Crossroads Page 7

  Between cigarettes, on Becky’s last visit to New York, her aunt had sucked on nasty-smelling medicated lozenges. Despite the July humidity, there was a frog in her throat that she couldn’t get rid of. In hindsight, Becky wondered if Shirley had known what it meant, because she couldn’t keep it in her head that Becky still had two years of high school left, not one. The next summer, Shirley said, just as soon as Becky graduated, she wanted to take her on a grand tour of Europe: London for theater, Paris for the Louvre, Salzburg for music, Stockholm for white nights, Venice for atmosphere, Rome for antiquities. How did that sound to her? “I think,” Becky said, “you mean two summers from now.” Sad to say, she didn’t share her aunt’s impatience. Seeing Paris sounded good to her, but Shirley’s favoritism wasn’t playing well at home, and a grand tour of Europe would be an entirely different level of expense. Also, as Becky got older, the seeds of criticism planted by her mother had grown into an awareness that Shirley was somewhat loony and didn’t have close friends. Becky still loved her and valued her insights. She understood, as her mother didn’t seem to, how much Shirley envied her younger sister for having a husband and a family; how lonely she was. But she and her cigarettes weren’t the companions Becky would have chosen, in an ideal world, for a trip to Europe.

  Four days after she returned from New York, before she’d even written her thank-you letter, her mother had taken a phone call from Shirley and sobbed when it was over. Her tears were appropriate but still surprising, a lesson in the power of sisterly love to overcome sisterly dislike. Becky herself didn’t cry at the news that her mother then gave her; cancer seemed to her both terrifying and unreal. Her own tears came later, when she wrote the thank-you and tried to think of how to end it (Get well soon? I hope you feel better soon?), and again when Shirley sent her a copy of Fodor’s Europe filled with underlinings and annotations, along with a letter in which she went into great detail about European rail passes and spoke of beating her cancer and how important it would be, in the difficult months ahead, to have something to look forward to “next summer.”

  That fall, Becky’s mother became real to her, as a person of independent capability, in a way she hadn’t been before. She made two long trips to New York, where Shirley was getting radiation. When Becky asked if she could go there herself, her mother not only didn’t discourage her but said it would be a wonderful gift to her aunt. But Shirley didn’t want Becky to come, didn’t want her to see her looking the way she did, didn’t want her to remember her like that. Becky could come in the spring, when the treatments were behind her and she was more like herself. If everything went well, the two of them would then have the trip of a lifetime in the historic capitals of Europe.

  She died alone in a room at Lenox Hill Hospital. There was no funeral. It was like Eleanor Rigby.

  When I was younger I thought her elegance was effortless, but when I got to know her better I saw it was anything but. Now I think about all the things she did every day to put a brave face on. All the makeup supplies in her bathroom, her Chanel No. 19 spritzer, the hose she threw out if they got the tiniest run in them, the old white gloves she put on to read the newspaper to keep the ink off her fingers, the gold-rimmed cup she drank her tea from with her pinkie raised like a lady. And for what. Just to maintain her dignity in a world where she went by herself to the theater or a concert. No wonder, I thought, her little routines meant so much to her. She gave me so many insights into my own life but, too, an insight into the lives of people who wake up alone every morning and find the courage to get out of bed and show their face. I was always blessed with having many friends. I was “popular” and sometimes conceited about it. All that changed when Shirley passed away. She gave me new admiration for people who are lonely in the world.

  Becky’s mother had gone to New York, one last time, to have Shirley’s body cremated and to deal with her estate. She came home with an old wicker suitcase of Shirley’s that contained a mink stole, the watercolor painting, silver earrings, a gold bracelet, and other keepsakes, all of it for Becky, who wept when her mother showed it to her.

  “I understand why you’re crying,” her mother said coldly. “But you shouldn’t romanticize your aunt. She made nothing but mistakes in life. In fact, mistakes may be too kind a word for it.”

  “I thought you were sad,” Becky said.

  “She was my sister. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.” Her mother seemed to soften, but only for a moment. “I should have known that people don’t change.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shirley was the kind of woman who has no use for other women. All she wanted was men. And she had plenty of them in her day. Funnily enough, though, none of them stuck around. The good ones figured out in a hurry what kind of person they were dealing with, the bad ones disappointed her, and she was vicious on the subject of homosexuals. I never met the man she actually married, but I gather he had some family money. He left her an annuity when he was killed in the Pacific, and it was a good thing he did, because she wasn’t an actress. She was a pretty face who could memorize her lines. By the time your father and I moved to New York, she was ‘between roles.’ She was still between roles when we left. She lived in a fantasy world where nobody appreciated her talent and the men all either exploited her or disappointed her, but maybe the next man wouldn’t. She was one of the most miserable people I’ve ever known.”

  The coldness of this speech shocked Becky. “But it’s so sad,” she said.

  “Yes, it is,” her mother said. “That’s why I didn’t mind you going out there in the summer. You have a good head, a good heart, and God knows she was lonely.”

