A friend you could count on—that was like a bit of found treasure. A blessing. Something you could never take for granted. Jean knew that and gave thanks. What would she ever do, she wondered, without Natalie Skilbeck?
When Jean had called to ask if she could stay over, Natalie had said, “Of course,” without any hesitation. She had also said, “Don’t expect me to clean up,” which was just so her. It was one of Natalie’s most wonderful and reliable qualities that she never hid whatever furry thought was scampering through her mind. In fact, it was the thing that had made the biggest impression on Jean at their first meeting twenty-three years before.
It has to be said, that first impression had not been a happy one. Jean had thought that Milkweed, her Bichon Frise, was looking scraggly and decided to try the new grooming shop, Skilbeck Pet Stylings, that had just opened around the corner from her studio. When Jean went in for her appointment, Natalie was there with her blazing dark eyes and her blood-dipped lipstick behind a little wooden gate that separated the grooming area from the front counter, shaving down the hind end of a gray standard poodle. Jean picked up Milkweed so that Natalie could see her, and Natalie took one look and announced, over the barking of several caged animals, “That dog is fat!”
“Excuse me?”
“Fat!” repeated Natalie. “What are you feeding it?” She waved her shears dismissively. “Never mind, whatever it is, you’d better reduce it by half, or cut out the bacon treats, otherwise that dog’s gonna be dead in about two years.”
Jean thought this was an outrageous way for the owner of a new business to behave. She briefly considered the possibility that Natalie was just a hired hand, and that she should immediately report her rudeness to the owner. But when she asked Natalie’s name and discovered she was the very Skilbeck advertised on the painted sign out front, Jean confronted her head on. Told her that Milkweed was not fat, just scraggly. Suggested a pet groomer should be able to tell the difference. Further, explained that she, Jean Horemarsh, was the daughter of a highly regarded local veterinarian, and if there was even a chance Milkweed was gaining weight, her mother would certainly have said something to her about it.
“Or not,” Natalie said.
“What does that mean?”
The barking from the cages was incessant. “Shaddup!” Natalie yelled. She put down the shears, clapped her hands to knock off the poodle hair, and came closer. “Most vets I know are money-grubbing dickwads, and that includes the women. I’m not getting into your relationship with your mother, that’s your business.” She picked up the bottle of cola that was sitting on a nearby shelf, took a quick swig, and made a satisfied smacking sound. “Let’s just say that your mom’s one of the good vets, okay? Of which there are maybe . . .” She held up five fingers, then pulled down two. “If she’s seen Milkweed here recently, and she hasn’t hit the fatty alarm bell, she either doesn’t care, or she’s got some other reason.”
Something about that assessment rang true enough for Jean that she thought she wouldn’t, just then, storm out of Skilbeck Pet Stylings never to return. She allowed Natalie to shave Milkweed down to a nub, and then to show her where the dog’s hips were supposed to be but, Jean had to admit, weren’t.
The next day, Jean went to the house on Blanchard Avenue, thinking on the way over about all those times her mother had fawned over her brothers’ pets; how she had whisked Bogart, Andrew Jr.’s hideous bulldog, into the office for X-rays at the first sign of a wobbly hind leg, and how she’d given Welland a special spray to take care of his yellow Lab’s scabby ear. When her mother opened the door, Jean showed her Milkweed’s missing hips and demanded to know why Marjorie hadn’t warned her that her pup was grossly overweight. At first, Marjorie’s face darkened as if she were offended by the question, or by Jean’s effrontery in asking it. Then she simply shrugged a shrug that seemed to Jean an echo of so many similar gestures through the years, a shrug that distilled a lifetime’s indifference. And she said, “If you weren’t so focused on your leaves, my dear, you might notice a thing or two.”
