Miranda lay in her childhood bed and listened to the jingle of cicadas. There must be so many of them to make such a clatter. Cicadas, if she remembered correctly, were the ones that hatched, then rattled, then mated and dropped dead. Miranda felt a stab of sympathy for the noisy insects. It was a pattern she was intimately familiar with. Love arrived; one was lucky enough to feel its warmth; then the season passed, and one shivered in the cold. Still, she had no regrets in that arena, at least. Seasons always returned, and so did love. Love was unchanging, even if the man she shared it with was not, even if she produced no cicada offspring. Love was eternal, even if lovers were not.
She considered how her mother must feel after believing her marriage was eternal, only to find out it, too, had a season, albeit an extraordinarily long one. Was it the same way Miranda felt after each of her own fiery breakups, a desire to move on, to revive the delicious rattle of courtship as soon as possible?
She crept up to her mother's bedroom and stood in the doorway at the top of the stairs. Moonlight came softly through the open window. How pale Betty looked in the blue light. She breathed evenly, a gentle sound just shy of snoring. Miranda realized that her mother was old, an old lady, her skin loose on her fragile bones. And then suddenly, piercingly, Miranda knew that her mother did not feel the way Miranda felt after a breakup, that she did not feel a desire to move on, to rattle and mate and bask in a new season of love. She knew that her mother felt like what she was: an old lady alone in a bed.
Within a few weeks, the little cottage underwent a remarkable transformation. Betty's pale-blue-and-cream-colored silk Persian rug lay across the top of the worn old linoleum of indeterminate color. The creamy silk chenille Queen Anne chairs from the living room and leather sofa from Joseph's library had been arranged in cozy proximity in the small space. Even the curtains from the apartment had been adapted to the little room, which now resembled a Connecticut cottage living room in a 1930s movie.
There were other resemblances to the 1930s that were less welcome. The stove dated from that time. The furnace could not have been much more recent. The dishwasher was from the sixties, but its only function now was to hold up the small kitchen counter. Cousin Lou had offered to update all these appliances, but here Betty had drawn the line on his beneficence.
"It's all so quaint," she had said. "And as soon as Joseph, may he rest in peace, sorts out all the legalities, I will be back in my apartment and you can tear this sweet little cottage down..."
Cousin Lou winced at the words "tear" and "down" in the same sentence.
"Beautify," Betty corrected herself. "You will be able to beautify. No sense in beautifying new appliances, though, is there?"
Betty was very proud of this sacrifice on her part. She wanted to show strength, to reassure her daughters, to reassure the world at large and, perhaps most of all, to reassure herself. Staying at her cousin's cottage as a family guest was one thing. But being given a new refrigerator, like those poor women on Queen for a Day, was more than her self-respect could stomach.
On weekdays Annie went into the city, surprised by how much she enjoyed the commute. The train rattled on its suburban rails, filled with men and women, but mostly men, in dark suits. The uniformity of the sober colors, the smell of soap, the soft rustle of the newspapers in the mornings, that hour of fresh, gently rocking, clacking repose; then, ten hours later, the weary, wrinkled, communal escape from the long day of responsibility, the comfortable office dishabille of loosened ties and crumpled white shirts — Annie felt herself part of something, a cell in a great breathing bourgeois creature.
As for Betty, she read books with advice for grieving widows, one of which suggested she decorate a jar and then, with her children, write down happy memories of the deceased on slips of paper and place them inside. To facilitate the decoration of the Memory Jar, she immediately headed to Barnes & Noble to buy a book about decoupage. While there, she saw a book for golf widows and came home to declare that she must take up the game immediately.
"But, Mother, a golf widow is someone whose husband plays a lot of golf," Annie pointed out.
"Well, Josie plays golf," Miranda said. "On vacation. It's harder in the city, of course."
"Exactly," said Betty. "May he rest in peace."
