Jane Austen in Scarsdale

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  Eleanor Greenbaum was there too, which might have been surprising if one were not familiar with her habits. Just as she had started researching the college application process when her children were still in grade school, she attended area funerals as a form of preliminary research for her own—though precisely what good this knowledge would do her was unclear.

  Anne looked around with trepidation for the Hopgoods and discovered, thankfully, that they were not there. Ditto Curtis Fink. A frequenter of bar mitzvahs, which he saw as great networking opportunities (“The kid is thirteen, but you plant the seed so that three years later, bam, they’re primed to hire you”), he was known to make appearances at funerals too, since the children of the deceased would now be possessed of greater disposable income with which to ensure the future prospects of their children (“And wouldn’t Bubbie and Zadie have wanted that?”). But there were no prospects here for Fink and Fisk, and Curtis must have realized that he couldn’t hit on Anne at a funeral.

  Prominent among the mourners were Ben, Kirsten, Pauline, and Jonathan. Anne noted that Elihu behaved exceedingly well toward the Cutlers. Ben had apparently risen in his estimation through paying such a good price for the house—though in typical fashion, he had let on that Ben had gotten a bargain: “An old friend of the family. Didn’t want to be so vulgar as haggle.”

  Elihu also responded with surprising politeness to Pauline, overlooking her Queens accent and even tolerating her hug. Normally, Elihu stiffened at any display of affection, fearful that his suit would be creased or his hair messed, but Pauline’s profusion of gold jewelry and designer clothes apparently made her effusiveness more palatable. Allegra too was gracious. It had occurred to her that the Cutlers were wealthy enough to be a resource for The Widening Gyre, which could always use new infusions of capital (the business of poetry, if not the art, was expensive) .

  Anne was in a daze during the ceremony. She wanted it to be over as quickly as possible, though she knew there would be the additional hours spent at the shiva that Ben had told her would be held at the house. How could she protest? It had been Winnie’s home to the end, and the place most associated with her life. That it was no longer technically hers had ceased to seem meaningful.

  The ceremony was short. The rabbi said a few prayers, Elihu pontificated on “this noble woman of inestimable taste,” and then, to Anne’s surprise, Ben stood up and cleared his throat. He spoke briefly and with formality, but there was an undercurrent of emotion that Anne felt resonating behind the simplicity of his words.

  “My family has, until recently, been a kind of nomadic family. We didn’t know what a settled home was. But Winnie gave us such a home, both literally, by selling us her house, and more profoundly, by teaching us how to live in it. She was a woman of substance: knowledgeable, opinionated, but not, in the end, dogmatic. She was capable of changing her mind—something that much younger people are not able to do. For many reasons“—he shot a glance at Anne—”the relationship we developed with her was extraordinary. We’ll miss her, but she has imprinted herself on our lives forever.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  AFTER THE FUNERAL, WHEN EVERYONE HAD RETURNED TO THE house, there was the usual muted festivity that accompanies a shiva. Rachel had been temporarily lifted from her misery and was conversing with Peter and Ben about the Lake District, where she and Peter would be going next month for a combined honeymoon and research expedition. Eleanor Greenbaum was talking to Daphne about the ten pairs of boxers she had bought for Jeremy at Target, while Daphne was nodding her head and appeared to be communing with spirits from another world (the best way to engage with Eleanor Greenbaum). Vince, Gus, and Cindy were talking about whether the announcements over the PA system were too loud and whether they should buy rocking chairs for the main office waiting room, since parental blood pressure ran high there too. Elihu and Allegra were discussing the changes that had been made to the house, with Elihu noting that the Cutlers had used antique sconces in the hall.

  “They didn’t spare expense,” he added with approval. Elihu had taken the tack that the house, though he no longer lived in it, was still somehow about him.

  Harry and Rich were talking business, while Carlotta and Pauline were trading recipes. Carlotta had embraced the domestic role with a vengeance and appeared to be trying to master it with more diligence that she had brought to her previous occupations.

  Anne was sitting with Marcy. “These ruggalah look delicious,” said Marcy, who, though she didn’t eat, had a keen visual sense of food quality.

  “Winnie taught Pauline to make them,” noted Anne. “It’s nice to know that her recipes will live on. They certainly wouldn’t through me.”

  “Other things about her live on through you,” noted Marcy.

  “That’s true,” said Anne. “But I’m going to miss her terribly.”

  “Of course you are. But I somehow feel confident that you’ll find companionship.” Marcy’s eyes had been scanning the room and perhaps picked up information that Anne missed. She had noted, for example, that Kirsten was standing off to the side.

  “I’m going to bring some of these ruggalah over to Rich,” she announced now. “He’s talked enough shop. I’m going to ask him to concentrate on me for a while.” Marcy’s marriage had allegedly been energized lately by an article in O. “It said that the problem with most women is that they nag and complain, but they don’t ask,” Marcy explained. “Instead of saying, ‘I never see you,’ you need to say, ‘It makes me happy to see more of you.’ It’s amazing how framing things that way can help.”

