After the Fire

When I'm on the bus, thought Hyacinth, and I see a jolly boy with his bookbag, I must think of my own boy, who also is ten years old and jolly. Then I think of Emma, a lanky little girl, sensitive and full of curiosity. She looks like her father but also like Francine, and she will be tall, like me. Unlike me, my children have both become accustomed to the way they live.

  Everything has changed, or nothing has, depending on what you are looking for. Between Francine and me there is now an unspoken truce; she knows I will not tell, so she no longer asks. Arnie is still Arnie, lively, extravagant, and faithful; between us two are things unspoken since the night when I broke away from his arms. Lina is still enthusiastic. Indeed, she is very pleased, because now, after just one year, the Hyacinth collection is selling out in eighteen of the most prestigious stores from coast to coast. I am having my first taste of trunk shows, photographers, and interviews.

  Yes, everything has changed, and nothing has.

  “I have something to tell you,” Lina said. “Come into my office and close the door. This is between you and me until next week, when everybody will know it. I am getting ready to sell this business.”

  “Selling it, Lina? But why? What will you do with yourself?”

  It was impossible to dissociate the little dynamo from this building on Seventh Avenue or even from this room, where she sat now like a queen behind that enormous loaded desk.

  “Well, I'm not thinking about doing it right away. I'm just preparing. Then I shall enjoy the millions that they are paying me.” Lina laughed. “No, seriously, I'm tired—oh, not too tired for a trip around the world or something, but I'm getting older, and it's time for a change. That's where you come in, Hyacinth.”

  “Me? I should think rather that it's time for me to go out.”

  “Nonsense. You happen to be one of the several reasons that these people want to buy me. They're a tremendous clothing manufactory, and like most of the world today, they're looking to expand. Frankly, although the gentlemen were too diplomatic to say so, they would like to inject some young blood into this firm when they take it over. You are the young blood, Hyacinth.” And Lina's black eyes twinkled as she waited for her words to take effect.

  Hyacinth was stunned. “You can't really believe that I'm competent to manage this whole place, can you?”

  “Not by next Monday morning, nor even by Monday morning six months from now. Of course not. I shall stay on as adviser for as long as seems necessary. You will keep the same staff, sales managers, accountants, the whole lot of them, to help you. You will go on as you have been doing. Eventually, if you keep up as I expect, you'll sit where I'm sitting.”

  Was it yesterday afternoon that she had left class and walked into this room, so vast and imposing, to meet Lina Libretti? Yesterday that, on her front steps she had said a sad good-bye to Moira? Yesterday that she had sat in the church at that poor man's funeral?

  “I can't believe that this is happening to me,” murmured Hyacinth.

  “I couldn't believe it either, when it happened to me. Yes, yes.” Lina tipped the chair back and gazed up at the ceiling as if a parade of her years might be reflected there. Then, tipping down again, she spoke briskly.

  “This is a big outfit, this group, as I've said. Now they want to expand their market to acquire some upper-bracket luxuries like a name parfumeur, top-of-the-line costume jewelry, fine shoes and bags—well, that's the picture. I must tell you, one of their people saw your evening group in California, your ruffles and your bright flower colors. I'm sure that was one of the things that got them interested. You might keep it in mind, Hyacinth.”

  “I still don't believe I'm awake and hearing all this.”

  “Well, you are awake, and you'd better be awake, because they'll be sending some of their people to talk over details either tomorrow or the next day.”

  “How thrilled your grandmother would be!” Francine exclaimed, which was a nice tribute from a woman who had never really liked or been liked by the grandmother. Then came the amendment: “There is really not much comparison, of course. She taught you the mechanics, it's true, but her taste was dreadful. Those terrible pea greens and maroons! Like decaying grapes, they looked.”

  “Better get a top-notch lawyer,” Arnie said when he telephoned, ostensibly to give his report on Emma and Jerry. “You never know what can happen with these buyouts and takeovers. You need to protect yourself, Hy.”

