“In the morning room,” he said unnecessarily, since Anna had already gone in.
In the white-and-yellow room, the blinds were down. He raised them and went to the neatly fitted little desk with its matching appurtenances: notepaper, blotter, calendar, and appointment book.
“No note,” he said.
Anna was still twisting the strap. Her agitation affected him too painfully. He wished she hadn’t come.
“Look, look here on the calendar! She’s written it down. It’s next Saturday. You’re a week ahead of time.”
Anna looked up. There was absolute desperation in her face.
“I’m sure it was today,” she said.
“Well, then, it’s my mother’s mistake. I’m really sorry.”
He understood that she had been thinking of things entirely different; he had been remembering their past, while she was beset by some deep present need, and he might just as well have been Mrs. Monaghan the cook, or anyone at all, rather than who he was, so great was that need and trouble.
He spoke very gently. “May I ask you what this is about? Is there anything I can do?”
“I was going to ask whether she would lend us some money.”
“Sit down, Anna. Tell me.”
“But I’m keeping you. You have your coat on.”
“Then I’ll take it off. I’m in no hurry.”
She looked away again, down at the sewing basket on the floor, and at Paul’s feet. He noticed, as she murmured, that her accent was much less foreign than it had been. Well, she had been learning since he saw her last.…
“My husband, Joseph, he’s a painter, he works very hard. We have a little boy … he works hard for the boy’s sake, you understand. He’s ambitious. He and another man, an Irishman, a plumber, they work together on houses and they know a lot about building. They want … they have a chance to buy a house.”
The voice ran on, pausing for deep breaths like sighs, and he saw that the telling of her story was agony.
“If he … if Joseph had two thousand dollars, he could buy the house and they would work and fix it up and sell it. That’s how it goes, he says, that’s how you begin. Oh!” she cried suddenly, almost angrily, “I didn’t want to come here and beg! Why should people lend two thousand dollars to a person they don’t even know?”
“I suppose the only reason is that one wants to.” He smiled.
“You want to do it?”
“Yes. I’m sure Mother would, if she were here, so I’ll do it in her place.”
Anna’s eyes were astonished. She had almost surely expected to be turned down; certainly she could not have expected such quick acceptance. Oh, but he needed to do something for her! To give, to prove that he had heart and knew contrition.…
“You have spirit and courage,” he said. “That’s why I want to.”
His checkbook was in his pocket. He drew it out and took pen in hand. A good feeling came over him, the powerful calm that comes when you have bestowed comfort on someone else.
“What is your husband’s name?”
“Joseph Friedman.”
“Here you are! Two thousand dollars. When you get home, have him sign this. It’s an I.O.U. You can mail it to me. No, mail it here, in care of my mother.”
She stifled tears. “I don’t know what to say!”
“Don’t say anything.”
“My husband will be so grateful. I don’t think he really expected—it was just a last hope. We don’t know anyone else to ask, you see.”
Of course it had been the man’s idea. He would have forced her to come. It must have been torture for her to ring this doorbell. He remembered how she had fled the house that morning.…
“He’s really such a good man. The most honest, good man you could know.”
Relieved now, almost joyous, she was nervously chattering. “But that’s silly of me, isn’t it? What woman would tell you that her husband was dishonest?”
He laughed. “Not many, I imagine. But I do hope this will accomplish what you want, Anna.”
He thought: What are we talking about? What do I care about her husband? I’ve held her, told her I loved her, and now we’re talking about her husband and two thousand dollars. I’ve carried her picture in my head, the way one carries a snapshot in a wallet.
The room was too warm. She had unbuttoned the jacket of her suit. Two rows of spiral ruffles lay between her breasts.
“Tell me,” he said, “tell me about your little boy.”
“He’s four years old.”
“Does he look like you?”
“I don’t know.”
A smile curved her mouth. He had forgotten that her chin had a cleft, a shallow dimple.
“Red hair?”
“No, blond. But it will probably grow dark like his father’s.”
Something wrenched Paul’s chest, almost taking his breath: a sudden vision of Anna and that other man in the act of creating a child. The word husband had not affected him before, nor touched him with its reality till this instant in which she said, “Like his father’s.” So she and this man had … they had … damn fool, Paul! What did you think? He stared at her, at the tiny pearls in her ears, the slight movement of her breasts under the thin white blouse, and the silk strands of hair that swept past her cheeks, hair that that man could unwrap, loosen, and kiss whenever he pleased.
His heart began to pound again. And he heard himself say, “You’re even more beautiful than you used to be, do you know that, Anna?”
And he heard her answer, “Am I?”
