She’d been thinking of all the secret kisses they had shared. There had been the first one, stolen, sweet, almost chaste, and then longer embraces, others, hot and hard, her hand snaked around his neck. But the more she’d received, the more she’d wanted.
Yet that evening, Gerald had been uncharacteristically quiet, and so she was just thinking these things, not moving, trying to keep herself decent and still. They’d remained like that for what seemed an eternity.
“Sara,” he said finally, and the grave tone of his voice made her open her eyes fully.
His tone wasn’t just serious; there was also a distinct edge of anxiety. Please, God, she thought, don’t let him be changing his mind, and she felt slightly sick.
“You said…” He stopped. “You said you could see me everywhere, the two of us doing everything together.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m feeling…What I’m trying to say is: I can see it. I see you everywhere. I love you. I didn’t think I would ever be able to love anyone, be able to show anyone how I feel about…But now…There’s only you. Now, there can’t be anyone else.”
And all she’d said—all she’d had to say—was “Yes, I know.” And that had been that.
In the large drawing room at the Dunes, Sara drew back the mustard-gold drapes, exposing dust motes rising from the covered furniture, although the wood paneling and gleaming floorboards still smelled freshly of wax polish. She set the food she’d brought on the worn and loved Oriental rug in the middle of the room.
“Do you think you’ll be able to get a fire going?” she asked. “I’ll hunt us up some plates and things.” She fled before Gerald could answer.
In the pantry, Sara was a mess. She almost dropped one of the plates getting it off the shelf, and the silverware clattered around her as she tried to stuff it all into a gardening basket she’d found in the hallway. When she finally did break something—a glass—she stopped.
She touched her hair, piled tightly, sportily, on top of her head, and took a breath. She knew what might occur; she had, of course, known all along. And she feared it and desired it and thought she might have a heart attack before anything could actually happen.
Earlier that morning, as she lay in her large walnut bed in the city pulling the linen sheets around her body, her hand warm on her skin, she’d imagined feeling languorous, sensual at this moment. Instead, she felt stiff and nervous and altogether unattractive. She realized she had no idea if Gerald had been with a woman before, and she suddenly feared their age difference; how would she, at thirty-one, compare with all those lithe, budding girls? It was too awful to contemplate.
Still, there was no going back now. Besides, they were to be married, so this would happen sooner or later. Mustering her courage, she swept up the broken glass and set it on the counter before picking up the basket and making her way back to the drawing room.
In her absence, Gerald had managed to get the first flames to catch the seasoned logs, and she could smell the comforting perfume of ash and applewood. At the sound of her footfall, he turned and smiled. Sara cleared her throat anxiously and busied herself pouring milk into a couple of glasses, trying to affect an attitude of cool domesticity. Her hand shook so badly that fat white drops fell onto the rug.
He came towards her. Her whole body was shaking and she had a momentary desire to run from the house. Gerald took the glass and bottle from her hands and set them down.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just very nervous.”
He pulled her to him and held her and she could hear her heart beating and wondered if he could hear it too. They stayed like that for a while, until she could feel her muscles unwinding, her breathing slowing, and then he let go of her.
“That’s better,” he said quietly, looking down at the floor.
“Shall we eat?” She had no appetite, but the picnic seemed the only way of postponing the inevitable.
They pulled the rug closer to the stone fireplace and sat cross-legged, both of them picking at the chicken, absently eating the grapes. She had placed the basket between them but, perversely, also wished it weren’t there.
She poured herself a second glass of milk and said: “Oh, this is really lovely milk.”
Gerald looked at the milk and at her and said: “Yes.” Then, carefully, he pushed everything out of the way until they were sitting side by side. He traced his index finger down her neck, along her collarbone, around the curve of her breast, and down to her waist. Sara, her heart in her mouth, lay back and uncrossed her legs until she was stretched out fully on the rug.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he said. “Are you cold?” Now he seemed nervous, doubtful.
She shook her head.
“I imagine you like this all the time. The time when we slept on the beach and then you watched me,” he said. “The time when you came back from Europe and had seen the Ballets Russes and you lay like this, and the sun was going down.”
She looked at the thin light hitting the wooden floorboards. Then she couldn’t stand it anymore and she pulled him to her, feeling his weight, agonizingly, exquisitely heavy on top of her, and found his mouth and pressed her own against it. His hands were light and quick on her hips and her waist. And then they struggled with jackets and skirts, the tiny buttons on the back of her blouse, petticoats, stockings, socks. But the whole time, turning to see the other, hands on each other’s face, mute, impatient.
He was over her, bracing himself on his palms above her, his words too quiet to hear. Then he was whispering into her ear, his breath humid against her skin, and she found herself whispering back, things she wouldn’t be able to remember later. She watched him as he moved above, his throat curved, perfect; he watched her as he touched her, and afterward he told her about what had happened and about herself and how he felt.
“I really do love you,” he said finally.
Sara knew it was true; she knew it now in her bones, in her flesh, knew it inside and out, like a perfect truth. And so, because of this, she turned her face away, her hand over her eyes, and cried.
