Now, even through the closed door of her study, she heard a fresh bellow of outrage. She stood up, angry herself. Really, this was too much. If she found Michael cowering again, she would confront Ben herself and put a stop to it. Somehow.
But Michael wasn’t in his room. Nor in hers, nor anywhere else on the second floor. At times like this she was almost sorry Mrs. Drum was gone, or at least sorry she hadn’t hired anyone to replace her. She’d left without notice while Sara was away in Newport. She had never completely understood why, beyond the fact that it had something to do with Tasha. But Tasha couldn’t or wouldn’t explain it to her, except to say, “She was a stupid woman. Stupid Mick.”
She found Tasha in the red drawing room, reclining on the sofa and reading a fashion magazine. Her new hairstyle, Sara noticed uncomfortably, was an exact replica of her own. Tasha sent her a lazy smile, stretched like a panther, and resumed reading. Sara’s jaw tightened; the languid spectacle released a spurt of hot irritation in her out of all proportion to the offense. “Have you seen Michael?” she asked sharply.
“Michael? No.”
She was the only one in the house who seemed genuinely unaffected by Ben’s rages, Sara realized. That annoyed her, too. “Will you please help me look for him?”
Tasha let her magazine slide to the floor. It was past eleven o’clock, but she still wore her robe du matin, as she called it, over a satin negligee. “I would like to, but it’s time for me to go and dress or my tutor will arrive and find me in dishabille.” She got up, stretched again, and walked leisurely past Sara to the door.
Sara whirled. “Tasha, I would like to speak to you.”
Tasha paused in the threshold, striking an attitude. “But have I not just said? I am in a rush. We will talk later, Sara.” And she was gone.
Sara felt as much amazement as anger. It was clear to her by now that she had done Tasha no favors by letting her stay so long with no employment and no usefulness. Now she must deal with the situation—Tasha got more impudent and impossible every day. But what an unpleasant task it would be, telling her she must leave and find a place of her own. Sara had no energy for the encounter. With a troubled sigh, she realized she had just made a decision to put it off a little longer.
“Sheila, have you seen Michael?”
“No, ma’am,” said the maid, looking up from the mirror-like surface of the table she was polishing in the foyer. “I haven’t seen him since breakfast.”
“I can’t find him, and I’m a little concerned. Help me look for him, will you?”
They searched the house; they even went outside, although it had begun to rain, walking to either end of the block and calling him. Sara knew there was no point in asking Ben; he wouldn’t know anything, he would resent the interruption, and Michael wouldn’t have gone anywhere near him anyway. Finally there was nowhere left to search but the basement.
She found him there, huddled on a piece of canvas beside the coal bin, fast asleep.
No wonder he was tired. Last night a nightmare had woken him—monsters chasing him through terrifying streets—and she’d stayed with him until he’d finally gone back to sleep. It had taken hours.
In the dim light from the lone bare bulb overhead, she could see he’d been crying; his face was smudged with coal dust and the tear tracks stood out like dirty trails through a field of mud. Beside him was a crumpled piece of paper. She knelt down and reached for it fearfully, dreading what she would see. Lately all his art work was black and violent and heartbreaking. His interest in school had declined in the last month, yet he still did his work well. He was such a dutiful child, he broke her heart. And she was riddled with guilt, for she knew who had taught him this terrible stoicism.
But the drawing wasn’t bleak and disturbing, she saw with surprise; peering at it in the dimness, she made out a picture of a beach—Bailey’s Beach?—in bright blues and yellows. A man, woman, and child stood in the center, beaming and holding hands, all wearing red-and-white striped bathing suits. A happy family. He’d even drawn a dog at the bottom—Gadget, she surmised, from its short legs and long tail.
With a pang, she set the drawing aside and gently stroked her hand through Michael’s silvery blond hair. His eyes opened. “Hello, you,” she said softly. “You’ve been sleeping.”
“Hi, Mum.” He smiled, and her heart twisted.
“Look at you, what a mess you are. Were you rolling in the coal bin?”
“No.”
“No?” She rubbed a particularly black cheek with her thumb. “You look it. Come upstairs and have a bath.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I’ll run it for you myself, not Sheila. And you can play with your new battleship in the tub.”
