Whispers

by Belva Plain

Robert, with a look of appeal, pursed his lips to caution: Shh. They were sitting three abreast. An old man, so hugely fat that his bulk hung over his seat into Robert’s space, sat by the window. The aisle seat was Lynn’s.

  “Miserably cramped,” Robert murmured. “First class was taken up, dammit.”

  Ignoring him, she took a book out of her carry-on and settled back. It had always been her way to “make the best” of things, and whether she liked to admit it to herself or not, there was, even in these circumstances, a certain anticipation of pleasure in the sight of palms and blue water. Having spent most of her life in the Midwest, she still found these a marvelous novelty; she had visited the lovely, lazy Caribbean islands only twice before. There’s no point, she argued now, in wearing a hair shirt. I shall swim, I’ve brought three great books, and luckily for me, I’m thin enough so that I can afford to eat; I hope the food will be good. And I don’t have to talk to Robert.

  He mumbled again, “I’m going to try for first class going home. I can’t tolerate this. It’s worse than the subway.”

  When she did not comment, he made no further effort, and little more was said between them all the rest of the way.

  From the balcony on the first morning, she looked out upon water and sky. There was no one in sight except for the beachboys, who were setting up a row of yellow umbrellas, and far out a little bobbing boat with a Roman-striped sail. I suppose, she thought idly, if one were to head straight east from here, one would land someplace in northern Africa.

  “Why, you’re up early,” Robert said brightly. “You beat me this morning. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I’m going for a walk on the beach.”

  “If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll go with you.”

  “Thank you, but I want to walk by myself.”

  “All right,” he said agreeably.

  The sun had not been up long, and the air was still cool. She walked easily on the firm sand at the water’s edge, left the hotel’s property behind, and continued along what seemed to be an unending stretch of beach edged by pine grove, beach grape, and clustered greenery nameless to her. Occasionally, she passed what must be the winter homes of American or British millionaires, low, gracious houses steeped in the shade of banyan and flamboyant trees.

  Rounding an abrupt curve, she faced a grassy hill that blocked her path, steep as a ladder, with water on three sides. It would be a struggle to the top, but not daunted, she began the climb. Once there and breathless, she sat down to look about and gaze and was struck with the kind of wonder that fills the soul in some ancient, high cathedral.

  No, not so. For here was a far greater splendor. Such blue! Almost green at the shore where the green hill was reflected, this water shaded into purest turquoise; then three quarters of the way to the horizon lay a broad band of cobalt so even as to have been drawn with a ruler. On the farthest outer edge the horizon was a thin, penciled line, above which there spread another blue, the calm, eternal blue of a sky without cloud.

  The wind rushed and the tide in soporific rhythm splashed on the rocks below. Before her lay an immense dazzle, the mysterious power of brilliant light; so it had been for untold eons and would be for untold eons more, she thought, until the sun should burn itself out and the earth freeze. The thought was hardly original, but that made it no less awesome.

  Lying back on the rough sweet grass, she looked up at the shimmering sky. All the transient things, the injustice, the hurt, the unfairness, what were they in the end that we should waste our lives on them? My God, how short life was!

  Now came a flock of seabirds, racing from nowhere, turning and turning in their descent to skim the water and soar again upward. They were so joyous—could birds be joyous?—and she laughed at herself for thinking so and at her own pleasure in watching them. And her first thoughts returned with a thrill of sorrow, repeating: How short life is. And we walk with blinders on.

  For half an hour or maybe longer, she lay while the hilltop breeze cooled the sun’s burning. Stretching, she felt how young and healthy her body was. Even her foot was beginning to ease, and the heat seemed to soothe her wounds. She felt a surge of strength, as if she had absorbed the power of the light, as if she possessed the power to do anything, to bear anything, to solve anything.

