Chapter Ten
CHAPTER TEN
Occasionally Patty slept over. There was a cottage on the property with a bathroom and kitchenette; when Joan and Bill had late outings, Patty would put Jamie to bed and then spend the night.
Sometimes Gene would also stay, and in the morning Patty would help Joan with breakfast while Gene and Bill went out for fresh orange juice and good coffee.
Some afternoons, after Joan had been in the garden, she would return to the kitchen and find Jamie helping Patty roll rice balls for lunch.
There would be cut seaweed on the counter, scrambled egg pressed and sliced into thin strips, fresh air from the open windows, and Joan would experience such immense pleasure that she thought she could drown in it.
Move in, Joan wanted to beg. Please, stay with us always!
She knew Patty was unhappy with her current living arrangements: she and Gene shared a house with Gene’s mother and brother, as well as the brother’s wife and children, in a compressed multigenerational arrangement.
At the very least, Joan wished to offer them permanent use of the cottage.
This was not possible, however, as at times Bill’s family would visit, for which the cottage was required.
At least once a year, the Lauders gathered for a major holiday.
The family defined only two holidays as major: Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Come April, the negotiations began over who would host what—this process was decades old and had always been managed by the women, Bill’s sister Bridget and sister-in-law Gillian.
They never included Joan, though whether this was deliberately to exclude or they assumed she wasn’t interested, Joan wasn’t sure.
Each summer she and Bill were informed whether they would host a holiday and, if so, which one.
This year, Bill’s family was visiting for Thanksgiving.
“What is he, five now?” Bridget asked about Jamie when they gathered the first evening.
It was the meal the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, which the family referred to as a casual dinner.
Joan had learned by now that the difference between a “casual” and a “festive” Lauder dinner was the former required one fewer meat dish; otherwise it was still held in the dining room with a dress code and copious alcohol.
Bridget was tall and broad-shouldered and, despite her frame, often stuffed herself into narrow floral dresses; she seemed to Joan the sort of healthy American who should be off chopping firewood or riding horses, although she’d never seen Bridget doing either.
“He’s two,” Joan said. She wondered if this was a comment on her parenting.
The Lauders did not believe in separate children’s seating, and thus instead of eating at his low round table, as he usually did, Jamie sat propped up on pillows on one of the adult chairs next to Joan, while she kept her arm suspended in midair across his chest so he wouldn’t fall.
Joan had not served Jamie the adults’ food, a practice she knew Bridget also disapproved of; he had eaten a pork bun and a bowl of steamed egg.
“Two!” Bridget reared back her head, as if children possibly appeared younger from farther distances. “Goodness, I don’t remember my own being so large. Did you know he was two?” She looked to Theo.
“Yes, I was aware,” Theo said tonelessly, staring at his brandy.
Bill’s son had arrived late the night before and gone directly into his father’s study, from which he’d emerged with a check of a sum Joan was curious about but would never ask.
Joan knew Theo usually called Agatha for money, as every few months Agatha would then call Bill to pay her back.
“I suppose it’s just been so long since I had them,” Bridget said. (Bridget had two adult children, both estranged, whom she never spoke of.) “It’s funny, isn’t it, a new generation.”
“There were quite a lot at our hotel in Oahu,” Juliet interjected. She had recently returned from her honeymoon. “Remind me to specify adult-only resorts on our next trip.”
“ Tons of Japanese,” Juliet’s husband, Paul, said. “So many they actually had sake on the room service menu.”
“Paul guzzled a bottle our second night.”
“I have some sake in the kitchen, if you like,” Joan offered.
“Mmm!” Paul said. “Me likey sake!” Joan held her breath that he wouldn’t pull his eyes into slits, as he had a penchant for crude racial imitations.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Bridget muttered.
After dessert, the family moved to the living room.
Joan opened the doors to the garden; she had rearranged the furniture so guests could easily move in and out.
Juliet and Paul dropped onto a couch, her head on his shoulder, while Theo began to remove books from a shelf, setting the hardcovers on the ground.
“Can I help you with something?” Joan asked.
“No,” Theo said shortly. He continued to stack books. Joan looked at Bill, who raised his eyebrows.
Once all the books were removed, Theo lifted the ledge on which they had been set. From the space underneath, he removed a bottle of bourbon.
“I forgot that was there,” Bill marveled. He handed Joan a glass of port.
“Well, I certainly didn’t,” Theo said, and Juliet laughed. Jamie toddled to the bottle, interested in its conjuring. “Jamie,” Joan called softly. She took his hand and led him to his room, to escape the next rounds of drinking.
