Neil asked him, “You’re still going, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it—Friday
and
Saturday. Roxanne is coming up, right?” Pierce was referring to Roxanne Exner, an attorney friend of ours in Chicago. Even after Neil and I moved north, she continued to visit regularly, sometimes making the four-hour drive for business reasons, but usually motivated only by friendship, as was the case that coming weekend.
Neil answered Pierce, “Yes, Rox is driving up on Saturday to see Thad in the starring role. Tomorrow night, Thad plays the smaller role, but it
is
the premiere, so the rest of us had better be there—you, me, Mark, and Barb.”
“Where
is
Barb?” asked Pierce, looking around the room as if she might be hiding in a corner.
“Farmers’ market,” I told him. “She likes to shop early—to find the best stuff, I guess. She’s got her hands full getting ready for the cast party here at the house on Saturday night. I offered to get a caterer, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“She’s certainly the strong-willed type—a far cry from old Hazel.”
We joined him in laughing at this comparison. Hazel Healy had been the Quatrain family’s longtime housekeeper, her tenure dating from the birth of the eldest of my three cousins, all of whom she helped rear, including Thad’s mother, Suzanne Quatrain. When my uncle Edwin died, Hazel remained in the service of the house’s new owners, and when I myself acquired the house on Prairie Street, she helped me settle into it. Though she was efficient, hardworking, and loyal, I did not try to dissuade her from her decision to retire, announced within weeks of my arrival. She was getting frail, after all, and her eyesight was failing. Florida made sense for her. As for me, her retirement made sense because, frankly, I didn’t like having her around. She was old, not only in her years, but in her rectitude and her outlook. She was piously Catholic, with a myopic morality and a small-town attitude to match. She was judgmental and stiff, addressing me only as “Mr. Manning” or, worse, “sir.”
Barb Bilsten, at forty, was not only younger, but…well…
Barb Bilsten was walking through the back door at that very moment.
“For God’s sake,” she whined, juggling several bags of produce, “do you suppose one of you three able-bodied fairies could give me a hand with this crap?” As we all shot to our feet, she continued, “No—don’t bother—sorry for asking—I can handle it myself.”
Neil sat again, laughing, but Pierce and I foisted our aid upon Barb, each carrying a couple of bags to the counter as she closed the door and removed her sweatband, visor, and a heavy pair of three-hundred-dollar Chanel sunglasses, festooned with gold hardware. She had dressed for the heat in much the same attire as she typically wore around the house—running shoes with baby-blue puffball anklets, baggy white Bermudas, and a pink Lacoste polo shirt worn a tad too tight for her top-heavy endowment. “Christ, it’s hot,” she announced, slapping her wallet and sungear on the counter.
“So I’ve heard.” I glanced into the shopping bags and saw corn, tomatoes, green beans—the usual summer cornucopia—as well as an array of unnameable, trendy vegetables of exotic extraction. Some were downright grotesque; it was unsettling to think they had grown in Wisconsin soil. “What on earth are you making? We’re having a houseful of kids, remember.”
“And I suppose you want me feeding them shit? Wait and see—this is delicious and wholesome.”
I hate the word
wholesome.
“Maybe we should just order pizza.”
“
It’s under control
,” she assured me. Case closed.
Pierce asked, “Am I invited?”
“Well,
sure
,” Barb, Neil, and I chorused. “Of course, Doug.” It hadn’t even occurred to us to specifically invite Pierce—our home was always open to him.
“You’re part of the extended family, Sheriff,” Barb told him, tweaking his ear. She was cooling down. “And besides, we may need you on Saturday. If the little bastards get rowdy, you can legally off’m with your Uzi.” She pointed to the small revolver Pierce sometimes carried in a discreet (I daresay tasteful) shoulder holster of burnished tan leather.
We laughed. Barb was just being mouthy—she loved the little bastards. But I was also amused by something else she’d said. She had called us an “extended family,” meaning the five of us: Neil, me, Thad, Barb herself, and even Pierce. Funny. None of us were related, except Thad and me, who were only second cousins. Still, the crowd on Prairie Street had indeed taken on the feel and dynamics of a family.
From the table, Neil asked, “Barb, have you had breakfast yet? Join us.”
