After dinner, the ladies discovered a surprising affinity for performing together at the piano and they created a four-handed version of songs from West Side Story to My Fair Lady, their voices providing them with natural harmony. There was no doubt that Emma Vicky had been received with open arms and perhaps hearts.
* * *
—
It was late when we returned to the cottage. Dark clouds were sliding over the moon but I suggested a few minutes on the terrace before retiring. The north wind was starting to pick up strength. I brought sambucas and a jacket for Emma to the terrace. We toasted each other as a light rain began to fall on our canvas roof.
“What heaven,” Emma said as she sipped her sambuca. “I love the thrumming of falling rain, don’t you?”
We sat for a while, holding hands, sipping our drinks, and listening to the rain.
When the mantel clock struck the hour we roused ourselves and went inside.
“Today was lovely, Chet.”
“Yes, and so are you.”
We hugged and she disappeared into her room.
I turned off the lights.
chapter twenty-six
The electrical storm struck with a fierceness I had never experienced. It announced itself with a deafening slam of thunder that shook the cottage, accompanied by a blast of lightning that struck very close nearby and painted the night white with its intensity. One after the other, in quick succession, shards of lightning stabbed around the cottage. The fierceness of the wind was upending things on the terrace. The sound of tables and chairs scudding across flagstones, glass breaking, doors banging, the entire cottage under siege by the unceasing lightning. My door flew open, and Emma ran into the room, desperately calling my name, throwing herself into my bed, into my arms, grabbing at me with frightened panic. At first she seemed simply to be burying her hysteria in my chest, but then her purpose changed, and with cries that accompanied the peak peals of thunder, we fell into the coupling that seemed inevitable, our climaxes fueled by the storm’s. Some syndrome people sprang up in the bed watching us, a momentary interruption, but the intensity of my desire overcame them, and when the storm began slowly to abate, so too did we subside, locked in each other’s arms, to resume the night together.
* * *
—
It was just past noon when we awoke, still embracing, facing each other; we smiled and she pushed my hair away from my eyes. “Are you all right?” she asked in a whispery voice. I looked into her gold-flecked eyes, closely perched on the bridge of my nose. In those eyes I saw something I had never dreamed would be directed at me. My arms responded by tightening around her as she rolled over me and we prolonged what we had found in the stormy night.
* * *
—
We put on our robes and went out to look at the storm’s mayhem. Armed with cups of coffee and toasted muffins, we picked our way around all the fallen objects and upended reclining chairs, tables, and plants. The grounds were covered with broken branches and leaves, and the terrace was unrecognizable. We sat at the table with our muffins and coffees and surveyed the damage, which Ronnie would attend to later with his tractor and chipper.
We made our way out to the pond to check on the koi. The surface was heavily littered but the fish were fine and came to us at a clear place, where we fed them. We sat on one of the stone benches that faced the pool. I assumed my meditative position and Emma followed, holding my hand. “Remember, Emmy, the monks told me we are a cosmic flower,” I said. “And chanting om is opening the ‘psychic petals of that flower to all the love in the universe.’ ”
We chanted om for a good half hour, eyes shut, faces to the sky. I tried to straighten out the tangle of my mind but it resisted. Nevertheless, om was reassuring. I glanced at Emma and wondered if she was doing any better. Her upturned face was truly beautiful but her placid chant gave no indication of whether she was “sorting things out” any better than I was. “Sorting things out.” What a meaningless cliché. And yet, I wished that the spirit of my om could help me have a clear view of where to go and what to do.
* * *
—
Charlie had suggested we drive back to New York with him and that we leave in the late afternoon to avoid the dense returning weekenders. Lydia would come with Alfred later in the week. We put Emma in the backseat where she could stretch out with her head on a pillow to minimize the possible effects of the journey on her Ménière’s. Charlie played Chet Baker on his Sirius radio while he and I softly discussed legal matters.
When we reached Emma’s apartment building, the afternoon was giving way to evening. As I helped her from the car I found her very unsteady, having to cling to my arm to keep her balance. The doorman took her overnight bag, and we thanked Charlie for the ride and all the rest.