  She was idly recalling these two reactions when she walked into Lina's office the next morning. There was only one man there, facing Lina, with his back to the door. As Hyacinth opened it, he rose and faced her. He was Will Miller.

  The first thing she saw was the twinkle. It was all over his face, on his lips, which were about to open in laughter, and in his eyes; she had forgotten how green they were.

  “Well, well,” he said. “Imagine meeting you.”

  Lina was surprised. “So you know each other?”

  “Well, we did. But we had a bit of an argument the last time, didn't we, Hyacinth?”

  She could not have described how she felt. In a way, her anger still rankled, for had he not been unnecessarily disdainful that day? But in another way, should she not feel pleasure in seeing him again? She had thought of him often enough! And in still another way, she knew that because it was impossible for her even to think of becoming seriously involved with anyone, his appearance now was only another complication. She had enough complications.

  “You see,” she said with cool politeness, “that I took your advice.”

  “I had no idea, when I gave it, what marvelous advice it would turn out to be.”

  This short dialogue was interrupted by the arrival of more people and was not resumed until noon, when the meeting ended.

  “What about lunch?” Will asked.

  “Sorry, but I mostly have a sandwich delivered here. We're rushing through the resort collection.”

  “Then we can have a drink and dinner.”

  “Sorry, but I'm invited to dinner.”

  “Today's Friday. We'll go to dinner tomorrow night.”

  “I'm having guests. Some friends of my mother's,” she added quickly, lest it appear that she was unkindly letting him know he could not be admitted to her party.

  “Then we'll go for a walk in the park on Sunday afternoon. You're not going to get away with it, Hyacinth. Don't forget, you're about to become an employee of the corporation.”

  There went the twinkle again! Defying it, she retorted, “Don't you tell me that you own the corporation.”

  “Not all of it. Nobody ever owns all of a corporation. What do you think corporation means, anyway? Go look it up in the dictionary.”

  He amazed her, scoffing as if they had known each other for umpteen years. Or as if they were—they were intimate as—well, as Dad and Francine, who used to talk to each other like that.

  “Well, what are you, then?” she asked.

  “Okay. The R. J. Miller Company broke up when my father died, not long after I last saw you. It wasn't exactly a breakup, but a buyout, and now I'm one of the vice presidents in the new company. I'll be living in New York.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Will brought out and put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. “I've bought a new pair to use when I need to look older again. Do you remember when I needed to look younger? With you, now, perhaps I need to look older again. You'll have more respect for me since, thanks to me, you've become so important. Come on, Hy, smile. Here I am clowning, and you won't even smile at me.”

  Ah, go away, she thought. Go away, I don't want you, I don't need you. I do want you, but I can't have you, it's no good, you don't know anything about me, it's not fair to you, this makes no sense, leave me alone.

  “Sunday brunch?” he said.

  Opals, she thought. His eyes are opals. And then, seeing that the glasses were only empty frames, a joke, she laughed and nodded. “All right. Brunch, since you insist.”

  “Don't eat any breakfast. I like a woman to have an appeti
te.”

  “You're giving me orders already?”

  “Of course. I'm the boss, executive vice president who's just bought you and paid plenty, too.”

  “April. It's my favorite month,” Will said. “Do you know why?”

  “Because May is still to come, and then the whole summer.”

  “That's right!” he cried. “And how do you feel about September?”

  “I don't like the fall that much. It's supposed to be beautiful, all red and gold, and I suppose it is. But still I feel that everything is dying. I like winter, though. In fact, I love it. Can you guess why?”

  “That's easy. Because spring's on the way. The snow is falling and they're selling daffodils in the supermarket. Am I right? Is it the same with you?”

  “Yes. Yes, you are, and it is.”

  They were walking slowly through the park. This was the fourth hour; the brunch had taken two, they had talked all through it, and now they were still talking, as random thoughts that would seem to be completely disconnected were mysteriously connecting.

