by Sally Mandel
Eliza slowed the engine so that it was possible to talk. “Come sit closer,” she said to Maggie. “David, go get my straw hat, will you? It’s on my bed.”
He disappeared belowdecks while Maggie dutifully edged closer to Eliza. “Do you actually live on this?” Maggie asked.
“Yes. A lot of us do at Seventy-ninth Street. There’s a big mess about who’s in charge of the place at the moment, but we’ll hang on no matter what. We’re a tenacious lot.”
“Have you always? I guess it’s hard for me to imagine. Can you cook? And take a bath?”
“All the conveniences, more or less. Sometimes if there’s an awful ice storm in February I’ll go hole up in my studio until it blows over. These old bones are a bit intimidated by winter gales.”
David returned to plunk a ragged straw hat on Eliza’s head. When he sat down beside Maggie and threw an arm around her shoulders, Maggie stiffened. Eliza averted her eyes.
“So what do you think about this old tub?” David asked Maggie.
“It seems glamorous to me,” Maggie answered.
“She’s not even ten years old,” Eliza protested. “What do you know about old age anyway, child?” She reached to ruffle David’s hair and he ducked. Maggie had never seen David playful. Perhaps he had been right on the telephone this morning; their relationship was pretty serious-minded.
“People choose to live this way for a variety of reasons,” Eliza was saying, “but since it’s not an ordinary way to live, the people tend to be odd themselves.”
“Why did you?” Maggie asked.
“I spent twenty years in a stifling marriage, another ten practically starving to death trying to meet the rent in a hideous apartment. When the building went co-op, I sold out, took the money, and bought my freedom.”
“Eliza and her husband ran a very successful advertising business,” David said.
“Howard ran the business. I designed packaging for our clients. Oh my God, how I suffered, trying to convince myself it was gratifying to draw Jell-O boxes. One time my husband came home from a trip on a sunny Saturday afternoon. He walked into the studio, looked over my shoulder, and said, ‘You were supposed to have that finished yesterday.’ I don’t know what happened to me. I just got up, said something about how a person has to know when to walk out into the sun, and I left him. Never went back.”
“Goodness,” Maggie said. “Do you ever hear from him?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Well, twenty years, and building up a business together.”
Eliza shook her head and waved a long tapered hand as if she were shooing away a gnat. “It was over. I never missed him for a second.”
Maggie wondered how the husband felt about losing Eliza. When the image of Matthew’s face bobbed into view, she tried to imitate Eliza and brush the vision away.
“But you see, I never had children,” Eliza said. Maggie felt David squeeze her shoulder. Eliza squinted at a floating carton ahead and swerved to starboard. “I don’t understand the power of it myself, motherhood, especially once a child is old enough to comprehend a sentence. I can see sticking it out for little ones. They’re quite helpless. But once they reach eight or ten, they should be able to manage. I know I did. I was ten when my parents separated.”
The George Washington Bridge loomed high above them now. The two huge towers rose out of the water, dwarfing the boat passing far below. The structure’s intricate design and immense arches seemed to echo the Gothic splendor of St. John the Divine, which dominated the riverbank just to the south. Sunlight through the cables cast mysterious shadows on the river. Maggie felt as if they were gliding across a strange floating web. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Depends on how much time we’ve got,” Eliza replied. “When do you have to be home?”
Maggie imagined that she detected a hint of pity, or perhaps it was contempt, in the question. “About ten.”
“Good. Bear Mountain for sure, maybe farther. How about a beer?”
“Yes!” Maggie exclaimed.
“Hold the wheel, Dee,” Eliza said, and slipped below.
David winked at Maggie, but kept his eyes on the river. “There’s garbage floating around. I’m always afraid I’ll crack into something.”
“You seem to know what you’re doing,” Maggie said. “What did she call you?”
“Dee. Silly nickname.”
Eliza emerged with three Molsons. “Hope you can make do without a glass,” she said to Maggie. “I like to keep the dishwashing to a minimum since it’s pretty cramped in the galley.”
Maggie took a swig, enjoying the shape of the smooth glass opening against her lips. It had been a very long time since she had drunk anything straight out of the bottle—probably not since adolescence. She took another long draw, stretched her feet out, and sighed contentedly. To the west, the Palisades made their steep ascent four hundred feet straight up. They had a raw scraped appearance as if the geological phenomena that formed them had happened in one violent night. Manhattan, far downriver now, was merely a haphazard assortment of children’s blocks, like the Legos Fred used to snap together. Fred. According to Eliza’s philosophy, Fred was far past the age of comprehension and Maggie was free to leave. Children were resilient. In time, they would surely adjust to a new family structure. They loved their father, but how could they not learn to care for David? She watched him now, squinting up at the sky and absorbing the shapes of the fat fluffy clouds.
Eliza, back at the helm, reached out for David’s beer. He handed it to her, she took a sip and returned it. “Did David tell you about the squall we got into off Montauk this spring?” Eliza asked. “He saved this boat, not to mention our hides.”
