by Belva Plain
Flinging out his arm in his agitation, he knocked the fruit bowl off the table. It shattered to slivers, while apples and tangerines rolled away on the floor.
“Oh, I’m sorry! Sorry!” he cried, stooping to pick up the mess. “I’ll buy you another bowl. Watch the broken glass, you’ll cut yourself.”
It was not glass; it was crystal, Lalique, to be exact, and Annette’s favorite, with its delicate birds perched around the rim. They had bought it on their twenty-fifth anniversary, when they had gone abroad on the S.S. France, and this was the memento of those lovely days.
“Never mind,” she said. “We’ll clean it up later. It’s nothing. No, really,” she repeated, for he, the meticulous, considerate Gene, was red with embarrassment.
“I need to get out of here. Let me get some newspapers and take it off the floor before somebody gets cut.” Then, “I’m sorry, Mother, but let me go home. I’ll see you another time. Next week positively.”
If she did not catch them both now, she never would. Of that, Annette was certain.
“No,” she said harshly. “No. You are two grown men, and I can’t believe that you want to behave like children. If your father were here—” She stopped, feeling the sting in the back of her nose that always preceded the gathering of tears.
“I’m glad for his sake that he isn’t,” Lewis said sadly.
“But I’m here! So for my sake, can’t you—” she began.
“Mother, try to understand. We’ve lived through disaster. It broke us. You might as well try to put the pieces of that bowl together as to do what you want us to do. Mother, it can’t be done, and the sooner you recognize it, the easier it will be for you.”
She saw them again—so often did the same images recur—in the bathtub together, and dressed on Sundays in matching sailor suits, and wearing mortarboards at their college commencements. She saw them, too, as they must have looked on the terrible night when the hotel crumbled apart.
Why did it matter so much that these men in late middle age were at loggerheads? She did not have any good explanation for why it mattered so much to her. It simply did. Perhaps it was just that life was so short.
“Hate,” Lewis said, “takes a lot of energy, and I need all my energy now to help my daughter. Nothing else can be as important to me except you, Mother. Certainly not my brother. Now if you’ll excuse me, please, I’ll go find my family.”
“Good riddance,” Gene said when the door closed. He had put the fruit on the tray and was picking up shards with a paper napkin. “That’s about the only thing he said that I can agree with.”
“Beautiful! A beautiful, worthy sentiment. God help me, could I ever have dreamed I’d live to hear it?”
“Mother.” He held her shoulders and spoke softly. “I know what this must do to you. I never thought I’d live through anything like it either. But it can’t be helped. It’s too deep and has lasted too long. And you still have each of us whenever you want us, you know that. Only, not at the same time, that’s all.”
Annette searched Gene’s decent, intelligent face and shook her head. “I’m ashamed of you,” she said in her bitterness, “ashamed, do you hear? And you both ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”
Then she wrenched herself free of his hands and went out.
In the meantime Daisy and Cynthia were in the library. Daisy was seething.
“I can’t get over your grandmother. Of all people, so tactful, so Old World, really, to do a thing like this. God knows whether those two men will come to blows in there—I don’t mean that—or maybe, who knows, maybe I do. They could. Anything can happen. In this world we have to be prepared for any crazy thing.”
“Yes,” said Cynthia, a trifle sharply, as one who should know very well about that.
She was at the window, staring out at gloom, wintry land, frozen pond, and lowering, dark sky. “It looks like snow or sleet or something.”
“Oh, great. I’d like to get back to the city before it starts. I hate driving on ice. Stop twisting your necklace; you’ll break it.”
“If it wants to break, let it.”
Daisy scolded herself: Here I talk about a necklace, when it’s her heart that’s broken. From having had everything, she has nothing. It’s like being bombed, or burnt out, or beaten to death. Damn Andrew for giving her this last blow. Damn him to the ends of the earth. If only there were something we could do for her. We talk and talk, Lewis and I. We think and try to imagine a miracle, of walking in and finding her standing calmly again, in that quiet way of hers, with that touch of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
It had been a bad idea to bring her here today. This old town had too many memories, the church, the wedding, and the party in this house when they came back from the honeymoon, she coming down the stairs in her lavender dress … And then, the cemetery.
