The Reluctant Trophy Wife

by Judith Petres Balogh

  NINETEEN

  The writing that flowed so easily before she spent the weekend at the convent, turned sluggish; the output was dull, almost trite. Finally the stream stopped altogether. The words that formerly tumbled so rapidly that she could not write fast enough, dried up and a hopeless barrenness mocked her. She rewrote words, sentences and entire pages, but the intellectual dry spell did not lift. Once again the ugly demon of doubt crawled out of its hiding. I cannot do it, I cannot write, she complained to the four walls, and wished someone would help, but knew it was a futile wish. Writing is a very private and very lonely occupation and it is useless to expect help from outside. The ideas and the words come on their own, if at all, and the struggle with them is always personal and solitary. Finally she turned off the laptop and replaced it into its case.

  Restlessly she walked about, wrote a letter to Adrienne and described the midsummer night picnic and the fun they had at the fire they built on the Isenburg property. She wrote about the rhymes they made up to get rid of the bad influences lurking about, and wrote about how they averted the predicted Armageddon for at least another year. She described Sarah’s champagne-soaked determination to jump over the fire, but the daring act was forcibly prevented by George, as he did not want to see her cremated prematurely. But after the letter was posted she again was restless and dissatisfied, picked up books and read pages without absorbing a single word and then tried to memorize new Hungarian words, but these would not stick. And the days passed.

  She walked the now familiar paths, visited Sarah and George, drove to town and did some disinterested window shopping and waited for the black mood to lift.

  For many days she did not think of Clyde, of Adrienne, of the murder, or indeed of anybody or anything. She spent the days in regal ennui and waited for Sunday and the lunch, when she could again spend time in the company of her friends in the hope that she would be recharged once again. When she remembered that Father Paul would be absent the coming Sunday because of a planned meeting in the capital, the weekend suddenly appeared less joyful. She would miss him.

  Gently, unobtrusively he guided her thinking and filled her mind with new ideas, new visions. Question, to which she only gave marginal attention before, suddenly were important and demanded answers and her thoughts kept returning to her mentor. For a fleeting moment the possibility of falling in love with him was disquieting; however, she soon rejected the thought. She was in love before and knew everything about that disturbing passion. What she now felt was different. It lacked the emotional exaltation associated with being in love. There was no excitement and no restlessness, no overpowering desire to possess and be possessed. This was something new, never before experienced. She also knew that father Paul was taboo; she remembered this much from her early religious training. In her mind, there were three categories of adult mortals: men, women and Catholic priests. These long forgotten teachings surfaced now and did not permit him to appear as a man, or an object of love, despite his more or less worldly appearance.

  After several days of lassitude she returned to the computer and reread what she has written so far. She was surprised at the quality, but at the same time was convinced that she could not maintain it and would never be able to complete the dream of writing an important book. Dispirited she turned from the laptop and stepped outside. The heat was oppressing and the air unusually humid, even the birds were silent for a change, only the male crickets, surely thousands of them, expressed their lackluster courting advances. Male crickets seem to lack the romantic excitement most bug women crave. Her light summer dress stuck to her damp body, swarms of insects irritated her and the dismal mood would not lift; the garden gave her no relief.

  In her restless wandering around the garden, she reached a favorite place, the bench under the flowing branches of a weeping willow. For a while she contemplated the constrained excitement of the great water moving and shimmering below the garden. The longer she looked, the more she felt an urge to be near it, in it, so it could wash away the sticky malaise and the irritating restlessness. She yearned to feel the water and to smell its fragrance, to be refreshed by its coolness.

  In a few minutes she collected the essentials, and driven by impatience decided against walking and took the car.

  It was a weekday and although the lake at the little village was not the preferred bathing place of vacationers, the oppressive heat lured an unusually large crowd; people sprawled in uncomfortable closeness under the trees. She wasted no time, and soon was in the water. The silky soft water was a benediction on her body and she swam out far from the shore and away from the crowd.

  She twisted and turned in the water, then floated for a while and indeed the blessed water silenced the discomforts of her mind. For the first time that day she felt calm. Small, gentle waves lifted her body and a few seagulls looked down at her with mild interest. On closer inspection, they decided that this human would not do for dinner, expressed their low opinion with the shrillness of fish vendors and then departed in search of something more appetizing.

  Refreshed and finally at peace with the world she returned to her spot under the shade of a willow tree she shared with two families. Stretched out on her towel she was looking up into the crown of the tree where small patches of the sky peeked through the delicate foliage. The sunshine, domesticated into mildness by the willow tree, filtered down through the ever-moving small leaves, and the light changed the colors of bark, leaves and grass into softer, gentler hues. The sounds of the beach intermingled and this wordless noise rose and fell just like the rhythmic monotony of the lazy waves as they hit the shore. It was a soothing, hushed background murmur, void of all meaning and it brought drowsiness .She closed her eyes and dozed in blessed peace.

