Random Winds

by Belva Plain

  “You’re really ready to accept that ‘equal basis’ business? I’m not sure I could. But then, I keep forgetting, you’re a new generation.”

  “Yes, sir, I have to remind myself of that sometimes, too, and I’m not all that old.”

  No, you’re not. You’re very young. You’ve a long way to go. Pray it will be easier for you than it has been for me, Martin thought, with surprising tenderness. Then he thought of something else.

  “I don’t even know whether she’d have you after all that’s happened. Her mother says she would, even though her mother’s not enthusiastic about it herself! On the strength of that, I came here. A wild-goose chase, perhaps, but I must warn you.”

  “I’ll chance it. I’ll go and find out … But I haven’t asked you about yourself, sir. I suppose the institute is open by now and running under your hands?”

  “It’s open and running well,” Martin said, adding unemotionally, “but not under my hands.”

  Ned’s eyebrows went up.

  “That’s another story. Now’s not the time to go into it.” And wanting to turn away from the subject, he looked around. “These pictures, they’re all—”

  “All Mother’s. They’ve been sent back from an exhibit We’re rehanging them.”

  Martin got up and walked around the room. Claire had said something once, quite briefly, about Mary’s achievement, but he had not imagined anything like this. An embarrassment of riches, he thought, given as he was to remembering phrases. Beautiful, beautiful! Grace and love shone in these trees and human figures, these faces, this fruit and running water, that ragged child, this tired old woman, those clouds like flowers in the sky. And he remembered all those years ago when she had told him with such young wistfulness, “I don’t know yet who I am.”

  Ned touched his arm. “This I would call a masterpiece. Do you agree? It’s called Music of the Sphere.”

  On a tall vertical canvas, she had drawn the earth as one might behold it from another planet Glowing, golden-green and silver-blue, it hung or seemed, rather, to be spinning in a gentle rhythm through vast darkness. A jewel it was, a living heart, sending a radiance into the frozen universe. Around it an aureole of tender light was shot with sparkle of tropical rain and of petals that might have been musical notes or musical notes that might have been petals. A work of most sumptuous and subtle imagery, it could only have been conceived by someone who was in love with the world.

  Profoundly moved, Martin could find just commonplace words. “Magnificent. Magnificent.”

  “The critics thought so. People have been calling to buy it But this is one she won’t sell, which, of course, I can understand.”

  Martin’s heart hammered. He looked straight into Ned’s eyes. “How is she?” he asked.

  “Happy in her work, as you can see. Happier all around than she’s been in a long time, I should guess.”

  “I wouldn’t want to shock her by walking in without warning.” And yet if she were to walk in suddenly upon him, it would be a shock to rejoice the soul, he thought with a small rise of joyous laughter. “Claire’s told me that you knew, of course, about Mary and me. Not that we’ve talked much about it. We’re all too reticent, I sometimes think. But—well, I thought coming here, that maybe after all this time, she and I—” Something in Ned’s expression stopped him.

  “I’m not sure I understand your meaning, but if it’s—”

  “I think you do understand,” Martin said.

  “Oh, then … Oh then, I’m sorry! You didn’t know … Mother’s been married almost a year.”

  “Married!”

  “Yes. Simon and she have known each other a long, long time. He owns a gallery; he’s done wonders for her in every way. I’m very fond of him.”

  Married! It crossed Martin’s mind that he must look ghastly, for with extreme kindness, Ned added, “Things can be a muddle sometimes, can’t they, sir?”

  “Muddle?” Chaos and storm, more likely!

  Devious and strange is the heart of man. Certainly his own was. And feeling dreadfully weak, Martin sat down again on an upended packing case, thinking of that bright thread that had been woven through all the twisted, turning patterns on the loom of his life.

  Married.

  She, she, from the first day, with the eyes and the dreams and the dark, lovely face—

  “Fey,” Jessie said. “Fern is fey.”

  Married.

