by Belva Plain
I have been going downhill for months, she thought, long before we went to Europe. In fact, that's why we went—or why I went. Arnie knew. He's a good man, and smart; he might even have known that Gerald had stopped loving me.
Now it was pitch dark. The tall clock in the hall chimed eleven, and still she sat there with her thoughts.
What have I come to? What have I done with my rage and carelessness? And before her eyes, she saw again the widow, the little boy, and the unborn child walking toward her down the aisle. She saw too her own Emma and Jerry—what have I done to them?
Yes, I have been going downhill, and I've come to this. But I must climb up again. I must learn to live with horror. I must make Gerald love me again as he did in the beginning. Yes. Oh God, please help me.
The earth, the grass, the fence, and the very bulk of the house were swallowed up now by the night, but above them the sky was bright with stars. And for some reason buried deeply in history, in myth, or in human consciousness, those ancient suns began to speak to her of courage, of climbing up from the depths.
“Come,” Gerald said, standing over her. “Come upstairs. I will give you a pill so you can sleep.”
“You know I never take pills. I never need any.”
“But tonight you do.” And he took her hand to draw her out of the chair. “Come up.”
“You need to pull yourself together, to get some help,” he told her the next day.
“I'm thinking how sad and bitter it is that you and I should ever need a third person to help us. But we do.”
“Not exactly, Hyacinth. I don't feel that I need any third person for counseling, since that's what you mean.”
They were in the kitchen after the children had left for school. She had been putting dishes back on the shelves. Now she pulled out a chair at the table and sat down.
“That doesn't make much sense,” she said.
“I think it does, Hyacinth.”
His use of her formal name seemed to bode no good, but she spoke calmly. “Well, I don't think so. I'll do my best to get us past this awful trouble, this thing that I've done, and with your help, I can do it. I know I can.”
“I'll help you. I'll pay for anything you need, as I always do.”
Surely he understood what she meant and was dodging, not wanting to understand. He seemed like a stranger as he stood in the doorway, immaculately dressed, tall and too imposing for the humble background of the kitchen. Aloof was the word. And critical was another. Cool and self-contained, and so certain of himself that it was confusing to remember him as the eager student who had come to the museum on that morning not so many years ago. When and how had this happened?
“I'm not asking for anything money can buy. What I'm asking, Gerald—I did ask—is that you get rid of that foul girl.”
“That's all the same to me, neither here nor there. It's not the issue.”
“All the same to you? You're not in love with her?”
“No. Never was. I'm sorry you found those stupid notes, sorry that you've been so hurt. I never wanted to hurt you. It was a stupid affair. It lasted six weeks and ended. She'll be gone by the first of the month.”
In a way, this news should have been the best she could possibly expect. And yet in another way, his cavalier attitude was a shock. And from some flash in her head, there came a sensation: In the still of the evening, she stood at the window hearing Francine's voice.
“Once he gets ahead in the world, he'll chasewomen…. Hyacinth's no match for that kind of business….”
“How many of these so-called stupid affairs have you had, may I ask?”
“Not many. A man does these things, you see, and afterward he feels they weren't worth the hazard. It's just—well, you know how it is, you listen, you read, you look around the world. It's not nice, but it happens. And I do admit that I'm ashamed. Most men are.”
This is hardly a heartfelt apology or a plea for forgiveness. Yet perhaps it's the best he can do. And if so, it must be accepted. Think! He has accepted what I have just done!
And silent there at the kitchen table, Hyacinth twisted the wedding ring, became aware of the habit, and stopping it, gazed about at all the dear and precious artifacts of home: the children's mugs with their names in red script, Granny's rug in the hall, and Gerald's golf clubs propped against the wall. Here was a life under construction, growing piece by piece through the years.
“We've both done wrong,” she said softly. “But we can start again. We can be what we once were. You know it.”
He said nothing.
“No answer, Gerald?”
He sat down on the other side of the table, not looking at her but away, past the window. “Things haven't been the same for the last year or two,” he said.
“That's true. And I've been sick over it. Sick in my heart. I've made attempts to find out from you what was wrong, but I never got more than a denial that there was anything wrong.” Still she spoke sadly, without accusation. “Even now you sit there and you don't say anything, Gerald.”
“I'm listening.”
“All right. We've changed a bit. We've grown older. Isn't it natural to change a bit? For instance, you've become more lively than I. You want activity all the time, and people around practically every night—which is fine,” she added quickly. “There's nothing bad about that. We don't have to be identical. We only need to compromise.”
“Maybe a separation for a while would do us both good.”
“Separation? What can you mean?”
“I only meant—in the circumstances. Just a trial, to see how we feel.”
“All this mystery!” she cried, clasping her head between her hands. “All these things going on behind my back. Arnie tells me about Florida. You say nothing to me about it except that now you want a separation. Now, when I need your strength!”
“No, no, Hyacinth, listen to me. All I mean is a rest for both of us. We've been through a crisis. We need time to think.”
When he put his hand on her shoulder, she drew roughly away. “A time to think? About what? When people separate to ‘think,’ it ends in divorce. Is that what you want? Tell me. Is it? A divorce?”
