by Nancy Thayer
—
And twelve hours later, Dale knelt in front of the fire in her mother’s house, almost drunk with happiness. She was sitting on the beautifully woven rug in front of the fireplace in her warm winter robe, kneeling behind her mother, brushing her mother’s hair while it dried. Her mother had such beautiful hair. It was thick and lustrous and as it dried in the firelight it began to glimmer with rich reddish-brown tones as warm and alive as the fire itself. Dale could not remember ever having touched her mother’s hair before; she could not remember ever even wanting to. But then of course she had never known her mother with hair like this; she had never known her mother as beautiful; she had never wanted to touch and stroke and caress her mother, as one wants to touch any beautiful creature, before now. She loved her mother. She loved bringing the brush down through her mother’s slightly damp hair, and watching it rise up bristling with its electricity, and then smoothing it with her other hand, and then bringing the brush down again. Margaret sat with her back toward Dale, her arms wrapped around her knees, her head tilted back.
At the last moment at eleven that day, Margaret had lost courage, had called Anthony and asked him to come with her to meet Dale and to take her to lunch. So Dale had had to swallow all her fury and force in order to be civil to the two people who met her at the airport, the two handsome strangers who collected her and took her to lunch. It had been a queer afternoon. Dale had been amazed at the bright, sunlit city with its dramatic backdrop of snow-covered mountains; and just as amazed at the enchantment which grew on her as she went through the day with her two companions. She had not been able to take her eyes off her mother. She had not been able to resist feeling smugly proud to walk into the French restaurant with two such obviously intelligent and elegant people, and she had kept saying to herself as she listened to her mother speak, as she watched her mother draw a cigarette from a charming silver-and-blue case: This is my mother! Why, this is my mother! And listening had been as entrancing as watching Margaret and Anthony; Margaret was actually clever, and witty, and well read, and perceptive. Dale had exclaimed several times: “Why, Mother, I didn’t know you knew that!” And then her mother had looked at her so fondly, a look passing over her face that brought back to Dale memories of the same look which Margaret had given to Dale almost as a gift in her childhood when she had done or said something especially amusing. Oh, her lovely mother, how she was the same, and how she had changed!
The three of them had all gotten on so well, and the day had been so pleasant, just chilly enough to make walking a brisk pleasure, that they had walked all about the city, and then through various parts of Stanley Park, looking at the ocean and its freighters or the Indian totem poles, and talking, and talking. Anthony knew so much about British Columbia; he was an historian, but then he wasn’t at all stuffy, and he spoke in such an entertaining way. They had been too happy a group to want to separate, and so had gone back to Margaret’s house for a late casual dinner of pâté and cheese and breads and cold crabmeat and fruit—and more wine, of course, much more wine. Anthony had finally left about ten-thirty, and as the two women walked him out to the car they had been taken with the way the full moon was shining in the sky, and as he drove away they decided to take a walk along the beach to watch the moon shining on the water. They had walked and walked together, laughing and talking. Dale had told her mother about her father’s marriage plans and had been able to see clearly by the moonlight how her mother’s face had brightened with delight at the news.
“Really?” Margaret had asked, turning toward Dale and clapping her hands together like a child. “Oh, really?” She seemed almost unable to believe such good fortune. “Oh, Dale, how wonderful!” Impulsively Margaret had hugged Dale to her, as if Dale had been somehow responsible for this event. “Isn’t it just perfect! Trudy is just what he needs, oh, they’ll get on so well together. Oh, think of it, just think of it, how nice.”
So they had walked on down the beach, farther and farther, stepping over bits of driftwood and large stones, talking about Dale’s father and his prospective new wife. Then Dale was able to talk to Margaret about Daisy in a different spirit from the one she had intended, from the one she had arrived with, and Margaret had been silent, listening, and finally had said, “I see what you’re saying. I understand what you want of me. Let me think about it. Give me a while to think this through. I will do something. Just give me time to think a bit.” And Dale had found it easy to accept this, to let the matter rest, to trust her mother.
Then a sudden wind had come up and blown clouds over the moon and in a matter of seconds a cold full rain had begun to come down on them. They were drenched immediately, but had turned and run back toward Margaret’s house anyway, as if by running they could keep themselves from getting any the more wet. In minutes they were totally soaked, with their hair and clothes sticking against them, and in running Dale had hit her foot against a log, but still it had turned out to be gay and crazy, running along beside the ocean in the rain, with Margaret going ahead of Dale and calling back to her over her shoulder, and both of them suddenly laughing with the gaiety of it all. Lights from the houses they passed and from across the harbor streaked and glittered as they ran, and Margaret and Dale were strangely caught up in a festive, even celebratory mood, so that by the time they arrived at Margaret’s house they did not go right in but stood looking up at the pouring sky and out at the waltzing ocean, with their arms held out to receive the rain and their heads thrown back. It was as if they had accomplished something, simply by running back to Margaret’s house together in the rain; it was as if something astonishing had been achieved. Of course they were a bit drunk from all the day’s wine, but it was more than that. Though they could not have said this to themselves in just so many words, it was as if the cold bright rain coming so unexpectedly made them aware of how full of good surprises the world was, of how one can sometimes turn the most casual corner in one’s life and come upon a miracle.
