Wanderlust (1986)

by Steel, Danielle

  Is it crazy to want you? I could have married you, you know. And he thought now that he probably should have, no matter how difficult she was, with her damn political ideas and all the books she read, and her fancy education. He would have given her something else to think about, and at least she had more spirit than his wife. He was already tired of Annabelle's helplessness and constant childlike whining. What Harcourt wanted was a woman. A real one. Like Audrey.

  You seem to be a little confused. Audrey was eyeing him sharply now. You're married to my sister, and you could never have married me.

  Why not? You think you're too good for me, Miss High and Mighty? Too smart? He looked angry at the thought. The truth was that she was smarter than most of the people she knew, women or men, but he didn't like that idea. You're a hot little number waiting for the right man, and you made a big mistake bowing out on me, Audrey Driscoll.

  Maybe so. She repressed a smile. He was ridiculous really, and undoubtedly harmless. She felt sorry for Annie, having to deal with him, and she suddenly wondered if he had been assaulting all their female friends of late. She hoped not, because if so, the word would get around. But in any case, Harcourt, you're married to Annabelle now, and you have a beautiful son. I suggest you behave like the head of a family, and not a damn fool or a masher.

  His eyes blazed as he stood across the crib from her, and grabbed her arm. You're the damn fool ' . His voice was very measured when he spoke again. Do you know that we're alone in the house, Audrey? All of the servants are out.

  For an instant she felt a shiver of fear run up her spine. But she wouldn't allow herself to be afraid of him. He was a damn fool and a spoiled boy and he was not going to hurt her or do anything he'd regret. She wouldn't let him. And she said as much in a blast that made him relinquish his grip on her arm, as she straightened the jacket of her dark blue suit, and picked her handbag and gloves off the changing table where she had left them.

  Don't ever do this again, Harcourt. To anyone. But definitely not to me. She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. Because if you do, I'll have your wife and your son back in my house so fast your head will spin. You don't deserve to have them here if you're behaving like this. Pull yourself together fast. She looked ominous as she stood in the doorway, still furious at him for the stupid thing he'd done.

  His eyes were empty as he looked at Audrey and she could see now that he was slightly drunk, although not very. Not drunk enough to excuse his boorish behavior. She doesn't know how to love anyone. And the truth was that he wasn't sure he knew how either, but he had instinctively sensed that this woman did, that there was more buried in his wife's older sister than anyone would ever know, and it was all wasted, locked up, and probably always would be. She's spoiled and selfish and helpless and you know it. It's your damn fault for treating her like a baby all her life.

  Audrey shook her head, loyal to the end. Maybe if you were kinder to her, she'd grow up now.

  He shrugged, leaning against the dresser then, staring at his sister-in-law, wondering if she'd tell his wife what he'd done, and he wasn't even sure he cared. Somebody would tell her eventually, and there had been others. He'd been playing that game for a while. He'd been tired of Annie for months. All she ever did was talk about the baby. And she even moved into her own bedroom to protect the baby ' maybe now things would be different ' but he had learned to like the variety in the past few months. Also the intrigue of having little affairs with their friends, or his friends' wives, made life more interesting. He looked at Audrey and something oddly perceptive spoke up in him, something he knew Audrey wouldn't want to hear. You know why she's childish, Aud? Because you made her that way. You did everything for her. Everything. And you still do. She can't even blow her nose by herself. All she does is expect someone else to do everything for her. She wants to be taken care of all the time, because you took care of her all her life and now she expects me to pick up where you left off, and no one can live up to what you've done for her. You're not even human. You're some kind of a machine that runs houses, and orders drapes and hires servants. The words were unkind, but some of them were true. She had babied Annabelle ever since their parents died, and maybe she had done too much for her. She had worried about it herself more than once. But what else was she to do? Let her fend for herself? She couldn't have ' the poor helpless little thing.

