Treasures

by Belva Plain

  “It was a nice visit,” Davey said. “I’m surely fond of them both, but I’m glad—”

  “Glad of what, dear?”

  “Well, glad you’re different.”

  “It was a nice visit,” Eddy said as the taxi turned into Connie’s street. “They both looked well and happy. It goes, to show you what happens to people when things start looking up for them.”

  “They always did look well, Eddy. But that flat—it’s even dingier than I remembered.”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad. She keeps it clean as a whistle.”

  “Yes, and if you don’t think it’s hard work to keep that place clean! Especially if she has a baby. She told me this morning that she thinks she’s pregnant. They really ought to buy that house.”

  “They will. But Davey’s so damn slow to make a decision! I have to prod him, push him, and pull at him before he’ll finally come around. Gosh, I hope she really is pregnant! It’ll be fun to see her with a kid at last.”

  Fun for her, not for me, Connie said to herself. All the work and the tugging at you, literally, for fourteen hours a day.

  It felt good to be home even after that short time. Tomorrow there was the art class at the museum, and after that an appointment with the rug people about the dining room. Richard wanted to make do with carpeting, but Bitsy Maxwell had just bought an Oriental, and there was no possible comparison between the two effects. Her Oriental had the muted shimmer of stained glass. Richard would just have to be convinced.

  The taxi stopped at the door and went on with Eddy. The old doorman saluted her. His posture, still erect as a soldier’s in the pseudomilitary uniform, was pathetic. Imagine a lifetime spent in opening doors and greeting people as if you really cared whether they came or went. And then to travel home late, maybe for an hour on the subway, to some dreary dwelling on a dreary street. Sad.

  “Good evening, Higgins. Mr. Tory home?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He came in a couple of hours ago.”

  It was only ten-thirty. The big meeting must have broken up very early, then. There was no light in the foyer when she opened the door of the apartment, and no light anywhere else. He must be already asleep. He was a great sleeper. She sighed and suddenly became aware that this sigh of hers, resigned and exasperated, was becoming a habit that must be broken.

  The poodle whimpered in its basket. She turned on a lamp, picked up the dog, kissed it, and urged it to be quiet. Then, removing her shoes so as not to disturb Richard, she crossed the bare floor to the bedroom. The door was open. A weak shaft of light from the lamp fell directly on the bed, where Richard lay naked and facedown.

  She felt a shock, as though her hand had touched a spark. The thought sparked: He’s dead, and her hand went to her heart.

  She must have made a sound. Afterward, in her countless recapitulations of the scene, she remembered only that she turned on the switch at the door, illuminating the room with rosy lamplight, that he started up, that she saw his horrified face, all eyes, and that there were not one, but two men on the bed.

  During the fraction of time when she stood there absorbing the total truth of what was before her, she was to remember what is said about drowning people, how in seconds a whole life flashes; that might well be true, although to her, it was not a whole life, but rather sporadic incidents out of that life, her mother’s face, dead in the satin coffin-bed, and Richard in tennis whites on that first morning, and Lara talking about having a baby …

  Richard was cowering behind the blanket, absurd as a prudish old woman covering her nakedness. The other man slid beneath the far side of the blanket, absurd as an ostrich hiding its head. And Connie’s laugh was a shrill falsetto shriek that ended in a gasp. Still Richard had not spoken.

  Then she fled. She sat down at the kitchen table, the kitchen being the only other room that was complete, and put her head down on it.

  “Oh, my God,” she wailed. “Oh, my God!”

  After a long while she sat up and rocked her body back and forth, bent over, with her hands on her elbows, rubbing and rubbing her arms. Her head was empty, numb.

  When the deep, shaking sobs subsided, she swung around in the chair and looked out of the window across the courtyard at a checkerboard of lighted windows and then into the opposite kitchen, where a maid was putting dishes away. The people must have had a party for someone to be still cleaning up this late.

