~
In the small hotel overlooking the square, she rose early to watch the men wrapped in their blankets, feeling the familiarity, soothed by the apparent tranquility as they sat, the silent communication with the coolness of morning, oblivious to all around them but Nature’s morning sky.
She had also been reading D.H. Lawrence lately and knew that Ravalgi and Frieda Lawrence were in Taos. When she went downstairs for a small lunch, she saw Ravalgi enter the bar and wanted to follow him, to ask what he did to take Frieda from Lawrence. She wouldn’t because of the imposition on a personal life. She did wonder how Lawrence had come between Frieda and her husband and children whom she abandoned for her lower-class lover. What was the effect on her conscience? What was it like sleeping with a man with whom she had fled to Italy and then come with him to Taos? What was her sense of desertion when she slept with Ravalgi? Or was she perhaps like Deirdre? She wanted to visit Frieda, perhaps help herself, if Frieda would answer her questions. She lay there imagining a conversation.
“Why did you leave your children and the security of a home, Mrs. Lawrence?”
“My life was not too terribly exciting before I met Lawrence. He was handsome, intelligent. Before too much time, he persuaded me to go with him to Taormina. I was happy. I did think of the children but knew they would be taken care of. But Lawrence was the man I wanted. And, yes, I did have an affair with Ravalgi, and as you know, he and I are now married.”
“I saw him going into the bar at the hotel. Truthfully, he looked at me the way men usually do.”
“Men and women wonder about one another. It’s natural. And sometimes it turns out the way my life has. And you. You are not married. A woman like you should attract many lovers or those who would be. I know what it’s like.”
“Doesn’t every woman? And if not, even if they are homely, they hope.”
“Well, Lawrence and I had a rocky time. One time up at the ranch – have you seen it?”
Brigit interrupted. “I am going there. I wanted to meet you first.”
“Love is, well, you ought to know. One time I got so angry, I threw a coffee mug at him that, I suppose if it hit him, would have killed him. Anyhow, tell me about you, so lovely, so enticing. I was not as thin as you, but, oh, the men looked at me.”
“I wanted to meet you because I had become fascinated by Lawrence and you. I wanted to meet you because of your experiences. You see,” Brigit hesitated, “I was deserted. I lived with the man I thought was going to be my husband, but he left me for another woman. I couldn’t compete with her.” Brigit felt quite free with Frieda and could talk to her as she never could with her family. Oh, perhaps Mary. But they hadn’t talked much to one another since Gregory left.
“Perhaps.”
“No. I couldn’t. Certainly I can flirt, but I can’t flaunt myself.”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes. I’m angry at him, at her, at myself. I feel desolate.” There were tears in Brigit’s eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I never meant for the visit to be like this. I was so pleased that you would see and talk to me, that you’re so approachable.”
“Perhaps because at times I felt guilt at what I had done with Lawrence and Ravalgi. I also missed my children and fought against Lawrence’s jealousy when I wanted to and did go to see my children. I know jealousy also, hurt, especially when he spent so much time with Mrs. Sterne on a book. And I was sometimes jealous of Lady Brett being with us. But would I change anything? No. I have liked it here. We both did, Lawrence felt such freedom at Kiowa, the mountain ranch. You must go there. It’s overwhelming being on Mt. Lobo. The family taking care of the ranch now is very friendly.
“Would you change anything?”
“I do not regret giving myself to him although it makes me angry when I think of what he and she have done to me – left me lonely and longing, wondering what is wrong with me when I know I’m so attractive.”
“Brigit.” She felt Frieda placing her hand on her knee. “You are experiencing what men and women have done to one another forever. You go to the ranch. Up there in the mountains you will find answers. Do you have another man?”
“Oh, there is someone who has been after me,” and Brigit smiled. “Now I’ll wonder if he’s sincere, that is, if I allow myself to be with him, to see him. I have to be sure of myself again.”
“Go to the ranch. It will soothe you, give you something good to think about and how strong you can be.”
They sat for a while longer. “I will,” and they parted, Brigit feeling lighter, more like herself.