“No, he didn’t,” Maggie said. She was beginning to feel a rising sense of discomfort regarding David’s obvious intimacy with Eliza. Here was a part of his life he had never shared with her, even verbally. She wondered why not. She chided herself for the absurd fantasy that he existed only when she was present, and somehow remained suspended each time she left, like a television set she could merely switch off as she walked out the door. Besides, was her jealousy a fraction of what David must feel about her life with Matthew and the children?
“What did you do with that boom hoist Ben dug up for you? Was it any use?” Eliza was asking David.
“Not much. It’s okay for hauling raw stone, but even then I’m afraid I’ll wind up chipping it or fracturing something.”
Maggie was too proud to ask for an explanation, not wanting to give Eliza further indication of how little David told her. Anyway, Eliza had now switched her attention to Maggie.
“I understand you’ve begun working in collage,” Eliza said. “I’d like to get a look at the Hudson River piece sometime.”
Maggie flashed a glance at David. He seemed free enough conversing with Eliza about her. “You have a gift for dramatic utilization of space,” Eliza went on. “You’ll enjoy collage and do it well.”
“Your class was good for me.”
“Come take another, though I don’t know how much I can teach you now.”
“A lot.” Maggie hesitated. “Are you working?” she asked finally. She was careful about asking a fellow artist such a question. It could dip into the most agonizing area of the creative person’s life. But all was well with Eliza.
“Oh yes,” she replied with gusto. “David took me to see a film recently, what was it, the one about the runners?”
“Chariots of Fire,” David answered.
“Yes, that’s it. I like athletics. This was quite charming, and it got me started on some things having to do with competition.”
“Eliza’s an exercise fanatic,” David explained.
“I must say that movie was an inspiration. I came right home and jumped into my leotard. All those slim bodies.”
Maggie remembered now that on the night of her first class, she had felt curious about the nature of David’s relati
onship with Eliza Austin. Maggie had wondered about the possibility of a sexual history between them, then dismissed the notion as foolish. But why reject such a possibility when the only obstacle to their being lovers was Eliza’s age? Maggie was certain that neither David nor Eliza would find such a consideration the least bit relevant. An intimate relationship might explain David’s silence on the subject of their friendship. Maggie looked from one to the other. David was staring out at a pair of gulls swooping into the wake of the Dayline excursion boat that had overtaken them on its way upriver. Eliza peered through binoculars at a swampy area on the New Jersey side. It seemed clear to Maggie that there had been something, and just as clear that it was over, leaving them both with deep affection for each other.
Eliza handed her the binoculars. “Take a look at that egret. Damn thing’s always standing in the same spot. At least I like to think it’s the same fellow.”
“Liza used to skydive, Maggie, just like that bird,” David said drowsily. His eyes were half-closed. The sun had already put a flush on his cheeks and the ridge of his nose.
“Did you really? Is it wonderful?” Maggie asked.
“Yes. I’ve always liked floating.” Eliza laughed. “Look at where I live. But I finally broke a bone in my foot and had to give it up.” She gazed into the sky. “That’s a fine place to get ideas.”
“I’ll bet I know some of the work that came out of those dives,” Maggie said excitedly. “About ten years ago, the exhibit at Higgens Gallery. God, that was wonderful stuff. Kind of ethereal patchwork, disorienting, like looking through the wrong end of these.” She handed the binoculars back to Eliza.
“Yes,” the older woman nodded with a grin. “How marvelous that you remember.”
The river, which had gradually broadened into its widest point at Haverstraw Bay, narrowed suddenly around a long bend to the left. Mountains a thousand feet high rose up on either side of them. As they passed beneath Bear Mountain, Maggie exclaimed at the sight of a huge bronze stag’s head projecting from the bare rock.
“I wouldn’t mind mounting my carvings on that chunk of boulder,” David muttered.
“There’re lots of nice rocks in Central Park, darling,” Eliza said.
A few moments later they passed Buttermilk Falls, which cascaded down the mountainside into the river. Just to the north was West Point.
“We’re in luck,” Eliza said. “David, give me a hand. See that mooring over there? Next to the blue yawl.” As she steered the craft alongside the large Ping-Pong ball, she explained to Maggie, “There’re only a couple of guest moorings here. On a weekend, it’s usually hopeless.”
While they tied up, Maggie stared up at the brooding monumental pile of granite that was West Point military academy. The buildings were austere but handsome. She could see a jeep slowly climbing a steep road on the edge of the cliff.
“Are you sure it’s all right to be here?” Maggie asked.
Eliza laughed. “Intimidating, isn’t it? Actually, they’re very friendly at the office over there on the pier. Come, you must be starving. Let’s eat.”
Eliza had loaded up on provisions at a delicatessen. Maggie was astonished at her appetite. She wolfed down an overstuffed corned-beef sandwich. Eliza watched with a smile, then wordlessly handed Maggie a second one, turkey this time, dripping with Russian dressing. Maggie made it halfway through, and lay back against the seat groaning.
“It’s the water that does it,” Eliza said. “I have to watch myself or I’ll turn into a tugboat.” She poured coffee into plastic mugs. “Cream and sugar?” she asked, and seemed pleased when Maggie shook her head. “David,” Eliza went on, “would you be a dear and see if you can do something about that shower head? It worked fine for six months the last time you tinkered with it.”
