Daybreak

by Belva Plain

  He was looking at her, eyes meeting eyes, and she saw in his that he found her beautiful.

  “You—” he began when the doorbell rang.

  “Oh darn, here they are,” she cried.

  Francis went to open the door on the cold air and the noisy little troupe. Jeanie was with Rick, Cissy was with Fred, and Hank had a corsage—a white one, thank goodness—for Laura.

  “We’re late,” Hank said in a rush. “I had to wait for the station wagon, so we all decided to meet here and save time.”

  Self-conscious in their clothes, they stood waiting while she made a quick introduction to Francis and hurried herself into her coat. Suddenly they looked like such kids, such awkward kids. They had never seemed like that before. And Laura’s feeling of elegance evaporated; she partook of their awkwardness.

  Francis loomed over them, although the boys were almost as tall as he.

  “Have a great time, you kids,” he said. “And Laura, tell your aunts I’m sorry I didn’t get to see them, but this is a short visit. I’m going with my parents to visit relatives in the country tomorrow, and the next day I leave. So give them my best, will you?”

  They piled into the car, and Laura watched him walk away across the lawn.

  “That’s a good-looking guy. Who is he?” Jeanie asked.

  They were all so noisy that they didn’t even give Laura a chance to answer.

  “Good-looking! For Christ’s sake, Jeanie, the guy’s old. An old guy,” mocked Fred, who had pudgy cheeks and a queer, flattened nose.

  “Well, he doesn’t look old,” Jeanie said. “Who is he?” she repeated.

  Laura was hot and cold. “A family friend. A neighbor,” she said dully.

  Have a good time, you kids. Kids. Yet the way he had looked at her … And he had been about to say something. Now she would never know what it was. Probably she would never know. He might not even be back here for another two years. And so much could happen while he was away.

  She dreamed about him. At parties boys kissed her, but her dreams were of being kissed by Francis, and they were sorrowful dreams, filled with longing.

  Time, time, thought Laura. Her eyes followed the plaster flowers on the wall. The grandmother had ordered the thistle and the rose, but the grandfather, being of Irish descent, had in rebellion squeezed a few shamrocks into the corners. “Old passions, old pains,” she murmured, thinking: Francis is over fifty now. I wonder what he looks like.

  People said he was a famous doctor in New York, a researcher, a teacher. The neighbors said, “We got a Christmas card from Francis Alcott. Of course, we were such friends of the old doctor’s. Do you get a card, too?”

  No, she never did. Not a card or anything else.

  At the other end of the state was the university at which Laura was to major in music. The aunts were probably relieved that she was not a fitting candidate for a conservatory, for any one of these would have taken her too far away. They made mild lament over even this much distance from home.

  “You promise, Laura, to call home twice a week? It’s easier for you to reach us than for us to reach you in that enormous place. Call collect at dinnertime, hear?”

  Their possessiveness could have been a burden, and to many girls away for the first time to savor independence, it would have been. But Laura had treasured love since the age of three, and she made allowances.

  As always, the aunts were eager for news and eager to spread it.

  “Carol Baker had a huge wedding. Ten bridesmaids, imagine! A good thing she didn’t count on Francis Alcott, isn’t it, or she’d still be waiting. It doesn’t look as if he’ll ever marry and stay in one place.”

  For a pair of single women past middle age, they were fascinated by marriage, Laura thought with affectionate amusement.

  “The Alcotts just came back from California. They say Francis is doing well. But he was always outstanding, so it’s only to be expected. He may be traveling to India with some medical group in a year or two, did we tell you? And he wants your address, Laura. I think he has a present for you. Books, Dr. Alcott said.”

  And books did arrive, the lives of Mozart and Beethoven, with a note enclosed.

  Foraging in a bookstore as usual, I saw these and thought you might like them. So you see how you people at home are always in my mind. But I have to admit it’s wonderful here. I’ve made great friends, the work’s going well, and of course the climate is perfect. Dear Laura, I hope you’re just as pleased with where you are.

