After the Fire

  No, not truly. No.

  The fact was that, far from being unable to keep her eyes open, she was unable to close them and sleep. She could scarcely describe the sensation that was keeping her awake. Something was bothering her. She was at the same time flustered and very vaguely uneasy.

  Arnie was—he was different tonight. This rush and tension were so unlike the easygoing person she knew. Naturally, he must be thinking about his proposal to her and the inevitable changes it would bring to his life. Yet since he had not yet been told that she was going to refuse him, he should in theory be in calm good spirits, shouldn't he?

  So when, on the following day, she came home from work to find him waiting for her in the lobby, she was not totally astonished.

  Greeting her with a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, he explained, “I couldn't sleep last night after our talk. It just didn't get anywhere. I kept thinking, feeling, that we're floundering. You keep pulling away from anything definite. Or am I wrong? Stop me if I am.”

  “Come upstairs, and let's straighten out the confusion.”

  This reply sounded braver than Hyacinth felt. And she thought of her father, who would go far to avoid an argument. Unfortunately there was at the moment no place to go.

  They sat down in two chairs near a window, with Arnie's flowery plant in its rather gorgeous porcelain tub between them.

  He remarked on it. “Nice, hey? I've learned a thing about taste from watching you, Hy. Was a time when I thought anything was top stuff if it was expensive. Now I know that expensive isn't enough. This pot's an old piece, you know. Did I tell you?”

  “No, but I could see that it was. It's very lovely. I've enjoyed it.”

  A feeling of pity crept over her, simply because he felt it necessary to remind her that his gift was expensive. Besides, he did not look like himself; for the first time, he looked his age or perhaps even older.

  He caught her glance and smiled. Apparently during the brief ride up in the elevator, he had rethought his approach, for making no mention of any concern, he drew some folders from his pocket and handed them to her.

  “A picture is worth a thousand words, right? Take a look at these. There's France, of course, also Tuscany, not far from Florence, with a load of art museums for you, and I've got more on the way, places in the Cotswolds, lots of atmosphere with thatched roofs, kind of stuff you'd go for. Take a look at these.”

  As she leafed through pictures of sumptuous villas, of terraced gardens, statues, balustrades, and carved ceiling beams, her spirits sank at the thought of the coming struggle. Arnie was going to be a tough adversary.

  “See this that I marked in red? A plus? It's a French beauty. For rent furnished, with an option to buy, and we can move in tomorrow. And it's in the neighborhood of a first-rate riding school. Miles of trails through the forest.”

  She needed to collect herself. And for lack, at the moment, of anything else to say, she faltered. “These—these palaces—cost a fortune—a country place for an aristocrat—”

  “Oh baloney, Hy! I can buy and sell half of your aristocrats! Stop worrying about money, will you? I guess I know what I'm doing.”

  “I know but, Arnie, I never agreed to all this. I never really promised anything. You're taking too much for granted, making these plans. I even told you that Emma and Jerry have school.”

  As if a hand had swept it away, the light went out of his face. Once before, at the door into a hotel bedroom, she had seen that hard look and those narrowed eyes.

  “There are some weeks of school, I know that. But I'm talking about years, Hy. What are you talking about?”

  She took the bold step. There was no choice.

  “Years as your friend, Arnie. As long as either one of us lives, a dear, dear friend.”

  Abruptly he stood. His hands in his pockets caused a furious jingle of coins, after which he took one hand out and pounded a table with a fury that caused a heap of magazines to slide to the floor.

  “Damn it! I'm not playing games! What the hell do you mean? You promised, you said not four days ago in Florida—”

  “I promised nothing, Arnie! Don't put words in my mouth!”

  “When I took you back to the hotel and kissed you there in the driveway, you damn well did!”

  “I know you kissed me. What should I have done? Pushed you away?”

  “There are names for a woman who leads a man on and then dumps him. You want to hear them?”