  And behind all those windows, all those trivial, ordinary, daily routines, extraordinary things were happening, or could be happening. Anniversaries and terminal sickness, feuds, crimes, reunions, deaths, bankruptcies, and weddings. Who among the tenants who nodded greeting in the elevator to young Mr. and Mrs. Tory could imagine what had occurred in their bedroom just now?

  Presently, she heard whispers at the outer door and the soft thud of its closing. Without turning she knew when Richard came to the kitchen door. He would be wondering, in his desperation, what to say to her. Although, after her first shock, she was beginning to feel the rise of fury—she, desirable and young, to be so cheated, so tricked—she could not help but feel pity for him, too, in his utter humiliation.

  As he approached, she had to look at him. He had put on pajamas and a bathrobe, but they were loosely fastened, and his bare flesh was repugnant to her. His voice was barely audible.

  “I guess I don’t know how to start, what to say.”

  “I don’t know what to say either.” And again her tears welled. “What is there to say? A thousand things or maybe nothing at all.”

  “Listen. Please listen to me. This was my first time, I swear it. And I can’t explain it, except that we had a business meeting, then it was a nice night so we walked uptown together, and I asked him in for a drink. A perfectly natural thing to do.”

  She could not answer. This is unreal, she was thinking. This isn’t happening to me. To me, Connie Osborne. Osborne. That’s my name.

  “The thing is, I guess—I knew we had too much to drink. On an empty stomach,” he finished lamely, standing before her still with that imploring look upon his face.

  “Who is he?” she murmured. “Anyone I might know?”

  “He works in the office.”

  She said bitterly, “How nice for you. How convenient.”

  “Connie, I told you I don’t make a practice of this. I’m sorry. I’ll spend the rest of my life being sorry.”

  “Your being sorry doesn’t help very much. Oh!” she cried. “I should have had some inkling, I should have been smarter!” And she bent over again in pain, rubbing her arms.

  He asked softly, “Why should you have? There was no reason.”

  That was true. What possible reason could there have been to suspect this blooming young man, this vivacious, enthusiastic athlete? That he was too shy, too cowed by his parents, perhaps? Not necessarily. That he had waited until marriage before taking her to bed? Not necessarily. That he had been lacking in desire after marriage? And desperately, soundlessly, she asked herself: What do I know? He’s my first. I can only guess.…

  Richard had, perhaps unconsciously, clasped his hands before him. The gesture was so pathetic that she had to close her eyes.

  “We’ve been so happy together,” she heard him say. “Traveling, listening to music, making a home. We’ve been so happy together.”

  Yes, she thought, in all those ways we were. He’s shown me so much and taught me so much. And given me so much besides. Oh, it’s rotten! Everything’s rotten!

  He moved closer, looming tall above where she still huddled, so close that she smelled the fresh scent of his cologne.

  “Connie … you’re not going to leave me, are you?”

  She looked up then, straight into his eyes, which were pleading and pained as those of a dog that had been harshly treated.

  “Is it true, will you swear that you never did this before?”

  “Connie, I swear it. And I never will again. Never.”

  She sighed. It was as if her heart were crying, heavy with its c
onfusion of anger, shame, and pity for him. Poor man. Poor, foolish young man.

  “You’re shivering.” He fetched a shawl from the closet. “I don’t know how the wind manages to seep into these buildings.”

  “I don’t want it,” she said, shaking it off when he tried to place it around her shoulders.

  His gesture was a plea; she understood that; yet, imagining where an hour ago those hands and that body had been, she could not bear to feel him close to her. Not yet.

  Possibly he understood, because he let the shawl drop and went back to the chair. For a long time they sat, not speaking. An hour passed, and the silence, like a heavy sea, swelled over them both. Once Richard opened his mouth, made a slight sound, and closed it again. On the second attempt Connie questioned him.

  “Is there something else you want to tell me?”

