I keep hoping that at some point in her life she did reach such an understanding and found the generosity to forgive me. I tell the insensible night that if I could be assured of her understanding, I could finally rest in peace until eternity is over, but the Celtic gods and the November winds are silent. I will never know for sure.
****************
FOUR
Lena put down the last page of her story on the coffee table and silence descended upon the room. One was searching for the right words to comment; the other was bracing herself for the judgment. Adrienne reached for her glass and the ice tinkled gently in the silence. The familiar sound, invented by modern Man in an effort to make the pre-dinner hour pleasanter, scattered the disturbing shadows of a moment ago and it brought them back from the Middle Ages into the ordinary, but comfortable present.
“And this was rejected?” Adrienne finally asked.
“Totally. There was a first, a second and a third placement. An additional one hundred contestants received honorable mention. I was not even one of the hundred.”
“And because of this so called judgment or rejection you are ready to give up your dream of writing? Excuse me, but that would really be stupid. It is not like you to let yourself be shattered after a rejection of dubious origin.”
“But it is so. I wanted an evaluation and I got it. If this little piece of mine could not make it, how would an ambitious full-length novel fare? They crushed me, Adrienne. They have.”
“No they haven’t. At the moment you are deeply disappointed, which is understandable. But this group of questionable expertise cannot possibly crush you. At the most they showed that they are dilettantes and don’t recognize something that is obviously good. My guess is that they never even read it. Your story is of course old, but the way you handled it is individual, new and refreshing. Idiots.”
“I called them worse; however, the store of my insults was rather limited and therefore not insulting enough.”
Now they both laughed and the tension lifted. The laughter of the moment pushed the rejection into the background and instead they talked about the lost skill of insulting in a manner that requires a high level of rapid thinking and considerable wit.
“Sir Winston Churchill had it,” remarked Adrienne.
“Yes, and his rejoinders were just as witty and to the point as Cyrano’s to Valvert.”
“I remember the play, but not the insult.”
“When in his fury Valvert yelled, “Dolt, bumpkin, fool, insolent puppy, jobbernowl”, Cyrano merely removed his hat with that impossible plume of feathers decorating it, and with an exaggerated bow announced: “And I --CyranoSavinien-Hercule de Bergerac,” by way of his own introduction.”
“Excellent! What a come-back! And Jobbernowl! What a delightful word for a stupid blockhead! Why, oh why did we drop it from our vocabulary? Let us have a campaign to revive the word.”
After another burst of laughter Adrienne reached for Lena’s hand added: “And in case I never told you this before: I admire you because when you have a legitimate reason to whine, you simply laugh. I also admire your good taste in not turning into a nauseating Pollyanna while you are acting bravely. I cannot do it. When life pulls a number on me, I turn into a screaming banshee and people flee from me. But joking aside, I insist that those judges are idiots, indisputable jobbernowls. I love your story, and don’t tell me that I am biased, because I am not. And remember, I have plenty of experience in this area, because part of my job is to pass fair judgments over literary efforts.”
“It is good to hear you say that. At first I was bitter and disappointed, very near to a flood of humiliating tears, especially after I read the winning pieces. However, I cannot change the opinion of jobbernowls. I am over the disappointment, although of course, it still hurts.”
The pale winter sun has given up the struggle to shine and in deep resignation retired behind the clouds that were relentlessly moving in low and heavy. It was still early afternoon but shadows already darkened the room. Instead of turning on the lights, Adrienne put some logs on the embers in the fireplace. The flames licked at them delicately like spoiled kittens investigating a new brand of cat food. Finding it to their liking the flames developed more appetite, the tongues of fire licked ever more enthusiastically at the logs, sending up sudden burst of miniature fireworks. The room soon had a rosy glow, increasing the sensation of languid coziness.
