Someone Else's Husband(32)
“I have no idea, Becks. The why doesn’t matter. Whatever it is they think, they’ve got it wrong.”
* * *
—
Gretchen called Elizabeth next. She had momentum now. Technically, she called the number for the Community, of course, not Elizabeth directly. Elizabeth didn’t own a cell phone. That would have constituted participation in the commercial world order she was committed to dismantling. There was only one phone at the Community, in the commune’s office.
Gretchen knew this only because Richard had visited. Even more unbelievably, he’d asked Elizabeth if he could. He’d volunteered. Gretchen had been annoyed, honestly, because it put her in the awkward position of not going. But there was no way she could have tolerated seeing Elizabeth in that context. A compound—no electricity, no flushing toilet? It was barbaric. There really was no other word for it. It made Gretchen wonder where they—she, really—had gone wrong. But Hilary had always been quick to shut down this line of thinking.
“Sometimes they just come out batshit,” she liked to say. “Look at mine. Each one crazier than the next.”
This was only marginally comforting. Hilary’s sons—all still in high school—were indeed wild, though in mostly unremarkable ways. Hilary was wild, too. Gretchen wasn’t surprised that the boys had turned out a bit off-kilter.
“The Community,” a cheerful young man answered in a singsong voice after an endless amount of ringing.
Elizabeth had met the “founder” of the Community, Nascent Moon—born Brent Pembroke; yes, those Pembrokes—when she was at Berkeley. After graduation, she had come with a small group of “followers” to found the “East Coast branch.” At least the group was nonviolent and nonsexual—as far as Gretchen knew. The best that could be said for them was that they didn’t seem to do much of anything, so they didn’t do much damage, either.
“Can I speak with Elizabeth, please?” Gretchen asked, trying to smile as she spoke so that she might sound less irritated.
“Can I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s her mother,” she said, then added quickly, “And please tell her it’s a family emergency.” Otherwise, Elizabeth might refuse to come to the phone.
“Okay, hold on a quick sec!” Why were they all so abrasively happy?
Gretchen closed her eyes, willing herself to be calm. Patience.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” Elizabeth sounded as young and worried as Becks had. It had been a long time since she’d called Gretchen “Mom.” All Gretchen wanted was to hold the moment.
“Mom!” There the old Elizabeth was—loud and a little mean.
“Elizabeth, don’t shout, for heaven’s sake.” Gretchen squeezed her eyes shut. Now, all of it out, all at once. “One of the people on the Kilimanjaro climb with your dad has been murdered and for some ridiculous reason they’ve arrested your father. It’s a mistake, of course. As you so often point out, the police make them all the time.” The last bit was an easy sell. Elizabeth hated the police even more than she hated capitalism. “It’s just an unfortunate situation. That’s all.”
“?‘An unfortunate situation’?” Elizabeth shouted. “Mom, what the actual fuck?”
“It is all very shocking,” Gretchen said, trying to guide the conversation back to the point. “But I need you to come home, Elizabeth. We need to show a united front. That starts with all of us being at the arraignment on Monday.”
“Arraignment…This is fucking insane.” Elizabeth’s anger was a relief. Gretchen wanted people to be as enraged as she was at the absurdity.
“Scotty is bringing in an expert, someone who handles a lot of these kinds of cases.” These cases. Violent cases? Cases involving husbands? Possible affairs? All the options were horrifying.
“Send Sam to get me,” Elizabeth said calmly. Sam? That really was next-level. Gretchen had been prepared for Elizabeth to say she’d need to hitchhike, or walk, or whatever those lunatics did to avoid modern transportation. “I’ll be ready when he gets here.”
* * *
—
Next up on Gretchen’s call list was Deborah, Richard’s assistant. As always, she answered her phone right away—weekends, nights, holidays. She was devoted to Richard.
“Oh, I’m so glad you called!” she said. “How was the performance?”
Right, Oppy’s assembly. That felt like lifetimes ago. It was nearly 12:30 p.m.—he was probably expected at the office around now.
“It was wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.” Gretchen’s voice was shrill again, setting her own nerves on edge.
“Is Richard on his way in? I was just starting to get worried—you know, I never can help myself. He has a two p.m. that I’ve pushed several times. They’ll have my head if I cancel again!”
In her seventies, Deborah was warm and caring, but also firm. Gretchen loved that there was another woman in Richard’s life who kept tabs on him. There had been periods when Deborah and Gretchen had spoken nearly every day about Richard’s location or something personal he needed sent by messenger to some distant locale—a specific tie, his reading glasses. During the decade and a half that Richard had been working around the clock and traveling constantly, Gretchen and Deborah had functioned like sister wives, ensuring he was eating and had clean clothes and was sleeping at least occasionally. Gretchen had heard of other secretaries who were patronizing to wives. But Deborah had always made Gretchen feel completely respected.