So he waited for the lift to begin its creaking journey upward, feeling lost, though comforted again by knowing that Sunday is always a lost day in selling, but knowing that he was more lost, perhaps, this Sunday than other salesmen were.
Cables, visible behind the grillwork, began to tremble; the lift was coming up. At least he wasn’t at the Dorchester. At least he was playing the game. At least he had found, stumbled upon, what was probably the cheapest hotel in London. When he ran into one of the other salesmen he would have something to talk about.
9
The bay window where her grandmother sat faced the garden; it was actually a five-windowed turret, and inside, below its sill, ran a narrow window seat covered with five green velvet cushions. The turret was on the sunny, southeast side, but the upper sash of each window was of stained glass—a random mosaic of amber, green, lavender and ruby pieces—so that the sunlight that came through seemed shifting and uncertain, a gaudy rainbow of oily colours. It was not a religious light even though in the centre window, in letters of twisting lead, the glazier had inscribed the motto:
The kiss of the sun for pardon
The song of the birds for mirth;
One is nearer God’s heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.
Tall weeds and sunflowers overbore the garden now. God, or whatever mortal had tended it, had long since given up the chore. Lambs’-quarter and mustard-plant, wild morning glory and low fluffy clumps of chickweed hid a place where, once, even borders of perennials had run, where delphinium and peonies and lupins had bloomed, and where still could be seen a few abandoned clumps of purple iris. In this ruin there was a kind of rank, billowy beauty now—like a once-lovely woman who has lazily let herself go in middle age. There was visible a shape, or memory, of what had been an intricate design of paths, measuring the garden into a series of triangles and hexagons. But now the luxurious summer weeds, their leaves hanging wilted in the brilliant morning sunshine, blurred the original geometry and turned the formal garden into a tropical rain forest topped with huge, improbable sunflower faces. In the exact centre, almost hidden by tall grass, a silver gazing globe on a stone pedestal glittered in the sun. The sun moved now, slowly into the window where Barbara stood, fell upon the heavy twisted fringe of the velvet curtain. Her grandmother, as she often did these days, had dozed, her small head fallen forward on her bosom, gently breathing. Mrs. Zaretsky, the nurse, looked up from her knitting. ‘We get tired very easily,’ she said to Barbara. ‘But we’ll wake up before we know it.’
‘Do you think I should leave?’ Barbara asked.
‘Oh, we love having visitors!’ Mrs. Zaretsky said cheerfully.
‘I hope I’m not tiring her.’
Mrs. Zaretsky smiled a knowing nurse’s smile behind her steel rimmed glasses. ‘It’s just as well,’ she said. ‘After one of these little snoozes we’ll just forget to wake up, and that will be that.’
‘Yes,’ Barbara said quietly.
‘It’s simply remarkable,’ Mrs. Zaretsky said. ‘Doctor McDonald says that what she really is is sort of a freak. Her heart is fine, her hearing’s perfect, she has all her own teeth! Imagine! Of course her eyesight’s failed and—upstairs—’ she tapped her head significantly with her finger, ‘she’s got terribly fuzzy. But still and all, it’s just remarkable. She’s a remarkable old lady, she really is.’
Barbara nodded silently. She turned to the window again.
‘The blood doesn’t get up to the brain fast enough,’ Mrs. Zaretsky said, dropping her voice to a loud whisper. ‘That’s why she can’t think straight. But sometimes she’s just as clear as a bell! It’s remarkable! Why, just the other day she all of a sudden started telling me about Burketown—the old Burketown she knew as a girl, and how it’s changed and all. And believe it or not, I thought: Why she’s really a very remarkable person! She remembered when they had trolley cars on High Street—everything. Now what I wish is that when she gets that way, you know, lucid, that somebody would come with one of those watchamacallits, those things they take things down on, a recording machine. I thought that to have those remarks of hers down on a recording machine would be worth something, as a historical document, I really did. I mentioned it to Mr. deWinter when he was here on Wednesday and he said he thought it was a very good idea.’
To change the subject, Barbara said, ‘Does she have someone to take care of the garden?’