  The blessed peace did not last long. Aggressive voices shattered the generally subdued murmuring and Lena could not ignore these. Two little kids, just a few feet from her head, demanded cookies and coke in that irritating whining tone she hated in children. They sounded like professional beggars pleading for a piece of bread moments before they would die of hunger. How did they learn to whine so annoyingly? She would never tolerate this irritating tone in her own children. From a radio nearby glared the kind of music she found irksome. People played handball a few feet away laughing and yelling as they collected the missed balls between the outstretched bodies of sun worshippers. On her right side a concerned mother was about to feed her family and was dispensing food, advice and corrections in a voice that could be heard five willow trees away. Even after they settled down to enthusiastic mastication the children’s penetrating voice kept whining for a drink, a napkin, or they were begging for ice cream. People walked past her and snatches of their conversation entered into Lena’s own line of thoughts.

  For a while she struggled to disconnect herself from the world and its clamor, but after a child’s beach ball hit her on the head, it was the absolute end of tranquility, and time to flee from the unwanted noise, discomfort and irritation. She gathered her belongings, but on her way out noticed the sign for boat rentals. This was exactly what she needed; she could be at the lake, but away from the disturbing crowd. Relieved and silently thanking her luck for noticing the sign in time, she quickly accomplished the transaction and a short time later was rowing out into the open water, ‘far from the madding crowd.’

  When the boat was far enough from the shore and the people moving on the beach acquired the size and importance of ants going about their business, she pulled in the oars, adjusted her large sunhat and found a comfortable position to stretch out to rest. Soon she forgot what was so disturbing a while ago and the gentle swaying of the boat put her again in a state of pleasant drowsiness. From such distance, the world appeared less complicated, people less irritating. In that mental and spiritual state she would have been receptive to new and magnificent ideas; however, sleepiness dulled her thoughts and she was not particularly interested in great ideas. The effort of thinking seemed out of place and strenuous; inste
ad, she just let the boat rock her gently. She guessed that this relaxed state, which lets thoughts flow randomly in and out of the conscious mind, could be very close to what a practiced guru experiences when he meditates. Material things were no longer important and she felt, rather than understood what Father Paul tried to tell her.

  She was finally able to accept that indeed the soul while being connected somehow to the physical body, was not a function of any organ. Passions do not reside in the heart and thoughts not in the brain. Love and fear, happiness and sorrow, the enjoyment of music, of sunshine and of water are not located in any specific organ, and will continue to exist somewhere, somehow even after the living cells die. Long life is not very kind to the body, and eventually it does the usual damage to it. Beauty and muscle tone would be gone, reflexes turn unreliable, the organs would give out one after the other and physical pain would be the inevitable program of the days. She had seen enough of it while doing volunteer work at the Home. But if Father Paul was right, this would not be the end at four score and some years. This was good. She could live with that.

  The boat rocked gently and she felt with new assurance that in contrast to the body, the intellectual-spiritual part would survive and triumph over all temporary things. She sighed with relief. Death is not a punishment, not the end of all. It is just a gate one has to pass in order to go somewhere else. She heard all this before of course, but either rejected the idea, or else put it out of her mind as being too uncomfortable too unacceptable and too irrational. Now it was an unquestionable truth.

  I believe, finally I really do, she whispered surprised and near tears.

  She wondered whether her line of thought would truly match his and whether it would fit within the sphere rigorously defined for him by his Church. She sat up and let her hand hang into the water at the side of the boat. Her fingers seemed elongated and the grains of sand and alga in the water colored her skin so that it appeared greenish, otherworldly. Horka’s hand, she thought with a fine shudder. She wiggled her fingers and watched the waves her slight movements made, and immediately recalled his elegant hands. His were wellgroomed hands, not used to do work in the fields; he raised them to display the Eucharist, to dispense blessings; his graceful fingers were anointing the newborn, or the dying, or were gliding across the three rows of organ keys in the nun’s chapel. The image pleased, but did not excite her.

  She was at ease in the gently moving boat, but gradually sensed a change in the air. She spent many summers on the family sailboat in open waters, and early in her life developed an unfailing sense of weather change. The sun was still bright, the sky and the water as blue as before, but a fine haze descended over the opposite shore, some fifteen kilometers away. Heaven only knew from where it came so suddenly. It certainly was not there when she started to row. Nature was silent, ominously so, holding its breath in horrible expectation, waiting, counting time. She felt an urgency, a vibration in the air, which she could not explain but knew it was there, even though the air was calm and the wind was no more than a light breeze. Farther out there were some barely moving sailboats; yet, the water appeared restlessly waiting for something, getting ready for something. She felt this change in her nerves and looked toward the shore, but the rhythmically pulsing weather warning lights were showing the safe bluishwhite only.

  She was a few kilometers from the shore and although there was no visible reason for concern, a vague sense of urgency, a smell of danger moved her to row back toward the shore. More than halfway there she stopped again to rest, and to wet her glowing face. She now could clearly see the people on the beach moving about, and the heads of swimmers bobbing in the water. The shore was now close enough for safety, but she was still a good distance away from human noises and activities. She was not in a hurry to return too soon and to give up the sacred solitude.

