The Girl With the Glass Heart: A Novel

by Daniel Stern

  “What’s the matter with you, Elly?” Max asked.

  “Nothing. I just think you ought to face the fact that you had a hand in making Alec the kind of man who would choose comfort and security over a girl he’s in love with.”

  “If he is that kind,” Carl interrupted, feeling quite the interloper now that his job was done.

  It’s no use, Elly was thinking, unaware that her hands were tightly clenched. It’s no use. Who made Alec or me? We make each other. Everybody makes everybody else. What a lousy responsibility. She stood up. “Good night all,” she said, and walked to the doorway.

  “But, Elly,” her father said, “we were going to play some bridge.”

  “I don’t feel much like—” she said. “I’m knocked out. Perhaps I’ll make some use of the paints you gave me for my birthday.”

  “I saw the picture you’re doing, the other day,” Rose said. “Very pretty.” Elly ignored this and, retracing her steps, held out her hand to Carl.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning I’m sorry for using you for my own ends, I’m sorry for frightening you.

  “That’s all right,” he said.

  “We’ll play some other time,” Max said.

  As she left, Elly heard: “Carl, I’d like to give fifteen hundred dollars to the synagogue for the High Holy Days. Take the price of our tickets out of that, all right?” and she thought, Dad’s picked the wrong time to talk about donations.

  She set up the easel and turned on all the lamps in the room. Then she gazed at the painting she had begun. It was a copy, from memory, of a painting she had seen once and never forgotten, the painting that hung in Alec’s living room in Los Angeles. Here, as in the original, although much more crudely done, because Elly had no real gift for representation—if she had any gift at all it was for a delicate distortion—the figure was still caught in the enfolding forest, but because of her lack of draftsmanship the trees and grass resembled a child’s dream of a forest. She had changed the figure from a girl to a boy; this, she told herself, gave her more perspective. She worked at it quite intensely, as intensely as she had danced, but with less hope. When she went to bed it seemed to her that the boy was well trapped in the forest. This pleased her. Tomorrow she would fill in the sky.

  The next few days Elly spent alternating between feeling guilty and feeling expectant. The chances were that Alec would arrive Monday, since the holidays began officially on Tuesday. The days dragged. She was grateful for the fact that Carl did not call again. She had cut off something there, when she’d forced him to do her bidding. Something within her was changing, anyway; this she knew. She had no idea what the change was, but adumbrations were everywhere. Colors were sharper and brighter; her emotions ran in higher and lower spirals. When she felt fine she was ecstatic; when she was low, she was utterly miserable. She was in the middle of an ascending spiral late Sunday afternoon when, her parents having gone to play bridge with the Marlowes, Carl appeared at the door.

  “Hi,” she said. “Come on in. Haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “Hello, Elly, are your folks in?”

  “You must have seen them driving down if you came up the cliff road. They’re playing bridge at the Marlowes’.”

  Carl entered and threw his coat down on the hall table with a shrug. “You’re right,” he said. “I saw them as I came up.” He seemed irritated, tense.

  “Will you have a drink?” she asked. “I got looped myself the other night.”

  “No, thanks. Why?” He sat down and crossed his long, bony legs.

  “Because I was upset.”

  “Really? I never drink when I feel bad. I drink at Simchas.”

  “Oh, I drink then too. It’s the only way I can stand Jewish weddings.”

  “You don’t identify with your religion much, do you?”

  “Some. I love going to temple, but otherwise I don’t take it too seriously.”

  “Perhaps I will have a drink. A small one, thanks.”

  She mixed it, explaining that Mimi had gone off to the movies and she didn’t know where Justin was. She made hers a little larger than his and smiled understandingly at him in a way that made him even more nervous than he had been.

  “Well,” Elly said after a sip, “who’s going to mention it first?”

  “Mention what?”

  “What happened last week and who feels what about it.”

  “You know how I feel about it. Except I admit that I can’t really hold it against you. I put myself in a vulnerable position when I told you about my parents. I suppose you did what you had to do.”