‘The garden? Oh, you mean that garden? Well, old Joe Martino comes to cut the grass, but goodness me, there isn’t much point in trying to fix up that old garden, is there? I mean when she’s gone they’ll probably tear this house down, won’t they? Or sell it to someone who could really use it for something?’
Barbara turned to her grandmother again, and with a little start, the old lady lifted her head and opened her eyes. ‘Oh!’ she said.
Loudly, Mrs. Zaretsky said, ‘Your granddaughter’s here to see you, Mrs. Woodcock. Remember?’
‘Did you have a nice nap, Nana?’ Barbara asked.
‘Yes, dear. Thank you. I’m sorry. What time is it, dear?’
‘Ten-thirty, Nana.’
Mrs. Zaretsky consulted the heavy chronograph on her wrist. ‘Just ten thirty-four, Mrs. Woodcock,’ she said. ‘Would you like a nice, hot cup of broth?’
‘No, thank you, not yet,’ Mrs. Woodcock said. ‘It’s a lovely day, isn’t it.’
‘It certainly is,’ Barbara said. She sat down on the little footstool by the chair and patted her grandmother’s hand. ‘But it’s going to be hot I’m afraid.’
‘The house is always cool, even on the hottest days,’ her grandmother said.
‘It’s wonderful to see you again, Nana,’ Barbara said. ‘You look so well.’
‘Thank you, dear.’
If there had been any change, Barbara thought, in her grandmother’s appearance since she had seen her last, it was only that she seemed to have grown, imperceptibly, smaller. She had always been a tiny, doll-like woman, barely five feet tall, with a pale and fragile face. She had always been proud of her size, of her small feet which wore a size-four shoe. A difficulty, in her old age, had been finding dresses that looked mature enough for a very old lady and yet were small enough to fit her delicate frame. Her dress size was seven, a size that in most department stores was reserved for teen-age girls. But she sat now in a black silk dress that had been made specially for her, and became her, turned her into a simple composition of black and white. Her eyes were so pale they seemed to have no colour to them, her carefully curled hair was pure white, and the flesh of her face and tiny hands seemed to be composed of soft, chalky powder. About her neck she wore a silver and onyx lavaliere. Her only other jewellery was the wide gold wedding band that she had never removed. She sat, hands folded, in the wheelchair and across her knees was a white knitted afghan. She had been a picture-book child—posed, in a daguerreotype, holding a fluffy white kitten to her cheek; she had been a picture-book young woman, much admired for her graceful performance of cotillion figures, and, in a later photograph, a white lace fan had replaced the kitten at her cheek. And now, at ninety-three, sitting in her panelled library, beginning her day, which consisted of a series of little journeys between sunny windows, she still had much of the artificiality and perfection of a cameo, the picture of a little old lady that might have been used to decorate a box of candy.
She was a woman, Barbara had often heard, who had not been built for child-bearing, and yet she had managed to have two children—though the first, a baby girl, had lived only nineteen hours and a tiny headstone in the Burketown cemetery marked the grave of Cecilia Mary Woodcock, born January 7, 1894, died January, 8, 1894. Beneath the dates the inscription read, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me.’ Seven years later she had her second child, Preston, and the ordeal, it was understood, had nearly killed her. Though she had never been an invalid, she had, when she recovered, been given an invalid’s care and attention. ‘Your grandmother,’ Barbara coul
d remember her grandfather saying proudly, ‘is a woman who needs a man’s arm to take her wherever she goes.’ And Barbara could remember her grandmother being guided and steered, helped and directed, through the rooms and passageways of life. She remembered that whenever a guide was not immediately there to offer Grandmother his arm she got lost; there had been many fond and indulgent searches for a little white-haired lady who, stepping from a hotel elevator, had turned as if by instinct the wrong way, or who had stepped out on to the sidewalk in front of Penrose’s store after an afternoon of shopping and—not seeing her car—had decided to walk home along Maple Street which led, of course, toward Hanscomb Corners. Unwilling to ask directions, she would forge on resolutely away from her destination as if determined to escape her goal. Even in her own house, Barbara could remember her grandmother moving from the living room into the hall, then hesitating, uncertain as to where she was bound. ‘Preston?’ she would call to her husband and he would answer ‘Just a minute, Mary,’ and when he appeared he would offer her his arm and set her on her course again. The wheelchair, then, possibly answered more than a physical need after her most trusted guide had gone; in its arms she felt confident, sure that whoever was pushing her would know better than she did where she wanted to go. It was curious that, just lately, she had made several attempts to get out of the chair.
