A Hundred Summers

by Beatriz Williams

“Should be.” He turns a corner, and the Packard slides out from under us for a dizzying second before Nick brings her back under control.

  “I’m sorry.” I unclench my hands from the edge of the seat. “This is all my fault. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “It’s all right, sweetheart. We’re almost there. We’ll have a hot dinner and a hot bath and be good as new.”

  The hotel is enormous, a grand resort the way they used to build them. The lobby opens around us in a carnival of pillars and plaster, of red velvet settees and carpeting worn with paths. A restaurant lies to the left, the mahogany-lined bar dead ahead. To our surprise, every corner crawls with guests.

  “We have a big New Year’s party here every year,” says the clerk. “Fills us right up. Do you have a reservation?”

  “No,” says Nick. “Anything is fine, so long as there’s a bed.”

  The clerk’s eyes narrow with doubt. He looks over his floor plan, clicking his tongue.

  Nick leans forward. “Look, my wife and I are here on our honeymoon. We’ve driven a long distance today. Surely something can be arranged?”

  The clerk looks up and sends a single skeptical eyebrow arching into his forehead. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Greenwald.”

  “Greenwald. Again, congratulations.” He glances at my left hand with a discreet flick of his eyes. “But I’m afraid we have no rooms. Perhaps you might choose to make a reservation in advance, next time.” He awards us a gleaming smile.

  Nick’s right index finger taps the wooden counter in a deliberate rhythm. With each strike, I can feel his anger mounting.

  “Nick, perhaps the man can suggest another hotel nearby.”

  “Just a moment, darling. May I have the favor of a private word with you, sir?” Nick says, with steely politeness.

  The clerk’s throat moves up and down. “Certainly, sir.”

  I lean my elbow against the counter and watch them slide away, speaking in hushed tones. Nick’s body tilts toward the clerk just slightly, so that his head overhangs the counter in a fierce profile. I recognize that expression. It’s the same unstoppable face he wore the moment I first saw him. As he speaks, the clerk seems to shrink into his neat white collar, nodding and working his mouth.

  Across the lobby, a grand piano strikes up “Thinking of You.” A woman in a long midnight-blue dress leans against the ebony and begins to sing in a sultry half-drunk voice.

  “Mrs. Greenwald?”

  It takes me an instant to realize that the clerk is addressing me.

  “Yes?” I ask, turning.

  “It seems we have a room available after all. Will there be any luggage?”

  “No. No luggage.” Behind us, the singer pours out her heart.

  So I think of no other one

  Ever since I’ve begun

  Thinking of you

  Nick is signing the guest book with bold movements of an enamel fountain pen. I glance down at the page. Mr. and Mrs. Nicholson Greenwald, New York City, it says, in Nick’s slanted black handwriting.

  “We’d like dinner sent up to the room,” says Nick, laying down the pen and looking the clerk in the eye. “Prime rib, a center cut, if you’ve got it, and your best claret.”

  “Sir,” says the clerk timidly, “we cannot offer wine. As you know.”

  “Of course not. My mistake. A pitcher of water, then. Ice water. What would you like for dessert, darling?”

  I clear my throat. “Chocolate cake?”

  “Chocolate cake for my wife,” says Nick. “In half an hour, please. No later. We’re very hungry.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” Nick picks up the key and holds out his arm for me. “Mrs. Greenwald? Are you coming?”

  I loop my mink-covered arm through his. “Oh, I’m coming, all right.”

  Our room is on a high floor, at the end of a long corridor clothed in faded crimson. Nick reaches for the knob and unlocks it, and before I can even think to gasp, swings me up into his tired arms.

  “But we aren’t married yet!” I protest, as he carries me over the threshold.

  “Shh. If driving sixteen hours upstate through a snowstorm doesn’t constitute a marriage vow, I don’t know what does. Anyway, welcome home, Mrs. Almost-Greenwald.” He flips the light switch with his elbow.

