The Oriental Wife

by Evelyn Toynton

  “No, she wants to be held now that I’ve got her,” Mrs. Sprague said, “she’ll only make a fuss if I set her down again. Her stomach’ll get upset and I’ll be up half the night with her. I’ve got enough to see to.”

  “Perhaps I could hold her,” Sophie suggested.

  “I don’t think she’d take to that, she don’t really know you.”

  Sophie could feel Louisa’s eyes on her in warning: she was not to offend Mrs. Sprague, she was not to let this escalate. “It’s only that I know you have so much to attend to,” she said smoothly, “I would like to help if I could.” Grudgingly, Mrs. Sprague transferred Emma to her arms, hovering there for a minute as though waiting for Emma to protest; when she didn’t, Mrs. Sprague had no choice but to leave the room and go do all those things Sophie had referred to.

  “Here, I will put her in your lap,” Sophie said to Louisa.

  “You’d better not,” Louisa said sullenly. “Mrs. Sprague won’t like it.”

  Sophie jiggled the child in her arms for a minute—she could feel her getting restless—and then said, “You cannot let her bully you like this, Louisa.”

  “Ssshhhh.” She raised an eyebrow in her old, mocking way. “She may be listening. She listens at doorways sometimes.”

  “But this is ridiculous,” Sophie said in German. “You have to take charge. You must make her understand that you are the mistress here.”

  Louisa reached out her hand to Emma, who grabbed a finger. “We mustn’t talk German in front of you, must we? We don’t want the first word you speak to be German.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, I heard you. I’ve tried it, and it doesn’t work.”

  “Then you must get rid of her, you must find someone of a different character.”

  “And what character would that be?” Louisa asked, with a flash of anger. She shut her eyes. “Please. Please don’t talk about it any more.”

  Emma began to cry. Sophie jiggled her energetically, but the child did not stop.

  “She wants you to rest her head against your shoulder,” Louisa said. Sophie obeyed, and immediately the crying subsided.

  But Mrs. Sprague had heard. “Is she all right there?” she called, on her way into the room. “I don’t mind taking her, I can put her in her high chair in the kitchen and talk to her while I’m cooking.”

  “It’s all right,” Sophie said. “Look, she is happy now.”

  “Make sure her nose isn’t pressed against you, she’s got to breathe.”

  Louisa was leaning back, her bad arm folded in front of her. One of the cushions had come dislodged, and was half on the floor; Mrs. Sprague rescued it, tucking it behind Louisa’s back. “Thank you,” Louisa said, without opening her eyes.

  “I was thinking we could have a nice piece of pie round about now,” Mrs. Sprague said, a mug of coffee in her hand. “I’m just warming it in the oven.” The phone rang; Louisa started up, pushing herself off the couch with an effort, but Mrs. Sprague got there first.

  “Furchgott residence,” she said, and then, turning her back on them, laughed girlishly. “Yes, yes, it’s me, Mr. Furchgott, I like to answer the phone properly, just in case. How are things out there in Oregon? I’m sure you’re getting much nicer weather than we are here … Yes, gray and cold, not a peep of sun … Of course she is, she’s fine and dandy, happy as can be, aren’t you, my little lamb?” Here she turned around and winked at Emma. “You don’t have to worry about her, you know that, I’ve got everything under control … Yes, about four o’clock, and I was just heating up some pie for Mrs. Furchgott and Mrs. Joseftal, she’s come to see us. Would you like to speak with her? I mustn’t take up all your time.” She set down the receiver, took Emma out of Sophie’s arms, and stood there crooning to her, just next to the phone; Sophie was sure Rolf could hear.

  “Hello, Rolf,” she said stiffly. “I hope you are having a successful trip.”

  “Yes, thank you. Everything seems to be in order. And there?”

  “Yes, everything is fine,” she said. “We’re all fine here. A nice little visit. I caused a little upset by bouncing Emma too hard a moment ago, but Louisa knew exactly what to do. That’s always the way with mothers. Shall I put her on?”

  “Please,” he said. Louisa struggled to her feet, while Mrs. Sprague looked at Sophie with unconcealed dislike.

  “Hello, Rolf,” Louisa said.

