by Belva Plain
“Oh, I hate this damn dirty place, all these ugly places. Look at it. The wallpaper’s peeling, the curtain’s torn—the only good thing is there are no bedbugs. Why do we always have to come to places like this?” she wailed.
“Well, for one thing, the Waldorf’s too far away. And this place is safe, too, that’s why.”
“It wouldn’t have to be the Waldorf. But this is awful.”
“I know. And I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking lately. I’ve been thinking about a little place for you out of town. A nice little apartment in some place like Titustown? What do you think? Wouldn’t that be great?”
She did not answer.
“Wouldn’t it?”
“Titustown is seventy-five miles from Scythia, Ian. What am I supposed to do, quit my job?”
“Sure, quit it.”
“And what about my sister? Just walk out and leave Michelle in that hellhole with our bitchy stepmother, a crazy old man who has to be told to zip his trousers, and our father, who doesn’t give a damn about anybody?”
“Put your sister in a first-rate boarding school. It would do her good.”
“So then I’d be stuck out there alone seventy-five miles away in the sticks, seventy-five miles away from my friends. Everybody I know lives in Scythia.”
“Seventy-five miles on these highways are nothing. It’s not much more than an hour’s drive.”
“Yeah, in that tin can on wheels. All I need is to get stuck out there in three feet of snow.”
“I’ll buy a good car for you. You should have one, anyway, and I should have thought of it before. We can run over to New Hampshire or Boston or any place where I—we—aren’t known, and I’ll get you whatever you want. Cadillac, Lincoln, Mercedes. You name it.”
Roxanne pouted. Her full lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. “That’s fine, but I’d still be all alone out there. I’d go crazy shut away by myself. You can’t talk to four walls, no matter how expensive they are, and you can’t talk to a Mercedes, either.”
Ian, not liking the pout, grew impatient. “Well, what do you want? You’re sick of dumps like this, and I don’t blame you. I’m offering you an apartment as close to home as I dare make it. I can’t put you any nearer, and you know it. So what do you want?”
He knew in the instant he had put the question that he should not have done it. He had practically asked for another battle.
“You know what I want, Ian. You know perfectly well.”
She stood in the center of the room with the mink coat wrapped around her, sashed at her waist. Her pose was provocative, but what he heard in her voice and saw on her face was a plea. The plea.
He answered mildly, “I can’t do it. I told you at the very beginning that I will not leave my wife. I told you.”
“Why not? She’s wrong for you, or you wouldn’t be here with me.”
“That’s not so. The one has nothing to do with the other.”
“With her nose in a book all the time—and it’s not as if you had children. She hasn’t even given you children, after fourteen years.”
Again, she had said the forbidden thing. And although he replied still quietly, there was a sharp edge to his voice. “Leave my wife out, please. We don’t talk about her, Roxy.”
“How often do I have to tell you that my name is ‘Roxanne’? I hate being called ‘Roxy,’ and I hate being told what I can and can’t talk about.”
Up to two or three months before, she had been blissfully contented with things as they were. And then marriage had all of a sudden become Topic A. He was tired now, ready for sleep, concerned about getting home and in no mood for Topic A. Not that he ever was in the mood for it.
“Listen,” he said, “you’ve answered to ‘Rosemarie’ a hell of a lot longer in your life than to this Roxanne business, and you can talk about any damn thing you want except one thing, Roxy.”
“Don’t you say anything about my life! If you cared about it, you’d care about my future. What’s going to happen to me? We’re starting our third year, I’m getting older, and—”
“God damn it, you’re twenty-two and you’re worrying about getting older! Take each day as it comes. Enjoy it the way I do.”
“It’s easy for you to talk. You’ve got security. You’re going home to your own house tonight, your own mansion.”
“It’s no mansion. It’s a house.”
“A damn nice one. I saw it, I passed by. You’ve probably got marble bathrooms and velvet toilet seat covers.”
Angry as he was, he had to laugh.
“Oh, is that really so funny?”
