by Belva Plain
“It’s my parents. They’ve hardly seen you since you got your degree last May, and they wanted to welcome you.”
Amos and Harriet Newman were embarrassed. In these apartments with their flimsy Sheetrock walls, one heard everything, and Cecile, when she admitted them, knew at once that they had overheard the argument.
Peter knew it too, for after giving his greeting, he at once apologized. “I’m sorry you happened in on a bit of trouble, but thank you anyway for the welcome home.”
As Cecile could have predicted, her father came right to the point. “I’m guessing that it’s about the house. If it is, do you want to talk about it or not? It isn’t Harriet’s business or mine, so be frank.”
Peter sighed. “I can put it into a few words: Cele has found a wonderful house, but it’s more than I can afford. It’s that simple.”
“You don’t want her to use her own money.”
“No, sir, I don’t. It’s that simple,” Peter repeated.
Amos nodded. “I thought so. You’re determined to get on without any help, and I’ve admired that. I’ve told you so more than once. But may I be equally frank?”
The two men were still standing in the center of the room. They were a pair of strong men, one very young and the other still remarkably young. Each was a man who was fundamentally gentle, yet could also display on occasion a good deal of righteous anger. And Cecile, through the fog of her own anger, was tense with expectation.
“May I be equally frank?” Amos questioned again.
“I wish you would be.”
“All right, then. Like any other good thing, like vitamins, exercise, and even charity, independence can be taken too far. When they’re taken too far, they lose their value. They become false.”
For a few moments, Peter seemed to be considering Amos’s words. “False pride, you’re saying.”
“Yes, it can be.”
“It’s very hard for me to be a taker.” The murmur was barely audible.
“Whatever made you that way, whether something in your genes or something in your past,” Amos was saying, “I surely can’t know and maybe you can’t, either. In any case, it doesn’t matter. The fact is I didn’t come here only to welcome you back, but also with an idea.” He smiled. “Cecile, may we use the dining table? And your mother could use a cup of coffee and a piece of cake, if you have any. I rushed her out before she had a dessert, and you know her sweet tooth.”
Out of his pocket Amos withdrew and unfolded a sheet of paper almost as large as the table and began to explain it.
“Here you see a very rough sketch of the enormous, unused railroad yard, twenty-seven acres stretching from the old deserted terminal to the river. There it lies, pristine land piled with rusty cars and junk, as far as Lane Avenue, which is also a stretch of junk, although people live there. It’s a disgrace to the city and to the state, and has been one for too long.”
Cecile, having provided coffee and cake for Harriet, stood beside Amos to observe. She was still too sore and hot to stand on Peter’s side of the table.
“This wound has been bleeding for so long that most people in the city have gotten used to it. The ones who aren’t used to it are divided—but you must have read about all this. Every now and then some editorial writer brings up the subject from his point of view: Either we keep the marshland for migrating birds, create a park, build some decent, affordable housing on the Lane Avenue end, make a low-rise, small-town commercial area near the bridge for convenience shopping—in other words, construct a community—or else we turn the whole thing to high-rise, high-technology office space and big profits.”
“Yes, sixty stories tall,” Peter said with some scorn. “Glass boxes stood on end. Don’t they know that those things are already outmoded? Cold in the winter and blazing hot in the summer, unless you’re prepared to waste money and electric power on heating and air-conditioning.”
“Plenty of people are quite prepared. You know that.”
“Who’s going to win the battle?”
“It depends pretty much on the elections. A governor, if he has the legislature with him, can almost wave a magic wand. It’s all a tangle. Banks, environmentalists, zoning fights—a tangle. But eventually something will be done.” Amos paused. “You haven’t asked me why I’m telling you all this. Aren’t you wondering?”
“Well, yes, I guess I am. This is all way out of my line.”
“There’s one thing that isn’t, Peter. Whichever way it goes, my way with the bird sanctuary and the rest, or the other way with the glass boxes, there will be the terminal to consider. These grand old terminals all over the country are being restored to use, aren’t they? And isn’t restoration right up your alley?”
