Glass Mountain

by Cynthia Voigt

  “My mother doesn’t trust me,” he remarked.

  “Your mother is considerate.”

  “Oh, well, sure, she’s nice, for what that’s worth, I just wouldn’t like to have to live on what it’s worth. If you get me.”

  I got him.

  “You call the Carol person and tell her I can’t make it. She’s wrong, I do remember her; if I didn’t I might have gone just out of curiosity. She used to hang around with…I can still see the three of them, Bunny and Stick and…Hinge, that’s what we called her—Hinge. Hinge, Bunny, and the Stick. Between them they covered about the entire range of female unattractiveness. We weren’t exactly friendly with them. I don’t know why she’s calling me up. Her father was transferred to the Midwest when I was sixteen. I suppose she might have grown up into a raving beauty. Do you think?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “The other two haven’t, so probably not. But don’t you wonder, Gregor, what it is that attracts all these women? What is it women see in men, what there is about me?”

  “Money, sir,” I suggested. “Money is a powerful aphrodisiac.”

  “You’re a cynic, Gregor.” He stood up. He was almost my height, almost six feet, but he looked shorter because of his tennis player’s body. “Kyle told me once that a cynic is just a reformed idealist.”

  “I would say, rather, a reformed romantic.” I was arranging leaves of romaine lettuce on the salad plates.

  “That’s just words. Anyway, money’s not what turns me on.”

  “Yes, well,” I said, “perhaps that’s because you have so very much of it.”

  He laughed. “Lucky me then.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “I’m going to return that call,” he announced, leaving the kitchen. He didn’t need to specify which.

  The senior Mondleighs always arrived at precisely ten minutes after the stated time, so I was at the door ready to take their coats when Mr. Theo greeted them. Mr. Mondleigh was a broader version of Mr. Theo, a fine figure of a man. I sometimes think that while it takes only two generations to establish a fortune, the first to make it and the second to test whether it will be—as so many have been—frittered away, it takes at least another two generations to establish the gene pool, the characteristic appearance of the family. Mrs. Mondleigh was another fine figure and as sumptuously presented as her husband, although she didn’t command the eye as he did. It was easy to overlook Mrs. Mondleigh, and she seemed to prefer that. Her glance had a luminous quality, a seeing quality, which she concealed by seldom looking directly at people. A hesitant manner of speaking and the softness of her voice concealed her mind. Italian knits with shawl-like tops concealed her body. She was a concealed woman. We got on well.

  When I passed around the tray of cheese puffs, the family was in the library. Mrs. Mondleigh stood in front of a Woody, Interior Landscape #7. “Did I tell you, Theo, your father and I found one of hers? Not as fine as this, I’m afraid. I don’t know how you…” Her voice faded as she searched for the end of her thought.

  “Could afford it,” Mr. Theo finished for her.

  “Recognized its value,” Mr. Mondleigh suggested.

  She turned to take a cheese puff and say to me, “Of all my children I’d never have thought Theo would be the one to…”

  “Have any taste?” Mr. Theo asked. “Actually, Gregor picked it out.”

  Mr. Mondleigh waved the tray away. “If you ever decide to sell it, I hope you’ll give me first refusal.”

  Mrs. Mondleigh turned her back to them, turned back to the picture.

  “I don’t think so, Dad.”

  “You know how your mother likes it.”

  “If you pressed me, I might consider an offer of twenty thousand.”

  “That’s outrageous,” Mr. Mondleigh sputtered. “Gregor? I think I’ll change my mind and have one of those things.” I returned with the tray. “Have you no family feeling?”

  “How about a refill, Dad? I’m ready for one too. Gregor?” I took up the glasses, carrying them to the wet bar. “You have to remember, Dad, that I don’t have a profession to fall back on. Living by my wits as I do, I have to keep my eye on any chance to increase my net worth.”

  “Don’t tease your father, Theo,” Mrs. Mondleigh murmured.

  “I don’t know if I’d call cashing a quarterly check from the Trust living by your wits. Consulting, is that what you call what you’re doing?”

  “Investment counseling, actually,” Mr. Theo said.