“This is a beautiful room,” she observed. “When your father’s finished in Washington and we’re home again, I think I’ll redo our den in these colors. Annette won’t mind if I copy her, I’m sure.”
“Mom, I’m all right.” Cynthia spoke without turning from the window. “You don’t have to work so hard to cheer me up.”
“It’s not hard work. It comes naturally, darling. And you do seem to need cheering up.”
“I know I’m dull company. I shouldn’t have come. I’m better off working. At least I’m helping people, and that helps me.”
“Well, that’s true.” Daisy, hesitating over a question, decided to proceed with it and ask whether there was anything new happening, any word of Andrew.
“Wouldn’t I tell you if there were?”
“I should think his parents would try to get in touch with you. After all—”
“I suppose they’ve given up. You and Dad haven’t gotten in touch with Andrew either.”
“I wouldn’t care to be there when your father meets him.”
“As far as I can see, he never will, so you needn’t worry.”
Sometimes, when she was unable to fall asleep and lay still counting her heartbeats, Cynthia’s thoughts churned, inventing situations in which she would have to confront Andrew: on the street, in a bus where he would take the seat next to hers and try to argue her into letting him come back, or at the theater where he would be sitting directly behind her and she, feeling his eyes on the back of her head, would be waiting for some vengeful, humiliating move or words from him. And as she imagined that scene, her muscles would tense in dread.
Perhaps, inevitably, she would have to see him in the divorce court. She had no idea whether the parties did have to meet there. If they did, she would act as if he were invisible.
The pond was dark blue. Out in the center beyond the ice, two swans and their young were swimming, their young now, in December, having grown to be as large as the parents. This was the time of year when, like little birds being driven out of the nest and made to fly, the cygnets were to be sent forth into the world. And Cynthia, who had known about swans ever since her grandfather had raised the first pair, wondered how many generations this present family was removed from that first. She watched now as the big one, the father, rose into the air, flew low and returned to his huddled family, rose again, and repeated the flight. He was teaching them how to fly.
Swans were monogamous, faithful.
Then, as she turned her head to follow the great white wings, she saw a car come up the driveway. Now who? Who else was coming? Surely not Mark and Ellen?
“Oh, no! Mom, you won’t believe this. Come look, it’s Ellen with Mark and the children and, yes, they’ve got his father and mother with them too.”
Daisy peered out. “Of all the senseless, confused, and idiotic messes, this gets the first place. What can have possessed Annette? If I didn’t know she wasn’t, I’d say she must be senile.”
“Do you realize that those two fathers despise each other? They haven’t been in the same room for the last—it must be eight or nine years!”
There was a slight bustle in
the hall, and then a short procession, with Jenny at the head, appeared around the corner and paused for a moment of astonished recognition.
Jenny was in a red-faced fluster. “You’ll all be comfortable in here. There are plenty of chairs. Can I get you anything?”
“I think we have everything. Thank you, Jenny,” Ellen replied.
Indeed, they seemed to be laden; they had a tote bag full of toys, a diaper bag, and an armful of sweaters. Mark held a partially consumed bottle in one hand, while with the other he juggled Freddie onto his knee.
Now Gene has two enemies, Daisy thought. This should be interesting.
“This is quite a surprise,” Mark said brightly. “We were wondering whose car that might be.”
“We rented it,” Daisy said.
“Do you remember each other?” asked Ellen. “My aunt, Daisy Byrne, and Mark’s parents, Aaron and Brenda Sachs. Dr. Sachs.”
“How do you do?” said Daisy, who only remembered black whiskers.
Lucy had run to Brenda and was being hugged. “Grandma’s little doll. Somebody loves Grandma and Grandma loves somebody.”