A flicker of interest lit the blue-gray eyes, then died. “I don’t want to go upstairs.”
Sighing, heedless of the six rows of white braid at the hem of her red poplin skirt, she sat down beside him on the filthy concrete floor. “Daddy’s not angry with you, you know.” No answer. “Do you think he’s angry with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course he isn’t.”
“Why is he so mad, then?”
“He’s angry with the way things are going right now with his work, that’s all. And when he gets mad, he yells. That’s the way some people are.”
“You never yell.”
“Oh, sometimes I do.”
“Hardly ever. That time in Newport when I let the frog sleep in my bed because it was raining, you yelled then. Remember?”
“Vividly.”
He put his head on her arm. “I don’t like it, Mum,” he admitted. “I don’t like to hear it.”
“I know. But you have to remember that it’s nothing to do with you. Daddy’s angry at things, not people. He loves you.” She’d told him that so many times; now, looking down into his pinched, unhappy face, for the first time she saw skepticism. It chilled her. She remembered what he’d told her a few days ago, and the sound of wonder in his voice as he’d related it—that Charlie O’Shea’s father picked him up and kissed him every night when he came home from work. “I saw it, Mum,” he’d insisted, amazed.
“Is this Newport?” she asked, pulling the picture toward her, surreptitiously wiping her cheek on his hair.
“Yeah. It’s you and me and Mr. McKie.”
She was so shocked, she couldn’t speak. Intense guilt assaulted her because somehow she knew, it was her fault that the man in Michael’s smiling, ideal family was her lover instead of her husband.
“Why doesn’t he come to see us anymore?”
“Because he’s in Newport. He’s still building our house.”
“Does he still like us?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Can I write him a letter? I made something for him and I never got to give it to him.”
“What?”
“It’s a secret.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t try to guess, okay?”
“Okay.” Fair enough; whenever he had a secret, she always guessed what it was because he couldn’t resist giving her such broad hints.
“Can I write to him, Mum?”
She hesitated. His devotion to Alex perplexed her. They’d been friends during the early part of the summer, but that was months ago. Michael was a child, with a child’s memory and fickle loyalties, but he’d remained steadfast in his friendship with Alex. Was it because of something she was doing without realizing it, an attitude in her that he could sense? The possibility appalled her. And yet how could she say no to him now? It would be cruel to deny him this simple pleasure. “All right,” she said slowly, “you can write to him if you want to.” But she hoped he wouldn’t; she hoped he would forget.
“It’s cold down here, darling, and you really have to get cleaned up before lunch.” They scrambled to their feet.
“Is Dad going to have lunch with us?”
How she hated the sound of fear in his voice. Meals had been a trial lately, with
Ben growling and sniping at her, at Michael, even at Tasha. “No,” she decided suddenly. “You and I are going out.”
“We are? Where?”
“Mmm…Fleischmann’s?” A squeal of delight. “And then we’ll go to Union Square and listen to the street orators and browse for a while in Brentano’s.”
“Oh, neat.”
“And on the way home, if we feel like it and we’re not too tired, we might stop in at Huyler’s.” Shocking over-indulgence, she knew, but she didn’t care; she wanted to hear him laugh again.
But the mention of his favorite candy store made his grubby face turn serious. “Mummy, you don’t have to—you know, worry about me so much. I’m really quite all right.”
She laughed; it stuck in her throat before it could turn into a sob. Bending down, she embraced him. “I know you’re really quite all right!” she whispered fiercely. The feel of his spindly little body was so dear.
He burrowed his grimy face in her neck and inhaled loudly—he loved to smell her perfume. “Mmmm,” he breathed appreciatively. She held on until he squirmed away, remembering all at once that he was seven and getting too big for these sentimental displays. “I’ve named my battleship Invincible,” he informed her, his voice deepening, as he ran up the steps in front of her. “After the knight’s horse in the Black Warrior’s Tale. Remember?”
“Yes.”
“Mummy?”
“Yes, love?” They’d reached the kitchen.
“I don’t need you to run my bath for me. I can do it by myself now.”
