A House Like a Lotus

by Madeleine L'engle

  The following week Max said, ‘It’s your turn, Pol. Urs has to go back to Charleston to see Ormsby—there are times I could kill your Uncle Dennys for offering Urs to him—but Urs needs the stimulation, so I’m simultaneously grateful. There’s an interesting play on at the Dock Street Theatre in the evening.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow. We’ve already cleared it with your parents. Urs will be getting her hair trimmed, so we’ll kill two birds with one stone and get yours styled.’

  ‘You’re not coming?’ Of course she wasn’t coming. She wasn’t up to it, and I knew it.

  ‘Not this time. You go with Urs and have fun.’

  Ursula and I stayed in the Ormsbys’ guesthouse, which was a separate building behind the house and had been the kitchen in the old days. There was a comfortable sitting room overlooking the garden, a bedroom with twin beds, a bathroom, and a tiny kitchenette, so the guests could be self-sufficient. The furniture was antique and beautiful—Mrs. Ormsby was an interior decorator —and there was air-conditioning.

  We said hello to Mrs. Ormsby, who was welcoming and chatty and asked about Daddy and then Uncle Dennys, and talked about getting Mother into Charleston more often, and wouldn’t Ursula be interested in serving on some committees? ‘And how is Maximiliana doing?’ she asked, a tentative note coming into her voice.

  ‘As well as can be expected.’ Ursula’s tone was carefully noncommittal.

  ‘I wish we could help, my dear,’ Mrs. Ormsby said.

  Suddenly and for the first time I realized that Ursula was bearing Max’s death on her own shoulders, bearing it for Max as well as for herself. And I had a faint glimmer of what that death was going to mean to Ursula. Max had said that they had been together for over thirty years. That was longer than Mother and Daddy had been married. How would either of my parents feel if they were watching the other die? I couldn’t quite conceive it. Now, as I watched and heard Ursula being courteous and contained, some of her pain became real to me.

  Mrs. Ormsby, returning to her social, light voice, told us there was iced tea in the fridge, and a bottle of white wine.

  We thanked her and then went to the hairdresser, chic and undoubtedly exorbitantly expensive. I felt a little odd, having my hair styled. Kate’s chestnut hair is curly, and even when she nibbles at it with the nail scissors, it looks just right. If I hack at mine with the nail scissors, it looks exactly as though I’ve hacked at it with the nail scissors. Mother usually cuts it.

  ‘Cut it short, please,’ I said to the stylist, ‘as short as possible.’

  ‘Why so short?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s an awful color, and the shorter it is, the less of it.’

  ‘If I could make up a dye the color of your hair, half my ladies would come flocking. You have a beautiful neck. We will show off your neck to the best advantage.’

  (Kate’s reaction when I came home was, ‘Golly, Polly!’

  Xan said, ‘Gosh, Pol, what’d they do? You look almost pretty!’

  ‘She is pretty,’ Mother said.

  Max simply made me turn round and round, looking at me critically from every angle, nodding with satisfaction.)

  I could hardly believe it myself. When the stylist was through with me, my straight hair actually lay in soft curves, capping my head.

  Ursula’s hair looked nice, too. ‘Max found Dominic for me,’ she said. ‘If Max didn’t see to it that I go to a good stylist, she knows I wouldn’t bother. After all, a surgeon’s hair is frequently concealed under a green surgical cap.’

  When we left the hairdresser, Ursula went to the hospital and I went to the art gallery, where there was an interesting exhibition of women painters: Rosa Bonheur, Berthe Morisot, Georgia O‘Keeffe. O’Keeffe. Hm. Two f’s. I liked the way it looked. My parents had not objected when I put the extra l in Polly, but I doubted if they’d let me get away with putting an extra f in O’Keefe.

  I’d gone back to the cottage to change, and was delayed by Mrs. Ormsby, so I was a few minutes late and Ursula was waiting for me. She was evidently known by the people who ran the restaurant, and the waiter was smiling and respectful. ‘We have the moules marinières that you like, Dr. Heschel.’

  ‘Splendid, François. I think you’ll like the way they prepare them here, Polly.’

  ‘Fine.’

