by Nancy Thayer
The Hamiltons didn’t return to Westhampton until the middle of January, the day before Jack had to start teaching. Jack planned to call Daphne from his office at the college to see if she was all right, but as soon as he arrived at home, before he’d had time to unpack his suitcase, Shelby Currier phoned them with the news: Hudson Jennings had left his wife and was now living with Daphne in her cottage, and rumor had it that they were looking at houses together and planning to get married as soon as Hudson’s divorce came through.
“Jesus,” Jack said, whistling through his teeth.
“It’s a real shocker, isn’t it?” Carey Ann said. “Who’d ever think those two old dried-up sticks could be capable of passion? I guess it shows that you just never know.”
“Jesus,” Jack said again. He couldn’t seem to assimilate the information. It was stuck—he could feel it—a prickly mass at the top of his brain. When Carey Ann hung up, he went to the front window and stared out, as if he could see all the way down the road and into Daphne’s house and mind.
Spring
13
At the end of February, Daphne and Hudson moved into their new home. They weren’t married yet, and wouldn’t be for a few more months, when Hudson’s divorce was final, but Daphne’s cottage was too cramped for them both, and Hudson needed to be down in Westhampton, close to the college. The odd old Victorian they bought was empty, so they moved into it, and Hudson went about his administrative and teaching duties, and Daphne set up the house for their new life together. She unpacked her grandmother’s crystal into Hudson’s grandmother’s china cupboard. She filled the refrigerator with fresh fruit and vegetables so she could keep Hudson alive forever. Everywhere she went, Dickens went with her, keeping so close he often tripped her. He was confused by so many moves in such a short time … but not too confused, for when Hudson came home from the university, Dickens shadowed him too, and at night, when Daphne and Hudson sat talking, Dickens curled up on Hudson’s feet, as if to keep him where he belonged. So Dickens, in his doggy way, understood.
Daphne had decided that in the fall, once she and Hudson were settled into their routine, she would start work once again toward her Ph.D. One of the new pleasures in her life was talking over with Hudson just which period of English literature she should specialize in.
But there were many new pleasures in her life. Having Hudson, warm and solid, sleeping next to her, was heaven. She had insisted on a queen-size bed. Daphne wanted to share all the intimacies of sleep with Hudson. He had told Daphne that he and Claire had always had twin beds because of Claire’s bad back, and Daphne feared that Hudson, used to years of that, would out of habit cling to his side of the bed and his privacy. He did go to sleep that way, settling on his half of the bed, flat as a saint, on his back, hands crossed over his chest, always in pajamas, never nude, but every morning Daphne awoke to find him curled around her somehow, a leg over hers, or an arm around her waist, or his entire body molding hers in one long embrace. So the bed worked its charm.
Daphne had been afraid that any man after twenty-five years in Claire’s chaste and repressive presence would have become impotent, but Hudson hadn’t. He was not wildly imaginative and innovative, but that wasn’t what Daphne wanted. Well, she hadn’t even thought what she wanted with Hudson—just as she had never dreamed of how she might grow a garden on the moon: it had always been beyond the possible. But if she had thought, then this would have been what she wished for: the way he slowly explored her body, running his hands over her arms and legs and hips and breasts as if he’d never seen such things before, then surrendering himself to Daphne’s touch and kisses, giving himself over to her love, giving himself up to feelings he had forgotten he had. They couldn’t be in bed with each other enough. At night, by candlelight or in the dark, they talked and touched and took their time, making up for lost years.
The days were different. Hudson had lived for all his adult life in the center of a sphere of serenity that moved with him as he moved; it was as if he were a planet ringed by stillness. He was not spontaneously affectionate, and although he loved Daphne and the access he now had to her body, he was more often than not jarred rather than pleased by her impetuous embraces. When he sat down for his breakfast and coffee and morning papers, he was unprepared for Daphne swooping down upon him in a flowing negligee, hugging him so hard his coffee slopped into the saucer.
“Ouch,” he would respond. “You mashed my earlobe.”
“Hudson, you wimp,” Daphne would reply. She was determined not to be put off by his stiffness. She was a toucher, and with Cynthia gone, she needed someone to touch, so now, with Hudson in her life, and happiness all around her, she felt like touching and kissing and hugging him all the time. And it was not that Hudson didn’t like the affection. He was just always so startled by it. Daphne finally agreed to stop kissing him on the ear or rubbing his thigh when he was driving; Hudson was afraid he’d have an accident. In turn, Hudson promised to try to relax and stop wincing when Daphne crushed him in one of her hugs.
It was perplexing for Hudson, all this change; Daphne could see that. It was as if his love for her were a geyser that had finally burst free but still had to force itself through layers of restraining rock. Old habits were not easily broken. Hudson was not used to excess, and what he felt for Daphne was excessive, and what he often showed her, at night, was, at least for Hudson, extravagant—and then he had to go back to the college in the daytime, back to his former, tame self.