  “I thought you would have heard through that old aunt, Milly.”

  “No, Mille’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ned looked considerately away.

  Sorry about the old woman’s death? Or about—Martin pulled himself together. “I’ll have to be going. I’ve done what I came to do. The rest is up to you.”

  “Can I give you a lift to the station?”

  “Thanks. I have a car.”

  He was going out when the door opened and a man entered. He was a tall man, of middle age, wearing country clothes and a pleasant outdoor face.

  “Simon,” Ned made the introduction, “we’ve a visitor from America. This is Dr. Farrell, Claire’s father.”

  Simon shook Martin’s hand. “I’m glad to know you. But you’re not leaving?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Martin felt weakness and dizziness again. “I only came for a word or two with Ned. I have to get back.”

  Ned explained, “Dr. Farrell came about Claire. I may be going to New York next week, Simon. I’m going to see her.”

  Simon looked from one to the other. “So that’s it, is it? Why, I’m delighted, Doctor! I’ve been suspecting it was Claire all along, if you want to know the truth of it.” His pleasure was genuine. “You see, I understand what it is to know what you want and not get it. Have you ever met my wife, Doctor? But of course, you must How clumsy of me! Her sister. Forgive me, I forgot for the moment.”

  “Quite all right It was a long time ago,” Martin murmured.

  “This is all her work. Perhaps you’ve heard of her reputation? She’s not well known in America yet, but we may show some of her work there sometime.”

  “Ned’s been showing me. It’s very, very beautiful.”

  “Has Ned shown you this? It’s her portrait. I had it done by Juan Domingo. He’s a Mexican, a very fine artist. He’s caught her to perfection, I think.” Happiness exuded from the man. He guided Martin to the far end of the room. “Here it is. She must have been a young girl when you saw her last Would you recognize her from this?”

  There she was, full length, next to a table on which stood a bowl of flowers, some large, white flowers, hydrangeas or hyacinths. His eyes swam so he couldn’t tell what they were. One hand rested on a pile of books. Her dress was a subtle clash of ruby and flame, but all he really saw were the great, wondering eyes looking out at something far away.

  “Would you recognize her?” Simon persisted.

  “Yes,” Martin said. “I would recognize her.”

  “I had this done ten years ago, but she hasn’t changed much since then.”

  “You’ve known her ten years,” Martin repeated, for no reason at all.

  “Yes. It took me that long to persuade her to marry me. But I’m a persistent man.” And Simon laughed with the contentment of a man who can afford to laugh.

  Martin looked up and saw the pity in Ned’s eyes. “An excellent likeness,” he said, it being necessary to say something more. He moved again toward the door. He was an interloper here, a trespasser and a thief who ought to run before he should be discovered.

  “Mary will be here soon. She only went out on a few errands,” Simon said. “Can’t you possibly stay to tea?”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind, but I have an appointment at my hotel and I really can’t.”

  They shook hands. Martin nodded to Ned: “Perhaps I shall be seeing you in New York.” And he went out.

  At the top of the rise where the road curved, he stopped the car and looked back. Through bare trees one could see the roof and one wing of Lamb Ho
use. There it lay, as it had lain for centuries. To the passerby it was a fine and honest house with nothing extraordinary about it, surely not the shimmer and glamor of the forbidden. Well, he had come for Claire, hadn’t he? And he had done his best. What happened next would not be of his making. As for the rest, the other business, he didn’t know. He couldn’t say. He could hardly feel. He was numb.

  Mary came into the studio where Simon and Ned were still, arranging pictures.

  “We had a visitor, darling,” Simon said. “If you took a hundred guesses, you couldn’t guess who.”

  He looks so happy, Mary thought, it’s like coming home to a warm fire just to see his face when I walk in. “Well, then, you might as well tell me.”

  “It was your former brother-in-law. From America. The doctor. Isn’t that strange? I invited him to tea, but he couldn’t stay.”

