Just before the incident with Debbie, when some of the shock and grief had worn off, he’d phoned an employment service to tell them something of his predicament and his requirements. Someone took down the information and said they would get back to him. Not many people wanted to do housework and baby-sit, they said, but they’d find somebody. A few days before he had to be at the high school for meetings and registration, he called again and was told there’d be somebody at his house first thing the next morning.
That person was a thirty-five-year-old woman with hairy arms and run-over shoes. She shook hands with him and listened to him talk without asking a single question about the children—not even their names. When he took her into the back of the house where the children were playing, she simply stared at them for a minute without saying anything. When she finally smiled, Carlyle noticed for the first time that she had a tooth missing. Sarah left her crayons and got up to come over and stand next to him. She took Carlyle’s hand and stared at the woman. Keith stared at her, too. Then he went back to his coloring.
Carlyle thanked the woman for her time and said he would be in touch.
That afternoon he took down a number from an index card tacked to the bulletin board at the supermarket. Someone was offering babysitting services. References furnished on request. Carlyle called the number and got Debbie, the fat girl.
Over the summer, Eileen had sent a few cards, letters, and photographs of herself to the children, and some pen-and-ink drawings of her own that she’d done since she’d gone away. She also sent Carlyle long, rambling letters in which she asked for his
understanding in this matter—this matter—but told him that she was happy. Happy. As if, Carlyle thought, happiness was all there was to life. She told him that if he really loved her, as he said he did, and as she really believed—she loved him, too, don’t forget—then he would understand and accept things as they were. She wrote, “That which is truly bonded can never become unbonded.” Carlyle didn’t know if she was talking about their own relationship or her way of life out in California. He hated the word bonded. What did it have to do with the two of them? Did she think they were a corporation? He thought Eileen must be losing her mind to talk like that. He read that part again and then crumpled the letter.
But a few hours later he retrieved the letter from the trash can where he’d thrown it, and put it with her other cards and letters in a box on the shelf in his closet. In one of the envelopes, there was a photograph of her in a big, floppy hat, wearing a bathing suit. And there was a pencil drawing on heavy paper of a woman on a riverbank in a filmy gown, her hands covering her eyes, her shoulders slumped. It was, Carlyle assumed, Eileen showing her heartbreak over the situation. In college, she had majored in art, and even though she’d agreed to marry him, she said she intended to do something with her talent.
Carlyle said he wouldn’t have it any other way. She owed it to herself, he said. She owed it to both of them. They had loved each other in those days. He knew they had. He couldn’t imagine ever loving anyone again the way he’d loved her. And he’d felt loved, too. Then, after eight years of being married to him, Eileen had pulled out. She was, she said in her letter, “going for it.”
After talking to Carol, he looked in on the children, who were asleep. Then he went into the kitchen and made himself a drink. He thought of calling Eileen to talk to her about the baby-sitting crisis, but decided against it. He had her phone number and her address out there, of course. But he’d only called once and, so far, had not written a letter. This was partly out of a feeling of bewilderment with the situation, partly out of anger and humiliation. Once, earlier in the summer, after a few drinks, he’d chanced humiliation and called. Richard Hoopes answered the phone. Richard had said, “Hey, Carlyle,” as if he were still Carlyle’s friend. And then, as if remembering something, he said, “Just a minute, all right?”
Eileen had come on the line and said, “Carlyle, how are you? How are the kids? Tell me about yourself.”
He told her the kids were fine. But before he could say anything else, she interrupted him to say, “I know they’re fine. What about you ?” Then she went on to tell him that her head was in the right place for the first time in a long time. Next she wanted to talk about his head and his karma. She’d looked into his karma. It was going to improve any time now, she said. Carlyle listened, hardly able to believe his ears. Then he said, “I have to go now, Eileen.” And he hung up. The phone rang a minute or so later, but he let it ring. When it stopped ringing, he took the phone off the hook and left it off until he was ready for bed.
He wanted to call her now, but he was afraid to call. He still missed her and wanted to confide in her. He longed to hear her voice—sweet, steady, not manic as it had been for months now—but if he dialed her number, Richard Hoopes might answer the telephone. Carlyle knew he didn’t want to hear that man’s voice again. Richard had been a colleague for three years and, Carlyle supposed, a kind of friend. At least he was someone Carlyle ate lunch with in the faculty dining room, someone who talked about Tennessee Williams and the photographs of Ansel Adams. But even if Eileen answered the telephone, she might launch into something about his karma.
While he was sitting there with the glass in his hand, trying to remember what it had felt like to be married and intimate with someone, the phone rang. He picked up the receiver, heard a trace of static on the line, and knew, even before she’d said his name, that it was Eileen.
“I was just thinking about you,” Carlyle said, and at once regretted saying it.
