by Walter Blum
He had been feeling a pang of unease just at that moment, but the look she gave reassured him. It was a long time since he’d seen her so comfortable with herself. He was glad now that they hadn’t opened the wound and let the poison come boiling to the surface. Forgive and forget, that’s how it should be with people in love. Oh, some of the old adages might have worn a bit thin, but their wisdom was inexorable. The gray winter had blown itself out to sea, and in the warm air he could feel a second life stirring, a renewal of the vows they had taken under the canopy not that long ago.
They arrived at the country club just as Gwen and her date were pulling up at the door. The next thing he knew the four of them were sharing a table near the window, and Susan and Gwen were chattering cheerfully about the Ball, which still hadn’t acquired a theme, although some members of the planning committee were tossing around the idea of Paris and the Left Bank, little Eiffel Towers on the tables and maybe the Mellow Tones could wear berets and striped T-shirts and the leader could play La Vie en Rose on an accordion.
He marveled at how peaceful, how ordinary it all seemed.
Surely, there was no reason why it shouldn’t go on and on like that, through stands of fir and fields of poppies, to the Emerald City itself and beyond. There was no reason why it shouldn’t go on forever.
***
It started so softly, in such a beguiling way that he couldn’t imagine how anything could possibly spoil the evening. All the planning, all the anticipation—nothing beyond the destruction of the universe was likely to get in the way. The only disconcerting element was the weather.
Of course, what everyone wanted was a soft, warm summer evening ripe for savoring and forgetting, a night for losing yourself in the pleasures of music and games, a night for people arriving in their fluffiest, sleekest, showiest warm-weather clothes, driving up to the doors of the Fairmount Country Club in their Fords and Chevys, a few in elegant Cadillacs with fins and eight cylinders of power, husbands escorting wives, boyfriends showing off their latest choice of girlfriends, which might be someone else entirely six months from now, or a year, for who could say what sort of electricity might emerge from a night fashioned from equal parts of sociability and sex?
But it was not to be. Adam knew that the moment he opened the front door, wrapped only in a cotton bathrobe after an evening of naked miracles, and looked up at the sky. Clouds were forming in the west, tall, thick chunks of crenulated cotton stacked like a high rise as far as the eye could see. But it started so softly, in such a beguiling way that he never suspected anything. The day of the Midsummer Ball arrived like any other, except that the weather everyone had hoped for evidently was not to be.
She joined him at the door. He looked at her in apprehension and was more than a little surprised when she looked past him at the sky and said: “That’s good.”
“Good?” He stared at her. “How can you say that?”
“Because if it rains, there’ll probably be lightning and thunder, and wouldn’t that be a wonderful way to celebrate? Better than fireworks.”
“But people will stay away,” he objected.
“Oh, no they won’t. We’ve been holding the Midsummer Ball for almost ten years, and no one’s ever stayed away because it looked like rain. They’ll come.”
“What are you wearing?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I won’t tell you. I bought something last week, but I’m not putting it on until tonight.”
“More surprises?”
“A surprise, yes. It should be a surprise.”
To no one’s surprise, the first drops of rain started forming shortly before noon and within the hour gleaming sheets of water swept through Canelius, peppering the streets with drops like machine gun bullets, blowing men’s hats off their heads and women’s skirts up around their knees. Most took refuge in stores, or inside their homes, aware that a gusty onslaught like this wasn’t likely to last very long, and they were right.
No more than an hour later, the clouds parted and the sun dipped a toe into the pool of awakening commerce. Mist rose from the remains of the storm to fill the humid air. The flow of humanity, which had frozen in mid-motion to make room for the wind and rain, resumed its mindless path. Now the sun grew more brazen. By three in the afternoon it was beginning to heat up again, although the air was still heavy, suggesting more rain to come.