  “No, I do not. I never led you on, Arnie. I was very confused that day. You rushed me. I was—I am very fond of you. Perhaps I should have made it more clear that fondness is not deep love. If I didn't make it clear then, I'm sorry. I apologize. But I never promised anything, no matter how often you hinted.”

  “What a bitch you are! After all I've done for you!” he cried, waving his hand to indicate the apartment. “You knew how I feel about you. Your mother knew. And this is my thanks, is it?”

  “I have thanked you a thousand times, Arnie. Nobody could be more grateful than I am.”

  “Then show it! Am I so hard to take?” His voice rose. “Am I?”

  “Not at all. But marriage is something else.”

  “Something else, is it? Sure. I get it. I'm not your high-flown friend who romanced you all over France, am I? I don't quite fit in, do I? Do I? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Don't shout at me, Arnie. I don't like it, and I won't stand for your temper. There's no reason to act like this.”

  “Oh my, oh my! You've done a helluva lot more than shout when you're in a temper. Smashing computers, setting fires—but that's okay, isn't it? Now you're a big success, aren't you? But don't let it go to your head. You're hardly in a position to be so independent, and don't forget it.”

  She was appalled and shaken. At the same time, her native temper, so rarely used and so hot when used, rose to the surface.

  “This is my home. I paid you back for what you put into it, and now I'm ordering you out of it. Get out, Arnie.” She opened the door. “And when you're in a better mood, you're welcome back.”

  At that moment the elevator stopped. Three people got out and glanced toward Arnie and Hyacinth. Taking advantage of their presence, she closed the door, shutting him out in the hall. Then bolting the door, she stood waiting for him either to take the elevator or to pound on the door.

  When all was quiet, she collapsed into a chair and began to calm herself. Her fear, she decided at last, was unfounded. The implied threat of betrayal was really nothing to worry about; Arnie, no matter how angry he was at her, would never hurt Emma and Jerry in that way. Of that she was certain. Yet something was terribly wrong.

  He was a highly intelligent man, and he knew quite as well as she did that all through these years she had never in any way led him on. Why, then, was he so agitated? Why in such a hurry to go away? Was he having some sort of breakdown?

  After a while, she got up and went to bed, her thoughts still roiling in her head. That odd business about the horse kept bothering her. An intestinal obstruction, he had said. Or rupture, or infection, something like that. But Francine, though, had said it was a broken leg, and they'd had to “put him down.” Fancy words for a bullet, most likely.

  She sat up, pounded the pillow into a better shape, and rolled to her other side, wanting to sleep.

  Still far from sleep, her thoughts nagged. Arnie had said one thing, and Francine said that that man had said another; so why the discrepancy? One of them was either making a very odd mistake or else not telling the truth. But why?

  That horse meant so much to him. But he had talked about sugarcane all afternoon and never even mentioned its death. Also, later on, he said he couldn't imagine who the man was who had talked to Francine. Yet he must have talked to him, else why would the man say Arnie hadn't changed?

  In the morning she awoke with a need, almost compulsive, to question Francine. Telling herself again that her behavior was probably eccentric, she nevertheless made the call to ask Fran
cine's opinion of the man whom she had seen at the stable.

  “The one who told you about Diamond's broken leg. Was there anything strange about him?”

  “Strange? No. He and his wife, whom I met later, were perfectly ordinary, solid, conservative people. Why do you ask?”

  “I only wondered…. Did he definitely say that Arnie's horse had a broken leg?”

  “Yes.” Francine was becoming impatient. “He caught his foot in a gopher hole, I told you.”

  “Did you get the impression that he was hiding anything?”

  “Not at all. What should he hide? What's this about?”

  Having no proper answer to give, Hyacinth made an excuse, hung up, and in spite of being late this morning sat on at the telephone for several minutes as if she were trying to assemble the scattered pieces of a disturbing puzzle. The trouble was that there were not enough pieces to work with.

  Yet the longer she sat there, the stronger grew her conviction that something was very definitely wrong. Granny would say, “I feel it in my bones.”

