What Should We Do About Annette?

By Mary Lou Peters Schram

The Prescott siblings — sister Leslie, brother Alan and sister Connie — have survived a miserable five years when their intelligent and loving parents fall into dementia and had to be cared for by their children. Now the parents have died and all three children have separately left New York and moved to San Francisco to re-start their careers and find happy lives. Why shouldn't they achieve that? They are all attractive, energetic and well-educated. There is only one flaw in their new upward progress and that is Annette, Alan's recently divorced wife, who is none of the above. The three meet frequently and argue at length, but Annette seems to make no progress until she gets in the way of an evil man.

An enthralling, frequently runny, page-turner, which captures some of the complexity of family life, and how narrow the shelf of safety is in big city life. You will love the Prescotts and laugh with them. — Jim Keenan

With suspense, complexity of characters and the intricacy of relationships long forged, Mary Lou Schram 's new novel What Should We Do About Annette? is her best ever and adds up to a story that draws us powerfully to its resolution. For me a "must read.'"—Caroline Knowles

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Lou Peters Schram
• Release date: Jan 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386762508

Mary Lou Peters Schram

Mary Lou Peters Schram grew up in Ohio and graduated from Bennington College in Vermont where she studied writing with, among others, Howard Nemerov, later to be U.S. Poet Laureate. After a short time of working in New York for TIME Magazine in marketing, she married and moved to California. She entered public relations and advertising in San Francisco and began writing novels. For four years she was Advertising and Promotion Director of KCBS Radio, and more recently wrote an occasional column for The Progressive View in the Rossmoor News.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THERE WERE SIX OTHER PEOPLE in the elevator when the glass box finally began to rise up the front of the building. Connie’s spirits rose with it and she was suddenly excited about arriving in San Francisco, about making a new life here. The other people in the box looked equally merry. They seemed to almost know each other and were dressed in party clothes but not what they would be wearing to a party in New York. Here there was white fox with tattered jeans, gold bangles and fringed shawls, diamonds imitating rhinestones in earrings that brushed the shoulders. It all made Connie’s tweed suit look positively Bostonian. But of course, she had been traveling.

She had started this journey in doubt and apprehension. The long, long plane flight from New York, and the brief, sleepy cab ride into the city. She had traveled to what was supposed to be Leslie’s new flat by another cab from the Palace Hotel, watching the passing streets apprehensively. Connie had only been in San Francisco once before, on a three-day weekend. She hadn’t seen that much of the city then; for all she knew the cab might be taking her three times the distance he needed just to kick up the fare.

At first there were office buildings, then a hill and what was probably Chinatown off to one side. At least the signs that hung over the side streets were decorated with those odd symbols. Then they turned onto Columbus, which didn’t look much like downtown streets in New York. That got them to a restaurant row with a hill of houses hanging over them. Then a small park and an ornate church and more small apartment buildings. Just when she expected to see the district become residential, instead, she could see the Bay. It wasn’t orderly like New York. She shifted on the plastic seat and clutched her purse.

Are you sure this is the right way? It was silly to ask that. Was he likely to say no?

Instead he muttered something unintelligible. A New York response. She began to bounce around in a restless fashion, half minded to get out and walk and ask anybody. Anyone who spoke English. But what else would they speak? SF was not like New York with its thousand different languages. Her mind shifted to Leslie. Leslie had left New York with a fist full of cash from selling property inherited from their parents, so her new place should be quite elegant. Would she be happy to see her baby sister? She hadn’t issued an invitation.

There seemed to be a lot going on at the street where they turned. This of course was another hill which they were going up slowly, maybe because at the top there were a lot of people standing in the street with cameras and taking photos of cars coming slowly down the street above them in a zigzag fashion.

What on earth is that?" she asked but again there was no answer.

Just before the zigzag, they turned onto a cross street and the cab stopped in the middle of this block. They were still in a traffic lane since there was a row of cars parked along each side.

Is this the right place?

The cabbie, a dark man who might have been from anywhere, uttered something that was probably a swear word in a language Connie didn’t know. She much preferred the lyrical courtesy of the West Indian cabbies back home.

