by Belva Plain
He kissed her fondly on both cheeks, then glancing around in his usual quick way, exclaimed, “Wow! I had no idea—but of course, I don't know a damn thing about this business except that women are damn fools enough to spend a fortune on a rag to cover their backs.” He laughed. “No offense meant. If you can make a fortune out of rags, go to it. Say, what's this? This is you.”
In a newspaper clipping at the top of a pile, he saw a style page from which half a dozen faces smiled: an Englishman's who was making a name for himself, a midwestern woman's who specialized in knits, and Hyacinth's.
“Hey, look at yourself. Those eyes, and the hair. Damned if it doesn't look like silk.”
“A silk curtain,” Will had said. “I love to feel it on the pillow.”
“Picture doesn't do you justice, Hy. Damned if you don't get prettier every time I see you. What is it, some special vitamins or something?”
“Oh, just hard work, I guess,” she said, forcing a laugh.
“And in Canada—this paper's Canadian.”
“We do a lot of selling there.”
“Hard to believe all this. Gee, I still see you the day you drove up from Texas. Jerry was just out of diapers, and you were only a kid yourself.”
“Twenty-six.”
“Well, that's still a kid. And you still look like one, only better dressed.” He grinned. He marveled and made a wide gesture encompassing not only the room, but, past the window, all the stone towers in which lights were beginning to twinkle as far as the Hudson and beyond. “How did you do it?”
Hyacinth shrugged, meaning, Why go into all this? First it had been Granny, who taught her to sew and, at her death, had shown by her life's history how to persevere. And second was Will, who had directed her…. Best not to think of that.
“I'm starved. How about you? Let's get moving, if you're ready.”
“I'm ready.”
There could be no mistaking the season, colored as it was in harvest's yellow and plum, fading toward the year's end. Shop windows were decorated with blond sprays of wheat and chrysanthemums. With half a mind attentive to Arnie's observations and the other half making her own observations as they walked, Hyacinth drew pictures out of the past: first Halloween and pumpkin faces on the doorstep; then Thanksgiving (no turkeys on display in this part of the city); then Christmas, red, green, and tinsel—but look, somebody has already arrived at Christmas with a display of stockings and glass balls. Hastening the season, rushing time as if time did not rush enough! How many years now? Going on four….
And she had actually been glad of this evening! Now if she could decently get away from Arnie and go home alone, she would do it. But it was too late.
“Yes, you're an eyeful,” he began as he unfolded his napkin. “Let's order, and then I'll tell you about the kids. It's hard to go into things over the telephone.”
Suddenly anxious and tense, she said quickly, “I'll have whatever you have. I don't care what I eat. Is there anything special about the children? Anything different? They sometimes sound fine on the phone, and then again I get the same complaints that I can't do anything about.”
“Nothing's changed except that Arveen's gone and there's a new friend in the house. Name's Buddy this time.”
“Buddy? A boy?”
Arnie laughed. “No, none of that. Buddy is five foot ten—could be a model, but she's a singer. Natural blonde, but had a bad nose and he fixed it, and she's in love with him. Or he says so, anyway. Cockeyed names these dames figure out. Buddy, for God's sake.”
Lead in Hyacinth's chest seemed to drag her down so that she sank back in a chair. So cheap, so—so vile! Without shame before his children.
“But she's good-natured, and the kids get along with her. So don't worry about that.”
There was a moment of silence during which Arnie thoughtfully refrained from looking at her. When he spoke, he kept busy buttering a roll.
“As I always tell you, you mustn't think Gerald neglects them. He's still crazy about them, but he's too busy with—with other stuff. And you see, they're not cute anymore. Women don't stop and gush over Emma, or over Jerry when he still wore gray flannel short pants, all dressed up, you know, that kind of thing. They're getting independent, talk back, you know, the way kids do. Not so much fun.”
She could not speak. And considerately, Arnie prattled.
