by Luanne Rice
“Henk thinks nothing of me as a person. He’s wanted to keep you to himself ever since you met him. That’s why you call Margo in Watch Hill but never call me in New York—because I’m too close for comfort.”
“Excuse me, Una, but that is ridiculous. It’s just another example of how warped your logic is when it comes to Henk. He loves me, and he loves the Cavan family.” The Cavan family—Lily had seceded from us; I could hear it in her voice. Lily, defending a man who had just forced her to make her delighted sister (me) stop patting the kicking baby, and had then driven her from the room in tears. The strength of it made me drop my own head and begin to cry. Only then, when I was weak and she was on top of the world, could Lily give me comfort. She twisted a strand of my hair around her finger.
“It’s okay, Una,” she said in a low voice. “My getting married has been a big change. I know everyone needs time to adjust.”
I nodded, swallowing tears.
“And I do like Sam. Margo was right about him.”
I nodded again, kissing her forehead, and slunk back to the library. Henk and Sam were standing in the doorway. Sam was wearing his coat and holding mine. He held it toward me. Henk nodded in the Prussian manner. “I shall thank you never to say ‘fuck’ in my home again,” he said.
“I shall thank you for thanking me,” I said, accepting my coat from Sam and letting him propel me toward the foyer.
“Imbecile,” Henk muttered under his preponderate breath.
“Fucker,” I muttered back.
On the cobblestone walk overlooking the East River, Sam hugged me while I yelled into his ski jacket. A wisp of down protruded from a seam, tickling my cheek. My fury blurred the lights of the Queensboro Bridge. From the East River Drive, below our feet, came a blast from someone’s horn. Or perhaps it came from a dark tug on the river. Sam stroked my hair.
“What a bastard,” he said.
“I know. I told you he keeps Lily a prisoner.”
“You weren’t kidding.”
“And she is so great! Or used to be…I can’t tell anymore. She might be ruined for life.”
“People do change.”
I pulled back and stared into his pale green eyes. “It’s not like that—Lily is wonderful. This has to be temporary. Did you like her?”
“Yes, but she didn’t say much. I had the feeling she had been programmed, or that she had programmed herself.”
I shook my head, violently unwilling to believe that. “No, it’s Henk. Jesus, I wish she’d divorce him. Before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what? It’s November, and she’s going to have a baby in January.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?” Sam asked.
I scowled and shook my head. “Never mind,” I said, but only because I had no idea.
One night on our way upstairs to my apartment, Sam and I met Joe Finnegan and a pregnant woman at the mailboxes. I had not seen Joe for months, since before I had left New York for Watch Hill. For several seconds I felt tension in my spine, behind my eyes, while I tried to anticipate the things Joe might say to Sam. I expected him to leer at me behind Sam’s back, but instead his eyes flooded with tears and slid to his pregnant companion. Her hair had grown out of its shag cut, and she had gained at least twenty pounds, but I recognized her as the woman he had been strolling along Greenwich Avenue with that hot night last summer.
“Una, let me introduce you to Patsy Connor,” he said.
“Happy to meet you,” I said. Then I took hold of Sam’s hand. “This is Sam Chamberlain. Joe Finnegan—Patsy Connor.”
“How do you do,” Sam said.
“Well, I’m going to be a daddy,” Joe said, the tears welling over his lower lids.
A daddy? He had said Patsy Connor? What would a macho guy like Joe be doing with a woman who would keep her own name after marriage? Was it possible—? I considered the notion of parenthood out of wedlock, but the staid image of Mrs. Finnegan and her Computer of Catholicism came to mind and drove the hideous idea away.
“Well, congratulations, Joe,” I said.
“That’s great!” Sam said, pumping Joe’s hand the way only another man can pump the hand of an expectant father.
Patsy smiled demurely at Joe. “And we’re getting married over Christmas.”
Joe flicked some tears away with his index finger. “Yeah, the kid wants to do things back-asswards. Her whole damn family has to be there for the wedding, and one of her brothers’s not getting back to the States till December.”
“He’s in the navy,” Patsy explained.