  On the third day after these events the feeling grew even stronger, for returning home toward midnight after a long day at work and a late dinner with Lina, she found five messages on the answering machine. They were all from Arnie.

  “I'm terribly sorry, Hy. I said things I didn't mean. You know me better than that—”

  “Sometimes in a business deal, you come up against a tough character who wants to upset the cart and dump all the apples on the street—”

  “I was all worked up and took out my temper on you—God, I only want the best for you, so can't you please—”

  “Call me, no matter what time you get home—”

  She was torn. A part of her dreaded an emotional appeal, an apology, a long explanation, and another description of another lavish European retreat. There was no point in any of it; her answer stood as it had been given. But the other part of her heart reminded her of the many calls—how many hundreds of them?—that she had made to him about Emma and Jerry, besides those he himself had made to soothe her worry. She went to the telephone.

  “Hy, I want you to reconsider. Come away with me. I can't go into all the details now, so just believe me. I've never failed either you or the kids, have I? Have I?”

  “No, Arnie, you haven't.”

  “Well, then listen to me. I can fly back up there again in the morning and straighten this out in your mind. The telephone's no good. You'll never regret it.” His voice shook. “Okay, Hy? Listen, you can do your work, you can design wherever you live, if that's what's worrying you. Listen, I'll be there tomorrow.”

  “Arnie, I can't!” she cried. “I'm going to Texas for a couple of showings.” This was the truth. “I'm not sure yet how long I'll need to be there.” This was not the truth. She was fearful, without knowing why, except perhaps that she merely needed time to prepare herself for a stormy session.

  “Good God!” Arnie groaned. “Haven't you any idea when you'll be back?”

  “A week or so, I guess. I'll call you as soon as I am.”

  So it stood. All through the five days in Texas, where in artless joy her adult life had really begun, Arnie accompanied her, a heavy weight at the back of her mind. And home again, after two days, she was still steeling herself to call him. Tonight for sure, she promised. Just grit your teeth and do it, Hyacinth.

  If she had not happened to catch a glimpse of Will Miller coming out of a seafood restaurant with two other men at lunchtime, the course of events would have been very different. She barely saw any more than his back as he walked away, but there was no mistaking him. He had probably had fish chowder, she thought irrelevantly; it would have to be very hot, with toast on the side.

  She had intended to do an errand before returning to work, but the unexpected sight of Will, whom she had not seen since August, was more disconcerting than she had thought it could be, and she turned back to Libretti's instead. There at her too-splendid desk, she sat with her drawing board propped against a pile of books, a pencil in hand, and not an idea in her head. In one instant, all her vivid images had flown; the plans that had been taking shape while she was in Florida were gone. In their place were nameless dread and a need to tell somebody about it, somebody who would understand. And again she had a sensation that had come to her only a few times during the crises in her life—such as that moment when Gerald had demanded the abortion—a fear of being without direction. An hour passed, and still she sat holding a pencil. Between the battle with Arnie and the sight of Will, she was lost, back on that street in the city where nobody spoke her language.

  And yet there was one person who spoke it well, or had once done so…. Truly the thought was bizarre! Still, had it not also been bizarre to take the suitcase full of her samples to that grand Madison Avenue shop a few years ago? She, a mere nobody of a student? The worst they can do is to ask me politely to leave, she had argued with herself. So she argued now.

  It must have been well into the second hour before, without actually willing to do it, Hyacinth sprang out of the chair. Before a long mirror in the lavatory, she took a careful look at the plain dark blue dress, the small lace scarf at the neck, and the pearls that appeared when her hair fell away from her ears. She had no wish to charm, for that was out of the question; she knew that well and was only concerned with being dignified and in control. This whole business made no sense. Nevertheless, perhaps it did. And she was about to do it.

  She stood smiling before him. When Will gave her no answering smile, she understood what she ought to have known, that her smile was an embarrassment and only a nervous tic at best.