“Sure,” David said. “I’d just as soon get out of the sun for a while anyhow. My nose is frying.”
Maggie watched him disappear below, and when she looked up, saw that Eliza had been studying her quietly.
“Tell me,” Eliza said. “Do you think it’s possible to be a good mother and a great artist simultaneously?”
Maggie cupped her mug and thought about it. “I don’t know,” she replied finally. “It’s a very complex subject. A good mother and a good artist, maybe. I don’t think a great one.”
“Is it the logistics, like having help so you can physically get to the studio?”
“In part, but that’s not all of it, at least for me.” She sighed and looked up into the deep blue autumn sky. “Children are like leeches—beautiful, amazing, delicious leeches. I remember the first time I went out to dinner after Susan was born. She was three months old and I had been completely absorbed in her. I was worn out from lack of sleep and constant self-denial, and I guess I thought if I hired a baby-sitter and left the apartment, everything would be the same as before she was born. I would feel free again. It took ten minutes at a candlelit table for the truth to sink in. I wasn’t free anymore and never would be, even when Susan was grown up and gone. She had become a part of my consciousness in such a profound, mysterious way that I knew I would never be able to stop thinking about her on some level, worrying about her, wondering about her. And it’s been the same with Fred, the second one. It’s affected my work. I can’t ever be … single-minded again. They’re always in my thoughts, and it takes very little for me to be distracted away from my work if they need me. But maybe it’s not the same for other women.”
Four Canadian geese paddled over to the boat, one of them honking tentatively. Eliza tossed a crust overboard and it was gobbled up.
“No, I think you’re probably right,” Eliza said. “Look at the history of art in this country. How many women made a success of their creativity? A handful—O’Keeffe, Nevelson come to mind first, since they’re so well-known. O’Keeffe never had children and Nevelson went off to Europe and left her child behind. Even Carolyn Wyeth—I’m rather fond of her work—is basically a recluse with no dependents.”
“O’Keeffe used to paint from first light until the sun went down,” Maggie said. “I can’t imagine ever having that kind of unstructured time. Every moment I’m at work, I’m aware that there’s a limit. Somebody’s waiting for me to do something for them outside that door. No matter if I’m on the edge of an important discovery or ‘if the light is just right at that particular second. The kids come home from school or I’m required at some function. I know it has a deleterious effect. But I do think about later on, when there’re off on their own. Maybe then …”
“Do you ever imagine running away?”
“Yes,” Maggie admitted. Then she added, “But never as a permanent solution, just a week or even a couple of months to myself. They’re so much a part of my life, you see.”
“Perhaps for you it’s worth the compromise,” Eliza said.
“It is.”
“I always thought I’d have made a dreadful mother,” Eliza said.
“Is that why you didn’t have any children?”
“Yes, partly. Howard was bent on building up the business. He had no interest in babies. I saw my friends with their families, how consuming it all was. It was frightening. I believed I would have been submerged, drowned altogether if I’d added motherhood to the stew.”
“I’ve had that feeling,” Maggie said. She glanced toward the galley. “How did you meet David?”
“At Ben Ginsburg’s. He runs an art-supply store and gets artists together to drink too much and sound off about art.” She poured Maggie a second cup of coffee from her thermos. “Ah, David was such a sobersides. We disliked each other enormously. Pompous, self-righteous type, he was. And he thought I was naive, and probably senile to boot.” She laughed. “We had some real set-tos in the first few weeks he joined the circle. I remember asking Ben what on earth he saw in this idiot, and Ben just said, ‘Wait.’ Then one day David stopped in at an exhibit of mine on Fifty-seventh Street. It was the first I’d had after leaving my hus
band, and there was a work called Flight. A very large canvas with open sky and wings. Well, I found him staring at it pale as a ghost, and the next Saturday night he brought along this carving to Ben’s, and it was uncanny how it mirrored my painting. Wings, it was, really soaring so you could practically hear the wind rush. It was soon after he’d left New Orleans and I suppose the feelings that went into both works were very similar. That was the beginning. Not that we don’t have some knock-down-drag-outs even now. I think he’s a dreadful teacher.”
“You do? Why?”
“Well, I’m overstating it. We’re philosophically opposed. He can’t tolerate mediocrity of any kind, and is forever discouraging people. My feeling is that art is for everybody, and the more people who experience it, no matter how limited their ability, the better. What’s wrong with some fellow making mudpies to set on his mantelpiece? He’s had the joy of creating something with his hands, and he’ll have a better understanding of what the rest of us are trying to do.”
Maggie had sat forward. “I watched him finish off the career of a little old lady just last week. It was heartbreaking.”
“What are you going to do, Maggie?” Eliza asked suddenly.
Maggie stared down into her mug. The kindness in the older woman’s voice had brought her close to tears. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.”
“You’re a forever thing with David,” Eliza said.
“I know that.”
“And how about you?”
“He’s a forever thing.”
“Can you go on this way indefinitely?”
“It’s getting very hard. I’m not good at deception.” She gave Eliza a bitter smile. “Oh, I’ve become an expert at lying. It’s living with it that’s making me miserable.”
