by Belva Plain
She was staring straight ahead with an intent expression, watching everything, drab women coming out of the cheap downtown stores, clutching their bundles, or sweating men, loading and unloading trucks. Traffic thickened as workers, their long day ending, hurried home. Only yesterday she had been part of all this hard life.
And he thought that she must sometimes awaken in the middle of the night with Clive beside her in the fancy bedroom that he had not seen but could imagine, awaken and be struck with amazement, or with horror at what she had done.
She said suddenly, “You don’t have to sulk.”
“I’m not. I’m driving a car.”
“You haven’t said a word.”
“Neither have you. You were looking very solemn.”
“I was thinking, it feels strange to be sitting here with you. And still, not so strange.”
“Let’s not go into that, Roxanne.”
“You’re right. Would you mind stopping off at the deli for a second? I want to pick up a sandwich for my dinner.”
“I don’t mind. That’s not much of a dinner.”
“I’m not in a mood to cook for myself. It’s too lonesome. This way, I can sit in front of the TV, eat and go to bed.”
He made no comment.
“At lunch it doesn’t matter, but there’s something about eating by yourself in the evening that is so depressing.”
“Yes,” he said.
Actually, he had not given any thought to his own dinner. Happy had gone to Rhode Island for a couple of days to see her sister and her newborn baby. She would certainly have prepared plenty of food for him, but the prospect of poking around the refrigerator and heating the stuff, then cleaning up afterward, was dispiriting.
While he was thinking this, the traffic light turned red at the very corner where stood the best restaurant in the city. And suddenly he knew he was starved; his mouth was watering.
“I could use a good steak,” he said, “or maybe a veal parmigiana. Want to go in?” And then, too late, he remembered that this was the place where they had met almost three years ago.
“Yes, but—”
“But what?”
“We shouldn’t be seen together.”
“That’s ridiculous. Will you get it into your head that I have no designs on you, that there’s absolutely nothing to conceal—anything that happens from now on, I mean. Nothing is happening now except that my wife’s away and your husband, who is my brother, is in the hospital, and we are having dinner because I’m hungry. I’m assuming you are, too. Are you?”
“Yes, I’m hungry.”
“So. Okay. Let’s go eat.”
When other women, not just men, look at a woman, you know she’s a knockout, Ian thought as they walked to their table.
“Shall we go to the salad bar first?” he asked.
“No, I’ll just order an entree. It’s—” She gave a pretty shrug. “It’s too sad to stand up there. Do you know, I’ve never been here since I told Clive I don’t like this place.”
“Now, what sense does that make? You made your plans, you’ve got what you wanted, so there’s no need for this sentimental moping. I don’t want to hear it, Roxanne. I came here to eat.”
“Okay, okay. You don’t need to get so upset about it.”
“I’m not upset. Let’s order.”
The food was as good as ever, the steak just right, the french fries crisp, and the mélange of vegetables as succulent as any ratatouille he had ever had in France. Without thinking very much of anything, he ate steadily and drank his wine with his gaze fixed on the air behind Roxanne’s head.
“We can’t simply sit like this without talking,” she said after a while.
“Why not?”
She made an attempt at a joke. “It makes us look like a married couple.”
No doubt that was true of some married pairs, although it was definitely not true of Happy and himself. She always had things to tell him, not mere time-filling things, either.
Happy was interesting. He was uncomfortable in this place, thinking of her. He should not have come here or gone anywhere with Roxanne, and damn it! he knew it. Why had he done it?
“All right,” he said, “since we certainly are not a couple, we don’t want to look like one. So let’s talk.”
“What shall we talk about?”
“I don’t care. Politics. Anything. What’s going on in town?”
She thought for a moment before asking, “What about that big deal, that forest business? Clive’s told me you and Dan are sore at each other because of it.”
“Yes, it’s a shame. I don’t want to be sore at him, and I don’t suppose he wants to be sore at me. He’s being a fool, though, turning up his nose at money like that.”
“Clive hasn’t said how much it is. He doesn’t tell me much of anything about the business.”
So Clive had not gone completely crazy. The last thing this lady needed to know about was the financial condition of Grey’s Foods. It would be all over the city the next morning. On the other hand, though, she was too shrewd to do that. Anyway, the less said, the better.
“Well, it’s a great offer. I assume Clive intends to stick with me?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t said. What about this Amanda person?”
“I can do business with her.”
She reminds me of a hornet, he thought. Buzzes and stings. But there’s no mystery about what she wants: money. What else? It’s what everybody wants except types like Dan. A nice fat lump of money. Travel, see the world, no worries, no sweat. The thing is, be sure of her vote. Be sure she understands that’s the only way she can get her money. Keep after her. She’s as slippery as an eel.
“Amanda’s a bitch,” he said. “But there are bitches and bitches. Different kinds.”
“You surely don’t mean me!”
“Don’t twinkle at me. Yes, I do mean you, but you’re no Amanda. The only thing you have in common with her is that you’re both tough. Smart and sharp-witted. You look after yourselves.”
“We have to, when you deal with men. Excuse me, I’m going to the ladies’ room.”