They were quiet on the train ride home, the station names passing like signposts leading them slowly back to reality: Eastport, Bellport, Patchogue, Babylon, Massapequa, Bellmore, Freeport. Finally, Penn Station.
They knew they had to leave each other, but this seemed impossible after what had passed between them.
“We have to speak to your parents,” Gerald said. “We can’t go on like this.”
“Let’s give them more time,” Sara said, afraid again.
“I’ll write you,” Gerald said. “We’ll figure it out. But we have to do it soon.”
“Yes,” she said. Then, leaning into him slightly: “I never thought…”
“No,” he agreed, a small smile curving on the lips she had so recently kissed.
Sara pressed his hand and then they parted.
The next day a letter arrived from Gerald. A delicate paper grenade.
My darling Sal,
You have left me awed. And I could never take what happened between us casually. As I held you, I felt as if everything that came before, everything I feared about myself and my ability to communicate my feelings, was nothing but terrors in the night.
But now I have to tell you that I can no longer live alone with this feeling, and they all must know our plans for the future. I am coming Wednesday morning to ply my suit with your father.
I know you are afraid; I am not entirely at ease with this prospect myself. But we must be brave. It is the only way. I love you.
G.
Sara put the letter on her nightstand and regarded it. She paced her bedroom, fiddling with the chintz drapes and staring distractedly out the window at the traffic passing on Fifty-Fifth Street. She picked it up and read it again, sighing. Then she went to find her sisters.
Sara slept terribly Tuesday night. For someone whose only problem with sleep before had been waking up in the morning, it was a new and torturous experienc
e.
When she did sleep, she dreamed of Gerald, of that afternoon at the Dunes, the luminous, whispering hours they’d passed together. She rose before dawn and didn’t lie down again. Instead, she took out Gerald’s letters and reread them, partly to reassure herself, in that unreal hour of the day, that what she felt was indeed real.
The last letter, his most recent, had been sent the day before.
My darling,
I got your note and I understand everything you say. But this is the worst of it and it must be gotten through to get to the other part. Because this is the other part: Think of a relationship that not only does not bind, but actually so lets loose the imagination! Think of it, my love—and thank heaven!
G.
Sara was already dressed when her father knocked on her door at nine o’clock.
“Yes,” she said, pretending to be arranging things on her dresser.
Frank Wiborg strode over the threshold and stood there, his large body filling the doorframe. “I have received Gerald Murphy’s card requesting an interview in half an hour.”
“Oh?” Sara inspected a powder pot.
“Do you know what this is about, Sara?” He waved the card at her.
“No, of course not.”
“Well, I hope not. For your sake.”
When she did not respond or even turn to face him, he grumbled, “Gerald Murphy,” but left her alone after that.
She waited until she was sure he had gone into his study and then she opened the door and scooted along to Olga’s room.
“Oh, it’s beginning,” she said, pacing. “Father knows.”
Olga, in midbrush at her dressing table, shook her small, neat, curly head. Everything in Olga’s room was neat, all her little things in perfect order. “Oh, Sara. I feel like it’s happening to me, I’m so nervous.”
“Well, it’s not,” Sara said.
A knock at the door and Hoytie came in. “Father’s making a racket in his study.” She perched on the bed, watching Sara. “For heaven’s sakes, stop fidgeting.”
“Don’t,” Sara said, sitting down.
“Is Gerald here yet?”
“No, but Father knows. The card gave it away, I suppose.”
“Right. When is he expected?”
“Not for another half an hour,” Sara said, getting up and pacing the small bedroom.
“Good,” Hoytie said.
“Oh, there’s nothing good about this. What if he says no?”
“Stop with the dramatics,” Hoytie said. “I’ve been thinking: When Gerald arrives, you go and tell Mother the news. That way it will be a flank attack and she won’t have time to change Father’s mind.”
“Oh, Hoytie,” Olga said. “How can you be so calm? This is Sara’s whole life we’re talking about.”
“I feel sick,” Sara said.
Hoytie rose. “I’ll get some sherry.”
“Oh, yes, good idea,” Olga said. “I think we could all use a little Dutch courage.”
Hoytie returned with the decanter and poured them each a glass. “To success.”
“Yes.” Olga raised her glass.
“Oh God,” Sara said.
They were on their second round when they heard the front door open, murmurings in the hallway, and then the snap of their father’s study door.
“It’s time,” Hoytie said.
“I don’t want to,” Sara said. “Can’t you just do it?”
“Don’t be a little idiot.”
“Come on,” Olga said, “we’ll come with you.”
Hoytie pushed Sara down the hallway to their mother’s bedroom. Quietly she opened the door. She could hear her mother humming, strangely, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” as she splashed around in the adjacent bathroom.
Sara stood in the middle of the room and Hoytie gave her a sharp shove.
“‘He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword. His truth is marching on.’”
Sara could imagine her mother’s rounded body floating and plunging in the bathwater, like some kind of glorious, avenging porpoise.
“‘Glory, glory…’”
“Sara, do it,” Hoytie hissed.
She knocked on the door and heard the splashing and singing go quiet.
“Who is it?”