Finally their teeth had begun to chatter and they had gone into the house. They didn’t want to ruin the rugs, so they had stripped off most of their clothes just inside the kitchen door and let them fall down in puddly globs of fabric.
“God, you look good, Mother!” Dale had exclaimed, seeing her mother there before her in underpants and bra. “You look marvelous!”
“Thank you,” Margaret had said, almost shyly. “So do you. Let’s go get something warm on before we catch pneumonia, and I’ll throw more wood on the fire.”
Margaret had put on her robe and stoked the fire, and Dale had put on her robe and made a pot of herb tea, and then they had sat in front of the fire quietly, getting warmed.
“I can’t get over your hair, Mother,” Dale said. “It’s so wonderful now. I wish you had worn it that way all your life. May I brush it?”
“Oh, yes, please,” Margaret said. She got up and found her brush and sat on the rug with her back to Dale. “Daisy used to brush my hair when she was very little, when you were a baby,” Margaret said. “You never did that, you never were much interested in that sort of thing. But Daisy used to love to brush my hair, as if I were one of her dolls. She would get out all her little barrettes and ribbons and stick them in my hair. Oh, I can remember one day when Daisy was five and you were just an infant, and I was so tired, so tired. I finally got you down for a nap, but Daisy was too old to nap, and it was winter and there was no school for some reason, and I just didn’t have the energy to entertain Daisy. So I lay on the sofa in the living room and asked her to brush my hair. Well, she did, and put in every barrette and ribbon she owned, and it felt so good to just lie there having her tend to me with her sweet tiny hands, and I was so tired. Well, when she got bored with doing my hair, I told her that she could get my lipstick and put it on me and fix my face up. I was desperate for some rest, Dale, I just needed to lie there and not move. So Daisy got my lipstick and put it on my lips, and then my cheeks, and then began to draw all over my face with it. I was simply to
o tired to object and I couldn’t see any harm in it anyway. Actually, it felt quite good, like having a facial massage, I can remember even now. The delicate pressure of that soft creamy lipstick being spread everywhere across my face. And of course you can guess what happened: one of the neighbors came to the door to bring me a cake and a present for you, since you were newborn, and when I heard the doorbell ring I thought, Lord, no, what shall I do! But before I could stop her, Daisy had gone out and opened the door and let her in. Old Mrs. Schultz; did I ever give her a shock. I managed to sit up by the time she got into the living room, but there was nothing I could do about my red face and wild hair. I tried to explain it to her, and she was fairly understanding, she had children herself, but all the same, I was chagrined.” Margaret and Dale laughed and laughed.
“I had something like that happen to me,” Dale said. “I mean not that, but the same sort of thing. It was—well, I suppose I can tell you, even if you are my mother. It was this November. I had been in an enormous variety store up in Portland, getting some stationery and deodorant and all that sort of thing, and I came across—oh, yes, it was in the toy department, I was looking at the toys, trying to decide what to send Danny and Jenny for Christmas. Well, I came across this wonderful booklet full of tiny fluorescent stars. It was a small booklet full of yellowish paper, and a thin liner could be peeled off the back, exposing a sticky side, so that all these little things could stick. There were small stars and moons and planets and comets that were outlined by perforations so that children could punch them out easily. I actually sent some to Danny. They’re wonderful. You put them about the room, on the ceiling and the walls, and inside the closets, and while the light is on, the paper absorbs the light, and then when you turn off the light and it’s all dark, these moons and stars glow. They give off a marvelous eerie greenish glow. Well, here’s what I did—you mustn’t be shocked now, Mother, you’re old enough to know—I bought several booklets for myself. And that night when I went to Hank’s I made him wait in the darkened bedroom by himself; I told him I had a surprise. I undressed in the bathroom, with all the lights on, and put those stars and moons and planets and comets all over my body. Stars on my breasts, a comet coming out of my belly button, a sun on each eyelid. Well, it was amazing! It was really fabulous. I came out into the dark of Hank’s bedroom and it was uncanny and absolutely wild. I mean I made him turn off all the lights, and so it was too dark to see any of my body, and all there was, all he could see, was all these tiny stars and planets dancing around toward him. I saw them in the mirror and couldn’t get over it, it was so wild! Well, I couldn’t help it, I danced and waved my arms about, it was a bit like being a firework, a sparkler or something, and—and, anyway, the next day I had to teach. I was showing a film in my biology class, and I set up the projector and pulled the shades and turned off the lights and walked back through the classroom to sit at the back. And the students began to whisper and titter—and they’re good students, usually well-mannered. So I finally said, ‘Okay, you guys, what’s going on?’ Well, I thought I had taken off all those stars, and I had even showered that morning, but the glue really sticks, and somehow I had missed a few. I had a star on the back of one arm and a comet on the back of the other and a planet at the side of my neck, and there I was walking along with these things glowing in my biology class. Well, I was cool. I just said, ‘Oh, thanks for telling me. Now be quiet and watch this film. You’ll be tested on it.’ But of course for a few moments I wanted to die.”