  “If she didn’t like other women, then why did she like me?”

  “I wondered that myself. But people like her never change.”

  Eight months went by before Becky learned the reason for her mother’s coldness. It happened that her birthday, her eighteenth, fell on a Saturday. Jeannie Cross had organized a blowout party that everyone who counted was coming to. Everyone wanted to see Hildebrandt get drunk, which was Jeannie’s stated object and, God help her, Becky’s private intention. Unlike her dissolute younger brother, she’d always been sensitive to her father’s position as a man of the cloth, the unseemliness of a minister’s daughter getting shit-faced, but now she was old enough to vote, and her social instincts told her it was time to mix things up a little. After working the lunch shift at the Grove—she’d quit her florist job and taken a less dorky one, waiting tables—she hurried home to shower and dress and have an early dinner with her family. The parsonage seemed curiously empty. There were October sunbeams in the living room, a fading smell of baked cake. She went up to her room and was startled to see her mother seated on her bed. “You need to come upstairs with me,” she said.

  “I need to shower,” Becky said.

  “You can do that later.”

  On the third floor, they found her father waiting in his home office, his windows open, cool autumn air filtering into the attic-like stuffiness. He motioned to Becky to sit down. Her mother shut the door and stayed standing. Becky was quite alarmed. It was as if she were facing punishment for the heavy drinking she hadn’t done yet.

  “Marion?” her father said.

  Her mother cleared her throat. “As you know,” she said to Becky, “my sister named me as the executrix of her will. What I have to say to you, I’m saying as the executrix. Your aunt left you a great deal of money. Now that you’re eighteen, the money is yours. The will doesn’t specify that it be held in trust. All it says is—Russ, will you read it?”

  Her father unlocked a drawer and took out a document. “‘To my niece Rebecca Hildebrandt I will, devise, and bequeath the sum of thirteen thousand dollars for a Grand Tour of Europe, to be taken in my memory.’ That’s all there is. No mention of trustees.”

  Becky was smiling broadly; she couldn’t help it.

  “I put the money in your savings account yesterday,” her mother said.


  “Wow.”

  “I was legally obligated,” her mother said. “The lawyer said we could wait until your eighteenth birthday, but no longer than that. Shirley’s intentions were clear.”

  “Wow. That’s so nice of her.”

  “It’s not nice,” her father said. “It’s a foolish bequest, and we need to talk about it.”

  “Thirteen thousand dollars,” her mother said, “is almost the entirety of your aunt’s estate. There were a few odd thousands left over for various museums, but you’re the main beneficiary. If you’d happened to predecease her, the money would have gone to the museums.”

  Now Becky saw the problem. In case she hadn’t, her mother laid it out for her: not only had Shirley ignored Clem, Perry, and Judson, but she’d stipulated that Becky use the money for something frivolous. She’d lived in a fantasy world to the end, and beyond. “And she knew very well how I would feel about it. That was part of the equation.”

  So everything is about you, Becky thought.

  Her father might have had the same thought, because he suggested that her mother leave the two of them alone. When she was gone, he shifted into his gentle dad-to-daughter tone. “I can’t believe you’re eighteen already. It seems like only yesterday that we brought you home from the hospital.”

  How many times had Becky heard that it seemed like only yesterday?

  “But now here you are, eighteen years old, and I want you to think hard about this money. You’re not legally bound by the wording of your aunt’s will, and thirteen thousand dollars seems to me an awful lot to spend on a trip to Europe. Unless you’re staying at the Ritz, you could travel for two years on that.”

  Staying at the Ritz, Becky thought, was exactly what Shirley had had in mind.

  “I can’t tell you what to do, but it seems to me that you could honor Shirley’s intention by using a small portion of the money to travel abroad next summer. If you wanted to do something nice for your mother, you could bring her along. Again, I’m not telling you what to do—”

  Really?

  “But there’s also a question of fairness. I know you had a special fondness for Shirley, and she for you, but I do think she may have been trying to hurt your mother with this bequest. Your mother and I love all of you kids equally, and we think you should all be treated equally. For better or worse, we’re not a well-to-do family. Your mother and I want all of you to go to college, and a quarter of the bequest would make a real difference to each of you. I can’t tell you what the right thing to do is—”

  Really?

  “But I hope you’ll think carefully about how you want to proceed. Will you do that for me?”

  “Yep,” Becky said.

  “I know it’s not easy. Thirteen thousand dollars is a lot of—”

  “I get it,” she said. “You don’t have to say anything else.”

  “I just want you to know that I’m very—”

  “I said I get it. Okay?”