“No, but you can be so superbly common, darling. That’s what’s funny.”
“Common? Damn it, if I had something here to throw at you, I would.”
“Ah, come on. Let’s not keep this going. We had a great time tonight, and there’s always more to come. How about Tuesday? No, that’s too soon. I can’t cook up so many evening meetings that close together. How about Friday?”
He knew he was thwarting her, but what else could he do? She ought to understand and be satisfied. Never in her life had she had it so good.
“No, not Friday. Not any day that you pick out just because it’s convenient for her, because she’s your wife, whom you don’t love.”
“I never said—” he began.
“Well, then you don’t love me. A man can’t love two women.”
“I love you, Roxanne. What does a man have to do to prove that he loves a woman?”
“Marry her. If we were married, you’d be home with me tonight.”
Round and round. He was growing more tired, more frustrated by the minute.
“I’m not good enough for your family, that’s it. You’re afraid of your father. Big-shot philanthropist’s son marries Rosemarie Finelli—there, I’ve said it—daughter of Vin Finelli of Dugan Street. Big laugh, huh? You wouldn’t dare. You’re afraid of your stuffed-shirt father.”
“You’ve got some nerve, little girl. What the hell do you know about my father? You’ve never laid eyes on him, and you don’t know one human being who knows him.”
“Except you. And you’ve dropped enough hints, whether you know it or not, for me to get the picture.”
The little devil! She was smart. Send her to one of the Seven Sisters and she’d graduate with honors. The little devil!
Ian was stung. She might say what she would about him, but not about his father. No one was allowed to taunt the Greys.…
“Well, if this sort of thing makes you feel better, Roxanne my dear, keep it up. As for me, I’ve had enough for tonight.” He put on his jacket and turned the doorknob. “You’ll get the last word, though. It’s a woman’s privilege. Will Friday suit you?”
“If you’ll give me an answer now. I don’t want to pin you down. I’m not asking for a definite time like next month or anything, but I want a yes or no answer now. I’m tired of being in the middle of nowhere. Are you ever going to divorce your wife or aren’t you?”
A blazing, furious beauty, standing erect and tall with her hands linked behind her back, she faced him boldly with her demand. He was not intimidated. He never was. In a few days, angry or not, she would be back in bed with him because she was as crazy about him, regardless of cars and bracelets, as he was about her.
“No,” he said precisely. “As I long ago made clear, I am not going to divorce my wife. And I don’t want to hear any more about it. I’m sick of the subject.”
“Then go to hell. And don’t call me. Ever!”
She pushed past him, rushed out, and had almost started her car before he had reached his. He stood for a moment, watching while her car whined, coughed, rattled, and sped away. Then he headed for home.
The highway was a clear, lighted streak in the moonless night, with almost no other cars on the road. The loneliness seeped over Ian like a fog. What a nasty way to end the evening! It had begun so merrily, too, with a basket of fine snacks and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
D
amn her temper! She knows I’m not going to marry her, so why all the fuss? Oh, she’ll come around in two weeks! No, she’s stubborn. I’ll give her a month.
He began to feel more cheerful. But on the final stretch, past Scythia’s main street, past the dark bulk that was the headquarters of Grey’s Foods, as he was climbing the long hill above the city and almost home, there came a nervous fluttering in his chest.
Did Happy still trust him? Once a long time ago, a long time before Roxanne, he had been careless. She had found out and had been devastated. And truly sorry to see her pain, begging forgiveness for what he had called a “meaningless escapade,” he had promised that it would never happen again. For a time, it had not happened. Still, life being short and the world so filled with beautiful women in such tempting variety, he had had to break his promise.
He had been very, very careful that there be no slipups. Yet perhaps it wasn’t as easy to “pull the wool over Happy’s eyes” as he liked to think? Possibly she, suspecting all his excuses, had simply decided to pretend ignorance and accept him as he was. She loved him, after all, and their life was good together.