Now: it wasn’t like Joan was a teetotaler.
Over her marriage to Bill, she’d slowly built her tolerance for alcohol, developing a particular fondness for champagne.
The way the Lauders consumed, however, was on a different level: they drank and drank, with no discernible impact or joy, until they passed out.
The year prior, Bridget’s husband, Martin, had vomited onto Henry’s new Turkish rug, which caused a minor uproar; Martin had stumbled about, shouting that Henry could simply get a new rug down the street since everyone knew he didn’t actually purchase it in Ephesus, like he claimed, but rather some seedy local emporium.
At such times Joan didn’t understand why the Lauders made such a big deal about holidays; they always seemed so miserable throughout.
Joan read to Jamie in her lap until he began to yawn and rub his eyes. She then tucked him into bed. Once he fell asleep, Joan lay on the carpet, occasionally half rising to sip at the snifter of port she’d brought to the room.
There came from the hall the sound of footsteps and soft murmurs. “Where’s Joan? Is she sleeping?” Joan recognized the voice as that of Henry, Bill’s younger brother. Henry always wore a sport jacket, even in the mornings, and was prone to immature jokes which he bookended with a high, reedy laugh.
“He’s big for two, isn’t he?” This was Martin, Bridget’s husband.
“The Chinese aren’t known for being large .”
“The thing I don’t get is why Bill allowed it. He always said he was done after the twins.”
“You’ve got to admire her persuasive powers. By popping out the little guy, she’s set for life.”
“You know,” Henry said musingly, “I’d have thought Evie would have made a go at it. She never struck me as the self-sufficient sort.”
“Oh, Evie must be steaming .”
There was a burst of laughter and then the voices faded. Joan reached for the port and downed the rest in a gulp. She didn’t swallow, but instead lay on the carpet with the alcohol in her mouth and let it burn the back of her throat.
Oh, go on, no point in holding back—there was no face to save, no one could see her.
Joan swished the port in her mouth once more and then, finally, swallowed.
The waves broke. And the shame—oh yes, it came.
And it rolled. And rolled. Since her first encounters with Bill’s family, Joan had been uncertain how they saw her.
The Lauders never treated her with anything less than pleasantness, and yet she had always detected from their interactions an undertone of transience.
There have been others before you, was how she received the message. And there will be others after.
The snifter in her hand was smooth and cool, of heavy crystal.
After the wedding, Joan had been surprised to receive from Theo and Juliet a set of Baccarat glassware.
She had prominently displayed the flutes and tumblers in the open cabinets in the kitchen until Bill informed her, somewhat embarrassed, that this had actually been his wedding crystal with Agatha—the pieces had gone to Agatha in the divorce and apparently at some point been appropriated by Juliet and Theo.
Why, they must have meant it to be cruel, Joan had thought.
But wasn’t it also Joan’s fault? She hadn’t thought of Juliet and Theo’s feelings when she married Bill, mostly because Bill hadn’t.
They were adults, he told Joan. Well, yes, Joan might have said.
But they are still your children. They will always be your children.
Next to Joan, Jamie whimpered in his sleep.
He flung out a hand, where it banged against the bed frame.
Joan rose and gently placed his hand back underneath his blanket.
She had recently purchased a pack of glow-in-the-dark stars which she’d arranged on his ceiling.
The glow was fading; they only ever lasted a little while, no matter how much light you gave them in advance.
When Joan returned to the living room, Bill waved her over. “Where were you?” he asked. Next to Bill sat Juliet and Paul. Paul’s face was red and sweaty, and he was kicking the ottoman, lightly yet steadily, with the tip of his oxford.
“I was putting Jamie to bed.”
“Is he asleep now?”
“Yes.” Joan poured herself a glass of Sancerre. “He wanted to hear some stories. From the Frog and Toad book.”
“You were gone for so long. I was about to look for you.”
“Bedtime stories. That’s nice.” Paul raised a glass in her direction. “Mommy speak good English!”
“Please shut up,” Joan said. For a second her vision went gray and there was a roaring in her ears. She finished her glass without looking at anyone and went to bed.
She was drunk, was what it was, Joan said to Bill after.
“Is that so,” Bill said. She hadn’t bothered turning to face him when he climbed into bed, even though she was still awake, which she’d never done before. She normally greeted him. He stared at her head, her black hair flowing over the pillow. After a moment he reached out and stroked it.