  She jumped to her feet, ran down to her room, and jerked open the top drawer of her dresser, where she kept her savings passbook. The balance had indeed been updated. It was $13,753.60. Christening money, birthday money, paychecks for the hours she’d spent in a stupid green florist’s apron, and tips and paychecks from the Grove added up to $753.60. Dear Aunt Shirley! She’d known what Becky wanted, and it was all the better for being unexpected. Becky had never, not once, wondered if her aunt had left her any money; the little suitcase of treasures had been enough. Only now, as she imagined the figure in her passbook reduced to a sad nubbin, did her mind spring to life with greedy rationalizations. Maybe she wasn’t legally bound to follow the letter of the will, but wasn’t she morally bound to honor the spirit? Wouldn’t it be an insult to Shirley’s memory to submit to her father’s wishes? And why should she give anything to her pothead little brother, who could probably get a full scholarship to Harvard anyway? Wouldn’t there be more money for Judson in the future, when her father got his own church and there were fewer mouths at home to feed? The only person she felt at all inclined to share with was Clem.

  At the party that night, she quickly downed two Seagram’s and 7UPs, after which it was possible to slow down without being noticed. The main effect of the alcohol was to create a powerful but hazy sense of importance; of being on the verge of a great, warm insight. As her buzz began to fade, the sense of importance faded with it, leaving behind a small, cold insight: she was bored. She didn’t care who had a crush on who, what kind of prank was played on Lyons Township before the football game. The world was full of better places.

  It’s because of an inheritance I received from Shirley, following her tragic death, that I’m able to consider attending a private college. She herself never attended college, having been a noted actress in her youth and busy with her career, but she loved the higher things in life and knew more about art and theater and music and coteur than many experts anyone I’ve ever known. It was from her that I learned to dream big and really make something of myself. I’m blessed to have an opportunity to educate myself in a way she never could, and learn more about the world. I intend to seize this opportunity fully.

  She read what she’d written and wrinkled her nose. There seemed to be no way back to the pure feeling she’d had for Shirley before her mother clouded it with criticisms. Or maybe the morning after being kissed was simply not a good time to experience admiration. Considering her state, she felt good about having written anything at all.

  She closed her notebook and went to the kitchen, where Judson was applying colored sugar to a tray of cookies. Through the open basement door came the sound of laundry chores.

  “These look great, Jay,” she said.

  “I need a better tool. It clumps on the spoon.”

  “Which one is your least favorite? I bet I can make it disappear.”

  “This one,” he said, pointing.

  She ate the cookie and immediately wished she could eat another. “Is there anything special you want for Christmas? Something you haven’t told anyone about?”

  “Nobody asks.”

  “Perry didn’t ask you?”

  Judson hesitated and shook his head.

  “I’m asking,” she said.

  “Colored pencils,” he said, intent on the cookies. “With interesting colors.”

  “Got it. This tape will self-destruct in five seconds.”

  “If you or any of your I-enforcers are caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions.”

  “I think it’s ‘I.M. force.’ Impossible Mission.”

  “I wondered about that.”

  “You’re a good kid,” she said, brimming with goodwill.

  “Thank you.”

  Her mother was trudging up the basement stairs, so she fled to her room again. Seeing her unmade bed, she was drawn to lie down on it, as a way of falling back into the kiss. The day already seemed to have lasted longer than an entire ordinary day, and it had still barely started.

  It was generally assumed, and specifically assumed by her father, in his jealousy, that Rick Ambrose was the reason Crossroads had exploded in popularity. According to Clem, though, there were two reasons, and the other one was Tanner Evans. Tanner’s parents belonged to First Reformed, and he’d come up with Clem through Sunday school and gone with Becky’s father on the first spring work camp in Arizona. Tanner was a nice person, from a nice family, but he was also a gifted musician and the coolest guy at New Prospect Township, one of the first to grow his hair long, a bell-bottomed dreamboat. In Clem’s telling, Crossroads had exploded when Tanner invited his music-playing friends, male and female, white and black, to come to Sunday meetings. Crossroads became as much a musical happening as a religious thing, Tanner’s coolness the counterweight to Ambrose’s intensity.

  Tanner had postponed college to develop his skills and write songs. He had a regular Friday-night gig in the back room at the Grove, where liquor was served. He and his girlfriend, Laura Dobrinsky, who’d been
his female counterpart in Crossroads, played together in a band called the Bleu Notes. Laura was short and somewhat chunky, but she had an impressive head of wavy hair and a face flattered by pink-tinted wireframes, and her voice, when she sang solo, made walls shake and hearts break. She was one of New Prospect’s original hippies, a walking yes to the question Are You Experienced? It was hard to imagine Tanner with anyone else, and so when Becky went to work at the Grove and started running into him, and he asked her how Clem was doing at college, and sent greetings to her parents, she assumed she was only a little sister to whom, being nice, he was being nice.

  The night before she turned eighteen, after her shift ended, she stood in the doorway of the back room and listened to the last song of the Bleu Notes’ first set. Tanner’s voice and mustache resembled James Taylor’s, and he wore a fringed suede jacket. His hands were strong and lanky from playing guitar, his mouth full-lipped and fascinating when he sang. After the song ended and Becky had turned to leave, she heard him call her name. He came weaving through the bar tables and motioned to her to sit down with him. Laura Dobrinsky had disappeared somewhere.