Barbara sat silently, letting time pass; in the background, Mrs. Zaretsky’s knitting needles clicked efficiently. Making conversation with the aged is always difficult but it was especially difficult with her grandmother. Nothing much had ever interested Mary Owens Woodcock, even as a young woman, outside of shoes and hats and dresses. These interests now had long vanished from her mind. She had never seemed, despite what Mrs. Zaretsky had said, to be concerned with changes or events in the world. To observe that there had once been trolley cars on High Street did not seem to Barbara to be a significant revelation. She had, at one time in her life, dipped her toe daintily into several fashionable religious cults—Couéism, Moral Rearmament, Christian Science, Spiritualism—but none of her experiences here seemed to have left any profound effect upon her soul. Mrs. Zaretsky sometimes read to her, but her enjoyment in this had never seemed to go beyond the lulling pleasure of hearing another human voice. So it was hard, as Barbara sat there, allowing a decent interval to elapse before leaving, to think of anything to say. At last she said, ‘Would you like me to read to you, Nana?’
‘No, thank you, dear. Not right now,’ her grandmother said.
Mrs. Zaretsky glanced at her oversized wristwatch. ‘Quarter to eleven,’ she said. ‘Almost time for our medicine.’
‘Which medicine is it?’ Mrs. Woodcock asked.
‘The kind you like,’ Mrs. Zaretsky said.
Mrs. Woodcock turned suddenly to Barbara. ‘Did you find the papers you wanted, dear?’
‘What papers, Nana?’
Mrs. Zaretsky looked quickly at Barbara and gave her a humorous wink. ‘That was your other granddaughter, Mrs. Woodcock,’ Mrs. Zaretsky said. ‘That was Peggy. This is Barbara.’
‘Oh of course,’ her grandmother said. ‘Of course, Barbara. Well, ask Peggy if she still wants those papers, if she’s found them. I haven’t had a chance to look for them. I don’t know quite where to lay my hands on them.’
‘What papers, Nana?’ Barbara said again.
‘Something your sister wanted,’ Mrs. Zaretsky said. ‘I’m sure she’s found them, whatever they were.’ And she shook her head slowly back and forth, advising Barbara to pursue the subject no further.
‘Ask Peggy to come to see me,’ her grandmother said.
‘I will,’ Barbara said.
‘She was just here on Friday,’ Mrs. Zaretsky said. ‘She comes to see you nearly twice a week.’
Barbara opened her purse. ‘I have some pictures of my little boys here, Nana,’ she said. ‘Would you like to see them?’
‘Oh, I’d love to, dear,’ her grandmother said.
Barbara held two snapshots up. ‘See? Haven’t they got big?’
‘She can’t see them,’ Mrs. Zaretsky said.
‘I can see them perfectly,’ her grandmother said. ‘They’re beautiful children.’
‘They’re your great-grandchildren,’ Mrs. Zaretsky said.
‘Beautiful children,’ Mrs. Woodcock said. Barbara put the pictures back in her purse.
Mrs Zaretsky put down her knitting. ‘Time for our medicine now,’ she said briskly, and then, ‘Oooh! I’m so stiff from sitting.’ Bending forward, her large hands pressing her thighs, she walked slowly out of the room.
Barbara sat quietly on the footstool and her grandmother nodded her head, up and down. ‘Beautiful children,’ she said again.
‘Dobie and Michael,’ Barbara said.
‘Yes. My husband’s father was named Dobie. Such a handsome man.’
Mrs. Zaretsky returned with a small tray that held a bottle, a spoon and a glass of water.
‘What is this now?’ Mrs. Woodcock asked.
‘This is the kind we like,’ Mrs. Zaretsky said. She filled the spoon and held it toward the old lady. ‘Open wide,’ she said. ‘Atta girl!’ She popped the spoon inside. ‘Now here’s a nice glass of water to take away the taste.’