  Then she lectured aloud. After all, Lynn, he didn’t want, he didn’t try, to hurt you. He’s beside himself now with regret and guilt. This can go on forever, this rage of yours, if you allow it to. But it will corrode you if you do. Listen, he could have been eaten up with rage at you because of our tragedy, our Caroline.…

  And she reflected, I shouldn’t have stayed late at that damn-fool dinner. That’s what began it all. I should not have let myself be lured into staying. What if I had been waiting at home for Robert and then found him having a careless good time with a pretty woman?

  She remembered Tom Lawrence’s cheek so close to her own, almost touching, his mischievous, clever eyes, bright like his hair and his fresh skin, and the cheerful effects of this brightness. You have such sweet eyes, a sweet mouth, Lynn. Flattery, all flattery, possibly with the hope that it might lead to something, and possibly not that at all. How was she to know? I know so little, she thought. Married at twenty and sheltered ever since, when and where could I have learned about the world?

  No, she said then to herself, and sat up. Naïveté like that is inexcusable. I should have known better. I should at least have been smart enough to foresee consequences. My husband has a temper, that shouldn’t be news to me.…

  Our children need us, he’d said. It’s true, she thought now, he is never too tired or busy to do something for them. Waiting in Washington between planes, he hails a taxi to the National Gallery of Art. We can show them a good many pictures in ninety minutes, he says, imbuing us all with his energy. He gets out of the hammock where he has been resting and runs into the house to fetch the encyclopedia because he wants to make sure he has given his daughter the best answer to her question. He sits up all night with Annie when she has her tonsils out.

  He could also be harsh with them, and too demanding. Yes, yes, I know. But they were quite fine the last two days before we came here. Regardless of everything, they do love him. People say things they don’t really mean.

  Our children need us. They need us both.

  There’s nothing that can’t be worked out by applying some simple common sense.

  Back in the room, a note lay on a table next to a book. The note said, Gone to breakfast I’ll be in the dining room or else on the beach. The book was opened to a poem, a poem that Lynn did not need to read because she almost knew it by heart. Nevertheless, she read it again.

  “O fierce and shy, Your glance so piercing-true

  Shot fire to the struck heart that was as tinder—

  The fire of your still loveliness, the tender

  High fortitude of the spirit shining through.

  And the world was young. O—”

  She laid the book down and shivered. He had given these poems to her when they were first married, and they had often read them together; sometimes he had read aloud in his grave, expressive voice; they had been so madly in love.

  “The high fortitude of the spirit shining through.

  And the world was young—”

  “Oh, Robert,” she said.

  She found him reading on the beach. At her approach he looked up, questioning.

  “I’ve come to bury the hatchet,” she told him shyly.

  Two poor tears sprang into the corners of his eyes, and he took her hand into his and held it. It seemed to her that a stream of common blood was running through their joined hands. She felt the pride and relief of calm forgiveness.

  “You read the poem?” When she nodded, he cried anxiously, “Lynn, Lynn, you’re everything in the world to me. Without you I’m nothing. You do know that, don’t you? Are we all right again? Are we?”

  “Let’s not talk about it anymore. It’s over.”

  “We ca
n have our bad times, but at least they don’t last. Right, darling?” He jumped up. “Well, as you say, enough. What shall we do first, now? Jog or swim?”

  “Let’s walk. There’s something I want to show you, where I’ve been.”

  So they retraced her path between the incoming tide and the silver twisted branches of the sea grape, past the fine houses in their gardens, Robert speculating on the price of each.

  “Hey! How far is this thing you want to show me? Aren’t you tired yet? This is your second trip.”

  “No, I’m a walker, and it’s worth ten trips. You’ll see.”

  “You’re as young as you ever were.”

  It was true. Her body in the scarlet swimsuit was as taut and limber as it had been when she was twenty. And rejoicing in this health, in the breezy morning and the decent peace she had made, she strode, ignoring her slight limp, up the hill.

  They stood quite still at the top.

  “I see what you mean,” Robert whispered.

  This time, though, there was a sign of life in view: a white yacht moving sedately on a line with the horizon.