Man from the beginning of time enjoyed and respected fire and it always spelled comfort, safety, and happiness for him. He loved the fire in the caves and he loves the fire many millennia later in centrally heated, urban dwellings that have elevators, thermo-pane windows and kitchens to surpass all technological dreams.
For a while the two women just sat and enjoyed the dance of the flames as it reflected off the polished surfaces and the gold letters on the spines of books.
“There is nothing as pleasurable as fire, is there? Water comes a close second. My idea of a perfect life is to live near some water. It could be ocean, lake or river; I am not picky. And there must be a huge open fireplace as well. Obviously, some atavistic dreams haunt me. But back to your story. I hope you are not giving up your writing because of this ridiculous setback. I hope you will keep on working.”
Lena was still looking at the fire and it took her some time to answer. She spoke softly and haltingly. “I don’t know. Right now I cannot think of writing.” There was another short pause then she added something that surprised her friend. “In spite of my disappointment, I did have my reward, at least after a fashion. I am not sorry that I wrote that piece; it was worth it. Through the process of writing I started to understand my mother. You must know that she was bitterly disappointed when I married Clyde. At the time I thought it was the church-thing that bothered her. She is devout and believes unquestioningly that marriage is only valid if the Church sanctions it and is followed by an expensive celebration. She also believes reverently in the ’till death do us part’ clause and she is convinced that a marriage without children is nothing more than an affair.”
“I would have to disagree with her on that point. If a woman discovers that she does not have the qualities needed for motherhood and makes a responsible decision not have children I fully respect her for that. It is better not to have any children then have some and then condemned them to grow up loveless and spiritually neglected.”
“She is hopelessly traditional and I confess that as I am getting older I understand her more and more. She now appears less odd or rigid in her beliefs. It is true that it upset her that I could not marry in church on account of his divorce. However, I misunderstood her; it was not just the absence of the ritual that hurt her so much. She saw things and outcomes I did not. Her dreams for her daughter were shattered the same as they did for Rapunzel’s mother. In this new understanding I feel much closer to her.”
“Do you suppose most mothers feel that way when their daughters mate at the wrong time or with the wrong man?”
“I don’t know, Adrienne. Rapunzel’s mother did, and so did mine. They were hurting. But that is put mildly. They were heartbroken.”
“I guess I agree. You raise a beautiful daughter and dream the best dreams for her, and then a man comes around and spoils it. There it is, a perfect white rose with petals like bone china, then along comes a hairy caterpillar and destroys it! I think I could commit murder if I were that mother. Or just die. It is frightening what extreme emotions we carry inside us and the things we could feel and do when provoked! Both good and evil.”
The flames in the fireplace were casting red-gold shafts of light and even the white lilacs were tinged orange. True creature comfort and pleasures still come from ancient and primitive sources-- food, warmth, security, kinship. Why run after power or after things that are merely material? Or is this the comfortable and not very truthful philosophy of those, who have everything else in abundance? It is easy to be lofty and philosophical when the physical burdens are carried by others,
and when material things, comfort, security and power are granted. The lunch was prepared by a cook behind the scene. Someone would put the kitchen in order, and the custom cut logs for the fireplace were delivered by a person Lena never met. When sheltered in expensive comforts, romantic notions about simple pleasures such as enjoyed by ancestors in the caves are false. Besides, the ancients probably did not find the accommodation overly romantic, no matter how bright the fire burned in their cave. The hostess refilled their glasses and Lena resumed talking in a soft voice.
“Another reward was that for the duration while I was writing, I was a mother. Rapunzel’s mother. It was a second-hand motherhood, but better than none. I tried to imagine her love and happiness, but also her disappointment and her heartbreak. While writing it, I was wondering how I would have handled the situation, but of course, I do not know. I am living in this century with running hot and cold water, carbon dioxide in the air, smart phones and psychotherapy, and not six hundred years ago, burdened with superstitions, outhouses and the laundry done down the road in the river after spring arrives. We think so differently today. Still, it must be pretty daunting to be a mother, I mean a good mother, no matter in which century you live, or how far ahead or behind technology is in your cave or in your luxury apartment. I want children more than anything else in the world, but am not sure that I would make a passable mother. It is such a huge responsibility, and I am afraid I would fail. “
“Why?”