  I slide out of Nick’s arms and look around. Despite the dim glow of the light overhead, the room sits in a persistent winter darkness, faintly musty, the curtains closed snugly over the windows. Nick takes off his coat and slings it over a chair, and wanders over to the window to push aside the heavy draperies. “You can’t see much, but the clerk assured me we’re overlooking the lake. I guess we’ll find out in the morning.”

  “The snow should be finished by then, don’t you think?” I join him next to the window and look out. There’s nothing to see, only the blurry flakes driving past the glass and the faint white shadow of the landscape beyond, reflecting the light from the hotel. Our faces float in front of it all, bemused and spent.

  “It’s a beautiful spot,” says Nick. “We were here in the summer, and it was lovely. The lake goes on and on.” His voice hangs in the air like a leaden weight.

  “You’re exhausted.” I put my hands at his waist, underneath his black tailcoat, and turn him around to face me. “You’ve been up all night.”

  “I’ve done it before. I’ll be all right.”

  My eyes ache, looking up at his familiar face, at the tiny prickles of his beard emerging from his jaw. “I didn’t mean to rush you like this. I didn’t mean to make you . . . We should have waited, shouldn’t we, until June, until after school was out. . . .”

  Nick’s hands rise up to envelop my face. “What are you saying, Lilybird? Don’t say that.” He bends to kiss the tears from my cheeks. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Imagine the story we’ll have for our kids one day. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the universe right now, than in this room with you.”

  “But what do we do now? There’s the rest of the year, we have to finish our degrees, and . . .”

  “Don’t worry about that. Don’t worry about any of it. We’re together, that’s what matters. What’s a few months? What’s a little blowup with our families? We’ve got fifty or sixty years to go, Lily. This is nothing.” He touches his forehead to mine. “Actually, this is everything. It’s our beginning. Start with a bang, that’s the thing.”

  I laugh through my tears. “We’ve done that, all right. Now, go take a bath before dinner comes up.”

  “No, you go first. I can wait.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’ve been driving all day. You must be as stiff as a board. You take the first bath, and I’ll make sure your dinner is all laid out and ready when you come out.” I give him a nudge. “My first wifely duty.”

  Nick draws back and waggles his eyebrows. “You could always join me.”

  “If you get lonely, I’ll toss you a rubber duckie.”

  He gives me a last kiss and disappears into the bathroom. The hiss of running water seeps past the door, and then the soft thud of his movements. I busy myself about the room, turning on the lamps, hanging up Nick’s coat, reading all the notices. There’s not much to do. No luggage to unpack, no clothes to change. Next to the wall, the bed waits promisingly; a honeymoon bed, sized for two. The counterpane is tucked up around the pillows.

  I hesitate, contemplating the corners and dimensions, as if it’s a wild animal standing in my path.

  The radiator groans in the corner, making me jump. My skin flushes with warmth beneath the heavy mink coat. I slide it off my shoulders and hang it in the wardrobe next to Nick’s sober wool, and then I go to the bed and turn down the bedspread with businesslike movements, fluffing the pillows, straightening the sheets, as I have done a thousand times before with my own bed in my own room, at Seaview and Smith College and the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Nearby, behind the bathroom door, Ni
ck’s large body is by now settling into the steaming water, making it slosh along the enameled walls of the tub. Does he have soap in there? Should I ask? Knock, or poke my head through the door?

  I cannot bring myself to do either. A rap sounds on the door, and dinner arrives in silver domes on a small wheeled table covered with a white tablecloth. The waiter arranges everything with great care, silent as the grave; he pulls out a bottle of wine from under the tablecloth and uncorks it with a gentle pop. When he’s finished, he straightens and looks at me expectantly.

  A tip. Oh, God. I didn’t bring any money with me.

  “Just a moment,” I say.

  I knock on the bathroom door and open it a crack. “Nick,” I whisper, staring at the floor, “dinner’s here.”

  “Hmm?” His voice is sleepy.

  “Dinner’s here. He . . . I’m sorry, he needs a tip, and I didn’t bring anything . . .”

  The sound of dripping water, as if Nick is lifting his head. “Oh, damn. I’m sorry, sweetheart. My clip’s in the inside pocket of my coat. Take whatever you need.”