From that point on, Jean had looked to Natalie as her truth-teller, the one who would tell her when a color or a cut was wrong for her, or would give her honest opinion about a new ceramic. Even if the opinion was a trifle blunt, and even if Jean disagreed, she knew that Natalie wasn’t hiding anything. And at Kotemee Business Association meetings, she loved the way Natalie stood up to people like Tina Dooley, who seemed to think she had the only ideas worth listening to on a plethora of subjects. Tina, for instance, liked to issue memos to all association members in advance of important meetings, laying out what she saw as the vital issues—Main Street Christmas decorations, the placement of garbage receptacles, a man who shouted too loudly and seemed disturbed. Natalie called these memos “Dooley’s Doodles” and “Dooley’s Dispatches from the Front” and occasionally used phrases even less charitable, not only in private but at the meetings themselves. Invariably she said something to Tina that had Jean spitting into a coffee napkin.
When Jean arrived at the door of the shop, having slogged through the heat with her suitcase, Natalie seemed to know immediately that she was in a dismal state. She made Jean comfortable (as comfortable as it was possible to be surrounded by half a dozen caged cats and barking dogs) and went for two teas and some Dilman’s cupcakes. Then for the next couple of hours she entertained Jean with a running commentary on the animals she was grooming.
A hissy white Himalayan cat was a Taliban operative who wanted to stone her to death. “A mullah mullet, that’s what you’re getting, Mister,” Natalie said. When the cat bared its teeth, she scoffed. “Oh, big talk. Show me the rock you can throw that’s gonna hurt me.”
A taffy-colored Goldendoodle mistakenly thought he was there for a sex-change operation. “Your owner says your name is Marvin,” Natalie told him. “But you’d prefer Mavis, wouldn’t you?” The dog licked her chin. “I know, Marv, but you’re still going home with your willie.”
A sad-eyed Gordon Setter was Bing Crosby reincarnated. “Sing!” cried Natalie. She took hold of one of the dog’s long ears. “Damn it, Bing, I know you’re in there. Sing for us!” And as she clipped the setter’s tail she sang, “Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say / On a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day” in a jaunty, Bing-like croon.
Once her customers had retrieved their pets, Natalie locked up the shop and drove Jean to her little ivy-covered cottage-style house on Andover Lane. Natalie seemed to make a point of not asking Jean any questions about what had happened with Milt, for which Jean was thankful because she wasn’t really in the mood to hear blunt assessments of her marriage or her husband. There were times when blunt was precisely the wrong note for a given circumstance, like vinegar in a cream sauce, and this was one of them. She thought Natalie’s unusual tact probably had to do with the fact that she had been divorced by her own husband, Sandeep Jaffir, some six years before. Sandeep was handsome and broad-shouldered, and quite a lovely man, employed to travel the world seeking out sources for the manufacture of alternative medicines. He’d become not-lovely the day he called from Jakarta and informed Natalie that he had met someone else and would not ever be coming home. Natalie closed the doors of Skilbeck Pet Stylings for a month, and a more despondent, inert woman the world has seldom seen. Everyone who knew and loved Natalie was relieved the day she came to a meeting of the KBA and told Tina Dooley to shove her latest Dispatch up her ass.
After Natalie showed Jean where she would be sleeping—the small loveseat in the living room pulled out into a bed—she went to work making a delectable dinner of baked salmon and fingerling potatoes with a big green salad. While the salmon was in the oven she opened a bottle of South African Chenin Blanc. But when she went to pour her a glass, Jean, who was seated on a stool at the kitchen island, held up a hand and shook her head.
Natalie raised an eyebrow. “That’s not like you.”
“Well, I was out with Adele last night and I’m still . . .” Jean made a fluttery gesture near her tummy.
“Oh, I see. Carousing in the big city.”
“We were going to see a play and then we just . . . didn’t.”
Natalie began pouring herself a healthy glass of wine, which Jean was glad to see because she had never agreed with the habit some women had of tailoring their own drinking to match whichever relative or friend happened to be over. It put so much pressure on the guest, especially if you knew someone liked a glass of wine and then just because you weren’t feeling up to it, suddenly they weren’t either. Count on Natalie, thought Jean, to toss such silly “niceties” out the window where they belonged.