There was activity in all directions. Cars were pausing right in the street, people were getting out, greeting each other, looking unhappily at the sky, or complaining about the steepness of the street. Now there were cars honking behind them already.

Why did you stop?

This is it.

What was wrong with Californians? Now he opened his door and jumped out.

Where?

There. The house with the glass box. He was frowning at her. If you want me to go down to the end of the block and come back up on the other side, I will, but that will take another ten minutes. He gestured at the fare box, which was still clicking madly.

How should I know? The street looked too steep to walk on. Everyone said San Francisco was full of hills but this was ridiculous.

What is a glass box? But she could see it now, across the street. A very modern looking glass box that went all the way up the front of an old tan building right where one might expect porches on each floor.

Now there were several cars trying to get around them, honking because they weren’t moving. Connie felt like a stopper in a bottle.

You want me to get out here? He had her door open now and was trying to coax her out. Not leaving her much choice.

I’m sorry, he said. This street is always difficult. The police should close it. You don’t have to pay a tip.

She slid across the seat to get to the door where he was. She wanted to protest that he was letting her out on the traffic side but she saw the door was pulling him off balance because the hill was so steep.

My suitcase, she complained. The horn behind them blasted impatiently.

She put her feet carefully out onto the street. She was wearing high heels because she always needed to feel taller with Leslie, and they were making the steep hill very difficult. He left the door for her to hold while he ducked around to the trunk and pulled out her make-up case.

She handed him a twenty and a five, which included a two-dollar tip, and took the make-up case from him. In New York, if you paid no tip at all you might get chased up the street for it. She could now feel the wind off the Bay as it ruffled her short blond curls. She tried to gauge if her shoes were gripping the pavement or not as she crossed cautiously to the sidewalk. She had to weave through the lane of cars, pretending she didn’t feel their heat and the purring of their engines.

In the midst of all this, Connie wavered. You never got a full night’s sleep traveling west. She wanted badly to see her sister but the muscles in her shoulders reminded her that Leslie could be difficult when she chose to be. She had brought only a make-up case – leaving the rest at the Palace because arriving with all her luggage might signal she was demanding Leslie put her up. They had barely communicated since their parents’ funeral only months ago. For the last several years, Leslie had been a fulltime caregiver to their parents. During that time Connie had learned to be cautious at making any trip up the Hudson, knowing that if she was in Leslie’s shoes, she would be angry at the whole world.

Having reached the sidewalk, she paused to catch her breath, looking now at the people who seemed to be well dressed and mostly headed for the same building. It was Saturday afternoon… it could be a party. Maybe it was Leslie’s party; she used to give good parties back in New York.

Connie had a small tickle of excitement; she shook out her skirt and put a hand to her hair, deciding she was well enough dressed for a party. Leslie didn’t even know she was in California, but surely she would be happy to see her. After their parents’ funerals, Leslie had left the East Coast with only a few cryptic words about searching for another place in which to make a life. Since then there had been only the news that she had bought a piece of property in San Francisco. In a half-hearted gesture toward communicating, she had included this address.

Connie followed several others up the steps toward the glass elevator. Looking up she could see that it traveled inside a polished steel frame in a square of maybe fifteen feet on a side, and this was firmly attached to the front of a fifty-year-old building.

While she stood there looking, people who were ahead of her crowded into the elevator and the glass doors closed on them while it lifted skyward. Connie watched as the bodies lifted off, their legs slowly passing her, and then the steel floor was above her, quickly rising beside anonymous tan stucco.

The box of party-goers was now above Connie’s head, stopping suddenly while a door opened in the side of the building at the second floor level as some people got off. Then the doors closed and it started up again.

Clever, isn’t it? someone said, and Connie turned around to see who was talking but could not tell.

It’s beautiful, she answered but no one replied.

The novelty of it was exhilarating. In spite of the silence, Connie’s spirits rose at the thought of riding up into the sky and joining all these others at a party. It was like Leslie to have met a whole new group of people in the few months she had been in San Francisco and then invite them to something as remarkable as the glass elevator.