  ' Audrey's eyes filled with tears at the thought, and the memory of how Annabelle had sobbed when their parents died when she was seven still pained her ' it had been so awful, for both of them ' .

  She was very young when our mother died. Audrey straightened her back and fought back the tears, as though she could justify her actions to him now, as if she had to, but what if he was right? What if she had crippled Annie for life? And he had called Audrey a machine ' a machine to order drapes and hire servants ' was it true? ' was there no more humanity to her than that? ' was that how people saw her? In her anguish she instantly forgot how differently he had seen her only moments before. How human and desirable. The word machine had hurt her to the core.

  Your mother has been dead for more than fourteen years, and you're still doing it all for her. Look at you he waved at the neat stacks of blankets and booties and sweaters you're still doing it, Aud. She doesn't do anything for me or herself, or even her baby. You do it all. I might as well have married you. He leered at her again, and she walked swiftly down the hall before he could approach her. She wasn't going to wrestle with him again, nor would she answer him as she ran down the stairs to the front door, and he called after her, but he was standing on the landing looking down at her as she yanked the front door open. One day you'll come to your senses, Audrey. One day you'll get tired of mothering her, and taking care of your grandfather and running everyone's house but your own, and when that happens, give me a call. I'll be waiting. His words were answered by the door slamming behind her, and she ran all the way to her car, a sob caught in her throat, which exploded as she started the car and drove toward El Camino Real.

  But what if he was right? ' what if that was all her life consisted of? ' taking care of Grandfather and Annabelle forever ' she was twenty-six years old and she had no real life of her own. But she didn't really mind it. She was always so busy ' and then she felt gnawing despair as she remembered his words again ' she was busy ordering drapes and hiring servants ' and folding baby blankets for someone else ' she had no real life of her own. She didn't even have time to take photographs these days. She hadn't touched her camera in months, and all the dreams she had once had of adventure and travel had waited ' but for what? What was she waiting for? For Grandfather to die? What if he lived for another fifteen years, or even twenty ' he could have lived to be one hundred and one. His own grandfather had lived to one hundred and two, and his parents had died well into their nineties ' and then what? ' how old would she be? She would be in her forties then with half a lifetime wasted ' little Winston would be grown ' . For the first time in her life, she suddenly felt as though life had passed her by, and she had a feeling of mounting panic all the way home, which almost exploded in her as she walked into the front hall and found her grandfather in a rage, waving his cane at two maids and the butler. The chauffeur had smashed up his car that afternoon, when he'd hit the cable car as he came around the corner, and her grandfather had fired him on the spot, ordered him out of the car, and driven the Rolls home himself. It was parked somewhat erratically outside, and he looked flushed and irate as he waved his cane now at Audrey.

  And what's the matter with you? Can't you even hire me a decent chauffeur! He had had the same man for seven years, and had been extremely pleased with him until then, but suddenly Audrey was looking at them all with wild eyes, and exploding in incoherent sobs as she mounted the stairs to her room two at a time, thinking that Harcourt had been right. That was all she was good for ' worse still, it was all anyone cared about, the only light in which people saw her ' hiring and firing servants and running their homes ' her dreams had been
all but forsaken. She lay on her bed and sobbed, and it was in total amazement that her grandfather knocked on her door a little while later. He had never seen her like that and he was terrified. Something had to have happened to her, and it had, but it was nothing she could explain to him. She had no intention of betraying Harcourt to him. And he wasn't really what mattered in all this. What mattered was how she felt, and the realization she had come to, all at once. And she knew just as surely that she had to do something about it now. Before it was too late.

  Audrey? ' Audrey ' my dear ' Her grandfather moved cautiously into the room, and she sat up, her face red and streaked with tears, like a child, the navy suit all askew. She was still wearing her navy and white spectator pumps as she lay on the bed. My dear, what's wrong? ' She only shook her head, crying still and trying to regain her composure. How was she going to tell him? How was she going to leave? But she knew she had to now. She couldn't wait any longer. It was time to get away from the maids and the butler and the soft-boiled eggs at breakfast, the rituals, and Annabelle, and even her new baby. She had to get away from all of them, before it was too late for her.