  She did not order wine. We had Vichy water. ‘This place is small enough to be personal, and I’ve got in the habit of eating here when I’m in Charleston. Did you have a good afternoon?’

  ‘Terrific. It’s ages since I’ve been in an art gallery.’

  ‘Sometime I’m going to take a real sabbatical. But it’s been good for me to keep my hand in during all these months. Norris Ormsby called me in today on an interesting and tragic case, a young woman in her thirties who has had a series of brain tumors. Benign, in her case, is a mockery. After her first surgery, some nerves were cut, and her face was irrevocably distorted, her mouth twisted, one eye partly closed. A few days ago another tumor was removed, and several more smaller ones were discovered. I agreed with the decision not to do further surgery. She said that she is looking with her mind’s eye at the tumors, willing them to shrink, seeing them shrink. And she quoted Benjamin Franklin to me: Those things that hurt, instruct. An extraordinary woman. A holy woman. She looks at her devastated face in the mirror and, she says, she still does not recognize herself. But there is no bitterness in her. She sails, and as soon as she gets out of the hospital she plans to sail, solo, to Bermuda. At sea, what she looks like is a matter of complete indifference. My patients teach me, Polly. Old Ben knew what he was talking about, and it’s completely counter to general thinking today, where we’re taught to avoid pain and seek pleasure. Pain needs to be moved through, not avoided.’

  Ursula was referring to her own pain, I thought. And Max’s. And mine.

  ‘Why is hurting part of growing up?’ I demanded.

  ‘It’s part of being human. I’ve been watching you move through it with amazingly mature compassion. You’ve been the best medicine Max could have. Well, child, it’s a good thing the play is a comedy. This is more than enough heaviness.’

  We spent two hours in the theatre laughing our heads off. Then back to the guest cottage. Ursula went into the main house to have a drink with the Ormsbys, and I got ready for bed, and read until she came in. She took a quick shower, and then got into the other twin bed, blowing me a kiss. ‘Sleep well, child. I’ve enjoyed our time together.’

  ‘Me, too. It’s been wonderful.’

  ‘We’ll have a bite of breakfast at seven, and then drive back to the Island before the heat of the day. Sleep well.’

  ‘You, too. Thank you. Thanks, Urs.’

  Urs wasn’t Max. But she was still pretty special.

  “Who?” Zachary asked as we drove toward Mount Parnassus.

  “Who what?” I asked stupidly.

  “Who’s abused alcohol, to make you so uptight about it?”

  “Zachary, I go to high school, okay? Occasionally I get invited to dances. Kids sneak in booze and drink themselves silly. You have no idea how much time I spend holding kids’ heads while they whoops, or mopping them up afterwards if they don’t make it to the john. It’s enough to make me join the WCTU.”

  “What on earth is the WCTU?”

  I giggled. “The Women’s Christian Temperance Union.”

  He didn’t think it was funny. “Your parents aren’t teetotalers, are they?”

  “No. But they’re moderate.”

  “Anything good can be abused. I know that from very personal experience. But I’ve learned that I am capable of temperance, and temperance means moderation, not abstinence.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m not arguing with you. Moderation in all things, as the immoderate Greeks said.”

  It was from Max that I’d heard about the Greeks talking about being moderate. It was, she said, because temperamentally they were totally immoderate. Starting a war over Helen of Troy is hardly moderate. The va
st quantity of gods and goddesses isn’t very moderate, either.

  We’d talked comfortably over a cup of tea, Ursula making cucumber sandwiches for us, and then I sat at the table on the verandah, and did my homework, while Ursula sat in the white wicker swing, reading a medical journal, and Max sketched. When I was through—it wasn’t a heavy-homework night—I left my books and papers on the table and went to stand by Max, looking down at her sketchbook. A sketch of me. One of Ursula. Several sketches of hands.

  ‘Polly—’

  Something in her tone of voice made me stop.

  ‘Urs tells me that you know.’

  Ursula let the magazine slip off her lap onto the floor, but did not bend down to pick it up. The swing creaked noisily from its hooks in the ceiling.

  ‘Yes, Max, I know.’

