Page 27 of We All Live Here
The doorbell rings at a quarter past eight, just as Lila is clearing the dishes from the table, and Bill is already standing at the sink, his back a rigid reproach to the last hour. Gene gets up, as he is nearest to the hall, and she hears a murmured conversation, followed by a raised voice. Lila puts the plates on the side and walks out to see what is happening.
“I said I was going to come toyou. Later.”
A woman is hauling a suitcase up the front steps, followed by two cardboard boxes, which she dumps with satisfied emphasis on the tiled floor.
“Well, I had the car so I thought this way I could make sure it actually happened.” She looks up as Lila stands in the doorway.
“Oh, hello, Lila. How are you?”
Lila squints, trying to work out why this woman is familiar. “Jane?” Her father’s first English girlfriend—or the first Lila knew about—after her mother: Jane, a massage therapist with long wavy blonde hair, who had been with Gene on and off in the UK and US for maybe fifteen years, who had offered to treat Lila’s bruised knees with arnica and whose whole house had smelt of patchouli. She had treated Gene’s behavior as if it was entirely to be expected from a man of his talent, and wore a permanent serene smile. She was the most level person Lila had ever met. This woman’s hair is long and gray but still thick, her hands strong and capable. She still wears no makeup and her arms are sinewy and strong. Her broad feet are encased in a pair of comfortable red sandals like those a child might wear.
She pushes a box toward Gene and straightens, flicking her long hair back and brushing her hands as if delighted to rid herself of the burden. “Can’t tell you how long I’ve had those in my attic. I did check the suitcase before I came and amazingly nothing has gone moldy or been eaten by moths. I think it was the lavender I put in with them.”
“What—what’s going on?”
“Gene called and said he’s living here now. So I thought it was a good time to persuade him to take the things he’d left at my house for…oh, twenty-three years? It’ll be a miracle if you fit any of those clothes, Gene. Though I guess you could sell the Grateful Dead T-shirts at Camden Market if you get stuck.”
“I’m sorry?” says Lila, who is struggling to understand. “Living where?”
“I didn’t say living,” says Gene, who seems to have sobered up.
“Yes, you did,” says Jane. “You told me you were living with your daughter. You said it yesterday when you called. It was the first thing you said. Also, there may be a couple more boxes up there. I couldn’t get to them this evening.”
“No—no! Hang on,” says Lila. “He’s just staying here. One more night.”
Jane looks steadily at Gene. Her eyes contain something that Lila is not entirely happy about. “I see,” says Jane. “Staying.”
Gene turns to Lila, his smile full wattage, and places a hand on her shoulder. “I was going to ask you, sweetheart, whether I could make it a few more days. There’s been a problem with the hotel and I just—”
She hears the distantoh, nofrom the kitchen before Gene has even finished the question.
“Just while I’m in rehearsals,” says Gene, still beaming.
Lila looks from one to the other, feeling somehow out-maneuvered.
It is Jane who breaks the silence. “This is something you two probably need to sort out by yourselves,” she says cheerfully. “And I have aclient at eight thirty, so I need to get off. Lila, it’s absolutely lovely to see you again. I’ve often wondered how you were. Lovely house. Gene, it was…Well, good luck.” She pats his arm, gives a little wave to Lila and leaves.
Lila and Gene stand in the hallway.
“I hit a little bit of bother,” Gene begins, “in the finance department.”
Lila rolls her eyes to the heavens.
“It’s short term. Very short term. Just till I get paid. But it’s kinda tricky to get a hotel right now as I lost my credit card and don’t seem to have enough cash to put down a deposit on a place.”
Lila’s jaw seems to have locked. She can feel every one of her teeth.
“So sweetheart, if you could let me stay until I get paid I’d be really grateful. Just a short-term thing. So I can spend time with you and the girls.”
When Lila doesn’t respond, he continues: “I’d be out of your way. I can just sleep up there and work around you all. Maybe help look after Celia and—”
“Celie. It’s Celie. As inThe Color Purple. And Violet.”
“We don’t need any help,” comes the voice from the kitchen.
Lila doesn’t move.
“It’s that or I’m sleeping on the streets,” he says, throwing down his trump card with the confidence—or desperation—of someone who knows that to throw a seventy-something man onto the streets takes the kind of mental willpower or coldness that Lila is unlikely to possess.