At seven, after a supper of cold cuts and beer, Susan went upstairs and came down dressed for the ball. Adam stared at her as she paused on the stairs, not sure whether he should cheer her audacity or deplore the unconventionality of her choice. For instead of the expected crinoline dress with petticoats to make it flair and an off-the-shoulder top that emphasized her creamy skin, which was very much the fashion statement of the day, she had decided to wear silver pants and a high-necked coral blouse, set off by a purple cotton shawl.
Not that pantsuits weren’t elegant and fashionable. The slacks were crisp, accented by a broad golden belt, but it was not what you would expect for an evening like this. “Are you sure that’s what you want to wear?” he asked, half joking.
She explained that it was important that people notice what she had on.
“They will,” he assured her, wondering why she was so eager to be the center of attention. She also insisted that they drive to the country club in the red Ferrari, and he let her take the wheel, although they hadn’t done so since that terrible night, hadn’t wanted to be reminded of what the car meant and how it had been used.
The weather still concerned him. By the time they pulled into the parking lot at the club, the air was heavy with moisture. From time to time there came a distant roll of thunder, and the breeze, silent until then, picked up. Leaves on the trees began to rustle, a sure omen of what was imminent. Inside, the band had arrived, and the tootling of a clarinet warming up could be heard.
They were about to step through the door when a strange feeling came over him. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt an overwhelming need to ask Susan if she really wanted to stay. There was, however, a crush of people around them, and she was busy greeting some old schoolmates. He reached out to touch her arm, but she had already slipped away into the crowd.
25
They were early as usual. Adam liked to arrive at places ahead of time and, since Susan was on the planning committee, she had to give everything her last-minute approval, make sure the decorations were in order, check that the refreshments were ready to be served.
The theme this year, selected with tongue firmly in cheek after discarding that short dalliance with Paris, was the atomic bomb. A large cardboard cutout of an explosion, idealized like a huge pink rose, dominated the wall behind the drinks table. There were miniature mushrooms on the tables as centerpieces, orange crepe-paper streamers daubed with repeating rows of missiles, and a cut-glass punch bowl filled with a mixture of tropical fruit juices that someone waggishly dubbed a Bikini Bombshell. A few old-timers, pointing to the festiveness of the occasion, complained feebly that the theme was in poor taste, but their younger colleagues prevailed. It was a joke. Why not laugh at the cleverness of the thing?
Susan, unfazed by the decor, waved at Gwen, who was standing at the drinks table with her new boyfriend, Mark. He was a pudgy little accountant from Richmond with a pink face and tiny eyes focused on his adoring date. Standing with their backs to the wall were a couple of young men in bow ties and starched collars who had come in hopes of finding similarly unattached young women, although the likelihood was slim, since females rarely attended the Midsummer Ball without dates, which meant that if the men hoped for any success they would have to cut in while others were on the dance floor.
To his surprise, Adam caught sight of Bernard Silverman in a corner of the room. They hadn’t seen each other, or talked, since the events at the Jefferson Davis Hotel. He had naturally assumed that Bernard would stay away from the ball. Surely, he wouldn’t be eager for even a chance public encounter with Susan, but that didn’t seem to m
atter, and so here he was, neatly dressed in a blue striped business suit, a dotted gray tie, a red carnation in his lapel and a look of vague anticipation on his face.
Even stag, Bernard represented a kind of threat.
The last thing Adam wanted now, however, was a confrontation. He steered Susan in the direction of the cloakroom leading through a doorway on the other side of the room, where he had her check her purse and shawl. He was sure she’d spotted Bernard, but as long as they both pretended not to have seen him, he would remain invisible for most of the night. Meanwhile, Adam diverted her attention by commenting on the decorations.
“Whose idea was this?” he wondered aloud.
“What idea?” she asked.
“You know what I mean,” he grimaced. “The decorations. Don’t you think it’s all a little—well, bizarre?”
“Of course it is,” she chided, slipping her arm in his. “It’s a joke, don’t you see?” She looked up at him and shook her head. “Adam, you’re not one of those people—”
“I don’t think the atom bomb is a joke.”
