Clair De Lune

by Jetta Carleton

  Seven o’clock came but no Toby. She was already nervous, and by 7:30 she began to be jumpy. Maybe he had not been able to get away and wasn’t coming at all. But no. That look on his face yesterday noon—he would be here. Ten minutes later she lit the candles. Then she blew them out. Using a kitchen chair as a barre, she did some leg extensions and a few pliés. At the bathroom mirror she combed her hair again and touched up her lipstick. Any minute now she was going to be sick. By the time the screen door opened, after eight, she was furious with him.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Well! I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”

  “Am I late?”

  “You know damn well you are.”

  “I’m sorry. I had to stick around long enough to be polite. Anyway, I thought I ought to wait till it got dark, sort of.”

  He stood there, hesitant, in his good suit, with a starched white shirt and a tie. Straight and sturdy and dark, glossy from soap and water and a touch of the razor. There was a luster about him, like a polished apple. She wanted to bite into him. “Come on in,” she said, forgiving him everything.

  “Oh—here,” he said as they went into the living room, “I thought I’d better return this.” It was her copy of A Portrait of the Artist, borrowed weeks before. “Figured it was about time.”

  “Oh, that. I meant you to keep it. You like it so much.”

  “Nah, it’s your book. I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

  “But I’m giving it to you. Don’t you understand?”

  “But I—”

  “I’ll get another copy.”

  He laid the book on the table. “No, you keep it. Thanks anyway.”

  “But I thought—” she said, and stopped.

  Toby sank into the big chair. “Looks nice,” he said of the room.

  She hesitated, with a wistful glance at the book. “Thank you.” But then she smiled. “Want to light the candles?” (Give them something to do, the magazine said, make them feel at ease.) He stood up, fumbling in his pockets. “There are matches on the table,” she said.

  “Oh. I didn’t see.”

  She drew the blinds partway and set the music going. Then she came to him and lifted her face. “Kiss me. Like you mean it.” She took his arms and put them around her and for a moment he held her. “Would you like some wine?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  They talked across the room, saying nothing of consequence, in short sentences with gaps between them. Toby drank his wine at a gulp. She noticed and pretended not to. After a bit she rose and refilled his glass. This time he timed his drinking to hers. After two glasses she went to the kitchen and lit the oven.

  Always before, when she’d scrambled eggs after the movies, or late afternoons when they walked her home from school, the boys would be all over the kitchen, astraddle the chairs, in her way at the icebox door, rattling potato chips out of the sack, washing their hands at the sink. This time she had to invite him in.

  “You can toss the salad,” she said. “Better take off your coat.”

  “How do I do this?” he said.

  “Just pick it up with the spoon and fork and sort of throw it around.” She poured more wine and Toby loosened up a little as he harried the lettuce.

  “Kee-rist,” he said, dropping the salt shaker. “Ol’ butterfingers.”

  “Bad luck. Throw some over your shoulder.”

  “Which one?” His hand struck the salad spoon, knocking it to the floor. “Oh, for godsake! Where’s a mop—anything?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s good for the linoleum. Did you get oil on your shirt?”

  “I don’t think so. I better get out of here before I mess up the whole place.”

  “Have some more wine.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.” He poured himself another, drank it off, and filled both glasses again.

  “You can take them in to the table, if you want to. We’re almost ready.”

  “Do you trust me to get there with them?”

  “Frankly, no.”

  “Then we better drink ’em here.”

  They lifted their glasses, said mud in your eye, and laughed. It was beginning to be all right. They made a parade, bearing food to the table. Toby put on his jacket.

  But seated at table they were awkward again. Eating made them self-conscious. They made small talk, hewed, hacked, and carved out of wooden silence. Mostly they kept their eyes on their plates, horribly aware of the sound of their chewing. They had ice cream for dessert, with chocolate sauce. Toby gulped it in silence and looked up guiltily, seeing that she had not finished.

  “I’ll clear the dishes,” she said. “Won’t take a minute.”

  “Should I help?”

  “You relax, make yourself comfortable.”

  When she came back he was sitting primly in the big chair. She put Debussy on the phonograph and curled up on the sofa. “Come over here with me,” she said. She made him take off the jacket again and plumped up the cushions for him. “I found a wonderful poem for you.”

  It was a lyric by Elinor Wylie, gently sad, full of lovely words. Toby listened with his eyes closed. After a long pause he said, “That’s nice.”

  “I love it.” She wriggled in against him. “Clair de Lune” filled the silence, which grew longer and longer. He wasn’t talking and she was running out of things to say. He sat stiff and straight, one arm dutifully around her.

  There was something she had done wrong. It ought to have worked. The room was pretty, the candles gave a soft light, the music was soft and soothing in the background. But it wasn’t any fun. She said, on a sudden inspiration, “Let’s have some coffee!” and, remembering the article (give them something to do), “You make it while I get the cups.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Oh, you can make coffee, can’t you?”

  “I can’t even drink it.”

  She laughed. “Then we just won’t bother.”

  “You have some if you want it.”

  “I don’t like it that well, myself.” She turned the record and they sat silent again, listening to “La Mer.”

