After the Fire

  “Why do you call your mother by her first name?” Gerald had asked.

  “Because Francine likes it,” she had explained.

  Her real name was Frances; she was of French extraction some four generations or more ago, and even though she couldn't speak a word of the beautiful language, she loved to appear French. Probably she felt that Frenchness went along with her beauty.

  Hy's indignation mounted. Every irritant, every grievance that naturally accumulates among people living together under the same roof, all the stifled and relatively trivial offenses, rose up now to flood her mind. And she spoke aloud: “Because you were a runner-up in a statewide beauty contest, you expected your daughter to go as far as or farther than you. Oh, I understand clearly! I know I've been a disappointment to you. I'm too tall and angular, gawky and thin. I don't run with the Saturday night crowd as you did when you were my age. Nor have I ever been an athlete, or not enough of one to captain the women's swim team or play basketball in the intramural games, as you did. You're not really interested in my paintings. You'd never say so, but I know what you think. Yes, you love me. There's no doubt of that, and you've been a good mother, but you are disappointed in me all the same. You alone. Not Dad, nor my bosses at the museum, and certainly not Gerald….”

  The house was quiet. Suddenly she wanted to flee from it before anyone should wake up. There was no way a person could possibly put on a normal face after last night. Dressing quickly, she went on stocking feet toward the stairs.

  The walls there were lined with family photographs. Thousands of times she must have passed them, yet today, in spite of her haste, something compelled her to pause and look at these people again. Here was a nineteenth-century gentleman wearing a high starched collar; here was a 1920s girl wearing a bell-shaped hat. Who were they really, behind their composed and amiable semi-smiles? Are we at all alike, they and I? Here were her older brothers, George in white with his inevitable tennis racket; the other two at their respective weddings with their lacy, proper brides. George, Paul, and Thomas they were, all handsome duplicates in male form of their mother. They were not like Hyacinth, not at all.

  “You give them sensible names,” she had many times complained. “Then you name me Hyacinth. It's idiotic. Whatever were you thinking of?”

  “They had to have those dull names,” Francine would explain with remarkable patience, one had to admit, “after two grandfathers and one uncle killed in the war. So when you arrived, I wanted something beautiful for the only daughter I would ever have. I wanted the name of a spring flower.”

  For an otherwise intelligent woman, Francine could say absurd things. In some ways, she really was a trifle ridiculous. And such a judgment about one's own mother was, at the very least, discomforting, like having a sharp pebble in one's shoe. But when absurdity turned into cruelty like last night's, it was no pebble.

  She started the car and drove till she reached the fork in the road, then stopped. Where to go? It was Saturday, and Gerald was taking today and tomorrow to study for a test on Monday. The conservation center at the museum was officially closed except to senior independent workers. The obvious choice then, the only choice, was Granny's house.

  You could always open your heart to her. She was as soothing and strengthening as—as hot oatmeal on a cold Monday morning. Even her house, on an old street in the heart of the old, original town, had a comforting welcome with its wraparound porch, wooden lace, and flowers in season—tulips, hollyhocks, and asters— against the backyard fence. In that house, Granny had been born and married. Most probably she would die there, too, but probably not for a long time. She was as strong as she looked, a woman at peace with herself. You could never imagine her striving for popularity or worrying over what “people might think”! It was known to all but never mentioned that Francine and Granny had little love for each other.

  A fragrance of sugar and cinnamon filled the hall when the front door was opened. Hy sniffed the air.

  “Baking already? It's just past eight.”

  “Apple pies,” Granny said, “for that shut-in couple down the street. I try to bring them something on weekends. Come on in. Or do you want the porch? It's warm enough.”

  “The porch is fine.”

  “Then wait till I get my sewing. I'm making a quilt for your brother's baby, squares and circles in pink, blue, and yellow, to be on the safe side.”

  You never saw her with empty hands. Maybe it was some Puritan heritage that compelled her to keep moving, or maybe it was just nervous energy. And thinking so, while Granny settled herself with her work on her lap, it seemed to Hyacinth that she herself had more than a bit of that nervous energy.