Down below in the street, a horn blew. It was far away; the street, the city, the world, all were far away, removed from the hushed little space of this room and the couch where she sat, the feminine couch piled with soft, soft pillows. Again she had lowered her eyes; why, her lashes were dark, not red! Had he never noticed that before? Then it seemed to him that she was waiting, entranced; that the same possibility that in this instant had shot through his mind had also shot through hers, a passing dart.…
A shaft of sunlight quivered on the carpet. The next moment he thought: No, it’s my vision that’s trembling. The pool of light, an irregular oval, was steady on the rug. The silence made a high, thin hum like that of insects in late summer, rising, dwindling, and rising again while he waited, and could wait no longer.…
He knelt by the couch and buried his face in her lap. Her hand smoothed his hair. And he raised his head, or was it she who, turning to him, raised his face? The kiss was the longest and the sweetest … his fingers found tiny buttons hidden under the spiral ruffles. His fingers loosened the taffeta petticoat and the muslin. Slowly, entwined as they were with one another, all the encumbrances of her silks and his thick cloth were stripped away, slowly at first, and then desperately faster.
He lifted her into the center of the couch and pulled up the quilt that lay folded there, to cover and enclose them. Her warm hair, released from pins and combs, fell over the pillows. Her strong arms held him as he wanted to be held. Through half-open lids, her eyes gleamed, and then closed, and his closed, too, going down and down into the bliss that has no name.
When he woke, they were still loosely entwined and she was still asleep. Softly releasing himself, he slid away to see her better, to examine again the charming round of the shoulder where the quilt had been drawn away, and the delicate hollow under the collarbone. In what way were these so different from the flesh and bone of any other lovely young body? His pulse, which had quieted, began again to beat, not now with desire but with an ache of longing that was infinitely sad. He bent closer, as if to memorize the subtle structure of her face: the high bridge of the nose, the flat planes of the cheeks, the pure skin drawn over the bone, without flaw. But surely there were other faces as lovely? And again the sadness flowed over him.
He got up, dressed, and folded her clothes that lay in a heap on the floor. Then he went downstairs and stood for a long time looking out to the street. He felt drained.
There
was a Latin saying: Post coitum homo tristus est. But this feeling was deeper than the natural melancholy that so often follows passion. Far deeper. And he stood there not really thinking, just letting impressions flow, as he watched a group of boys shoot marbles on the other side of the street, and a horse plod by with a wagonload of asparagus, rhubarb, and potted tulips.
Then he heard Anna flying down the stairs. Instantly, eagerly, he went to meet her. But with a stricken, wild expression, she fled past him.
“Wait! Wait! Anna, you’re not angry?”
“Oh,” she said, “angry … no!”
“What is it, then?”
“What I’ve done! What I’ve done!” she cried out.
He wanted to understand, and thinking perhaps that he did understand, he said, “Anna dearest, you’ve done nothing wrong. You mustn’t think that I—Anna, I respect you more than any woman I’ve ever known.”
Her voice cracked.
“Respect me? Now?”
“Yes, of course. Why not? You’re the most enchanting woman … Don’t you know this was the most natural, beautiful thing? You do know.”
“Natural! I have a child. A husband.”
He tried to take her hands, but she pulled them away.
“You’ve done them no harm. My dear, my dear.”
“Oh, God!” she cried wretchedly.
“Listen. You were a girl, almost a child still, when you lived in this house. I wouldn’t have touched you then. But I wanted you from the first time I saw you. I know that now. And you wanted me, too … you know you did. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Remember that.”
“I don’t want to remember it. I don’t want to remember anything!”
She fumbled with the latch. “I have to get out! Let me out!”
He thought she was going to be sick, and was terrified.
“I can’t let you leave like this! Please, sit down a minute, let’s talk. Please.”
But she was frantic. The latch gave, the door crashed open, and she flew past him, down the steps. He started after her, and then restrained himself; she was half hysterical and in that state she would only resist him; there would be a scene and that would be worse for her.
Helplessly, he watched her race away. No doubt she was going home.
Slowly, heavily, he trudged back up the stairs. In his mother’s sitting room, he pulled the blinds down again, rearranged the quilt and pillows, and then stood looking at the place where, only a few minutes before, Anna had lain, all fragrant, pink and white. In a storybook, he thought, one would read: “It was like a dream”; but this was no dream; it was real and true, the truest thing that had ever happened to him. He felt a lump, a sob, in his throat.
Then he turned to go, and happening to glance at the floor, saw a bracelet lying there. He picked it up. Hers. A pretty thing, a cheap bangle. And, simply because it was so cheap and flimsy, it touched him. She had so little. She had nothing. He hoped he hadn’t brought suffering and guilt to her just now; he hoped she would come to think of what had happened with joy, the deep joy she had felt as it was happening. And he thought: I will see her again. This isn’t the end. It can’t be.
He left the house and began to walk back home through the park. A taxicab passed and hesitated, but he waved it away. He was too tensed, stretched like a spring, and had to walk it off.
Her face had been illuminated in that moment when she had told him of her little boy. “Dark, like his father,” she’d said, and once more that frenzy took hold, unreasonable rage at the unknown man to whom she belonged. He tried to picture him clearly, so as to hate him, and could remember nothing except he had seemed very young. He’s probably about my age, Paul thought, yet I think of myself as being older. Why? Only because you are more fortunate, Paul, more powerful, since through sheer accident, it happens that you do not have to ask anyone for money.
True. But why should you feel guilty about possessing more? It’s the way the world is, that’s all. You could do so much for her.…
He hastened his steps through the park. His mind was sharply focused now.