It was important that he remain as he had been, reasonable, available, tactful, clever, attentive. He still had a department to run, and students, and colleagues. And now all this was complicated for the first time by unpopularity. More than a few of the older professors and their wives looked upon Hudson’s desertion of Claire as scandalous, cruel, dastardly, and they made this clear to Hudson in various ways. Some took it upon themselves to speak to Hudson. Others were less obvious and merely snubbed Daphne and Hudson, not inviting them to parties, only nodding to them at social functions. This did not particularly hurt Daphne, for these people had never included or recognized her in the first place, but she was hurt for Hudson. At least the Whites remained loyal friends and even champions of Daphne-and-Hudson.
Claire behaved as only Claire would, with stoic dignity. As soon as she could, she planned to move to England to live with relatives.
Hudson told Daphne that before he had come to Daphne that winter’s night to tell her he loved her, he first told Claire what he was planning to do. He told Claire that he loved Daphne, and wanted to divorce Claire in order to marry her.
Claire had said, “Hudson, I know that in many ways I haven’t been a good wife to you. One can’t help certain deficiencies of body or instinct or disposition, and if you have suffered from lack, I also have suffered from guilt.”
“She really said that?” Daphne asked. “In just those words?”
“In just those words,” Hudson replied.
“What a marvel she is,” Daphne said.
And Claire was a marvel, behaving in a much more civilized way toward Hudson than Daphne had toward Joe. Claire met Hudson for lunch to discuss the division of their property and the legal procedures for their divorce. She did not call him names or curse him. She did not seem to hate him. If Daphne answered the phone when she called, she always said politely, “Hello, Daphne. May I speak to Hudson?”
Still, Daphne felt awkward because of the commotion she and Hudson had caused. She had never wanted to be the center of a scandal. She had always wanted to be liked. She kept away from college functions as much as possible, but at the end of February the president held a formal cocktail party in Peabody Hall in honor of a visiting humanities lecturer. At the last moment, Hudson called Daphne to tell her to go without him; he was tied up in a budget meeting and couldn’t get away.
“Well, I just won’t go either. I don’t need to go, darling,” Daphne said sweetly, feeling cowardly.
“Please go, Daphne. You have to repr
esent me. You must give my regards to Mr. Scalas,” Hudson replied, and Daphne acquiesced.
So she entered Peabody Hall that cold winter evening, feeling nervous and insecure. A slightly hysterical phrase was running through her head: Hello, Mr. Scalas, I am Daphne Miller, an almost-Ph.D. student in English, an ex-wife of an English professor, an ex-secretary of the history department here, and an almost-wife of an English professor. An almost-and-ex, an ex-and-almost, she thought, slipping into the ladies’ room to scrutinize her hair. How had she ever before managed to enter social occasions on her own? She looked fine, appropriate, in a plain gray dress with white cuffs and pearls. An almost-and-ex, and ex-and-almost; she’d find the Whites and she’d be all right. Her mind was going.
The faculty lounge was crowded. Grabbing up a glass of white wine, Daphne took a moment to look around. She didn’t see the Whites. But there was Madeline Spencer, thank heaven, and the Van Lieus were across the room in a corner. She would head their way.
“Daphne,” an arctic voice said.
Daphne turned toward the voice. “Aah,” she said, stifling a scream. She was as startled as if a creature had risen dripping from the dead before her, and hadn’t she in a way already consigned Claire to those departed from us? She hadn’t thought she would see Claire here—or, rather, she hadn’t thought of Claire at all.
“You seem surprised to see me.”
Claire was wearing a mustard-colored wool suit that had to be thirty years old; it had that kind of iron-strong stern cut to it. She had lost weight, and her color was not good, not that any human being alive could have good color in that suit.
“Hello, Claire,” Daphne said, trying to be civil, thinking: Oh, God. “How are you?”
“Since you ask, Daphne, I am not well. I am heartbroken. I am lonely, and frightened, and humiliated.”
Daphne stared at Claire. She could not believe Claire was saying this. She would never have thought Claire capable of such a thing. “But, Claire,” she began, “Hudson said—”
“That I took the news well? That I faced the firing squad with dignity? Of course I did. Did you expect I would grovel, or plead, or debase myself, and beg him to stay?”
Daphne stared at Claire in horror. Claire did look awful, the whites of her brilliant eyes yellowish now, her skin puffy and wrinkled, her shoulders slumping.
“I’m so sorry,” Daphne said, almost whispering.
“Are you really?” Claire sneered. “I don’t think so. I think you are in fact quite happy. After all these years of chasing him, you finally got him.”
“That’s not fair!” Daphne snapped. “I never chased him!”
