by Belva Plain
“That’s true,” he said, not knowing what else to say.
“I’ve had two big holes drilled right through my chest, here”—and she put her hand, on which Ben’s great diamond lay glittering, to her heart— “first there was Freddy, and then Ben, a bigger hole, a cannonball. One more, and I’ll look like a sieve.” She gave a queer little laugh. “I had bad luck, didn’t I? You always said I did. You always admired me, you said, for not whining about it. Oh, Freddy couldn’t help not liking women, poor boy. But how could I have known? He was so sweet, so easy to be with and such a gentleman. I was very much impressed by gentlemen in those days. Still am, I guess.”
Wounded now, she was sitting where Freddy had sat, with his Scotch plaid blanket hiding his more terrible wounds, covering the space where his legs should have been.
“Then I had Ben, who was manly and loved me, but weak, too, in his own way, when he chose bad companions and couldn’t resist the money. Well, you know it all, so I don’t have to tell you.”
“No, you don’t have to tell me,” he said bleakly.
“I don’t have to tell you how I feel about you, either.”
He had turned to watch the fire while she spoke; little gold flames scurried and hurried, so that one wished one could turn one’s mind off too, and just keep staring into them, thinking of nothing at all except the light and the warmth. But he was forced by the demand in her voice to look back at her. What to reply, how did one answer that brave honesty?
He found some words. “You’re one of the most wonderful people I’ve ever known.” They were his total truth and they were entirely inadequate. He knew it as he spoke them.
And she ignored them, which was what they deserved. “I need someone steady and someone just plain good. An all-around good man, someone free of encumbrances, whom I can depend on now and when I’m old, or if I should be sick and lose my looks—”
Leah sick? Leah old? She would be stunning at eighty, a slender woman with magnificent white hair and a diamond choker around her throat.
“—someone who’ll give me, all the way, what I’m prepared to give. Heart and soul, don’t they say? Isn’t that what they say, Paul?”
His misery mounted. “Yes,” he replied.
“Have you given them to me, Paul? Your heart and soul?”
He couldn’t answer.
“It’s been a happy time, at least for me it has.”
“And for me,” he said quickly.
“Well, then, Paul?” And again the eyes, those round bright eyes, held him fast. Monkey face, Hennie always called her, and he felt a physical pain in his chest.
“You see, Leah, you just said ‘free of encumbrances,’ but I’m encumbered.”
“Not really, Paul. You could get a divorce. You could.”
“It’s not so easy …”
And Leah continued, very quietly now, “Are you afraid it would hurt Marian too much? I don’t think it would. Not from what you’ve told me and what I’ve seen myself. I truly don’t think so.”
He cried out silently: This is impossible! Why am I tongue-tied, why can’t I speak?
“Listen to me, Paul. I’ve been feeling something for a long time. I’ve never told you. I think it was there from that first time when we were on the Normandie, and it was all so wonderful. Yet I felt even then that something was missing. It was almost as if you weren’t there, not all of you. As if it wasn’t me whom you were needing.”
“You were, you are, the most desirable—” he began.
“No, no, I’m not finished. I have a question. If there were someone you cared about terribly, someone you had to be with, had to, do you understand—could you, would you do something not to lose her? Settle things with Marian, I mean?”
He was thinking, as he watched the struggle, as he watched blue cords in her neck and heard the tears in her voice: I was going to do it this winter, dear Leah. But yesterday I saw Iris.… And he wished he could tell her, he wanted to tell her, yet didn’t know how to begin.
She was waiting for an answer. When it didn’t come, she repeated, “Would you then ask Marian for a divorce?”
He braced himself. Fundamental decency demanded the truth. “Yes,” he said, so low that she had to strain to hear him. “Yes.”
“Ah! Then there either isn’t anyone whom you need all that much, meaning me, or else”—the bright eyes judged him keenly— “or else there is someone, but it’s hopeless and you can’t have her. Which is it, Paul?”
