Looking Back

by Belva Plain

Norma took from the little box a fine gold chain with a pendant in the shape of a pavé diamond heart, and Amanda received the same. Then, with all the elderly cousins watching and smiling, L.B. fastened the chain around Norma’s neck, where it disappeared under her red turtleneck collar.

  “It doesn’t show,” he said, kissing her cheek. “You’ll have to wear it with a different kind of dress.”

  Amanda’s red velvet dress was cut so that the pendant lay and sparkled exactly where her discreet cleavage began. In the tall, old-fashioned mirror that hung between the windows, she had a glimpse of herself and of L.B. leaning close to her neck as he fastened the chain. A preposterous thought flashed through her head: I’ve never felt his touch. And she hoped that he would not kiss her cheek. Ashamed of herself for having such queer thoughts, she was relieved when he did not.

  It had begun to snow by the time everyone left the house. The first hesitating flakes swirled ahead of the headlights, and houses along the route disgorged people who, like themselves, had been celebrating. Amanda was feeling a pleasant excitement that she had not expected to feel.

  “You did pretty well for yourself,” Larry said when they were in their bedroom. “That’s a nice piece of jewelry.”

  He laughed, poking his cold finger into her cleavage. He had sometimes the most annoying ways. “I’m freezing. Let’s get into bed fast. Okay, honey?”

  “I’ll need to make some hot tea and take an aspirin, Larry. Suddenly I’m not feeling right.”

  “Maybe you ate too much, or drank too much champagne. I know I did.”

  “No, more likely it’s a virus. Aspirin and sleep are what I need.”

  She simply did not want what he wanted tonight. Tomorrow she would be good, though, and make it up to him.

  I really don’t know myself. Most of the time I think I do. I know I want too much, and I think I understand why, but maybe I really don’t understand. For instance, I would have expected that the diamond pendant would make me enormously happy; diamonds were far out of my reach, yet when I look at it, I feel flat. Yes, that’s the word: flat. Do I feel that I don’t deserve it? Yet that makes no sense because no one ever really deserves luxury.

  Such were Amanda’s thoughts on the Sunday after Christmas. Larry had taken a client to see a property, and Norma had invited her to go ice skating, but these other thoughts filled her too full to accept. So she had gone for a drive.

  Whatever had induced L.B. to do it? He could possibly have been feeling a trifle sorry for Norma. Larry was always talking about his anxiety over her. At any rate, he could obviously afford what he had done. Otherwise he never would have spent that much.

  Next, her thoughts returned to the nasty quarrel of the other night. She dreaded quarrels. There had been too many of them while she was growing up at home, none serious enough to cause any rupture, just anxious squabbles, caused by overcrowding and job worries, squabbles quickly made up—and yet remembered. (Was that why she, once away from home at college, had been known for having such a happy disposition?) The fight with Larry, though, must not happen again. He was right when he attacked her for having saved almost nothing out of her salary, and she was right in her complaint that he worked too long and hard for too little.

  He feared his father, and feared to admit it. Oh, yes, both of them, Norma and he, were quick enough to assert that L.B. had always been very good to them; what then was it that they feared? Nothing more than a lofty manner, a certain hauteur, like that of the father, the head-of-the-house father in a century gone by. They were too sensitive, both of them; although on the surface Larry did not appear to be so, she had lived with him long enough to know that he was so. Their mother must have been a timid soul, and they must be like her. They looked like her; in all the photographs of her you saw Norma and Larry.

  I really believe I could talk to L.B., she thought as her car rounded the corner, and she saw the brown bulk of the Balsan house at the top of the street. Yes, I will talk to him, she declared as she neared it. An earner now, able if necessary to take care of herself, she was no longer the first-time visitor carrying that unforgettable shabby old suitcase. And strikingly aware of the difference between then and now, she mounted the front steps.

  The housekeeper, Elsa, opening the door, appeared to be surprised at this disturbance on the part of Amanda.

