Jewels for eyes. Fragrance behind each ear. A ready smile, intel ligent sense of humor. She knows she's approved of, otherwise she would not be a guest at this table to which Persia Courtney in all the beauty and charm of her youth would never never never have been invited.
Seeing that Graice hasn't been actively involved in any conversation, missis Savage adroitly draws her out, as missis Savage never fails to do, and there's talk for a brief while of Graice's course work at the university, and is she going to continue to live in that dreary place on Salina Street missis Savage has seen the rooming house from the street , and does she like Skaneateles. it is beautiful, isn't it; the Savages have been coming here for thirty years. Graice agrees that the lake is beautiful. Graice says that the lake is the most beautiful lake she has ever seen. One of the other guests, a stocky middle aged woman with a braid down her back, a summer artist as she calls herself, tells a story of a tragic sailing accident here some summers ago, two young people drowning in a sudden gale, and after a pause Graice Courtney speaks of a tragic boating accident when she was a small child. Her father was involved in local Hammond politics, and the Hammond mayor took a number of his friends and their families out on his yacht, on the Erie Canal, and somehow, Graice isn't quite sure how, it happened that a boy fell over the side and drowneda re d haired boy she remembers distinctly, about eleven years oldmaybe in fact the boy had meant to swim from the side of the yacht; maybe the yacht was docked and most of the adults had gone ashore, Graice can't re member the details. She has no idea why she is telling the Savages and their guests this story but she's speaking rapidly, breathlessly now, sweat breaking out on her forehead and in her armpits. a strange quavering to her voice like the quavering of candle flame. and it's the re flection of candle flame in the glass topped table she's staring at, saying she was too young she can't re member her only clear memory of that day is the sight of the red haired boy's body being lifted from the water, the way the earthen colored water streamed from him, making his features look for a moment or two almost as if he were alive.
She hears her voice rapid and headlong, unable to stop.
Though she knows these people, these strangers, are staring at her, perplexed.
You don't forget. Some things you see, you're a witness to, you never forget. Even if there's no Her voice wavers and goes out, her mind too seems to have gone blank.
She senses in a panic that doctor Savage and missis Savage who are so fond of her are exchanging a startled glance, that she has backed herself into a corner, embarrassing her listeners, and, summoning up her ingenuity, she shakes her head as if she too is perplexed, laughs, makes a joke of it, saying, with just the right degree of appeal and helplessness, Which is why, I think, I never learned to swim. I'm afraid of the water and I never learned to swim.
Both Byron Savage and Alan Savage say, at once, I'll teach you.
Says Graice Courtney, laying down her napkin and rising quickly from her chair when the black woman appears, Now, missis Savage, let me, and in her role as convalescent missis Savage acquiesces with a weak, pleased smile; by this time Graice Courtney is so much a part of the family it seems quite natural for her to help out with a meal now and then in missis Savage's place.
In the kitchen Graice says to the black woman, It's always so friendly at the Savages', isn't it? and the black woman nods emphatically, Yes'm, sure is, the gold filling winking between her two front teeth, and Graice says uncertainly, You're from Syracuse?
and the woman says, Yes'm, I am, as they stack dishes in the sink, set out cups and saucers on a tray, and Graice has something further to say but suddenly can't re member what it is, she's aware of the black woman watching her out of the corner of her eye, a certain tension between them, the black woman is solid, slender, about forty years of age, beautiful purplish black skin like Jinx Fairchild's and, like his, scintillating with myriad pinpoints of light. Graice Courtney has something further to say or to ask but she can't re member and in any case there's no time to waste; the coffeepot is percolating, a rich luscious coffee aroma fills the kitchen.
The candles have burnt to a quarter of their original lengths but the moths continue to throw themselves against the screen, soft pings!
barely audible against the saw notched singing of the crickets.
There's a breeze bearing a chill up from the lake. A frank smell of autumn.
Says Alan Savage, who has been asked about his work by the woman with the braid down her back, Art is art for a specific time and a specific place; art lor all the ages' is bogus, and as he speaks in his carefully modulated voice in which Graice Courtney can hear, so very subtly, the cadences of North Carolina, Byron Savage begins to clear his throat with more and more force, and drums his fingers on the edge of the glass table with more and more impatience, until, when Alan says, As Man Ray says, what is art but the giving of restlessness a material form,' doctor Savage suddenly explodes, saying, I hope art is more than that! More transcendent, I hope, than that! Mere nerves!
Mere twitches!
There follow then some minutes of sharp disagreement between father and son, and missis Savage who has been looking very tired now looks very upset, and the woman with the braid down her back tries humorously to intervene but without success, and finally, after a virtual monologue by doctor Savage the substance of which Graice Courtney has heard many times, in different forms, Alan Savage laughs and says, addressing Graice, The Surrealists believed that personal history is irrelevant, your family background, childhood, all that's merely personal; they believed you must erase the past and begin at zero, and you can see the logic ofit, can't you, Graice? At such times?