There were now a few murmurs around her in the relaxed way of people who haven’t been introduced yet but expect to be. They also seemed charmed with the excitement of traveling up into the sky.

Is the party at number three? Are you all friends of Leslie’s?

The woman on her left looked Connie over before answering. She was well wrapped in a hunter green cape of boiled wool but had rather bizarre painted-on eyebrows. The first floor is only a basement, three is the top flat. Are you a friend of Leslie’s?

Having been a New Yorker for years and years, Connie hated answering questions from a stranger. Yes. Since she was born. Though of course that wasn’t quite true, because Leslie was older.

Apparently the answer was not what was expected. The woman’s receptive expression disappeared, and her eyes focused on the glass box, which had come rapidly down from the top floor and was now in front of them with the doors sliding open. Connie felt chastised. Would Leslie’s friends here like her or would they simply put up with her the way Leslie sometimes did. When would she learn to just smile and not say anything? Then it couldn’t be misinterpreted. She followed the others into the box and watched the glass door closing against the foggy day outside.

Maybe she was going to like these people and the fact that they were unlike New Yorkers. She turned to look out through the clear wall behind her. Now she saw a reason for it to be made of glass. As they went upward, they passed the buildings on the lower side of the street; here the hill dropped away and the city opened up to them. The sun welcomed them to the bright blue of the huge stretch of water. That must be the Bay.

There was a sound within the box, and Connie turned back toward the building. She forgot the world of water as the door to the third flat slid open, revealing Corinthian pillars painted pale yellow and a chandelier reflecting shards of light from a hundred crystal pendants.

A plump expressionless Hispanic maid in a black uniform stood there, nearly blocking the entry as she accepted coats to carry away. She was forced to back up as eager guests spilled out of the elevator looking for their hostess.

Hi there, Maria, several people said to the maid.

Maria nodded, accepting more coats, without losing her solemn expression or her aplomb.

Connie was the last wave to leave the elevator having been looking at the view across the street. When the crowd in front of her freed themselves and spilled into the apartment, she could see Leslie herself standing there next to the maid, smiling a welcome at her guests. Connie’s heart gave a little wiggle of relief.

It was not only that it was truly Leslie. She looked wonderful, straight and handsome, recovered from her long years of caregiving, She wore a plain black dress that fitted her beautifully and a large gold Art Nouveau pin that Connie recognized as having been their grandmother’s. Surrounding a pre-Raphaelite face with sapphires for eyes were swirls of gold for Aphrodite’s hair.

Leslie’s dark blond hair was waved on the sides but swept up in back. Her face looked fuller than it had been months ago at the funeral in Westchester. Then it had been like a mask, stiff as Paper Mache over bone-tiredness.

Leslie’s eyes locked in immediately on her sister’s face as Connie’s eyes came to hers.

Darling Connie! Leslie reached through the strangers, put out her arms, and hugged her sister. Connie sank thankfully into the embrace. It was what she had come for. This was the Leslie as she had been before her long ordeal. But even better now, because they had survived their loss.

I’m so glad to see you, Connie whispered gratefully. I hope I’m not in the way.

Of course not. Wait till you see what I’ve been working at!

It looks fabulous. And the glass box? Who designed that?

Leslie smiled. I did, of course. Wait till you see the rest. Go on in and get a glass of wine from Arnold and find a place to sit, and I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.

Connie did as she was told, wondering if Arnold was a boyfriend or hired help. It didn’t matter. She was here.

CHAPTER TWO

CONNIE WOKE UP WHEN SHE HEARD the small click of a light being turned on and opened her eyes onto Leslie’s face above her.

You startled me, Connie complained.

Leslie nodded. I came to wake you hours ago but you wouldn’t wake up even when I touched your arm and spoke to you. You were very deeply asleep so I let you alone.

Connie sat up, anxious. I’m sorry. I guess I was super tired. I had to change planes in St. Louis, and then we were two hours late getting in. What time is it?