  “Martin!” And she repeated softly, “Martin was here?” She looked at Ned.

  He nodded. “He came to talk about Claire.” Ned spoke steadily and she understood that this tone was meant to steady her. “I think, Mother, I’ll go back and see her.”

  Mary sat down. Her mouth trembled. She hoped no one would see it. And she said almost apologetically, “I’m just—stunned. I—seem to be shaking.”

  “Well, of course!” Simon cried. “Oh, you’ve worried your mother, Ned. She may not have let us see it, but I’ve known it all along.”

  “She oughtn’t to worry about me at my age.”

  Mary said, “Of course I wasn’t happy about it at the beginning … Jessie and I … But, oh I do think Claire’s exceptional, and if you can work things out, why …” Her voice left her.

  “Her mother didn’t like me at all.”

  “Not you yourself, I’m sure,” Simon interposed. “Why would anyone not like you? I’m sure it was only because of that miserable feud. How a family can split itself apart over money! I’ve seen it time and again—it’s always a pity. And the longer you let a thing like that continue, the more impossible it is to mend it.”

  Mary managed to collect herself. “Well, if it’s my sister who stands in the way, if that’s all, she’ll come around, Ned, no matter how she feels about me. She’d do anything for Claire, as I would for you.”

  “And the father likes you, I could see that,” Simon observed. “An awfully nice chap, Mary! He took a great interest in your paintings, too.”

  Ned spoke lightly. “Well, naturally, anyone who admires your work ranks on top with Simon.”

  “So you’ll be leaving us! It’ll be restful here without you,” Simon joked back.

  “Go to Claire,” Mary said, “if she’s what you want Even though being a doctor comes first with her, Ned, go to her. That’s what you first admired and why you were drawn to her, after all. Perhaps you’ve never thought about it like that.”

  Ned bent down and kissed his mother. “I understand,” he said. “Thank you.” For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes before Mary turned away.

  “I’m going up to the house,” she said. “That is, if you don’t need me here, Simon?”

  “No, no. We’re almost finished. Go ahead.”

  She went slowly up the path. Suddenly, not wanting to go inside, she sat down on a bench near the wall where in summer perennials would bloom. The beds were covered now with a mulch of dark wet leaves. She laid her head on the back of the bench.

  Suppose he had come last year before I married Simon? What then? Oh, Simon is everything that’s steady and good and male. There’s such peace and ease now in my heart But if he had come last year?

  So many, many ifs! When we were young and that doctor with the Spanish name invited him to go on for three more years: if I hadn’t been willing to wait and he had chosen me instead, would he have come to hate me for it afterward? If. If. And if we had spent our lives together, would I still feel this softness going through me at the thought of him? I wonder. Could there possibly be any joy now between us after so much grief: after Jessie, and then that poor dead woman Ned told me about? Could there?

  Always, always, what we could have done or should have done, and what we blame ourselves for having done or not having done. Do we truly have choice? Or is it all written beforehand in the stars or the genes? God knows.

  Two small hot tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and she wiped them away with her knuckles. At least she could hope: maybe it will turn out well for Ned. She’s an extraordinary girl, that Claire. You have to admit that, even though the union of those two will be a burden for the rest of us. But they must do what’s right for them. They’ll only know whether it was right long years after they’ve done it.

  And I? Simon and I will stay here, in this house that I love so much. After we’re gone, some movie star will probably buy it. But until then, we’ll be here. Alex would be glad to know that. Perhaps, where he is, he does know it. I used to think that was nonsense, but now that I’m older, I’m not so sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore.

  “I thought you’d gone inside,” Simon said.

  “I was going to, but it’s so warm and lovely here. One can almost imagine it’s summer.”

  He bent and kissed her. “Mary. Mary Fern. Are you pleased about Ned?”

  “Whichever way he wants it, if it works out well for him, I will be.”

  “You’re a good mother, the kind of mother everyone should have and the kind of wife. Do I tell you often enough?”