His own eyes were wet. Absurd for a grown man!
And Leah said quickly, “Your pause is the answer. There is someone else. The truth, please, Paul. I must have it. Don’t do this to me.”
He looked up, not caring now to hide his brimming eyes. “Yes, Leah.”
She got up and drew the curtain aside, admitting the night. Her shoulders were hunched. Her fingers clutched the silk. When she turned around, she said quietly, “I’ve often thought there might be. She’s a lucky woman, whoever she is.”
“No, I don’t bring much luck to any woman.”
“Don’t say that, Paul. It’s of our own making. You didn’t force me. I daresay you don’t force her.”
“No, that I don’t. And I didn’t,” he said bitterly, thinking, although I should have.
Leah still stood outlined against the night beyond the window. With visible effort, as though a terrible ax had severed something inside, she straightened herself. And they looked at each other, she with unspoken questions, and he half pitying her, half pleading for himself.
He knew that he owed her an explanation, total and true. So he began to speak.
“The woman … she … we fell in love while I was engaged to Marian. It’s a long story. Any love story is, I suppose, once you begin to tell all of the conflict in conscience and searching of soul. But I’ll make it short. Each of us married someone else. Just after the war, when I came back, we met once and had a child. She’s nineteen now. Iris. Iris Friedman,” he said, casting the words from his mouth. “No, not Iris Werner. Never that. Yesterday I saw her for the second time in our lives.” He passed his hand over his forehead, which was moist. “I had been thinking, I truly thought, that you and I—that I was ready, and it would be so good for us both. But suddenly last night I knew I wasn’t ready. I’m confused. I’m numb.”
And, as Leah still did not speak, he finished, “Well, that’s the story. That’s it.”
“Surely not all of it?”
“Yes. Except that of course nobody knows about Iris, my daughter. And nobody must, ever.”
“Thank you for trusting me.”
“If I couldn’t trust you, Leah, it would be the end of the world.”
“Tell me, does she—the mother—”
“Anna.”
“Does she—Anna—still love you?”
His answer came quickly. “Yes.” It had been years since that day in the restaurant; yet he knew she had not changed and would not, any more than he would.
“But you never thought of leaving Marian for her?”
“She won’t—can’t—leave her husband. A matter of conscience, which I mentioned before.”
Leah sat down, laid her head against the back of the chair, and closed her eyes. Paul could hardly bear to look at her. The carriage clock on the desk chimed the hour; its little music left a faint reverberation before the steady tick resumed. Somewhere in France, a hundred years ago, it had begun to chime and tick; the ears that had heard it were now long deaf; the human sorrows that must surely have burdened the air in the rooms where it had stood, were long over and buried with those who had suffered them; why, then, should they matter so much? He didn’t know, he only knew that they did.
And suddenly Leah cried out, “It’s all so sad! So unspeakably sad! You don’t deserve it, Paul.”
For a second he was unsure of her meaning, until he saw in the look she gave that she was thinking not of herself, but of him. Wounded herself, she could yet feel his wound, and he was moved almost be
yond words.
“Oh, God! I’m sorry, Leah. Sorry. Am I as cruel as I feel I am?”
She got up and came to him. “There isn’t a drop of cruelty in you. I’ve had too much happiness with you not to know that.” She gave him a small, wan smile.
“How I wish,” he answered, “that the happiness could have gone on!”
He thought, Just yesterday I knew where I wanted to go. But today, it’s all too complex. I can’t see my direction. I know I only want to be left alone.
Leah sighed. “I suppose this will pass in time. Everything seems to. And at least Bill Sherman has his answer. He’ll have it tonight.”
Paul groaned. “Do you love him at all, Leah?”
She thought a moment. “Not in the way that you must love Anna. Not enough to give up what’s at hand. No. But I’m very, very fond of him. He’s the good man whom I said I’d be needing, and he loves me very much, enough to have waited as long as he has, and perhaps as foolishly.”