  His handwriting looked like him, the letters orderly and even until a capital appeared, tall and swooping like the punctuation of his sudden laughter. And as always, she remembered his hands, the narrow, pale tan hands with the Greek lettering on the seal ring. Now in the California sun, she supposed his hands must be brown.

  “I’ll be coming home in July for a couple of weeks,” he wrote. “I’ll want to hear all about your freshman year.”

  That was the summer the aunts arranged a trip to Alaska. Laura’s protests were useless.

  Aunt Lillian exclaimed, “Summer courses! What on earth for? With your grade average, you deserve a vacation, Laura. It’s all planned anyway, from Anchorage to Nome. Bears, eagles, ice fields—we’ll take our time and see it all.”

  So they went, and indeed it was as marvelous as promised. But when they got home, Francis had been there and gone.

  And the same thing happened the next year, when they went to Montreal, down the St. Lawrence River and into Nova Scotia.

  “It’s too bad we missed Francis,” said Aunt Cecile when they arrived home. “He went back just three days ago.”

  If she had not known Cecile so well, known that she was utterly incapable of dissembling, Laura might have thought that the dates had been planned to turn out that way.

  Occasional letters came to her from Francis. Since she saved them all, she was able to compare and so to discover how often he wrote about “thinking of” or “missing all you people at home.” Who were “all you people”? Did he possibly mean: “I miss you”? But if he did, he should have said so.

  And one afternoon on a solitary walk, Laura had a sudden astonishing sense of herself as she might appear to an analytical observer: a foolish adolescent obsessed with an imagined romance. Seen so, she was a figure of embarrassment. This picture was so startling that it brought her to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. My God, she must bring her mind under control! Must make a strict, enormous effort! She was letting Francis Alcott rule her life.…

  At Christmastime, Dr. and Mrs. Alcott joined their son on a trip to the Yucatán. From there came a letter from Francis with a snapshot of the three standing before the pyramid at Chichén Itzá. The letter was cordial and as vivid as a travel brochure. No, there is nothing here for you, Laura said to herself; you are beginning to see that, aren’t you? This will fade, you are an adult woman now, at eighteen. You are getting over this.

  And still there was not a day, even if only for a moment, when she did not think of Francis.

  In her junior year she met a man who stood apart from the crowd of her peers, the Freds and Joes who had gone through high school with her, the fraternity men, the jocks, the scholars, the whole assortment with whom she went to football games or chamber music concerts with equal enjoyment. She was adaptable, and she liked being adaptable. One had a wide choice that way, and it was challenging.

  Homer Rice was in the graduate school working toward an MBA when they met. She had seen him a few times walking across the campus, and once, for no particular reason, someone had pointed him out in passing.

  “There goes Bud Rice. He was a great quarterback a few years ago. He looks it, doesn’t he?”

  Powerful, was the word. He was large, tall and broad without a trace of fat. He might have been a symbol of good health in an advertisement for nutritious food; his skin was pink, and his strong teeth, well displayed by a short upper lip, were so flawless that one might believe they were false.

  She knew that he had
observed her. And one warm spring day when she was alone on a step reading an assignment, he came over to her and introduced himself.

  “My name’s Bud Rice. I’ve been noticing you for a long time. I’d have gone up to you if you hadn’t always been in a crowd or if I’d had more nerve.”

  This shyness, especially on the part of a football star, surprised her. He was almost humble. And so she replied with special gentleness. “My name’s Laura Paige. I’d have been glad to talk to you.”

  “Would you? A girl who looks like you sort of—well, sort of makes a man hesitate. Mind if I sit down?”

  “Of course not. Come on. I’ve no class until three.”