“So, I knocked her up in August, and she’s taking her sweet time, pickin’ out bridesmaids’ bouquets. You know me, Una—I always did go for the unconventional types.”
I laughed politely.
“Yes, big talker there,” Patsy said. “He’s more excited about the wedding than I am. Admit it, Joseph.”
“Ahh, you’re full of shit.” He pinched her cheek. “Seriously, though, it’ll be a pretty good party at the Wamataug Country Club out in Nyack. Hope you two can make it. Ma’ll kill me if I don’t invite you, Una.”
“Thank you, but we already have a Christmas wedding. Margo is getting married.”
Joe shook his head. “Jesus H. Christ, you Cavans. Still close as ever?”
“You bet,” I said, thinking of Lily.
“Peas in a pod,” Sam said.
“You can’t beat a good, close family,” Joe said. “My brothers are having fistfights over who gets to be best man. I told ’em—you two decide it between ya. The honor goes to the fittest of ya.”
Patsy socked his upper arm. “You’re such a conceited monster,” she said. “The kids probably haven’t given it ten seconds’ worth of thought. They’ll end up flipping a coin the night of your bachelor party.”
Perfect, I thought—a woman who gives it straight back to Joe Finnegan. I prophesied a happy, if contentious, life together for them. We said good night, and Sam and I walked into the elevator together, leaving Joe and Patsy to argue over who had the mailbox key.
“That one of your old boyfriends?” Sam asked.
“Yes.”
“Yes?” He sounded startled. Joe and I were so obviously ill-suited. What would I be doing with such a jokester?
“For a short time. He’s a nice guy.”
“I’m sure he is. He’s thrilled about being a father. Do people always cry when they’re about to become parents?”
“I don’t know. Joe did, Lily did. Haven’t you known any prospective parents?”
“Not many. I think it’s because scientists are social misfits; we spend so much time in labs and on ships, we never have a chance to meet the Ones of Our Dreams. Until now.” He backed me against the elevator wall and kissed me. We stepped into the hallway, and I started patting my pockets for the keys.
“So, I’m the One of Your Dreams?” I asked. I found the key and wiggled it into the lock.
“Yes.”
“But what are your dreams?” I asked.
Chapter 18
For Thanksgiving, Sam’s parents were attending a seminar at San Miguel de Allende, in Mexico, and they sent Sam a blue piñata shaped like a donkey. The Sunday afternoon before the holiday we lay in my bed surrounded by the paper and discussed how we would spend the holiday. My mother had invited us, along with Matt and Margo and Lily and Henk, to her house. We considered that option carefully. Everything in the paper featured family holiday traditions. The food page showed a fat turkey with the author’s grandmother’s chestnut dressing and the author’s husband’s grandmother’s cranberry orange relish. The wine column listed the best American reds to enjoy with the dinner along with a nostalgic look at the vintages our foremothers might have served with their dinners. The architecture page showed a mountain retreat designed by one man to accommodate his extended family at holidays; it contained thirty-four bunk beds, each with a view of Mount Ellen, and a dining table shaped like a giant horses
hoe.
But I did not feel ready to see Lily and Henk right away, so soon after our bad scene. Margo’s wedding was fleetly approaching, and the family would come together then. I would think of that, and then I would think how strange it would feel to have Thanksgiving away from my family.
“I can’t decide,” I told Sam.
“Does your mother make a good turkey?”
“That’s not the point. But no, not very. She’s never been much of a cook. I’m just not sure I want to see Lily. I hate the way she acts with Henk.”
“It might be good for you to see her. You can start planning things for Margo—don’t you want to throw her a shower or something?”
I shook my head. I have always loathed the idea of showers. Women go to showers and become girls. They collect bows and take their time opening each present, making sure the tape doesn’t tear the pretty paper printed with parasols and orange blossoms. They squeak. “No, I don’t think Margo’s big on showers,” I said.
“Then maybe you and Margo can cheer up Lily. It’s her first pregnancy; she’s probably afraid of giving birth.”
“I doubt it. Henk’s convinced her she’s the Earth Mother.”