  Grandfather ' Her eyes sought his, and from some hidden pocket within her she felt a small surge of courage. He sat carefully on the edge of her bed, sensing that what he was about to hear was something portentous. Perhaps she was getting married, although he didn't see how. She was always at home with him, except on the rare occasions when she dined with one of her friends from Miss Hamlin's, or went down to Burlingame to dine with Harcourt and Annabelle. Grandfather ' She almost choked on the words, but she had to say them. She plunged ahead fearing the pain she would cause him. But he had survived other things ' the loss of his son ' his wife before that ' . Grandfather, I'm leaving.

  He seemed not to understand at first as their eyes held. And then he spoke in measured tones. He had understood her. He had had this same exchange once before, a long, long time before, in the same room ' with Roland ' . To go where?

  I don't know yet ' I have to think it out. But I know I have to go ' to Europe ' just for a few months ' . Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and for an instant he closed his eyes. For an instant, just that, he thought that her words would kill him. But he couldn't let them do that ' couldn't ' he had lived too long, and they all did that to you in the end ' they hurt you until you could bear it no more. It didn't pay to love anyone as much as he loved her. It didn't ' but he couldn't help it, and then with almost a groan of pain he held out a hand to her and she came into his arms and he held her tight, wishing he could keep her there forever. But she wanted just as desperately to leave him. I'm so sorry, Grandfather ' I know how you must feel. But I promise I'll come back ' I swear .' It won't be like Father. She knew what he was thinking, and as two lone tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, he only nodded.

  Chapter 4

  The train to Chicago left from Oakland and Annabelle and Harcourt and her grandfather had insisted on coming to the station with her. She had decided not to fly and to savor each moment of the trip east by taking the train. Annabelle chatted all the way across the bay on the ferry, and Harcourt kept looking meaningfully into Audrey's eyes over her head, as though he were about to sweep her into his arms and give her a long passionate kiss good-bye in front of his wife. Audrey would have laughed at the look in his eyes, except for her concern for her grandfather, who had been strangely quiet for days and spoke not at all on this final morning. He had said not a single word over his tea, had not touched his egg, despite the excellent new cook Audrey had hired for him, and he never even opened his newspaper. It was obvious that he had a heavy heart and Audrey had been deeply worried about him as she closed the last of her bags, and stood glancing around her room for a last time. She was terrified that her going might precipitate a heart attack or a stroke, or that, worse, he might just give up on life once she was gone. But for once in their lives, they all had to stand on their own two feet without her. Just for a few months ' just long enough for her to see a little piece of the world and get some of this wandering out of her system. She had promised him a thousand times that she would be home in no time at all. But he never seemed to believe her. I'll be home by September, most likely, or October at the very latest, Grampa ' I swear. He had looked bleakly at her and shaken his head, insisting that he had heard those words before, too long ago, and Roland had never come home from his wanderings at all ' never ' .

  This is different, Grampa ' .

  Is it? Why? What will make you come back, Audrey? A sense of obligation to me? A sense of duty? Will that bring you back? He spoke almost bitterly, and yet when, finally, she offered not to go, he wouldn't let her cancel the trip after all. He knew how much it meant to her, and he knew also that, for her sake, he had to let her go, no matter how painful it was for him. And indeed it was. He felt suddenly ancient, and as though something he had silently kept at bay for years had finally beaten him. He had always feared that one day she would leave him ' that one day she would follow in her father's footsteps. She was so like him, and she had always loved those damnable albums. She was leaving them in her room, abandoned now, while she went to relive her father's adventures, with her own camera on her shoulder, a Leica that she treasured.