“Of course it isn’t a joke, but everyone takes the thing so seriously. This way we get to have a little laugh. I think it’s kind of inspired. If you were on the committee, what would you have voted for?”
Adam scrunched up his face. “There are a lot of other things you could have picked—flowers, butterflies, rainbows. I can see a room filled with blue skies and clouds. You could have built a theme around the idea of cats.”
“What do cats have to do with summer?”
So how appropriate were atom bombs to the season? Adam started to say. But at that moment Max Goldman descended on them with a buxom blonde widow on his arm, a woman of indeterminate age swathed in a low-cut blue silk gown trailing acres of jewelry and generous helpings of makeup, more than was necessary to disguise her years. Cordial words were spoken.
Goldman’s “date,” her dyed blonde hair glittering in the artificial light, was introduced. Her name was Michelle. She seemed to have no last name. Adam noticed that his father-in-law was strangely embarrassed by the encounter, almost as if he were afraid others would disapprove of a man his age bringing a “date” to the dance.
Adam was still distracted by the conversation he’d had with Susan. For some reason, it was as if he were deliberately trying to provoke an argument with her. But why should he do that? The decorations meant nothing to him; he would accept anything rather than stir up all that anguish again. In the meantime, he had to deal with Max Goldman who, while the ladies went off to “powder their noses,” as the expression had it, leaned toward Adam and in an earnest but secretive voice said, “She’s not Jewish, you know.”
“Oh?”
“Can’t you see that?”
“I suppose so,” Adam conceded.
“You don’t approve of men my age dating?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s what you were thinking.” Goldman never retreated from expressing what was on his mind. Adam shrugged.
“It’s your life,” he said.
People were beginning to drift in now, two by two and sometimes in bunches. The Mellow Tones, sensing the moment had come, raised their instruments and launched into a medley of slower Glenn Miller numbers. The plan was to start more sedately and gradually pick up the tempo. Susan returned from the powder room and they took to the floor while the music was still danceable, making a leisurely turn around the room, enjoying the paradox of being intimate in a public place. Adam could feel the pressure of her body as she settled into his arms, the soft touch of her cheek against his, her arms wrapped around him, fingers stroking the back of his neck. She liked to hum along to the music, and at times her song and the band’s became separated in time, setting up a counterpoint that was oddly detached and pleasurable.
Now and then, a faint rumble of thunder could be heard from outside, but on the dance floor only the reality of the music and the whisperings of love had any significance. Resisting those tiny flashes of apprehension, he let the warmth of the moment overcome him. He wondered if anyone had ever been as happy as he was now. It was as though the universe had suddenly blossomed into a mass of arrows, all zeroing in on this single precious moment between one paragraph and the next. It was like being touched with all the good things of life, with walks and picnics and long nights of making love, with talks about the future, about having a family, about food and music and buying beauty for the house. It was as though every eye in the room had homed in on them, searching for answers.
Of course, it could also be the outfit she was wearing that attracted all the attention, but so what? She was here, she was in his arms, and that was all he cared about.
When the set ended, they drifted over to the drinks table. Gwen and Mark were pouring glasses of something pale and vaguely alcoholic, which no one would ever admit, for teenagers were among the guests, the Midsummer Ball being very much a family affair. The music soon started up again, and at Gwen’s suggestion, they traded partners. To Adam’s annoyance, Gwen proved to be an awkward dancer, moving stiffly and without grace. She had a tendency to want to lead. After a while, he found himself craning his neck, trying to get a glimpse of Susan and Mark, but the room was already filled with dancers and they were quickly lost in a sea of bobbing heads.
Gwen, typically, was incapable of keeping still for even a moment. “Adam,” she babbled while they danced, “do you have any idea how wonderful you are?”
“Me?”
“No, not you, you goof. You and Susan. I was afraid for a while we might have lost you, but now you’re back together again.”
“Back together?”