“He won’t regret it.”
“Oh, I agree to that. I’ll see that he never does. I’ll make him a wonderful wife and I’ll be good to his daughters. Actually, I’ve done a bit of mothering for them all this time, anyway, and they think the world of me.”
“I suppose Hank will be glad.”
“Yes. I shall be respectable again, shan’t I? But seriously, he likes Bill. People always do like Bill.”
Paul pulled himself together. Best to get back to mundane, practical things before the heart broke. “When will it be, and where will you live?”
“He wants it as soon as possible. And we shall live here. Bill has a beautiful apartment, but he likes this house, too, and I want to stay in it.”
“I’m glad. I want to think of you in this house always, because you’ve loved it so.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
She looked at her watch. “It’s seven. You’ll just have time to go home and change and get to your party.”
“God knows I don’t feel like going. I don’t know what I feel like doing. I feel emptied out.”
“It hasn’t been easy for either one of us tonight, has it? But I at least shall be somewhat happy, Paul. I really shall be. Because I know where I’m going and I’m grateful for that. I wish I could say the same for you.”
“Thank you, dear Leah, thank you,” he said simply.
He stood up, prepared to go, and yet reluctant, unable to walk out of her life.
“You don’t want to tell me, do you, anything more?”
To confide! To talk about Anna and Iris, about all the years and the longing! He saw the pity and kindness in Leah’s face, but he also saw curiosity, and it repelled him. It was the curiosity that brought him to his senses.
“No,” he said quickly, “there’s no point in it.”
She nodded. “One thing, before you go: Don’t worry about me. And have no guilt, either, for heaven’s sake. I want you to smile at my wedding. You’ll come, of course? Do you promise?”
He pressed a swift kiss on her forehead. “I promise. I’ll be there, and I’ll smile.”
Another chapter closed, he thought as he walked homeward. A full, majestic moon hung in the gray silk sky. Turn, turn; half-moon and crescent, the sliver of a fingernail; then back again, round and silver, taking the tides along and, so it is said, the moods of man. Possibly so.
Leah was married one afternoon in the same upstairs library. The mantelpiece was banked with crimson roses and baby’s breath. The curtains were pulled back and the slanting rain that slid on the windowpanes made the room all the more warm and tight. A rose-colored chuppah stood between the windows, the chuppah being a concession to the groom, whose family belonged to a Conservative synagogue. The guests, who were chiefly from Reform congregations, found it rather charming.
Leah wore a crimson satin jacket and skirt; the jacket was embroidered in silver thread. Chinoiserie, murmured a woman who stood near Paul. She really knows how to do it, doesn’t she? On Leah’s right hand, Ben’s diamond shone. Black pearls and diamonds gleamed softly on her left hand and in her ears. The bridegroom had been very generous. When Hank gave his mother away, Paul asked silently: A penny for your thoughts; we two are the only ones here beside your mother who know the truth. Hank had still not spoken to Paul and, still silently, Paul told him: You’ll grow up in time. You’ll find to your sorrow that things are never either black or white.
And he thought also: We two are the only ones here who share another secret.…
The glass was broken under the bridegroom’s heel. He embraced the bride, and there was a little round of applause. Bill was a calm man, Paul saw, of a quiet nature, earnest and kindly. A woman could well feel secure with him. He would manage whatever life might bring. He was nice-looking, too, very nice-looking, well-groomed and even-featured. Paul felt a twinge, the merest twinge, of jealousy.
Waiters appeared with trays of champagne. There was a buzz of conversation, sounds of kissing, clink of glasses and toasts. Hank looked actually pleased. So did the Sherman girls, kissing their father and kissing Leah. Good-natured and practical as she was, she would be good for the girls; she’d steer them through the world with sensible advice.
“A nice family, aren’t they?” remarked Dan, who, with Hennie, had come over to Paul. “It’s just too bad she didn’t do something like this sooner.”
