Chapter 7

Nadine would always remember the Night of the Roman Bath as a turning point.

It was as if she had traced the outline of a hairpin with her finger, confidently moving upward, alternating between brilliant flashes of joy and complacent assurance that all was well with the unique world she had chosen to construct around herself. And then, having teached the curved apex of the wire, found that the shape of the thing moved inexorably downward.

Paul's questioning of that careless quotation from Monty had been blithely explained away. But it marked the beginning of a turn ... and the change manifested itself less in her relationship with Paul than in her contacts with the others who peopled her world.

There was the widening chasm between herself and her daughter. Until these first two weeks in June, their lack of rapport, or more precisely, Nadine's unmaternal fondness for Sherry, had sufficed. And Sherry's lukewarm impersonal response had also been, if not deeply satisfying, at least adequate.

Now every motion that Sherry made outside of Nadine's immediate orbit, evoked a sense of personal loss. Sherry had seemingly given up her need for Nadine's attention. She renewed old friendships, and made new friends at the prodigious rate characteristic of teen-agers in a youth-oriented suburb. If the youthful friendships could be discounted as normal and not worthy of competition, Sherry's growing regard for Leila Stroud could not. Leila enjoyed Sherry's respect. More than that, her confidence. On more than one occasion, Nadine heard of a proposed beach party or weiner roast from Leila before she heard it from Sherry.

And the two shared projects that excluded Nadine. There was nothing she would purchase in a smart teen shop that could compare with the Leila-Sherry-do-it-yourself knitting kick.

Nadine approached it casually at first. "Hey, Granny! You're not knitting? You'll be trading in your George Shearing records for a musical rocking chair!"

"I'm making a bulky sweater for school," Sherry said flatly.

"I didn't know you could...."

"Leila's teaching me."

It was a petty incident, but the petty incidents multiplied themselves in Nadine's consciousness. Someone preferred someone else to Nadine. In their joint company she felt like an intruder, working too hard at being cheerful and companionable, aware of their exclusive, self-sufficient camaraderie.

She could have surmounted this single, minor threat to her ego. Consumed as she was with the Monty Carrell affair, Sherry's coolness would have gone by the boards. Except for the frustration of being too far removed from the Near North Side to make the promised return visit. There simply weren't any logical excuses to take her away from Riverdale long enough. After the Zam-Zam Club faux pas, she had become exceedingly cautious.

When the booming romance smelted down to a daily telephone call, it was ironic that this crumb of satisfaction should further her separation from Sherry.

Nadine had phoned Monty one afternoon while Sherry was across the street mastering the anachronistic art of knit-one, purl-two. Monty was in high romantic gear, his deep voice flowing through the receiver like thick honey.

"I resent all these miles and miles of wire separating us, dear."

"I know, I know...."

"Darling, you aren't locked in a stone tower. There aren't any fiery dragons guarding the moat?"

"Monty, you don't understand...."

"I adore you, I want you, I need you." (Yes, they had progressed to that stage through the blessed medium of Mr. Bell's affair-saving invention.) "I want to consume you the way you're consuming me...."

It was all hyperdramatic; possibly (if listened to objectively) ... even a bit on the hammy side. Except that Nadine did not listen objectively. She gave herself to the passion-laced dialogue without reservation. They were in love. It was driving them out of their minds to be cruelly separated. Gradually the emotional and physical symptoms superseded the myth. She had to have Monty Carrell. She told him so, closing her eyes and letting the elixir of his reply pour through her veins. He wanted her, too, he said, as he had never wanted any woman in his life.

Nadine sat with eyes pressed shut, savoring the mood after they had said goodbye. Perhaps a minute had gone by before her sixth sense introduced an awareness of someone else in the room.

Nadine turned. Too late to assume a bland nonchalance. She felt the color drain from her face, the visible tautening of nerves. "Sherry. I ... you went to Leila's, I thought."

"You thought right. Did I come home too soon?"

"Of course not, dear." There was no way of knowing how much Sherry had heard. Perhaps, Nadine thought, I didn't even call Monty by name. Foolish to panic. "Daddy wanted to know...."