“So, how is Queen Adele?”
For Jean, the small glass salt shaker on the marble counter became an object of immediate interest. She picked it up, studied it, and gave it a waggle before setting it down. The edge of the counter required a rub with her thumb. “You know,” she said, “you haven’t really asked me about what happened with Milt. Aren’t you curious?”
“Uh, let me guess.” Natalie made a show of formulating a theory, pursing her lips and looking off. Suddenly she appeared struck by inspiration. “Milt’s been having an affair with Louise.”
For a moment Jean was silent. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Does that not come as a shock to you?”
Natalie tucked the wine bottle inside the door of the fridge and seemed, in Jean’s view, to take quite a while coming up with an answer to that question. “Well, I know they had that thing once before. You told me about that.”
“Yes,” said Jean, waiting for more.
“So, just that.” Natalie opened a cupboard and pulled out two white china plates. “Also, I saw them having lunch a couple of times while you were at your mom’s.”
“Lunch,” said Jean. “Lunch . . . where was this?”
“That Chinese place I go for takeout sometimes, on Sterling.”
“And you never told me?”
“Well, I thought everybody was friends now.”
Everybody was not friends now, thought Jean. Everybody was anything but friends. She reached for Natalie’s glass of wine and took a nice big gulp, and she didn’t care that Natalie had to pour herself another glass. Oh, the salmon was going to taste just wonderful now that she knew it was being cooked and served by someone who knew her husband had been cheating on her and had said nothing about it. Yes, that was a nice bit of seasoning, wasn’t it? Some truth-teller, thought Jean. Some blunt talker. Some friend.
The stove was making ticking noises from the heat, and Natalie was looking mightily chagrined standing over by the far counter. As well she should, Jean thought. She wondered now whether she would have to rethink her whole plan regarding Natalie, because it seemed that she could no longer trust her, and why should an untrustworthy friend be the recipient of her gift? Natalie took a long German knife out of a drawer, and a white plastic cutting board from below, and Jean watched her begin slicing tomatoes and a big pale onion for the salad. As she followed the blade’s motion she thought about all the times she had been shocked or offended by the things Natalie had said but then, with determined and deliberate fairness, had reminded herself that such was the price to pay for frank and honest assessments when you really needed them. You couldn’t have things both ways, Jean had insisted to herself, you couldn’t have delicacy and truth, or delightfulness and truth. Because truth did not come bundled with anything but brutality. Cold, ugly brutality—and truth. That was the package, and if you wanted one, you had to buy them both. Unless somebody in the back of the shop decided to slip in some lying by omission and some what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
Jean took another big sip of the South African Chenin Blanc, which was clean and crisp and not butterscotchy like so many hot-country wines. She watched Natalie slicing the onion paper-thin, the way she liked it. It was a Walla Walla Sweet onion, which you could only get from the little “fine foods” shop on Main, which catered mostly to the tourists, and Jean considered the possibility that after her forlorn call from the house, Natalie had gone to the shop thinking, I’ll get a Walla Walla Sweet onion and make Jean a nice salad to make her feel better. She decided against asking Natalie about it, because that might make it appear as though she regarded her statements of fact as truth and had already forgotten what a terribly dishonest friend she’d been. It seemed right to let Natalie stew in that unflattering self-awareness a while longer.
She sniffed at her glass. About Natalie, Jean was now of two minds, and she realized it was possible to have good and not-so-good thoughts about the same person or thing all at once. Like South Africa. It had been a bad place, and it was still very troubled, but it made nice wine. Perhaps a nasty country like North Korea also made nice wine, or some pleasant drink made with rice. To be fair to North Korea you really had to factor that in.
Not that you had to completely forgive them.
“This is nice wine,” said Jean, without saying anything more.
“It’s from South Africa,” said Natalie, sounding very hopeful.
“Mm-hmm,” said Jean.
