Tiny Little Thing

  “But where is Major Harrison?” I can’t bring myself to say Caspian, just like that. I feign looking about, as if I’d just recognized his absence from Frank’s car.

  “Oh, we dropped him off already, next door. That’s a lovely place he’s got. Not as nice as yours.” She nods at the Big House. “But then, his needs are small, the poor little bachelor.”

  “Well, that’s a shame. I was looking forward to meeting him at last.”

  Frank ranges up with the suitcases. “That’s right. He missed the wedding, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, I can promise he wasn’t there at your wedding.” Pepper laughs. “You think I’d forget a man like that, if he were present and accounted for?”

  Even battling a hangover, Pepper’s the same old Pepper, flirting with my husband by way of making suggestive remarks about another man. I take her arm and steer her toward the house, leaving Frank to trail behind us with the suitcases. The act fills me with zing. “But he’s still coming for dinner, isn’t he?”

  Franks speaks up. “He’d better. He’s the guest of honor.”

  “If he hasn’t come over by six o’clock,” says Pepper, “I’d be happy to pop next door and help him dress.”

  • • •

  Guests first. I lead Pepper upstairs to her room and show her the bathroom, the wardrobe, the towels, the bath salts, the carafe of water in which the lemon slices bump lazily about the ice cubes. I’m about to demonstrate the arcane workings of the bath faucet when she pushes me toward the door. “Go on, go on. I can work a faucet, for God’s sake. Go say hello to your husband. Have yourselves some après-midi.” She winks. Obviously Mums hasn’t told her about the miscarriage. Or maybe she has, and Pepper doesn’t quite comprehend the full implications.

  Anyway, the zing from the driveway starts dissolving right there, and by the time I reach my own bedroom, by the time my gaze travels irresistibly to the top drawer of my dresser, closed and polished, it’s vanished without trace.

  Frank’s in the bathroom, faucet running. The door is cracked open, and a film of steam escapes to the ceiling. I turn to his suitcase, which lies open on the bed, and take out his shirts.

  He’s an efficient packer, my husband, and most of the clothes have been worn. Hardly an extra scrap in the bunch. I toss the shirts and the underwear in the laundry basket, I fold the belt and silk ties over the rack in his wardrobe, I hang the suits back in their places along the orderly spectrum from black to pale gray.

  I make a point of avoiding the pockets, because I refuse to become that sort of wife, but when I return to the suitcase a glint of metal catches my eye. Perhaps a cuff link, I think, and I stretch out my finger to fish it from between Frank’s dirty socks.

  It’s not a cuff link. It’s a key.

  A house key, to be more specific; or so I surmise, since you can’t start a car or open a post office box with a York. I finger the edge. There’s no label, nor is it attached to a ring of any kind. Like Athena, it seems to have emerged whole from Zeus’s head, if Zeus’s head were a York lock.

  I walk across the soft blue carpet to the bathroom door and push it wide. Frank stands before the mirror, bare chested, stroking a silver razor over his chin. A few threads of shaving cream decorate his cheeks, which are flushed from the heat of the water and the bathroom itself.

  “Is this your key, darling?” I hold it up between my thumb and forefinger.

  Frank glances at my reflection. His eyes widen. He turns and snatches the key with his left hand, while his right holds the silver razor at the level of his face. “Where did you get that?”

  “The bottom of the suitcase.”

  He smiles. “It must have slipped off the ring somehow. It’s the key to the campaign office. I was working late the other day.”

  “I can go downstairs and put it back on your ring.”

  He sets the key down on the counter, next to his shaving soap, and turns his attention back to his sleek face. “That’s all right. I’ll put it back myself.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  Frank lifts the razor back to his chin. “No need.”

  By the time I’ve emptied the suitcase and tucked away the contents, careful and deliberate, Frank has finished shaving and walks from the bathroom, towel slung around his neck, still dabbing at his chin.

  “Thanks.” He kisses me on the cheek. His skin is damp and sweet against mine. “Missed you, darling.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  “You look beautiful in that dress.” He continues to the wardrobe. “Do you think there’s time for a quick sail before dinner?”