Sherry didn't interrupt the hollow excuse; it choked in the web of its own inadequacy. And Sherry spoke only with the silent, deadly articulation of young, disbelieving eyes.

"What's wrong, darling? You look as though...."

Sherry's disgust shone in those eyes. Disgust, disillusionment ... and, conversely, a blazing confirmation of something until now vaguely suspected, circumspectly hinted at. As if, in one fell swoop, the need for cautious innuendoes had been canceled. The glisten of resentful tears was permissable now. "Don't tell me how I look! You should have seen yourself just now in a mirror!"

"Sherry, I don't know what you're talking about, but ... , people who listen in on conversations...."

"... find out that Daddy's name is Monty!"

Sherry turned to run from the room. That last dig had emerged hysterically shrill. "Sherry, listen to me...." Nadine began.

"You don't have to ask me not to say anything!" Sherry was in the hall, pounding savagely toward her room. "I couldn't! I couldn't, I couldn't...!" The strident voice dissolved in angry sobs and a door slammed violently in the bedroom wing.

Arguments or explanations would only heighten the impression of guilt. Ignore it, Nadine thought. Pretend Sherry had made a ludicrous mistake. Believe it strongly enough yourself. Adolescents are prone to melodrama; ignored, they begin to question their own motivation.

Emphatically, with the emphasis faltering only slightly, Nadine convinced herself that Sherry would forget.

It was at Frederic's Beauty Salon that Nadine ran into Gwen Allegretti, who was normally too busy for anything but a brisk exchange. On this morning, though Nadine still found it impossible to look at Vince's wife without visualizing colored lights flashing on a glass-cased scoreboard and bells going ding-ding-ding, Gwen appeared haggard and enervated.

"I took the morning off," Gwen sighed. "I figured, what the hell ... maybe Frederic'll do something for me."

"Your hair looks lovely."

"I mean my morale, kiddo." Gwen's fingers trembled as she lit a cigarette. "That Vince ... I tell you!"

"We don't see much of him these days," Nadine said noncommittally.

"Who does? I wish I wasn't such a softie. Next time he comes back from a three-day toot, he'd find the door locked." Gwen made an unflattering grimace. She seemed reluctant to reveal the smallest hint of senti mentality in her nature. "But you know how it is. You're married to a guy ... what're you gonna do?"

Maybe you should have told him this a long time ago, Nadine thought. It was as close as Gwen would come to saying she loved Vince: You're married to a guy ... what're you gonna do? And, of course, Vince thrived on more poetic expressions ... at least when he was sober.

"Can you ... talk to him?"

Gwen hooted shrilly. "That's all I've been doing! Leila tells me I nag too much. But I can't let him go to pot, Nadine! That lousy bottle...." She smoked thoughtfully for a moment and then, more optimistically, she added, "Oh, hell, what makes Leila such an expert? She didn't have all the answers when Roy got itchy feet. She's got it in her head when a man starts acting up, there's got to be some other woman involved."

"She didn't say that? To you?"

"Not in so many words. She started to, I think, but I set her straight. You have to know Vince, I said. Maybe he drinks, but he doesn't chase."

Nadine nodded, "He's a little frustrated. You know all those screwy ideas he has ... writing songs. God almighty, I wouldn't mind if he did something serious about it ... got it out of his system. But you know and I know a guy could beat his brains out in that racket from here to Christmas and never make a dime. Even if he was good at it, and if he went about it like a business. Vince mostly talks about it and ... pops corks."

"I'm sure Leila was wrong," Nadine said testily. Another needle of suspicion had just been jabbed under her skin. How much did Leila know? And what in hell was she trying to do?

Perhaps, Nadine decided after the conversation with Gwen Allegretti, perhaps I've been taking my security for granted. She made a mental list, that afternoon, of shaky areas that needed patching.

