “I’m really more of a beer drinker.”
That explains the belly. She used to like beer too, but it’s too fattening. Red wine gives her a headache, hard liquor doesn’t seem sociable, and mixed drinks go down too fast. She started sipping white wine because she doesn’t like the taste.
“Just a splash.” The remains of a six-foot-long sandwich sit on a board on the counter in the kitchen, next to a bowl of chips and some onion dip. None of it looks remotely appetizing.
Linda grabs a handful of chips. “It’s nice to finally meet the girls. Frank talks about them all the time.”
Linda’s eyes sparkle when she says Frank’s name, which is normal. Women adore Frank and he loves the attention. It’s a full-time job making sure his eyes eventually refocus on her and it gets harder every year. Time and gravity are powerful foes. At least she doesn’t have to worry about this woman.
“Frank says you transferred here from Denver. How do you like California?”
“I grew up in Torrance and went to school in Berkeley. I’ve been waiting a long time for a job to come up closer to my mom. She’s not in the best health.”
“What is it you do at the post office?”
“I’m a mail processing analyst. My background’s in engineering. I’ve always loved math.”
“Our Peggy wants to be a CPA and do taxes if you can believe that. It sounds so boring.”
“You can make good money with a tax practice.”
“Well, I’m terrible at math. And Frank isn’t much better.”
“I’d be happy to help Allison if she needs tutoring. Frank says she’s struggling a little. Did you talk her into going to summer school?”
Where in the world did that idea come from? “Allison’s enjoying her friends this summer,” Brenda says and takes a sip of wine. The taste is smoother than she expected.
Enjoying her friends is one way to put it. Just before school let out for the summer, Allison announced she needed birth control pills because she was going to start having sex with her boyfriend. Although Kevin Nelson is definitely not the right boy for Allison, Brenda made appointments with her gynecologist for both girls and bought a jumbo-sized box of condoms, insisting they keep a few in their purses. She watches the news. Sex isn’t like it was when she was young and everyone was jumping into bed with each other, pregnancy their only worry. Sex can kill you these days if you’re not careful.
She and Linda go back to the living room and watch what seems more of a police escort than a car chase since the Bronco is still barely going twenty miles an hour. There’s no place to sit once Linda takes the spot next to Frank on the couch, so Brenda glances around the room at Linda’s eclectic collections of Indian pottery, Japanese fans, African woven masks. Linda’s either quite the world traveler or she’s a frequent Cost-Plus shopper. It seems a little show-offy and way too much to dust.
Frank isn’t paying attention, so she tops off her glass in the kitchen and slides the screen door open to a small patio. There isn’t much to see. A barbecue, a table with two chairs, a couple of trash cans. Linda could use a few potted plants and a fountain to cheer the place up. She goes back in the kitchen and down the hallway to the bathroom and stares in the mirror over the sink, wondering if it’s time to get her eyes lifted. At least her neck is still good.
“We saw O. J. at the airport once,” Julie is saying in the living room. “He’s very good-looking.”
“He’s the real deal,” Bill says. “Heisman Trophy winner, NFL most valuable player, Pro Football Hall of Fame.”
“He left a suicide note,” Rick says. “That makes him sound guilty.”
“They wouldn’t have charged him with two counts of murder if they didn’t have evidence,” Frank says.
“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?” Brenda asks the mirror. At least there’s something different to talk about tonight instead of the usual topics: the post office and the people who work at the post office. She goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and pours the rest of the bottle into her glass, making a note of the label. The wine is tastier than what she usually drinks. Peggy will need to drive home.
Linda’s refrigerator is too large. It sticks out almost a foot in front of the stove. She’d move it across the room, rip out these tile counters and put in granite, and do a nice laminate floor. She’s got an eye for this sort of thing. She’d wanted to be a designer once upon a time before she met Frank.
A huge real estate magnet holds an SPCA calendar in the center of the fridge. The month of June features an extremely ugly cat with a long, thin face, spectral, like something from an Egyptian tomb. The appointments on the calendar (doctor next Thursday, haircut in two weeks, dinner with Mom every Sunday) show that poor Linda with all her degrees and fancy trips isn’t exactly living a wild, single life. She walks back through the living room, heads up the stairs, and sits down on the floor to watch the movie with her girls. The screen is split, showing Harry and Sally talking on the telephone while watching their respective television sets in their respective bedrooms.
“I don’t know why Meg Ryan is so freaked about not being married,” Peggy says. “She’s only thirty-two.”
“Thirty-two’s old,” Allison says. “Especially if you want to have kids.”
“Thirty two’s not old,” Brenda says. “I wish I’d waited longer to start my family.”
“I know,” Allison says. “Peggy was an accident and I’m the surprise. Story of our lives.”
It’s the story she’s always told them, but she’s alarmed at the bitterness in Allison’s voice. “Don’t be silly. You two are the best things that ever happened to me.”
“That’s kind of depressing, Mom,” Peggy says. “Since not much has happened to you.”
“That’s not true,” Brenda says, although it is.