  “Why, yes, Mr. Balsan is at home. You know he reads the newspaper early every Sunday morning,” she admonished.

  “I won’t keep him long.”

  “Well, he’s in the sun parlor.”

  He presented a picture, the kind of subject that Wyeth might have painted: a man in a high-backed chair that hid all except the top of his head and his long legs, sitting with his two dogs in front of a window where bouquets of snow were clustered on the hemlocks beyond it. When he heard her and stood up, he presented a look of alarm.

  She said quickly, “There’s nothing wrong. I only wanted to see you for a couple of minutes.”

  “Then sit down. I have to go out at ten o’clock,” he added, indicating the clock on the wall.

  Now that she was really here, her confidence ebbed. In profile his face really did look forbidding, like those haughty faces on ancient coins. She ought to have rehearsed her approach to the subject before making this impetuous attempt. And abruptly, with a small shock, it occurred to her that this was the very first time she had ever been alone with L.B.

  “Well, Amanda?”

  Some instinct told her to sit tall, be straightforward, and get it over with. The worst thing that could happen would be a negative, sharp response. Or his disapproval might make future contacts somewhat uncomfortable, but nothing more.

  “I think Larry should get better pay. He has complete responsibility for the new branch office, and he’s never been given a raise.”

  “Discontented, is he?” The bright eyes widened with the question. “So he sends you to me? Instead of talking up for himself?”

  “Oh, no. Don’t blame him. He doesn’t know a thing about this. And he isn’t discontented, he loves his work. Right now, on Sunday morning, he’s out with a customer.”

  “So it’s you who’s dissatisfied?”

  “Not for myself.”

  There was a long pause. Blankly, she was aware of silent scrutiny.

  “I don’t believe you. It is for yourself. You have expensive tastes. I have eyes. I can see.”

  She had a queer feeling that he was not angry, but rather that he was secretly laughing at her.

  “It’s not for me. I’m telling the truth,” she insisted.

  “Oh, you have your nerve, Amanda. You never in your life had it so good, and yet you want more.”

  These were stinging words. The snow bouquets, now glittering as the sun circled past the hemlocks, were giving her a headache. What exactly was it that had brought her here to plead for Larry? His meager savings and her extravagant orange jacket, which wasn’t orange at all, were somehow joined in opposition to each other; yet they were a part of whatever had brought her to this place.

  “You have your nerve,” he repeated. “I don’t know how many women would go to the husband’s boss and complain about his wages.”

  “But you’re his father. It’s not quite the same.”

  “You feel that intimate, do you?”

  His lips had twitched with something that might be the start of a smile, or of laughter, but if it was either one, it was caustic, bringing an instant’s hot rush of blood to her swimming head.

  “Respectfully intimate,” she said, pleased to have come up so quickly with an apt and cutting reply. “I was just trying for fairness.”

  Again there came that quirk of the lips. Was it revealing sarcastic amusement, or only amusement without the sarcasm?

  L.B. stood, and Amanda followed, so that they confronted each other. Obviously she was awaiting an answer, so he gave it.

  “Let’s say you made a good try.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”
/>
  He had made a fool of her. Now all she wanted was to get out of his presence. And with no intention of saying good-bye, she turned to walk toward the door. Then, remembering something, she stopped.

  “Please don’t let Larry know I was here. At least, promise me that.”

  “You have my word.”

  In the front hall, there was another mirror. Apparently Larry’s mother had liked to decorate the house with them. In the instant it took for L.B. to unlock the door, the mirror reflected his alert, patrician face just above hers, which was still flushed beneath a diadem of windblown hair.

  “Be careful. The steps are slippery,” he warned.

  She did not answer, and the door made a sharp click behind her. The interview had been short, but it would take a long time, she told herself, if ever, to forget the indignity.

  Late on Monday afternoon, Larry arrived home with news. He was scarcely through the door, when he shouted it.