By the impatient way Sam had started turning the pages, I could tell he was annoyed. I knew why: one minute I was crying because Lily was unhappy, defending her, saying that her change of spirit was only temporary. The next minute I was condemning her, condemning Sam for defending her. I rolled onto my side, giving Sam my back. I was staring at the Arts and Leisure section, but I was thinking: what the hell am I doing with a man who can’t sit out a little indecision? Am I supposed to be perfectly consistent? All the time?
After a while I began to actually read the article. It was about Kathleen Turner, the actress who had started on the soaps. I started to laugh. Sam didn’t ask what I was laughing about, but he slid his leg against mine, letting me know it was fun to be reading the paper in bed with me. It felt lovely and decadent to be lounging around, naked, at two on a Sunday afternoon. We had already risen, eaten breakfast, and gone back to bed.
“Hey, it’s snowing!” Sam said.
I rolled onto my elbow, against his body, to see out my bedroom window. Fine flakes slanted through the shadowy sky, a contrast so unremarked, it might not have been snowing at all.
“First snow of the year,” I said.
Sam leaned closer to kiss me. “You’re such a sucker for the romantic details.”
He was right. Things like the first snow, the black zone of shore—mystical forces of nature—represented the mystical forces of my own nature. I read them the way a gypsy reads tarot cards. The first snow was telling me to cook a turkey, Sam’s and my first, and save the family gathering for Margo’s wedding. It was also telling me to touch Sam’s penis and make it stiff. My own nipples tingled with excitement; I could hardly wait for the winter solstice.
With only three shopping days before Thanksgiving, I had to use Soundstage 3 as my base, running through the city on errands whenever we took a break from shooting. The big rumor was that Beck and Delilah would elope on Christmas Eve. Beginning the first week of December, commercials would be aired hinting to that effect. With a two-week shooting lag, we had the Thanksgiving episode in the can and were moving, with much suspense and elation, toward Mooreland’s Christmas season. Our loyal viewers would know what was coming even without the blatant signals. Delilah wore much red velvet and spent long moments staring contemplatively at golden Christmas tree balls while a tremulous version of “O Holy Night” played in the background. Through the marvels of film editing, Art managed to turn the Christmas tree ball into a tiny movie screen, a bulb of Delilah’s memory as it were, across which passed six years’ worth of romantic images with Beck. Frolicking on the beach, in the snow, in the fields of Mooreland; their first kiss; Delilah’s tears after their first reunion after their first split; Beck’s face as Delilah opened the case containing her first engagement ring from him; their recent reunion after her jailbreak…Yes, something was in the air. All of us on Beyond the Bridge and all of our viewers could feel it. It was time for Delilah and Beck to marry.
But then what? Ratings soared for weddings and dropped off during the ensuing marriage. It was often Chance’s solution to kill off one of the spouses. And with me leaving the show to do Together Forever, Delilah was primed to die in late spring. A boating accident, a kidnap and ransom and murder, or simple suicide. Anything, as long as the body was never found and she could be resurrected sometime in the future, if I ever tired of movies and wanted to return to the show.
During shooting breaks I bought tall, cream-colored candles; cellophane bags full of nuts in their shells; fresh cranberries from a Korean fruit stand on Broadway; a horrendously expensive white linen tablecloth; waxy turnips; ten pounds of potatoes; loaves of stale white bread; fresh sage; packets of instant gravy—just in case. Each night, laden down with shopping bags, I would take a cab home instead of the subway. I bought a women’s magazine that spelled out the steps to a perfect Thanksgiving dinner.
DAY FOUR: Order turkey, buy unperishables, order pies.
DAY THREE: Make cranberry sauce, polish silver, check china for chips, pick up turkey (if frozen), commence thawing.
DAY TWO: Buy fresh vegetables, pick up pies, chop vegetables and plunge into ice water, set holiday table.
DAY ONE: Prepare dinner and look gorgeous.
Since I had only three days, I had to combine and actually skip several steps. I bought a fresh turkey and frozen peas from the Jefferson Market. On Wednesday night I was sitting at my kitchen table, waiting for Sam to come over, reading the instructions for Day One (Thanksgiving), so that I would be ready to make the gravy, set things to boil at their proper times, and put the bird into the oven early enough to eat at four, when the telephone rang.