  “For old school friends—thank you, Gregor—who never did a day’s work and don’t care how much of their fathers’, or grandfathers’, money you lose.”

  “You two should never…”

  “Well,” Mr. Mondleigh said, “Your mother doesn’t like arguments.”

  “They upset her,” Mr. Theo agreed.

  I went back to the kitchen.

  By the soup course, in the fixed procession of conversation at family gatherings, they were discussing relatives and had arrived at Mr. Theo’s younger sister, the baby of the family, “due home at the end of April, and I hope the year abroad has taught her some sense. Or at least that the school has taught her to be more manageable.”

  I set the double-handled bowls of bouillon down gently.

  “Does that mean you’ll cut short your stay in the Bahamas?” Mr. Theo asked. “Or will she join you there?”

  “Sarah hasn’t let us know…”

  “Her plans,” Mr. Theo said, amused. “Sarah doesn’t like plans. She’s a free spirit, she knows how to stop and smell the roses. It’s too late to try and change her.”

  “I’ll feel a lot easier in my mind when she’s married and has a couple of children to settle her down,” Mr. Mondleigh agreed.

  The main course of the meal was the time for the main focus of the gathering: Mr. Theo himself.

  “…a man of your age,” Mr. Mondleigh was saying as I entered. I offered the platter of sautéed chicken breasts to Mrs. Mondleigh, then Mr. Mondleigh, then Mr. Theo. After that, I carried around rice pilaf encircled by minted baby carrots.

  “I’m only thirty, Dad. That’s not what anyone would call old.”

  “You can’t blame the boy, David, if he doesn’t want to…”

  “Grow up? I certainly can. And I do.”

  I adjusted the platter so that Mrs. Mondleigh could take the serving spoon.

  “Can’t we drop the subject?” Mr. Theo asked.

  “Not until you give me some good reason. At thirty, your brother had two sons and was expecting his third child. I’m not even going to mention where his career was at that age, except to say he was the youngest Assistant Head in Groton’s history.”

  “You’re lucky to have one entirely satisfying son, Dad. One is more than a lot of men get. You should be grateful.”

  “The Rawlings are a fine family, we’ve known them all your life, you know everything about her,” Mr. Mondleigh said. He made his points like a carpenter, first setting then settling a nail. He seemed to think that the more convinced he was, the more convincing his arguments would be. As if conviction made them true.

  “Dad,” Mr. Theo protested, at the same time that his mother spoke softly, “David.”

  The kitchen door swung closed behind me.

  For dessert, I brought an apple tart to the table, and three plates with cut wedges served on them. Mr. Theo had by then become mocking. “You’re saying I should get married because you’re ready for me to be married?”

  “She’s a thoroughly nice girl,” his father answered. “Quiet, bookish. What do you have against her?”

  Mrs. Mondleigh reached out a hand to her son. She didn’t touch him, but she reached out, an uncompleted gesture. “Are you in love with someone, Theo?”

  “Are you saying I should get married because I’m not in love with anyone?”

  I had dishes to wash.

  The dishwasher was loaded, the pots and pans scoured and dried and put away, the dirty silverware piled beside a s
ink by the time Mrs. Mondleigh brought the tart platter into the kitchen. I dried my hands.

  “Dinner was delicious, as always, Gregor,” she said.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mondleigh. I’ll serve coffee in the living room.”

  “If I were a…”

  I poured coffee into the silver pot, and waited.

  “…less loving mother, I’d try to hire you away.”

  “I’m very well suited here,” I told her.

  She smiled. “I should think so. I would think working for Theo is…”

  I picked up the tray, and waited.

  “…a plum.”

  “A plum indeed.”

  As I entered the living room, I saw that Mr. Theo’s nostrils were flaring in anger, a restrained quivering, like the rims of oysters simmering in a stew. He sat in an armchair, facing his father, who sat in an identical chair facing him. Mrs. Mondleigh had placed herself on the sofa, between them. “Most of the young men your age are married,” Mr. Mondleigh said. He was not angry, because he was sure he was right.

  “Most for the second time,” Mr. Theo countered.

