by Daniel Stern
“There are so many things I want to do with you, Elly.”
“Let’s do them, then.”
“Maybe we will,” he said in wonderment, “maybe we will.”
Jay drove back, Elly guiding him. She kept a hand on his leg all the while. As they came into the driveway, everything looked strange and different to Elly. The garden was a garden that could have been drawn by memory from a picture book of gardens. It looked the way it had looked that first day she had met Lang at the house and the whole idea of the house was new and a free idea, an open idea that was to take her somewhere.
That evening Alec wrote a letter to Annette.
It was not easy for him, he said, to sit in his brother’s house and write to her that he was wrong, that he was sorry, that he wanted her back, that he was stupid and weak. It was not easy, he said, to ask her (what was she doing now, rehearsing or reading?) to forgive his pigheadedness and the fact that he was such a child. Then he wrote about his drunken homecoming and the strange evening of the tennis game with Elly. And he wrote that he thought Jay was in love with his niece, and that this troubled him as Jay was so much older and so defeated. Finally he wrote that he didn’t know yet if he was strong enough to do what she insisted on—severing his ties with Max and striking out on his own. He would not lie, he wrote, but he hoped that she would have some patience and not give him up entirely. Then he wrote that he loved her, although he was beginning to mistrust the word. It was used too easily and he had an idea that most of the people who used it were not at all capable of it. Then he asked her to write, and sealed the envelope before he was tempted to ask her to come down to Colchester on the next plane.
He placed the letter on the hall table and went back to his room. It was not yet time for dinner and he picked up his volume of Chekhov plays and began to read from The Seagull, studying his part of Trigorin, the writer. There are such things as fixed ideas, when a man thinks days and nights, for instance, of nothing but the moon. And I have just such a moon. I am haunted day and night by one persistent thought: I ought to be …
Alec marked the words he felt should be emphasized and was studying the phrases when it occurred to him how lucky he had always felt to be an artist … the concept of spare time never has any meaning for the artist … the concept of boredom has equally little meaning … his work is always with him, unlike many other professions. Yet wasn’t it also true that he was never so much at ease as others just sitting in a room chatting with people? Wasn’t there always something pulling at him, as Trigorin said: I ought to be writing … I ought to be … I ought to be with Annette, but she oughtn’t to be with me. It’s funny that there are some people like myself, maybe most people, who are half people and are completed by others. That nagging quality goes away when Annette is around. Somehow I always know what to do and for just how long and in what way. What am I doing here? I think of myself as a married man everywhere except here in my brother’s house.
Elly took the letter from Justin and told Jay, “I’ll be right back. I have to go to the john. Go into the living room.”
They had been playing ping-pong and Jay had, to his own surprise, won. It was Elly’s turn for surprise when she saw the return address. It was from John Marron Lang.
MY DEAR ELLY:
I am writing your father also about my desire to visit you. I am in Los Angeles and expect to be here for about a week. On the way East I’d like to stop off and say hello. Also I could take a look at the house, which I’ve always considered my best. Some photographers from a rather large magazine should be there any day now. They’re doing an article on my work and I recommended your home as one of my best examples. I’m sure you’ll be nice to them.
Elly, I’ve never forgotten that strange afternoon in the empty house. I know it’s foolish of me to mention it now, but I remember you so clearly, although at your age a girl changes so quickly I’m sure my memory is not accurate. There are things I would like to talk to you about when I arrive, so, until then, good luck.
JOHN MARRON LANG
She folded the letter carefully and placed it in her desk drawer. She was trying not to think about Lang, his white hair and his hands clenching and unclenching on her shoulder.
In the living room Max, Jay and Rose were talking. Or, rather, Max and Rose were talking and appealing now and then to an embarrassed Jay for confirmation or denial.
“It’s not the same thing at all,” Rose said. “To play a little cards with some friends on the holidays might not be right exactly, but it’s not as bad as playing music.”
“What’s all this?” Elly asked.