From across the table, Cecile was able to see the light in Peter’s eyes. Apparently overwhelmed, he almost stammered.
“You mean that—I’m only a beginner—wouldn’t people want one of the big names, those big firms?”
“They all got started somewhere. And if you can come up with a good design, why not you? You’re trained, you’re talented, and a job like this would give you national recognition.” And before Peter could reply, Amos continued, waving the pencil in his enthusiasm. “The terminal would probably be a museum, wouldn’t it? We lack a good one in this city.” The pencil made a flourish in the air. “The possibilities are tremendous, and no matter what else is done, the terminal will be the hub.” He paused again, scanning Peter’s face. “So, what do you think?”
Peter blinked. “I guess I’m stunned. I’m honored by your confidence, and I thank you. Yes, I’m stunned.”
“I have to repeat that this isn’t going to happen tomorrow. It will certainly take a couple of years. But it will happen. It’s bound to. I have plenty of contacts who keep their ears to the ground. When it does happen, it’ll be the biggest thing to hit this city in the last half century. But that’s all right. You’ll have plenty of time that you can squeeze out of your present commitments to think about how you would do it. Go down there and walk around. Make some sketches for yourself.” Carefully, Amos folded the paper back and put it into his pocket. “But I have to caution you. What I’ve said here must not leave this room, not ever.”
“Of course not,” Peter said.
“This room,” repeated Amos. “I’m glad you heard it, too, Cecile. Not a word, ever. One idle, thoughtless word, totally innocent, can start a train of thought in the mind of a hearer who might also be totally innocent; the train speeds away and ends in a wreck. Remember that. So, Peter! It appeals to you, does it? I thought you’d like the idea.”
“It appeals to me very much. How can I thank you?”
“You’re asking me how, and I’ll tell you how. Let your wife have the house. She wants it. She loves it.”
“He loves it, too,” cried Cecile.
Peter looked down at the floor, raised his eyes to meet hers, and murmured as he had before, “I want to give it to you, Cele. I want to give you everything, but I’m not able to.”
When I went home after my first visit to your family, it seemed to me that I was on my way to making a terrible mistake. I am out of my league, I thought. The paintings, the sheer size of the place—this girl was not for me. I had heard people say that the Newmans were “simple” people, without any airs, and that was true, but “simplicity” depends on the point of view. I thought and I argued with myself for days, but always I came back to the beginning: We are so right for each other.
She seemed to be hearing his voice. And they stood there with eyes connecting.
Then Amos, obviously moved, spoke again with deliberate heartiness.
“Consider accepting Cecile’s money as a loan, Peter. Whenever you can, replace her grandmother’s legacy, if it’ll make you feel better.”
“As if I would accept it,” Cecile cried. “I don’t earn anything. But he works and buys my food! Am I supposed to pay him back for it?”
Amos and Harriet were both laughing. “Go kiss and make up
. Don’t be silly, either of you,” said Harriet. “Go take care of your twins.”
CHAPTER NINE
Now and then, on her way to work in Cagney Falls, Amanda would make a five-minute detour onto a winding rural road past Cecile’s house. Even on a raw, bare winter morning, the sight of it, square and sturdy as though it had stood for two centuries, was oddly pleasing to her. It was also, and she well understood why, more than a little disturbing.
The house had an elegant simplicity. The window-panes, six on top and nine below, the dark green doorway with its harvest wreath of autumn leaves and sheaved grain, the shallow, semicircular steps below it, all were exactly right. Amanda had been sufficiently exposed to what she thought of as “class” to recognize it. Everything that Cecile and Peter owned, or said, or did, was exactly right. They had even known enough to choose each other….
Somewhat subdued, she would continue on her way. Not until she had entered the town square and parked the car, a really smart little car that looked like an import but was not one, did her spirits return to their natural high.
