Fly Away Home by Jennifer Weiner Read Free Book Online Page A

look over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “Sylvie? Are you all right?”
    Sylvie’s telephone burped. The man picked up her purse. Hoping that it was Ceil again, that sensible Ceil could somehow explain this all and make sense of it for her and tell her that things would be fine, Sylvie located her cell phone and lifted it to her ear.
    “Hello?”
    “That crotch!” Selma hollered, in her unmistakable hoarse, loud Brooklyn accent. “I knew he was no good for you! The first time you brought him home I knew it! I never liked the way he smelled!”
    “Ma.” The single word had exhausted her. Sylvie pressed the telephone against her face, hoping that no one in the crowd had realized who she was. It was unlikely—the average American, if pressed, probably wouldn’t be able to pick a Supreme Court justice out of a lineup, so the chances of a senator’s wife going undetected were high. Bathroom , she mouthed to Clarissa, and carried the telephone into a stall as her mother continued to talk.
    “Insect repellent. Took me years to figure it out, but that’s exactly what he smells like. Bug spray. You should have married Bruce Baumgardner. You remember the Baumgardners? They lived on seventeen. Carpet stores.”
    Sylvie didn’t answer. “Are you gonna divorce him?” Selma asked. “If you are, you tell me first. I know all the best family law guys.” Sylvie shook her head. This was surprising. As far as she knew, her mother had always liked Richard. He sent flowers on Selma’s birthday, and on Mother’s Day, and on the anniversary of Sylvie’s father’s death. He picked up takeout from the Carnegie Deli once a month when they went over for dinner, and always held doors and offered to carry Selma’s bags and picked up her favorite See’s candies when he traveled to California. Sylvie twisted on the toilet seat as her mother’s voice spilled into her ear. “Bruce lives in New Jersey. His wife was running around with some fellow she met in her yoga class …”
    “Yoga,” Sylvie repeated. Her voice was hollow, and her skirt, as she sat on the toilet, was bunched in an unflattering way around her hips. The word had always sounded strange, but never more so than at this moment.
    “They split up and he moved into the basement while they’re waiting for the house to sell.” Selma paused, perhaps realizing that a revelation of below-street-level tenancy did not put Bruce in the best light. “It’s a finished basement. With a half-bath.”
    “Ma, this isn’t a very good time …”
    “Sylvia, listen to me, because this is important,” Selma continued. “If you do a 60 Minutes interview, don’t wear teal.”
    Her head was spinning. The word teal sounded just as odd, as foreign, as yoga . “What?”
    “Teal. Hillary wore teal. After the whole mess with Gennifer Flowers? Where Bill said he’d caused pain in his marriage? Teal wasn’t a good look for her and I don’t think it’d be good for you, either.”
    “Ma …”
    “Washes you right out. Wear red. Red says you’re strong and you’re not going to take it. And you’re not. Going to take it. Are you?” Selma paused to take a breath. “Oh, and make sure it’s that Lesley Stahl who interviews you. Not the African-American fellow, the one with the earring. He’s very abrupt.”
    “Ma.” Sylvie sagged sideways against the wall. With her fingertips she touched the sagging skin beneath her eyes, the hound-dog droops that the Botox doctor hadn’t been able to fix. “Ed Bradley’s dead. I’m not going on 60 Minutes . Please stop calling my husband a crotch.” From underneath the stall door she saw Clarissa’s black heels and slim ankles. There was a soft knock on the stall door. “Mrs. Woodruff?” her assistant whispered.
    “Ma, I have to go.”
    “Can I give Bruce Baumgardner your number?”
    “No!”
    Her mother’s grating voice softened, as if she’d remembered that she wasn’t sparring with opposing counsel or interrogating a