One, Leila would have to be "felt out." Of course she knew nothing about Warren, and certainly nothing about Roy. But there was a possibility that Vince had talked too much or been too obvious. And, too, Sherry had probably told Leila about that unfortunate telephone conversation with Monty Carrell. If that were the case, and if it seemed that a denial would be futile, it would be necessary to appeal to Leila's ego by asking for advice. I'll tell her, Nadine planned, that I'm the victim of an overimpulsive personality, that I've made the mistake of getting involved with two hyper-romantics ... and how would she suggest that I disentangle myself?

Good. Item two, Monty. Monty was necessary now, to replenish the weakening confidence. Bowling him over completely would make it easier to handle everyone else. All of the recent tactical errors were attributable to frustration.

Three. Nadine took care of this minor problem immediately. She dialed the Ryners' number, exchanging banalities for fifteen minutes and leaving Mabel solidly in the pro-Nadine camp. Tomorrow she would think of a warming gesture for Gwen Allegretti.

That left Sherry. Nadine opened the door to her daughter's bedroom, finding the latter sullenly going through the motions of tidying her dresser.

"I've been thinking," Nadine opened cheerfully, " ... this room could stand a redoing. Any ideas?"

"It's okay the way it is," Sherry mumbled.

"Wouldn't a new bedspread and draperies...?"

"No, it's fine. Just needs straightening."

"Seffie had cramps and couldn't get here today."

"I know. Sorry I left a mess this morning. I was in a rush."

"Did you go to the park?"

"Yes."

"Play tennis with Frannie?"

"Yes."

"Was her brother there?"

"He always is."

"His boyfriend?"

"He's always around, too."

It would take infinite patience to break through that wall of taciturnity. "I just had a chat with Mabel Ryner. You know about her cousin George spending the summer with them?"

"Daddy said something about it."

"Mrs. Ryner's expecting him next week. She's afraid George will be bored. You know ... not knowing any young people in town. I know she'd be grateful if you'd introduce him around."

Sherry's interest overcame her determination to remain aloof. She pretended concentration on the littered vanity table and her indifferent tone was far from believable. "Didn't Daddy say he's nineteen?"

"Yes. And he's had a year in college. Of course, he'll be working part-time. In Mr. Ryner's office. That was part of the deal, Mabel told me."

"What deal?"

"Well, Mr. Ryner paid for his new Corvette." Nadine pitched in, clearing the dressing table of lipstick-smudged Kleenex, waiting for the inevitable reaction.

"He has a new Corvette?"

"And you wouldn't want him sitting around the Ryners' backyard, moping." Nadine smiled and for a moment Sherry seemed to forget their rift.

Then Sherry stiffened. "I like boys. Sure, I'd be out of my gourd if I said I didn't." She drew herself erect, summoning a last reserve of resentment. "But men don't mean as much to me as they do to some women!"

Nadine's lips parted. Glancing into the vanity mirror she saw that her eyes had grown misty. "Oh, Sherry! Sherry, baby, you don't understand! Do you remember the things Miss Tillotson thought about you? The way she took an innocent little lark and twisted it into something ... vile?"

"I didn't do anything...."

"But it looked that way to someone who didn't trust you." Nadine reached for a fresh tissue and dabbed at her eyes. "Someone who didn't love you."

"Well, she was wrong! She's got a filthy mind to begin with and we...."

"Couldn't you be wrong, dear?" Nadine asked brokenly. Tears welled in her eyes. "Couldn't you...."

There was a long, searching silence. Then a terrible, gasping sound came from Sherry, "Oh, Mom!"

And they were in each other's arms, Sherry sobbing convulsively, Nadine rocking the tall, gangling body against her own, gently patting the heaving shoulders.

"I don't know why ... everything gets so mixed up ... I goof all the time...."

"Don't cry, honey. It's all right. Please don't cry...."...." I told you ... whatever I do, I goof...." Sherry choked on the words. Tears streamed down her face, rolling off to splotch Nadine's blouse.

Nadine cried, too. She wept as she had never wept before ... as Sara Bernhardt had never wept in her most memorable portrayals of immortal tragedy. Sherry was her child. She loved Sherry. Loved her, loved her ... loved everybody!