“Oh, don’t play innocent with me,” she chided. “Everyone knows you moved out of the house and took an apartment. You never told anyone what was happening, but we knew. There’s nothing worse than a lover’s quarrel, is there?”
“I guess not,” he agreed.
“Well, I’m just so happy to see you back together.”
“So are we.”
She kept shaking the subject, like a cat with a bird in its mouth. “You know, you and Susan are our favorite married couple. I mean, if there are two people who deserve to be happy, who deserve everything good in life, it’s you and that adorable wife of yours. I don’t suppose you’ve thought of trying again to—I mean—no, I shouldn’t say anything, should I? Oh my God, that’s terrible of me.”
“It’s all right,” Adam assured her. “We’ve tried,” he added without elaborating.
The orchestra had unexpectedly segued into a Latin number, and Adam found himself trying to bluff steps he was unfamiliar with. He let Gwen do most of the work. Some dances were designed to let women show off their talents, which worked to Adam’s advantage because the more active the dance, the less likely it was that Gwen would keep brandishing her favorite subject. By the time the band had brought the set to a rousing conclusion, punctuated by a reinforcing shot of thunder from outside, Gwen was panting heavily and Adam gratefully escorted her back to the drinks table.
If only he could overcome the feeling that this was not just an ordinary dance on an ordinary evening. The thunder volleys were growing louder by the minute. The band, as if instructed to compete with all that noise from outside, had turned up its volume a couple of notches. The voices, the laughter, the clapping of hands and the thud of feet on the dance floor were just a little louder than they had to be. He was tempted to hunt up Susan and drag her out on the terrace, where at least it was a little quieter.
Most of the tables were unoccupied while the band was playing and, in between, the drinks table was the focus of attention. Adam noticed that Mark had left for the men’s room and Susan was standing alone, sipping a glass of punch. Adam wondered how much she had consumed, since the drink was spiked with more alcohol than she was accustomed to. He was pleased with how her slacks caught the eye. It was certainly a cut above the flouncy, frilly gowns the other young women had on.
“I li
ke it,” he said, strolling over to where she stood.
“What?”
“The outfit.”
“That’s why I wore it,” she smiled. “You see, sometimes I know what’s best for an evening like this. And someday, everyone will come to a dance dressed in pants.” Adam breathed a sigh of relief. If there had been any tension between them, it seemed to have vanished. “You like the color?”
“Yes, I like the color,” he said. And yet something wasn’t quite right. For the first time he noticed that she had let her hair down, allowing it to flow around her shoulders almost to her waist. A single black strap with a gold Star of David attached shone on her neck. The wedding band that he had slipped on her finger one memorable day beneath a blue and white canopy caught the light and glowed like fire. And then he realized what it was.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The ring.” He should have kept quiet, but the warmth of her perfume had tampered with his brain.
“I’m wearing it,” she said.
“No, your engagement ring?” he said.
She flushed almost imperceptibly. He might not even have caught it, except that she touched her face at the same time, as though afraid someone might be staring at her, reading her thoughts. The color vanished almost instantly, and she spoke without a pause.
“Yes, you’re right,” she said. “I put on some weight. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. I had to take it to a jeweler because it was getting tight. He said he could make it bigger, but it would take some time and I was in a hurry, so he let me have a cheap imitation in the meantime.”
Without thinking, he said, “Why?”
“Honestly,” she said, her smile fading. “It’s not important. I’ll have it back on by this time next week.”
He could feel his throat tightening as he spoke. The lie was totally transparent and in an instant he saw what must have happened. She’d lost the ring at the Jefferson Davis Hotel that night, or maybe some other night. She must be going to the hotel in the daytime. In the morning, or even in the afternoon when he was at work. She’d probably removed it before taking a shower—she always did that because she didn’t want to get soap on the diamond, it wasn’t good for the stone, she always said—and then she forgot the ring in the bathroom, and the hotel couldn’t return it because she and Bernard hadn’t registered under their own names. All this came to him in the time it took her to explain what she wanted him to believe.