  “Look at that grand thing,” he said. “Wouldn’t you love to own it? We could go off to the South Seas, all around the world.”

  “No,” she responded seriously, “even if we could afford it, which we likely never will, I wouldn’t want it.”

  He shook his head as if she were beyond understanding.

  “What do you want? Don’t you ever want anything?”

  Still very seriously, she told him, “Only peace and love, that’s all. Peace and love.”

  “You have them. You shall have them.” He dropped down on the grass. “Sit here. Let’s stay a minute.” When she complied, he turned serious too. “I know I’m not always easy to live with. I’m not home enough. I’m a workaholic. And you’re very patient, I know that too. At the office and on the commuter train I hear stories that can make one’s hair stand on end, about women having nervous breakdowns, drinking alone during the day, or else having an affair with a hairdresser.” He laughed. “Imagine you having an affair! I think you’d flee in terror if a man were to lay a hand on you. And when I hear all this, don’t think I fail to appreciate what you are, the time and effort you put in with the children, your solid health, your good cheer, everything. I should do more. I should take more upon myself.”

  “You do plenty. More than many fathers do. Much more,” she said sincerely.

  “No, I should do better. You don’t play piano, so you can’t help Annie with it. I was thinking she should switch to popular music. It will help her socially when she’s a few years older.” He sighed. “And I worry about Emily and that boy. I know you don’t like to hear it, but—”

  “Not now, Robert. It’s too beautiful here to think of worries, even though I don’t agree that Harris is a worry. Shall we go back?”

  Half walking, half sliding, they descended the hill and trudged along the shoreline, their feet slapping through the wet sand.

  For a time neither spoke, until Robert said, “Oh, I just want to say one thing more and then—you’re right that this is no place or time for problems—but is Emily just being an average teenager, growing away as she’s supposed to grow, or is there something else? Lately when we’re together I’ve had the feeling that she’s annoyed with me.” And when Lynn did not reply at once, he said, sounding wistful, “I wish you’d be truthful if there’s anything you know.”

  She hesitated. “She feels that you weren’t always open with her and shut her out.”

  “Shut her out? From what?”

  “Oh, things. Little things. For instance, she said—when she mentioned Querida a while ago you were furious. You shouted at her. You wouldn’t tell her anything.”

  He protested. “Of course I wouldn’t. Why does she need to know? That brilliant aunt of mine! It’s a wonder she didn’t let slip about the boy too. There’d be a hundred questions about that, wouldn’t there? Well, my conscience is clear. I’ve done right by him, but he’s no part of my life. The bank informs me that he lives in Europe. I don’t even know in what country. I don’t support him anymore. He’s an adult. It’s a complete separation. There’s nothing unusual about that these days, with families dispersed over the globe.” Stopping his agitated walk, he stood still, looking out over the water. “Why are we talking about this foolishness, anyway?”

  “You asked about Emily.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. Well,” he said, looking down at her with a troubled expression, “is there anything else?”

  I’ve gone partway, and I might as well go all the way, she told herself. And fixing her eyes upon Robert, she said quietly, “She thinks you did that to me the other night.”

  He took a deep breath, and she saw how her words had struck him.

  “And what did you say? Did you—explain? Did you—”

  She answered steadily, still with her eyes fixed on his. “I told her that was arrant nonsense. That I was astonished she could ever have such a thought.”

  Robert bowed his head. They were two people in pain. How odd, Lynn thought, to stand here in this streaming sunlight, with all this animated life around us, children on floats, people splashing into the waves, calling and laughing, while we have a dialogue so tragic, so profound. No one seeing them here could possibly guess. She pitied the man who stood there with bowed head, and she touched his arm.

  “Enough, Robert. I’ve had no breakfast, and I’m starved. Is there a place on the terrace where I might get a cup of coffee and a roll?”