  “You do, my dear, yes you do.”

  “I’ve been thinking, would you like to go to America?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been there since I came here to marry Alex. They say it’s so changed.”

  “What doesn’t change, my darling?”

  “Highways and tract houses—all built-up, I read. And still, the fall must be the same, and those hot Augusts when the grass burns brown and the locusts drill all afternoon.”

  “Well go to California, take some of your work to show and have a bit of vacation at the same time. And stay in New York for a while.”

  “Not New York,” she said quickly. “Let’s just pass through it. I never liked New York.”

  “Whatever you say, as long as we’re together.” And he sat down on the bench beside her. In the windless afternoon not a twig stirred. A mild sun broke through the clouds, and above iron-gray winter hills, pale fire striped the sky.

  Chapter 34

  Ned and Claire were to be married very quietly on a Saturday evening at Jessie’s house. Two of Claire’s friends from Smith, along with the husband of one of them and a London friend of Ned’s who was on business in New York, made the sum of the guests. Because of the smallness of this group and the resultant intimacy of the occasion, there had been tacit agreement that Martin would not be present. Instead, he was to give a little dinner for the bridal couple at his apartment the night before. To this, and for the same reason, Jessie had not been invited.

  “It will be much more comfortable for everyone that way,” she had said sensibly, and Claire had agreed.

  “That’s just what Dad said, too.”

  The mantel in the library had been cleared of its ornaments. On the afternoon of the wedding Jessie covered it with a flowery spray of white: stephanotis, roses and carnations, twined together with narrow white silk bows. Claire had insisted on wearing a very simple suit, but Jessie had managed to persuade her that it ought at least to be white and silk and adorned with one of Jessie’s own handsome necklaces.

  Jessie hummed. She would not have believed, some months ago, that she could actually feel happy at Claire’s wedding to this particular young man; but her terrible concern over her daughter had outweighed everything else and the sight of that daughter’s face during these last weeks had brought enough joy and ease to cancel out whatever doubts or regrets still lurked.

  “The rest,” she said now, half aloud, “is in the lap of the gods. So far so good, anyway—” and she fastened the last bow.

  The house was quiet. The cook was busy i
n the kitchen, Claire was out having her hair done and Jessie was placing the flowers on the dining room table when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll answer, Nora!” she called.

  She opened the door. Her hand was still on the knob and that steadied her in the instant of recognition.

  The woman on the doorstep smiled uncertainly. “Jessie, may I come in?” asked Mary Fern.

  Jessie was curled in the wing chair. She must be lost in a room without a wing chair, Fern thought.

  “I didn’t come for the wedding,” she said. “I didn’t even know this was the day. Ned’s letter mentioned sometime this month but in the circumstances, naturally, we didn’t expect to be asked.”

  “You have a right to come to your son’s wedding if you want to. No one told me you might want to.”

  Of course. Jessie would be correct in all things. They had, after all, both been brought up to be. But what were the real thoughts in that elegant, small head and behind that cool face? Suddenly Fern was sorry she had given way to her unreasoned impulse.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. If I’m not welcome, Jessie, just say so and I’ll go.”

  “Have I said you were unwelcome?” Jessie asked brusquely.

  “No, but—well, you see, we’re only passing through the city … We’re flying to California Monday morning … And I was sitting at lunch just now … I had such an overpowering sense of your presence … You were not a mile away … I got up and walked out of there thinking I must see you, even for a minute, even if you were to slam the door in my face …” She stopped. Tears stung her eyes.

  “Well, I didn’t slam the door in your face.”

  A basket of needlepoint stood on the floor next to Jesse’s chair. She picked up the unfinished work. “I have to do something with my hands. I don’t ever seem able to sit still and do nothing.”

  “Then you haven’t changed.”

  “None of us ever do, do we?”

  One could take that remark in many ways. Fern made no answer, and silently the two women sat, Fern stiffly and uneasily, while Jessie poked the needle in and out.