Before she could answer, he ran ahead of her and disappeared into the hall, leaving her alone. She heard his light footsteps on the staircase. At the other end of the house, Ben was still shouting.
She almost didn’t go to the symphony that night. The long afternoon with Michael had tired her, the thought of dressing again to go out depressed her, and she hated all the wearying subterfuge required to spend an evening with Ben in public. Unexpectedly, it was he who insisted they go, in spite of his foul mood and his almost sickly-looking fatigue. Vivaldi, of course, had nothing to do with it; Mrs. Conrad Sheridan had called in the afternoon and invited them to join her and her husband in their private box, and afterward to have supper with their party at Bustanoby’s Cafe. Mr. Sheridan was president of the Nantauk Mercantile Bank & Trust Company. The obvious fact that the Cochranes were a last-minute afterthought therefore did not signify.
Ben slept through most of the concert. Watching him, his chin on his chest, hands limp in his lap, Sara noticed for the first time how much weight he’d put on. He didn’t look healthy, though; his normally ruddy complexion was pale, almost pasty. And he must be tired indeed to fall asleep in Carnegie Hall, where he usually took such a deep delight in gazing about at all the gilded fractions of the Four Hundred and imagining that he belonged among them. But he looked heavy and uncomfortable in his evening clothes, the black bow tie around his starched collar seeming to pinch into the flesh of his thick neck. Tonight, as usual, he’d made her wear too much jewelry with her pale blue Callot gown. When she protested, he’d quoted his vulgarest hero, Diamond Jim Brady—“Them as has ’em, wears ’em.” The ostentation embarrassed her; she felt self-conscious and foolish in her ropes of pearls and flashing jewels. But she flaunted no more than most and less than many in the crowd of braceleted and tiaraed glitterati around her, so she could console herself that at least she didn’t look any gaudier than anyone else.
The concert ended. There were two other couples in the Sheridans’ party, the Stanleys and the James Kimmels. Waiting for carriages to take them down Broadway to Fortieth Street, Mrs. Kimmel mentioned that she and her husband and the Louis Stones had gone to Bustanoby’s last night and found it deadly dull, not the thing at all. Immediately the plan changed: they would go to Rector’s, then, in Longacre Square, and eat lobster. That would be more fun anyway, because there was no telling who you might see at Rector’s after the theaters closed. Ben’s tired face brightened, and Sara knew he relished the thought of being seen at the city’s supreme shrine of the cult of pleasure. When they were unhesitatingly shown to a downstairs table in the bright, crowded restaurant, his satisfaction was complete, for only those who had truly arrived were permitted to sit on the first floor; the less illustrious, if admitted at all, had to make do with one of the seventy-five tables upstairs.
By midnight there were no tables left for anyone, regardless of consequence. The din of voices and gay laughter crackled between the high mirrored walls, and the crystal chandeliers winked and gleamed in the reflected glory of a fortune in jewels and stunning gowns of hyacinth and heliotrope and canary yellow. Champagne flowed like a golden waterfall, and Sara watched in dull alarm as Ben’s mood, under its influence, shifted from sullenness to feverish exhilaration. He couldn’t stop talking, and his relentless, booming voice pounded on her nerves like fists. What was the matter with him? He rarely drank to excess in public, especially when he was with people he wanted to impress—he was too wary of losing control. But twice he told the same interminable story of his latest stock market coup to Conrad Sheridan, who could barely conceal his impatience, and three times he bragged to the Kimmels that his new box at Madison Square Garden had cost four hundred dollars. His laughter exploded incessantly, loud as cannon fire, harsh and inappropriate. Knowing how futile it would be to warn him, Sara kept silent, embarrassed for him, while a deep, throbbing headache began between her eyebrows and soon clouded her vision.
But she saw Alex before he saw her, in the gilded mirror opposite, beyond Jenny Stanley’s ostrich-feather headdress. On either arm he had a woman; they could have been sisters, both tall, brunette, and queenly. He was remonstrating good-naturedly with the maitre d’hotel when another man, thin, bearded, and blond, joined him, casually taking the arm of one of the queenly brunettes and tucking it under his own.