It could be the middle of the night. No light shone around the window shades. Leslie had changed from the black dress and their grandmother’s pin to a quilted satin robe. It’s seven thirty. How do you feel?

I’m okay. You’re probably planning to go out. I can go back to the hotel.

Leslie shook her head. I’m not going anywhere. One party a day is enough for me. I’m about to heat up some lentil soup. Do you want some?

Yes. Connie was instantly out from under the covers, looking around for her suit skirt. I’m hungry.

Aren’t you always? Leslie said, with a small grin.

After her guests had left, Leslie had found Connie in the library sipping a glass of wine secured from Arnold and looking at the wall of books. Leslie had apologized. I didn’t want to rush people away after I had spent a lot of effort getting them to come. Most of them I hardly know, I was trying to build bridges.

Bridges? Connie had inquired, slightly indignant at the neglect.

Leslie was silent, waiting perhaps for the note of criticism to fade away. This wasn’t a party. It was an introduction to my new business.

What new business?

What else! Interior design.

After that glass of wine, Connie had taken up Leslie’s suggestion of the bedroom and bath behind the kitchen. The bed had been an irresistible invitation. The sight of the covers turned down brought on instant sleepiness. Connie had taken off her suit and shoes, and climbed under the covers and closed her eyes instantly.

I guess you were sleepier than hungry. That doesn’t happen often, Leslie said now.

Connie tried to smile politely. That was the trouble with having a sister who had good recall. She was six years younger and had been frequently left in Leslie’s charge. There had been one summer when their parents were away a lot and Leslie had to fix Connie’s dinner after her soccer game. Leslie served half a cheese sandwich for each of them, and Connie complained that was not enough for an athlete, at which point Leslie told her she was gobbling down twice what the whole family ate and was likely getting fat.

This is nice, Connie said now to make peace, gesturing at the bedroom, though it hadn’t been decorated with the expense and fervor obvious in the rest of the flat, was quietly pleasant.

Come on into the kitchen, Leslie said, There are all sorts of party leftovers, plus the soup.

Encouraged and with her skirt and shoes back on, Connie followed Leslie out to the kitchen. It was there she had found Arnold, a short, handsome young man with bright pink cheeks, standing lonely over a garden of bottles. He had the hungry look of an out-of-work actor. Even before Connie could come up to him he picked up a bottle of Prosecco and waved it at her as if glad to be able to play his part. She accepted a glass and took a sip because she was thirsty but then put the glass down, afraid that if she drank more she would fall asleep right here in the middle of the party.

Now she looked back at the rooms she had walked through. Of course, Leslie had a degree in design and had apprenticed for several years with one of the major decorators in New York, but Connie was impressed all over again. This was way above what she had seen of Leslie’s work before.

The sofas and chairs were on the small side in pale velvets, so the rooms looked more spacious than they could possibly be. The rugs were Chinese, old ones in muted designs. There were many colors but none dominated. The whole effect was warm, complex but restful. The pictures were varied also, requiring more than the glance Connie had the time to give them. Leslie always knew how to find new artists and new work.

Well, if she praised her too much Leslie would get a swelled head. Now Connie gestured toward the adjacent library. This is all quite something.

Leslie gave a secret half-smile. What did you expect?

You’ve never done anything this good before.

And you’re an expert on design?

All right, I’m not an expert on design but I’ve been looking at your work for a number of years. You must have really done well from Mom and Dad’s attic.

Why did she say that? Not even awake a minute and here she was starting a quarrel. She didn’t really know what all these things had cost, but she did know what Leslie’s third of the family property sale had been, minus taxes of course. She was too anxious for warmth, for the feeling of family, which had gone away when the parents became ill.

She skittered nervously in place, looking at Leslie, hunting for a sign of resentment, but saw none. Instead there was amusement. Leslie’s voice was low and gentle. It wasn’t an attic. It was all the furniture from two full houses and a barn. But I told you all that.