“Chet,” Emma said, “can we sit here on this bench for a while? I can’t face the elevator just yet. Vertigo is rearing its dismal head.”
There were bushes on each side of the bench, which was just across from the building’s entrance, a modest maple tree above it. Emma closed her eyes and clutched my arm firmly, leaning her head against my shoulder. There were a few people on the footpaths but no one paid any attention to us.
“I guess the commuting process is too much for you,” I said.
“Oh no, it’s a prohcess I’ll get used to.”
To lighten things up, I sang, “You say prohcess and I say prahcess, you say nyther and I say neether,” and we began to giggle.
Chet: “You like patahto and I like potato.”
Emma: “You like tomato and I like tomahto.”
Chet: “You say lahfter and I say laffter.”
Emma: “You like pajammas, I like pahjahmas.”
Chet: “I say father and you say pater.”
Emma: “You say mother and I say mater.”
Chet: “Mother, mater.”
Emma: “Bananas, banahnas.”
Chet: “Let’s call the whole thing off. Then we must part…”
Emma: “If we must part, then that would break my heart…”
She burst into tears and threw herself into my arms.
I tried to comfort her. “Oh, Emmy, listen, it’s only a silly song.”
She pulled back and looked at me through her tears. “I’ll do eether and neether and tomaytoes and laffter and bananas and…”
I pulled her back against me. “Don’t you dare. We must keep you just as you are…We are.”
“But you don’t understand, Chet, I love you. From the very first, love, love, love you, and now it’s bad. Really really bad…”
“And I love you, Emmy, eyether and all. Give us a little time—we’ve been struck by lightning, don’t forget, all over.”
I carried her bag up to her apartment and the lightning struck again where it had left off.
chapter twenty-seven
I was at a loss trying desperately to choose between what I wanted to do impetuously and what was probably better and more sensible for us. I truly loved Emma, and no matter what we decided I wanted her to prosper despite whatever drawbacks the decision inflicted on her. I didn’t want her sudden impulses, and mine, to overcome that old standby—reason. I phoned the office of my old family doctor, Dr. Litman, in Brooklyn for an immediate appointment, but they said he was fully booked for the next five days. Even though he sometimes smoked a cigar during a session and often dozed off, the ash tumbling down onto his vest, his devoted patients tolerated all his idiosyncrasies.
When Doc Lou called me back later I kidded him for maintaining a full schedule at eighty-eight years of age.
“You’re right, you’re right, but I’m going with an eighty-two-year-old chick now and I want to look like I can still carry a load. She still carries her load as a contralto at the Met.” He cleared his throat. “Is it urgent, Chet, or something that can—”
/>
“Urgent.”
“About your Bonnet syndrome?”
“And then some. Please? It’s a kind of crisis.”
Although technically an internist, he practiced physical medicine with related psychiatric advice and prescriptions. He was also ordained and occasionally married his clients.
“Okay, Chet, tell you what—how about dinner tonight?”
* * *
—
I met him at seven o’clock at a restaurant in Brooklyn. He arrived on time, jaunty as usual, in a three-piece beige linen suit with a red silk handkerchief flapped over the top of his suit pocket.
“Do you mind eating kosher? My wife, Ina, loved it here—they treat me like I’m King Solomon.”
A bottle of wine arrived, poured by a waiter wearing a white apron down to his ankles. Doc Lou ordered for both of us and raised his glass to me.
“You’re not in trouble with the law, are you?”
“Not at all.”
“Fine. L’chaim.”
I’d never had a kosher wine; this one was a red—a bit sweet, but I liked it. Bowls of borscht arrived with little tuffets of sour cream floating on the surface.
“All right, Chetsky, let’s hear the troubles.”
In between spoons of delicious beet soup, I took Doc Lou through the Emma saga. As the main course of mushroom- stuffed cabbage and latkes was put before us, he drew me out with questions, mostly about how I would respond to certain situations.