  Sophie turned to Mrs. Sprague. “We should let them speak in private.” Mrs. Sprague seemed about to protest, but Sophie forestalled her. “Come,” she said decisively, and turned and walked down the hall to the kitchen, with Mrs. Sprague, Emma in her arms, following behind.

  But Louisa’s voice was still audible. “Yes, I did … It was all right … No, I haven’t yet, I haven’t had a chance, I’ll do it tomorrow … Yes, I told him … I will … I haven’t forgotten … I was going to do it when the weather cleared up a little.”

  Aware that both she and Mrs. Sprague were listening, Sophie launched into conversation.

  “I have never been to Maine,” she said, as Mrs. Sprague settled Emma into her high chair and handed her a rusk. “I understand it’s very beautiful.”

  Mrs. Sprague addressed herself to Emma, who was sucking blissfully. “If it weren’t for you, my precious, I’d go back there right now, wouldn’t I? There’s not many people who would put up with this setup. They don’t know what it’s like for your old Aunt May, do they, darlin’?”

  “I am sure it is not easy for Mrs. Furchgott either,” Sophie said, on an intake of breath.

  Now Mrs. Sprague turned to look at her. “She ought to be put away, that’s the truth of it. Better for her and everyone else.”

  Just then Louisa called out, “Mrs. Sprague, Rolf would like another word with you if you’re free.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Joseftal,” she said grandly, getting to her feet. “He must have forgotten something he needed to tell me. Maybe you could keep an eye on this little girl for me.”

  But Emma, her face smeared with crumbs and spit, began to cry as soon as Mrs. Sprague left the room, drumming her legs frantically against her high chair. Sophie wiped her face with her handkerchief and lifted her out, but Emma would not be consoled. “Don’t you worry, it will be waiting for you when you get back,” Mrs. Sprague was saying down the phone.

  “Now that’s what I call a real gentleman,” she said triumphantly, reentering the kitchen. “So nice to be appreciated, isn’t it, Mrs. Joseftal?” Emma, turned calm again at the sight of her, was restored to her high chair. Mrs. Sprague twisted open a jar of orange baby food and began spooning it into the child’s mouth. “Won’t we be happy,” she crooned, “when your daddy’s back with us … won’t we just.”

  Sophie went down the hall to the living room, where Louisa was staring, like Gustav, out at the street. The light was just starting to fade; following Louisa’s gaze, Sophie saw a woman in a red coat wheeling a stroller to the entrance of the apartment building, a shopping bag dangling from her arm. She pulled open the door with one hand, propped her shoulder against it, wheeled the stroller up the steps and halfway through the door, then reached back for the shopping bag, which she had set on the top step. Sophie was suddenly conscious of how much of ordinary life required two good hands.

  Crossing the room in swift strides, she sat beside Louisa. “Listen,” she said in German, “you must gather your strength together, you must get rid of that woman. If you cannot do it for yourself, then for Emma’s sake.”

  “Emma loves her better than anyone in the world. And why shouldn’t she? She has the right to her loves.”

  Sophie could think of no answer to this, except to repeat what she had said already, on a rising note: Louisa had to rouse herself, she had to muster the strength to defeat Mrs. Sprague. And still Louisa stared at her, slumped and beaten. “Listen to me. You have got to fight now, it’s the only way. You cannot let yourself go under.” But what if Louisa had no fight in her? She touched her
hand. “I’ll help you, Louisa, I promise. Let me help you.”

  Just at that moment Mrs. Sprague appeared, humming a little tune. “Wouldn’t you know it, I forgot to drink my coffee, and now it’ll be cold. Seems like I never have a chance just to enjoy a nice cup of coffee these days.”

  Sophie stood. “I will come for you on Saturday, Louisa, and we will go to the park. They say it will be fine on Saturday, I heard it on the radio this morning.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Lying in a lumpy hotel bed on his first morning in Oregon, awakened by the cries of strange birds he hoped might be eagles, Rolf had remembered his parting from Louisa—a peck on the cheek, a falsely cheery line about enjoying herself while he was gone—and been flooded with remorseful tenderness. It seemed to him, struggling out of sleep, that his love for her was intact inside him, only walled away waiting to be reclaimed. This optimism did not last through his first evening at home.