  I put the tray down on a side table and poured three cups.

  “Is that supposed to be funny? Because I don’t find it particularly humorous. You’re too young to know it, but love is about the worst possible basis for marriage. I wasn’t—thank you, Gregor”—he took the cup and set it down without a glance at it—“in love with your mother when we married. If I were being candid, I’d have to say I didn’t even start to love her until Davy was born. And we’ve been married almost thirty-six years now; we have a marriage that’s lasted. By now, by this time…well. Love isn’t something you fall into, son. It’s something you grow into.”

  Mr. Theo drank from his cup, glaring at his father over the rim. I offered Mrs. Mondleigh sugar and cream.

  “That first year, your mother could have been anyone, any reasonably attractive, eligible girl. It didn’t require love. You’re old enough, and experienced enough, to—”

  Mr. Theo’s nostrils flared.

  I had their coats ready as the senior Mondleighs went to the door. Mr. Mondleigh went out first to bring the car from the garage. I held Mrs. Mondleigh’s heavy mink for her. She had her eyes on her husband’s broad back, descending the steps to the sidewalk, walking away. “Do you know, Theo, I was so in love with him I thought I’d die if he didn’t ask me to marry him. I thought I would actually die. It’s funny to think that…”

  Mr. Theo finished the sentence for her. “Things might have been so different, with a different choice. I know what you mean, Mother.”

  “But that wasn’t…” She reached up to kiss his cheek. “Well, perhaps I was more naive than most. I was surely more…naive than girls are now. Thank you again, Gregor.”

  I bowed my head and withdrew.

  I was sitting at the kitchen table drying the silver when Mr. Theo entered. “It looks like I have to be out at the Farm this Saturday.” He sat down in the other chair, then sprawled back. “They’re putting the pressure on. Heavy pressure.”

  “I did notice.”

  “Well? What do you think? You’re not married. How old are you, Gregor? Why aren’t you married?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “I knew that, didn’t I? It was on your CV. I just always think of you as older, I don’t know why. It’s not that you actually look older.”

  “It’s part of my job, sir. To appear older.”

  “Whatever Dad says, I’d rather make money on my own. He might be contented as long as he doesn’t lose what he’s inherited, but that’s not good enough for me. They’ve even picked out the girl.”

  “What does she think of it?” I added a gleaming serving spoon to the line of silverware in front of me.

  “Prune?” he asked.

  I was alarmed. As a non sequitur it had its perfection, but I was accustomed to being able to follow his thought processes. “Prune?” I asked.

  Mr. Theo laughed, bright boyish laughter. “That’s what we called her, Davy and me, whenever—We had to play with her sometimes, and she’d just, just stand around, lips pursed, like this. She disapproved of everything about us. The way we talked and the games we liked and—We did pick on her, I guess, poor Pruny, all dressed up. She was always dressed up, Mary Janes and sashes; she always did what she was told. She was a good girl. She’s not my type at all. I mean, really not my type, Gregor, I don’t know what my parents are thinking, what dream world they’re living in, or what century.”

  I rubbed the pie server and said nothing. He sighed deeply, a sigh of manly resignation.

  “You know what I mean,” he said.

  I thought I probably did.

  “There’s a dance at the Club on Saturday, a Valentine dance. Black tie, a dinner dance, they’ve exhumed Lester Lanin I think, for the occasion. Prune’s going, with her parents of course. I don’t remember ever seeing her without her parents in attendance. I guess you wouldn’t get an unpleasant disease from that kind of girl, and I suppose, these days, that’s something, but—Have you ever been married, Gregor?”

  “No.”

  “It’s appalling what my parents think they can do, isn’t it?”

  “A distinctly Eastern way of thinking, sir.”

  “And why don’t you just run the silver through the dishwasher?”

  “It takes years of polishing to give silver this luster,” I told him. “Like wearing pearls is what gives them their tone.”

  “I won’t do it, anyway.”

  “Get married?”