“Didn’t they ask you why you were wearing those things?” Margaret asked, laughing.
“No,” Dale said. “They could tell by my tone of voice I wouldn’t have told them. There, Mother, your hair’s all dry. And it’s gorgeous. It’s incredible.”
“Well, it’s dyed,” Margaret said. “But it used to be this color. I suppose I’ll keep dyeing it until—when, I don’t know, whenever it seems too obviously phony. Someday I’ll have to have the grace to live with white hair.”
“Mother,” Dale said, “you’ve got the grace to live with orange hair, or green or purple! I can’t believe how you’ve changed.” And she put her arm around her mother’s shoulders and they sat there in front of the fire awhile, side by side.
“Yes,” Margaret said after a bit, her voice becoming slow as if she were sleepy, “but you’ve changed, too, you know. You’ve changed a lot.”
“Well, I’m older,” Dale said. “And I’ve discovered a lot about myself. I really love my work. And then, of course, there’s Hank. I love him. He loves me. It’s—it’s really incredible how love can change your life.”
“Oh, yes,” Margaret said, and her voice grew slower, as if she were withdrawing into sleep, into a solitary region where Dale could not follow. “Oh, yes, of course, Love. Oh, well.” She leaned over and gave Dale an affectionate peck on her cheek. “You can tell me about Hank tomorrow,” she said. “I really do want to hear all about him. But I’ve got to get into bed now, I’m really fading away.” And she rose with sleepy grace and went into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
Dale sat in front of the fire for a while, trying to think about the day and all that had so subtly happened. It had not been quite spoiled by the tone of Margaret’s voice when she said, “Oh, yes, of course, Love. Oh, well.” Yet that had added a touch of sharpness, or perhaps only reality, to an otherwise joyfully blurred twelve hours. But after all, Dale thought, Mother is Mother, and I am myself. She has to live her life, and I get to live my own. And with that seemingly profound thought, Dale stretched out on the rug in front of the fire and fell asleep, with her head flat on the rug next to the pretty brass tray that held the teapot and cups. When she awoke in the morning Pandora the cat was asleep next to her left shoulder, and the new cat, the beautiful large gray one, was curled up with all the heavy warmth of his body right on the small of Dale’s back. Dale lay awake for a long time, watching the sun on the water, not wanting to move to disturb the sleep of the cat or the pleasure of her own body in feeling his warm vital weight.
Eight
The last Friday in March, it snowed heavily in Rocheport. Dale and Hank and Carol sat in Hank’s living room by the warmth of the wood stove, trying to play Scrabble. They were waiting for Carol’s fiancé, Bob, who was driving up from Massachusetts to spend the weekend with Carol. Dale and Carol had made a delicious bouillabaisse, which now simmered on the stove, and the salad was waiting in the refrigerator for the dressing. There was even a large loaf of oatmeal bread which Carol had made specially that day, but now she had taken it out of the oven so it would not get too browned. Bob was almost two hours late, and Dale and Hank and Carol were all pretending not to worry. But the snow continued to fall heavily, and from time to time the trees just outside the windows would creak under the weight of the damp snow, and it was impossible not to think of how bad the roads were. Dale was stumped; it was her turn to make a word. She had the letters deat on her small wooden holder, and there was a free h waiting on the board. She could have made the word death and gotten a triple word score, but felt too superstitious to make the word while Bob was so noticeably absent. They had turned off the stereo and the radio on in order to keep up with each new weather and news report, and whenever the announcer’s voice broke the pattern of music, the three sitting around the Scrabble board would freeze in order to concentrate on listening. Carol kept getting up to stir the stew, or get more wine, or use the bathroom, and Dale and Hank noticed how she looked out the windows each time she rose, as if by the intensity of her vision she could draw Bob’s car safely into the driveway.
“He’s got a front-wheel-drive car,” Hank said. “He’ll be fine. This snow is bound to slow him down.”
But they were all afraid that the snow might do more—a patch of ice, a skid, an accident…They were all very polite and quiet, like good children trying to charm the universe into kindness.
“He’ll call if he gets in trouble,” Dale said. It was the third or fourth time she had said it.
“I know,” Carol said. “He’s a careful driver. He’s driven in this kind of weather all his life.” But still her face was tense. And no other topic of conversation could hold her interest.
Dale settled on the word tie, which gave her only three points, and waited for Carol to make her word. She thought: at least we’re here with her, in case anything bad does happen.
“Oh, I can’t think of a single word to make,” Carol said, exasperated. “I’m usually so good at this game.”
“Let me see your letters,” Hank said. “Maybe I can help.”