“See! I knew I was on your mind, Carlyle. Well, I was thinking about you, too. That’s why I called.” He drew a breath. She was losing her mind. That much was clear to him. She kept talking. “Now listen,” she said. “The big reason I called is that I know things are in kind of a mess out there right now. Don’t ask me how, but I know. I’m sorry, Carlyle. But here’s the thing. You’re still in need of a good housekeeper and sitter combined, right? Well, she’s practically right there in the neighborhood! Oh, you may have found someone already, and that’s good, if that’s the case. If so, it’s supposed to be that way. But see, just in case you’re having trouble in that area, there’s this woman who used to work for Richard’s mother. I told Richard about the potential problem, and he put himself to work on it. You want to know what he did? Are you listening? He called his mother, who used to have this woman who kept house for her. The woman’s name is Mrs. Webster. She looked after things for Richard’s mother before his aunt and her daughter moved in there. Richard was able to get a number through his mother. He talked to Mrs. Webster today.
Richard did. Mrs. Webster is going to call you tonight. Or else maybe she’ll call you in the morning. One or the other. Anyway, she’s going to volunteer her services, if you need her. You might, you never can tell. Even if your situation is okay right now, which I hope it is. But some time or another you might need her. You know what I’m saying? If not this minute, some other time. Okay? How are the kids?
What are they up to?”
“The children are fine, Eileen. They’re asleep now,” he said. Maybe he should tell her they cried themselves to sleep every night. He wondered if he should tell her the truth—that they hadn’t asked about her even once in the last couple of weeks. He decided not to say anything.
“I called earlier, but the line was busy. I told Richard you were probably talking to your girlfriend,”
Eileen said and laughed. “Think positive thoughts. You sound depressed,” she said.
“I have to go, Eileen.” He started to hang up, and he took the receiver from his ear. But she was still talking.
“Tell Keith and Sarah I love them. Tell them I’m sending some more pictures. Tell them that. I don’t want them to forget their mother is an artist. Maybe not a great artist yet, that’s not important. But, you know, an artist. It’s important they shouldn’t forget that.”
Carlyle said, “I’ll tell them.”
“Richard
says hello.”
Carlyle didn’t say anything. He said the word to himself—hello. What could the man possibly mean by this? Then he said, “Thanks for calling. Thanks for talking to that woman.”
“Mrs. Webster!”
“Yes. I’d better get off the phone now. I don’t want to run up your nickel.”
Eileen laughed. “It’s only money. Money’s not important except as a necessary medium of exchange.
There are more important things than money. But then you already know that.”
He held the receiver out in front of him. He looked at the instrument from which her voice was issuing.
“Carlyle, things are going to get better for you. I know they are. You may think I’m crazy or something,” she said. “But just remember.”
Remember what? Carlyle wondered in alarm, thinking he must have missed something she’d said. He brought the receiver in close. “Eileen, thanks for calling,” he said.
“We have to stay in touch,” Eileen said. “We have to keep all lines of communication open. I think the worst is over. For both of us. I’ve suffered, too. But we’re going to get what we’re supposed to get out of this life, both of us, and we’re going to be made stronger for it in the long run.”
“Good night,” he said. He put the receiver back. Then he looked at the phone. He waited. It didn’t ring again. But an hour later it did ring. He answered it.
“Mr. Carlyle.” It was an old woman’s voice. “You don’t know me, but my name is Mrs. Jim Webster. I was supposed to get in touch.”
“Mrs. Webster. Yes,” he said. Eileen’s mention of the woman came back to him. “Mrs. Webster, can you come to my house in the morning? Early. Say seven o’clock?”
“I can do that easily,” the old woman said. “Seven o’clock. Give me your address.”
“I’d like to be able to count on you,” Carlyle said.
“You can count on me,” she said.
“I can’t tell you how important it is,” Carlyle said.
“Don’t you worry,” the old woman said.
The next morning, when the alarm went off, he wanted to keep his eyes closed and keep on with the dream he was having. Something about a farmhouse. And there was a waterfall in there, too. Someone, he didn’t know who, was walking along the road carrying something. Maybe it was a picnic hamper. He was not made uneasy by the dream. In the dream, there seemed to exist a sense of well-being.
Finally, he rolled over and pushed something to stop the buzzing. He lay in bed awhile longer. Then he got up, put his feet into his slippers, and went out to the kitchen to start the coffee.
He shaved and dressed for the day. Then he sat down at the kitchen table with coffee and a cigarette.
The children were still in bed. But in five minutes or so he planned to put boxes of cereal on the table and lay out bowls and spoons, then go in to wake them for breakfast. He really couldn’t believe that the old woman who’d phoned him last night “would show up this morning, as she’d said she would. He decided he’d wait until five minutes after seven o’clock, and then he’d call in, take the day off, and make every effort in the book to locate someone reliable. He brought the cup of coffee to his lips.
It was then that he heard a rumbling sound out in the street. He left his cup and got up from the table to look out the window. A pickup truck had pulled over to the curb in front of his house. The pickup cab shook as the engine idled. Carlyle went to the front door, opened it, and waved. An old woman waved back and then let herself out of the vehicle. Carlyle saw the driver lean over and disappear under the dash. The truck gasped, shook itself once more, and fell still.