  “You disappeared. I couldn't find anybody who knew you except people in the store, and they had heard nothing. I looked everywhere. You have never even told the post office where to forward your mail. Why?”

  He was looking at her, and the look was so intense that he seemed to see inside her head. He had made just that impression upon her at their first meeting.

  “It was the divorce,” she said. “I had such bad feelings. I only wanted to get away, to forget everything and everybody connected with the place.” That much, at least, was entirely true.

  “Understandable,” he said softly. “Funny thing, Hyacinth. I have a particular reason for wanting to see you. Two reasons, actually. I wanted to make another apology for the rather rough way I tried to get my point across that day. And the other reason was that while I was in Europe, I went to a Dufy exhibit and for the first time I learned that he had done fashion drawing. I was amazed, though why I should have been, I don't know. His sketches were little gems in themselves, watercolors and pen and ink, for some famous Paris couturier back before the First World War. I thought immediately of you, and the connection between fashion and art.”

  “So you really know more about art than you pretended.”

  “I don't pretend. I really don't know much. I'm a learner.”

  “So am I.”

  All of a sudden, she became so intensely aware of his presence beside her that she had nothing to say. Now their approach to the museum gave her something.

  “Would you like to go in?”

  “Some other time. Today I only want to talk to you. Tell me about yourself.”

  “There's very little to tell. I work hard, and I like it. I've been lucky. You gave me good advice.”

  “I wasn't talking about work. I meant, about you. Are you feeling alone now that it's over? As bad as a marriage may have been, people tell me that they often feel alone in the world after a divorce.”

  She said quickly, “I'm not alone. I have brothers, and my mother is only a few hours away. She's busy, a busy volunteer, and I'm busy, but we get together.”

  He was not asking about her relatives, she knew that. In a roundabout way, he was asking whether she had a lover. And she knew, too, that if she were to say she had one he would, except for an occasional meeting at work, be gone.

  She said only, “I have a few friends, but nobody really close. I haven't had time.”

  “Nobody really close? I'm glad. No, that's selfish of me. I didn't mean it quite like that. Not quite.”

  They walked on past a pond and through a mist, a bare hint, of arriving green. Nearing a bridle path, they stopped to let some riders go through. There were children among them, a little one riding a pony not much larger than a toy, and another, an older one, sitting proudly and earnestly on his high perch.

  “Nice,” Will observed. “Shall we sit near the path and watch the horses for a while?”

  They found a bench. For a minute or two, they were silent; she knew that his eyes were turned upon her with a smile in them. His face is passionate, she thought. It says everything and hides nothing. And this awareness was suddenly so troubling, contrasted to the secret that she carried, that her heart sank, even as she was compelled to speak.

  “I have two children,” she said, very low; her voice sounded in her ears as though it was the voice of a stranger.

  “You do? But why—” He was astonished.

  “Why have I made a secret of them? I don't know. I guess because I don't want to think about how hard it is… the divorce… children don't understand.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Almost eleven and almost eight. Jerry's the big brother, and Emma is seven. It happened just over three years ago.” And she remembered that night after Christmas dinner and how, up in their rooms, they had wept together. “It was awful for them,” she said.

  “And awful for you. How are they now?”

  “Better, as far as I can see. Still, you never know what's being suppressed, do you?”

  “That's true. But having a strong mother like you, who's pulling herself up by what my grandfather used to call her own bootstraps, should be a big help.”

  “I don't know about the bootstraps, but I hope you're right.” Hyacinth's voice began to shake, yet she continued, “That boy on horseback reminded me of Jerry. He's crazy about horses, and I'm glad. It helps, it's healthy to have an interest of some kind. It means there's one part of your life that's really happy.”

  “Do they see their father?”

  “Oh yes, they're with him now. It's spring vacation. They spend vacations with him.”

  Even as she spoke, she was thinking: Why am I lying? I've never been a liar. But you do know very well why. It's the old story: It's because a mother who gives up custody is a marked woman, she is unnatural; there is something terribly wrong with her. Isn't that what people say?