You can persuade her to leave him, you know, Paul. You know she can be persuaded.
The maid came into the hall when she heard his key.
“Mrs. Werner said to tell you, if you came in early, that she’ll be home at three. Will you have lunch, Mr. Werner?”
“No, thank you. I’m not hungry.” He went into the library where The New York Times waited untouched; Mimi knew he didn’t want to read a paper that had been disarranged. He picked it up and read the headlines without absorbing any meaning.
Then he took one of his art books from the shelf, and that was better. Opening it at random, he beheld a marvelous reproduction of Van Gogh’s Seascape at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. He’d seen the original at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, and could remember how, standing before it that first time, he had known the magic of a masterpiece, a magic that was indefinable. It was something you could only feel. You were there, where the white froth lay scattered on the shallow waves, and the white clouds melted like puddled snow in the myriad blues of a sky that was here almost green, and there almost black.
He had now a total recall, not of the minutes when he had first seen the picture in a museum, but of the original reality; he stood on the southern tip of Provence; the sound of the surf went rushing around his head, so that his heart, which had been so unstable these last hours, began again to run faster and faster; he felt the start of the fresh wind, bringing its wonderful cool breath on that brilliant day, under the blazing sun.
And he stood there staring at the book.
All the grandeur and wonder of the world! And so little time! So long to be dead, and so many already dead, all young and able to love, who now never will. Never love, nor see the bright water.
Take it all, while you can! Take life!
9
“Do come with us to the antique show,” urged Leah. “Alfie and Emily go every spring and it’s fun.”
“It’s only a short ride, not six miles down the road,” Alfie said.
Ben said, “I’ll lift the wheelchair into the station wagon. No problem at all.”
Freddy firmly refused. “I don’t want to go, I said. But you all go. I don’t mind.”
Leah worried, “What will you do?”
He hated her worried look. Her eyebrows drew toward her nose, above which there were two vertical wrinkles. She made him feel useless, dependent as a baby. But that wasn’t fair: he was dependent as a baby. If she hadn’t worried about him, he would have resented that more, and he knew he would. So he made an effort to brighten his manner.
“Honestly, I’m not interested in antiques. I’ll read. Look, I’ve three new books here on the seat.”
“I’ll take you for a walk to a different spot,” offered Meg. “So you won’t always have the same view from this porch.”
“Good idea, Meg,” her father approved with cheer. “All right, then, you’ll be company for Freddy. We won’t be long anyway.”
Down the gravel path they went, along the garden’s edge, where parallel strings stretched on wooden pegs marked the rows in which late-planted vegetables were germinating; early beans were already climbing up their poles and the earth smelled strong and sweet after the night’s rain.
Apple orchards flanked the path: strong young trees in even rows, they formed diagonal alleys as far as one could see.
“I wouldn’t mind having a working apple farm when I grow up,” Meg announced, adding importantly, “I know all the varieties. I’d have some of each, russets, Gravensteins, Northern Spies, everything.”
She lifted the rails at a gate to let them pass through. “This is the new piece Daddy just bought. Good grazing land, as you can see.”
A dozen pale gold Jerseys moved head-down in the grass; among them a few horses foraged too. The dogs padded ahead, the tall setters prancing and the dachshund puppy panting to keep up with them.
“Strudel loves you the best, I can
tell.” Meg prattled with enthusiasm, determined to cheer him, Freddy knew, and because she was Meg, did not object. “Dogs do have favorites. I wonder how they come to decide who their favorite is to be? King loves Dad the best, while Lady loves me. I think dogs are very wise; you can tell it in their eyes. And I always think they laugh too, although people say they don’t, but I think their mouths smile and, of course, the tail is really laughing when it waves. Don’t you think so?”
Birds’ song quivered in the trees, and the open air was laced by their swoops and darts. On the damp lawn, robins hopped, plucking worms. For a moment, before his life surged back upon him, Freddy felt the marvelous wealth of spring turning into summer.
Meg pointed. “See those five maples in a row? Our neighbor down the road—he’s awfully old—was a young boy, hoeing corn, when somebody came along on horseback and called that Lincoln had been shot. So he ran to tell his father, who was planting those trees that very minute. Oh, I love this place! I’ll always think of it as home, no matter where else I live. When I was little, I used to cry when we had to leave every September and go back to the city, and I still feel like crying. Do you think I’m silly?”
“No,” Freddy said. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, on warm fall nights when I’m in bed in the city, with the windows open, I can hear the rumble of the el from the avenue. It’s such a melancholy noise … all those people packed together, rushing from one dreary street to another. And I think, here at the place, the Canada geese are floating on the pond; they always stop over for a couple of days on their way south. Oh, well, we’re here now! It’s getting too hot for you,” she said brightly. “I know a good shady spot where you can read.”
Meg placed the chair. Below, through a screen of moving leafage, the pond gleamed; flat as a silver plate it lay, decked with a ragged fringe of lilies.
Meg was satisfied. “There! Now you can enjoy your book.”