  Toby stared across the room, one of his solemn spells, as if there were something he disapproved of. “Who did you say the artist was?”

  “The composer? You know, it’s Debussy. We’ve played it hundreds of times.”

  “The picture,” he said with a lift of his chin toward the opposite wall.

  “Oh, that. That’s Renoir.”

  He went on staring without comment. She thought of telling him something about Renoir, but she had been over that before, with him and George. And tonight he had not said, “Talk to me.”

  “I want to dance!” she said, jumping up. She stopped Debussy in his groove and replaced it with Benny Goodman.

  When they had danced in silence through “Moonglow,” she put on another record, and Bing Crosby’s cozy voice oozed into the room.

  Soft lights and sweet music

  And you in my arms—

  Soft lights and sweet melody

  Will bring you closer to me…

  With scarcely room enough to turn, they danced close together, her head tucked under his chin like a violin. One of the candles burned out. The other flickered, and the music went on, smooth and seductive. They danced in place, barely moving.

  Chopin and pale moonlight…

  Reveal all your charms.

  So give me velvet light and sweet music…

  The other candle went out, leaving the room lit only by the glow from the kitchen. They had stopped dancing. They stood wrapped in each other, letting the needle grind on.

  Suddenly then, Toby let go. He turned to the record player, took the needle off and slammed the lid. “I hate that music!”

  She looked up with a startled smile.

  “All those sappy love songs,” he said.

  “I thought you liked them.”

  “I want to hear a buzz saw—a jackhammer.”

  “We can’t dance v
ery well to a jackhammer.”

  “Why do we have to dance all the time?”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m sick of it, that’s why.”

  She looked at him, uncomprehending, and he turned away. “I’m sorry,” he said and picked up his jacket.

  “Toby? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I have a right to know, haven’t I?”

  “It’s a goddam hothouse,” he said, flinging the jacket down.

  “Well, if that’s how you feel about it—!”

  “We’re swimmin’ around in pancake syrup.”

  “You’re mixing your metaphors.”

  “Screw metaphors!”

  “What’s wrong with you, Toby?” They faced each other in the dim room, angry for the first time.

  “The whole thing is a goddam mess.”

  “What thing?”

  “The whole world,” he said, “and we sit around reading poetry.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I don’t know. But it is.”

  “Would it help if we didn’t?”

  No answer. Then with a sweep of his arm, “All these goddam pillows and candles and stuff—I’ve had ‘Clair de Lune’ up to here! And that stinking flower!”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? I thought you liked it.”

  “I do like it. Or maybe I don’t. Hell, I don’t know what I like anymore. I just want to blow up the bridge.”

  “Then go off and be Hemingway if you want to.”

  “I’d rather build a bridge—anything but sit around all the time and listen to sappy music.”

  “Then why do you come here?”

  “I almost didn’t tonight!”

  She turned her back, stung.

  “No, I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I mean I wanted to come, but I got talking to the man from Washington who Murdstone invited over for dinner. He works in some government agency.”

  “You were talking to him all that time?”

  “Well, not all the time. But just to listen to him—”

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Washington. And Germany and what’s going on over there that we never hear about. I never knew the Germans were building planes in Russia and Italy before the war! Fighters and bombers. They couldn’t build ’em at home because of the treaty, so they by God built ’em in those other countries and let on they were civilian planes. And now Mr. Holloway says there are rumors around Washington that the Nazis are planning to invade Russia and Roosevelt knows it. Good God, they’re already in Greece. And blitzing Great Britain and sinking merchant vessels with their goddam U-boats! The war’s bustin’ out all over the place. And we’re going to get sucked into it—George and me and Spike, all us kids. And I want to know as much about it as they’ll tell me. So I just kept asking questions and Mr. Holloway kept on answering and we talked all through dinner—”

  “You had dinner?”

  “I didn’t eat very much. But he was so interesting and he was talking to me, not to Murdstone all the time. Jeez, I could have listened to that man all night. But I promised you I’d be here, and I wanted to come, but we just kept talking and Oh hell, I’m sorry!”

  She looked up at him for a long moment and turned her back again. “I’m sorry too,” she said. “For everything.”

  “It was my fault.”

  “I shouldn’t have planned all this. I just thought it would be fun.”

  “It was nice.”

  “No, it wasn’t. I wish I’d never thought of it. You could have talked to the man all night, like you wanted to.”

  “But I wanted to come here too.”

  “Then why did you say all those hateful things?”

  “Because—hell, I don’t know why. I don’t hate it, not all the time. Only tonight, it seemed like there were more important things—no, I don’t mean that. But it seemed like… I’m sorry, Allen.”

  “Maybe you’d better just go.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “Maybe your man’s still there. If you’re more interested in him than me—”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “From what you said—”

  “I don’t care what I said, I like it here. You’re skinny and bossy and you don’t know nuthin’ but poetry and I still want to be where you are. I do and I don’t. I’m all mixed up,” he said, near tears. “Allen?” He turned her around and pulled her up hard against him. “I want to stay. Please?”