  Elly stood up swiftly, eyes wide open and staring. “Don’t be patronizing to me,” she half shouted.

  “I’m not—” he began, but she was out of the door already and walking quickly into the garden. He followed her, thinking: Of all the people in Colchester, I have to expose myself to her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, touching her shoulder.

  “Sorry for what?” she asked, turning round and staring at him open-eyed and clear. “For being yourself? You are, you know. I envy you. If I once found out what myself was, oh, I’d do it up brown! I’d be myself in a big way. I’d blow it up bigger than life size and be E-L-L-Y, in capital letters.”

  She seemed to have quite forgotten her outburst in the house. Suddenly Carl thought: Why, she’s crazy! This poor girl really doesn’t know who she is. And instantly he felt guilty for what he had thought, looking down at her as she bent over a patch of wildflowers like a misunderstood child who was sulking. I wish I had her problem, he thought. I know who I am, and what my limitations are, only too well.

  The atmosphere was darkening, twisting blue cords of sky through the branches of the two trees in the garden. Carl remembered speaking of Morningside Heights in New York, and here in this house on a hill he realized he could hardly remember the neighborhood or the apartment they’d lived in, though it had seemed so real when talking of it to Elly. He reached toward Elly and gently turned her toward him. Her eyes were still wide open and steady on his face. He kissed her softly at first and then harder and harder.

  Over his shoulder Elly saw Justin coming around the corner of the garage, then a familiar-looking young man supporting on his arm Uncle Alec. Her sulking mood shattered like a crushed eggshell and she broke away from Carl and ran toward the dim figures calling, “Alec … Uncle Alec! …”

  Carl, suddenly a little dizzy, steadied himself against the tree near by for a moment, and then, glancing once at the bustling tableau near the house, turned and began to walk down the hill. When he had reached the foot it occurred to him that he should have looked to see if Alec Kaufman had brought a girl with him, and thus ascertain the extent of his guilt, if any. He thought of turning back, but instead he glanced at his watch and hurried toward home and the safety of his evening study.

  PART SIX

  JAY WOKE, HEARING FROM somewhere a slow, dry, rather tired laugh, harsh in the setting of the early-morning sounds. There was a pain nibbling at the back of his head, and he knew with as much physical impact as one knows one has a cold that he was in love. “In love” was not the way he thought of it a few seconds later, however. Rather, something possessed him. His being in love had as little volition about it as if while he slept a malicious child had molded an image of him and pierced it with a pin in the region of the heart.

  He shifted in his bed and felt afraid and delighted. Delighted at finding himself in this private world (the fact that the draperies were drawn against the transparent wall aided the illusion) and afraid at his capture by the princess of the glass castle. He laughed aloud. What terrible tasks might he be asked to perform? He did not question the existence or the nature of the emotion once the impact had taken him. He loved Elly Kaufman—this was a fact, unrelated to any other fact or event—and then he began to remember some of the things she’d told him: We’re going to be so close, but don’t touch me now—or at least he seemed to remember her saying that. It had been such a st
range arrival, so much seemed to have happened, that he was confused as to details. But details were unimportant. He was in love and he couldn’t remember or, rather, visualize her face. He closed his eyes and tried but nothing happened. He laughed again—Maybe I made her up—and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He felt almost too well rested, as if he’d been drugged. God, he thought, all these sinister images! What’s the matter with me? But the excitement in his chest began at that moment and, to still it, he tried not to think. He gathered his toilet articles from his half-unpacked suitcase and stepped into the bathroom.

  On his way to the breakfast room a door opened and Elly appeared suddenly, as if there was no one else in the house.

  “Hello, love,” she said.

  So it’s not a fantasy, he thought. “Good morning, Elly,” he replied, playing it safe for the moment.

  She wore a rust-colored frock with a bright yellow sash, and her hair was gathered by a rust-colored ribbon. Taking his hand she said, “Have you had your breakfast yet?”

  “No, and I’m starved. I don’t usually eat much in the morning, but I’ve got a feeling I’m going to turn over a new leaf today.”

