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6
When we walked next door to the Stokes house, I was surprised at the striking black-and-white decor of its contemporary interior, which contrasted sharply with the southwestern exterior. A buffet lunch was set up in the formal dining room, and people walked about with plates of food in their hands. The crowd was large enough to spill over into the living and family rooms.
"Too bad it's so hot outside; their patio is beautiful," Denise whispered. "And be sure to notice the kitchen. They just spent $30,000 remodeling it."
I was too busy scanning the crowd for Michael Loring to care about the patio or the kitchen. Richard Stokes was talking to some people in one corner of the living room. His back was toward me but I knew him by the distinctive bald patch. Unlike his late father, the son didn't seem to be using Rogaine to grow hair again. Maybe his wife liked the bald spot; some women did.
For the first time, I got a clear view of Richard's wife, Nancy—I recognized her by the mauve dress she'd been wearing at the memorial service. Although she couldn't have been much older than Betsy, her stepmother-in-law, her short brown hair was starting to gray. She was a thin, tired-looking woman, in sharp contrast to Betsy, who had seemed bursting with vitality when we saw her at the mall.
Harry's daughter, Sheila, had changed to white tennis shorts and a T-shirt that said "Scotty's Groupie" in large purple letters. I knew her by her long French braid and reflected how different all of them had looked from where I sat, eight rows back, in the chapel. The only people I could be sure to recognize were Betsy Stokes and Michael Loring, and when Denise pulled me along to the newly remodeled kitchen, I finally saw them.
The kitchen, starkly sophisticated with its black laminate counters and stainless steel built-ins, wasn't too crowded. They were sitting at the table, a huge granite slab, and Michael seemed to be talking earnestly to Betsy. She nodded her head occasionally but, whenever people approached the table, stopped the conversation to speak to them. I guessed some of the earliest visitors were taking leave of her, reiterating their condolences, while she was thanking them for coming.
Although I'd made up my mind to talk to Michael today, I found I couldn't interrupt. Ruthie, you know that's just an excuse, I told myself, but I left the kitchen without a word to anyone.
Denise seemed restless but remained at my side, and I knew I didn't want to speak to Michael until she was busy elsewhere. As we stood at the buffet table, helping ourselves to fruit salad, Mrs. Branden came over to point out her roast to Denise. I drifted back to the kitchen.
I leaned against the silver-and-black refrigerator, holding my paper plate and pretending to eat, while I waited for someone to distract Betsy so I could talk to Michael alone. In my mind, I worked out ways to reveal my identity. Maybe the subtle approach would be best. "Do you ever reminisce about pharmacy school?" or "I haven't seen you at our reunions." No, that was too coy; I would be direct. "Do you remember me, Michael? I'm Ruthie Kantor Morris."
After a while, a young couple came over to talk to Betsy, and I quickly went to Michael's side of the kitchen table. He had stood politely at the couple's approach and now turned his full attention, along with that forceful blue gaze, to me. I hesitated.
"We met at the mall the other night," I began.
"Yes," he said. "I see you no longer spend Friday nights at the synagogue."
I couldn't hide my surprise. "You recognized me."
"Not right away," he admitted. "But before you and your friend walked away, I knew."
"You didn't say anything."
"I didn't want to upset Betsy. She has enough on her mind."
I was silent. He took my arm and led me from the kitchen to a quiet corner of the formal dining room, opposite the laden buffet table. My mind was racing, but I could only think in clichés. "Well, it's certainly been a long time" or "How strange to meet this way." A saying of my mother's, "We should meet at a happy occasion next time," nearly made me giggle, and I realized I could easily make a fool of myself if I didn't control my nervousness.
Michael was still staring at me, but I couldn't read his expression. I wanted to ask how he'd recognized me, but I didn't dare. He surprised me again.
"You were sporting your serious look. That time just before your birthday, you looked at me exactly the same way."
I remembered every detail of that afternoon because I'd relived it hundreds of times. And I felt the same pain now that had overwhelmed me so many years ago.
It was close to the end of our second year of pharmacy school. I didn't know yet that Michael had applied for a transfer to a pharmacy college in New York.