Annie gave a defeated sigh, but the truth was, she enjoyed their company now as she never had before; more, certainly, than she had while growing up. As a little girl, she had not been unhappy, just cautious, adopting a quiet, personal camouflage to protect herself from her more flamboyant mother and sister. It was something she had always felt she'd shared with Josie: they were the ones who created the drab leafy background against which the other two blazed with gaudy color like tropical birds. Annie and Josie were the practical ones, too, the ones who remembered the napkins when Miranda and Betty decided on an impromptu picnic in the park, who thought to bring the umbrella when Miranda and Betty decided to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge on a cloudy day, who packed the map when Miranda and Betty had a sudden yen to see autumn leaves or spring flowers or Hyde Park or the waves crashing onto the beach at Montauk Point. Annie thought fondly of her stepfather for a moment. She almost wished he had died, she realized with shame, for then she would have been able to remember him as he had been, distant but in a quiet, patient, and reassuring way, someone she admired and looked up to and relied on. Instead, he was a living, unreliable, despicable deserter.
"I found the most wonderful jet bracelet at the consignment store on the Post Road," Betty was saying, holding out her wrist to her daughters.
Miranda peered at the bracelet. "Very Goth, Mom."
"Queen Victoria wore jet when she was in mourning for Prince Albert," Annie said. "Which was the rest of her life."
Betty nodded her approval.
"Of course, he was actually dead, unlike other widows' husbands I could name. She started a whole fashion."
"Well, now everyone wears black already," Betty said. "So I don't see what difference I could make. Nevertheless, the bracelet was only two hundred dollars. See how much I'm economizing?"
Annie wanted to shake her mother until her pretty little head wobbled on its aged neck. We are broke, she wanted to cry out. We do not have two hundred dollars to spend on baubles. But her mother was so wounded, and she was trying, in her odd and spendthrift way, to be brave. Annie took a deep breath. She put out the white linen napkins bought years ago in France, if she remembered correctly. "When the Mitfords' mother needed to economize," she said, "she found out how much the laundering of their napkins cost per week."
Normally Miranda would have commented on two pedantic outbursts in such a short period of time, but she was more indulgent of the Mitford family, awed by the number of memoirs, biographies, and scandals the sisters had generated.
"She thought it was too expensive," Annie continued, "so they just stopped using napkins."
"But think of the cleaning bills for their clothes," Betty said, clucking. "Although they could have used paper towels, I suppose..."
Betty and Joseph's housekeeper, a Brazilian woman named Jocasta who had retired last year, had always gotten the napkins snowy white and ironed them into crisply folded rectangles. When they first came to the cottage, Betty had suggested sending them to the dry cleaner, or at least the fluff-and-fold laundry downtown called the Washing Well, but Annie had put her foot down.
"We have a washer and a dryer. It's about the only thing that works in this house, so we might as well use it and not waste money."
She was, therefore, responsible for the napkins herself. They had acquired a few yellow stains, she noticed, and she certainly was not going to stand around for hours watching soap operas and ironing them the way Jocasta had. She placed the rumpled stained cloths beside her mother's good china. The napkins looked disgruntled, rebellious, like a crowd of disheveled revolutionaries. Maybe they should use paper towels, after all.
"Wash your hands before dinner, girls," Betty said.
Girls again. Could you re-create your childhood in a new place at an advanced age and without one of the key players? Annie wondered. For better or for worse, that's what they seemed to be doing. Oh, Josie, what were you thinking, leaving us here to play house, three place settings instead of four? "The Odd Trio" Miranda had dubbed them, but it was clear from the outset that they were, all three, the fussy one, each pursing her lips in disapproval of the other two, each missing the man who was not there.
"I can't imagine what all the neighbors think we're doing here, three old broads in this ramshackle house," Annie said as she watched a woman walk a big galloping black dog down the street.
"Oh, they think we're Russians," Betty said.
"Why?"
"Because that's what I told them."
Annie pressed her forehead against the window. Russians?