“Thanks. I think I will.” As Pierce sat down again, Barb went to the refrigerator and pulled out a can of diet cola, the only liquid other than alcohol that ever passed her lips—I’d bet she brushed her teeth with it. Getting a glass from a cupboard for her, I sat at the table as Barb joined us. She popped the can and filled her glass.
Neil freshened our coffee and passed her the platter of picked-over pastries, offering, “Have some.”
She noticed, as I knew she would, that the bagels were untouched. She asked everyone, “What’s the matter? You don’t like Jew food?”
I would normally bristle at such a comment, but as Barb herself was Jewish, she could say such things with impunity—and often did.
On behalf of all present, I explained, “My disaffection for bagels has nothing to do with their origin. The point is, I just don’t like them. They’re tough. They’re tasteless. And here in the Midwest, where most of us were not weaned on them, we’ve been slow to acquire a yen for them—in spite of the now ubiquitous strip-mall shops that try to make them more palatable while offending purists by stuffing the damn things with blueberries and all manner of whatnot. Ultimately, though, eating a bagel is like trying to eat a sponge.” I crossed my arms, resting my case: “They’re not doughnuts, Barb, and never will be.”
“
Well
,” she sniffed, daintily spreading cream cheese on one of the items in question. “Pardon me, I’m sure.” And she broke into laughter.
This insouciant attitude was reflected in the bald pride she took in defying stereotypes. On the morning when she’d first gone shopping for our household, she’d paused at the back door and turned to tell me, “Don’t get your hopes up—I
never
haggle over a price.” Before leaving, she added, “And I
don’t
winter in Miami.” I noticed as well that she never peppered her sentences with Yiddish. In fact, Neil once uttered an experimental
Oy!
in her presence, and she promptly threw a dishrag at him.
As for Barb’s religious views, which she and I had discussed at length one quiet evening shortly after she came to work for us, they were anything but Orthodox. If she believed in God at all, it was a naturalistic deity, and her Judaism was reduced to a heritage. “I consider myself a cultural Jew,” she told me, and I realized that the concept was one that I could borrow. Though I had long ago dismissed the notion of God’s existence and therefore scoffed at Christ’s purported divinity, I was raised in a family and a society that, by and large, paid lip service to this belief. Doctrines aside, I had absorbed the whole mythology and had become, to paraphrase Barb, “a cultural Christian.” There was no point in fighting it—it was part of my self-consciousness. In other words, though I was certain there had never been a “virgin birth” to remove my “stain of original sin,” I felt blissfully free to enjoy the trappings and hoo-ha of Christmas. For that matter, so did Barb.
At breakfast that morning, she dropped the topic of bagels and got down to the business of running the household. Between bites she asked, “Are there any bills you want paid, Mark?”
After a slurp of coffee, I answered, “There’s a fresh stack on my desk in the den—you know where to find the checkbook.” Pierce subtly caught my eye, wrinkling his brow in a curious expression. I told him, “Yes, Doug, Barb has full access to the household accounts. She handles money better than I do.”
She added, “MBA from Chicago,” meaning the University of Chicago, one of the best business schools anywhere. Then she turned to Pierce, sticking out her tongue, just the tip.
Pierce laughed softly. “Barb, you’re one unlikely ‘maid.’ ”
Indeed she was. And after half a year with us, it was easy to forget her background. Though raised in Dumont and schooled in the Midwest, she’d sought her fortune in the pressure cooker of New York finance, struggling up the ladder as a money manager for an investment firm. When I’d first interviewed her, I had, ignorantly, asked if that meant she had been a stockbroker. Appalled by the question, she assured me in no uncertain terms, “I
don’t
do retail. My role was essentially that of an analyst, involved with emerging markets.” Unfortunately, the bottom had fallen out of those markets, and worse, she had discovered that “ninety-nine percent of my colleagues were pigs, total chauvinist assholes who couldn’t see past my tits.” So she cashed in her chips, which were considerable, and bailed, returning to her roots in Dumont. She’d had it with business, and though straight, she’d had it with men—at least for a while.