  ‘Because of Renny, I suppose—’

  ‘He never talked about you—’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t. He just talks about tropical diseases ad infinitum. And you’re no fool. Dear, square Renny. I’m glad he’s assisting Cousin Bart. Glad you have him for a friend. I’d hoped to spare you, Polly, at least a little longer.’

  ‘No, no, I’d rather—’ I started, and trailed off inadequately.

  ‘Not many people have the privilege of being given time to prepare for death. I can’t say that I’m ready to die—I’m still in media res and I have things I’d like to paint … things I’d like to do—but I’m beyond the denial and the rage. I don’t like the pain.’

  ‘Oh, Max—’ I looked helplessly at Ursula.

  Urs glanced at Max, rose, picked up the journal, and dropped it in the swing. ‘I’m off to the kitchen. Come and join me in a few minutes, Polly.’

  ‘Little one,’ Max said. ‘There are worse things than dying. Losing one’s sense of compassion, for instance; being inured to suffering. Losing the wonder and the sadness of it all. That’s a worse death than the death of the body.’

  I was silent. Trying to push back the dark lump of tears rising in my throat.

  ‘I don’t know how long I have left,’ Max said. ‘Bart doesn’t know. I’m strong as an ox. My heart is not going to stop beating easily. But it’s been an immensely interesting journey, this life, and I’ve been given the child of my heart to rejoice me at the end.’

  She stood, pushing up from her seat with her hands, and I was in her arms, tears streaming down my cheeks. She wiped them with her long fingers. ‘Dear, loving little Pol. But it’s better this way, isn’t it? Out in the open?’

  I nodded, pushing my fingers in my pocket to look for Kleenex. She put a handkerchief in my hand. ‘Max, I don’t want to go to Cyprus.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Her voice was brusque. ‘I am not going to allow my plans for the education of Polyhymnia O’Keefe to be disrupted.’

  I wanted to ask, ‘Will you be here when I come back?’ I mumbled, ‘I still don’t want to go.’

  She smiled at me. ‘You’ll go, Polly, if only for me. You won’t disappoint me. Now. Go help Ursula. And let’s have a merry meal. I’ve had a rich life, Polly, and I’m grateful indeed.’ She gave me a gentle hug, then a small shove, and I went out to the kitchen.

  I could ask Urs what I couldn’t ask Max. ‘Urs, if I go to Cyprus, will Max be … will Max be alive when I get back?’

  ‘I can’t answer that, child. I don’t know. There are no tidy answers to Netson’s. But things aren’t going to get better.’

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘You must. You know that. Part of growing up is learning to do things you don’t want to do.’ She looked at me gravely. ‘Child, I promised Norris Ormsby I’d go back to Charleston next week. Just this once more. I’ve made it clear that it’s the last time. Max won’t ask you to stay with her, now that she knows that you know. She won’t want to burden you. But I’m going to ask you to come stay with her overnight. Are you up to it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a lot to ask of you. I know that.’

  ‘You don’t need to ask. I want to be here.’

  ‘You’re a strong child, Polly.’

  —It’s all a front, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. And I didn’t mind when Ursula called me child. I’d have hated it from anyone else.

  She handed me a plate of cold chicken and ham. ‘I hope you’re not going to regret these months since Sandy brought you over to Beau Allaire as his Christmas present to Max and me.’

  ‘Never!’ I cried. ‘I’ve learned more in these past months than I’ve ever learned in school. I could never regret them.’

  ‘Never’ is a long word.

  “Am I never going to see you again, after I take you back to the hotel this afternoon?” Zachary asked.

  “It’s been wonderful being with you,” I said. “I’ve had a marvelous time. I’ll write you postcards from Cyprus.”

  “I want more than postcards. You really do something special for me, Polly, you really do. Do you honestly enjoy being with me?”

  “I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t.” Zachary evidently didn’t even suspect that I was anything but a social success in Cowpertown and that having a young man after me was a totally new experience.

  “Mount Parnassus isn’t that far beyond Delphi, O goddess mine,” he said, “but I won’t trace any of our route. Did you do your homework?”