Graice Courtney sits staring, wordless. For the first time since her arrival at Skaneateles Lake she cannot think of a re ply.
Graice! Where are you going?
Downstairs in the cavernous foyer the floor is fake marble and polished to a cheap sheen; upstairs the corridors are laid with carpets no color and ratty with age.
It's all interior. Windowless. A sharp medicinal odor to the air.
Rows of office doors stretching out of sight. opaque glass in the doors. names painted in uniform black letters with the initials M.
D.
or D. D. S. after them.
And the tremulous fluorescent tubing overhead.
Graice, come back!
Suddenly she's running. For no reason she's running.
snatches her hand out of Persia's hand. runs. Though the dentist's office is on the twelfth floor and the elevator has stopped at the seventh and each previous time she's been brought uptown to this place she's been subdued and docile, a good girl, suddenly she snatches her damp hand out of Persia's and runs breathless and giggling knowing that Persia will chase her. except this time Persia doesn't.
She runs partway down the corridor; she stops, looking over her shoulder expecting Persia hot eyed and furious to be hurrying after her, running awkwardly in her high heels, that grim look to her mother's pretty mouth that can be so hilariously funny though it presages a scolding and maybe a slapping, but this time Persia isn't following after her; Graice stands paralyzed staring in disbelief and horror as her mother re mains in the elevator unmoving. her face cold and indifferent as a stranger's.
Then the elevator door closes. And the elevator is borne silently away, upward.
Graice screams.
It is the great terror of her life: lost on the seventh floor of the Osborne Building, and Persia borne away somewhere above, and there is nothing but the corridor stretching off, rows of office doors, opaque glass set in the doors, the air smelling of medicine, disinfectant, dust.
She's crying Mommy, Mommy. are duced within seconds to anguish she runs back to the elevator door but the elevator is gone, Persia is gone; she stands there stunned not knowing what to do.
sobbing helplessly.
Somewhere down the corridor a door opens sharply: a man with a gleaming head peers out. peers at her. but he withdraws almost immediately,
doesn't want any part of Graice Court they, bad bad girl how can you be so bad!
She's four years old. She's going to die.
She blames the navy blue suit with the flared skirt Persia is wearing, the dressy look Persia has for this Saturday morning visit to the dentist's; most of all she blames Persia's high heeled shoes, the white and tan leather shoes, the special pair. special gift from Daddy One day they were walking on Main Street and Persia noticed the new spring shoe fashions in a window and pointed at a pair of shoes saying there, that's for me, just joking naturally because these shoes are expensive but before she can get her breath Duke Courtney has hustled her inside, before she can figure out what is going on the shoes are hers.
Says Persia, laughing, You know why? The crazy fool just came from his bookie, that's why. He'd won his bet and never even let on.
Says Persia, Sweetie, this is a serious task. I mean serious.
Handing Graice the little brush, the little shoe polish brush, it's the white polish you apply to the beautiful high heeled shoes set atop a sheet of newspaper on the kitchen table. Be careful not to splash any white on the tan part, says Persia; if you're going to do this for Mommy you'd better do it right.
Graice's hand trembles just a little.
Graice's hand trembles but she concentrates on the task, she's so careful she forgets to breathe, and the white polish doesn't splash on the tan part of the shoe, and Persia sees what a good job she's done and kisses her on the nose, says, Hey you're smart! My special little sweetie.
By the time Persia pushes through the door marked FIRE EXIT at the end of the corridor Graice is weeping quietly. hopelessly. She's standing rooted to the spot in front of the elevator, never looking around until Persia whistles at her, that sharp shrieking comical whistle that's Daddy's whistle too; then she turns, astonished, sees Persia advancing toward her out of nowhere like one of the creatures in the movie cartoons where any surprise is possible, any abrupt change of fortune, any appearance or disappearance, any maiming, any metamorphosis, any transcendent happy ending, any humiliation or nightmare or hilarity, and she rushes head on at Persia, sobbing violently, and Persia is so guilt stricken and moved by the child's grief she forgets she'd meant to give her a good hard slap on her bottom; she stoops and hugs her, stoops sighing and hugs her, wipes her tear streaked snot streaked face with a Kleenex, Did you really think your mommy went away and left you? kissing her, hoisting her up in her arms, Did you re ally think that? Did you? Silly little Graice?
* * *
Momma?
It's just dawn. It's no day and no season she can name.
Her mother's arms have vanished. Her mother's heated face, her mother's sighing kiss, vanished.
She's an adult woman. in an adult woman's body.
She's lying paralyzed in a bed not known to her in a room and a place not known to her, exhausted from her dreaming as if she has fallen from a great height. unable to re call where she is or why, except she knows she isn't home.