How, in the short time since they last saw each other, had Leslie developed such self-assurance? Maybe you did. Okay, you probably did. I didn’t pay attention. I didn’t want to hear anything about furniture. I wanted you to tell me that Mom and Dad were going to be all right.

Sit down, Leslie said and gestured at the round pine table now set with two bowls, two napkins and spoons.

The first agreement between the siblings had been that after Mom and Dad were gone, the proceeds of the sale of the property would be split evenly between all three of them. The property being a large hundredyear-old house on several acres of Westchester County. But then after Leslie had started being the caregiver and her siblings saw it was beginning to take over her life, they knew it had to be amended.

We’ll give her the third and then throw in all the furniture to pay for her time and the loss to her career, Alan had said with the self-assurance of an attorney and the sole male.

Connie had agreed without reservation. She had no interest in poking into those attics, which were probably full of mice or even rats; she was willing to take Alan’s word that they were stuffed with broken castoffs and smelled of past centuries. Neither one of them wanted to be faced with what Leslie saw every day - that these parents who had been pillars of their community and their church had disappeared, replaced with two sad, awkward, unrecognizable ghosts.

Look at the new strong Leslie! She looked as if nothing could unbalance her. I know how you felt. You wanted me to say that the condition was only temporary, that they were getting well. But you knew that wasn’t true. Neither of them would recover. And I still don’t want to talk about them or what it was like, because it was all bad. Every time I looked at or talked to either one, it was more heartbreaking.

I’m sorry, Connie whispered and sat down obediently. All anger had evaporated. The tears were finally starting and felt as if they might go on for days. She should have guessed once she and Leslie were together all the sorrow of the last few years, of the end of their family, would burst out. Why did they have to end like that?

Leslie shook her head and turned up the fire on the stove. I don’t ask questions like that anymore. That’s what happened. Nothing we could do about it. Why did you fall asleep so fast? Did you just get off the plane? Where is the rest of your luggage?

Connie sniffled and tried to get calm down. I took a room at the Palace and left my luggage there. I thought I’d have a place to stay if you weren’t in town. I’m sorry I came in the middle of your party.

Leslie shrugged. If you had told me you were coming, I would have picked a better time. But it doesn’t matter. You’re here.

I’m here, Connie thought, and Leslie is happy to see me. Things were nearly all right or would be soon. There were several plates of leftovers from the party near where she had sat and she glanced at them. They looked really good.

What’s in the soup? Is it canned?

Yes, but I added some scallions and celery, and some red wine for flavor.

Connie sniffed to test the air. The odor stimulated her appetite so she took a couple of stuffed mushrooms and put them on her plate. Smells good. You’re not going to go out with your friends?

No. One party a day is enough for me.

Leslie brought the bowls of soup to the table, and then got a pitcher out of the refrigerator and brought it with her. Sangria, she said.

Connie happily took a sip of Sangria, which was losing its kick, and put a napkin in her lap. I can tell this is going to be good. You were always my favorite cook.

Leslie raised an eyebrow. I could tell that when you moved to New York and turned up at my apartment around mealtime five or six nights a week.

Well, who could blame me? I had no pots and pans, or even dishes, and who could live in New York City on what I was making as a secretary at an ad agency? When you gave up your apartment to move in with Mom and Dad, I was in a pickle. I tried eating with Alan a few times but he mostly eats out. I finally had to move in with two other girls that winter in order to eat.

Did Alan ever cook? I never saw him do any. Are you still with that agency?

Connie looked mournful. I was until two weeks ago. Then I was laid off. They lost a major client. So now I have unemployment for six months. How much did you spend on this place? It looks like several fortunes.

Leslie didn’t answer but solemnly tasted her soup. Connie waited, thinking that if Leslie refused to answer, it would be all right. She didn’t really have to know but she would like to know if Leslie still had some money left over and what she planned to do now. Was she going to spend her life giving parties? That might be fun. And would Connie be able to live with Leslie or would she have to get a place of her own?

There was peace in the kitchen for some minutes; noises from the city were fading away. Steam from the soup pot drifted up to the kitchen ceiling; there was a flurry