“Jay started to play the piano a little and Rose reminded him that it was a holiday and you aren’t supposed to play. I reminded her, then, that she was going over to Sarah’s tonight to play rummy and this isn’t allowed either.”
“I don’t really want to play,” Jay remonstrated. “I had just remembered a piece I used to play a long time ago and I thought I’d try it out. It’s such a wonderful piano, but, please, I don’t want to start any trouble.”
“Look,” Rose said, “you think I really want to play tonight with them? They give me such trouble. If I win so I’m no good and if I lose I’m annoyed. If I talk while we play I’m a loudmouth. If I don’t talk—Rose, don’t you ever say a word all night? For my part I don’t have to play.”
“Mother, that’s completely beside the point. Jay’s a guest here and he can play the piano any time he wants to.”
“Elly, darling, I really—” he noticed Rose and Max glance at each other at the word darling—“don’t want to play now. It was just an idea. And your mother’s perfectly right to respect her traditions.”
“Pompous.”
“No, just polite.”
“I, for one,” Max said, “like music in the house, no matter what the day is. Rose, isn’t supper ready yet?”
“Mimi!” Rose called.
Mimi appeared at the doorway and before anyone had a chance to say a word she blurted: “Dinner’s late because Mrs. Kaufman changed all the sheets I put on the bed and she put them all on wrong and I had to change them back.”
Then she was gone. Everyone laughed at once and Jay hoped the argument was forgotten.
“Jay—I hope you don’t mind if I call you Jay,” Rose said. Jay nodded. “Why don’t you play whatever it was you wanted to play?”
Elly was amazed. Her mother suggesting that music be played in her home on Rosh Hashana! Of course there were no neighbors and Elly had always suspected that fear of embarrassment was a major motivation on her mother’s part. Jay sat down at the Steinway and was about to launch into the Moussorgsky when he remembered that he wasn’t going to play for people any more; but he remembered it as a memory, a resolution having no vitality anymore, or else surrounded by other, more vital factors, like this afternoon with Elly. At the last instant he switched from the “Pictures at an Exhibition” to the “Minute Waltz,” in deference to Rose Kaufman and her holiday depression. In the middle of his performance, Alec poked his head in and stared in amazement at Jay and his audience. When Jay finished Alec was the first to burst into excited applause.
“That was so nice, Mr. Gordon!” Rose exclaimed, impressed enough to regress to his surname.
Elly sat quite still, wondering at what had happened to her: a fantasy come true, loved by an artist who could play like that. She bit her hand as it was pressed to her mouth, without realizing it.
Max put his hand on Jay’s shoulder. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t realize. We’re proud to have you here.”
Jay was flushed and happy at his little impromptu success. “Thank you. I’m pretty rusty of course. But—” and here he gestured to Elly who sat, wide skirt spread around her like a queen—“I owe it to my inspiration—” he bowed deeply—“to the lovely—”
“Lady to see you,” said Mimi from behind the large indoor tree near the entrance to the room. And from behind her strode a young lady carrying a smal
l suitcase.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t seem to have been expected. Jay Gordon, was that you playing just now? How are you?”
“Renée, what are you doing here?” Jay ran up to the girl and took the suitcase from her hand.
“Didn’t this Professor—” she consulted a slip of paper—“Lanner tell you I was coming? We’re giving a dance concert at the university tomorrow—Crofts College it is. I spoke to a Carl Warschauer on the phone and he and this Lanner said I was to stay here tonight.”
Max recovered himself quickly enough to say, “Well, you’re welcome. We’ll make room.”
“If it’s any trouble—”
“No, no,” Rose interposed. “If Carl—he’s our rabbi, you know—if he said you should stay here, fine. No one told us, that’s all.”
“Perhaps they got their dates mixed,” Elly suggested. “Or their houses.”
Jay said, “I doubt that,” and then introduced the girl, a dancer named Renée Kert, to everyone. The girl was obviously embarrassed but she had a rather brusque manner which prevented her discomfort from seeming painful.