  When Marcy had left to tell Rich that it would make her happy if he concentrated on her now, Kirsten sat down beside Anne. “I want to extend my deepest sympathy,” she said quietly. “I liked your grandmother more than I can say. I loved her, in fact. She was an enormous help to me.”

  “Really?” said Anne, wondering how Winnie had helped Kirsten.

  “I’m going back to Denmark, you know.” Anne felt suddenly light-headed.

  “I know what you’re thinking. It’s not because of you. Or at least not just because of you. I always sensed there was someone else, and when I met you, I knew right away that it was you. That outburst at Peter’s poetry reading confirmed it. But I’ve been homesick ever since I got here. Ben and I had a fling—I think that’s the right word for it—but it was never quite real.”

  Anne felt a wave of joy pass over her. “Does Ben know?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

  “We haven’t discussed it directly, but he knows, I think. We’ve both dragged things out over the past few months—he didn’t want to hurt me and I wasn’t ready to leave. But now I am. I wouldn’t ever want to have children in this country, and he could never settle in Denmark. And now that you’ve appeared on the scene, I know that, in his heart, he thinks about that.”

  “You do?” said Anne, feeling dizzy.

  “I do. It’s the way he looks at you.” Kirsten and Anne glanced across the room where Ben was speaking, his face at an angle, so that it seemed to be intentionally averted from them. “And the way he doesn’t look at you,” she added. “And I see the way you don’t look at him. It’s fortunate that I’m not a jealous person. Your grandmother and I were alike that way. We take the world as it is, and we draw conclusions.”

  “I’m glad she had you as a friend at the end,” said Anne softly.

  “I am too,” said Kirsten, patting Anne’s hand. “And now that I’ve said what I had to say—what Winnie would have wanted me to say—I’m free to go. Have a good life—and if you’re ever in Copenhagen, look me up. It’s a wonderful city and the food, whatever Pauline may say against it, is very good.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  A FEW DAYS AFTER THE FUNERAL, ANNE ARRANGED TO DROP BY THE Scarsdale house to go through the last of Winnie’s things. Most everything of value had been sold long ago, but there were clothes and minor articles that would have to be disposed of, and items of no real worth but much sentimental
value, that she would want to keep.

  When she knocked, Ben opened the door. “You’ll want to go through her things alone,” he said quickly. “Let me know before you leave.” He disappeared before she had a chance to respond, and she went into Winnie’s room by herself. Everything had been left in the most meticulous order. Her grandmother’s few dresses hung neatly in the closet alongside the crisply ironed blouses. The underwear was carefully folded in the drawers— even at eighty-seven, Winnie had insisted on a little satin and lace. There were a few Hermes scarves and one nice Coach handbag. The jewelry was mostly good costume jewelry: bake-lite earrings and Venetian glass beads. There were a few gold pins, one with Winnie’s initials that Anne knew she would wear discreetly at the top of a blouse or the side of a sweater, and there were two gold and diamond bracelets, the only two left from the ten or so that her grandfather had given Winnie over the years in a touching lack of imagination.

  At the bottom of the jewelry box, there was an envelope marked Anne. Anne picked it up gingerly, opened it, and felt her throat tighten at seeing the familiar handwriting—bold and vigorous until the end. The letter was dated three weeks before her grandmother’s final stroke.

  She sat down at the little vanity, where Winnie had always done her hair and put on her makeup, and read the letter slowly:

  Dearest Anne,

  If you are reading this, I have finally made it to the other side. It’s been long enough, you know, so no need to cry about it. You know that I am not inclined to fairy-tale thinking, but I will indulge myself in the possibility that I am now romping hand and hand with your grandfather and your mother. It’s hogwash, but it’s a pleasant fantasy, and at my age (and given that by now, I’m dead), I should be allowed to indulge it. Meanwhile, I am pleased to say that everything promises to work out well in the realm of the living. Perhaps Kirsten has already told you her intentions. Trust me, my dear, I did not interfere; I merely listened and supported, and in my unassuming fashion, pointed the way. She is an excellent woman, but she is not in love with Benjamin and he is not in love with her. Which simplified matters enormously. Had things been otherwise, who knows what I might have had to resort to?—something lurid in the style of General Hospital, I assume. But it all worked out nicely, without my interference. You therefore can rectify the error that I encouraged you to make so many years ago.

  You have been given what is so rarely given to people: a second chance. Make the most of it and have a wonderful life. I regret not being there to see it—but then, I have seen enough. I love you, my darling, and will for eternity.

  Winnie

  P.S. Please be sure Kirsten gets one of the bracelets. You see your grandfather bought the right number after all. If she has already left for Copenhagen, send it to the address on the card. Jonathan must have the library. And Pauline should have all my recipes—they are in the little brass box under my desk. As for Benjamin, give him your grandfather’s wedding ring. It’s in the bottom compartment of my jewelry box. I sold my diamond years ago, which is just as well. He should buy you a much bigger one. In diamonds, remember, don’t worry about being vulgar— there is never such a thing as too big.

  I think that covers everything. I do wish I could know the end of General Hospital—but I don’t suppose it will ever end. That, at least, is a consolation. WM

  Anne began to cry.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  WHEN SHE HAD WIPED HER TEARS, ANNE LEFT HER GRANDMOTHER’S room and made her way to the library, where she found a young woman at the desk in front of a pile of books. The woman was clearly an employee and looked more competent than the girl she had caught Kirsten yelling at a few weeks earlier.