  “Well, autumn’s the time for turning leaves.”

  “Doubles entendres before breakfast. How do you do it?”

  “I sleep well. Always. Did you?”

  “Perfectly. What a bed!”

  Jay was pleased it was going so well. He wished, though, that the rhythm in his chest would stop. He’d never known that love was so physical. He would have given anything to regain the easy familiarity he’d had the evening before. What had happened while he slept to destroy that and leave him tense and excited, on trial?

  “Yes, the beds in this house are fantastic.”

  “You use the word fantastic the way Italians say fantastico,” he said with a flair and a gesture that made her laugh, and he realized thankfully that the dry tired laugh he’d heard on waking had not been Elly’s.

  The dining room was in a flurry of activity. Max sat in a low chair. In front of him was a still lower coffee table over which he now and then bent for a sip, while keeping his eyes still attached to the papers in his hand.

  Rose and Mimi had apparently just finished dusting the room, and Mimi made one appealing gesture to Justin, who was placing scrambled eggs on the table, and left the room. Rose and Max greeted them simultaneously.

  “Good morning.”

  “Sit down. Eat.”

  “Did you sleep well?”

  They were seated, and Rose threw herself heavily into a chair.

  “Oh,” she said with a sigh, “it’s so heavy in here.” She tapped her chest. “Always on the holidays I get so depressed—you know, a low feeling. Yom Kippur more than Rosh Hashana, but I have it now too.”

  “Always on the holidays,” Max echoed. “I don’t know what to do. If I could have them canceled I would.”

  “Don’t talk foolish, Dad,” Elly said. “You know Mom loves that feeling…. Where’s Alec?” She heaped eggs on Jay’s plate.

  “Not up yet,” Justin said as he left the room.

  Rose shook her head. “He’s so fresh, that Justin. He’ll never learn how to behave when there are guests. Have some more eggs, Mr. Gordon.”

  “No, thank you. I’d like some more coffee though.”

  Elly watched him sipping his coffee and thought: What ridiculous hands for a pianist! The fingers were short and stubby, the nails rather unkempt, the cuticle ragged. She had a sudden desire to manicure his nails, although she usually hated to do her own. Something was pulling her toward him, and it made her angry, since it was nothing she could control. A picture leaped into her mind and was gone as suddenly, a picture of her and Jay. She shut it out angrily, largely because of how nonvolitional the image had been. She didn’t want to think things like that at the breakfast table. She was wishing Alec would get up, when he materialized, lighting a cigarette in the doorway. I wonder if I wished him here, she thought.

  “Hi, Alec!” she called, and he came to her and kissed her on the cheek, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke all around her head, as if to hide the kiss. Then he sat down and ate an enormous breakfast, saying very little to anyone.

  “What time are we due at Shule, Max?” he asked, as he poured a second cup of coffee.

  “In about a half hour.” Max raised his head from some papers he was marking.

  “Max, darling, you shouldn’t do that on Rosh Hashana,” said Rose. “Put the papers away.”

  Max sighed and obeyed. “Forgive me, Mr. Gordon,” he said. “You can take the man out of the business, but you can’t take the business out of the man.”

  Alec was thinking that it was such a pleasantly cool day when he realized that inside the house you could never know the feel of the weather. There were no windows and the entire house was air-conditioned.

  “How is it out?” he asked Mimi, who was clearing up the cluttered table.

  “Awful warm,” Mimi complained. “Considering the time of the year, it’s awful warm, Mr. Kaufman.”

  “Thanks,” Alec said, and watched Mimi depart. She had thick, superficially unattractive legs like Annette. What the hell was he going to do about Annette? He pushed back his chair and said to Jay, “Well, how about a walk?”

  “Won’t be time,” Rose said shortly.

  “In the garden?”

  “In the garden there’s time.”

  “Elly?”

  “All right.”

  Mimi was right. It was unseasonably warm. The great hickory tree that dominated the garden seemed to exude warmth. The sun was not bright but had veiled itself behind the few thick cumulus clouds.