  By the end of an hour when they parted, Laura had learned probably as much about Bud as, in those days, there was to know. He came from the real backcountry, where his father was the pastor of a small church. She had seen enough of those to picture a board structure probably in need of paint, on a two-lane blacktop highway at the edge of a crossroads village. She had read enough to feel the shuddering poverty and bleak isolation. And from that place he had managed to win a scholarship, had then earned honors and also earned money by doing odd jobs, enough to pay for the MBA. He was ambitious and earnest; his respectfulness and his formal, old-fashioned courtesy were “backcountry.” He was certainly different, and therefore interesting. Deciding that she liked him, she agreed to see him again.

  Her friends were impressed. It was “cool” to have a boyfriend in graduate school, a person who already had his feet poised to go out into the world of real jobs, of adult responsibilities. Maybe it was the admiration that he inspired in her friends that made Laura keep on seeing him; often, later, she thought about that. Certainly there had never been any leap of the heart.…

  Then, too, she had been wooed by his own open admiration. “You know so many things I never even heard about,” he said one night after she had taken him to a concert.

  When she asked him whether he had enjoyed it, he gave a candid answer. “I can’t say I liked it, but I didn’t mind it too much, either. I guess that high-class music is something I should learn about,” he said with his appealing white smile.

  “Why should you?” And wanting to be very kind in return for his simple honesty, she added, “A person should like what he likes. There’s no need to please other people.”

  “But I’d like to please you, Laura. I’ve had girls run after me, you know. Mostly because of the football business, which is absurd, isn’t it? And yet, absurd as it is, I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve just enjoyed being wanted. I suppose it’s natural, isn’t it? Maybe it’s because I can’t be sure of what you think of me that I—” He floundered and stopped.

  She was both flattered and touched by such confusion in someone who was otherwise so alert and competent, so sure of himself. He was a straight-A student, could do incredibly fast calculations right in his head, followed every trend in politics and finance—all areas where she felt stupidly blind—and yet there was such esteem in his long look at her.

  “What I think of you? Why, if I didn’t like you, Bud, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.”

  She was arch, she was flirting, but nevertheless, she was telling the truth.

  “How about going out to the country for lunch on Saturday? I can borrow a car.”

  “I can’t. My aunts are getting up at the crack of dawn to be here in time for lunch.” When she saw his disappointment, she made a quick offer. “But I’d love to have you join us at the hotel.”

  “That’s awfully nice. I think I’ll be in the way, though.”

  Although she had instantly regretted the invitation, there was only one thing to say. “Of course you won’t be. Do come. I only hope you won’t be bored.”

  “Bored? No,” he said in his proper way. “I’ll be pleased to meet your aunts.”

  Bud and the aunts took to each other at once. To begin with, he looked as if he were going to church in his good dark blue suit and paisley tie. Cecile and Lillian, who had no doubt expected to meet a college boy in jeans, would approve of this businesslike appearance, Laura knew, for she had often enough heard their disgusted exclamations over what they called “radical youth” with their ponytails.

  “Clean jeans are one thing,” remarked Aunt Lillian. “That’s just comfort and informality. But the scenes you see on television at some of those northern colleges make you wonder where we’re all heading.”

  Bud agreed. “On this campus, it’s law and order. That’s why I like it. I guess I’ll be sorry to leave it next year.”

  The talk was lively, and Laura settled back to listen. Bud presented himself well. He was interested in hearing how the two women had taken charge of the family business, and they were interested in his theories; concepts of taxation, the free market, and debt reduction passed across the table. At ease in his knowledge, Bud was impressive.

  “The corporate recruiters will be coming, and you’ll have your choice, I’m sure,” Cecile said.

  “Well, ma’am, I sure hope so.”

  They would like that “ma’am,” thought Laura. It was falling out of use these days, but the son of a country preacher hadn’t yet found that out.

  When the lunch was over, the aunts agreed that he was a fine young man, so friendly, so polite, and so smart.

  “Shrewd,” said Lillian. “He’ll do well, no question about that.”

  “Are you serious with him at all?” asked Cecile.