After some minutes the world rolls back. As the world always does.
Graice Courtney tells herself: she's in Syracuse, New York; she's in her bed in her rented room on South Salina Street; she's safe, she's successful, she's supremely happy; there's a man who imagines he's in love with her though she can't, for a few perplexed seconds, remember his name.
A wet autumn morning, a garbage truck clattering down in the street.
The first snowfall of the season , blossom sized flakes falling languidly and melting on the ground, a premature snowfall delicate as lace, rapidly melting.
e says, How beautiful you are, Graice. but you must know it.
He says, Your face is a Botticelli face. but you must know it.
He says, I'm very attracted to you. but you must know it.
He is kind; Graice Courtney hasn't been deceived.
And gentle in his touch, not demanding, not in fact very confident, as if, though ten years older than she, he's in a way less experienced, more cautious, choosing his words with care as if fearing that even the most ordinary of words might betray him, or offend her.
He's a gentleman; he respects her virginity.
How happy I am, Graice re cords in her journal, her now shabby journal whose early dog eared pages she'll one day tear out withoutare reading.
Alan is exactly as missis Savage promised except perhaps sweeter Sometimes when she's too restless to sit at her desk she stoops over to write. Tonight was a typically lovely evening at the Savages'.
Alan was so warm so funny so well spoken so affectionate. Where once, and not so very long ago, Graice's handwriting was crabbed and minuscule now it has become gay, capricious, marked by swashes and flourishes. He says he loves me HOW HAPPY I AM sometimes filling the re st of the line or even the page with the squiggly marks with which one fills out the space on a personal check, after the numerals.
At Skaneateles Lake, the morning after they'd first met, Alan Savage proposed to Graice Courtney that, if she was interested, he teach her to sail.
It's sailing, he said, not swimming, that's the true transcendental experience.
They could use the Savages' old twelve foot sailboat, which Alan had loved so, as a boy. Which he missed, his many summers away from home.
Graice said, after a moment's hesitation, yes she'd like that.
Graice smiled happily and said yes she'd like that.
She chose to ignore how the young man stared at her, smiling but clearly uneasy in her presence. not knowing what to think of her or whether he should think of her at all.
But Graice reasoned She can't have told him anything but good of me: what else but good of me has she seen?
Down at the dock, setting up sail and for nearly two hours afterward on the lake, they exchanged very few words: Alan Savage called out directions; Graice Courtney made every effort to obey. Like children, they did a good deal of scrambling about the deck, and breathless laughing. The wind was up moderately, the sky clear, the sun bright as a heated coin.
Within minutes the Savages' house was hardly more than a white blur on shore.
Graice discovered that she liked sailing, liked it very much; surely it was obvious to Alan Savage how much she liked it, how happily she smiled, their eyes hooking onto each other's sometimes as if by accident. The tyranny of the sail before the tyranny of the wind.
nothing simpler.
Hair whipping in the wind she cried to Alan Savage, It is it is a transcendental experience, just like you said!
By the time they brought the sailboat in Alan Savage was enough at ease with Graice Courtney to say, jokingly, with his quick shyly aggressive smile and the habitual downcasting of his eyes that was seemingly a sort of tic with him, Too damn bad, my mother found you first.
e doesn't mean it, though.
He telephones Graice immediately after Labor Day, when he and his parents have re turned to Syracuse, and arranges to meet her: takes her to dinner at a restaurant in the city for an evening quite deliberately not shared with the elder Savages. When Graice inquires after them he says, smiling, an edge of impatience to his voice, You see my parents often enough, Graice, don't you? It isn't necessary for us to talk about them tonight, or even think about them. Look: we've just met.
I've walked in this place, seen you sitting here; I've come over.
Hello.
He's grinning like a boy. Reaching over the table to grip her hand in his, hard, and shake it.
Graice thinks, How strange he is.
She says, What a good idea.
He says, I think it's a good idea.
Though two hours later when they're sitting in his parked car in front of the rooming house on South Salina, talking quietly, not touching after the impulsive handshake Alan Savage hasn't touched Graice Courtney except to help her with her coat , he does shift to the subject of the elder Savages, as if unable finally to resist He says, My parents are very fond of you, as you must know. You're particularly close to my mother, I think?
&nb
sp; Graice says quickly, Your mother has been very kind to me.
At once, her eyes begin to fill with tears.
Alan Savage watches her closely, perhaps suspiciously. Has she?
Really? In what way?
Various ways.
Graice speaks so softly, Alan asks her to re peat what she's said.
He says half in protest, But you've been very kind to her.
Visiting her in the hospital, and at home; it meant a great deal to her. Especially since my sister. He pauses, re considering.
Then, in a different tone, his clumsy jocular tone, Are you the sort of person one should be kind to? he asks. Somehow you don't give that impression.
Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Is My Heart Page 34