Arizona weather in May can be pretty hot even in Tucson, although Tucson, with its higher elevation, is slightly cooler than Scottsdale. That day, the day Michael and I knew we'd soon part, was comfortably breezy and we were walking on campus between classes. The scene between us could have come from one of my favorite books of those days, Marjorie Morningstar by Herman Wouk.
Michael led me to a shady spot under a grapefruit tree. "Let's touch down here," he said. Even his choice of verbs reflected his boundless energy. Michael never told people he intended to go somewhere; he said he would dash upstairs or rush over. That crackling vitality had first attracted me. It never moderated, even in the Arizona heat.
I leaned against the tree and watched Michael. He seemed unusually quiet.
"We need to talk about our future," he said.
"Why can't we stay as we are?"
"Because I don't want to run home for the summer and leave you here."
I looked up at the tree. The season was over; most of the fruit had been picked or fallen to the ground months ago, but a few grapefruit clung tenaciously to the highest branches. "There's nothing we can do."
"Damn it! There are plenty of choices, Ruthie. But you have to be willing to make some hard decisions."
"You know we're both still in school."
"I've figured it out. I can get close to full-time work on nights and weekends during the school year. If you're willing to work part time, we can afford to get married."
Married to Michael. How I wanted to shout, "Yes, let's forget everything else and do it." But although I'd be twenty years old in a few weeks, girls brought up in traditional middle-class homes didn't give up their families so easily in those days. We were less sophisticated than today's young women; even the fact that we were called "girls" then, and lived at home until marriage, underlines how different the times were.
Now, in Betsy Stokes's dining room, Michael gently touched my shoulder. "You're thinking about those two kids under the grapefruit tree in Tucson."
"Yes," I admitted and turned away from his intense gaze.
"How have the years been for you, Ruthie? I know you're married because your name is different."
I couldn't bring myself to tell him about Bob. If I say that I'm a widow, I thought, somehow it will sound all wrong. And what about Betsy? I couldn't compete with her, even if I wanted to. Later, when I got away from the force of Michael's personality, I would have to look closely at that last thought.
Michael must have noticed my reluctance to answer, for he started to tell me about himself. He had married right after graduation from Fordham, but the marriage had not lasted long. He changed to a less personal topic.
"Are you a practicing pharmacist? Where do you work?"
That was an easier subject for me. I told him about Food Go, and we discussed the changes in pharmacy over the years. We laughed about the ointments and suppositories we'd learned to compound in school and how unlikely it would have seemed then to dispense only prepackaged medications.
"Remember when we were supposed to make peppermint water in the lab and ran out of time?"
My awkwardness and unease vanished for the moment and I smiled warmly at him, delighting in the memory. "You were the one who decided to dissolve a peppermint Lifesaver in the mixture."
"Well, the professor thought it was the best peppermint water he'd ever tasted." Michael's lips curved upward and his eyes caught fire the way I remembered, the way that once made me want to be with him forever. But forever had been only one academic year.
It was odd that I'd just been thinking about Marjorie Morningstar, because the fictional Marjorie and what she represented had influenced my breakup with Michael. The family in the novel was like mine, even though we lived so far from Marjorie's New York City. And when she rejected her first love and later became engaged to someone else, I agonized with Marjorie as she confessed the early affair to her fiancé. Her guilt was overwhelming because in those days "good Jewish girls" were expected to be virgins when they married.
The part of Herman Wouk's novel that had affected me most was the reaction of Marjorie's husband-to-be to her confession; he never again mentioned the subject, but he never again wore the same joyful look. The double standard was very real in the 1950s, and I knew I was not going to disappoint my husband like Marjorie Morningstar. That's why, after I turned down Michael's marriage proposal, I also turned down his plea to go east with him anyhow.
Michael must have noticed that I'd stopped laughing and was looking serious again, but I didn't want him to know which tape my mind was running on its multimedia screen. He, too, became serious.
"Ruthie, were you Harry Stokes's pharmacist?"
"Yes."
"I must talk to you. There are too many unresolved questions about his death, and I need to know what prescription drugs he was taking."
"Don't the police ..." I started to ask. As I spoke, I could see Betsy crossing the room toward us. Michael was watching her, too.
"They seem to suspect Betsy," he said quickly. His voice caught and he cleared his throat to cover it. "I have to help her."
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