Brigit laughed, at herself and her imagination. She rose, setting her mind on a drive to the Kiowa ranch. She felt inexplicably more secure and at peace than she had since leaving Boston. Adding to her satisfaction was the rutted drive up the mountainside to Kiowa ranch where she met a young woman caring for what was now Frieda’s possession. They sat before the chapel looking out at the mountains, the sun coming through the trees, the distant multi-painted peaks, and spoke of the Lawrences, of the tranquilizing beauty surrounding them. Brigit felt close to the woman, for the identical emotions they appeared to experience. The soothing freshness of the air, of the slight breeze that blew against Brigit’s face, informing her she had rediscovered herself. All found in a mythical Utopia created by an author whom she now understood and who reawakened in her the spirit to which she had been born and grown in. The hurt would perhaps remain, straining her mind, her body, but she still had known love, knew love, what it was.
On the ride back, she went to the pueblo again, wishing impossibly she would see the young Indian woman in relief against the entrance to her pueblo. The image would remain with her. Here on this trip she believed she had rediscovered herself. As she drove along the two-lane road away from Taos, she decided she would go all the way to Albuquerque. She smiled, visualizing living in that imagined world that could give its strength to a receptive spirit.
Arriving in the dark, tired, she thought she would skip dinner but decided against it. In the dining room, she saw a man who looked similar to Thomas. Her heart skipped. Thomas. She may have thought of him when she came to her family. She couldn’t remember. She didn’t want to think of men. Perhaps her sister had found the answer in a life of service and devotion in the convent. That isn’t for me, not who I am. Thomas. He certainly doesn’t make my heart beat any faster, doesn’t arouse me. Foolish. You’re thinking of sex. You had that. Oh. Don’t knock it. You enjoyed, loved it. I just don’t want to think about it now. Or do I? My lower belly. That feeling. Stop. All because you thought you saw Thomas. Don’t you dare waste this trip on Gregory and what might have been. It’s not worth it. Thomas. He’s a nice guy. Stop. Now.
Back in her room, she turned on the radio, lay on the bed, listening, “One alone, to be my own/ I alone to know her caresses” rose, turned the station, thinking of Taos, her eyes starting to close. She woke during the night, perspiring, her heart rapidly beating It was a car going off the road and down a steep decline. It turned over and over. I screamed. Gregory pitched toward the windshield. We lay outside, breathlessly and slowly trying to reach one another. He was bleeding from his leg and I from my chest. I couldn’t move. He crept toward me but could go no further. I passed out. Was I dead? I think so. Then she came toward me, bending over me, making a cross. She drifted toward Gregory, rose, leaving him to care for himself.
She sat, still fully clothed, listening to her heart, feeling wet from the perspiration. When she calmed, she slowly undressed, crying. Looking at her tear-blurred figure in the mirror she spoke loudly, “You Fool,” wiped at her eyes. “Fool.” She lightly slapped her face, as she wiped at her eyes, still shaking, and raised her leg to climb into the tub shower, staying a long while, allowing the warm water to comfort her.
When she arrived home. She talked little about Boston or what had happened. Taos kept coming back to her, and she made passing reference to it, keeping its spiritual influence to herself.
“We missed
you, dear, but I’m pleased you went and had such a good time,” Maureen told her.
Brigit never mentioned the nightmare, but for some reason it made her think about Thomas, perhaps that by accepting an invitation from him would further ease the wound. She laughed. The Ob/Gyn man would cure her heart of this particular cancer that she now knew was still and forever a love she would have for Gregory.
_______________
Chapter X
Buffeted
The wedding between Deirdre and Gregory took place between Christmas and New Years, 1952. She would give him the gift of herself for the New Year. Edward and Christine were quite excited. Not only had their daughter begun to make her way in Boston with the well-known Frenchman with whom she sometimes traveled – they wondered about a woman traveling with a man – but now, “Look at her,” Christine pulling at Edward’s shirt sleeve. “She’s such a beauty, and she’s marrying into that well-known family in Cape Astraea. Even though we’ve met, I still get nervous thinking about it. They’ve accepted her. But they’re above us.”