  “I don’t mind, if you can square that with your grandmother. Naturally she’s dying to hear every detail of your trip. Especially the juicy bits afterward.”

  He makes a dismissive noise, for which I envy him. “Join me?”

  “No, not with the dinner coming up, I’m afraid.” I wind the zipper around the edge of the empty suitcase. Frank tosses the towel on the bed and starts dressing. I pick up the towel and return it to the bathroom. Frank’s buttoning his shirt. I grasp the handle of the suitcase.

  “No, no. I’ll get it.” He pushes my hand away and lifts the suitcase himself. It’s not heavy, but the gesture shows a certain typical gallantry, and I think how lucky I am to have the kind of husband who steps in to carry bulky objects. Who invariably offers me his jacket when the wind picks up. He stows the suitcase in the wardrobe, next to the shoes, while I stand next to the bed, breathing in the decadent scent of hyacinths out of season, and wonder what a wife would say right now.

  “How was the drive?”

  “Oh, it was all right. Not much traffic.”

  “And your cousin? It didn’t bother him?”

  Frank smiles at me. “His name is Cap, Tiny. You can say it. Or Caspian, if you insist on being your formal self.”

  “Caspian.” I smooth my hands down my pink dress as I say the word.

  “I know you’ve never met him, but he’s a nice guy. Really. He looks intimidating, sure, but he’s just big and quiet. Just an ordinary guy. Eats hamburgers, drinks beer.”

  “Oh, just an ordinary beer-drinking guy who happens to have been awarded the Medal of Honor yesterday for valiant combat in Vietnam.” I force out a smile. “Do we know how many men he killed?”

  “Probably a lot. But that’s just war, honey. He’s not going to jump from the table and set up a machine gun nest in the dining room.”

  “Of course not. It’s just . . . well, like you said. Everybody else knows him so well, and this entire dinner is supposed to revolve around him. . . .”

  “Hey, now. You’re not nervous, are you? Running a big family dinner like this?” Frank takes a step toward me. His hair, sleeked back from his forehead with a brush and a dab of Brylcreem, catches a bit of blond light from the window, the flash of the afternoon ocean.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  He puts his hands around my shoulders. “You’ll be picture-perfect, honey. You always are.” He smells of Brylcreem and soap. Of mint toothpaste covering the hint of stale cigarette on his breath. They were probably smoking on the long road from New York, he and Pepper, while Caspian, who doesn’t smoke, sat in the passenger seat and watched the road ahead. He kisses me on the lips. “How are you feeling? Back to normal?”

  “I’m fine. Not quite back to normal, exactly. But fine.”

  “I’m sorry I had to leave so soon.”

  “Don’t worry. I wasn’t expecting the world to stop.”

  “We’ll try again, as soon as you’re ready. Just another bump on the road.”

  “If you tell me you’re just sure it will take this time,” I tell him, “I’ll slap you.”

  He laughs. “Granny again?”

  “Your impossibly fertile family. Do you know, there are at least four babies here this week, the last time I counted?” br />
  Frank gathers me close. “I’m sorry. You’re such a trouper, Tiny.”

  “It’s all right. I can’t blame other people for having babies, can I?”

  He sighs, deep enough to lift me up and down on his chest. “Honey, I know this doesn’t make it any better. But I promise you we’ll have one of our own. We’ll just keep trying. Call in the best doctors, if we have to.”

  His kindness undoes me. I lift my thumb to my eyes, so as not to spoil his shirt with any sodden traces of makeup. “Yes, of course.”

  “Don’t cry, honey. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “It’s just . . . I just . . .” Want it so badly. Want a baby of my own, a person of my own, an exchange of whole and uncomplicated love that belongs solely to me. If we have a baby, everything will be fine, because nothing else will matter.

  “I know, darling. I know.”