“Where’s Gran?” asked Lucy.
The question floated for a moment until Daisy replied, “She’s in the sunroom with Gene and Lewis.”
Ellen gasped. “What’s happening? Is it working out?”
“I doubt it. Personally, when I left there, I was thankful that neither of them is armed.”
“Oh, what can Gran have been thinking of?”
“Only Gran can answer that, I’m afraid.”
“It’s all so sad and so unnecessary,” Cynthia said.
Ellen smiled at her. Regardless of their fathers they were fond of each other. But their paths had led them far apart. It must be agonizing for her to see me with my children, she thought. I understand why she doesn’t visit.
“I think Freddie’s wet,” Mark said.
“What, again? Stick your hand in and feel.”
“No, my mistake. I apologize, Freddie. Now get down and play with your blocks.”
He’s a sweet man, Cynthia thought. She watched the blocks tumble into a little pile on the floor. She hadn’t seen Freddie in months, which was wrong of her. It made her sorry and ashamed to think that she, living in the same city, had been staying away. She could have come to the party when he turned one. Sending a good present was not the same. He was a cute little boy, still pudgy, like a baby.
“Do you live nearby?” asked Brenda, who, having caught Daisy’s eye, felt it necessary to say something to her.
“No, we’re in Washington now.”
Brenda nodded. “I thought I remembered Ellen’s mentioning that you had moved out of New York, but I didn’t recall where to.”
She was making conversation. It’s like being at a funeral, waiting for the service to begin; you always feel that you have to make some remark to the stranger who’s sitting next to you. What an odd thought to be having, Brenda said to herself, and looked toward Aaron for solidarity.
But Aaron had gone down on his knees beside Freddie and the blocks. He was feeling signals in the room. They seemed to stream like electric currents speeding through the world, filling the air with messages from man to man. He sensed the vibrations in this room. Brenda was feeling out of place; his son was uneasy; that young woman—Cynthia, wasn’t that her name?—was grieving; and her mother was suppressing a boiling anger.
Ah, stop it, he admonished himself. None of this concerns you.
Lucy asked Brenda, “Is Papa Gene here?”
Brenda’s glance consulted Mark, who did not see the glance because he was, in like silent fashion, consulting Ellen.
“I don’t know,” replied Brenda.
Lucy slid down from her lap and went to Daisy. “You said he was here with Gran. Why doesn’t he come to see me?”
“I don’t know,” Daisy said.
“I want to see him.”
“Well, you can’t right now.”
Spoiled, thought Daisy. When a child’s that pretty, it gets too much attention. And she really did have a doll’s face. You couldn’t help wondering how Laura would have looked at this age. You wonder too much, she told herself.
“You have to wait,” Ellen said.
“But I want to see him,” insisted Lucy.
“Not now, Lucy.” And without thinking Ellen explained to Daisy, “She really loves my father so much.”
“Apparently so,” Daisy said. The child was appealing, but she was in no mood to cater to any child, however appealing. And what a stupid remark for Ellen to make, to her of all people.
Ellen was restless. When to the room at large she remarked, “I wonder whether they plan to stay in there all day,” no one answered.
Aaron built a tower of blocks, which Freddie, with great glee, overturned. He kept building more until Freddie lost interest and began to forage in the bag of toys for something else, whereupon he got up, brushed off his trousers, and looked out of the window, observing that the sky was threatening.
“It’s a good thing we’re staying overnight,” Mark said. “I wouldn’t want to be on the roads with the kids if it should get as bad as it looks.”
“Are you invited for overnight?” Ellen asked Cynthia.
“We—” Cynthia started to say, when Daisy interrupted.
“We were supposed to, but we are definitely not going to. As a matter of fact, I’m ready to start right now.”
“Don’t you like Gran’s house?” asked Lucy, turning wide blue eyes up at Daisy. “Don’t you like Gran?”