Louise, on the other hand, would get no due consideration. Her betrayal was too clear, her transgression too great . . . worse even than Milt’s. It seemed odd not to condemn your own husband for cheating on you, but it was simply true that Jean was far more hurt by Louise’s duplicity. Perhaps it was because her friendship with Louise had felt so full of potential. It had begun in fire, in the searing, hostile heat of that first attempt at an affair with Milt. Pain and recovery had connected her to Louise like the scar tissue that formed between burned fingers and toes. With that kind of start there’d been no telling what shared pleasures the two of them might one day discover. Jean had felt they were approaching that time in their friendship when they would begin, not just to tell each other things, but to confide in each other. To let their insecurities show. To be in each other’s company the women they truly were, not just the women they wanted to be or the women they allowed the world to see. And now all that was gone. The scar tissue was severed. They could never be friends.
Lifting her glass, Jean said, “The person I’m most upset with is Louise.” As a hint at possible future forgiveness, it was all Natalie was getting; she would have to make do.
“Of course you are,” said Natalie, gathering all the chopped salad ingredients into a glass bowl. “What a total bitch.”
Natalie’s words could be such a splash of ice water. But the more Jean thought about it, the more she examined Louise’s actions, the more they seemed to fit. Imagine someone pretending to be her friend while sharing a bed, or a room, or . . . whatever they were sharing, with her friend’s husband. Imagine betraying her friend while that friend was distracted by the unbearable burdens of family. Imagine doing that to a friend while that friend’s mother lay dying. What a total, what an absolute bitch.
“I’m so angry with her, Natalie.” Jean’s voice trembled. Maybe it was the wine, or a sudden realization of what it all meant, the loss of her husband, the loss of her friend . . . she felt a surge of emotions, a welter of primitive, conflicting feelings, pouring into her. It was like she was a lake, a vast reservoir, and from every direction rivers of instinct and energy and heat were emptying into her, filling her up.
“Why shouldn’t you be angry?” said Natalie.
“I’m just furious.”
“You have a right to be furious.” Natalie took up a spatula and half turned as if she were going to check the salmon in the oven. But then she seemed to reconsider, set down the spatula, and focused all of her attention on Jean.
“But maybe it’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Natalie.
“It feels like it could be.”
“It’s absolutely not your fault. It’s hers.”
“It’s hers.” Jean took a shaky sip of wine. “I have been wronged.”
“You’ve been very wronged.”
“Louise was deceitful.”
“You bet she was.”
“She was evil.”
“That’s a strong word but, okay.”
Jean clenched the fist that gripped the wine. “It makes me want to do something.”
“Of course it does.”
“I want to tell her what I think.”
“You’ve got to let it out.”
“I have a right to be heard.”
“You have every right,” Natalie said.
“I think I’m going to call her.”
“Let’s have dinner first.”
“I’m going to call her right now!”
Jean reached into her purse for her phone at the same time Natalie swung around, turned off the oven, and yanked open the door. Jean’s hands were trembling so that she found it hard to punch in Louise’s number, but she managed it one shaky digit at a time as Natalie donned oven mitts, reached in, and brought out the salmon, the juices sizzling in the baking pan. Jean waited through the first ring, a second, and then a third, while Natalie used the spatula to transfer a salmon fillet and a portion of fingerling potatoes to each plate. And finally, as Natalie lifted the plates and began to carry them from the cramped kitchen toward the dining area, Louise’s answering machine voice came on the line, asking Jean to leave a message, the message of her anger.