This job was, after all, the best thing that could have happened to her. Who could have guessed that working in a boutique would be so satisfying to a woman who had once thought about a graduate degree in English literature? She had certainly never given herself any credit for having a “head for business,” but apparently she possessed one, because Mrs. Lyons was leaving more and more responsibility to her. Mrs. Lyons, who in manner, speech, and style could have doubled for Cecile’s mother, was shrewd besides. She wanted to keep Amanda because, with her in charge, she was free to travel and stay away for weeks; then, too, Amanda attracted customers, especially men shopping for gifts. On her part, Amanda wanted to be kept, and Mrs. Lyons knew that, too. She also knew that Amanda coveted fine clothes, so if a little discount, or more than a little one, could make the girl happy, it was worth the cost. In this way, a wordless contract between the two women was cheerfully struck.
The entire atmosphere in the shop was cheerful. Even the seamstress hummed while she worked. Dolly was still noisy and, in Amanda’s opinion, not too bright, but very likable all the same, and for some reason a bit in awe of Amanda, too. In the mornings before the doors were opened, when the three had coffee and doughnuts together in the back room, the little shop almost felt like home.
It was such a pretty place in which to spend one’s days! In winter, especially, it was snug; outside on the square, the rain or snow might be turning the scene to a dim gray, yet indoors, on the table where small objects were displayed, there was always a brilliant bouquet ordered weekly by request of Mrs. Lyons. The clothes themselves were brilliant. Mrs. Lyons had a taste for rare shadings and striking combinations. The clothes, in fact, were irresistible. It was astonishing that, despite their shocking prices, very few people came inside without buying something, even if it was only a scarf.
As it happened, Amanda’s very first purchase was a white silk scarf sprinkled with poppies and cornflowers.
“Wear it with a white suit,” advised Mrs. Lyons, who had just brought back from France a small selection of treasures.
When Amanda replied that she did not own a white suit, Mrs. Lyons advised her further. “You ought to own one. Take one of ours. You may have it for twenty-five percent off.”
So easily did it begin. So easily did it become a habit. When you had the right clothes, you felt like a different person. They made up for, or almost made up for, whatever else might be lacking in your life.
It was already dark at five o’clock when, one day in early December, Amanda locked the shop’s door and walked toward the parking lot. On the square a few lights still gleamed; in the porcelain shop on the corner they gleamed invitation, where a lovely green bowl lay in the front window. For several weeks past it had been attracting Amanda’s attention. Since it had not been sold, she reasoned, it must be outrageously expensive, yet this evening she stopped again to look at it.
From somewhere, probably from the music store across the street, now came the sound of some familiar, ancient Christmas music. Otherwise, the square was quite deserted. A few walkers on her side of it had halted in the evening darkness, apparently to catch the pure, exalted melody. Then a couple, holding hands, smiled at her as they passed, as if they, too, were feeling the beauty of the moment, that sudden keen thrust in the breast.
Ah, you only live once! Take all the beauty that you can, while you can! And she went inside to buy the lovely green bowl.
“It’s an unusual piece,” the young salesman assured her. “Turn of the century, I should think, maybe 1910, but no later. Expensive, and worth it.”
He had a sensitive face, with calm, harmonious features, reminding her of Peter Mack. His hand, with a wedding ring on it, was resting on the counter beside the bowl. His cuff was worn. When he looked up toward Amanda, their eyes met for an unmistakable instant, and quickly disconnected. She knew what he was thinking, but he could not know what she was thinking, or feeling, about him: that he was only a salesman here, marketing objects that he would never afford; that he had a wife and probably some children at home. Poverty row, she thought, and felt pity.
Something needed to be said while he wrapped the bowl, and so she remarked that she loved porcelains, yet knew nothing about them.
“There’s a lot to learn,” he answered. “Porcelains date back to the Greeks and earlier—no, to Egypt before that. Maybe you want to buy a book about it? They’re on the shelves over there.”