  His hands were on her bare back, and he was kissing her, not in the old way, but rough and greedy and over and over.

  “Toby—”

  His mouth was on her throat, her shoulders. His heart pounded against her like hooves on a hard road. This was not soft and cozy as they’d always been. This was real. It was dangerous. And she liked it.

  “Toby—” she said, breathless. Whatever was happening, she had asked for it—with the dim light and the wine and the naked dress, and what if Toby—

  But Toby had let go of her. He turned away, clutching the back of the big chair, and drew a long shaky breath. “Yeah,” he said in a dry whisper, “I better go.” He picked up his jacket and started toward the kitchen.

  “Toby?” A whisper.

  He paused in the doorway without turning.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be.”

  “I only meant—”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Next time … you’ll come back?” she said, fearful.

  He beat the doorjamb once, gently, with his fist. “Yeah,” he said.

  She heard him go through the kitchen, heard the screen door open and quietly close, and the soft sound of his footsteps hurrying down the stairs.

  Fourteen

  Oh, it’s lovely! Look at this!”

  Maxine lifted a luncheon cloth from the tissue. “And napkins to match! They’re beautiful.” Sliding a perfect fingernail under the flap, she opened the small envelope and drew out a card. “And this is from… Verna! Thank you, Verna. My goodness, all these lovely things!”

  She sat in Mrs. Dean Frawley’s living room, surrounded by boxes and tissue paper, all the faculty women, and the wives of the faculty men. Turning her blue-violet gaze upon them, she gave them a helpless smile. “You’ve been so nice, really. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You don’t have to,” said Verna. “The pleasure’s ours.”

  “Oh, but it’s mine! And I do thank you all so much. You’re all so generous. It’s been wonderful working with you this year. I’m going to miss every single one of you.”

  “The married ones too?” said Gladys.

  “All of you,” said Maxine. “I’ve loved my work, and all you lovely people.” She smiled, blinking a tear.

  “Aw, don’t cry!” Verna said in disgust.

  “Oh no!” cried Mrs. Frawley. “Let’s not cry about it, dear. We can’t have our little girl crying, can we? Come along now, you have more presents to open. And then,” she said with a wink at the others, “we have a surprise! Haven’t we, girls?”

  The girls agreed they certainly did have. They had worked on the bridal shower for days; conspiracies in the faculty lounge, and much whispering and rushing about. All this going on in the last three weeks of school, in the midst of finals and term papers, with the main events bearing down upon them—commencement and, of course, Maxine’s wedding.

  “Monograms!” said Maxine, opening another package. “How pretty! Mae Dell, you didn’t! I’ll bet you did—you’re so artistic—and with your own hands too.”

  “They’d have been better maybe if I’d had them done at the Singer place. But I thought you’d like the personal touch.”

  “They’re perfect. I love them. So will Max. I don’t know how you found the time.”

  Against the wall, between a window and the baby grand, Dr. Ansel’s mother sat alone on a rose velvet love seat. She looked left out. She always did. Perhaps beca
use she preferred it that way. But in case she didn’t, Allen moved over to sit beside her and ask how she was.

  “I can’t complain,” Mrs. Ansel said in her small childlike voice.

  She was a stout little woman, straight up and down, with no perceptible waistline except where the belt went around. She wore a navy blue dress with a crocheted collar, and navy blue shoes. The straps across the instep cut into the flesh. The feet were puffy. (A heart condition, Dr. Ansel said.)

  Allen said, “I suppose you’re going to the wedding?”

  “I expect we will. Clarence wants to go.”

  “It’s going to be a beautiful wedding, from all I’ve heard about it.” Mrs. Ansel didn’t reply. “I like your collar,” Allen said, trying again. “Is it hand crocheted?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “It’s pretty work. Did you do it yourself?”

  “Yes ma’am, I did.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “Thank you.” The little woman glanced at her with the merest glimmer of a smile in her small pale eyes and turned to watch Maxine open another package.

  At the window the curtains parted in a breath of wind. It carried the scent of damp earth and fresh-cut grass. Under the orchestration of voices, the predictable inflections and antiphonals, she heard the wind browsing in the shrubs beneath the window. She shifted against the rose velvet, recrossed her legs, and turned resolutely to join the party. Her body was here under protest, unaccompanied by the mind. Her thoughts were twelve blocks away. And she was frantic with impatience to run for home, obsessed by the notion that Toby was waiting for her.

  By all that was reasonable and sane, she should not want him back. And she had no reason to think he would come. He had made no promise, not a real one. But how could he not come, after all those nights? She was important to him. If he hadn’t meant it, why did he say it? And if she mattered that much, he must intend to come back. After last night, surely he’d want, as she wanted, to set thing aright between them again. He could at this very minute be waiting on the landing.

  “I love that design!” Maxine held up a rectangle of embroidered linen. “Pineapples! Aren’t they beautiful—they’re so different, so unusual. Let’s see … oh, from Mrs. Frawley! Thank you, Mrs. Frawley.”

  “In Hawaii,” said Mrs. Frawley, who had traveled, “the pineapple is a symbol of hospitality.”