Mrs. Woodcock took a swallow from the water glass, then smiled. ‘Why do you say it’s the kind I like, Binky, when you know it’s the kind I don’t like?’
Mrs. Zaretsky, called Binky since the days before she was married and had worked in the hospital as Loretta Binks, drew back, pretending shock, ‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘We like everything that’s good for us, don’t we?’
‘Not necessarily,’ the old lady said.
Barbara stood up. ‘I really must go, Nana,’ she said, giving her grandmother’s powdery hand a gentle squeeze. ‘I’ve got to get back to the farm. But I’ll drop by to see you again before I go.’
‘Thank you, dear,’ her grandmother said. ‘It’s always so nice to see you.’ She lifted her face to be kissed and Barbara bent to kiss her.
‘Goodbye,’ she said.
‘Bye-bye. Come again,’ Mrs. Zaretsky said. ‘We’re always home.’
‘Goodbye, I will.’ She blew her grandmother a kiss, turned and walked out into the hall to the front door.
She went down the front steps into the harsh sunlight that glittered on the concrete driveway. She opened the door of her car, got in, and reached in her purse for the keys. Then, in the rearview mirror, she saw another car turn into the driveway behind her. She turned and saw that it was Barney.
He got out of his car and walked up the driveway toward her. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hello, Barney,’ she smiled. ‘What are you doing here?’ He was dressed in a dark business suit, white shirt and tie.
‘I had to pick up a couple of things at the office,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d drop by here on the way back—just to say hello to your grandmother.’
‘I’ve just spent about half an hour with her,’ Barbara said.
‘How is she?’
‘Oh, just about the same. A little muddled. She got me mixed up with Peggy once, but otherwise she doesn’t seem much different.’
Barney looked toward the house. ‘I come by to see her from time to time,’ he said. ‘It’s funny—I’ve always rather liked old people. Talking to her is very calming.’
Barbara laughed. ‘Calming? With old Binky Zaretsky interrupting all the time?’
‘Oh, I don’t mind her.’
‘She’s such a ghoul!’
He rested the palms of his hands on the side of her car and stared down at the driveway beneath his feet. ‘Well—’ he said.
‘Are you going in to see her?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. She may be tired now. Having just had a visitor.’
‘Yes—she may,’ Barbara said and suddenly the strip of sunlight between them seemed oddly crowded, the air thick. He raised his eyes and looked at her, frowning; she looked at him, then away, toward the corner of the dr
ive.
‘Did you—?’ he began.
‘What?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Were you finally able to get to sleep last night?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said brightly. ‘Yes—I was asleep the minute my head touched the pillow!’ she laughed, a little wildly, ‘Did you—get to sleep?’
‘Yes.’ he said, ‘Finally.’
‘You scared me half to death,’ she said. ‘Seeing you—like that—in the hall.’
‘I thought you were a ghost,’ he said. ‘I thought you were the ghost of Harlow J. Lerner, come back to haunt us.’
She laughed.
‘What were you doing? Walking through the house with no lights on?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I was. I don’t know why I was.’
He continued to stand, his hands on the door of her car, and she resisted looking at him, though she could feel his eyes on her. She looked straight ahead, her hands resting on the steering wheel. ‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘I must get back.’
He stepped away from the car. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose you have to.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
He seemed to hesitate. ‘Do you have to get back right away?’
‘I think I should,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘I wondered—would you like to go for a drive?’
‘A drive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well—what time is it?’
‘Around eleven,’ he said. ‘Lunch isn’t until one.’
‘Well—’ she said.
‘It’s a nice day.’
‘Yes, it is a nice day,’ she said. And then, ‘All right.’
‘You will go?’
‘All right.’
‘My car’s blocking yours,’ he said. ‘Let’s take mine.’
‘I guess I can leave mine here for a minute,’ she said.
‘Sure,’ he said.
She got out of the car and walked slowly ahead of him along the driveway to where his car was. She opened the door and got inside. He walked around the car and opened the other door and slid into the seat beside her.
Barbara Greer Page 16