“Hyacinth,” Gerald soothed, raising a hand in a gesture of appeasement, “let's calm down and talk together. Let's be civilized. It's you who just used the word divorce. But when you think about it, divorce isn't the end of life, you know. In some cases it can be a fresh, healing start.”
“Civilized!” she screamed. “A ‘civilized divorce’— that's another modern cliché, isn't it? That's what you're aiming at, isn't it? Have you forgotten—oh my God, my God, have you forgotten how we loved each other? We were one. One mind. One body—have you forgotten?”
And sinking back in the chair, she sobbed and rocked and wept.
“This isn't good for you. You'll make yourself sick. And it won't be good for the children if you act this way. Jerry's a big boy now, big enough to wonder what's going on.”
When he reached over to stroke her head, she jumped up again and slapped him. “Damn you! Damn you! You wanted me to abort him!”
“Control yourself, Hyacinth. We'll accomplish nothing this way. Let's talk peaceably. I want to be kind to you. The last thing in the world I want to do is to make you unhappy. But you have to listen to me.”
She was frenzied. The sky had fallen. The world had blown up. “Do you mean it?” she cried. “Say it right out: ‘I don't care about you, Hy, and I want a divorce.’ Say it. Loud, so I can be sure I heard it.”
“I'll never say I don't care about you, because it isn't true.”
She watched him neatly arrange the spoon on the saucer, parallel to the edge of the table. Neatly he placed the napkin to the left of the plate. These actions, in themselves correct, filled her with fury. That he could be so meticulous, so orderly, while at the same moment he was destroying their life! And with a savage swing, she tipped the table over on its side, hurling pot, cups, and plates to the floor.
; “Well,” Gerald said. “Well. I see there's no use talking to you this morning, so I'd better leave our talk for another time. I'm going to the hospital. I still have patients to take care of, in case you're interested.”
“I'm not interested. Not at all. I'm interested in what's happening to my children and to me.”
“The children will have everything children need. As for you—you're unbalanced, Hyacinth. Look what you did just now. You can't call this an accident, either. You can't get away with that this time.”
“Are you saying you don't believe that it was an accident at the office?”
“No, I don't believe it, Hyacinth.”
“That I burned it down on purpose? Is that what you think?”
“Yes. You were in a jealous rage, and you took deliberate revenge.”
“I went crazy for a minute. I threw stuff off the desks. I broke things. But that's all I did!”
“That's not all. You're forgetting that a man died.”
“I'm not forgetting. I'll live with that till my own time comes. But I'm not crazy.”
“Let's not be so technical. Let's just say you're out of control. You're unbalanced. And I can't cope with that. I can't give the right care to my children, be a good doctor, and live with a woman in your condition all at the same time.”
“What do you mean by ‘the right care’ for Jerry and Emma? That's my job. I'm the one who's home all day.”
“We'll talk later, I said.” At the kitchen door, he paused and spoke solemnly. “Hyacinth, I gave my word, and I'll repeat it. No one will ever, ever learn the truth about what you did. No one. I wouldn't do that to you or to the children. Remember that. You can sue me for divorce, for total incompatibility, irreconcilable differences, or whatever you want. I won't fight. It won't go to court. We'll simply settle. And this business will never enter into it. Now I'm going. I'm late.”
Silence fell. The house was too large, a lake without shores. She was swimming, and her strength was gone, her arms and legs giving out. The walls were too close, as in a cell or an elevator stalled in a shaft with the last oxygen seeping away. She pleaded: What am I to do? There was no one dear enough to ask. Jim was dead, Granny was too old and ill, Francine's tragedy was too fresh, and even though Moira was a good friend, one still had one's pride.
Oh hello, Moira, I need to tell you something. Gerald wants to divorce me.
Get out of the house and into the air. Sit in the yard. Lie back on a lounge chair. I'm thinking I've just woken up from a nightmare. This didn't really happen. Go open the kitchen door and look. The table reminds me of a poor fallen horse that I saw, poor thing, with its four legs in the air. So it isn't a nightmare. Lie back in the chair and look up at the sky, all calm and blue. Geese come wheeling in and curving to the south. Shall I take my children and run away, run anywhere?
After a while it became uncomfortably hot, and she went into the house. The mess in the kitchen had to be cleaned. There were plenty of chores this morning, as there were every morning, all of them suddenly unimportant but necessary. There on the table lay the blue compact, along with a pack of cigarettes. With all the strength in her arms, she hurled them into the garbage can, swearing with total strength that never again as long as she lived would she put a cigarette between her lips.
“Never, never, so help me,” she repeated.
Then she lay down on the sofa in the living room. The classical station on the radio was playing a piano concerto, a piece familiar to her although she was unable to name it; simply, it was music that Jim had loved. One evening he had played it twice over on the CD, and Gerald had pretended he loved it, too. Gerald had pretended….
In late afternoon, the telephone rang. “Hello, darling,” said Francine. “How are you?”
“I'm fine. And you?”
“Oh, my trip did me a lot of good. You know I hadn't felt like going, but your brothers insisted that Jim would want me to start living again after all the crying I've done. So I went, and we talked about Jim, told some jokes about him, and I was able to laugh. I thought I would never laugh again. You should see Paul's new house. You and Gerald must take the children next summer and visit them. They have the most wonderful view—”
“Francine, you told me about it when you called last week.”