  She clung to her grandfather at the station, suddenly feeling how frail he was, and holding him close to her, regretting her wild flight and suddenly hating Harcourt for making her question her whole life. What right had he to do that? ' except that he had been right to push her. She had to do what she needed to do now. She had to ' she had to ' for her own sake. She had to do something for herself now ' not Grandfather or Annie. She kept reminding herself of that as she held tightly to her grandfather's hands and then she could not restrain the tears as she clung to him. The others were a few feet away and she looked into his eyes as the tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt like a child, leaving home for the first time, and she suddenly remembered the pain of leaving Hawaii for the last time after her parents died.

  I love you, Grampa ' I'll be home soon. I promise. He took her face gently in his hands and silently kissed the tear-stained cheeks. All his gruffness was gone now. And the raw surface of his love for her was exposed to the pain of her departure.

  Take care of yourself, child. Come home when you're ready. We'll all be waiting. He spoke quietly and it was his way of saying he would be all right without her. He wasn't quite convinced of it himself, but he felt that he owed her her freedom. She had given him so much in the last fifteen years, and it was her turn now, although he wasn't enamored of the idea of her traveling alone, but she kept insisting that this was 1933, and modern times, and there was no reason for her not to travel alone. And she was only going to Europe. There were friends of her father's she intended to look up in Paris and London, Milan and Geneva, if she got there. There were people everywhere she could turn to, but she had eyes now only for her grandfather as she watched him slowly step down from the train, his cane in his hand, his hat on his head, his frame tall and spare and his eyes piercing hers as he stood proudly on the platform. And then, finally, as the train began to pull away, he smiled at her. It was his farewell gift to her, the gift of letting her go off on her adventures. Harcourt had held her too tightly when he kissed her good-bye, and Annabelle hadn't stopped talking, terrified of what she would do if little Winston's nurse quit, or the upstairs maid left ' . Harcourt had been right ' she had done too much for them all. And it was Audrey's turn now. She waved as long as she could, and then the train went around a bend, and they were gone, like mirages.

  It took two days and two nights to reach Chicago and Audrey spent the entire time reading the novels she had brought with her. She had her own compartment with a drawing room and a sofa berth, and on the first day, she finished Death in the Afternoon by Ernest Hemingway, and felt filled with his spirit of adventure as she read of the bullfights he was so intrigued by. Immediately after that, she read Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. Each seemed appropriate to her mood of disc
overy and adventure. She spoke barely a word to a soul all the way across the country. She would only get out of the train from time to time to stretch her legs, or eat an indigestible meal in one of the stations, reading a book as she ate, and afterward she would munch the candy bars she had bought there. She had a passion for 3 Musketeers bars, and bought them at some of the stations where they stopped, to eat while she stayed up late at night and read on the train. She was having a wonderful self-indulgent time, and for the first time in years, she had no one to think about except herself. She didn't have to worry about planning meals or approving menus, or scolding maids, or dressing for dinner on time. She wore a gray flannel skirt for the entire trip, and she had brought along several blouses. She had started out with a pink crepe de chine tied demurely at the neck, and the pearl necklace her grandfather had given her for her twenty-first birthday. On the second day she wore gray silk, and on the last night white crepe de chine. She wore a fox jacket in the evening chill when they stopped at Denver, but after that it grew warmer and warmer as they crossed the country. It was mid-June, and by the time they reached Chicago, Audrey donned a white linen suit and the new white shoes she had bought for the trip with a navy heel and a navy strap across the instep. They were the latest fashion, and she felt very chic as she stepped off the train with a big hat tilted to one side, her coppery hair cascading around her face as she hailed a porter. She took all of her things to the La Salle Hotel, where she spent the night before boarding the train again the next morning, for the brief trip to New York. And suddenly the excitement of what she had done overwhelmed her. She almost wanted to stand in the street and laugh she was so pleased with herself, and even the pain of leaving her family seemed to dim now.

  It was only when she spoke to her grandfather that the pain revived again. And even then, only briefly. He sounded gruff when she called, but the gruffness barely concealed the loneliness that was so evident in his voice.