Chapter Text
It was five months before Harge agreed to let Rindy spend the weekend with Carol. Up to then she’d had only visits, Harge's mother lurking nearby like a prudish vulture. Carol always ignored her, not caring, because Rindy was what mattered. So, when Harge announced one day that Rindy had been pestering him to let her spend the night at Carol’s, Therese thought she had never seen Carol so delighted, so surprised.
She was nervous and excited all week. She smiled more, laughed more. She made plans for the three of them to go to a zoo on Saturday, even bought the tickets ahead of time so they would not have to wait in line with an easily bored five-year-old. Therese bought some new rolls of film so that she would be able to take pictures all weekend, and when Carol realized this, she gave her a soft look of gratitude and adoration, that lit Therese up from the inside.
On Friday night, a half hour before Rindy was to arrive, Harge called. His ninety-four-year-old grandmother had come into town unexpectedly and was demanding to see Rindy. It couldn’t be helped. They would have to find another weekend. Carol could still see her on Sunday afternoon for a couple of hours if she liked.
Therese hovered nearby, Harge’s voice coming clearly through the line. She hugged her arms to her chest as anxiety charged through her. It was so much like the night last year, when Harge came and took Rindy away for Christmas. And as then, Carol became like a stranger. After the call ended, she stood awhile staring at the receiver, her expression frozen, caught in the most impotent rage that Therese had ever seen. Worse, even, than when she’d held a gun on the private detective. Therese wished all of the sudden that she had a gun. She thought about then she was ready to shoot Harge.
“Carol?” she said at last, tentative.
Carol didn’t answer her. She picked up the phone again and rang another number. She turned her back on Therese, and spoke rapidly and furiously into the phone, her voice low, as if she didn’t want Therese to hear. When she hung up, she straightened her shoulders and said to the room, almost like Therese wasn’t there, “I’m meeting Abby for a drink.”
She was gone a long time. It was nearly midnight when she stumbled back into the apartment, clearly drunk. Therese was relieved at least that she had taken a taxi instead of her own car. Therese went to her in the hallway to help her out of her coat, and Carol flinched from her.
“I’ve got it,” she snapped.
Therese balked, stepping back, wounded in spite of herself. She understood that Carol was hurting. She understood her rage and helplessness and grief. But she also thought that, after all this time, Carol was done with shutting her out. She watched Carol stumble past her, kicking off her shoes and throwing the coat on the sofa and making her way toward their bedroom. Therese followed her at a remove, watched her from the doorway as she began to strip out of her clothes.
“Have you eaten?” Therese asked.
Carol gave a cold, drunken laugh.
“Olives,” she said.
Therese said nothing at first, but Carol’s distance and coldness was beginning to pick at old wounds, to worry loose the stitches that, even after five months, Therese sometimes felt under the surface of her skin.
“Soaked in gin, I see.”
Carol scoffed and looked up at her. Her eyes, even drunk, were full of a fierce intelligence, and also mockery.
“Ah,” she said, “I’m to endure your judgment tonight as well.”
Therese said, “I’m not judging you, Carol. I only wish you would talk to me.”
“I’m done talking, Dearest,” she said. For the first time ever, her endearment felt like a slap. “I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to join me if you can stand it. There’s always the bed in Rindy’s room. Since it’s not being used.”
Therese sighed, irritated. Carol could be so theatrical sometimes, and right now she had no patience for it. No patience to be treated coldly and cruelly when all she wanted was to help. She left the bedroom, left Carol to her self-pity. Not long after, the telephone rang. It was Abby, checking that Carol had got home all right.
“Are you as drunk as she is?” asked Therese, not concealing her anger.
Abby sighed. She didn’t sound drunk, only sad. “Be gentle with her, would you, Therese? She’s taking it hard.”
Ordinarily Therese would have been mollified by this, but tonight she felt like there were razors everywhere, and it had not escaped her that in the moment of crisis, Carol had turned to Abby and not her.
“Next time try to get her home at a decent hour,” she said, and hung up.
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The following morning, Carol stayed in bed, hungover and miserable. Therese brought her coffee and a plate of toast, but there was little tenderness in it, and she didn’t stay. She had barely slept the night before, the space between her and Carol’s bodies seeming wide and barren as a desert. And now this morning, despite her hopes, Carol had barely said a word to her. She was distant, clearly still absorbed in her own thoughts.