  “Honey! You won’t believe it, but I got a raise. Ten grand a year. Out of the blue! Just like that. Dad even said he should have thought of it sooner. Can you believe it?”

  There he stood, grinning in his excitement. He looked like nothing but a great, big, good-natured kid, and she was happy for him.

  But what on earth had moved L.B.? People, people! You never knew what was going on inside them. For that matter, you often did not really know what was going on inside yourself.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Where are you?” asked Cecile.

  “At school, at lunchtime, using my cell phone. I couldn’t wait to talk to you. How are you? How’s everything?”

  “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. We didn’t get back till after midnight yesterday, but it was wonderful. It did us both so much good, being away in the sun. Peter was the one who needed it more than I did, really. Do you know, he lost eight pounds while I was sick? And he surely is one person who doesn’t need to lose weight.”

  Awful visions of Cecile on the bloody floor, and of Peter at the hospital bowed over her white face, flashed before Norma. “I’m glad,” she said. “You both needed it.”

  Even the dearest friend, she thought, especially one who has seemed to be blessedly invulnerable, becomes even dearer after having suffered a misfortune.

  “I swam, snorkeled, and danced. About the only thing I haven’t done is tennis, and I’ll be going back to it soon.”

  “I’m glad,” repeated Norma.

  “After we’d had enough of the island, we took a detour on the way home and spent a few days not far from New Orleans, where Peter has rehabilitated that row of Victorian houses. You remember, we showed you some photos of it? Well, you wouldn’t recognize it. By now every house has a garden patch between the front door and the sidewalk, so that the whole street is blooming with everything from hollyhocks to pansies. Peter took a ton of pictures to show some people who are trying to restore more old neighborhoods.”

  “Maybe he’ll tackle Lane Avenue someday. It needs it.” Norma laughed. “I’m remembering how he worried about being able to afford your house.”

  “Well, we still have to be very careful, Norma. I told him that maybe we should sell it now.” Cecile’s sigh was audible. “It’s a big house for us two to rattle around in. But he won’t hear of it. He’s sure we’ll have better luck next time. He won’t have the babies’ room disturbed. ‘Keep the door closed so it won’t be a daily reminder,’ he says, ‘until we need to use everything again.’ Peter’s an optimist at heart in spite of his caution.”

  “He’s right.”

  “I know. Whenever I work at the hospital and see what I see, how people strive and how brave so many of them are, I marvel. Next Monday I’ll be back. I miss it. But enough of me. How’s Amanda? I must call her tonight. Did you have Christmas together as usual?”

  “Yes, as usual. It was lovely at Dad’s house.” Then something compelled her to go further. “As to Amanda, she really is changing. We’ve both mentioned her extravagance. But lately, it’s grown to be disgusting. She had a terrible fight with Larry just before Christmas.”

  Why did she have this compulsion to talk about Amanda? Ordinarily, she disdained the common gossip that is called “girl talk,” even among a group of schoolteachers in their sixties. Nevertheless, she continued.

  “I happened to be at their house, and I’m sorry I was there because it was really, really hideous. Would you believe that she hasn’t saved a cent out of her salary? She’d been buying everything at that shop, and you know what their prices are. She buys enough to fill any other woman’s clothes closet three times over.”

  “Try to understand it. She never had anything.”

  “You always say that. Neither did most people ever have anything—at least the things she wants. Who does she think she is, some ancient potentate’s bejeweled mistress at the bazaar?”

  “Come on. You’re taking it far too seriously, Norma. You always do.”

  I may take things too seriously, thought Norma, but Cecile oversimplifies. She always did.

  “Actually, Norma, the truth is that you’re worried about your brother. You’re worried that she’s not making him happy. How did the quarrel end?”

  “Well, I must admit that it seems to be all right now. She hasn’t been buying much since the big blowup.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She told me. I guess she was sorry that it happened in front of me.”

  “No doubt. Listen. People have squabbles and forget all about them in no time. You certainly know that Peter and I had plenty of them about buying a house, and yet now I can barely recall how they started or exactly what we said.”