Daisy liked children, but at the moment this one was really a bit much. Her parents, considering the situation, should make her keep quiet. They should see that we are all nerves here.
Lucy was still surveying Daisy from top to toe. Apparently, she was fascinated by Daisy. “You have flowers on your shirt,” she observed.
“I do.”
“They’re pretty.”
“Thank you.”
“Why does that man hate Papa Gene?”
This child was too smart. And why, Daisy wondered, must she fasten on me?
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about it,” she countered, giving Lucy the smile that often, but not always, can placate a persistent child.
“You do know. You said the man in the sunroom.”
The adults looked from one to another. Did you ever? You have to watch everything you say in front of them.
“Grandpa,” asked Lucy, losing interest in Daisy, “you don’t hate Papa Gene, do you?”
Suddenly, Aaron had a coughing fit. And Mark said hastily, “Come, Lucy. Come over and take a toy out of your bag and play.”
“They’re all baby toys, Daddy. I don’t like any of them.”
“You’re being awfully stubborn,” he said impatiently.
Brenda corrected her son. “Mark, anybody can see she’s bored. She’s only six. What do you expect?”
She would, Daisy thought. A social worker, I heard. Overindulgent. Crammed with pop-Freudian psychology. Just tell the child to be quiet. My head is splitting.
The message came clearly to Aaron: She doesn’t approve of Brenda. Country-club Republican. Captain of girls’ hockey in school. Champion golfer. Champion hang-glider, for all I know. God, I’d like to get out of this place. Can’t breathe in this atmosphere.
“What on earth is going on in there?” Daisy cried.
“They’ll have to be out soon,” Ellen soothed. “I’m sure everything will be all right.”
You think so, Cynthia thought not unkindly, because everything turned out all right for you.
“That Gene,” Daisy began to protest. “There’s never any telling what that man—” and stopped.
“You’re forgetting yourself, Mom,” Cynthia told her. “He’s Ellen’s father.”
“I’m sorry, Ellen,” Daisy said at once. “I did forget myself.”
“You see, we’re not the only ones who think he’s a bastard,” Aaron whispered to Brenda, w
ho whispered back, “Stay out of this, Aaron.”
Cynthia clasped and unclasped her hands. Unbearable hostility surrounded her. Even her grandfather, looking out of his gold frame, seemed suddenly to be cold and angry, which was, she knew, absurd, for he had been a kindly man who worked in his fancy little garden and gave her his prize strawberries, warm from the sun, for breakfast.
She had to get out of this room. “I’m going for a little walk,” she said.
Daisy cried, “No, Cindy, no! The minute your father comes out, we’re leaving. I don’t want to have to go looking for you.”
“I’ll only go as far as the pond. You can see me from this window. Excuse me, everyone, please.”
On their broad black feet two swans slid over the ice as if they were on skates. The remains of cut-up bread lay on the grass at the pond’s edge. Gran fed them all winter when, because the pond was frozen, they were unable to reach underwater to feed themselves. Cynthia watched them until they reached a circle of water where those few of their young who had not yet been sent away to fend for themselves were floating. The tranquillity of these creatures and the peace of the wintry silence relieved her tension. A strong wind blew, but there was no rustle of leafage. There were no birdcalls. And she stood still, hearing the silence.
Sometimes she thought of going away to a place where she knew no one and no one knew her. She imagined a cold place, in Alaska perhaps, near a glacial lake where eagles nested in the trees. She thought of a warm place on an un-touristed island, where the surf rolled and broke on a quiet beach. Like a primitive person you would just live there, simply live out each day; and all the days would roll on with little memory of the past or need to care about what was to happen in the future.
Naturally she knew, even as she was having these escapist daydreams, that they were foolish. She knew as well as anyone could that the best, maybe the only, way to be rid of such malaise is to work and be involved with other people. But she had been doing just that, she had not been thinking only of herself or feeling sorry for herself; self-pity was disgusting.
