Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [82]
“Did your husband’s death make you feel guilty?” she finally asked.
“Yes,” Judith answered truthfully. “I always felt I’d enabled him. I worked when he wouldn’t, I bought the Twinkies, the liquor, all the things he shouldn’t have had if he wanted to be healthy.”
Connie’s gaze grew more intense. “How long ago has it been since he died?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Have you forgiven yourself?” Connie asked softly, leaning closer.
“Not entirely,” Judith replied. “Even though I know it wasn’t my fault. He did it to himself. Ultimately, we’re responsible for our own actions.”
Connie nodded slowly, her thin body rocking back and forth on the toile cushions. “Yes…perhaps…yes.”
Chevy appeared with brandy and a vodka martini. Paul took both glasses, then wordlessly handed the snifter to Connie. She nodded her thanks, but kept her gaze on Judith. “You must be very strong,” she said.
Judith shrugged. “I had a son to raise. You do what you have to do.”
“Mags and I had no children.” Connie had looked away, her eyes staring blankly at the shifting scene across the room. Horace and CeeCee were talking to Jim Brooks; Erma appeared to be upbraiding Chevy despite Rhoda’s wagging finger; Renie had been cornered by Ambrose; Rick was standing aloof, drinking gin and observing the others.
Judith never knew quite what to say to someone who had been married but remained childless. “I had an elderly mother to look out for,” she finally said when Connie didn’t elaborate. “My son and I moved home with her.”
“She must have been a comfort,” Connie remarked.
“Uh…yes,” Judith replied. If hearing “I told you so, you dumbbell” at least twice a day could be considered comfort, she thought. But at least Gertrude had been there. And still was. “Are your parents living?”
Connie sipped her brandy before she answered. “My mother died when I was in my early teens. My father is still living, but in very poor health. He’s sold his homes in New York and in Paris. He prefers his native Buenos Aires, and seldom goes out at all.”
“My father died when I was a teenager,” Judith said, making another honest effort to forge a bond.
“Oh, yes?” Connie’s fine features softened almost imperceptibly. She leaned even closer and lowered her voice. “Did that make you feel guilty, too?”
“No.” Judith thought back to that unhappy time. “But of course I wished I’d been a better daughter. I had regrets, especially that I can’t remember him as well I should. But that’s because when you’re young, you take time—and everything else—for granted.”
“We do, don’t we?” Connie had grown wistful. “We don’t see our parents as people. We know them only as mother, father. That’s the tragedy of being their children, isn’t it?”
Judith didn’t answer immediately. “I hadn’t thought about it exactly in that way. But you’re right. When we get older—while a parent is still living—we have more insight.”
Connie’s expression was ironic. “Do we?”
Paul touched Connie’s shoulder, where white piping held the black froth of cap sleeve in place. “Can I get you something else?” he inquired. “I don’t see any canapés, but you haven’t eaten all day.”
His words were like a tocsin. Erma had moved away from the others, pursing her tight red mouth. “Dinner is about to be served. Would you please follow me into the dining room?”
Paul moved to assist Connie to her feet. But Horace had thumped across the room.
“May I?” he said, offering a big hand to Connie. “Did you receive the flowers I sent? And the fruit basket?”
Connie allowed Horace to help her stand. “Yes. Thank you. They were very thoughtful.”
Judith was left to fend for herself, no easy task since the sofa was low and the cushions were deep. She was the last to arrive, finding her place between Jim and Paul. Horace had kept Connie next to him, at the opposite end. A sidelong glance to her left told Judith that Paul was discomfited, perhaps even fuming. Erma had her rightful chair at the head of the table, but no one sat in the other place of honor, though there was a chair and a setting.