“All right, I won't fool you. I'll get right to the point. Jerry phoned me just now.”
“Jerry phoned? You mean he got the number himself?”
“Of course. He can read numbers. Gerald showed him how to use the phone, too. He called to tell me something's wrong. ‘Mommy's crying,’ he said. He heard you.”
“I was in my room with the door shut.”
“Well, he heard you.”
The further horror that her little boy was scared enough to do this and old enough to be that scared was too much. Hy's voice broke as she answered: “Gerald wants a divorce.”
From one hundred miles away, Francine's gasp came over the wire. “What? What?”
“He wants a divorce.”
“Why? Since when?”
“Please. It happened this morning. I can't talk now. I have to straighten up and fix some dinner. Please.”
“Hyacinth, I'm coming over. God Almighty, this is insane. I'll be right there.”
She couldn't, absolutely couldn't cope with Francine's visit now. “No, Mom. Please don't come.” This was probably the first time since childhood that she had called her mother Mom. “I'll be all right. You don't need to come. Please don't.”
But Francine had already hung up.
Driving at high speed through the early darkness, filled as she was with apprehension and dismay, Francine had been limp when she arrived. But this was no time to be limp; rather, it was a time for sharp eyes. These now traveled around the comfortable library to the shelves filled with books that Hyacinth had been collecting since childhood, then to the fine library steps and tall blue lamps of Danish porcelain and all the fine furniture that had been bought with Gerald's earnings.
He didn't need Hyacinth any longer. He was well on his way without her. It was as simple as that. As smooth as ever, he sat in his leather wing chair. All he needed now was a large handsome dog at his feet—an English setter or an Old English sheepdog would do nicely—and beside him a silver tray holding glasses and some rare scotch, to take his place in any fashionable, glossy magazine.
“Don't be angry with me, Hyacinth,” Francine said. “I didn't come here to take over the situation. I've never interfered for even one minute since you married, have I? But when Jerry phoned, I couldn't just sit back and do nothing, as if you were a neighbor on the next street instead of my daughter.”
Hyacinth, with her huge, tragic eyes, her blanched and devastated face, sat like a refugee in a war zone, too exhausted to say any more.
“I know you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I haven't any intention of treating you like a child, and if you want me to turn around and go home, I will.”
Neither Gerald nor Hyacinth spoke. Perhaps they had both already said all they had to say. Perhaps the presence of a third person might clarify the air. And so she reasoned, addressing Gerald and, with effort, controlling herself.
“In an outburst of temper she upset the kitchen table, you tell me. And that's your sole complaint? While the neighborhood is talking about your affair with the babysitter? Just how would you expect a woman to react to that?”
“It's not only that. It goes much farther back, as I've been trying to explain. Hyacinth has been nervous and depressed for some time. She admits it herself.”
“Uncontrollable, as you so delicately put it. If that's true, and I have my doubts because Hyacinth, in spite of a very infrequent burst of temper, has always been a rather placid, contented person, is that any reason for divorcing her? For abandoning her?”
“I'm certainly not abandoning her,” Gerald said, “not at all. You don't let me finish.”
“Don't quibble with me, Gerald. This is too serious.”
&
nbsp; “I didn't mean to quibble.”
He was being calm and cool, so therefore she must stay the same. But she was beginning to boil with rage.
“You see,” she said, “there has to be a reason that reaches, as you say, farther back. Now I strongly suspect that this affair is not your first one. So it is you who have really begun the change in the relationship that has ended in this mess.”
“This isn't about my miserable affair, for which I have sincerely—sincerely apologized.”
Hyacinth's voice was barely audible. “And I've accepted it. That girl didn't really mean anything to Gerald, Francine. We still belong to each other.”
Belong to each other, Francine thought. Oh darling child, nobody ever belongs to anyone but himself.
“That's not the issue here,” Gerald insisted.
She must be equally insistent. “I think it is. I think you have the seven-year itch. You're tied down here with a family, it's made you cranky, which has affected Hyacinth, and the whole thing has snowballed.”
“I'm afraid you oversimplify.”
“Then don't be so vague. By the way, what does your partner say about this?”
“He's a professional partner, that's all he is, and this is no concern of his.”
Francine, accepting the rebuke, tried another approach. “You've been well treated in this family, Gerald, like one of our sons. I should like you to think about that before you take such a final, enormous step.”
“You mean the money? I've always been thankful. It was a godsend, and I wanted to repay it, but Jim would not let me. I have every intention of giving it to Hyacinth now, in full.”
“It's not I who gave you the money!” cried Hyacinth in a swift change of mood. “My father did! And I don't want a penny from you. Not like this. A bribe so that you can leave without any trouble and soothe your conscience? Oh, no! You were right, Francine! You were right!” She jumped up and fled from the room.
“Look what you've done to her, Gerald.”
“It's impossible to talk to Hyacinth. There's always so much wild emotion.” He shook his head. “People divorce these days without tearing themselves apart. They agree to disagree.”