“Nothing much to tell you since I last saw you. I've been sending Diamond to a couple of races out of state, and he's doing well. A gorgeous-looking horse. Got prospects. Major, of course, I ride, lots of times along with your kids. But you know all that. Let's see. What else? Oh yes, I've been looking at some land. I'm sick of living in apartments, so I may build a house for myself. Why not?”
He was telling her that she had only to say the word. Yet with kindly tact, he sensed her state of mind and was not about to press her right now. And then, as if to confirm this judgment of hers, he asked very gently the inevitable question.
“Have you seen him since we last talked?”
There was no need for any agonizing details, so she said simply, “It's over. Completely. He wanted an explanation that I couldn't give him. That's all.”
Arnie whistled. “I expected it. I believe I told you so.”
“You did.”
“So where are you now?”
“Here, as you see.”
“No chance of starting up again?”
“How could there be? I'm not out of the woods yet. Will I ever be?”
“To tell you the truth, Hy, one never knows. Of course, the more time goes by, the better. Yet you read the papers, you see how stuff is found out years after the event. And this isn't even four years yet.”
“I know. It was a silly question.”
“I'm sorry. I'd like to see you get past all your troubles. I hate to see you so hurt. If I could take the hurt away, I'd move a mountain to do it.”
Quite moved, she said only, “My mother calls you a prince, and I guess I have to agree.”
“How is your mother? How's she doing?”
“She's as busy as any two people could be. Also, she's just met a very nice man, and I'm glad about that, so I don't see much of her. But we will be going down to Florida together for Thanksgiving with Jerry and Emma. Why—what's the matter?”
Arnie's face had clouded. “I wanted to let you enjoy your dinner before telling you. Gerald is taking them on somebody's yacht for Thanksgiving weekend, and he's taking them someplace else over Christmas and New Year's. Acapulco, I think.”
Hyacinth's fork clattered on the plate. “I don't believe it!” she cried. “He can't do that.”
“I'm afraid he can. I've tried to talk him out of it, but he's made his plans already. You'll have the February school vacation, he says, and that's a promise.”
“His promises! A beggar at a table, that's what I am, waiting for crumbs! And what if he says ‘No crumbs today, lady, there's nothing left for you'? What then?”
“Hush, Hy. That won't happen,” Arnie whispered, for in her outrage, her voice had risen.
“Oh, can you guarantee that?”
“I never guarantee anything. But I don't believe he will. He never has, has he?”
“Not good enough,” she said.
“Eat something, Hy. You haven't touched a forkful,” Arnie reproved, for the fork still lay on her plate. And when she still did not touch it, he turned jovial. “You need food. Men don't like skeletons.”
“Men!” she cried bitterly.
“You're scared to death and you're angry, aren't you? And no wonder. I know this is lousy, but what can you do? Gerald's probably already sorry about this, but he won't admit it. So take the ten days in February. Come on down, and you'll have a great time.”
Arnie's smile was meant to be encouraging, and his eyes were almost pleading with her. He was comfort and warmth. Most of all, he was there. And that being so, Hyacinth owed him a bit of cooperation by way of thanks.
“All right. I'll settle for
February. I suppose there's no sense banging my head against a stone wall, is there?”
“Ah well, Hy, you have to look at it that way. It just wasn't meant to be. And you're going to be just fine.”
It was one thing to take valiant resolve, and quite another to hold that resolve; through days of work, one had to be alert and quick to smile, but at home alone the visions crowded, the past full of mistakes, the present full of confusions, and the future unfathomable, all merged into a kind of steaming brew.
And one night before Thanksgiving, which Hyacinth was to spend, and did not want to spend, with Lina's glittering guests at her splendid East Side house, she lost her resolve. Francine had wanted her to go along out west to visit the family there, but since even Lina's party would be preferable to that, Francine was going by herself. Flying from New York, she was to spend tonight with Hyacinth; inevitably their talk would be about Gerald, the cruelty, the outrage, the mystery, and the usual: Why in heaven's name will you not tell me what this is about?