Therese, growing steadily angrier over the morning, decided she would not sit around like a pathetic housewife waiting for Carol to honor her with her attention. Last week Dannie had invited her to a picnic today, in Central Park, but she had said no because of Rindy. Now, it seemed like the perfect distraction, and the perfect statement. She didn’t need Carol. She could get along very well without her.
She grabbed her camera and left without saying goodbye.
Dannie and Phil were there, and a couple of their other friends (not Richard, thank God). Dannie especially seemed glad to see her.
“Therese! Say, I thought you couldn’t make it?”
“Change of plans,” said Therese flatly, settling down on the blanket and displaying the two bottles of wine that she’d bought on the way over. Everyone cheered.
It was a beautiful September day, right on the cusp of autumn but still warm. Dannie’s sweetheart, a funny and cheerful girl named Anna, passed out sandwiches, and they all sat around and talked and laughed. The boys had brought a frisbee and after awhile they got up to play. The two other girls in their party went in search of one of the ice cream carts that were circling the park. Then it was just Anna sat next to Therese on the blanket.
“Dannie said you’d be with Carol all weekend?”
Dannie and Phil and Anna were Therese’s only friends who knew about her and Carol. Everyone else thought they were roommates, or at least pretended to.
“Oh, well,” Therese said, clearing her throat. “Carol turned out to be busy today.”
Anna gave her a considering look, but when Therese offered nothing else, she changed the subject to English literature, which she was studying at Barnard. Therese, being such a voracious reader, always found they had a lot to talk about in this department, and after awhile all thoughts of Carol vanished with the flow of conversation.
It was while they were in the middle of a rather passionate discussion of Strangers on a Train that Genevieve Cantrell showed up. Bright and cheerful and charming, she plopped down onto the blanket beside Therese.
“Why helloooo, ladies,” she said. “Let’s have some of that wine!”
Anna handed her a paper cup and they poured off the last of the second bottle between the three of them and toasted the end of summer. Therese had had two cups now, so she wasn’t drunk, but felt only relaxed and pleased with everything. She was even pleased to see Gen, who normally made her feel so nervous. They had seen each other a few times since the night of Dannie’s party, usually at social functions, once in a record shop. Gen knew about Carol. Apparently, Dannie had had to tell her, because she was, as he’d said it, ‘Plotting her attack.’ At the time this had mortified Therese, but now she only found it funny. Gen had dropped some of her most aggressive flirting, but flirting seemed a natural state for her, and so Therese was not surprised when the woman gave her a slow onceover.
“Looking good, Belivet,” she said, as if she were one of the boys.
Anna rolled her eyes. “Stop causing trouble, you! What if Carol were here?”
“Ah, but Carol is not here,” drawled Genevieve. “Which hasn’t escaped my notice. Spill, Therese. Where is your Grecian goddess?”
Therese wished very much that people would stop asking about Carol.
“Home,” she said.
“Didn’t she want to come along to our fine picnic?”
Before Therese could stop herself, she snorted, derisive. “I didn’t invite her.”
The minute the words got out, she regretted them. She regretted them more when Anna and Gen exchanged looks.
“I smell a lover’s tiff,” said Gen primly.
Therese sighed, angry at herself, and Anna said, “It’s all right, Therese. We don’t have to talk about—”
“So, what did she do?” interrupted Gen.
Therese made a dismissive gesture. She supposed she could tell them, maybe even she should, but she had never got the knack for that kind of openness. Perhaps if she had had more friends growing up, or crushes on boys, or learned, somehow, just what this sort of girl talk was meant to entail… but instead she felt only awkward and exposed.
Suddenly Gen put a hand on hers. She nearly pulled away. She never let anyone touch her but Carol. Still, Gen had put away her flirtatious act for the moment and was looking at her kindly.
“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” she said. “Just tell her to stop being a dunce, all right? We all know someone else will snatch you up if she’s not careful.”
Anna rolled her eyes again, but Therese couldn’t help a short laugh. Except then she thought again of Carol going to Abby, and said morosely, “I sometimes wonder if it’s the other way around.”
“Nonsense!” Gen declared, moving her hand away. “You’re a catch, Belivet. She’d be mad not to see it.”
“Say, where’s the rest of that wine?” cried Phil, coming up to them again. When he saw the empty bottles, he groaned, “We’d better go get some beers, then. Anybody want to head to the bar?”
Everybody did, and the conversation about Carol ceased. In relief, Therese helped them all gather up their things, and they began to walk.