“Allo!” came the voice. It was foreign, but it sounded close enough to be next door.
“Hello?” I said.
“Allo! It is Emile—I am in New York!”
Within two minutes I had invited another guest for Thanksgiving dinner. Emile Balfour was alone in my city; what could I do but the hospitable thing?
“We do not celebrate ‘Thanksgiving’ in France,” Emile said, putting the word into quotation marks that suggested perhaps it did not really exist. He had arrived three minutes earlier and was sitting beside Sam on my sofa. Emile wore a beautiful yellow Viyella shirt with a black-and-gold paisley ascot. He smoked. His hair was exquisitely mussed and lacquered. Sam wore his rumpled blue oxford shirt, but with the colder weather he had traded his khakis for buff corduroys. Emile seemed oblivious to Sam’s unfriendliness. I, who was tearing around the kitchen, draining boiling potatoes into my sink, shaking nutmeg into all the pots, and trying not to spill anything on my electric-blue velvet slacks and matching satin cummerbund, was not. So I heard everything, especially what Sam did not say. He was quiet to the point of rudeness.
“So, here I am, meeting with the money men, when all of a sudden they tell me it’s a big holiday. They thought I knew all about it,” Emile said. “How did America come to celebrate ‘Thanksgiving,’ anyway?”
I stood before the sink, a steaming pan of turnips poised over the stainless-steel colander, listening for Sam’s response. There was none. I put down the pan and dashed into the living room, where Sam had his mouth full of smoked oysters, his cheeks puffed out, his finger held in the air to indicate that he would reply as soon as he could swallow.
“The Pilgrims started it,” I said.
“John Alden and Miles Standish,” Emile said, laughing, pronouncing “Miles” like “Emile”—Emile Standish. “Now I remember the story of your Pilgrims. It was told to me when I was a boy in school.”
“You know, Sam comes from Padanaram, in southeastern Massachusetts. That’s very near Plymouth Rock. Sam, why don’t you tell Emile about Plymouth Rock?”
I wondered whether Emile noticed Sam’s monotone as he told about the tourists who go to Plymouth, about the
iron fence around the rock, about nothing but the barest details. I mashed the turnips with frustrated vigor.
“I’ve been out on Calypso,” Emile said after another long stretch of silence. “One time, before I started directing, I did a documentary on Jacques Cousteau. Wow, what a man he is. He was off Madagascar at the time. What an oceanographer. He loved the way our film turned out, still says it was the best anyone has ever done of him. We had some trouble too, I’ll tell you that. Lowering the cameraman into the sea. There were many sharks, all kinds. Now they have good shark cages, the best, but back then—whooo.” I could just picture Emile shaking his elegant head. I sprinkled more nutmeg into the turnips, hurrying so that I could return to the living room and keep the conversation moving.
Sam had not been thrilled to hear that I had invited Emile Balfour for Thanksgiving dinner. In fact, he was furious. I had regretted the invitation almost as soon as I had extended it, but what else could I do? The man who had offered me my first movie role was alone in New York for a major American holiday. I had acted impulsively. Impulses got me into trouble so often, I should have learned. But I never did. I just went on blurting. When Sam arrived at my apartment on Wednesday night, he kissed me and handed me a bouquet of shaggy amber chrysanthemums. Then I told him about inviting Emile: his face drained, then filled with hurt confusion. In the arguments and silences that followed, neither of us had put the flowers in water. Now, wilted as spinach, they lay atop a garbage can in the street. Some bag lady would probably take them home to Penn Station. I hoped they would bring her cheer.
Sam could not understand how I could invite Emile Balfour to our Thanksgiving dinner without at least consulting him. I should have been touched that he called it “our” dinner, as though we were beginning to merge into each other’s family, but I was not. I felt furious with him for questioning my judgment, for being rude to our guest. He felt furious with me for inviting a man the papers said was my lover. I felt furious with him, but I could not show it. I stalked around the apartment, my lips tight, like a drama school exercise: this woman is hurt. Sam shot me dirty looks and made angry exhalations when we were alone. He felt furious, I felt furious. Big standoff.