“Stop that. No one is above us. And stop thinking about social standing. We are who we are. If they want to talk to us after this wedding, they will. I won’t go out of my way. I’ve spent what I could to give her a good wedding, one anyone could be proud of.”
“I agree. Yes. I agree. He’s lucky to get her.”
The Hurwitzes arrived the day before the wedding. It was the first time Mary met Deirdre. The two talked to one another, embraced, Mary comparing her to Brigit, having already decided she would not like her, thinking of her as a tidal wave that swept over her brother. Deirdre’s dark brown eyes and raven hair, the straight, small nose, and cheek bones that showed slightly, the trim and pleasingly well-proportioned body could attract most men. Was she better than Brigit? Mary thought Brigit more attractive, less showy. Perhaps it was because her voice was softer and she dressed more plainly. Deirdre wore a lavender dress, a rolled small collar open to the breasts, her left shoulder showing a bit as the dress folded into her right side, the skirt coming just below her knees, and surely worn to exhibit herself as an attractive addition to the Hurwitz family. The women smiled while judging one another. They knew they were dueling and why.
Mary could not help herself. She did it with sex. That body is well suited for it, the way she shows it off even when she tries not to. That’s my brother. He fell for the looks, not what’s inside. Maybe I’m being unfair. I’m also thinking back to Lynne. I liked her – was it because she was from Astraea? There’s something about her that bothers me. She’s too sophisticated. And she walks and sways her rear end more than just from walking. Everything has a purpose. Why couldn’t that fool see that?
Deirdre looked closely at her future sister-in-law’s eyes, watched the way her mouth moved, how she smiled, whether Mary showed acceptance in those blue-gray eyes, while Mary asked herself, What would that veil be hiding?
Just then Jocelyn came in, gave her obligatory hug, then told Deirdre, “I ordered camellias for your bouquet. I thought you'd like that. They're my favorite flower, and this is their time of year – just right for this joyous celebration – the new year wedding and families coming together.” Jocelyn hid her concern for the quickness of this conjoining. She then walked toward another room but heard.
“She picked my flowers,” Deirdre's voice rising indignantly. “What right? That's up to me!” her voice rising more. “I'm not the great singer's . . . .” and she stopped, trying to catch herself.
Gregory stood impassively.
“Greg, you stop her.” Mary sharply ordered. “She's insulting mother. If you don't, I'm leaving, getting out, going home.” She started to leave.
“Mary,” Deirdre pleaded. “I didn't,” and she stopped. “Mary. You're my Maid of Honor.” Deirdre didn't want to apologize, wouldn't. Mary turned toward them, grimacing, and with muted sarcasm, “I know, sister-in-law. I'm honored.” She couldn't help herself and glared at Gregory, thinking, I hope she was a fantastic lay. Ass. Yeah, a piece of ass. Maybe all yours, you damn, fucking fool. She smiled. “I'm honored, Deirdre.” And both women now knew they would never be friends.
Muted adversarial conflict was now a tacit actuality. Neither Jocelyn nor Mary would ever submit. They also knew that Deirdre was formidable. Where was Aaron? Although he rarely spoke of the marriage, actor that he was, he forced his apparent affection. Calm was a necessity. He loved his youngest son too dearly. Occasionally he would laugh to himself, comparing his family's disgruntlement with country and world affairs. The Korean War still being waged began to weary the public, and the newly elected President Eisenhower had decided he would go there. Intelligent Stevenson could not compete with the national hero. At home also, people and politicians grew tired of Joe McCarthy’s defamation of writers, actors, politicians, State Department personnel. Worn from political confrontation, he apparently was ill, having lost twenty pounds and shown in Life Magazine slumped in a chair with bottles of medicine sitting on a table beside him. What comfort could there be?