  Alec stumbled over a croquet mallet and, picking it up, said, “Come on, baby, I’ll spot you and Jay points and still beat you.”

  They played, and Elly proved so good that (although Jay could hardly play at all) Alec was forced to give up.

  “It’s a good thing for actors to eat humble pie every now and then,” Elly said. “Otherwise they’d be impossible.”

  Alec smiled. “Being an actor is impossible anyway.”

  “Oh, we’re feeling sorry for ourselves this morning,” Jay said, wishing instantly he could retract the words.

  “I think so. Or, rather, sorry I came.”

  “Don’t be, Alec.” Elly touched his arm.

  “I’m not making myself very clear. What I mean is, I made the wrong choice.”

  “You mean you should have stayed there?” Elly asked.

  “No. There was a third choice. I could have disobeyed Max and come here with Annette. Then we would have seen if Max would throw us out of the house.”

  “Well,” Jay remarked, “it would be interesting to see.”

  “Don’t be a wise guy. If I had brought Annette you wouldn’t have been here to see anything.”

  “That’s true,” Jay mused, suddenly made aware of how essential Alec’s misery was to his new excitement.

  “But you’re here now, Alec, and I’m so happy that I won’t let you be miserable,” Elly told him.

  “That’s nice, baby,” Alec said. “That’s nice.”

  And she meant it at the moment. A half hour later, however, when they were driving to town and to synagogue, she had forgotten everything but that something oddly disturbing was happening to her. Who was he, this musician, this man she had met at a party, that he should be removing her from herself, like a shell being hollowed out, and placing within, instead, himself? They sat together in the car and she let her arm rest on his leg. He made no sign to show that he noticed it.

  Suddenly Elly felt annoyed. Was she falling in love? Everybody was so concerned with love all the time. It degraded her, she felt, to think that she too, like everyone else, was interested mainly in love, love, love. All the songs, all the movies, the books—must she be the same as they were? Jay moved his leg under her hand and she drew her breath in sharply. Then he was motionless as the car rolled along the road, Max and Rose providing most o
f the conversation.

  They were still talking when they entered the solemn structure of the synagogue. Those who were accustomed to being awed, the synagogue could awe; even for the skeptical, the tall, brownish pillars with scenes of the Holy Land painted around them, the high vaulted ceiling, the velvet-curtained sanctum which sheltered the ark of the Ten Commandments, and above all the almost continuous buzz of prayer, interrupted now and then by the sudden wail of a particularly zealous person: all this could impress and awe the religious and nonreligious alike, for it was as much a human ritual as an extrahuman ritual. Jay, for example, whose parents had passed on to him no religious sense at all, found himself holding his breath as he walked down the aisle with the Kaufmans. Elly and Rose had to sit upstairs, as the synagogue was Orthodox and, although Jewish women had long since proved themselves the masters of their families, in the house of worship they were still relegated to an inferior position.

  Here Max Kaufman relaxed in a special manner that never happened elsewhere. Perhaps because of the memories of prayer in the Old Country with his father slapping him when he did not pray fast or clearly enough. “Say the words right,” his father would whisper and little Max would try. Then listening to his father he would hear an apparently meaningless blur of words and wonder why he couldn’t just mumble the way his father did. Perhaps it was these memories or their subtle shadows that allowed Max to lean his unprepossessing figure against the wooden seat back, drape his prayer shawl around him and, opening his prayer book, sing along with the cantor sotto voce, feeling comfortable and secure. The entire experience had very little to do with God.

  Alec loaned Jay a prayer shawl which hadn’t been used since Alec was thirteen, and its newness embarrassed Jay. Not that he wanted to appear pious, but it seemed to him that several old men turned and stared at him as he threw it around his shoulders. Alec himself wore none and glanced at his prayer book only now and then.

  A mixed choir of small boys and older men stood on a few raised steps before the cantor. A heavy man in a black robe led them and sang in a deep bass voice. Max turned in the pew and nudged Jay.