When she had gone, a man came over to his table and whispered, “Hey, who’s that with you? What’s going on?”
An old familiar from the tennis club, he had a right to be intimate, and Ian answered with a laugh, “Nothing’s going on. She’s my sister-in-law. Did you know Clive’s in the hospital?”
“Sure. I’ve already sent him a get-well card. How is he?”
“Thanks, he’ll be all right.”
“I don’t get it. Your sister-in-law—you don’t mean that’s Clive’s wife?”
“I do mean.”
“Wow! I wouldn’t have thought it of Clive. No harm meant,” he added immediately, as Ian stiffened.
And Ian knew that anger must be showing in his eyes, not anger at this clumsy man, but at the situation. Better get the hell out of here, he thought, before there are any more questions.
Back in the car, there was another silence until Roxanne leaned forward and turned on the radio.
“Do you mind?”
“No, go ahead.”
They were playing old show tunes from the forties and fifties, music from South Pacific and My Fair Lady. She liked that sort of thing, melody that made you want to sing with it, and lyrics with words like “spring” and “moonlight.” Well, you had to admit there was a sweetness to the old songs.
Her hair smelled sweet, too. It had grown chilly, so that the windows were closed, and in the car’s confined space, the perfume was unmistakable. It was a new scent, one that he did not recognize.
“Did you know,” she said, “that Clive bought me a puppy?”
“No.” What did she think, that men sat around in an office talking about presents and puppies?
“Yes. It’s a darling pug, fawn color with blackish cheeks. Pugs were the Windsors’ favorite dogs, you know. They had lots of them.”
“Is that so?”
She was so clever, she was so shrewd, and she could prattle like an idiot.
“Well, here we are,” she said as the tires crunched gravel. “Would you like to come in a minute and see him? He’s been alone most of the day, but I couldn’t help it on account of Clive.”
That fragrance was overpowering.… The weather had changed into a real fall night. It was gloomy in these shortening days with winter looming. Funny, he liked winter once it was here. Of course, he loved spring and summer; it was only fall that depressed him. He didn’t feel like going home to an empty house, not yet.… All this went through his mind while Roxanne, already out on the driveway, held the car’s door open.
“Coming in?” she asked.
“Okay. You can show me the house.” He could have added “Happy says it’s beautiful,” but he could not bring himself even to think of her name in this place.
The first thing he remarked was the curving stairway with its wide treads and shallow risers. They didn’t build that way anymore. Couldn’t afford to. The house was definitely prewar, pre—World War II. The wallpaper looked like Williamsburg, pre-Revolution. It was unmistakably Clive’s taste, a little too historical, but very good taste all the same.
There was nothing historical, though, about the kitchen. Its glossy white porcelain and gleaming copper were all state-of-the-art, newer than new. Clive had spared no cost.
A round, fat puppy that had been lying on its bed in the corner got up and waddled toward Roxanne, yapping a shrill welcome. She picked it up and held it to her cheek.
“Poor Angel. That’s his name, you know. Angel. It was my idea and probably silly because angels are girls, aren’t they, and he is definitely a rambunctious boy.”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s well named. Angels are male.”
“They are? That’s what Clive said, only I didn’t believe it.
“He wants his dinner. Look, he’s piddled on the paper. He’s learning fast. Would you like a brandy, Ian? It’s in the bar cupboard in the den. The light is on.”
She was talking fast, eager to keep him, afraid he was going to say something like “No, I’ll just stay a minute.” He was, however, quite willing to have his usual brandy in comfort before hurrying home. If she thought there was going to be anything more than that, she was dead wrong. But he really did not believe she had any intention of risking her gains for a night of sex.
The den was warm, as a den should be. Its colors blended as in a stained-glass window; the colors of rugs and chintz and books all ran pleasantly together. Holding the brandy snifter—fine French crystal, too—he walked about examining the room. Out of curiosity he peered at two or three of Clive’s books: mathematics, physics, black holes, nanoseconds—he replaced them carefully in their original alphabetical order.
Then, for the first time, it came to him that Clive had never had a place of his own, and his heart was touched. Clive had been holed up at Hawthorne all his life in his father’s house. Yet, it had been no one’s fault. Or maybe “fault” was the wrong word, it being no choice of Clive’s or anyone’s that he had been made as he was. He never liked me, Ian thought, not from the very start before either of us was old enough to go to school. And I? I never paid much attention to him, to tell the truth. He was just not that important. I hope to God things work out for him now. I hope this dizzy woman will do what’s right for him. I hope he isn’t as sick as he looked today.
And restlessly, he continued his round of the room, warming the brandy between his hands, observing two very nice landscapes and a photograph of his parents, young and proud together. On another table stood a recent photo of Clive with Dan’s little girl on the pony he had given her. The child was already a beauty, he was thinking when Roxanne returned.
She had changed into a short, loose dress of some thin apple-green material, left from summer. Her hair, which had been fastened back with a flat ribbon bow at the nape of her neck, now hung loose.
“I promised to make potato soup for Clive. He’ll be able to swallow it tomorrow, I think, once they take the thing out of his mouth. And I couldn’t very well start cooking with that suit on, could I?”