Sara opened her mouth, but nothing would come out. She looked helplessly at her sisters. Olga smiled weakly.
“Yes? Who’s there?”
She tried again, but again, she had no words. Finally, Hoytie administered a swift, mean kick to her ankle, and Sara, in a cry of pain and slight insanity, yelled “I’m marrying Gerald Murphy” at the bathroom door and then turned and ran, her sisters in tow.
“That was the best fun I’ve had in ages,” Hoytie cried as the three of them streamed back down the hallway to the relative safety of Olga’s bedroom.
“How could you? How could you do this to me?” Adeline Wiborg, dressed in black as if in mourning and lying on her chaise longue, threw Sara an accusatory look.
“Mother,” Sara said. “But you love Gerald.”
“I do not, I do not. Why should I love Gerald Murphy?”
“What did Father say?”
Sara’s father was out, lunching with Patrick Murphy, presumably trying to come up with a plan to control the damage. Gerald himself had stormed out before she’d had a chance to confer with him.
“What do you think he said? He doesn’t want to sell his daughter and break up the family any more than I do.”
“Break up the family?” Sara paced, exasperated. “But we’ve been together so much longer than most families.”
“It doesn’t seem that long to me,” Adeline said, real sadness in her voice.
“And we wouldn’t be far. We’d find a place in the city, of course.”
“Find a place in the city? You’d move out?”
“Oh, dear,” Sara said.
Adeline sat up, brushing aside her tears. “Sara, dearest, be reasonable. He’s a Catholic. What do you know about being a Catholic? About raising Catholic children?”
“I don’t know. It’s never seemed that important.” Sara put her hand to her head and went and stood by the small bay window in her mother’s dressing room.
“Well, this is just it. You haven’t thought any of this through.”
“We love each other and we want to make a life together. That’s all,” Sara said, but she was beginning to feel the weight of her mother’s question pressing on her.
“And what will you live on? A place in the city, indeed. Who’s to pay for this place? Your father?”
“I—”
“No, no. This is all too much. It’s out of the question. It’s untenable, impossible, it’s…I can’t do without you, anyway.”
“Mother—”
“I can’t talk about this anymore; I’m ill. Let me rest.”
Things hadn’t gone much better with her father, who’d accused her of naïveté and indolence and profligacy with money.
“I’ve spoken with Patrick Murphy,” her father began when she’d seated herself in his study. “While we’re both very fond of you and Gerald, this does not seem like a sound plan. Mr. Murphy seemed extremely doubtful in particular on the subject of Gerald being able to provide for you in any meaningful way.”
“Mr. Murphy has never been exactly…”—she searched for the right word—“favorable to Gerald.”
“Well, I think he should know,” her father said hotly. “Gerald is his son, after all.”
That afternoon, Sara received an invitation from one of her cousins, Sara Sherman Mitchell, to take tea at her house.
Sara Sherman had lived with the Wiborgs for a time, after her parents’ death and before marrying her husband, Ledyard. If anyone would know about the difficulties Sara now faced, it was her cousin, who had managed not only to marry a Roman Catholic but to do it with Sara’s parents’ benediction. Also, Sara was sure—and this was what made her heart beat a bit faster in her chest—that the inv
itation was no coincidence; Gerald must be behind it.
When the Mitchells’ maid opened the door, Sara Sherman was already there, and she practically pushed the poor girl aside to get to her cousin and clasp her hand, her eyes bright beneath her frizz of dark hair. (Why did Sara Sherman’s hair always look like she’d been beekeeping in the hot sun?)
“Come, come. Tea’s all laid out,” she said, dragging Sara behind her.
Once in the upstairs parlor, Sara looked around to see if Gerald was lurking somewhere, but the room was empty.
“So,” Sara Sherman said, patting the cushion next to her. “Gerald Murphy. I’m so glad for you, Sara. Really.”
“Well, don’t be too glad,” Sara said. “It’s not on, as it turns out. At least not according to the parental council. There are so many…complications. I don’t know,” Sara said, “I’m beginning to get slightly afraid.”
“What are you afraid of? Let’s think this through logically.”
“Well, first, there’s the Catholic question. As Mother pointed out today, what do I really know about it? About raising Catholic children?”
“Yes,” Sara Sherman mused. “Well, it is hard—terribly hard at first—to get used to all that. But it works itself out, eventually. Ledyard was quite fierce about it in the beginning, but we’ve found a rhythm, if you will. You just sort of get along with it.”
“I don’t know…” This did not seem very clear to her.
“What else?”
“I’m rather ashamed to admit this, but there’s the age difference.”
“Are you afraid that he won’t find you…” Sara Sherman seemed to be searching for the delicate phrase. “Feminine enough?”
Sara colored, thinking of herself lying back for Gerald, offering herself to him too quickly, so easily, like a bitch in heat. “No,” she said sternly. “Only, what will it be like in ten years, in twenty? And what will people say? ‘Poor Gerald Murphy, caught by the old spinster Sara Wiborg’?”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous. I can’t see that age makes any difference at all. And if it’s just other people you’re worried about, let Gerald worry about it for you.”
Villa America Page 9