  He looked past her, out toward the nighttime sky stained rusty pink by the city’s million lights. Sweat dampened his forehead, and tears stood in his eyes.

  “I wanted to ask—I mean, I hope you won’t tell anyone about tonight.”

  “Of course not, Richard.”

  “Not even Lara and Eddy?”

  “No one, Richard.”

  “Because I don’t want to lose their regard.”

  “I know.”

  “And you will give me another chance? Will you? Will you?

  “Yes, I will.” How could she not? How could she just throw him away?

  “Oh, bless you, Connie. Bless us both.” He got up then, saying gently, “You’re worn out. Go on in to bed. I’ll sleep on the folding cot out here.”

  “No, I’ll take the cot.”

  Did he really think she could lie down in that bed after what she had just seen there? For a man who was so sensitive, so perceptive, this was incredible. He must, however, have realized immediately how obtuse he had been, because he gave no argument, but pulled out the cot instead and set it up for her.

  When she lay down on it, she could see, high at the top of the window, an oblong of sky. Pink, obscuring what should have been deep, soothing black, looked dirty now, like a silky blot on the enormous world and on her own small life.

  In the morning things look different. Troubles are smaller, Peg used to say. Well, perhaps not all that different, but possibly a little smaller, she thought, more manageable. She had slept so heavily, in such deep exhaustion, that she had not even heard Richard leave the house. Meticulous as always, he had rinsed his coffee cup and juice glass and left them in the dish drainer. Now Connie sat musing over her own coffee.

  Something in her deepest heart, her clearest mind, wanted to make sense of things. This was, after all, his first time. He had sworn so, and he was truthful. He had been drinking, he wasn’t much of a drinker, and whiskey had probably turned his head inside out. Quite probably, too, he hadn’t even known what was happening. The other man had instigated the business, while Richard, in a fog, had been led along. As she sat there puzzling, reconstructing the event, she became more and more certain that this was the only reasonable explanation.

  Yes, of course it was. Poor Richard, she thought again. He must be cringing inside. He must be longing for a hole to hide in. She imagined him now downtown, trying to concentrate on his work, holding to his dignity while the ugly memory of last night filled his head.

  Later that afternoon an impulse struck her. “I’ll phone him,” she said aloud to herself. “It may encourage him, may help him through the day. It’ll help me too. It’s the only right thing to do, isn’t it? Maybe I’ll suggest a weekend away at some peaceful New England inn. We’ll take a few books, go on country walks, and have dinner by an open fire. A quiet time like that is cleansing and strengthening. What happened is rotten, but you have to excise rot wherever you find it. Cut it out like an abscess. Yes, I’ll phone him and then make reservations. I should be able to get something within the next few weeks. We’ll start fresh.”

  The little old white inn on a dirt road just beyond the little old white village was framed with autumn reds and yellows. In a mild, warm wind leaves sank slowly onto the still-green grass. In the orchards yellow jackets swarmed over rotting fallen apples, whose sweet, fruity fragrance tinged the air. There were tennis courts at the inn, there were canoes, and there was a section of the Appalachian Trail to hike on.

  The two had tacitly agreed to put the sorry episode away forever, so nothing was said to impede a return to normal living. On the third night Connie was even able to shut out that appalling scene in their beautiful bed at home, and to respond to Richard’s wish for sex. In the morning at breakfast he reached suddenly across the table and clasped her hand; she was sure she read gratitude in the clasp and the smile.

  An elderly couple at the next table, catching the gesture, gave one another an endearing look of recognition that said plainly, We were young, too, honeymooners, so in love, and wasn’t it wonderful?

  And Connie, responding inside her head, said, Well, it isn’t quite like that over here, you know, but it’s been good in many ways and worth preserving.

  They drove back to the city feeling both reconciled and refreshed. Their pleasant routines were waiting for them: Richard’s at the office and Connie’s, for the next few months at any rate, at the shops acquiring possessions for the new apartment.

  They had begun afresh.