  “I never thought I'd live long enough to be making things for a great-grandchild. Do you like it? Honestly?”

  Hy considered the subject. “Not quite so much pink. Pink ought to be no more than an accent, I think.”

  Tilting her head from one angle to another, Granny considered. “You know what? You're right. You always did have a good eye for color. You should think of making something for the new baby, too—an heirloom from Aunt Hyacinth. You haven't forgotten how to hook a rug, I hope.”

  “It's been a long time, but I haven't forgotten.”

  “No, of course not. You have golden hands, Hy. I tried to teach your mother, but she wasn't interested.”

  No, you could never imagine Francine sitting still over any painstaking work, or spending hours in a kitchen, either. She liked being out of the house, working for charities and good causes, of which she was often the organizer; or else she was competing in a sport like tennis or golf, at which she was often the winner. Francine had to win things. She had to run things and lead people.

  “Tell me about your work,” Granny said pleasantly. “Your father tells me you're in one of the country's best conservation departments.”

  “That's true, but I'm only a beginner. It takes years of training before you can be entrusted with a painting worth a few million dollars.”

  “You'll be making a name for yourself with your own paintings one day. That was a splendid study of your dad taking a nap.”

  Hy was pleased. Indeed, it seemed to everyone who saw it that the picture was a very fine, very sensitive portrait.

  But Granny was regarding her intently. After a few more casual remarks, she suddenly interrupted her.

  “Why have you really come here so early this morning? There must be something serious on your mind.”

  Having come to ease herself by pouring out her complaint, Hy now wished she had not come. It was such a shabby story after all, a mother and daughter at odds over the daughter's lover! But she sat up straight, told the story, and concluded, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't expect you to take sides. I should not involve you. I should have kept it to myself.”

  “Not if it makes you feel better to speak out. I'm always here for you, Hy, you know that. I have only one piece of advice, though. Don't make an issue about what you overheard. There'd be nothing gained except more hard feelings. Pretend you never heard anything, and go about your business. Has he asked you to marry him?”

  “Not yet, but he will.”

  “And you'll say yes? You're sure you ought to?”

  “Of course I'm sure. I love him.”

  “Your mother's a pretty smart lady, you know.”

  This observation, coming from this particular mother-in-law, astonished Hyacinth.

  “She and I don't always have the same opinions about things, as you've probably noticed.” This was spoken with a wry smile. “Still, perhaps you should think about what she said. Of course I know nothing about your young man, but I do know that marriage is not a picnic, and you had better know what you're doing.”

  For the first time ever, Hy was receiving no comfort here, where she had expected to find agreement and indignation on her behalf.

  “You're annoyed with me, Hyacinth. You wanted me to say something else.”

  “Well yes, I guess I did.”

&n
bsp; “Cheer up. The sky hasn't fallen. Tomorrow will be a better day.”

  The old-fashioned clichés, usually rather amusing and endearing, were at this moment neither.

  “Take a pie home. I made three of them.”

  “We're all dieting,” Hy said shortly.

  “Such a fuss about a few pounds! And you as thin as a stick. Doesn't your mother feed you people anything but salad? Don't you ever do any cooking yourself? You should. I've taught you enough. Take the apple pie and a chicken casserole with it. I've more in the freezer.”

  She didn't argue. The simplest thing was to accept the food because it would be thrust into her hands anyway. So she gave thanks, got into the car, and drove slowly down the street, unsure of where to go next.

  A sense of defiance, lonely and chill, overcame her. In no mood to go home, in no mood to see any friends, she stopped the car in front of the library. It was as good a place as any in which to hide out for the rest of the day.

  When Hyacinth went home, Francine's car was not in the garage, and that was a relief, however temporary. Dad was probably in the garden planting spring bulbs, and since she did not feel like talking to anyone, that was good, too.