“Harry’s right,” Allison says. “Men and women can’t just be friends. Men are always going to want to have sex.”
Brenda sighs. Both girls seem intent on pushing her buttons tonight.
“You’re the sex expert,” Peggy says.
“You’re jealous. At least I have a boyfriend.”
“Kevin’s nothing to be jealous of.”
“If you two are going to argue, we should go home.” Brenda agrees with Peggy, though—she’s never been impressed with Kevin Nelson either. In elementary school he was a spoiled kid whose two fat parents held him back a year, so he’d be more competitive in sports. He’s all grown up now, another blond, blue-eyed golden California surfer boy, tanned, muscular, and way too full of himself. According to the newspapers, he’s Ocean View’s big hope for this year’s football season, as if that means anything. He’ll end up doing construction just like his father. Somehow, she’s going to convince Allison she can do better.
“We should go home anyway. You still want to drive, Peggy?”
“The movie barely started. And we’re not arguing.”
“I want to stay,” Allison says.
“Fine. We’re leaving as soon as it finishes.”
She heads down the stairs. Frank isn’t sitting on the couch in the living room and neither is Linda, which seems weird. Brenda retrieves another bottle from the fridge, but she can’t find a corkscrew. Where’s our hostess? she wonders as she hears voices outside.
“I wanted to meet the girls,” Linda says, “but I really don’t understand why you brought her. This is awkward for everyone.”
“She invited herself. I couldn’t exactly kick her out of the truck.”
Brenda’s heart pounds as she slides the screen door open. The way Frank and Linda sit together feels overly familiar and makes absolutely no sense. A wet drop from the wine bottle lands on her toe and she shivers despite the warm evening air. They look up at the same moment. Frank drops his hand into his lap.
Linda stands immediately. “Are the girls okay with the movie? I have others they might like better.”
“The girls are fine. I was looking for a corkscrew.”
“You’re drinking?” Frank asks.
“Peggy can drive us home. This is a cute place, Linda. I bet you could fix it up and flip it. We’re thinking about selling and buying something nicer ourselves. Upgrading to a new development in Orchard Hills. It’s in a much better school district.”
Frank shakes his head. “That is absolutely not what we’re doing.”
“The thing about Frank is he has no imagination.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Even in the dark, Brenda can see Linda’s blushing. “I’ll find the corkscrew,” she says, taking the bottle.
“Can we go?” Brenda asks after Linda scurries inside.
“We just got here. At least let the girls finish their movie.”
“What are you doing out here alone with her in the dark?”
“Talking.”
“About what? What could you possibly have to say to her? She’s a strange one.”
“Please don’t drink anymore.” He stands and goes inside.
She takes a few deep breaths before she follows him. She’s misread the situation. The wine has gone to her head.
JUST before 8:00 p.m., O. J. pulls into the driveway of his Brentwood home. For a long time, it seems like the police are going to shoot him, or that he may shoot himself, but in the end, no guns are fired, and he’s arrested. Brenda’s relieved but confused about what happens next. She’d like to hear more, but Frank changes the channel back to the basketball game. No one else seems to mind. They all start talking about the new flat-sorting machine and she nearly groans out loud.
What did she expect, marrying someone who only wanted a steady check and ten paid holidays? Frank started as a mail handler as soon as he came home from Vietnam, and it’s admirable how he’s worked his way up from unloading trucks on the dock to supervising the clerks who sort the mail, and most recently to managing distribution operations. But it’s still the post office, mindless blue-collar work. No skills required. Although Frank is finally wearing a suit and tie to work, he’s making less money since he doesn’t get paid for overtime anymore, even though he puts in more hours. And judging from the happy hour receipts she finds in his pockets, he’s spending a lot of money lately trying to impress someone.
“I’m not sure the Santa Ana plant has enough room for a flat-sorter,” Rick says.
“There’ll be plenty of room once we junk the letter sorter,” Bill says. “They’ll have more information when they come back from New Orleans.”
“Frank gets to go to all the cool cities,” Rick says. “The only place I’ve ever gone for work is Kansas City.”
“Good strip clubs in Kansas City,” Bill says.
Sue punches his arm. “How would you know that?”
Bill grins. “Just something I heard.”
Brenda goes to the kitchen and refills her wineglass. Bill said “they” as in plural and it doesn’t sound like he or Rick are going to New Orleans with Frank. She stares at the ugly cat on the calendar and lifts the page to July. There’s a photograph of a pit bull puppy and the letters “NOLA” written across the third week. This can’t be right. She puts the glass down carefully on the counter and goes back to the living room.
“You’re taking Linda to New Orleans?” Her voice is too loud, and all the conversations immediately cease.
Frank turns and looks at her, his eyes steady. “She’s the analyst on the project.”
His tone is infuriatingly condescending, and she feels her blood pressure rise. “How convenient. You must think I’m an idiot.”
“I think you’re drunk.”
“What’s wrong?” Linda asks as she comes out of the bathroom, acting all innocent. To think she imagined this woman as a possible friend.
“What wrong? Frank’s an asshole. And you’re just another one of his cunts.”