It was too much. And springing up from her chair so abruptly that she almost tipped it over, she ran to the telephone and called Gerald's number.
“Yes, it's who you think it is,” she cried. “What are you doing to me? Does it make you happy to torment me? Do you know you're a devil?”
There came the voice, the rich, melodious voice that had once enthralled her. “A devil? I don't know about that. Isn't it a matter of opinion?”
Smooth, he was, and ever so slightly amused besides. If he had been in the room now, she would have struck him.
“Does it makes you happy to keep my children away from me? They're mine, do you hear? It's I who gave them birth. I nursed them, and you—you—” She was unable to finish.
Gerald's deep sigh came over the wire. She knew it well; it represented exasperation and sophisticated patience.
“You are, as I've said many times, Hyacinth, an over-emotional woman, given to hysteria. I do not keep the children away from you. You have nothing to complain about. You say I torment you. Why? Because of a change in vacation plans?”
“That's not the whole of it. Not nearly. Those disgusting women you have—”
“Disgusting? Who tells you that?”
She had no intention of betraying Arnie, her benefactor, her lifeline. “Emma and Jerry,” she said, “mostly Jerry. Do you know, does anyone know or care, that he watches pornography on cable television late at night? Did you know that?”
“No, I didn't, and I'll certainly look into it. You might remember that I have a busy practice and I can't be everywhere at once.”
“I'm busy, too, and I—”
He interrupted. “I've heard about your success, and I'm impressed, but—”
She interrupted. “Success or not, I would manage to watch my children. That's why they belong with me.”
“The children aren't suffering, Hyacinth. They're healthy and cared for. Take a look. Anybody can see it.”
“They are suffering, Gerald. They are. They want to live with their mother, as most children do.”
“Well, these children can't, and there's no sense in going all over that again. You signed something voluntarily, the price you paid for my silence.” Now the mellow voice turned harsh. “You should be grateful, because I didn't have to do it that way. I didn't have to return the evidence to you after I found it on the lawn.”
“What kind of a world is this where there's no forgiveness and no understanding?” she screamed. “There should be some way, some human being who can get at you—”
He did not allow her to finish, but thrusting his words upon her with a force almost physical, retorted, “ ‘Get at me’? Just try to take legal means. You know what'll happen to you.”
Who of them hung up first, Hyacinth did not know. She knew only that her head was bursting with a rage so anguished that she might have been close to a stroke. In a flood of tears, she threw herself down upon the bed.
When, hours later the doorbell rang, she was still lying there, quiet now and exhausted. Only when the ringing persisted did she remember that Francine was coming to spend the night. And getting up, she stumbled to the door.
There stood her mother, trim in a proper travel suit with her neat suitcase in hand and a look of absolute horror.
“What in the name of God is the matter?” she cried.
“It's nothing. I've been crying.”
“I can see that, can't I? What's happened? Look at yourself!”
Out of the mirror in the hall there stared a sorry, pale face between straggled ropes of ink-black hair.
“I talked to Gerald just now,” she said.
“Well? Well, what?”
“I want my children, and he won't listen to me.” She was too tired to speak. “That's all there is. Please don't ask me any more. You know it all, anyway.”
Francine went into her usual room, where in her tidy fashion she removed her jacket and arranged her few possessions for the night. When she reappeared a few minutes later, Hyacinth had lain down on the sofa and was staring at the ceiling. Francine sat down nearby and with troubled eyes regarded her daughter.
“Of course there's no use in asking you for the thousandth time to explain this to me.”
Hyacinth looked up into the troubled eyes. The pity in them brought a fresh surge of tears. If Emma were feeling the pain that I am feeling now, she thought, it would be unbearable for me. What would I not do to take my daughter's pain away? And here my mother is begging me with her pity.