Her breasts swayed slightly when she walked. By God, she had no clothes on under that dress or whatever you called the thing. He took up the photograph, saying, “Nice picture of him with Tina.”
“He’s crazy about that kid.”
“She’s a beautiful child. She’s going to be prettier than her mother, and that’s saying something. I always admired Sally,” he said, thinking: Let this one know she’s not the only one men look at.
“Yes, but there’s something wrong with Tina.”
“Wrong?” he repeated. “She’s ornery, a little bit spoiled, that’s all. Lots of kids are and they turn out fine.”
“No, it’s more than that. I’ve been around kids and I have a feeling for them. I went over one day when Sally invited me to look at something that woman did in their house, the same woman Clive got to fix up this house, and the kid wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t talk to me or Sally or anybody. I was there an hour and all she did was play tunes on some damn merry-go-round she had.”
It offended Ian to think that any child belonging to the Grey family, even a child whom he himself had thought of as a brat, could have anything “wrong” with her. Happy had made some remarks to him about Tina, about something going on at Dan and Sally’s house, some kind of trouble with their girl. She didn’t know what it was exactly; she had only mentioned that they should probably be taking Tina for “help”—the euphemism for what you did when you were at your wit’s end with an unmanageable kid. It seemed that she had been a real brat at the party Happy had given for the nursery school. Too bad. She was a beautiful kid, too, with Dan’s light eyes and Sally’s thick black hair. You wouldn’t think a child only five years old could prefigure the intensely feminine woman she would become.
“I’m no shrink, but—” Roxanne began, when he interrupted, cutting her short.
“You’re right, you’re not. So let’s drop it.”
“Clive wants us to have a baby, you know. He’d like to have a little girl of his own.”
“So? What’s to stop you? You’ve got a ring on your finger. You’re all set.”
He knew he was being nasty, nasty and cold. As always, the thought of Clive and her clinging together enraged him.
“I don’t know. I suppose I should. I’ll have to. Only I do so wish it could be yours. Ours.” And with wet eyes, Roxanne gave him a rueful look of appeal.
He set down the half-finished brandy. “I told you—” he began.
“All right, all right. I’m sorry. But you must admit it would be very nice. We’d have a gorgeous baby, the way we both look.”
Ian was thinking, I’ve always wanted a kid. A boy, especially. But mine would have to be Happy’s, never Roxanne’s. Why? Because of that streak in her. Not the greed—because, he thought with a bitter unseen laugh, because I guess I’m pretty greedy too—but the streak of cunning. I wouldn’t want a child of mine to be cunning.
“Tell me,” he asked curiously, “now that you have all this, are you comfortable being a part of this family? You’ve made yourself into a new person, like the talented actress you are.”
For a moment, she considered the question, and then said seriously, “I would be more than just ‘comfortable’ if this house belonged to you. Because that would be living with love, wouldn’t it?” And seeing his disapproval, she tried a defiant gaiety. “God knows I don’t belong back in my father’s house, so since I’m here, I’ll make the best of it.”
It came to him that he did not like her at all. And he said wryly, “A poor best. You poor soul.”
“You always have to be sarcastic.”
“Not always.” He yawned. “You’ll have to excuse me. It’s been a long day for both of us. I’m going home.”
“I thought you wanted to see the house. Come upstairs and I’ll show you. It’ll only take a minute.”
With
partial reluctance and partial interest, he followed her while the puppy leaped behind them.
“Let me show you his bed,” she said. “In here at the foot of ours.”
The low, queen-size bed was dressed in some soft, yellow-flowered cloth, and the dog’s bed matched.
“Isn’t that adorable? I saw in a magazine that there’s a place where they’ll make a dog’s bed to match your own. Look, he even has a pillow.”
Ian was looking not at the dog’s bed but at the other one, the “nuptial” bed. And the rage, that rage which ever since June he had been fighting so hard that he had almost beaten it down for good—almost—now came surging back. He could taste it in his mouth, stinging and hot as pepper.
“Come look at the bathroom. It’s bigger than the bedroom I had at home. It’s got a Jacuzzi and Clive had a skylight put in. What’s the matter, don’t you like it?”
“Of course I do. There’s nothing not to like.”
“Now listen to this. No, come in here. Listen. Even in the guest rooms.” She flipped a switch, and music came pouring out. “All over the house, anyplace you want it,” Roxanne announced as though nobody had ever heard of such a thing before.
Well, probably she had not. “Very nice,” he said.
“Clive likes to hear music in bed. It’s nice, except that we don’t enjoy the same kind. He likes Moz—moz?” she finished, uncertainly.
“Mozart.”
“But he likes to listen to what I like, too. Sometimes we dance. I’ve taught him. Watch.”
She raised the volume so that the hall and all the rooms were filled with the rock and boom of a band. And moving into the rhythm, she made a glissade down the long hall and returned to Ian, whirling, shaking her breasts, tossing the short, full skirt to reveal what he had known, that she was naked underneath it.
“Well, how about that?” Her eyes sparkled. And suddenly, she flung herself on him. “One kiss. I order it. Come on. It won’t cost you anything.”