  He pats my back. Something wet touches my ankle, through my stocking, and I realize that Percy has jumped from the bed, and now attempts to comfort my foot. Frank’s body is startlingly warm beneath his shirt, warm enough to singe, and I realize how cold my own skin must be. I gather myself upward, but I don’t pull away. I don’t want Frank to see my face.

  “All better?” He loosens his arms and shifts his weight back to his heels.

  “Yes. All better.” But still I hold on, not quite ready to release his warmth. “So tell me about your cousin.”

  “Cap.”

  “Yes, Cap. He has a sister, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. But she’s staying in San Diego. Her girls aren’t out of school for the summer until next week.”

  “And everything else is all right with him? He’s recovered from . . . all that?”

  “Seems so. Same old Cap. A little quieter, maybe.”

  “Anything I should know? You know, physical limitations?” I glance at my dresser drawer. “Money problems?”

  Frank flinches. “Money problems? What makes you ask that?”

  “Well, I don’t want to say anything awkward. And I know some of the cousins are better off than the others.”

  He gives me a last pat and disengages me from his arms. “He’s fine, as far as I know. Both parents gone, so he’s got their money. Whatever that was. Anyway, he’s not a big spender.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I went out with him last night, remember? You can tell a lot about a man on a night out.”

  Frank winks and heads back to the wardrobe, whistling a few notes. I look down at Percy’s anxious face, his tail sliding back and forth along the rug, and I kneel down to wrap one arm around his doggy shoulders. Frank, still whistling, slips on his deck shoes and slides his belt through its loops.

  Don’t settle for less than the best, darling, my mother used to tell me, swishing her afternoon drink around the glass, and I haven’t, have I? Settled for less, that is. Frank’s the best there is. Just look at him. Aren’t I fortunate that my husband stays trim like that, when so many husbands let themselves go? When so many husbands allow their marital contentment to expand like round, firm balloons into their bellies. But Frank stays active. He walks to his office every day; he sails and swims and golfs and plays all the right sports, the ones with racquets. He has a tennis player’s body, five foot eleven without shoes, lean and efficient, nearly convex from hip bone to hip bone. A thing to watch, when he’s out on the court. Or in the swimming pool, for that matter, the one tucked discreetly in the crook of the Big House’s elbow, out of sight from both driveway and beach.

  He shuts the wardrobe door and turns to me. “Are you sure you won’t come out on the water?”

  “No, thanks. You go on ahead.” I rise from the rug and roll Percy’s silky ear around my fingers.

  On his way to the door, Frank pauses to drop another kiss on my cheek, and for some reason—related perhaps to the photograph sitting in my drawer, related perhaps to the key in Frank’s suitcase, related perhaps to my sister or his grandmother or our lost baby or God knows—I clutch at the hand Frank places on my shoulder.

  He tilts his head. “Everything all right, darling?”

  There is no possibility, no universe existing in which I could tell him the truth. At my side, Percy lowers himself to the floor and thumps his tail against the rug, staring at the two of us as if a miraculous biscuit might drop from someone’s fingers at any moment.

  I finger my pearls and smile serenely. “Perfectly fine, Frank. Drinks at six. Don’t forget.”

  The smile Frank returns me is white and sure and minty fresh. He picks up my other hand and kisses it.

  “As if I could.”

  Caspian, 1964

  He avoided Boylan’s the next day, and the next. On the third day, he arrived at nine thirty, ordered coffee, and left at nine forty-five, feeling sick. He spent the day photographing bums near Long Wharf, and in the evening he picked up a girl at a bar and went back to her place in Charlestown. She poured them both shots of Jägermeister and unbuttoned his shirt. Outside the window, a neon sign flashed pink and blue on his skin. “Wow. Is that a scar?” she said, touching his shoulder, and he looked down at her false eyelashes, her smudged lips, her breasts sagging casually out of her brassiere, and he set down the glass untouched and walked out of the apartment.

  He was no saint, God knew. But he wasn’t going to screw a girl in cold blood, not right there in the middle of peacetime Boston.