  Again she pulled in the oars and let the boat drift where it wanted. The sky was still clear, perhaps treacherously so, and although that strange haze over the opposite shore seemed to be gathering substance, there was nothing menacing about it. Like the inspired work of an artist dabbling in impressionism, it softened the lines of reality and changed the landscape and seascape into a dreamy, personal experience. Ever conscious of sun damage to her skin, she covered her face with the hat and leaned back in the gently rocking boat to continue her relaxing daydreaming in a wonderful state between sleep and wakefulness. Uncounted time slipped by and then a sudden wild movement of the boat made her sit up in surprise; she thought the boat hit something. The world around her changed during her relaxed half-sleep. The mild, sleepy waves, which were no more than just subdued undulations before, were now agitated and already white-capped. She recalled what one her guests at the grill party said about the sudden changes of the lake. Obviously, he knew well the habits of it.

  Sio, the spirit of the lake was apparently vexed about something, and in her rage she rattled the very foundation of her watery castle, causing the waves to leap and then crash against the side of the boat. Typical of an aging water nymph, Lena thought with amusement, she gets particular and then cannot control her sudden temper.

  Now a veil of fog appeared from nowhere and for the first time since she fell in love with the lake, she saw its dangerous face and knew that she needed to reach the shore without wasting more time. She looked around to find the direction and saw with horror that she missed when the weather lights turned from white to yellow; now it was already flashing red. The idling sailboats were gone, probably safe in the closest harbors.

  As she lowered the oars into the water she imagined the sound of a small voice. It made no sense, because no swimmer would dare to come out this far, away from safety. There were no boats anywhere; she was all alone about half a upset about nothing in mile from the shore. She concluded that she must have imagined the voice. The waves turned more aggressive from moment to moment and there remained no time to waste. The former blue haze on the opposite shore turned into a dark presence moving rapidly across the troubled water. It turned eerily dark and there were ominous flashes in the sky. Judging by the thunder following, the storm was still a safe distance away, but it was moving relentlessly and far too rapidly. She took off her hat before it would end up in the water, turned the boat around and started to fight the waves. She told Sio to leave her alone, but the water nymph was otherwise occupied and ignored the plea.

  That was when she noticed the source of the small voice, now coming from behind, on her left. She did not imagine the voice, it was real enough. For a moment, the horror of it nearly paralyzed her. A boy, she guessed him to be about seven or eight, was hanging on to a partially deflated air mattress, one of those with head- and armrests. The mattress lost most of its air and was little more than a limp piece plastic floating under the boy’s body; the sea animals, painted in primary colors, twisted and turned just below the surface as if they were reaching for a prey. The head and armrests still had air trapped in them and he was desperately hanging onto that fragile safety. His lips were blue from cold or from fear and the eyes spoke of a terror no child should ever have to experience. The waves were already much too high for the struggling youngster. As the water repeatedly swept over him, Lena’s panic matched that of the boy. Stay calm she told herself. Watch that the boat does not turn over, take care that the boy is not smashed against the side of it.

  He was desperately moving his legs in an effort to stay afloat, but the performance was hopeless, more like the last struggle of a doomed frog. Waves kept sweeping above his head and as he emerged from an onslaught, he coughed and choked.

  “Hilfe”, the boy cried. Lena fought the increasing wind as she turned the boat to reach him. As soon as she was close enough she offered the end of the oar for him to grab. Although he seemed to understand her intention and quickly grabbed it with one hand, but would not let go of the armrest of the disabled mattress. Apparently, he had more confidence in the sinking mattress than in the oar Lena offered him. His hand was heartbreakingly small and
he was so obviously exhausted that he probably could not hang on to the paddle much longer. Yet, driven by terror, he showed more strength than would be expected from a child so young, even though he was rapidly tiring and also cooling. Despite his terrified determination, he was no match for the fury of the storm.

  “Let the mattress go, get both hands on the oar,” she yelled desperately although he could not understand what she said. Even if he could, he probably would not have dared to let the mattress go. Fighting the increasing ferocity of the storm she was at the same time overcome with rage thinking about the establishment that rents boats without lifejackets, and was even more furious at herself for ignoring this number one rule on open water. She forgot to check for a life jacket before starting, and that was an inexcusable irresponsibility; her father drilled this safety rule into her head before she could barely walk, but she forgot about it. There was no lifejacket, when there was a most desperate need for one.

  In the next moment as another wave swept over him, Lena thought she lost him, but his life force was stronger than the wave. He surfaced again, still holding on to the end of the oar. She experienced a moment of raw panic as the imperative choice presented itself: a choice between altruism and selfpreservation. The waves were ruthless and the child was shackled by its own concept of self-preservation which prevented him from accepting the best, the only choice, and this made him less than marginally cooperative. However, the moment of incapacitating death-fear and hesitation passed. She pulled in the oar on her left side in order not to lose it and with all her strength pulled the other oar with the child hanging to it as close to the side of the boat as she dared. Risking the capsizing of the light boat, she leaned far out toward him offering her one hand while still holding the oar in the other hand in a most awkward body position. Before the next wave could sweep him away she grabbed his wrist and pulled the trembling child into the boat that was close to overturning. As she half lifted, half pulled him, she was shocked to feel how light and how delicate he was.