  Needing now to do something natural, she opened her handbag and, having subdued the quiver in her voice, showed him a snapshot of her children. Let him write her off as a conventional bore and never see her again.

  “Forgive me for boring you,” she said. “Here they are.”

  They were in riding clothes, standing in front of a paddock fence on the day that Emma had her first authentic lesson. Arnie had taken the picture.

  Will was either interested or being polite enough to seem so. She had a definite impression that the former was the case.

  “You're not boring me at all. They're beautiful, both of them.”

  “Thank you. Emma looks a lot like my mother, whose photo you saw at my house.”

  “I remember. I told you she was beautiful but that I thought you were more so.”

  If anyone were to have asked Hyacinth exactly what she was feeling at that moment, she would not have had an answer. “Confusion” might be the closest to the truth. Again she had nothing to say, and neither, apparently, had Will. She wondered afterward whether either of them would have spoken at all at that moment if the wind, which had been rising, had not abruptly exploded into a chill gust and a fierce burst of rain.

  “We ought to get back before it pours more,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  As if to prolong the good-bye at the entrance of the apartment house, he paused and mused, “What a haphazard world it is. I caught a glimpse of you in the store that day and thought, ‘I like her looks, the long hair like a silk curtain, the way she strides off like a country girl walking on the road.’ Then I forgot you because one always sees interesting people whom one never sees again. But then I did see you again, crossing the square.”

  She knew he was waiting to be invited upstairs. And again she lied, again she told herself that it was easier that way. It was better so.

  “My mother's here with her friends, or else—”

  “Another time,” he said, and looked at her as if, like her, he had been struck into dumb silence by the shock of knowing what was h
appening to them.

  Riding up in the elevator, she repeated the tale he had begun. The package fell. He picked up the book. He quoted Stephen Spender…. Suppose he were to ask her to marry him? It's plausible to think that he might, but it must not happen. Already it's gone too far. I am carrying dangerous baggage, she thought, locked baggage that, like Pandora's box, must never be opened.

  He wanted to see her, while she needed to keep him away. Therefore it became a question of being friendly in a cool way and of finding excuses both true and untrue, though mostly untrue. And so, whenever they met, she delivered the kind of message that every human being, especially the female human being, knows how to deliver: You are pleasant company and I like you, but only up to a point and no farther, in spite of anything that may seem to have passed between us that day in the park.

  Almost always, Hyacinth was certain, the recipient of such a message becomes discouraged and is heard from no more. But Will Miller did not seem to be getting that message. It surprised her that so attractive a man was satisfied to accept a stroll through Chinatown or an evening at the movies, followed by a friendly goodnight on the doorstep, only to call a few days later. Surely, if he wanted to, in no time at all he could fill his address book with any number of young women.

  What are we going to do, she asked herself, when we have explored the whole city? Foolish question, she replied. The city's pleasures are endless. Then she was troubled; if only he would move, be transferred to some place far away! But no, he was firmly planted here; had he not even shown her with pride the enormous, muddy excavation from which the company's great new building was to arise? Had he not spoken of his ambition to live in an apartment with a view?

  As if he were content to keep their companionship just as it was, he persisted. It was as if he had never said any of those intimate things about his search for her, or about poetry, or about a curtain of silk hair. Most probably, she concluded, he had an extensive collection of women, and she was merely one of them. Yet she did not entirely believe so.

  In the middle of May, when Arnie came from Florida, she was truly glad to see him. Conversation with him was easy. There were no long silences to be filled with neutral, noncommittal subjects. Their central subject was, naturally, Emma and Jerry. Arnie always had plenty to say about himself, his new racehorse Diamond, and his business deals that apparently took him from Portland, Oregon, to Portland, Maine. In addition to these, he would have questions about her. It touched her that he was so proud and so encouraging about her success. So it was a blessing to relax with him, the one human being who knew her secret.