“Yes, too bad,” Paul agreed.
“A pity Marian isn’t here,” Hennie observed. “It’s such a pretty wedding, intimate, not too big.”
“Well, it came so suddenly and Marian had already made all her plans to see her aunt in California. If you cancel your train reservation, you may not get another,” Paul explained, not adding what a relief her absence was at this particular intimate wedding.
Now Alfie joined them. “Up, up in the world! That’s our Leah!” He was feeling jovial, like the old Alfie. Wonderful how a bit of returning prosperity can lift a man’s spirits, Paul reflected.
“How’s Meg?” he asked.
“Fine, fine. Sorry she couldn’t get here for the wedding, but there was hardly any notice, and they’d already planned the boat trip to Nova Scotia with the kids.”
“Sounds like fun,” Paul said. The absence of Donal was another source of relief, although he would have liked to see Meg.
Presently the sound of music came up the stairs and the party trooped into the drawing room, where the little orchestra sat around the piano and the rugs had been pulled back. There were more roses everywhere. Between the long windows at the front of the house, a painting had been removed, Paul saw, and in its place, his wedding gift had been hung.
It was a treasure. He had bought it from a gallery on Fifty-seventh Street, where it had been on display in the window. He went over now to get a better look at it. He had meant it as a parting message to Leah, a reminder of something happy that had not been intended to last. It was a view of a Paris street, glistening under a shower of silver snow.
Leah came up behind him and tapped his shoulder. “Admiring your present? You shouldn’t have done it, Paul, but it’s marvelous and I—we both love it. Bill knows a little about art, too.”
The bridegroom came over and caught the remark. “Bill knows almost nothing about art, he regrets to say, but anyone can see how beautiful this is, and we certainly thank you, Paul.”
“I hope you enjoy it for a hundred years.”
Bill put his arm around Leah. “A hundred years won’t be too many.” And he added, “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Paul, not only from Leah but from Hennie and Dan. I hope I can get to know you better.” He extended a frank hand.
“I hope so too.” Paul, shaking the hand, had to struggle inwardly with contradictory emotions. And, liking the man, he wished he had nothing to conceal.
“Uncle Dan’s another one I’m hoping to know better,” Bill said. “I’ve spent a couple of evenings with him already and I like him immensely, even though …” He smiled. “I don’t agree with everything he says.”
>
“I don’t always, either,” Paul told him, “but I’m awfully fond of him, all the same.”
“Leah tells me we’re to have a birthday party for him. It’ll be a nice way to warm our home. You’ll be here, I hope, and your wife will be back by then?”
“Yes, neither of us would miss it.”
“Wonderful! Now I think I’ll have to circulate for a while—I see some relatives I’ve neglected.”
Leah’s eyes followed Bill. She was glowing; the glow was unmistakable. Then suddenly she thought of something.
“Paul, I want you to talk to Hank. Hank, come over here. Now listen, you two, I want to tell you both something important. I am really happy today.”
She waited while they both looked at her. Yes, she would transfer as healthily and as happily to this other man as she would have been if she had remained with Paul.
“I want you both to believe me,” she said, “and I want you to love each other again. You owe it to me.”
“I never stopped,” Paul said.
Hank accepted Paul’s hand. But his eyes looked away and there was no smile on his mouth.
“There, that’s better!” cried Leah, not seeing. “Now come dance.” And she bustled away to dance with her new husband.
Paul stood a moment, watching the dancers turn and whirl. The orchestra was playing something plaintively familiar, a melody with a sweetness that touched some memory. They asked me how I knew my true love was true … I in turn replied, something here inside cannot be denied …
A wave of utmost loneliness swept over him. “This won’t do,” he said, standing there at the edge of the vivid whirl and swirl. “This won’t do at all.”
And catching the hand of a woman standing next to him, a pleasant lady with gray curls, he led her, pleased and surprised, into the dance.