“Mr. Carlyle?” the old woman said, as she came slowly up his walk carrying a large purse.
“Mrs. Webster,” he said. “Come on inside. Is that your husband? Ask him in. I just made coffee.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “He has his thermos.”
Carlyle shrugged. He held the door for her. She stepped inside and they shook hands. Mrs. Webster smiled. Carlyle nodded. They moved out to the kitchen. “Did you want me today, then?” she asked.
“Let me get the children up,” he said. “I’d like them to meet you before I leave for school.”
“That’d be good,” she said. She looked around his kitchen. She put her purse on the drainboard.
“Why don’t I get the children?” he said. “I’ll just be a minute or two.”
In a little while, he brought the children out and introduced them. They were still in their pajamas. Sarah was rubbing her eyes. Keith was wide awake. “This is Keith,” Carlyle said. “And this one here, this is my Sarah.” He held on to Sarah’s hand and turned to Mrs. Webster. “They need someone, you see. We need someone we can count on. I guess that’s our problem.”
Mrs. Webster moved over to the children. She fastened the top button of Keith’s pajamas. She moved the hair away from Sarah’s face. They let her do it. “Don’t you kids worry, now,” she said to them. “Mr. Carlyle, it’ll be all right. We’re going to be fine. Give us a day or two to get to know each other, that’s all.
But if I’m going to stay, why don’t you give Mr. Webster the all-clear sign? Just wave at him through the window,” she said, and then she gave her attention back to the children.
Carlyle stepped to the bay window and drew the curtain. An old man was watching the house from the cab of the truck. He was just bringing a thermos cup to his lips. Carlyle waved to him, and with his free hand the man waved back. Carlyle watched him roll down the truck window and throw out what was left in his cup. Then he bent down under the dash again—Carlyle imagined him touching some wires together—and in a minute the truck started and began to shake. The old man put the truck in gear and pulled away from the curb.
Carlyle turned from the window. “Mrs. Webster,” he said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Likewise, Mr. Carlyle,” she said. “Now you go on about your business before you’re late. Don’t worry about anything. We’re going to be fine. Aren’t we, kids?”
The children nodded their heads. Keith held on to her dress with one hand. He put the thumb of his other hand into his mouth.
“Thank you,” Carlyle said. “I feel, I really feel a hundred percent better.” He shook his head and grinned.
He felt a welling in his chest as he kissed each of his children good-bye. He told Mrs. Webster what time she could expect him home, put on his coat, said good-bye once more, and went out of the house. For the first time in months, it seemed, he felt his burden had lifted a little. Driving to school, he listened to some music on the radio.
During first-period art-history class, he lingered over slides of Byzantine paintings. He patiently explained the nuances of detail and motif. He pointed out the emotional power and fitness of the work.
But he took so long trying to place the anonymous artists in their social milieu that some of his students began to scrape their shoes on the floor, or else clear their throats. They covered only a third of the lesson plan that day. He was still talking when the bell rang.
In his next class, watercolor painting, he felt unusually calm and insightful. “Like this, like this,” he said, guiding their hands. “Delicately. Like a breath of air on the paper. Just a touch. Like so. See?” he’d say and felt on the edge of discovery himself. “Suggestion is what it’s all about,” he said, holding lightly to Sue Colvin’s fingers as he guided her brush. “You’ve got to work with your mistakes until they look intended. Understand?”
As he moved down the lunch line in the faculty dining room, he saw Carol a few places ahead of him.
She paid for her food. He waited impatiently while his own bill was being rung up. Carol was halfway across the room by the time he caught up with her. He slipped his hand under her elbow and guided her to an empty table near the window.
“God, Carlyle,” she said after they’d seated themselves. She picked up her glass of iced tea. Her face was flushed. “Did you see the look Mrs. Storr gave us?
What’s wrong with you? Everybody will know.” She sipped from her iced tea and put the glass down.
“The hell with Mrs. Storr,” Carlyle said. “Hey, let me tell you something. Honey, I feel light-years better than I did this time yesterday. Jesus,” he said.
“What’s happened?” Carol said. “Carlyle, tell me.” She moved her fruit cup to one side of her tray and shook cheese over her spaghetti. But she didn’t eat anything. She waited for him to go on. “Tell me what it is.”
He told her about Mrs. Webster. He even told her about Mr. Webster. How the man’d had to hot-wire the truck in order to start it. Carlyle ate his tapioca while he talked. Then he ate the garlic bread. He drank Carol’s iced tea down before he realized he was doing it.
“You’re nuts, Carlyle,” she said, nodding at the spaghetti in his plate that he hadn’t touched.
He shook his head. “My God, Carol. God, I feel good, you know? I feel better than I have all summer.”
He lowered his voice. “Come over tonight, will you?”
He reached under the table and put his hand on her knee. She turned red again. She raised her eyes and looked around the dining room. But no one was paying any attention to them. She nodded quickly. Then she reached under the table and touched his hand.