“The way I see it,” he said, “you are truly in deep love with this splendid young woman whom you would like to keep in your life. She, meanwhile, would like to keep you in hers, but with your serious handicaps, are you putting yourselves in jeopardy? And if you do stay together, would you live together unmarried or married, or live apart but see each other, or is it best to break up, even though it would be very painful? First off, let me tell you my own dilemma way back. I met Ina in med school and we were in love as you are in love. My father was a good fellow who had a small store that sold rare books. He was an Orthodox Jew. Her father was the head of a large investment company and the head of the congregation of his Catholic church. Ina and I wanted to marry before we left med school but both fathers sternly forbade it. Ina’s dad threatened to disown her, and when we did marry, as threatened, he never saw her again: he disinherited her, never met our children. My father was not as severe, but although Ina went through the ritual of converting, my father and mother never socialized with us or our kids. Ina’s old man even forbade Ina from attending his funeral. Of course, you don’t have that kind of parental opposition, but I tell you about Ina and me as an illustration of what sacrifices have to be made. For example, her Ménière’s can make pregnancy difficult.”
“Is it hereditary?”
“I don’t think so, but I once had a patient who had Ménière’s and every time she got pregnant, some physical upheaval would cause a miscarriage. But she wouldn’t give up. Decided to spend the entire nine months in bed, not moving at all. Didn’t work. In her eighth month she had a miscarriage. In bed.”
A dessert of warm apple strudel with vanilla ice cream arrived. The topic had not done anything for my appetite, but then I tasted it and immediately surrendered.
“On the other hand,” Doc Lou was saying, “my friend Dr. Vinegarde had a forty-year-old Ménière’s patient who had never previously been able to conceive, then produced for her and her amazed hubby healthy twin boys. Simply put, Chet, it’s trusting in the unknown, but I say either go for it or forget it—drink of the lusty wine or spurn the glass.”
It was good advice, and it might once have sealed the deal for me. But now there was a spiritual Nepali influence I’d introduced into my life that had to be considered: the words and attitude of Dr. Gopal and the impact of Karki and his drums, bells, and chants. So I sat down with Bhairav to listen to myself, and one totally unexpected suggestion came flowing back to me: what if, yes, what if my reunion with Emma was somehow influenced by the spirits contacted by Karki in that water buffalo ceremony in Durbar Square?
chapter twenty-eight
I checked the time: eleven thirty. I went to the fridge and took out a split of Dom Pérignon champagne and two flutes. I put them in Bhairav’s carry bag, though I left behind Bhairav himself. My heart was racing with anticipation, as if I were going to try to rob a bank.
The bag and I went downstairs, hailed a cab to take us to Gramercy Park. I waved to Viktor, the doorman, who was well acquainted with me by now, and I took the elevator up to Emma’s apartment. Using the key she had recently given me, I quietly opened the door. A crooked-nosed reading lamp illuminated an empty chair with an open book on its cushion. Soft music was playing from an Amazon cylinder.
Two arms suddenly grabbed me from behind, wrapping around me and rattling the glass in my bag. I let out a surprised “Whoa!” as the voice from behind, unmistakably Emma trying to sound tough, barked, “Don’t move!”
I exploded with a woof of mirth.
“I have a question you’ve got to answer!” Emma demanded, still tough.
“Okay.”
“Chet Tremaine, will you please marry me?”
I busted with laughter. “That’s what I came to ask…”
“I beat you to it.”
“How did you know?” I couldn’t stop, the joy kept spilling out.
“Answer the question!”
“Yes, yes, I will marry you.” I twisted from her grasp and got on a knee in front of her. “Emma Vicky, will you please marry me?”
She threw herself on me, knocking both of us into a heap on the floor.
“Yes!” she said, after we untangled ourselves. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” She threw her arms around my neck and planted a ferocious kiss on my lips. “Till death do us part?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” I reached in my bag and took out the Dom Pérignon, which I opened with a lusty pop and a bit of flow as I filled the two flutes. We extended the flutes toward each other, the golden bubbles dancing before us, and we both grew quiet; more than quiet—contemplative.
“I truly love you, Chet. Now and forever.”
“And I love you, Emma, beyond eternity.”