Sara’s blood surged giddily; she reached for her wine glass, unthinking, but her fingers shook and she had to drop her empty hand back into her lap. Impotent, she closed her eyes and ears to the din and the dazzle, searching for a handhold, for stability somewhere inside herself. Ben’s thundering voice floored her, calling out, “McKie! Hey, McKie! There’s my architect, Conrad. Know him? Finest firm in the city. McKie!”
Colors swirled; sounds clashed and bludgeoned. She sat still, as if frozen in a violent dream, incapable of raising her eyes until she felt him standing behind her and the cacophanous bits of dialogue all around became recognizable as introductions and greetings. Did they all know Alex McKie? Ben boomed, taking over as host. The Kimmels did, from Newport. Tell the headwaiter to bring more chairs, there was plenty of room if they all squeezed together. Have a seat, have a seat! Who were these charming ladies? Floradora girls, two in the statuesque Sextette who danced and sang to wild applause every night at the Casino Theatre on Thirty-ninth Street. Ben, overcome with awe, sprang up and immediately gave the nearer one, Miss Sampson, his own chair. The blond, bearded man who was her escort raised his elegant brows and sent Alex a dry look. He was a sculptor, Sara heard dully; he and Alex had known each other since their student days in Paris.
The lady who still clung to Alex’s arm was Miss Phelan. Sara automatically took the large hand she offered and gazed up, beyond a prodigious, satin-shrouded bosom, into a pair of sultry black eyes. The two women murmured to each other, smiling falsely.
Finally Sara looked at Alex. He didn’t offer his hand, but he bent toward her as if he would speak. But she spoke first. “She’s lovely, Alex.” Her light, congratulatory voice carried only to him. “And how nice for you that her charms aren’t spoiled by any wearisome inhibitions.”
She didn’t look at his face, but his body straightened jerkily, as if reacting to a blow. Thick, suffocating waves of wretchedness buried her. She went blind and deaf until Ben’s voice chiding, “Move, Sara,” and his hand rudely pushing at the back of her chair brought her back to awful reality. He shoved a new chair between her and Miss Sampson, squeezed into i
t, and immediately turned his back on her to engage the striking soubrette in loud and animated conversation.
Time became a clever, grotesque enemy. Every hour she checked the diamond-and-ruby-studded watch she wore pinned to her bosom, only to discover that a minute had actually passed. The smell of hot fish brought her, again and again, to the brink of nausea. Alex was somewhere at the other end of the table; she didn’t know where because she never looked at him. Twice she asked Ben if they could leave; both times he didn’t even bother to answer. The bearded sculptor, whose name was Blackman, spoke to her repeatedly and with great charm; but she could hardly follow his amusing stories, and she answered his questions in monosyllables.
And then it was simply not possible to go on with it any longer. She had to take hold of Ben’s wrist to get his attention. “I’m ill, you must take me home.” He started to argue; her hand tightened like a claw. “No, now—I tell you I’m sick.”
She didn’t realize how drunk he was until he tried to stand up. She reached for him—too late to prevent him from stumbling so hard against the table that dishes clattered along its whole length. His flailing arm upset water and wine glasses and knocked a lit candle out of the floral arrangement. Mr. Blackman was beside her in an instant, steadying Ben and speaking to him in calm, jovial tones, maneuvering him carefully away from the table. She said something apologetic and then something about a carriage to Mrs. Sheridan, whose appalled face stayed in her mind’s eye for long moments afterward. Intent on helping Ben pull enough money from his purse to pay for the evening, she didn’t notice Alex until he shoved money of his own at the hovering waiter and grabbed hold of Ben’s other arm. Between them they got him out of Rector’s, while Mr. Blackman held the door.
Fresh air didn’t sober him so much as revive him, turning him from a confused drunk into a boisterous one. “McKie!” he cried, seeing him for the first time. Blackman’s name eluded him. “You, y’know this guy? This’s McKie, my architect. Building me the biggest goddamn house in Newport. Right? Right? Tell ’im, McKie, tell ’im how much the sonofabitch’s costing me.” He lurched against Sara, throwing his arm around her for balance. “Get a cab,” Alex muttered; Blackman stepped off the sidewalk into the street.