  On the fourth day, he visited his grandmother in Brookline, in her handsome brick house that smelled of lilies and polish.

  “It’s about time.” She offered him a thin-skinned cheek. “Have you eaten breakfast?”

  “A while ago.” He kissed her and walked to the window. The street outside was lined with quiet trees and sunshine. It was the last day of the heat wave, so the weatherman said, and the last day was always the worst. The warmth shimmered upward from the pavement to wilt the new green leaves. A sleek black Cadillac cruised past, but his grandmother’s sash windows were so well made he didn’t even hear it. Or maybe his hearing was going. Too much noise.

  “You and your early hours. I suppose you learned that in the army.”

  “I was always an early riser, Granny.” He turned to her. She sat in her usual chintz chair near the bookcase, powdered and immaculate in a flamingo-colored dress that matched the flowers in the upholstery behind her.

  “That’s your father’s blood, I suppose. Your mother always slept until noon.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Trust me.” She reached for the bell on the small chinoiserie table next to the chair and rang it, a single ding. Granny wasn’t one for wallowing in grief, even for her oldest daughter. “What brings you out to see your old granny today?”

  “No reason, except I’ll be shipping out on another tour soon.”

  Her lip curled. “Why on earth?”

  “Because I’m a soldier, Granny. It’s what I do.”

  “There are plenty of other things you could do. Oh! Hetty. There you are. A tray of coffee for my grandson. He’s already eaten, but you might bring a little cake to sweeten him up.”

  Right. As if he was the one who needed sweetening.

  He waited until Hetty disappeared back through the living room doorway. “Like what, Granny? What can I do?”

  “Oh, you know. Like your uncle’s firm. Or law school. I would say medicine, but you’re probably too old for all that song and dance, and anyway we already have a doctor in the family.”

  “Anything but the army, in other words?” He leaned against the bookcase and crossed his arms. “Anything but following in my father’s footsteps?”

  “I didn’t say that. Eisenhower was in the army, after all.”

  “Give it a rest, Granny. You can’t stamp greatness on all our brows.”

  “I didn’t say anything about greatness.”

 
“Poor Granny. It’s written all over your smile. But blood will out, you know. I tried all that in college, and look what happened.” He spread his hands. “You’ll just have to take me as you find me, I guess. Every family needs a black sheep. Gives us character. The press loves it, don’t they? Imagine the breathless TV feature, when Frank wins the nomination for president.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You’re not a black sheep. Look at you.” She jabbed an impatient gesture at his reclining body, his sturdy legs crossed at the ankles. “I just worry about you, that’s all. Off on the other side of the word. Siam, of all places.”

  “Vietnam.”

  “At least you’re fighting Communists.”

  “Someone’s got to do it.”

  The door opened. Hetty sidled through, her long uniformed back warped under the weight of the coffee tray. He uncrossed his legs and pushed away from the wall to take it from her. He couldn’t stand the sight of it, never could—domestic servants lugging damned massive loads of coffee and cake for his convenience. At least in his father’s various accommodations, the trays were carried by sturdy young soldiers who were happy to be hauling coffee instead of grenades. A subtle difference, maybe, but one he could live with.

  “Thank you, Hetty. What about this photography business of yours?” She waved him aside and poured him a cup of coffee with her own hands.

  “It’s not a business. It’s a hobby. Not all that respectable, either, but surely I don’t need to tell you that?”

  “It’s an art, Franklin says. Just like painting.”

  “It’s not just like painting. But I guess there’s an art to it. You can say that to your friends, anyway, if it helps.” He took the coffee cup and resumed his position against the bookcase.

  “Don’t you ever sit, young man?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “I guess that’s your trouble in a nutshell.”

  He grinned and drank his coffee.

  She made a grandmotherly harrumph, the kind of patronizing noise she’d probably sworn at age twenty—and he’d seen her pictures at age twenty, some rip-roaring New York party, Edith Wharton she wasn’t—that she would never, ever make. “You and that smile of yours. What about girls? I suppose you have a girl or two stringing along behind you, as usual.”