  I close the door, go to the wardrobe, and work my hand inside the liquid silk lining of Nick’s overcoat until I find a hard lump. I slide it free. The gold clip is stuffed with bills, large bills, hundreds and twenties. Perhaps this is what the hotel clerk found so persuasive. Take whatever you need, said Nick, casually, offhandedly, the way married couples do. I don’t feel casual at all. I finger through Nick’s money until I find a dollar bill, then remember the contraband claret and select a five and fold it into a discreet rectangle.

  “Thank you,” I say to the waiter, offering it.

  His eyes go round. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Greenwald. Very much indeed.”

  The water begins to drain from the bathtub. The waiter leaves.

  A few minutes later, Nick emerges from the bathroom, wearing his pants and his undershirt, his formal white shirt hanging from one hand. He rubs his unshaven face with the other. “Should have called down for a razor. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. It makes you look especially piratical.”

  He smiles and holds out the shirt. “I thought you could wear this, until we can get something for you tomorrow. More comfortable than your dress, right?”

  “Thank you.” I take it from him. “I gave him five dollars. I’m sorry, I know it was far too much, but he came so quickly and brought the wine after all, and . . . and after all, it is a holiday . . .”

  “Lily, for God’s sake, of all the things to worry about. What’s mine is yours, all right?”

  “That’s not necessary, really . . .”

  “Necessary or not. You shouldn’t need to ask. Now, let’s eat.”

  We eat in silence, surrounded by the enormity of the evening, by the close-packed winter darkness, by the snow blowing outside the window, by the fatigue settling around Nick’s hazel-brown eyes, by the honeymoon bed stretching from the wall with its bedspread turned back. Nick pours me a glass of the hotel’s best claret, but I can hardly touch it, can hardly touch the food on my plate.

  “Lily, eat, please.” He stabs my fork into a piece of roast beef and offers it to me. “You’ve got to eat. You’re worrying me.”

  I take the meat and chew it carefully, until it fits past the lump of tension in my throat and into my belly. Nick looks at me anxiously. “What’s wrong, Lilybird? Are you afraid?”

  “No, only tired.”

  “Second thoughts? Cold feet?”

  “Of course not! No.” I rise from the chair. My knees wobble, and then hold. “Why don’t I take my bath now? That’s all I need.”

  Nick rises, too, and sets his napkin by his plate. “Lily, if you’re worried about . . .” He brushes my hair from my cheek and speaks softly. “We don’t have to, you know. I’d never . . . you know I’d never . . .”

  “I know.” I force myself up on my toes and kiss his lips. “But I want to, Nick. I want to share this with you. You know I do. Jitters.” I find the word. “It’s just jitters.”

  “Jitters? What kind of jitters?”

  “Going-off-to-school jitters. First-time-driving-a-car jitters.”

  Nick puts his arms around me. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Lily. It’s only me. Just your old Nick, who’s crazy about you, who wants to make you happy. If you’re not ready, say so. We’ve got the rest of our lives, remember?”

  “I’m ready, Nick. I am. I’ve wanted this forever.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I draw back, so I can see his face, and nod. “I’ll go take a bath, and make myself all fresh and sweet for you, and it will be perfect. Everything will be easier, don’t you think, once we’re together.”

  “Get it over with, do you mean?” He gives me a grin and thumbs my chin.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” he promises.

  When I emerge from the bathroom a quarter-hour later, pulse clanging in my throat, wearing Nick’s shirt and nothing else, the table has been tidied and set aside, and Nick lies upon the bed, fast asleep, his arm crossed over his white-cotton chest.

  My heart gives way at the sight of him. He is so long and stark and marvelous, his face so still in repose. His bare feet hang over the frame. On the bedside table sit our two glasses of wine, half finished, glowing scarlet under the lamp.

  “Oh, Nick,” I breathe. I kneel by the bed and brush the hair at his temple. He doesn’t stir.