Deirdre was apparently happy with her young, handsome, and well-known doctor who loved her. He could offer her more openings to influential people who could help Étienne and her projects. So Deirdre and Gregory bound themselves by self-created exhilarating sexual experimentation and the usual hugs and kisses and the obligatory “I love you.” Suddenly, however, one spring day in 1953, Deirdre knew she was pregnant. She realized it occurred during a night or nights without protection. Gregory was ecstatic. Deirdre grimaced when the doctor confirmed it, thinking about the disappearance of her alluring figure and clothes. Now men would only see her growing womb. Somehow she would find eye-pleasing maternity clothes and be sure to show her face as fascinating as always. Will it fatten like the rest of my body? I won’t allow it. I’ll eat as little as possible, won’t fall for that pregnancy need for a special dish or food or awaken Greg, like women do all those fawning husbands, to get me something in the middle of the night. And I won’t have this baby in Maine. I’ll get Greg to stay in Boston. I must for the museum possessions and the money. Museum possessions? What a prize. No one has caught on, never will, and I’ll still travel occasionally with Étienne, and we’ll have our good times. Loyalty to Greg? Here I am. PREGNANT. How the hell did I let that happen? You and your urges and Gregory’s. Anyhow, I’ve got my young lover and the old, just as I suspected and planned. Something out of the ancient world told me this would happen, two lovers – at least. I read a story out of the past like that. Now I’m scared. What if this baby kills me? She saw herself lying on a blood soaked sheet, hemorrhaging, dead.
When Gregory came home that night, she had dinner ready, wine out. She had thought she would stop liquor, but after tonight. They would celebrate, although there was to be, more importantly, her request, or was it a demand?
“Hi darling.” She kissed him, hugged him tightly. “Everything’s almost ready. We’ll have some wine and talk. I have to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Just wait,” alluringly, as though she had to tell him something unexpected, perhaps to do with the baby. “Nothing now, except I went shopping and bought some maternity clothes. I think you’ll just love them.”
When she showed them, before he sat, “You like?”
“They’re beautiful. You’ll be as becoming as you always are. What a lovely mother you’ll be. A mother the children will, child, I mean, will always want to show off. Well, we will have more, won’t we?”
She hid a grimace, answering without enthusiasm, “Yes.”
After the wine and dinner, she took his hand, “Leave the dishes. The new maid, her name’s Andrea. I got her from the agency. Anyhow, she’ll be here tomorrow. I want to talk to you, something important for both of us.
“I want to give up the apartment. You have money now. I want to get a house in Belmont. Ask them to wait in Maine. They’ll always want you. Please,” drawn out plaintively. “Think of it as a gift for the baby and what a go
od environment for it to grow up in and the others we have.” She pictured herself matronly, promising herself that would never happen. I’ll think about that later. This is more important for now.
They talked about Belmont and a house quietly for a bit, Deirdre beginning to feel certain she had won. Only she wondered about his sudden silence. Without looking up, his face reddening, for the first time since their wedding, he shouted. “No. We've got to go. They're expecting me in Maine.”
Startled, she sat stunned. “Why?” trying to control her rising temper. “They want you badly. They'll wait.” She tried to control herself but couldn't. She screamed, “You want children. What a laugh. This is where to raise them,” knowing Cape Astraea was better. But she mustn’t give in.
Startled, Gregory hollered, “NO!”
“Goddamn it, Gregory, think of me, the child for once, not yourself. You’re so damn self-centered.”
Surprised by her uncontrollable anger, he watched her face more closely, the distorted features, a drop of saliva at the corner of her mouth, her eyes wide, flashing at him. Suddenly, however, she caught herself, almost whining, “Gregory, I don’t mean to fight. I don’t want to,” forcing tears that she knew would stream down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I know you’ll be happy in that town. There’s a house for sale now. I saw it the other day when I drove there.” What she didn’t mention was that Étienne had a house there, aside from the apartment close to Beacon Hill. These for when he would come to Boston where he entertained politicians and Boston Society, primarily in Belmont. She would be part of that, she had determined before they married, more so than she now was.
Seeing her tears, he calmed himself. “I’m sorry Deirdre. I didn’t mean to hurt you, make you so angry. Please stop crying. I’m sorry I yelled. Let’s just talk quietly. You do have a point.”
Our Seas of Fear and Love Page 23