  Laura frowned. “Good God, no. I’m not ‘serious’ with anybody. I have lots of dates. Lots.”

  Cecile was apologetic. “Naturally you do, dear. Why shouldn’t you be popular? A girl like you with all your talents, piano, tennis, and so pretty and sweet besides.” Wistfully, she sighed. “I never can stop thinking how happy you would have made your parents.”

  Lillian returned to the subject. “He surely is good-looking, Laura.”

  “In a way.”

  “ ‘In a way!’ So tall and so manly, with that head of bright hair and everything about him so neat and clean? If I were your age—” And Lillian laughed at herself.

  “I always think,” Laura mused, “that he looks sort of military.”

  “Military? What does that mean?”

  “Oh, spit and polish. Stand up straight.”

  “Your own father was a military man,” Lillian said somewhat sharply. “I can’t imagine what you’re thinking of.”

  Actually, she was thinking of Francis. She had been trying so hard not to think of him and had been remarkably successful. But now, in this instant, for no particular reason, he returned to her with his flashing dark eyes, his fervor, and his delicacy that was at the same time so completely masculine.…

  He had gone with a medical group to India, and evidently in a rare mood to write a long letter, had sent her six pages of exuberant description. In reply, she reminded him of a letter he had sent to her years before when he had visited a “treasure island” in the Caribbean Sea. The world is so beautiful, you can’t imagine, Laura, he had written then. And he had written it now again.

  Yes, even here among the violence and filth, the fearful diseases, some of these people are so beautiful in body and in spirit.

  He wrote that he would be home in the summer. There was no vacation trip that year.

  “I’ve been away since September, and now I want to be home,” Laura told the aunts, and they agreed.

  She acquired a few pupils and began to give piano lessons. She went swimming and saw friends. Bud Rice took a summer job about two hours’ drive away, but several times on weekends he came for the day, always with chocolates for Laura and flowers for the aunts, huge heads of crimson peonies that Cecile would arrange in the center of the luncheon table.

  There that first time in filtered green light from the half-drawn blinds, in the cool dining room, they spent a pleasant hour over Betty Lee’s shrimp salad and lime pie. The aunts pressed several servings on Bud and fussed over him.

  He thanked them. “You’re awfull
y good to me. I’m not used to being fussed over. My mother died when I was seven.”

  Cecile said gently, “You and Laura. Except that she had us.”

  Bud smiled at Laura. “Lucky you.”

  The aunts asked questions.

  “Do you have a family, or just your father?”

  “Just my father. I had a sister, but she died when she was three years old.”

  The aunts made sympathetic faces and Cecile observed, “You haven’t had an easy life, I see that.”

  “That’s true, ma’am. But a lot of people have had it much worse. I’m healthy, I’m getting a good education, and I’m ready to meet the world.” He laughed. “I’m out to make some money. But no tricks. I mean the good American way, fair and square.” He looked around the table. “I hope I’m not shocking you with the admission.”

  Lillian almost snorted. “Quite the reverse. I have no respect for pious denials. You can’t do anything without money in this world, and that’s why everyone wants it.”

  And Laura read her mind: Now, there’s a young man who could take over the business. Poor aunts! They were transparent.

  They showed him through the house, related its history, to which he listened with great interest, and paused before the photographs.

  “That’s Laura’s father. He was killed in Korea.”

  “Died for his country,” Bud said. “You can be proud, Laura.”

  “I’d say that Bud Rice is a catch,” Lillian remarked that night. “Some girl’s going to get hold of him before long, you can count on it.”

  Such an old-fashioned concept, to think of “getting hold” of a man! And Laura said, “She’s welcome to him.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t like him!”

  “I do like him well enough. I wouldn’t have let him come here if I didn’t, would I? Only—”

  Not in the mood for explanations, she stopped.

  “Only what?”

  “There’s more to people than what you can see, isn’t there, Aunt Lillian?”