Chapter 28

At three in the morning, Farrell is still staring at the molded tin ceiling and listening to the radiator whistle another round of tuneless steam.

She hasn’t stopped thinking about Effen since he walked her home nearly four hours ago, polite but silent except for gentle small talk. Thankfully, Elizabeth believed her when she said she’d had a lovely, quiet time and would have stayed later if Effen didn’t have an early morning funeral.

There is no funeral, really. She lied to explain why she was home so soon. She didn’t want Elizabeth to know her visit wasn’t what anyone could have expected.

When Farrell told Effen she wasn’t used to “this kind of attention,” she was referring to more than the embrace. She wasn’t used to being in that kind of position with another woman’s husband.

She had thought he and Gustie had divorced around the time her mother died. Elizabeth disabused her of the notion moments before she left for her non-date at The House. “Don’t be surprised if Gustie stops by. She’s been using the fax machine to discuss terms with her lawyer.”

“Terms for what?”

Elizabeth’s lipsticked mouth constricted into an “o,” and she pulled the reading glasses to the tip of her nose. “My dear! You didn’t know?” The strength and timbre of the last word carried the oral equivalent of bold italics.

“Know what?”

“About Francis and Augusta. They’re still attached. I’d be wary if I were you. She might have a private detective watching him. If you’re caught coming and going from The House, she might claim adultery as grounds for divorce.”

Though the news about Effen and Gustie left Farrell shaking, she thought the possibility of being The Other Woman in a divorce was as laughable as it was implausible. “Really, Elizabeth, nobody would believe her. I don’t attract single men, let alone the married ones. My personal history is notorious.”

“It’ll become legend if you’re caught with Francis.”

“Will it? How do you explain Gustie’s living arrangements with Tom Von Aldo? If anyone, Effen, not Gustie, has the greater claim of adultery.”

Elizabeth made a noise of doubt. “Well, it’s a messy situation that’s sure to get grisly because of the children. I wouldn’t get involved, if I were you. Call Francis and tell him you’ve got a headache or something.”

“I can’t do that!”

“Why?”

Farrell couldn’t tell Elizabeth that she didn’t believe her or that only Effen could tell her the truth. She said, instead, “Only kids back out of dates at the last minute. I think the adult thing would be to speak to him about his intentions. Besides, he’s gone to the trouble of making dinner for me. I can at least eat it and help him clean up. It’s the polite thing to do when somebody goes out of their way to cook for you.”

Her talk was brave, but when Effen met her at the door, Farrell knew at once that his heart wasn’t in her visit. She didn’t understand why he would teach her to waltz or, later, to take her in his arms.

She remembers sensing that nothing would come of the latter gesture. Their stance was no different than the way the only two horses in a field come together and stand with their chins on each other’s back, glad for the company of their kind?

Was Effen glad that she didn’t ask him about his relationship with Gustie? She should have confronted him about it. She had the chance. But no. She had to rail about how people had treated her when she most needed friendship and support. He should have defended himself. Did he say nothing because he felt sorry for her, or because he knew he was at fault?

Or did he realize that you can’t argue with a woman who was still very much a selfish child, unable to stand on her own and still relying on others, like the Brutons, to provide for her?

Disgust for herself, a desire to make amends, and the lack of patience to wait until a saner time and place drives Farrell out of bed and into several layers of clothing topped by her blazer. She can’t wear her parka, which is in the closet in the hallway, because she can't retrieve it. The closet door squeaks. With her luck, one of the Brutons will hear and ask her what she’s doing.

The House is only ten blocks away, a short stoll in fine weather, twice as long when sidewalks are still blocked by snow and ice. Farrell hugs herself against the chill that spears her through, despite the woolen sweater and blazer.

Light fills the windows in the flat atop The House, a sure sign that Effen’s still awake. Whose image bedevils him most, hers or Gusties?

Farrell has reached the point where she’s so tired she thinks she’s thinking clearly but she’s not. She doesn’t want to ring the doorbell because the sound at this hour could give Effen a fright. She remembers reading a James Joyce story in which a character gets his love’s attention by tossing gravel at her window. A lovely idea. She packs some icy snow into a ball that falls apart before it reaches the window of the study on the second floor. A second specimen made more of ice than snow hits a shutter with the crack of a baseball bat. Not good. The neighbors will probably see her, suspect she’s up to no good, and call the police.

So Farrell rings the doorbell. She waits for what she thinks is a reasonable time for Effen to come downstairs, then rings it again. She can’t tell if her eyes and nose are running from the cold or from tears.

She rings the bell a third time. Still no Effen. He must have spied her and decided he shouldn’t be bothered with her. She doesn’t blame him. She herself wouldn’t want to be bothered with her.

She can’t take the cold much longer. She’s ready to give up and go home when an overcoat is set on her shoulders and a gloved hand reaches past her with a key. The door is unlocked and she’s half- pushed, half-led into the vestibule, which is brightly lighted and warm. Effen says nothing, but brings her to the kitchen in the back of The House, has her sit on the radiator and puts the kettle on for tea. Or what Farrell thinks is tea. Instead of pouring the bubbling water into the teapot, Effen pours it in a mug, which Farrell takes between her hands. It’s not tea, but it’s hot and throat-searing and as effective as tea.

Effen’s leaning against the counter, watching her. She thinks he looks confused and curious and angry and amused all at the same time.

She admits to wanting to talk to him. “I was afraid you were angry at me. I don’t want you to be angry at me.”

“Where I come from, we have telephones.”

“I thought I should see if you were still up before I called or …”

“--started lobbing debris at my house?”

“I thought the doorbell would frighten you.”

“No, it’s the people who try to get in without using the doorbell that frighten me.”

She holds out the coat she’s slipped from her shoulders. “I’m silly. I’m sorry.”

“If you’re silly, then so am I. I couldn’t sleep, either.”

She doesn’t remember mentioning she couldn’t sleep. “How did you know?”

“I saw your light. The only thing that kept me from going to your door is the fact that it’s not your door. It’s Bruton’s. I couldn’t make you fodder for his wife’s gossip.”

“Fodder for his wife’s gossip…”

Farrell’s not aware she’s giggling, but Effen asks her not to make fun of him. “I can’t begin to explain what I felt when I saw you at my own door.”

“Does that mean you’re not angry at me?”

“Oh, Farr …”

She senses contrition, sorrow, a profound inability to express himself in words as he kisses her hands, which he’s folded between his. She kisses his head, surprised at the softness of his hair.

A few years ago, Farrell was crossing the street when a blast of wind knocked the hat off her head and tumbled it through the traffic. It was her only hat; she couldn’t afford a new one. She was so determined to retrieve the thing that she didn’t notice if the light was red or green, or if cars and trucks were aiming at her. She had no idea how it happened, but suddenly the hat was back on her head.

She’s not obsessing over details now, either, and suddenly she and Effen are upstairs on the sleigh bed, and their clothes are off, and he’s around her and in her, and she can’t tell the points where her body ends and his begins. She doesn’t want to stare at him, but she’s seen enough to know he’s as she imagined him--a nicely formed regular guy, not a sculpted god.

She knows, too, that Gustie might be a stupid woman for wanting to be rid of him, but whatever happened between him and Gustie could also happen between him and any other woman, even if that woman’s name is Farrell Schmidt …