  “They can’t force me to it, that’s something. It’s not as if I need her money. You know”—he sat up, sat forward, struck by insight—“they’re all stereotypes, Connecticut stereotypes. You’ve never seen them, Gregor, but the Rawlings are serious gardeners. I mean, serious, serious gardeners. And Pruny is their prize begonia. Or prize potato, that’s more like her. It’s her being their prize performance, I mean, and they hover behind, looking modestly good, rewarded by wealth and position…You know what I mean? All very Episcopalian, of course, nothing in bad taste. I’m not kidding, Gregor.”

  “I didn’t think you were, sir.”

  “My family too,” he said. “There’s Dad, trying to keep anything from changing, ever—as if he actually could. He goes to his board meetings, he reads the reports—You know, the guy never practiced law? He went right from law school to boards of directors. Without passing Go, without picking up his two hundred dollars, which he didn’t need, and that makes the difference. But he has no idea. And my mother, she—A woman who can’t finish half her own sentences. She makes other people do everything—finish her sentences, manage her money, decorate her houses, pick the restaurants. And Sarah, coming home from that Italian school: she’ll show horses and play golf and after a while she’ll get married. It’s enough to choke a man to death. The whole life. The whole family. Davy perpetuating the good genes, perpetuating the institutions. But—” He was too discouraged to go on. “What can you do? It’s still pretty early. I think I’ll make a phone call. I may be going out.” He got up from the chair.

  “Will you be wanting the car, sir?” I asked.

  “You’re kidding,” Mr. Theo said.

  “I’m kidding.”

  He stared down at me for a minute. “You’re as much a stereotype as the rest of us, Gregor.”

  “I know, sir,” I told him, pleased. “Have a good evening.”

  I thought I knew where he’d be going and why he didn’t want to drive. There was no danger that he’d be back soon. When I finished in the kitchen, I hung my apron up and went upstairs to change. You can never be too careful.

  It was early enough in the evening to make it easy to find a cab. I directed the driver to 1195 Park, and sat back to see what I might be getting myself into.

  The cab pulled over in front of a four-story building with a Georgian proportion to the windows and the single entrance. I could see beside the door none of the plaques that announce
the presence of doctors, dentists, or psychiatrists. The smooth facade of the building rose from the sidewalk like a stone wall. A few of the long windows on the second floor glowed faintly, light behind heavy curtains. It seemed to me likely that this was a private residence. There were several ways for me to find out if it was, and I thought I would try the most amusing one. When I’d looked my fill, I rolled the window up and directed the cabbie to take me home.

  5

  Froggy Goes Courting

  Not that I had a plan worked out, a schedule of fixed progression from cause to consequence, hope to happy ending. All I had was an idea of how I might go about it, more instinct than skill. Previous experience would guide me only so far, since each experience has only its own distinctive qualities. All I knew was what my next step would be.

  I selected what struck me as the best bet from the Times that Sunday, and on Monday afternoon I stood in front of 1195 Park. I held in my hand a small white box, which contained a bouquet of white violets and, in the envelope, half of a pair of tickets to the Sunday afternoon performance of some Mozart horn concertos. My idea is that men prefer Bach and Handel, while women will choose Beethoven, Wagner, the Russians. Guessing at what will please regardless of gender, I always choose Mozart.

  I ascended the staircase, rang, and waited, the little white box in my hand. I heard no sound from within, not even the muffled call of the bell. After a time, the door opened. A butler, entirely correct from his polished shoes to his smooth white hair, looked me over. “Sir?” he inquired.

  “I’d like to leave these for the young lady.” I gave him the box and stepped back, to assure him that I wasn’t asking admittance.

  His face gave away nothing of whatever he might have been thinking. “Very good, sir,” he told me. The thick wood of the door thunked closed.

  There was always the chance that she wouldn’t risk it. My thought was that she would use the week to make up her mind; my hope was that she would make up her mind in my favor. Her first reaction would be that it was impossible, but she could, if she wanted to, talk herself out of that misapprehension—given time. If she didn’t want to…That was the key, what she wanted. She hadn’t struck me as impulsive, so time would work in my favor, I judged. Her quality was not naiveté but unsophistication, probably lack of experience rather than ignorance. I gave her the week to think me over. I was banking on her innocence.