  “Sure.” In my mind’s eye I saw Max sitting with me on the verandah swing, showing me pictures and sketches, got a whiff of her perfume, of Beau Allaire’s flowers in the spring. “Mount Parnassus is sacred to Dionysus, and the Thyiads held their Bacchic revels on one of the summits.”

  “I’d like to have a Bacchic revel with you.” He took one hand off the steering wheel and pulled me close to him. I must have stiffened. “Relax, pretty Pol. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  I did relax during the ferry ride. We stood on deck and the light of sun on water was so brilliant it was almost blinding. The sea was choppy, white-capped, with a high wind which dried the spray as fast as it blew up at us. To our right was a barren coast of stony mountains, with only a little scrubby-looking vegetation on the lower slopes. I wondered if it had been greener for the Dionysian revels; I could hardly imagine them on hard, bare stone.

  The sea got choppier and choppier as we approached land, and the sky more lowering. “It rained last night,” Zachary said. “I forbid it to rain today.”

  But as we got back in the Bug to drive off the ferry, big raindrops splattered against the windshield. Zachary swore. Then, “There’s a place nearby where we can have a glass of tea and see what the weather’s going to do.”

  The small restaurant he took me to was right on the shore, and we could watch the rain making pockmarks on the water. The waiter seemed sorrowful but not surprised when Zachary asked for tea and nothing else, and while we were drinking it the skies opened and dumped quantities of water, and then, abruptly, stopped.

  “I have a rug for us to sit on,” Zachary said. “I think we can drive on and have our picnic.” The sun was out, and the wet flagstones outside the restaurant were steaming.

  The wind was still strong, and it was a wild, warm, early afternoon of swiftly shifting clouds which went well with the grandeur of the scenery. Zachary drove to a grove of ancient pines, from which we had a view of a crumbling temple, the stone shining and golden in the post-storm sunshine.

  Zachary spread a rug over the rusty needles, and we ate comfortably, protected by the trees, which swayed in the wind, sounding almost like surf. Zachary popped a wrinkled little olive into his mouth, and then lay down, looking up at the blue sky through the green needles of the pines, a high, burning blue with golden glints.

  I looked at one of the crumbling columns. “It’s so old—”

  “And gone,” Zachary said, putting his dark head in my lap. “As our own civilization will soon be gone. It’s a never-ending cycle of rise and fall, rise and fall. Except that there’s a good possibility we’ll end it.” He spat out the olive seed. “With the new microtechnology,
there’ll be less than a fifteen-second lapse between the pressing of the button and the falling of the bombs. All those bomb shelters people have built, my pa among them, will be useless. There won’t be time to get to them. When it happens, it’ll happen without warning.”

  I pushed his head off my lap. “Shut up.”

  “Ow.” He rubbed his head and put it back on my lap. “It might happen now, in the next few seconds. A light so bright we’d be blinded, and heat so intense we’d be incinerated before we realized what had happened. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go, here, with you.”

  I pushed at his head again, but he didn’t move. It’s one thing to contemplate one’s mortality realistically, another to wallow in melodrama. It was almost as though this strange young man was deliberately inviting disaster.

  “Don’t be an ostrich,” he said, “hiding your head in the sand.”

  “I’m as realistic as you are, but it doesn’t do any good to dwell on the horror. Nobody wants it, and it doesn’t have to happen.”

  “Give a child matches, and sooner or later he’ll light one.”

  “We had an essay contest, not just our school, but the whole state, on how to prevent nuclear warfare, and I wish the President of the United States would listen to the kids.”

  “Did you win?” Zachary asked.

  “I was a finalist. At least I was able to speak my piece. And we have to live as though there’s going to be a world for us to live in.”

  “What’s the point of making plans?”

  I countered, “What’s the point of not making plans?”

  “We’re at the end of our civilization, let’s face it.”

  “Oh, Zach.” Absently I began to run my fingers through his hair. “Think of all the groups who decided they knew exactly when the end of the world was coming, because of the lineup of planets, or some verse from Revelation, and dressed up in sheets to wait on some mountaintop for Judgment Day. Or had big Doomsday parties. And refusing to live, because it wasn’t worth it when the end of the world was so close, and even selling their property—and then, when the world didn’t end at the predicted moment, there they were.”