  He arrived on a Sunday. Louisa, seeming not to notice that Emma was shrieking in her playpen—was actually turning blue—greeted him and told him wistfully about going to the park with Sophie the day before, about Emma clapping her hands at the birds. It was Mrs. Sprague, of course, who had to pick Emma up and soothe her.

  There was a chicken roasting in the oven, courtesy of Mrs. Sprague. The Sunday papers were waiting for him—Mrs. Sprague went very far in her solicitude. She had put on lipstick for the occasion, and a red necklace. “Get away with you now,” she said, thrusting out her hand, when he complimented her. “What do you mean flattering an old woman like me?” It would have been pleasurable to bask in Mrs. Sprague’s own pleasure, to sit listening to her account of Emma, to describe for her the redwood trees and the immense circular saw at the lumberyard, descending as though from heaven to slice through the logs of some lesser wood. There had been as much solemn majesty in the one as in the other.

  But Louisa, sitting opposite in her zippered housedress, choked on her very first mouthful of chicken, her eyes bulging. Mrs. Sprague jumped up nimbly and handed her a glass of water. “You must be careful, dear. I thought I’d cut that meat up small enough for you, but you let me know if you want it smaller.” Each time he looked at Louisa after that, she was chewing doggedly, or wiping the plate with one finger and then furtively licking it, to sneak the food into her mouth. When she finished—Mrs. Sprague was just asking him about the birds out there, wondering if they had the same seagulls as in Maine—she stood up, plate in hand, and started for the sink. “You leave that for me, dear, I’ll clear up,” Mrs. Sprague said, and after hovering for a minute Louisa disappeared from the room.

  A couple of days later Otto arrived—sweet, kind Otto, so unlike Rolf. Rolf was a hero at the office, and to Mrs. Sprague, but even Sophie disapproved of him now, he had heard it in her voice when he spoke to her on the phone that morning. “This woman believes she is the child’s mother. I cannot think she is the right person to have there with Louisa.” There was nothing wrong with Louisa, she told him, that time would not put right. No doubt Otto was waiting for his chance to say the same.

  When Rolf got home from the office, Otto was dancing around the living room like a sprite, Emma in his arms, while Louisa laughed at them from the sofa. “Hello, Rolf, I’m in love with your daughter,” Otto said. Rolf told him drily that everyone felt that way and went to hang up his coat.

  Then he went into the kitchen to say hello to Mrs. Sprague, who grumbled that Otto was getting the little one overexcited. “I’ll be up half the night with her,” she said, and he had to repress a sense of gratification that someone at least was not charmed. It was the first time Emma had not clamored for him on his arrival.

  When he returned to the living room Louisa was smiling at him, a gay inviting smile, not a plea for forgiveness; she asked him in a wifely voice how things had gone with Mr. Starin that day. Pretty well, he said. Otto was crooning to Emma, but Rolf could tell he was listening. He should have been pleased that Louisa was so vivacious, he should have been pleased with the whole scene—his wife, friend, daughter laughing together—but it felt like a fraud, something manufactured to reproach him. Otto, he sensed, was willing this mirage into being for his benefit, keeping Louisa afloat on his own effervescence. He retrieved Emma from Otto’s arms and brought her into the kitchen for her bottle. Mrs. Sprague seemed more than ever like an ally.

  It was Otto who cut Louisa’s pork chop for her at dinner, deftly, talking all the while. Rolf had always left it to Mrs. Sprague. “Remember the penknife you gave me on my birthday? Remember the pony ride?” Otto said, ignoring Mrs. Sprague altogether. But already Louisa’s energy was fading, her expression confused. She didn’t remember, she said apologetically, she had no memory of a pony ride at all.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Otto said, “of course it doesn’t.” He asked Rolf about his trip out west; he asked about the business, and many other questions. He was going to see Franz and Jeannette the next morning; then he had to go downtown to make some purchases; he wondered if he could meet Rolf for lunch. Louisa put down her fork and looked tensely at Rolf, as though much hinged on his answer. Of course, he said. That would be very nice. Mrs. Sprague scraped back her chair and stood.