  Upstairs in the room that had once belonged to George and was now her studio, she closed the door and surveyed her work. For some minutes she stood, trying to see it with impartial eyes, to judge proportion, perspective, shading, brushwork, all of it. Every teacher had praised the snow scenes; studying them now, it seemed she had truly gotten the feeling, the dreamlike silence of falling snow. She looked again at the portrait study of her father. It was true. It seemed to her that she had caught the essence of him.

  Ever since the chemical plant had been downsized, forcing him into retirement, he had grown older and quieter. He had always been quiet, but now his eyes were heavy-lidded, even when he was cheerful. Yes, it seemed to her that she had caught the essence of him; here he was, ready to be framed.

  And suddenly came revelation: Her work was good! Whatever else might befall her, her work was her strength. It would take her freely through the world. It would be foolish to let anything sap her confidence in herself and her future. Why then had she wasted this whole day in sorrow?

  From the yard below, there sounded the whir of the old hand mower that Dad employed to tidy edges. She called down to him.

  “Hey Dad, I'm home.”

  “I thought I heard the garage door. Your mother's still out. Where've you been all day?”

  “Places. I stopped at Granny's, and as usual, she gave me food. That chicken thing with shrimp that you like. And I'll make a tossed salad.”

  “No, we don't need one. You work hard all week. Take the day off.”

  “For heaven's sake, a salad's no work.”

  “Okay, I'll set the table on the porch. There'll be just enough time to eat and finish before dark.”

  Plainly, he enjoyed these domestic moments with his daughter. She sensed that the shrinkage of his family— George at a bank in Singapore and the two married sons in business together on the West Coast—was more painful for him than he would admit, even to himself.

  When she had assembled the customary heap of greens, to which she added some unexpected sprinkles of strawberries and chopped walnuts, she placed it in a handsome Wedgwood bowl that was kept in the dining-room cabinet for display. Dad's eyebrows made two startled Vs when he saw it.

  “Using that?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, it's a treasure, an antique—”

  “All the more reason to enjoy it ourselves. I believe in everyday pleasures, not in keeping them for company. Isn't it a pleasure to look at that perfect blue?”

  Dad was silent for a moment. “The man who gets you is lucky, whoever he is,” he said then. “Smart, successful, independent, and still domestic enough to make a person want to come home and stay.”

  Now Hyacinth was silent. Had she not decided, and had Granny not advised her to say nothing? Yet now, of their own accord, her words flew. “ ‘Whoever he is’? You really do know who he is, don't you? I heard you both last night, Dad. Or I should say, I heard Francine. I didn't mean to listen, but I couldn't help it.”

  “I'm sorry. Awfully sorry.” Dad sighed. “I didn't agree with her, as you heard.”

  “I should hope not. She said horrible things.”

  “But still, listen to me. Your mother's opinion is worth respect, no matter what. It comes with the best, most loving intentions. I don't have to tell you that.”

  “It was cruel. It was nasty. Wanting money and chasing after women—she doesn't even know Gerald, for God's sake. She was so vehement. You said so yourself. Vehement, you said.”

  “All right, I did. But try to understand that she's only expressing her fears. She sees you possibly making a mistake. She's a mother, protecting her child.”

  “Child? Me? Twenty-one years old, self-supporting, in a wonderful job?”

  “All true. But you haven't mentioned that you're also rather stubborn, Hyacinth.” Dad's smile was a bit rueful.

  “When you know you're right, you have to be stubborn. I'm defending Gerald. He's being misjudged, and I love him.”

  “Well. Just don't be too much in love too soon, if you can help it. Time takes care of many things.”

  Bury your differences, smooth them, and eventually they will disappear. Platitudes. A nice way of saying nothing.

  “I hope you won't let your indignation run away with you, Hy. It would only lead to argument and would solve nothing. Certainly not right now, while the fire's still hot.”

  “I know, I know. Granny said the same thing. I'm not foolish. I don't want a fight. In some ways, I'm a lot like you.”