But no, it is impossible….
Francine inquired, “Does anything hurt you beside your heartache?”
“My head. It feels twice its size.”
“That's tension. Sit up a little, and let me rub your neck.”
The fingers were cool and strong. And as they soothed, queer thoughts passed through Hyacinth's sick head: She used to annoy me, she was not serious enough, she said foolish things, I loved Granny much more than I loved her, she must have known it, she did know it, and she forgave it. I was arrogant and young for my age. She is the only one who foresaw what Gerald would finally do. No, not finally. Not all of it.
“Just try to take legal action. You know what'll happen to you.”
Felony-murder, second degree.
Tears slid down her cheeks and under her collar.
“Oh, what is it?” cried Francine. “I can't bear this anymore. Do you hear me? I can't.”
And Hyacinth heard her. Lying back on the pillow, she closed her eyes and whispered. “Don't look at me. Just listen.”
It was almost midnight, and they were still sitting up. Francine, with a ghastly face, was staring at the wall.
“Now I feel better, but you feel worse,” said Hyacinth.
“That's true. I would feel better if I could think of something to do, but I can't seem to think of anything.”
“Because there is nothing.”
“You couldn't tell Will,” Francine murmured, as if thinking aloud.
“And bring as my dowry,” Hyacinth said in mockery, “a threat hanging over my head? Don't you see?”
“Yes…, ” Francine said reluctantly. “Yes, even if he were willing, no man, lover or not, no man with any brain, no man you'd want, would undertake it. Yes, I see.”
And then, after a silence, she said suddenly, “No man except Arnie. Do you realize how exceptional he is?”
“Of course I do. I always tell him how grateful I am.”
“He wants more than gratitude.”
“I know that, too.”
“Is there no chance for him?”
Hyacinth smiled sadly. “You want to see your daughter securely settled, and I understand. It's only natural.”
“So you're still thinking of Will?”
Thinking? Remembering. Longing. In an elevator the other day, I heard his voice, and I didn't dare turn around until I saw that it wasn't him. Every time the telephone rings, my hand trembles when I pick it up, although I know it won't be Will.
“I'm sorry, Hyacinth. You need some peace.”
“I need some sleep. Right now I want to go to bed.”
Whether for good or ill, she had spoken; she had revealed everything to Francine, and now it was too late to take anything back. Like an incoming wave, a tremendous tiredness swept over her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At the lunch table on the hotel's terrace, Hyacinth, looking about at her family, saw new light in their faces. These few days of Florida sunshine together had been like medicine.
The wait for February had been daunting, as each succeeding day seemed longer than the one before it. The children had been waiting for her, too. They had clung to her and again, to her despair, had been asking when she was going to take them back with her.
But at this particular moment, all was well. Emma was fascinated by the charms on Francine's bracelet. Jerry was talking baseball with Arnie, who had come this noon to join them at lunch; his loud, authoritative manner was amusing Arnie.
Happiness is only an atmosphere created by your mind, she thought. This grass is brilliant; this sky is as blue as a robin's egg; the fruit on the platter shines like porcelain; and all the laughter ripples. When she caught Francine's glance, it told her that a day like this was worth ten times more than the trip to London that Fran-cine had given up for this visit to her grandchildren.
There were only two more days before school would start here, and the spring collection would call Hyacinth back to work. But she must not think of that. Think, rather, of the here and now. At long last she had begun some riding lessons, which had delighted her children. They had all played ball on the beach, had gone deep-sea fishing, swum in the pool, eaten enormous meals, and not wasted a minute.
“What are we doing this afternoon?” asked Jerry. “Are you going riding with us, Mom?”
Hyacinth was about to say yes, when Arnie spoke.
“I was going to ask you to do me a little favor, Hy. Maybe sometime today while the folks here go out to the stables, you would spare a couple of hours to go along while I look for some property that's for sale? Maybe give your opinion? Would you mind?”
