The Virtuous Woman

by Gilbert, Morris

  But Grace was looking at Brian and saw his scowl. “What’sa matter, brother? You too stuck up to meet anybody new?”

  Brian flushed and said, “Grace, you’ve been drinking.”

  “Sure I been drinkin’. What about it?”

  “Maybe you’d like to go up to your room, dear,” Cara said. Her face was pale, and her hands were so unsteady she had to clasp them together.

  Paige was glaring at the pair. “What do you mean getting drunk and bringing a total stranger into our home! Don’t you have any decency?”

  “Well, la-di-da!” Grace spat back. She glared at Paige and then laughed coarsely. “It wouldn’t do you no harm to get a real man. Ain’t that right, Kev?”

  When Kevin said nothing, anger swept through Grace. “For pete’s sake, this is some dull bunch! Come on, Vic, let’s get outta here and find us a livelier crowd.”

  “It’s too late, Grace,” Phil said. He moved quickly to stand close to her. “It would be better if you didn’t go.”

  Grace scowled at him. “A little late for you to be wondering about your wanderin’ daughter, ain’t it, Pops?”

  “I think you’d better go, Mr. Costello.”

  “I’ll go with him,” Grace said. She started for the door but was so drunk she had difficulty staying on her feet.

  Only Phil’s quick reaction stopped her from falling. He grabbed her arm and held her upright. “Good night, young man.”

  Costello’s face grew hard. “It’s your house,” he said.

  “Gimme a call tomorrow, Vic,” Grace mumbled.

  Costello turned and walked away, his back stiff.

  “He’s an important guy,” Grace muttered.

  Phil put his arm around her as she slumped against him. “You’d better go to bed, Grace.”

  She blinked her eyes, and her head rolled slightly. “I guess I am a little high. Maybe I better hit the sack.” She looked around the table and saw the horrified glances. “Well,” she said with a giggle, “I bet none of your other kids ever came in drunk, did they?”

  Cara rose quickly and took Grace’s other arm. “Come along, dear.”

  As Phil and Cara left, escorting Grace between them, Scott asked curiously, “What’s wrong with that lady?”

  “She’s not feeling well, dear,” Joan said.

  Brian and Paige exchanged glances. Both were stunned by the enormity of this family disaster.

  Seeing the expression on their faces, Kevin said quietly, “We’ve got to remember where she came from.”

  “Well, she’s not where she came from now,” Brian snapped. “I think it’s too late for her.”

  Kevin did not answer. His eyes were troubled, and he simply shook his head.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Party

  Grace woke up with a start and looked around wildly. For several seconds she was confused, not knowing where she was, but then her memory came pouring back. She looked down and saw that she was still wearing one of the two dresses she had bought for herself, and a sense of shame came over her. Throwing the blanket back, she saw that her shoes had been removed. She vaguely remembered buying the dress and then going into a bar. She had been drinking, and a man named Vic had talked to her—but from then on it was hazy. Like a kaleidoscope, she remembered a series of bars and dancing and then resisting Vic’s advances.

  She stood up abruptly, then closed her eyes tightly, for a headache struck her like a red-hot ice pick being pressed through her temples. She held on to her head for a moment as she swayed. She took a deep breath, then slowly moved her hands and opened her eyes. She walked carefully to the window and looked out, noting that it was sometime in the morning, for the sun was not far up in the sky. The grass was bright green, and the large oak trees that framed the driveway were bright with their early spring growth. As she stood there, she remembered fighting Vic off in the taxi on the way back to the house. She had a horrible taste in her mouth, as she always did when she drank too much, and felt disgusted with herself. She always hated the morning after her drinking binges because she suffered frighteningly painful hangovers, yet despite the consequences, she continued to drink too much.

  Finally she turned from the window and went to the bathroom adjoining her room. She drew a hot bath, undressed, and soaked in the tub until her head felt better. She rinsed and got out, drying off with a fluffy white towel, then put on the new underwear she had bought, pleased with the silkiness of the garments. She slipped into her other new dress, even though she knew—despite the high price—that it was not the sort of dress a young Winslow woman would wear. It was too tight and the color was too bold—a brilliant peacock blue. But to her it was beautiful, and if Paige didn’t like it, that was just too bad. She put on her stockings and shoes, then sat down on the vanity and brushed her hair. She was sorry now she hadn’t washed it when she was in the bath, for she realized it smelled of smoke. But she didn’t feel well enough to go to the bother now. She studied her image in the mirror and began to put on her makeup. She had noticed that Cara used almost no makeup, and Paige used it sparingly. She thought about experimenting with less, but a defiance rose in her, and she quickly lavished on her favorite red lipstick and applied even more eyeliner than usual.

