All Adults Here(7)
“Barbara Baker, a total pain, and, yes, she died. From where I was sitting, it looked instantaneous, which is what we all want, god knows. It’s okay, I can drive. But let’s make that one of our little projects, mmm? Every woman should know how to drive. You never know when you’ll need it. Come along, I’ll get one, you get the other.” Astrid reached for the handle on the small suitcase and tugged it along behind her, bumping it up one step at a time. Cecelia grabbed the handle of the larger suitcase and followed in Astrid’s wake.
* * *
—
It should have been a five-minute drive to the Big House, but the roundabout was closed, so it took eight. Astrid drove with her hands on ten and two when she wasn’t using the gearshift. Cecelia held her backpack on her lap, hugging it close, a health-class flour-sack baby. Astrid clicked on the radio, which was set, as always, to WCLP, Clapham’s local NPR station, the local news with Wesley Drewes, whom Cecelia had always pictured like a cloud with eyeballs, looking over the whole town, zooming in and out wherever necessary.
“When is your father going back to New Mexico?” Astrid didn’t mask her distaste for the plan.
“I’m not sure. In a couple of days, I think.”
“He sure likes it out there. How one could enjoy yurts and scorpions is beyond me, but that’s Nicky. You know he never liked peanut butter, just because everyone else did? He pretended he was allergic. How about your beautiful mother?” This was said without sarcasm or rancor. Juliette had become a fashion model in her teens after a talent scout had stopped her and her mother on the sidewalk in front of her dance studio in Clignancourt. Her whole life had been like that—someone happening along with an idea, opening a door. Juliette would then walk through the door, whether or not it led to a laundry chute. Cecelia looked more like her father, with a wavy nose and soft brown hair that looked blondish if you weren’t standing anywhere near an actual blond person.
“You know, the same. Eating radishes with butter, that sort of thing.” The streets of Clapham were wide and leaf-dappled, at least in high summer. It was where Cecelia had learned how to ride a bike, how to swim, how to play catch with an actual baseball mitt, all the things that were harder to do in New York City, at least with parents like hers. She’d been forced into dance class with her mother, but through a combination of clumsiness and mutual embarrassment, Cecelia had been permitted to quit fairly early. “But mostly I think she’s sad.”
“No one wants to send their child away,” Astrid said. “Well, no, I suppose some people do. Some people send their children to boarding school as soon as they can! But your mother is allowed to be sad. It’s going to be just fine.”
“Okay.” Cecelia wasn’t sure how much her parents had told her grandmother about what had happened in Brooklyn.
“You know, we thought about sending Elliot to boarding school in New Hampshire when he got to high school, somewhere he’d rub shoulders with future captains of industry. But Russell—your grandfather—was never going to let that happen. People move to Clapham for the schools, he’d say! Why would we send our son away? What’s the point of having children if you get rid of them before they even have anything interesting to say?” Cecelia stared at the side of her grandmother’s face. Astrid was often chatty, but the chatting didn’t usually tend toward the personal. Cecelia made sure that her seatbelt was buckled, just in case. “How many interesting things does a teenage boy say, really? Though your father was interesting, he really was. All our conferences with his teachers were mortifying gush-fests, just fountains of compliments, as if they’d never met a charming person before.” Astrid reached over and lightly patted Cecelia’s backpack. “Becoming a widow is like having someone rip off the Band-Aid while you’re in the middle of a totally separate conversation. When you’re a widow, you don’t get to choose. We were married for twenty-five years. A good run, but not if you take the long view. Not like Barbara and Bob.” Astrid slowed to a stop at a red light—one of two in town—and leaned forward, resting her head against the steering wheel. “I should call him.” The light turned green, but Astrid didn’t move, and therefore didn’t notice. Cecelia swiveled in her seat to see if there were any cars behind them, and there were.
“Gammy,” Cecelia said. “Green light.”
“Oh,” Astrid said, sitting up. “Of course.” She rolled down her window, stuck out a hand, and waved the cars to go around. “I just need to sit for a moment, if that’s all right with you. And your mother mentioned something about some trouble with your friends?”
“Yeah.” Cecelia’s bag buzzed in her lap, and she dug out her phone. Her mother had texted: Hi hon just checking to make sure Gammy picked u up + all is well. Luv u. Call when you get to the Big House. <3 Cecelia shoved the phone back into her backpack and shifted it down between her feet. “We can sit here all day, if you want to.” There had been trouble with her friends, in a way, though the trouble was really just that some of her friends were under the impression that they lived in a video game and that they were adults whose actions had no consequences, not children whose judgment-making skills were not yet fully formed. The trouble was that people always told Cecelia things, and that she wasn’t a lawyer or a therapist. She was just a kid and so were her friends, but she seemed to be the only one who knew it. The trouble was that her parents had given up at the first sign of trouble, like a disgruntled child’s first game of Monopoly. They’d folded. Folded on her.