  As gently as I can, I work the covers out from under his heavy body and tuck him in. The room is still and watchful around us, the hotel and its guests at rest. I turn off the lamps, one by one, and make sure the curtains are tightly shut. I take the telephone off its cradle. Nothing shall disturb Nick’s rest tonight.

  A distant thump, a murmur of voices, and the silence resumes. I raise the covers on the other side of the bed—the right side, the one on which I usually sleep, as if I’ve always known—and ease myself between the cool sheets, next to Nick.

  Now that I’m here, in bed with Nick, the fatigue has lifted from my shoulders like the weight of Mother’s fur coat. I lie awake with my eyes fixed on the shadowed ceiling and listen to Nick’s steady breath, trying to pick out his heartbeat through the sheets and blankets, feeling the heat of his enormous body creep toward me and surround me, keeping me warm while the snow whirls outside the window.

  16.

  MANHATTAN

  Tuesday, September 20, 1938

  Grand Central Terminal swarmed with dripping people and dripping umbrellas. It had been raining since Saturday, raining with epic conviction, thunderbursts and downpours and drizzles. Mother, driving me to the train station at dawn, had made a rare joke that she ought to have taken me in an ark instead.

  I had been planning to take a taxi up to our apartment, but with the rain streaming down the streets like that, I might as well have panned for gold as found an empty cab. Subway it was, then. I set down my satchel and hunted through my pocketbook for a nickel, beneath all the detritus of summer. My fingers were damp with perspiration; my body was soaked with it. The rain hadn’t driven away the heat at all. It was the third week of September, and we were living in the tropics, here in the Northeast.

  I found a nickel, stuck with lint, and trudged down the stairs and through the turnstiles to the IRT platform. The heat grew successively more oppressive with each stairway. My hair felt like a sticky coil of steel wool beneath my hat.

  When I reached the apartment, the first thing I’d do was take a shower.

  Assuming Graham wasn’t there already, of course, but it was the middle of the day and I was quite certain he’d be out. He had called me every morning since his departure from Seaview—early, because he had to leave for training and doctor appointments and meetings of various kinds. Every morning he had called me and asked when I would come down to visit, and every morning I had put him off. So hard to leave Kiki. Mother had a cough. We had started packing up, doing the end-of-summer cleanout. I’d be down soon, I promised.
I couldn’t wait.

  He would often call in the evenings, too, his voice a little unsteady, his mood a little more sentimental. Couldn’t I just come for the day? Everything was flat and empty without me. He needed me. He wanted to set a date, he wanted to take me away on our honeymoon. He’d been down to the Cunard offices, picked up a few brochures: what did I think of the Caribbean? Of South America? What about sailing around the world and coming back just in time for spring training? He couldn’t wait to see me. We had so much to talk about, so many plans to make. A whole new life together, a clean slate. He’d be so good to me.

  He promised to pay the telephone bill when my mother returned from Seaview.

  “Why haven’t you gone to see him yet?” Budgie had asked, one morning last week. “He phoned me the other day in absolute despair. Despair, Lily.”

  “Because I feel so guilty leaving everyone here,” I said.

  “Don’t be such a martyr. We can all get on without you. He’s pining. You can’t leave a man like Graham waiting too long, darling.”

  “But Nick’s been in the city since Labor Day, without you.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

  We were lying on a blanket in the cove, sunning ourselves during one of the rare patches of cloudlessness that September. Budgie lay on her stomach, her swimsuit rolled down to her waist, her eyes closed in a contented torpor of Parliaments and gin, which she’d brought with her in a large Thermos jug with tonic and plenty of ice. She opened one eye at me and smiled. “Well, that’s different, darling,” she said, reaching for her cigarette. “We’re married. And he wants me to stay out here as long as I can, because of the baby.”

  The baby. She talked all the time about the baby: how happy she was, how happy Nick was. (Would it be a boy or a girl? She hoped a boy, for Nick’s sake.) How she hoped Graham and I would have a baby of our own right away, so we could raise them together. (Wouldn’t that be darling? Our children would spend summers together at Seaview, just like we had. Did I remember how we ate our first ice cream cones together, when we were five or so?)