  His response was a grateful, a humble, smile. “Of course. I’ve explored the whole place and all its hidden corners. There’s a hidden corner with umbrella tables in the shade near the pool. Let’s go. And after that, a swim. And after that,” he said, recovering, “there’s a fishing trip scheduled for this afternoon, a short one to an out island in a catamaran. Or we might sign up tomorrow for an all-day trip with snorkeling and a picnic lunch on one of the farther islands. Or would you like a water-ski lesson? I looked over the schedule this morning.”

  She had to smile. It was so like Robert to organize, to account for every minute.

  “Swim first, then take the others as they come. Remember, you said we needed to relax.”

  “Right. Right you are.”

  Later in the afternoon they came back laughing at themselves after their first lesson on water skis, and took seats in the shade near the pool. Little groups of young couples were chatting at surrounding tables.

  “Honeymooners, most of them,” Robert observed. “You could be a bride yourself. You don’t look any different from them.”

  “Brides are older these days.”

  “You’re turning just faintly brown,” he remarked.

  “In spite of sunblock and a shady hat? I’ll go home looking like a lobster. Ah, well, since that’s the case, I might as well be fat too. I’ll have ice cream.”

  She was aware as she ate that he was watching her, as if he were enjoying her enjoyment. She finished the ice cream with a feeling of satisfaction, thinking, How physical we are! The taste buds are satisfied, the stomach is filled, the air is fresh, not too hot and not too cool, and somehow all our troubles vanish—for a while, anyway.

  A lizard, green as a gem, slid along a wall. Blackbirds stalked among the tables picking up fallen crumbs. A tiny yellow bird alighted on the table, paused on the edge, and then, on its frail, twiggy legs, hopped to the ice cream dish where lay a small, melted puddle. Totally still, Lynn sat watching the little beak thrust and thrust again; with the other part of her vision she was still aware of Robert watching her with the same affectionate concentration that she was giving to the bird.

  “It’s adorable,” she said. “That little brain can’t be any bigger than half a pea.”

  “It’s you who are adorable,” he told her.

  An elderly couple sitting at the next table overheard him, for the man, catching Robert’s eye, smiled and nodded.

  “We were watchin
g you two on water skis,” he said with a heavy German accent.

  “Oh, we were both awful,” Robert answered. “It was our first time.”

  “So you were very brave, then. My wife and I”—he raised gray eyebrows in an expression of mock sorrow—“we are too old to learn new things.”

  And so a conversation began. Introductions were made, and brief biographical sketches drawn. The Hummels were from Stuttgart; he was a banker, semiretired, but only semi; they did a good deal of traveling, mostly in Eastern Europe of late, where so many astonishing changes were occurring. This trip, their first to the Caribbean, was purely for pleasure, to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Later, at home, there would be a party with family and friends, but first they wanted this time alone.

  “And is today the day?” asked Robert.

  “Today is the day,” Herr Hummel acknowledged, and his wife, a portly woman with beautiful upswept white hair and no devices behind which to hide her age, nodded and smiled.

  “It’s so lovely here,” she said. “Usually we go to the Riviera for sun, but it is nothing like this. All these strange, wonderful flowers—” And she waved toward a clump of shrubbery that bore in clusters what looked like red beads, each the size of a pinhead. “What do you call those?”

  “Ixora,” Robert answered.

  “Ah, you study flowers,” said Mrs. Hummel.

  “Not really.” Robert laughed. “I just happened to pass some on my way to breakfast this morning and saw a marker with the name.”

  “He remembers everything,” said Lynn.

  “So you have,” Mr. Hummel remarked, “a memory like—what is the word? Like a camera, you know.”

  “A photographic memory,” Lynn said. “Yes, he has.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Hummel, “you will tell me if I go too far, intrude on your time, but perhaps you will have a drink of champagne with us tonight? It is tomorrow we leave. Perhaps you will have dinner with us, a table for four?”

  “Why, that would be very nice,” Robert answered cordially.

  When they were alone, Lynn was curious. “Why did you say yes to dinner with them?”