“Many reasons. Sometimes I wonder whether I have the capacity for love, I mean for that real, unconditional love required for the job. I often feel so empty. I am afraid that there just isn’t anything in me that I could give away. Yet children need and want so much…”
“You feel this way, because you never had a baby in your arms. Overpowering, unselfish love will start at the latest when your milk starts flowing. At least this is what mothers tell me.”
“Yes, of course. I too heard it so.” True conviction was missing from the softly spoken answer. There was a brief pause, and then she posed the crucial question. “Adrienne, do you mind not having any children?”
“Not really. I am so involved with my career that I hardly ever think about children. I know that if I’d got pregnant now, I would probably despair. I could not give up gracefully all that I achieved so far. I am not ready for that. Not just yet, not for snotty-nosed, demanding little people. As a mother, I would have to trade my decisions about how to best sell a book of an important client for the decision what to feed Baby. Should it be carrots or spinach today, both of which he would probably hate.”
“And spit it into your face.”
“You got it. Perhaps later. After I get as far as I can go. Do you miss it, Lena?”
“Yes. I dream about it all the time. In spite of my anxieties, I want a child more than anything else. Clyde of course isn’t ready, but we have only been married a little over six years.”
There was again a brief silence, each pursuing a line of thought, which was usually shoved into the background and then Lena spoke about the dark ghosts they both tried to avoid.
“How long shall we stay young enough to bear healthy children? Do you really believe we have much time left? Can we afford to procrastinate year in, year out? Are we miscalculating time and our bodies? Are we arguing ourselves into producing children at an advanced age? Are we to plan for feeding times between going for arthritis therapy, blood-pressure checks and geriatric counseling? Are we going to discreetly lean on the stroller with the baby in it, instead using a walker? Think of it! Is it a prudent choice to have a college age kid when we are over sixty and crave the peace after a busy life?”
“I don’t know. What an uncomfortable thought! You are very pessimistic, Lena! We are still undeniably young and old age is way, way down the road.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Adrienne left her chair and walked up and down restlessly a few times before sinking down into her chair again to ask the question, which both knew was the root of Lena’s problem. “Do you think Clyde wants a family? After all, he already has one.”
“Yes, but not with me.”
There was silence again, but this time it was heavy. Adrienne’s room appeared less cozy and Lena felt the presence of formless, evil presences. She seemed at ease as she sat in the deep chair, but she turned the rings on her finger nervously and this contradicted the calmness she tried to convey. After a long silence, Adrienne spoke again.
“You forget that you are the Young Number Two, the classical trophy wife. Your duty in life is to be part decoration and part entertainment. You are to support whatever goals he desires to achieve. He married you for that, and wants nothing more, nor less. Lena-Helena, know your place and your duty, and most of all do not question your destiny. Sleeping ghosts are best left undisturbed.”
Lena knew this and usually preferred not to think about it. When she met him, she was young and woefully inexperienced. It appealed to her that this important and distinguished man, well past middle-age, with the classically chiseled nose and the three-piece suit, with the chauffeur-driven limo and his enviable social elegance would be interested in her. She knew that he had a wife and three almost grown children, but she paid as little attention to them as she did to his discreetly conducted divorce. She assumed that his wife was a good, but dull woman, the children probably demanding and spoiled and at any rate at the point of leaving the nest. That was another life, lived in another dimension by others and Lena had nothing to do with it. She was moving in a dream, in a fairy tale, that was very skillfully arranged by him. The closed chapter of his former life did not concern her. She felt that he loved her, that she was the most important person in his life, and that nothing and nobody had precedence over her. He knew how to dazzle her and she was properly and absolutely dazzled.