“Why didn’t I know there was a dance recital at school tomorrow?” Elly said. “I go to Crofts College,” she explained.
“Elly dances, too,” Max interpolated.
“The hell I do! I used to study, at Vernon.”
“Oh,” Renée said. “Do you know Vera Stein?”
“Sure. She was the administrative assistant.”
“Really? She was a pupil of mine.”
Mimi was standing in the doorway. “What is it, Mimi?” Rose inquired. “Is dinner ready?”
“Yes, Mrs. Kaufman.”
“Well, thanks for telling me…. She’ll never learn…. One more, Mimi. An extra place.”
Mimi made a face and vanished. Trying their best to make the girl feel at home, the Kaufmans took Renée in to dinner while Jay explained how he had known her in New York when she had danced with the Ballet Theatre when he was the pianist there, and everyone agreed it was a small world.
Alec lingered behind, crushing his cigarette in the ash tray and holding it there long after the sparks were cold, thinking about dancers appearing suddenly in the doorway before dinner and what he would have done had it been Annette standing there holding a valise and calling his name.
Max Kaufman threw his shirt on the bed and said: “Did you hear what she called the house? A showcase of architecture. That’s very gratifying, Rose, you know.”
“Did you call Professor Lanner?”
“Yes. He apologized. He thought he’d asked me last week at the trustees’ meeting. He was sorry and he was very nice. So we’ll put her up for a night.” He sat down wearily. “I don’t know why, but she seemed to have an effect on everybody.”
“She had an effect on Mimi all right.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Alec was strange.”
“Max, he’s been quiet ever since he came. It’ll take time. We’ve won for the time being. Let him sulk a little. Maybe the Kert girl reminded him of his girl. She’s a dancer too.”
“Maybe. Elly seemed to resent her a little too. I suppose because she doesn’t dance herself any more. That night I saw her dance at the school, Rose! You would have died. Like a regular dancer. So beautiful.”
“And what do you know from regular dancers? She’s a pretty girl, so she looked good on the stage.”
“She’s more than a pretty girl…. Pour me a little of that brandy, Rose.”
Rose poured. “Here,” she said. “Do you think Jay is interested in her the way he seems to be?”
“I’ll tell you what’s more important, Rose. I think Elly really likes him. That’s what I want to happen. She should really and truly like someone.” He sighed deeply and took a gulp of brandy.
“Slowly, Max dear. Drink brandy slowly. You remember what Harry told you when he gave it to you. Don’t drink it like whisky.”
“Okay, I’ll drink it like brandy. I hope, I just hope she likes him, really.”
“Yes, I do too.” She sighed. “Not that a musician is any bargain. He plays the piano beautiful but it’s no life.”
“Look, do I have to worry about money where a son-in-law is concerned? Let her be happy.” But he had, as he spoke, the sense that happiness for Elly would be a complex affair, and saw that he was too eagerly leaping at the possibility of her loving Jay Gordon.
“We’ll see,” Rose said. “Uh, I’m feeling so low. I wish the holidays were over. I always feel something terrible is going to happen.”
“Oh, it’s all from your childhood, Rose, Rose. When you were a little girl what happened on the holidays? Your father got drunk—right? And when he came home you were afraid—right? Of what? Afraid he would beat you and your sisters—right?”
Rose nodded. “Yeah, but that was a long time ago.” She looked down at her pudgy, middle-aged woman’s body. “You mean to tell me, my psychiatrist, that I’m still afraid my father’s going to beat me even though he’s been in his grave and I’ve been lighting yartzeit lamps for twenty years?”
“Yeah, if you only knew, that’s what it would turn out to be, I’ll bet.”
“Drop dead!”
“Good night, dear.”
“Good night.”
The next day everyone was overly nice to Renée Kert at breakfast. She, on the other hand, seemed quite at her ease and smiled her way through the meal. Then she was taken on a grand tour of the glass house by Max and Rose with Mimi trailing nervously behind, emptying ash trays. Then Renée and Elly walked out behind the house near the tennis court.