It was good except for the want of a child. Or children. Happy had announced at the very start that she wanted a large family. He imagined that he would have liked it if it had happened, especially if he could have had a boy, a fine son. But since Happy was already thirty-five and it still had not happened, he did not allow himself to grieve as she, in her heart, in her silence, did grieve.
Definitely, he did not want to adopt. He knew many childless people who, rightly or wrongly, agreed with him. Why look for trouble where ancestry was unknown? You could have trouble enough with your own flesh and blood.
He was uneasy about meeting Happy’s eyes when he walked in. It wasn’t always this way, only occasionally after he had been with Roxanne. Tonight he was hoping that she would be asleep.
As soon as he rounded the driveway circle in front of the house, he knew she was not, for the bedroom was dark and the ground floor lit. He garaged the car and went in.
Happy called, “That you, darling?” She came out of the living room with a book in hand. “That meeting took forever. I was starting to worry.”
“Some guy was in love with the sound of his own voice. Took an hour to say what could have been said in ten minutes.” He kissed her. “That’s nice perfume. A new brand?”
She laughed. “I’ve been using it for the last two years at least. Are you hungry? I’ll bet you skipped dinner.”
“No, I ate.” Pâte and champagne.
“Well, have a little dessert with me. I got tired of reading, so I baked a batch of chocolate brownies. Let’s have some, they’re still warm.”
He had a sweet tooth that, because he was in fine shape, he could afford to indulge.
“Sounds good. Does ice cream go with it?”
“Of course. What flavor?”
“Coffee, please. Can I help you?”
“No, you sit. You’ve had a long hard day. I’ll bring it in here.”
He sat down. A wave of the most peculiar feeling passed over him. It was not guilt exactly, for he had years ago worked that out: As long as you harm no one, you cannot be guilty. And he had not harmed his wife. What he was feeling now, he thought as he analyzed himself, was embarrassment. He was embarrassed, here in his own living room, leaning against the needlepoint pillows that Happy had made, facing himself silver-framed in his dark morning coat with his girlish bride enveloped in white satin, white orchids, and innocence.
But he had never harmed her, he repeated. And the name still fitted her: Happy.
She set the tray on the table between their chairs.
“You’ve done something different to the brownies,” he said. “I like whatever it is.”
“It’s an experiment. I added some coffee.”
“Good idea.”
He looked over at her. Her pink silk housecoat was ruffled. A single strand of pearls lay on her deep chest. Her fair hair fell softly, as naturally as a child’s. She was wholesome.
“What are you looking at?”
“At you. You’re a lovely woman, Elizabeth Grey.”
You wouldn’t turn and gasp at the sight of her, he thought, but you wouldn’t tire of seeing her, either, any more than you would tire of seeing a vase of roses in your room.
“I’m glad,” she said, smiling.
“How did things go in school today?”
“The accountants were there. We’re way in the black, and we’ve had to close registration for next year. Filled up.”
He heard the pride of accomplishment in her voice. She was entitled to pride. A domestic, gentle woman had learned a profession, taken on a business, and made it succeed under no one’s direction but her own.
And he said, “I’m proud of you. Very proud.”
For a while, until they had finished the ice cream, they sat and discussed the school. After that, Happy had a couple of neighborhood anecdotes to relate and laugh about. Presently she remarked that it was late and they should go to bed.
It occurred to Ian that it had been more than a week since he had made love to her, about two weeks to be exact. Something in her manner as she said “bed” suggested that she might be having the same thought. She was a healthy, vigorous woman.
“Come on up,” she repeated.
After tonight, he could hardly be feeling the clamor of heated blood. Still, if she began it, he would have to accede. A long, long shower would have to come first, though. He was soiled; within himself, he was soiled. And he was very tired. The conflict and the deception had taken his strength tonight.
Yet why should he permit them to? In sudden defiance, he sat up and walked with his arm about her to the stairs. They belonged together. He had obligations, and he wanted to have them.
But there was also Roxanne, a delight that he could not, absolutely could not and would not do without. Why should he feel conflicted or feel anything but pleasure in different ways with these two different women? The one had nothing to do with the other. Nothing at all.