  “May I help you?” the young woman asked, peering over her funky, black-rimmed glasses as Anne paused in the doorway.

  “I’m a friend of the family who’s been going through some things on the other side of the house. Mr. Cutler said I should find him before I leave.”

  “Oh, yes,” said the girl, “he’s upstairs. We’re working on deadline for the new edition of the Venice guide.”

  “Oh?” said Anne, stepping forward and glancing at the book the girl had put down on the desk. It was Ruskin’s Modern Painters. “You’re reading Ruskin?”

  “Not reading, exactly,” said the girl with a sigh. “It’s pretty unreadable. But Mr. Cutler asked me to find something that might work for literary background. He was very definite about it. But I have to say that I can’t make head or tail of the sentences; they’re so wordy and old-fashioned.”

  Anne picked up the book. She and Ben had read Modern Painters together. Stones of Venice had brought them together, Ben said; why not continue with Ruskin? And so they had— reading him at a slow pace, since they tended to be distracted along the way

  “I think I can find something that he might want to include,” Anne murmured now as she thumbed through the book. “Why don’t I go upstairs and discuss it with him?”

  “Go ahead,” said the girl, relieved to have the burden of Ruskin taken off her hands. “It’s the first door on the left.”

  Anne climbed the stairs and slipped in the door, which had been left ajar. The room had been her old bedroom and was one of the few rooms in the house that had not yet been renovated (there were still the marks of the masking tape where the John Travolta poster had been attached to the wall over her bed).

  Ben was seated at the desk that had been hers—a small wooden desk of the Stickley variety, a bit low for someone of his size, so that he sat hunched forward. He had his back to her, facing the window, and he had a pile that looked like printed galleys in front of him. But he was not looking at the galleys. He was staring out the window.

  He had not heard her enter, and she cleared her throat.

  She saw him shudder slightly before turning around: “You surprised me,” he said simply “Are you all right?” He could see she had been crying.

  She nodded.

  “I thought you would be longer going through your grandmother’s things.”

  “There wasn’t much.” She held up the shopping bag. “What’s left can go to Goodwill. She did a pretty thorough job of sifting before she died.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I was speaking to your assistant in the library,” said Anne, aware that he was looking at her intently. “She said you were working on a new edition of the Venice guide and that you wanted a passage from Ruskin.”

  He just looked at her.

  She held up the book. “I think I may have found something.” Without pausing, she read aloud: “ ‘There is set in the deeper places of the heart such affection for the signs of age that the eye is delighted even by injuries which are the work of time; not but there is also real and absolute beauty in the forms and colors so obtained.’”

  “Let’s see,” he said quietly, when she stopped reading.

  She brought the book to him and leaned over the desk as he examined it. She could feel his breath on her neck, and it seemed as though no time at all had passed since they had pored over books like this, their heads close together, paying attention to the material they were reading, until, unable to restrain themselves, they put the books aside and veered off in another direction.

  They had the book in front of them, and a strand of Anne’s hair, normally pinned back, had fallen from the coil at the nape of her neck. It fell like a curtain so that, bent forward, she could not see his face. They were poised like this for what seemed a very long time. Then, she felt his hand touch the strand of hair, and then reach back and remove one pin and then another, until all her hair had fallen loose around her shoulders, the way she used to wear it. She did not move as he separated the thick strands and bent forward and kissed her neck. Then gently, he took her chin in his hand and turned her face toward him. She realized that she had been holding her breath. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he murmured.

  She looked at him. “I’ve been waiting too,” she said simply.

  “I didn’t k
now.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “I thought you were just embarrassed to see me again.”

  “I wasn’t embarrassed—I was full of regret. It was painful to see you with Kirsten.”

  “It was? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I tried. I called after Thanksgiving. But Pauline told me you and Kirsten had gone off to a romantic bed-and-breakfast together.”

  Ben gave a sardonic laugh. “We were checking out a site for the New England guide. And it was anything but romantic: Kirsten said the scenery was much nicer in Denmark, and I said that maybe she should go back to Denmark. We’d been sniping that way for months. Pauline, innocent soul that she is, never noticed.”

  “Winnie did,” mused Anne.

  “I’m not surprised. Kirsten said she was the most perceptive person she’d met in this godawful country. They were alike, you know. Both wonderful women. But not really my type.”

  “What is your type?”

  “I don’t have a type. It was just you.”

  Anne nodded. “I don’t have a type either. I tried to describe my soul mate—I was actually going to run a singles ad—but it was all about you.”

  Ben looked at her. It was the look she remembered—and had never expected to see again. “I’d like to read that ad someday.” he murmured. “But now, I only want—” He stopped, then very slowly but very deliberately, he brought her face to his.

  They had been given a second chance. The injuries of time had laid bare the beauty of their affection, and they had now arrived at that moment when they could appreciate it—not just the beauty that remained after the passage of time but, in Ruskin’s words, “the real and absolute beauty so obtained.”