“Louise . . .” began Jean. “It’s Jean. Your former friend. I wish you were there right now so I could tell you how angry and betrayed I feel.” She looked toward Natalie for encouragement. Natalie was bringing the plates back to the kitchen. “Do you know what I’ve come to believe about my friends? I love them, and I would do anything for them. Anything. And because you are no longer my friend, that doesn’t apply to you anymore.” Jean looked at Natalie by the oven. Natalie gave a tight nod and Jean nodded back. “Do you know what that means, Louise Draper? It means you should be very afraid. Because you know what’s going to happen? You’re going to grow old.” Natalie was narrowing her eyes in that way she did when she was puzzled by something. Jean knew her friend so well. She thought maybe Louise would be puzzled too, so she went on. “That’s right, you’re going to grow old, and tired. Your feet are going to swell, and your breasts are going to wither up until they’re like two little empty hot water bottles. And your back and neck are going to ache as your vertebrae crumble, and your joints are going to bite you like sharks under your skin.” She was rolling now, she felt unleashed. Natalie was squinting at her as if she were confused, or maybe she was thinking about something else entirely, something to do with work. Dogs. It didn’t matter! Jean felt herself flowing, she shone like sunlight, she held The Truth in her hands—the brutal, ugly Truth—and she was delivering it to Louise.
“I know all this, Louise. I’m not making it up. I’ve seen it, I’ve seen it, and it’s going to happen to you. Because I’m not going to save you. You said that you wanted a Last Poem, and I was going to give you one, but I’m not now. I’m not going to make it nice for you, Louise. I’m not going to do anything to help you. And so you’re going to get old, and your organs are going to betray you, just like you betrayed me. They’re going to turn their backs on you. They’re going to go on strike. And when they get tired of that, Louise, your organs are going to mutiny! Your own precious liver, your stomach, your intestines, every wet, wiggly thing inside you that you need to survive is going to turn on you.” Jean wasn’t thinking of Louise anymore, she was thinking of her mother. She was looking into Marjorie’s pain-dimmed eyes. Here was Natalie handing her a clean dishcloth and Jean didn’t know why until she looked down at wet spots on her thighs and touched her cheek and realized her face was streaming with tears. “They’re going to break out the swords, Louise. The muskets and the spears! Your organs are coming for you, Louise! They’re coming for you! They’re coming for you! And I’m not going to do anything!”
Sobbing, Jean snapped her phone shut and buried her face in the towel Natalie had given her. She wept into the towel until the fury, the hurt, the whole wide lake of emotions drained away. It took a long time. And when she was done, she inhaled deeply and looked up at Natalie, who was backed against the oven. The expression on her face looked like concern to Jean.
“Natalie,” she said, “don’t worry about what I said to Louise, all right? It doesn’t necessarily apply to you.” She folded the towel in her lap and noticed the plates set on the oven. “Your salmon is getting cold, and I’m so hungry. Let’s eat!”
After dinner, Jean insisted on doing the dishes so that Natalie could relax, since she had already done so much. And later they watched some television, which seemed to be all that Natalie was up to. Jean felt euphoric after her message to Louise, and her mind swirled with images, faces, ideas, so that she hardly even knew what was happening on the screen. She thought of work—two or three exciting new ceramics possibilities that weren’t yet fully formed—but mostly she thought of the people she loved, or had loved. Something about denying Louise her help, in a way that was final and absolute, underlined for Jean the importance of what she was doing for her true friends. It defined the boundaries of her actions and her reasons for them. It created within her a sense of right and wrong, of exclusion and belonging. She suddenly had a clear and thrilling insight into the roots of politics and religion, of how whole movements began. There were believers and non-believers. There were people who were meant to be held close, and others who deserved to be pushed away. Before, what she had been doing for her friends had felt right. Now, and this seemed glorious to Jean, it felt righteous.
And where did Natalie fit? Was she going to get a Last Poem? Jean wasn’t altogether sure anymore—trust being such a precious, delicate thing, so easily broken and so hard to repair. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t concerned for Natalie when eleven o’clock came and Natalie announced that she was tired and ready for bed. Jean wondered out loud whether she was coming down with something, because her mood and energy had changed so quickly around dinner, and sometimes when people were getting ill that’s how it happened. But Natalie said no, she felt all right. Just tired. As she ascended the stairs to her cute attic bedroom she said she hoped Jean would be comfortable on the pull-out loveseat, and Jean assured her that she would be. Even if she wasn’t sure Natalie deserved her great gift, the last thing Jean wanted her to do was worry.