During that first interview, I was up-front about the unconventional nature of our household, and she made it equally clear that the whole setup appealed to her—she was comfortable with gay men, and since she’d never married or had children, she appreciated the opportunity to nurture Thad. I liked her simply because she was the polar opposite of Hazel, a breath of fresh air. At a deeper level, Barb would add even greater diversity to our “family,” providing a valuable exposure for Thad as he prepared to leave his white-bread upbringing and stick his toes into the larger world. Clearly, Barb wasn’t seeking a lifetime career as a domestic. She didn’t need the money—she was “buying time,” she admitted, and needed “a situation for a while.” She gave me her commitment, though, to remain with us at least until Thad went off to college, a year and a half from the time she was hired. So we shook hands, and she moved in.
Neil got up and took the empty coffeepot to the sink, rinsing it. Returning, he paused by the refrigerator, asking Barb, “More pop?”
She shook her head and drained the last of her glass. “Too much gas. I need to practice later, after you guys leave the house.”
Again the quizzical look from Pierce.
Neil returned to the table, telling him, “Her new clarinet—it’s a beauty.”
Barb nodded proudly, dabbing her lips with a paper napkin. “A genuine Leblanc. Made in France. Opus model, grenadilla body, silver keys—
the
best.”
“Six grand,” I said, supplying the detail that Pierce wanted to hear.
“Zow!” he said. “I’d think you’d get
gold
keys.”
“Actually, they’re available, special order.” She grimaced. “But that’s tacky.”
This from the woman who’d had the bumpers of her Range Rover gilded—now that’s tacky. But when it came to issues of music, the woman did indeed have high standards, and this was an intriguing new piece to the puzzle that was Barb Bilsten. At first blush, she seemed jaded and smart-mouthed to the point of being coarse. It was easy to overlook her deeper intelligence, her analytical precision. As for her family’s cultured background and her own refined musical talents—who’d have guessed?
She had previously mentioned her old clarinet, needing a new one, a good one, wanting to take some remedial lessons. I hadn’t known she was serious till last week, when she’d arranged to visit the instrument company’s American headquarters in the southeast corner of the state. She’d hopped into her Range Rover one morning, driven down to Kenosha, spent a few hours with their resident clarinet guru, and driven back triumphantly with her new Leblanc. Only then did I realize that my own knowledge of classical music (a point of snobbish pride, I confess) paled next to hers.
She was saying, “It’s
important
to have music in the house—there’s a child under our roof. Haven’t you read that music makes you smarter? It’s true. They’ve got these studies now that show how musical training sort of ‘hardwires’ kids’ brains to let them learn
everything
better and faster. I’m hoping Thad’ll get interested.”
She was right. I couldn’t have agreed more. Still: “Thad has so
many
interests.”
Neil quipped, “What a difference a year makes.”
“It wasn’t that long ago,” agreed Pierce, “when he didn’t even have friends.”
Barb nodded meaningfully. “He has plenty of friends now, including a few of the female persuasion.”
I shared a smile with Neil. “We’ve noticed,” I said. “Neil and I sat him down for ‘the talk’ not long ago. I don’t mean ‘birds and bees’—he knew about the mechanics years ago. No, we talked to him about responsibility in general and safe sex in particular. He’d heard it all before, of course, but he really seemed to appreciate that we cared enough to break the ice and get down to specifics.” Swirling the cold coffee in my cup, I recalled the knot in my stomach as we’d broached that conversation.
Neil leaned forward, elbows on the table, to continue the story. “Thad knew exactly what we were driving at—disease and pregnancy—and he addressed our concerns head-on. He actually told us not to worry, explaining that he wasn’t really ‘dating’ yet. But I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”
With good-natured skepticism, Barb asked, “What about Miss Kwynn? She’s been around the house quite a bit lately.”
And again, that questioning look from Pierce. “Who?”
“I think Kwynn Wyman is just a theater pal,” I answered. “She’s a nice girl too. You should have seen the way she stuck up for Thad last night. When the dating bug does bite, I hope Kwynn’s nearby.”
“My my,” clucked Barb, rising from the table, “so look who’s playing matchmaker.” Removing a few dishes and her glass, she rinsed them at the sink.
I had no snappy answer to her comment, realizing that it contained a grain of truth.
“Leave your dishes,” Barb told us, moving toward the hall. “I’ll clean up after I’ve tapped Mark’s checkbook.” And she left the kitchen to pay some bills, going to my den at the front of the house.
“Whoa,” said Neil, glancing over his shoulder at the clock, “it’s nearly eight. I’d better head upstairs and get my act together—I’ve got a busy day ahead.”