We finished the champagne.
chapter twenty-nine
Emma and I had planned to have a quiet wedding at the clerk’s office at city hall with Charlie and Lydia as witnesses, but Charlie would have none of it.
“We’re going to have the wedding at our Connecticut place,” he insisted. “It’s my birthright—after all that I put up with it’s the least you could do to repay me.”
And so it came to pass that embossed wedding invitations were sent far and wide to all the people of my little firm; Emma’s acting group in London; Rowena Flakfizer, Penelope Tee, and a few of my friendly publisher clients; my editor, newly in possession of the latest Jefferson Honeywell manuscript, which she had phoned me up to tell me she thought was the best installment yet; Emma’s mother’s best friend, who ran the family bridal shop; my mother and her new husband in Australia; some law school friends I had kept in touch with; Dorothy Plum of the British embassy; Sophie Gleason; and an assortment of others who had touched our lives. As she had done for me, I also sent Violet Dixon an invitation, and though she declined to attend, she sent back a truly lovely and gracious note, with a subtle joke about her father that I was genuinely thrilled to see her feel free enough from his clutches to make—and myself to receive.
There was never a better place for a wedding than the rolling lawn that captured the entire expanse between the Eppses’ lovely two-story Colonial house and the water’s edge. Charlie made it clear that he alone was responsible for planning the wedding, which was set for a Saturday evening, with Doc Lou to conduct the ceremony. It was planned that Emma and I would go to our place in Connecticut on the Friday before the event.
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sp; I arranged that Ronnie and I would pick up Emmy in my Subaru on that Friday afternoon. The weeks of preparation had made her regret that she had agreed to ever give up the clerk’s office. Me too. Five members of her troupe had arrived from London and we were putting them up overnight at the local inn. Lois’s boyfriend, Tim, and Tim’s trio of bass, drums, and keyboard would set up for the music. Rooms were also available at the inn for anyone who wanted to stay over and avoid late driving, but it was easy to come and go by rail, just an hour out of Grand Central.
Ronnie picked me up at my apartment and we headed for Gramercy Park to get Emma for the drive to Connecticut. He took a shortcut through Central Park, but when we stopped for a red light near the zoo, the car door was yanked open and a masked man gestured to me to get out. I did, taking my travel bag with me. On the side of the road were two motorbikes with sidecars. I was taken to one of the bikes and directed to get into the sidecar. The men mounted the bikes and took off. A short distance away was an automobile with a driver. I was helped out of the sidecar into the automobile and immediately driven to a reserved parking space, where the doors opened and passengers crowded into the front seat, middle seat, and backseat next to me. Snug against me was a mother with a curious child who inspected me, poking me this way and that, trying to fish in my pockets. The mother made no attempt to constrain him. The car made stops, passengers getting off and on with no apparent rhyme or reason.
It finally made a stop in the middle of a very crowded space, with bustling traffic, buses, food carts, cows, horse-drawn carts and vehicles, vendors, and sidewalks bulging with pedestrians patronizing the shops. The doors of my car opened and all the passengers spilled into the pedestrian mass. My driver put a sign on his windshield and left, taking his key from the dashboard. He closed all the doors, and I tried to talk to him but he took off. I had an uneasy feeling I had been here before. I got out of the car and reached in my pocket for some money to bribe my way to Gramercy Park, but my billfold was gone and my pockets were empty. My mind flipped to the mother and her inquisitive son rifling through my pockets. Well, nothing I could do about it now. With my travel bag in hand I navigated the pedestrian flow and found a police officer standing on a corner. I started to ask him for help but he paid no attention to me as a van filled with policemen pulled up and he got in and they took off. I stood there on the busy sidewalk with the pedestrians flowing around me, entreating them for help, but although a few looked at me, no one stopped. I was somewhat frightened but persisted, holding out my wristwatch as a lure as I called for help. Night had descended, and street- and shop lights were coming to life. I was hungry and thirsty and perplexed. I began to think about the wedding as a Subaru stopped in front of me with its door open. I got in.
Kissing the Wind Page 13
