House of Blues

or
is it always this way? He doesn't like me or he wouldn't have other
women. And I haven't liked him since . . . when?
    Since the time the
children started coming, probably. You fall in love and then you have
children,and you lose all sense of everything but that, and then one
day you look across the table and you think, "What am I doing
with this jerk?"
    * * *
    Reed's house was beautiful, even bigger and
better—restored than Sugars own. Reed wasn't much of a gardener—had
only a few perennials blooming—and the house was plain white with
green shutters; Sugar would have done something more imaginative with
it.
    But it was freshly painted and graceful, a Victorian
with a wonderful huge front porch supported by Ionic columns.
    The front yard was enormous. Two giant oaks grew
there, dwarfing a small forest of bananas.
    Sugar entered the yard through the small iron gate
and walked briskly up to the porch, finding the view before her very
pretty indeed.
    She fit the key in the lock, turned off the burglar
alarm, and relocked the door. Just as she headed up the stairs, she
heard the phone ring. Was it quickest to dash up the stairs or race
down and try to catch the call in the kitchen? She opted for the
kitchen and got there just as the phone stopped ringing.
    "Hello?" she said, but Reed's voice on the
machine floated above hers, saying she wasn't home but the caller
could leave a message.
    Sugar would have hung up, but the caller had heard
her.
    "Hello?" said a man's voice. "Reed, is
that you?"
    When Reed's alter ego had stopped speaking, Sugar
said, "It's Sugar Hebert, Reed's mother. Can I take a message
for her?"
    "Why, Sugar, how are you, dear lady?" She
tensed at something forced in the voice, something falsely hearty.
"This is Milton Foucher, Dennis's father. It is a pure delight
to hear your voice."
    "It's good to hear yours too, Mr. Foucher."
She had met him once—at Reed and Dennis's wedding—and she was
quite sure she wouldn't recognize him if he walked in right now.
    "How have you been, Sugar?"
    " Just fine. How've you been? And Mrs. Foucher?"
    " Oh, as fine as frog hair, Sugar. We are doing
splendidly. Indeed we are."
    Why couldn't he talk like a normal person? Hadn't he
ever heard of contractions? Sugar was about to ask him if she could
take a message, but he said, "We heard Hebert's was awarded the
concession for the casino restaurant."
    " Yes, we got it."
    "Well, congratulations on that. We are very very
proud of you."
    Sugar fought to keep her snobbery under control. A
part of her knew that Milton Foucher was a polite (if pretentious)
man who'd had too many children too late in life and that he had
suffered a lot—mostly due to his youngest, Dennis.
    Another part of her didn't want to admit she was
related to him, even by marriage.
    "Thanks a lot, Mr. Foucher; I appreciate that.
Could I—"
    " We were so happy for you when we heard about
it. That is a very important plum for you."
    "It's going to keep us all pretty busy, I
expect."
    "I only wish Dennis had gone into that
business"—his voice was full of regret—"but what can
you do with youngsters? You have to let them do what they want to
do—there's no help for it, is there?"
    "There sure isn't." She hoped her voice
didn't betray the bitterness she felt.
    "Well, I had better not keep you. I have some
sad news for Dennis."
    " I'm afraid he isn't here right now. Could I
give him a message?"
    "Well, if you would, please. Tell him Justin is
not expected to live out the week."
    Sugar searched her memory. Was Justin a relative?
"I'm sorry to hear that," she said.
    "This thing is a terrible waste." Sugar
could almost see him shaking his head. "A terrible, terrible
waste."
    " I'll be sure and tell him."
    Hanging up, she looked at her watch and hurried to
get the overalls. She'd been gone nearly twenty minutes, and it would
take her ten more to get back if she hurried instead of getting into
conversations and peering into everyone's garden. She hoped they
wouldn't still be yelling when she got there.
    She raised a hand to set the alarm, but couldn't
remember the combination, punched out with such dispatch when she
came in. Now her mind was a blank. She had to sit down and focus till
it came to her.
    She walked briskly back, but when she saw a pair of
teenage kids with reversed baseball caps coming down the street, she
crossed and circled a block that wasn't on the way. She'd probably
lost five minutes, with one thing and another. She was starting