Later that week, Ian received a telephone call at the office from his father.
“Stop in on your way home. I need to talk to you. It won’t take more than a few minutes.”
When Oliver used a certain clipped manner of speech, one knew that he was not making a request, but was issuing a summons. He was finishing his solitary dinner when Ian went in. The scene was a setting for a comedy of manners, he thought; the white-haired gentleman at the head of the long table, dining by candlelight beneath the portrait of his wife in her white satin evening gown.
“Sit down. Coffee?”
“No, thanks. I haven’t had dinner yet.”
“Ah yes, of course.”
Ian faced the portrait. As strongly as his mother always drew him toward her face, she also troubled him in some vague way that he had never understood. What he remembered of her was her gentleness, a bright spirit that was still spoken of by everyone who had known her. And yet, there was something else there … what? the sadness? He shook his head and looked away. No doubt he was only seeing the artist’s lack of skill.
“I’ve heard some things about you that I haven’t liked to hear,” said Oliver.
“About me? I don’t understand.”
“You don’t? There’s nothing you’ve done that you’re ashamed of?”
Ian, feeling heat rise into his neck, said, “Well, naturally, everybody has done things he shouldn’t have done. But I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Oliver poured cream into his cup, stirred it, lifted the cup, and looked over it at his son.
“Let this be a lesson to you,” he said. “You run into people when and where you least expect to. You were seen in New York a while back dancing at the Waldorf-Astoria with a young woman. Of course, I’m not going to name the person who told me. I’m not saying he meant any harm with his report, either. It may well have been entirely innocent. On the other hand, he mi
ght have meant to give you, and me, an oblique warning. Apparently you seem to be on, shall we say, intimate terms with her?”
Ian’s flush had mounted to his forehead. Good God, some damn snooping old fogy might even have been in the elevator when he and Roxanne were going up to their room.
“Father,” he said quickly, “this is nonsense. I was in the city to meet our southwestern distributors. Happy was at her family’s place in Rhode Island, otherwise I would have been dancing with her. The woman he saw me with was—was the wife of a guy in my class at Yale. We ran into each other in the lobby and—”
Oliver raised his hand. “Stop, stop, I wasn’t born yesterday, Ian, and this wasn’t the first report I’ve had about you, either.”
“What is this? The FBI out following me?”
“No, but as I told you just now, it’s a smaller world than you think. You’ve been seen at road-houses out on the highway, way out where people go to hide. Just casual mention, you know, ‘Oh, we saw your son’—that sort of thing. Casual. Or not so casual. Do you get my drift?”
“I get it, but it’s all wrong. I never—”
Again, the hand went up. “Enough, Ian. I was your age once and there’s nothing new that you can tell me about being young. The difference between us is that I cut out all that stuff when I married your mother.” Now Oliver swung around in his chair to face the portrait. “I was totally faithful to her and never regretted it for one moment. You have a beautiful wife in Happy. Why are you looking for trouble? Shape up, Ian. I mean it.”
This humiliation was unbearable. You couldn’t argue with anything his father had said, nevertheless it was pretty nasty at the age of thirty-five to be reprimanded by one’s father as if one were a schoolboy.
He stood up. “Well,” he said, “I’ve heard you and I’ll keep what you say in mind. Is that all?”
“Yes, that’s all. I haven’t enjoyed putting you in this position, but as you must realize, it’s for your own good. So no hard feelings, I trust?”
“None. Good night, Father.”
Yes, he thought, on the ride home, undeniably Father was young once, but he wasn’t me and I’m not him. He doesn’t understand nor can he forgive because he hasn’t got the same zest for life. Probably he never did have, any more than Clive has, poor guy, whose only women are the ones he buys. Or any more than Dan has. Dan has different zests; you can’t imagine him in that motel. He’s in love with Sally and with trees. Yet he would never condemn me the way Father does; it’s not Dan’s way to condemn people. A good sort. A prince.