  “I haven't come, as you are probably thinking, to make any plea,” she said quietly. “I'm not asking you to come back because it's clear that you won't. This is nothing personal. I've come because I have a problem. I need advice, and I don't happen to know anybody else who can give it as well as you can.”

  “Not your friend Arnie?”

  “No. Please listen to me. But if you're not at all interested, I'll leave. Maybe I've done an unforgivably foolish thing in coming here.”

  “Sit down,” he said.

  He had risen when she entered the room, and both of them were still standing. Now, as he drew a chair up for her, they both sat, separated as is usual in a professional office, by an oversized desk. He looks tired and stern, she thought before turning her eyes away.

  “What kind of problem is it? If it's medical, I'm not a doctor. If it's legal, I'm not a lawyer.”

  “I'm not exactly sure what it is. That's part of the problem. It may be somewhat legal, but I don't really know that, so—”

  Will interrupted. “A lawyer would know it.”

  “I can't go to one. I don't want to mention an innocent person's name to a lawyer if it isn't necessary.”

  “That's being overly scrupulous, I should say. In fact, it's absurd.”

  “I don't think it is. Not if a person has been a close, loyal friend. You'd want to be careful how you used his name.”

  “A close, loyal friend. That wouldn't be Arnie again, by any chance?” Will spoke with scorn in his voice.

  “Yes, I'm sorry to say so, but it is.”

  “He's your lover, isn't he? So why do you come to me?”

  “To begin with, I've told you before that he is not my lover. He never was. It's true that he would like to be and that he has asked me to marry him, but I will not marry him because I do not love him. I like him very much, though, and I believe he may be in trouble of some kind. That's the whole truth.”

  “You haven't answered my other question. Why do you come to me?”

  “I thought I answered it. Because I trust you.”

  She sat up straighter and waited. There was silence in the room. He was looking at her without revealing any judgment or any feeling at all.

  He has someone else by now, she thought, and I have become a curiosity. He was a stranger. The crisp speech, the formal posture with folded hands resting on th
e desk, the eyes that refused to meet hers, all these were strange.

  She wanted suddenly to be out of the room, away from this unnatural atmosphere. But he was waiting for her to say something more, so as quickly and clearly as she could—for he tended to be impatient with long-winded descriptions—she related the events that disturbed her, the affair of the horse and the troubles with Arnie.

  “Maybe there's no sense in all this,” she concluded. “Maybe I'm frightened about a burglar in the house when it's really just the wind rattling the window.”

  Will was looking over her head at the opposite wall and did not answer. The ruddy color that had once so become him had bled away; in the dimming light of the late afternoon, he looked gray.

  “I don't want to hurt this man who's been so good to me and my children,” she said. “Yet when a person acts so out of character—”

  He interrupted. “I'll speak to someone. The man I have in mind is discreet, and no one will ever know that you were here. When I have something to report, I'll call you.”

  Understanding that she was being dismissed, Hyacinth rose and thanked him. The interview had been dignified and correct, as she had determined it would be. It had even been somewhat helpful, as she had hoped it would be. It had also been so cool that no witness would ever have guessed that this man and this woman had once loved each other.

  Yet as she put her hand on the doorknob to leave him, she could not help but turn to ask, “And how have you been?”

  “Getting along. And you?”

  “Getting along. And thank you again.”

  It began to snow. The slow, thick flakes of earliest spring made wet spots on Hyacinth's smart Libretti coat. From her equally smart red handbag, she drew a collapsible umbrella. Then she put on her sunglasses. Surely there was no glare coming out of the dark sky, so it was not for that reason; it was only to hide her eyes, which suddenly were overrun with tears.

  The waiting time was wretched. Every day for the next week, Hyacinth fended off Arnie's insistent arguments and pleas as best she could. Every day she went through an argument with herself: Had she stirred up a hornet's nest? Or perhaps a nest in which there were no hornets, thus making herself more than ever into a foolish meddler? Not that it really mattered….