  “This is different. I feel it in my bones whenever we’re together. And that isn’t all that often anymore. She used to love having dinner when Dad invites us all to a good French restaurant, but the last few times she’s had an excuse—a previous date with friends or a cold coming on. She just doesn’t want to be with us.”

  “Well, whatever it is, there’s nothing you can do about it. You analyze too much, Norma. You probe too deeply. Take care of your own life.”

  “Oh, I’m taking care of it, all right. I’ve started a Latin text for beginners, something entirely different from what we’re using now—oops, there goes the bell. Call me over the weekend if you have time.”

  For a few minutes after the call was disconnected, Norma sat with the phone in her hand. Perhaps she really did analyze things too deeply. As far as these recent events were concerned, she had admittedly done a good deal of analyzing. A certain event at the Christmas dinner had rankled, and she had allowed it to go on doing so.

  The way Amanda had looked with the diamond pendant, the red velvet dress, and the fire in her eyes! After dinner, in the living room, everybody, the old and the young alike, had been staring with open wonder at the picture she made, smiling while Dad fastened the clasp at the back of her neck.

  It had rankled, and Norma, recalling how much it had done so, was bewildered at how it could have done so. Perhaps, she thought, it was because when a person is down-and-out as Amanda had been when they were at school, it is easier not to be envious of her beauty. But now she is no longer down-and-out… And I should be ashamed of myself….

  Late in the afternoon, she was still correcting a pile of tests when Lester Cole passed through the corridor. Seeing her at her desk, he came in.

  “You must love Country Day,” he said, “to stay this late.”

  This was not the first time he had made a similar remark. It occurred to Norma that he might be curious about the reason she often stayed so late. She could hardly tell him that the classroom, even now on a dark, bleak day in February, was more cheerful than the house at home; vacant all day except for Elsa down below out of sight in the kitchen, it was so still that the occasional crack of settling wood was a shock. Here people walked and talked in the hallways, as teachers held conferences with parents and students stayed late to work on the school paper.

  “I do love
Country Day,” she answered simply. “It’s been home since I was in kindergarten here.”

  To her surprise, he drew up a chair and sat down. “I’ve been hearing some interesting things about you,” he said cordially, “that you’re writing a Latin text. I’m impressed.”

  She felt herself flushing. “It’s quite elementary. I’m no great classicist.”

  “You mustn’t belittle yourself,” he said in gentle reproof.

  “I’m not. I’m only seeing myself clearly. When you go to ancient Greece or Rome and you see—”

  He interrupted. “You’ve been there?”

  “Yes, and to Sicily, to Agrigentum the summer before junior year. It made me wish I’d studied Greek. Maybe someday I will, but not now.”

  She was wondering why he was sitting there, relaxed as if he were going to stay for a while. Had she perhaps committed some offense? Had a parent complained about her? Something must have brought him here for a serious talk.

  “Another interesting thing I’ve heard about you is that you have a photographic memory. Is that true?”

  Still puzzled, she replied, “Yes, I do seem to remember things very easily. I don’t take any credit for it, though. It’s no different from being born with the ability to run fast.”

  Lester smiled. “Slightly different, I should say. I’ve always been fascinated with memory, the way, for instance, an actor can repeat hundreds of lines. I can’t imagine how it’s possible, when for the tenth time in a month I have mislaid my car keys. So I’d like to know how you do it—although that’s foolish of me, because you can’t possibly say how you do it. But would you mind demonstrating for me?”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all.” Naturally flattered, she was also a trifle—but only a trifle—amused.

  Cole went to a bookshelf and withdrew at random a copy of the Constitution.

  “How about this? Okay?”

  “Anything will do. What page?”

  “Any. All right, this. How long do you need?”

  “Let’s say, two minutes.”

  Aware that he was watching her, she had a sudden thought about her hair, which she had not combed since lunchtime. Well, it was too late now. And turning to the page, she began to concentrate.