"Refugees!" Miranda said, delighted. "Cousin Lou must like that."
"Yes. I said we had all lost our poor husbands."
"How?" Annie asked.
"KGB, dear. How else?"
Those first few weeks of the Weissmanns' sojourn in Westport had about them both a reassuring and a festive air. The weather was holiday weather — unusually cool for late August, the blue of the sky clear and deep, a few bright clouds rolling by. There were ferocious showers in the afternoons now and then, as if they were in the tropics. Then the rain would pass, leaving the air fresher than ever, the light golden, clean, and rich. In addition, Betty was a wonderful cook in a traditional way that Annie and Miranda both associated with holidays, and it was Betty who did most of the cooking on the old stove. None of them was sure how this had happened — it had never been discussed or formalized in any way. But somehow, Betty was cooking for her children as she had done so many years before. The only exceptions came when the three women were commandeered for dinner at Cousin Lou's. Betty said it was cruel to deny him their company, particularly when he was being so kind about the cottage. She did not say that she was seventy-five years old and sometimes cooking dinner was tiring. Nor did anyone ask.
At one of these Cousin Lou dinners, Miranda was seated next to a tall, serious man, as stately as a house in his dark, smooth suit. He might have been nice-looking if he hadn't seemed quite so formal and hadn't been wearing a bow tie. But he was formal, he was wearing a bow tie, and after releasing the information that he was a semiretired lawyer, he said very little else. Miranda, who liked to listen and was so good at it, tended to interpret reticence as a personal insult. However, she was always willing to give people a second chance.
"What do you do now that you're retired?" she forced herself to ask. "Or, I should say, semiretired?"
"Fish."
"Really? Fish has become so stressful."
He gave her a perturbed look. Has they? he wanted to ask.
"Ordering it, I mean."
"Ah. It."
"Aren't you worried about global warming and overfishing and mercury?"
"Oh, I never catch any."
After this, the conversation refused to take even one more ungainly step, and Miranda, defeated, turned to the person on her other side, her cousin Rosalyn.
"You must be very bored in our quiet little town," Rosalyn said. She had seen Miranda trudging back from heaven could only guess where with an armful of weeds, a great, tendriled burst of them, surely crawling with bees and ticks, which Miranda then brought up to the house and offered as a bouquet. Rosalyn, who had a horror of Lyme disease, made sure they were thrown away as soon as Miranda departed. Still, it was sweet of her, in her thoughtless, careless way. Poor Miranda. She had to fill up her time somehow after her unfortunate professional downfall. What a scandal that had turned out to be. It was all over The New York Times, though it was really just an insular publishing scandal, after all. Nothing for Miranda to get on her high horse about, even with that piece about it in Vanity Fair.
Rosalyn had thanked dear Miranda for the buggy weedy bouquets she brought, offering les bise with just the right show of warmth — neither too much nor too little. Just because someone was down and out did not mean they should be treated coldly. On the other hand, she could not help thinking that it was inconsiderate of Lou to place his cousin next to her when there was such an interesting woman at the other end of the table, a reporter, younger than Miranda, still in her prime, really, someone at the top of her game professionally, rather than on the way down. Well, she supposed someone had to talk to Miranda. It might as well be the poor hostess. Unpleasant things usually did fall to the hostess. "Very bored after all the excitement of..." Rosalyn paused. She had been about to say "of your past life." But Miranda was not dead. She had not even officially retired. She was just washed up. How did one say that politely? She decided on ". . . the excitement of big city life."
Miranda was gazing in fascination at Rosalyn's hair. Newly tinted a rusty red, it was a work of art, an edifice so delicately, elaborately wrought it took her breath away. How could she possibly be bored with such a hairdo to contemplate?
"You seem to have so much spare time," Rosalyn was saying. "I envy you!" she added, feeling in truth only a soft, snug pity.