They married and she quickly learned the role he expected of her and did it well. For a while the glitter was bewitching, and it pushed the budding unease and emptiness into the background. Queens of old had but one duty: to produce children in order to ensure succession and to have pawns ready for fruitful marriages with friendly or warring neighbors. The king amused himself elsewhere and the mistresses are often better remembered than the wives. The virtuous Greek wife was destined to produce legitimate children while the Hetaerae provided amusements, the slaves comfort. And of course, there were the geishas in Japan, the concubines in ancient China, and the maitresses in France. Only the names changed, the roles did not. Lena suspected that her mother saw her in that role, and she knew that not her daughter, but Wife Number One had the honor of producing legitimate children. And she cried discreetly and elegantly in her Dior suit at the wedding of her beautiful daughter. In the age of internet shopping and instant gratification Wife Number One provides home, stability and the children at the beginning of a man’s career. Wife Number Two, the Trophy Wife, offers the illusion of youth, social admiration, even envy and fresh sex, all of which are excellent tools for advancement and are proofs of virility in a world that idolizes youth.
“Yes, I know all about trophy wives, the mistresses of exquisite deception. Their role appears glamorous and enviable from the outside, while in truth a devastating desire steadily grows in them to be nothing less than to be like Wife Number One, with children, diapers, 2 A.M. feedings, home cooked dinners and fights over the Sunday paper’s crossword puzzle, and a husband shouting each evening from the door: ‘Anybody here? Hey, darling, I’m home’. Is it asking too much?”
“Not if you marry the guy cut out for that. But you didn’t. Can you see Clyde diaper a baby?”
“I’m sure he did it once. Like riding a bike or swimming—you don’t forget.”
“And truthfully, is that your dream?”
“Yes. At least one of my dreams. To have a home, which closes out the world, the struggles, the strivings, the social elbowing. Where the husband comes home not to conduct business on just another level, but comes home to his wife to spend the evening tog
ether, when day is done. Do you understand? Do you?” Lena’s voice carried a desperate pitch of frustration. “When evening comes, my man would arrive home without associates, or VIPs. The home would be the place where ‘the lamp‘s circumscribed glow’ defines how far the world can penetrate into the sacredly intimate life. I do crave that evening time, I crave for:
“The hour of infusion of tea, and closed books; The sweetness at feeling the evening’s conclusion;
The charming fatigue and adored expectations of nuptial shadows…”
“Stop! Stop! I know you are romantic enough to like Verlaine, but be realistic, Lena. You don’t really care for the infusion of tea, because you much prefer a dry martini at that hour. And whose charming fatigue are we talking about? His or yours? Because my dear, all day long you cooked, cleaned, did the wash, took care of the bills and the lawn, runny noses and the trauma of broken toys, patrolled the house for damage control after your two year old child’s exploring forays, picked up junior from his ball practice and drove Little Lena to the orthodontist. His fatigue might be charming, but yours will hurt to the very bone and every muscle in your body will scream for rest. Nuptial shadows? If he’d cultivate any such nuptial shadows after day is done, you’d either pretend to be asleep, claim a splitting headache, or kill him coldblooded.”
“You are terrible.”
“No dear, just a realist.”
“So much then for nuptial bliss, according to the word of Adrienne. But
where is the other bliss, the famous all conquering and powerful love you mentioned just a minute ago? The maternal love that helps endure all difficulties with a smile, the one which makes you forget exhaustion?”
“That too is there, I can assure you, and I am not contradicting myself. The trouble is that it is not fully understood, because it is not always visible. Often it hides behind the ironing that is two days past due, or dishes that need to be washed, homework that needs to be checked, the checkbook that won’t balance, or the washing machine that just clonked out. As many mothers tell me, it is all but invisible during the supreme effort of trying to survive a day at a time. However, at the right moment and at the time when most needed, it will surface.”
The Reluctant Trophy Wife Page 6
