Monday, May 28, 2007

The Bridegroom Comes: Chapter Eleven

When the phone rang, Irene’s arms were plunged elbow deep in hot dish water. “Never fails,” she thought, “probably another stupid telemarketer.” Rushing to dry her hands before the machine switched on, she glanced at the caller I.D. and felt her chest tighten in alarm: Her son called frequently, but with methodical regularity, like he conducted all his affairs: never before 7:00 PM, and never on any day other than Sundays and holidays. Irene shot a brief prayer heavenward. “Hello?”
“Irene?” It was Cynthia.
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?
“Nothing; it’s okay. We’re all fine. I was just calling to ask you a question.”
“Thank God.” Irene was not completely reassured; Cynthia never called on her own.
“It’s kind of a strange one.”
“Yes?”
“Actually, it’s stupid, really. I’d ask Anton, but he’s working late tonight, and . . . well, you know how you suddenly forget something, and you just can’t get it off your mind until the memory comes back, even if it’s of no importance? It’s completely trivial, but it’s been bothering me all morning.” There was something odd about Cynthia’s voice. She spoke unnaturally fast.
“What is it?”
“Like I said, it’s of no real importance. But, . . . .” She hesitated, then plunged ahead: “When Anton’s father left, Anton’s told me he left with someone. A man. What was his name?”
Irene was both shocked and offended. Propriety forbade the subject from being raised between herself and anyone other than her son; and that, only on her initiative. Of course, she assumed Anton must have at some point informed his wife of the circumstances surrounding his father’s absence. Indeed, Irene was vaguely aware that this accounted partially for the rather stiff cordiality with which she treated her daughter-in-law. But, this had never much troubled her. Her relations with her own mother-in-law had been far more conflicted; she accepted this as part of the natural course of events. “Why in the world would you ask that?”
“I can’t explain right now. Just tell me, what was his name?”
“I don’t remember,” Irene lied.
“Was it Tracy?”
“ . . . Yes.” Irene’s voice was cold and angry. “I can’t imagine why you would ask me that. It is not something I care to talk about.” The ensuing silence was so long and so complete, she began to wonder if they had been disconnected. “Are you there?”
Cynthia did not answer immediately. When she did, her voice sounded flat. “I’m sorry. I can’t explain now. I’ve got to go.” She hung up.
Irene walked to the kitchen table and sat, staring blankly, then walked back to the phone and dialed Anton’s work number.

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