“Of course you did, in your own way. I’m not a fool. Neither are you. You weren’t brazen about it, but you chased him all the same. I know it, everyone knows it. Now you’ve caught him. Don’t pretend you’re sorry.”
“Well, I’m not sorry about that,” Daphne said. “I mean, about Hudson. I mean, I didn’t chase him, but I do love him. But I am sorry you are so unhappy, Claire, and I never meant—”
“Did you think that because I am old now it would be easy for me? Or that because I am proud and particular I have no feelings? Do you really believe that my relatives and dogs will console me for the loss of a husband of twenty-five years? Yes, I shall survive, but I’ll never be happy again in my life.”
“Oh, you will,” Daphne said. “Oh, I’m sure you will.”
“You have no right to contradict me!” Claire said. “Don’t demean my feelings, you do not have the right. I am telling you that losing Hudson is horrible for me, and I shall never recover from it, and I shall never be happy again. I want you to know that, Daphne Miller. I want you to remember that you have bought your happiness with my grief.”
“I’m so sorry,” Daphne said again, pleading.
“Your apology is not accepted,” Claire replied. “I shall never, ever forgive you.”
Then Claire walked away. She moved slowly, as if in pain, and Daphne realized then that several people had been watching her and Claire. Now one of the older professors came forward and took Claire by the arm and assisted her across to a chair. Claire took the drink the professor handed her. She looked terribly aged, aeons older than Hudson.
Daphne was certain of only one thing at this moment: she could not stay at the party. She was shaking, and the least she owed Claire was the rest of the night in this room without her. She hurried out of the main room, found her coat, and went into the night.
When Hudson came home after his long meeting, Daphne told him about the encounter. Hudson was baffled.
“I’m sure she’ll be all right, Daphne,” he said. “I can’t imagine her saying such things to you. She’s never been given to dramatics before.”
“Hasn’t she ever cried about all this?” Daphne asked. “Or called you names or cursed you? Hudson, I don’t want details, I just want to know whether she’s shown any anger.”
“Not really,” Hudson said. “Perhaps Claire’s more angry with you than with me.”
“But that’s not fair!” Daphne cried.
“Perhaps she sees you as a seductress,” Hudson said. He smiled. “While I am only a poor simple man, helpless in my masculine lusts.”
Daphne was glad when, in March, Claire went away to England. But very soon after the move, Claire began to write to Hudson; at least once a week Daphne would find one of Claire’s pale blue airmail envelopes in their mail. It drove Daphne crazy each time Hudson glanced at the envelope, then casually stuck it in his briefcase to read in his study with his university papers. When she questioned him, he said only, “More legal affairs, Daphne, nothing important.” One day, seeing her expression, Hudson said, “Would you like to read the letter, Daphne?”
“Oh, no, no, of course not!” Daphne replied, horrified that he would realize how nosy and insecure she was. After that she tried to pretend she didn’t notice the letters.
But one day she could stand it no longer and sneaked into Hudson’s study while she knew he was teaching. There in his beautiful old wooden filing cabinet, in a manila folder, was a file labeled “Claire,” and in the folder were the letters. And Hudson had not been lying. The letters were about legal matters for the most part, but Claire also wrote about her new life, chattily and wittily. Daphne’s heart was pounding so heavily that she feared she’d have a heart attack and be found dead on Hudson’s floor, Claire’s letters in her hand, so she put them back and left his study. But whenever a new letter came, she found herself as obsessed as a maniac, until she had once more sneaked in and read it. There was no passion in the letters, no sign of love or sexuality, nor of grief or pain or temptation. Nor was there any sign that Claire was receiving letters from Hudson. What was Daphne to do? Confront Hudson? Ask him if he were writing to Claire? Ask him not to write to Claire? If what Hudson had said was true, that Claire was angry with Daphne and not with Hudson, then how clever Claire was being, how sneakily vengeful, writing these plain newsy letters to Hudson, sending them to Hudson and Daphne’s home, where she knew Daphne would note their presence, rather than to the college, where Daphne would never know. The letters were only an irritation in Daphne’s life, but how clever of Claire to be so irritating. In a way, Daphne was grateful—Claire’s letters kept Daphne’s life from being perfect. Daphne knew that nothing perfect could last on earth, and her life was becoming dangerously close to that.
In March, Cynthia said during one of her casual phone calls that she would like to come back to live with Daphne and Hudson instead of remaining with Joe and Laura. She missed her friends, her school, even the East Coast.
“But, darling,” Daphne said, “what about living in England? What about RADA?”
“Mom, I really don’t think I’d make it into RADA. That was just a dream. Even I can tell I’m too inexperienced.”
“Still, you never know until you try—”
“Mom, I didn’t even get cast as the lead in the high-school play.”
“Heavens, Cyn, you
can’t give up because of—”
“I’m not giving up, Mom! I’m just becoming, oh, more sensible, I guess. More realistic about my abilities.”