"Yes, there are so many new things to see here." Miranda tried to look Rosalyn in the eyes rather than staring at the taut curved wall of hair rising above her ear. "Richard Serra," she added softly. Rosalyn's marvelous hair looked like a Richard Serra sculpture. Even the color.
"No, I don't think he lives here in town. Though, of course, Westport has always been such an artistic place."
When Betty last lived in Westport, there had been a butcher downtown with sawdust on his floor and a cardboard cutout of a pig in his window. There had been a five-and-dime, too. Woolworth's? No, Greenberg's, she remembered now. That was more than forty years ago, yet she felt that if she turned her head quickly enough she might still catch a glimpse of the store's wooden bins filled with buttons and rickrack, of the Buster Brown shoe store next door to it. When she looked at the bank now, she saw the Town Hall it had been. The Starbucks had been the town library, the Y the firehouse. The memories appeared like visions. They laid themselves out like a path to the past. But really they were just a path that led, inevitably, to this moment: Betty Weissmann driving through a town she had long ago deserted, without the man who had deserted her. That's what Betty thought as she parked behind Main Street, facing the river. Her memories all led her here: a parking lot, lucky to get a space.
She got out of the car and locked it. In the days when she had been here with Joseph, she had never had to lock the car. She blamed him for this. It had become her habit to blame him for so many things. That's what you get, Joseph — unfair and extravagant blame. A small price to pay for jettisoning your wife, for chucking her out to spin helplessly in the dark, infinite sky of elderly divorce.
A spurned woman has to look her very best when the spurned woman goes into the city to meet with the man by whom she has been spurned. Not to mention the lawyers who helped him. For this reason, Betty decided to buy a silk sweater at Brooks Brothers and a pair of gold knotted earrings at Tiffany's. Her credit cards were useless, thank you, Joseph, but Annie had added Betty onto her Visa for emergencies, and if this wasn't an emergency, what was? Then Betty bought a suit — ideal for a meeting with lawyers, elegant and dignified — at a large store full of overpriced well-made fashionable clothing. She remembered it as, in decades past, a nondescript men's shop. The store had prospered, and the suit she bought there, extremely expensive, was for those who had prospered along with it. She was not supposed to buy clothes like this anymore. But spurned women, like beggars, could not be choosers. No one could object to this girding of her loins, she thought, anticipating Annie's voice doing exactly that.
Betty took the train in. When the conductor punched holes in her ticket, she found the old-fashioned mechanical click comforting. The train was creaky, the window bleary. The drive into the city was just too much for her these days. Left cataract needed to be taken care of; she would have to get to that. Right now, it was important to get her hair done. She'd left herself plenty of time. Annie said she would have to stop going to Frederic Fekkai, but Annie, in spite of what Annie thought, was not always right.
Her lawyer met her downstairs. He was very solicitous, she noticed. A slight young man with short curly hair of a nondescript mousy brown. He looked like a mouse altogether, his features small and pointed, his little feet in their little shoes. Only his eyes were wrong. They were pale gray, not mouselike at all. How could this young, pale-eyed mouse, his hair so sad and unimportant, possibly do battle with Joseph, who in his efficient businesslike way had very little hair at all?
She sat at the edge of the dark pond that was the conference table. Across the pond sat Joseph. How impatient he must be. He disliked lawyers, he disliked formalities.
"Please sit down, Mrs. Weissmann," said Joseph's lawyer.
Yes, she thought, Mrs. Weissmann. Do you hear that, Mr. Weissmann?
She noticed he was wearing new cuff links. That, more than anything the lawyers said, more even than Joseph's coldness and distance, made her sad. Things were happening to Joseph and they were happening without her. Cuff links, barbells made of yellow gold, were happening to him.
"My client is a generous man," Joseph's lawyer was saying.
"My client is a reasonable woman," her lawyer was saying.
Joseph's eyes met hers, and in the fraction of an instant before they flicked away, she knew they shared the same amused, unhappy thought: Both our lawyers are liars.