  “If Gerald is the man you say he is, and I believe he is, your mother will believe it, too. Just don't be in a hurry.” Dad looked at his watch. He wanted the discussion to end fast, before Francine should appear. “Anyway, you're not getting married tomorrow, so there's no rush,” he was saying, just as Francine came out onto the porch.

  “I'm late,” she said. “I didn't expect so much traffic going home. And the fashion show took forever. What you have to endure if you want to raise money! We cleared sixteen thousand dollars, believe it or not, for the children's hospital. I really knocked myself out over this luncheon, I can tell you that.”

  “You don't look knocked out,” Dad said. “That's a nice outfit.”

  The gray tweed suit was simple and would have been quiet were it not for the jade green scarf so skillfully fastened over her neck and shoulders. When she raised her arm to push a black sweep of hair from her forehead, silver bracelets glistened. Framed by the doorway, Francine made a picture. Hy gave it a title: Woman with Silver Bracelets. For all her modern dress and manner, she also had the poise and polish of what Sargent would have labeled Portrait of Francine.

  “My goodness, what a beautiful table! And the chicken dish—it looks like your mother's, Jim. Or is it yours, Hy?”

  “No, Granny's. I was there this morning.”

  “Well, this is a feast. The food was awful today, so I'm starved.”

  Loquacious as always, Francine spoke brightly, gliding from one topic to another, certain that they were waiting to hear her.

  “I don't believe it's been two years since Tom's wedding. Did I tell you that Diana phoned yesterday to thank us for the anniversary present?”

  “I forget what we sent,” Dad said.

  “A copper coffee urn, really stunning. Large enough to serve fifty cups. They're giving a lot of parties to help the business. I'm so proud of Tom. It's a good thing, too, that Diana is very sociable. Which reminds me, Hyacinth, I passed Martha's house and saw a truck unloading chairs for the party. Her mother was at the lunch today. She said they expect a houseful. What are you going to wear?”

  “I'm not going.”

  “Whyever not?”

  If a voice were a ribbon, Hy thought, you could distinguish the threads in those words: alarm, impatience, and a trace of exa
speration.

  “It'll be nothing but a great big bash, and I never like them.”

  “But you need friends, Hyacinth.”

  “Don't I already have plenty?”

  “But these are particular old friends. They're neighbors. And you've known Martha since grade school. How can you snub her now?”

  “I'm not snubbing her or anybody. Do you think she cares whether I come or not?”

  Francine pushed the half-eaten dessert away and returned her voice to gentle patience.

  “Maybe she does care. You don't want to hurt her feelings.”

  Hurt her feelings! Impossible! Martha moved as smoothly through the world as if she were gliding on ice. In an odd way, come to think of it, she resembled Fran-cine herself. She could be her daughter.

  “I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings. But I have other plans, so I couldn't accept anyway.”

  Nobody spoke. Dad, watching this exchange, poured another cup of coffee and stirred it uselessly until Fran-cine did speak.

  “I thought I heard something when I came in about ‘not getting married yet.’ If it's true, I'm glad about it, but does it have anything to do with turning down Martha's party?”

  “Yes, it does.” Hy spoke steadily. “I would rather be with Gerald.”

  “Well, take him to the party.”

  “It wouldn't work out. He doesn't fit with that crowd.”

  “Why not? What's wrong with ‘that crowd’? They're perfectly decent young people as far as I can see.”

  “I never said they weren't decent.” The reply was sulky. Feeling cornered, Hyacinth would have liked to walk away.

  “So? I don't understand all this.”

  “It's hard to explain. It's subtle. Subtle differences among people, that's all.”

  Oh, can't she see that all I want—we want—is to be alone? We hardly ever have any alone time. No place except a seedy motel. And you talk about Martha's unimportant party.

  “Subtle differences. Yes, there are. And you are wasting your time by giving all of it to one man. You need to get out more among groups and observe those subtle differences, instead of spending every free hour with him.” Francine was losing her struggle against impatience.