  “Well, I’d better get on with things.” His purpose accomplished—that was how Rolf saw it—Otto remembered his manners and insisted on helping her, complimenting her on her cooking. Meanwhile Louisa was still watching Rolf.

  He got to the coffee shop seven minutes early the next day, but Otto was there already, in a corner booth. “How was your visit this morning?” Rolf asked him.

  “The usual,” Otto said lightly, although Rolf knew it would have been different in at least one respect: the talk would have been of Louisa, and then of his own behavior. “Jeannette complained, and Franz wanted to know all about my life, he wanted to see pictures of Margaret, and the apartment, and the cat. But he doesn’t look at all well.”

  “I know.” Neither of them said what both were thinking: when Franz’s life was shattered, when his brother died at the hands of the Nazis, when he came to America with nothing, cooped up with Jeannette in two dismal rooms, eking out a living by dealing in old stamps, when the news came after the war that his sister and her family had been gassed at Auschwitz, the one thing still left to him had been the certainty of Louisa’s happiness.

  Otto looked around at the other diners. “Do you think they are enjoying themselves?” He gestured toward the booth opposite, where a young couple were hunched over ice cream sundaes. They looked weary beyond their years, drained of hope; perhaps they had just had a fight, they had come out for ice cream to try to salvage something.

  “No,” Rolf said reluctantly, as though this admission would compromise him. “Not at this moment.”

  “When I first came to America I half the time wished Americans would not smile so much and the other half wondered why they didn’t smile more, why they weren’t smiling all the time.”

  “Some of them do.”

  A freckled waitress in a striped apron appeared to pour them coffee and ask what they wanted. Rolf said the BLTs were good there, and they ordered two. They stirred cream into their cups in silence. Otto rearranged, meticulously, the knife and fork the girl had placed on the chipped Formica in front of him. Then he said, “She will never be able to do what’s necessary for the child, all the practical things, in these early years especially. But to be there with her, to see her, to touch her … they have such wonderful smiles for each other.”

  “Of course.” Rolf glanced at the young couple again. The girl had put down her spoon and was leaning across the table, talking in a low urgent voice, while the man went on callously shoveling ice cream into his mouth. And all the while he could feel Otto’s eyes on his face.

  “If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t be so worried. I’d think, well, he’ll take a mistress, that’s how it will be managed. But you won’t do that. You virtuous ones are more dangerous than the rest of us.”

  It was intolerabl
e, indecent, that Otto of all people should speak of it. “That’s enough,” he said, “I won’t sit here and listen to this,” but his voice, instead of being stern, was hoarse and cracked like a madman’s. For a moment they stared at each other, frozen, until Otto reached over and touched his hand.

  “Forgive me. It’s none of my business. You will do what you have to. But I ask you, please, don’t give up on her completely. Not yet.”

  “I haven’t,” Rolf said, clenching his teeth.

  “I think the idea of it has become possible to you. But the other is also possible. You don’t know how much she will recover, not her arm, her walk, but her old self. I still see flickers of it, I feel it alive in her. It hasn’t died, she just can’t inhabit it in the old way any more. But she might. She might. You don’t know. She could still come back to herself.”

  Rolf took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I don’t see that happening, frankly.”

  “Because you see only the other things, the clumsiness, the veins that show in her forehead. How can you help it? But I tell you, there is grace and grace … Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I was thinking you sound like a preacher. Did you find God in the trenches, Otto?”

  “There were no trenches where I was. I’ll shut up if you want me to.”

  “You’re not saying anything I haven’t told myself dozens of times. In my own more pedestrian way. I’m doing the best I can. I’m sorry it’s not good enough. As sorry as you are.”

  “I’m thinking of you as well as her. About what will become of you afterward.”

  “You think my guilt might kill me?”

  “No. But you will carry it with you, it may be too heavy a load to bear. Heavier than she would be.”

  The waitress arrived with their sandwiches. Rolf sat staring at his, Otto picked up the pickle from his plate and took a careful bite, seeming to signal a return to normalcy—he would speak of something different next—but this time it was Rolf who could not stop. “What if I can’t love her the way she is?”