CHAPTER 4: Kim

I WATCHED HER Leave, swaying ever so slightly, probably a little drunk. It was a polished performance, head high, hips tucked in and legs that moved like a skater, each step a slithering stroke. I knew I’d meet her eventually, perhaps at a luncheon, but I never expected to see her at church. Joy Volkman, marginally pretty in a magazine girl kind of way, making the most of what she had - wispy hair carefully colored and just the right length, body firm and tan, upper management and nouveau riche, one of those swelling the fringes of Worthington. I knew her type - smiling too much, trying too hard, commanding the sandbox at pre-school, always taking charge. She seemed to be in her early thirties and judging from her conversation, hadn’t cracked a book since high school. Good looks might be visible, but intellect survives.

Bill sat elbow to elbow with Steve Rothberg talking business. Boring. Were this a serious discussion about humanities or literature, I might be interested. I’d experienced college as offbeat with a strong feminist focus, mentored by a few professors. I’d visited their quarters and remember it being pleasant. But that was a while ago. By the time I graduated, the avant-garde had faded. So I went home to marry Bill who was already immersed in his law practice. Still under thirty, he was going bald and putting on the pounds that were to become his albatross. But he was a familiar presence and it seemed the most natural thing to do. I’d had my fling. It was time to settle into a community where family meant something. Even now I’m at a loss as to a better alternative.

I shifted in my seat and sighed ostentatiously, hoping to catch Bill’s attention, but garnered only a frown warning me not to interrupt. So I joined Mirabelle who was staring across the room like she was meditating. Or maybe she was only mentally screening out the riffraff. I considered asking, but that would invite another lecture on our respective cultures. So I tried small talk. “Looks like we got our selves a new minister.”

“The numbers tell the story. I understand the vote was not unanimous,” she replied, turning her head slightly.

“Really? Who said that?”

“My husband, the bean counter.”

It was a term that offended her. I’d once used it in her presence and was rewarded with a diatribe on the misuse of language, a reference to her linguistic expertise. Mirabelle wore her academic degrees like a chip on her shoulder. “He’s not supposed to give out that information,” I countered.

“Perhaps. But it will soon be part of the board minutes for every one to see. That’s stated in the bylaws.”

“And I’ll bet you’ve read every word,” I said, keeping my voice light.

“Yes. If I make a commitment, I need to know what it’s about.” She paused, her voice suspended like in a question.

“I skimmed it. Pretty cut and dried.” The cliché was intended to irritate. “Neville had better read it as well. His future could hang on a word, a phrase, a sub-heading, in the same way as it did his predecessors.”

“Oh my, we’re back to that.”

“Better to be forearmed.”

“Neville is a trained counselor and should be able to understand behavior as well as the needs of the spirit.”

“Jack of all trades, master of none.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We need a man of God, someone who leads us in prayer and devotion. Daniel in the Lion’s Den fomenting trust in one another? Rub bish! Daniel exemplified faith in God. Anyone who reads his Bible knows that.”

There’s no zealot like a convert. “Good grief, Mirabelle, what’s wrong with you? A little PMS?”

She stood up, hiking her sari above her thin breasts. “Why do you Americans think that hormones explain everything?” And she was gone, storming into the haven of the lady’s room.

I sighed and looked at my watch. Most of the crowd had left and the buffet was being cleared for the dinner crowd. I got up to retrieve our jackets, anxious to go home. By now Mirabelle had returned, her face once more composed. An exchange of small talk bridged the rift, and together we peeled our husbands from their seats and ushered them out the door.

The men continued with their projections as we walked to the parking lot, looking to dig Amity out of a financial hole that, for all I knew, did not exist. Bill and I drove home in silence, arriving at the house that he had inherited. It was too big, even when the boys were young. But Bill insisted we keep it.

“Time to get the trees trimmed,” he said, looking at the splendid reds and yellows of early fall. “Make a note to call the landscaping service tomorrow.”

“It seems a shame to cut branches before the color reaches its height.”

“It’ll be a saving in the long run. Fewer leaves to rake, fewer hours to pay.” The garage door yawned open as he clicked the remote.

“Were I to keep a diary, it would contain nothing beyond house keeping items in terms of price and value added,” I declared.

“Why not? It made Thoreau famous. You can call it Walden. Titles can’t be copyrighted.”

Now inside, I moved to the front closet to hang up our jackets, closed the door and walked toward the living room. “I noticed you were talking to the visitors from out of town,” I said. “Do you think his wife is attractive?”

“I didn’t notice.” He looked around the room. “Let’s light the fire. It’s romantic on an autumn day.”

Surprised at the shift of mood, I poured two glasses of wine and sat in a chair next to the cold fireplace, waiting. My job was to take care of Bill. After that, there would still be time.

He returned and began laying the logs, scrunching sheets of newspaper under the grate, scattering kindling between the folds. From time to time he would look up and smile and I tried to smile back. Finally he sat back on his heels, surveying his handiwork with satisfaction.

“Got the matches?” I asked.

He felt around on the floor, then stood up and checked the mantel. “They’re supposed to be right here. Where did you put them?”

“I didn’t put them anywhere. Why am I always blamed?”

“Because you’re supposed to be running this house. Go check the kitchen.”

In the kitchen I found the box of matches next to the stove. Gulping down the last of my wine, I placed the empty glass on the sideboard and returned to the living room, handing the matches to Bill. “Want me to light it?”

“No, that’s okay. We should be a roaring fire in a very few minutes.”

I sat back on the floor leaning against the chair. The first match snapped twice but didn’t light. The second went out after singing the tips of his fingers. The third lit the kindling and flamed brightly but then went out, leaving the logs untouched.

“I’m getting cold. Should we turn on the furnace?”

“It’ll create too big a draft. Just be patient. It’s coming.”

“Did you check the damper?”

“Kim, do you always have to tell me what to do? Of course I checked it.” He pulled the chains inside the fireplace, sending puffs of black soot onto the lambs-wool rug.

“The damper’s open. See? So it’s ready to start.” He looked down at his hands, now blackened with soot. “I’ll need to wash up first.”

“It would have helped to think ahead.”

“You don’t have to preach!” Then his voice softened. “Sometimes a man gets sick of thinking ahead. For once it would be an adventure to be spontaneous like the animals we are.”

I shuddered. “Do I ever feel like an animal? No, thank God.”

“No, of course not. According to you, man is spirit and mind and soul. The rest isn’t worthy of a footnote.” He stood up. “I’m going upstairs to take a shower. Don’t hold dinner.”

I didn’t protest. Instead, I watched him storm up the stairs and listened for the sound of the water, then followed, going into the bed room to change into a knit pantsuit, then back to the kitchen to find something that would be suitable for a cold supper. Male menopause. Christ, would it ever end? I was setting out a platter of cold chicken and an array of salads, and heard his footsteps on the stairs. I braced myself for further recrimination: “I said. don’t hold dinner.”

When he didn’t appear, I looked out the window, just in time to see red taillights disappearing down the driveway. And that was the end of our Sunday.