So she bought a book, a heavy volume filled with illustrations, and feeling quite powerfully lavish, took that with her, too.
It was such a pleasure to arrive at home bearing something new to be carefully unwrapped, and then, after equally careful deliberation, placed in the spot that was proper for it. The splendid, glossy book, too tall for any shelf, belonged naturally on the coffee table. Between it and the graceful potted plant, the table seemed not quite so ugly. With the bowl, she had to experiment: the sideboard in the dining room, or the stand between two windows?
When she removed the sticker on the bottom, the price leaped up at her, bringing a chill of unease. It was not that Larry had any right to object; if she wanted to spend her next two weeks’ salary—no, more than that—on this bowl, it was her own affair, wasn’t it? Still, it would be more sensible not to tell him.
She was still admiring her two fine little additions to the commonplace room when he came home. First he kissed her cheek, and then made his usual quick, prideful glance around at that room.
“Hey, when’d you get that?”
“Today. Like it?”
“I dunno. What’s it for?”
“What’s a bowl for? Whatever you want to put in it. I’m going to put flowers in it.”
“Expensive?”
“Not very. Not at all.”
“That’s good. You ought to be putting away a nice little nest egg with that nice raise she gave you.” At the mustard-colored bar, he poured a drink. “Want to keep it a secret, hey? Well, that’s okay. I don’t mind. But you could look at everything I’m saving. It’s all in the left-hand desk drawer upstairs.” He sat down on the club chair, stretching his legs out onto the ottoman. “I was thinking on the drive home just now, the thought just came to me, what you said about Mrs. Lyons wanting to retire soon, maybe you’d like to buy the business, you like it so much. I could raise some cash with no trouble, and with a little help from you, we could swing it without my touching any real capital. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Real capital. She wondered how much there was. Very much, she thought. The business was old and solid. All the Balsans were personally frugal, prudent, and shrewd. She had listened at many a dinner table to the father and son discussing deals, conservative stocks and no-risk bonds. Yes, it would be a great thing to have them start her in a little business of her own.
“I would love it,” she said.
“Imagine you going to Europe on a buying trip someday! I might even t
ake time off to go with you. But that’s putting the cart before the horse. First we should have a couple of kids.”
“We will. There’s no rush.”
“Hey, what’s that on the coffee table? D’you buy another book? Hand it over.”
“You won’t be interested. It’s a history of porcelains.”
He laughed. He had no intellectual curiosity.
“Porcelains? What the heck, let me look.”
When she put the book on his lap, he turned a few pages and then, while starting to hand it back, cried out with some indignation, “Sixty-five dollars! You paid sixty-five dollars for this garbage?”
She answered quietly, “It isn’t garbage. You know better than that. It’s art. It’s history.”
“All right, so it’s history, it’s art. But sixty-five dollars is too much to pay for a book, Amanda.” He was indignant. “It’s wasteful. You’re—we’re—not in that class. There’s a very good library not ten minutes’ ride from this house.”
“I use the library. But I don’t understand how you can say that buying a book now and then is wasteful. Books are an investment.” Needing to defend herself, she spoke with heat. “They feed the mind. Is that a waste?”
“I’d like to know how much this one is going to feed your mind. You’ll take a look now and then when it needs dusting. And the house is already full of books that you buy but don’t read.”
It was rare for Larry to be so exercised about anything, and whenever he was, he was quickly over it. So her best response was silence. She was at a window pulling the shades down for the night when he spoke again.
“I haven’t wanted to mention it, Amanda, because I’m a peaceful guy, but I had a look at your closet as I walked by it yesterday, and it looks like a dress shop. You must be Mrs. Lyons’s best customer.”
“That’s ridiculous! I need clothes. I have to look decent there, don’t I? Besides, I should think you’d want me to look nice for my own sake, and for your sake, too.”
“Sure I do. But there are only seven days in a week. How much do you need? And at the prices you’ve been telling me about?”