  And then, on a fair Saturday afternoon in the following month, on her way home Connie entered Central Park near the Mall to enjoy the short remaining walk away from the traffic on the streets. The day was closing, perambulators, bicycles, and dog-walkers were all heading for home, but here and there in sheltered spots a few people still sat on benches in the warm sun. Connie was smiling; she felt the smile on her cheeks. What a wonderful city in all its variety! How wonderful to be young here, to have some money in one’s pocket, and to be able to buy such heavenly Chinese blue lamps as she had just found today!

  This was the moment at which time was arrested, so that ever afterward she would associate those lamps with what she saw sometime between three-thirty and four o’clock. What she saw were two men on a bench, only partly hidden in a cluster of long-needled pines, two men in an embrace, arms encircling and lips joined. … How disgusting, here without caring who saw, or perhaps so engrossed as to be unaware that people were able to see.… One of the men was Richard.

  She froze. Her heart made such a frantic leap that for an instant she thought it would stop. But her legs kept moving. It was as if her legs knew enough to carry her away from there as fast as they could go. It was as if they understood that she must get home to shelter and safety. Get home. Get home.

  Shut the door and sit down, still with coat on, sit gasping, numb. You tried, you did what you should. How could he have lied to you? Rotten. Rotten.

  After a while she got up and made a cup of coffee. She was drinking it, warming her cold, shaking hands around the cup, when the key turned in the lock and Richard came in, looking as cheerful as always.

  “How was your day? I had more to do at my desk than I’d thought, or I’d have been home by noon.”

  “At your desk?” she said. “Try Central Park.”

  He stared. “What do you mean?”

  “Richard, I saw you, so don’t try to lie your way out. You’ve lied enough already.”

  He looked away from her. A flush like a sore disease swept over his forehead and down to his collar.

  “It wasn’t your first time, that night.” She waited and, as anger mounted, cried out fiercely, “Answer me! It wasn’t, was it?”

  “Well, not quite. But truly, truly, there haven’t been a lot of times. I mean—”

  He floundered. The strength drained from him. It was visible in the sag of his shoulders and the helpless droop of his hands. And within Connie’s chest hung the heavy weight of disillusionment.

  Her voice was thick in her throat. “I believed you. How could you have done this to me? To a person who trusted you?”

  His reply was so low, so strained, tha
t she barely heard it. “I guess—I guess I couldn’t help it. It just happens sometimes.”

  “That’s all the explanation you can give me?”

  He sighed and dropped down onto the other chair, facing her across the table.

  She thought, what a waste! But he couldn’t help it, so it wasn’t his fault. Except for the outrage of the lies, from the very beginning.

  “You should never have married me. Can you tell me why you did?”

  “I wanted to love a woman,” he answered simply.

  “It was an experiment, then? Some sort of therapy?”

  “No. I can—I can do both.”

  “You prefer that way, though.”

  “I don’t know. But I loved you, Connie. I still do.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Your beauty, your intelligence and curiosity, your drive that I don’t have. My spirit loves you, and my body does too.” At her scornful stare he insisted, “Yes, it does.”

  Connie shook her head. Tears stung, but she did not want to let them fall. In crises one must keep one’s control. And this was crisis. This was the end of the road that had begun that morning when he had walked in, sun-bronzed and tall in his tennis whites. Then a tear fell.

  And Richard cried out, “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry, Connie! What can I do? Can I ask you again to give me another chance?”

  She wiped the tear with the back of her hand. “It wouldn’t do any good. It wouldn’t work, and you know that well.”

  “What then? Divorce?”

  “I have no choice, the way things are.”

  Divorce? And then? This misery would be over. But the friendly, everyday routines of life with him would be over too. Until that instant, in this tense and hopeless silence, she had not realized just how friendly, in spite of its disappointments, that life had been, with his comical anecdotes at supper, or their evening walks to window-shop or to see a foreign movie or to go dancing or just to sit reading together.