“What happened?” Elly exclaimed. “It’s freezing.” The wind was bending the trees, toward the house and the garden was in a chilly turmoil.
“I don’t mind.” Renée smiled. “I hate Indian summer. Better one way or the other. Hot or cold. Where’s Jay?”
“I don’t know. Inside somewhere.”
“I asked because it sounds like piano music coming from the house. But it could be the radio.”
“No, it’s probably Jay.”
“If it is, it’s wonderful,” Renée said. “You know he sort of gave up serious playing after his divorce.”
“Yes.” Elly breathed excitedly. “Isn’t it wonderful! He’s picked up since yesterday amazingly. He’s been here only a few days. I’m so good for him.”
Renée gazed at the excited young girl beside her and shook her head slowly. “I hope so,” she said, feeling a little old suddenly as many quite young people felt when confronted with Elly for the first time, wishing she could say that about some man. I’m not as unselfish as a young thing like this can be, she thought.
“I hope so, too,” Elly said, “but I wish you wouldn’t say that in such a hopeless voice.” She felt a long-delayed surge of anger directed at this dancer who toured and gave dance concerts, staying at the homes of strangers. I could be very happy for the rest of my life, Elly thought, staying at the homes of strangers.
“I didn’t mean—” Renée Kert began.
Elly interrupted, saying, “I think we’d better go back. It’s pretty cold.”
“All right. As a matter of fact I’d better get going. We have an eleven-o’clock rehearsal and I’d better get my things together.”
As they walked back Elly deliberately slowed her pace and asked: “How does it feel, what’s it like—to tour, I mean, and dance, I mean—”
“It’s what I do,” Renée replied simply. “It’s fine.”
“No, what I’m trying to say is—”
“Is it exciting? Yes, at first, but it’s more than excitement—you see, I love it.”
This was a little bewildering to Elly. Love was excitement, as happiness was various forms of excitement. There was nothing more than excitement. This girl was a liar. They went into the house, and Renée was heading for her room when she heard Jay playing a Beethoven sonata and went into the living room for a moment.
Instantly, as if she had planned it all, Elly r
an into the guest room where Renée had slept and shut the door behind her. She had no idea as to what she wanted to do, but the fact that she was breathing heavily told her that there was something here she must do. She opened the closet door. The dancer had hung none of her clothes there. Then she caught sight of the tip of a suitcase sticking out from under the bed. She hauled it out and opened it. All the girl’s clothes were neatly packed there. What could she do? What did she want to do? She reached down beneath some carefully folded dresses and found leotards, thick to the touch. Carefully she reached inside each garment and tore and ripped in such a way that the rip would not be visible until it was unfolded. Then she folded all the leotards again and replaced the dresses above them. Hastily she closed the suitcase and replaced it partially under the bed.
Elly was tired and her face flushed. She stepped into the bathroom and rinsed her face. Then she joined Jay, Alec and Renée in the living room. Jay had stopped playing. Forcing herself, Elly faced Renée and said, “You’ll be late for your rehearsal.”
“You’re right. I’d better rush.”
“I’ll drive you over,” Alec offered. “Get your bag. I’ll get the car.”
“Can I help you pack?” Elly asked.
“No thanks, dear, I’m all packed.”
Nevertheless Elly walked along with her to the room and entered after her. She kept her eyes averted from the bed under which the suitcase lay, while Renée checked her makeup in the mirror. Finally, after what seemed an interminable time, Renée pulled the suitcase out and gazed at it.
“I hope I’ve got everything,” she said.
“I’m coming to the concert this afternoon. If you’ve left anything I’ll bring it.”
“That’s sweet of you. Okay.” She picked up the suitcase and went out.
Elly followed her, feeling like a fool for having exposed herself to the risk and tension of being present when the dancer might have opened her valise. She was not sorry for the destruction of the costumes, only curious as to whether they would be repaired in time for the concert, whether Renée could borrow others or, perhaps, whether she wouldn’t be able to go on at all, which Elly supposed had really been her purpose in tearing the leotards.