  Finally she pulled on the jacket she had bought. It was made of a smooth lightweight wool and felt good in the morning coolness of the house. She went down to the kitchen, where she found a short, heavyset woman working at the sink. She assumed this must be the cook, whom she had not yet met.

  The woman turned and said, “Good morning. You must be Miss Grace. I’m Betty, the Winslows’ cook.”

  “Good morning, Betty.”

  “You want some breakfast?”

  “No, just coffee.”

  “You ought to eat some breakfast. It ain’t good to go without eatin’ in the morning.”

  “Well, maybe a piece of toast with some jam.”

  “You sit down and I’ll fix it for you.”

  Glad enough to obey the cook’s order, Grace sat down and laced her coffee heavily with sugar and cream. When the toast came, she buttered it and put a thick layer of blackberry jam on it.

  “I done make that blackberry jam myself. You like it?”

  “It’s real good. How do you make blackberry jam?”

  Betty looked at her wryly, her eyebrow lifted. “You don’t know how to make jam? Why, there ain’t nothin’ to it. You first pick the ripest, plumpest berries you can find, then wash ’em and crush ’em in a big saucepan. You add water and sugar, heat it to boilin’, and stir until the sugar’s dissolved. You boil it till it’s thick, then you put it in jars and cover ’em with wax. How come you don’t cook, I wonder?”

  “I never learned to do much except open cans.”

  “Maybe I can learn you how to cook a little if you wants to know.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” She nibbled at the toast. “How long you been workin’ here?”

  “Twelve years. Me and Luke, we come here right after we got married. He’s a regular handyman, he is. Fixes things, does some of the rough cleanin’ and the like.”

  Grace ate her toast while Betty told her about some of the things Luke had fixed. She felt somewhat better by the time her toast and coffee were gone. “Thanks, Betty.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Grace. Your mama’s gone with Miss Paige, but your daddy is workin’ in his studio.”

  “Oh? I’ve never been there.”

  “It’s up on the third floor. It’s fixed up real nice and you get a wonderful view of the grounds from the big windows. You go up the stairs, turn to your left, and there’s some more stairs.”

  “Thanks, Betty.”

  Leaving the kitchen, Grace made her way up both sets of stairs and paused outside the heavy oak door. She was ashamed to face Phil, but she preferred to face up to things rather than put them off. She opened the door and saw Phil standing in front of an easel by one of the tall windows.

  Phil turned at the sound. “Why, come in, Grace.”<
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  “I don’t wanna bother you. You probably don’t like people watchin’ you work.”

  “Not a bit of it. Come on over. I’ve got a pot of hot tea here under this tea cozy.”

  “I don’t drink much tea.”

  Phil was wearing a pair of light brown trousers and a white shirt stained with paint. He laughed as he noticed Grace’s eyes settle on his shirt. “I don’t wear a smock. Makes me feel too much like an artist. I just wipe my fingers on this old shirt. Cara’s been trying to get me to throw it away for years.” He put his paintbrush down and waved at the small table. “Here, sit down and we’ll have some tea. Did you have breakfast?”

  “Yeah. I just came from the kitchen.”

  Phil made a business of pouring the tea, and then he sat down across from her, leaning on the table with his elbows. “I try to get most of my work done in the morning. The light seems to be best then.”

  Grace looked down at the cup for a moment, then lifted her eyes. “Sorry I made such a mess last night.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I won’t do that again—bring a man home, I mean.”

  Phil nodded. “That might be best—for you, I mean. What do you plan to do today?”

  “Don’t know. Nothin’ much.”

  “You ought to get Paige to show you around. Maybe you two could go shopping.”

  “Guess I need somebody to help me with that.” She looked down at her dress. “I know this dress ain’t what looks good, at least to you.”

  “I’m no expert on women’s clothes.”

  “Neither am I, I guess.” She looked over at the painting on the easel and said, “I don’t know nothin’ about painting.”

  “I’d be glad to show you a little. I’ve spent most of my life smearing paint on canvas.”

  “Did you start when you were a kid?”

  “Oh no, I grew up on a ranch herding cattle. Didn’t let anybody know I was painting for a long time. I was ashamed of it.”

  “Why was that, Phil? What’s wrong with painting?”

  “Well, cowboys mostly look on artists as sissies.”

  “Are they?”

  “Some of them, I guess.”

  Grace got up and began to look at the pictures lining the walls. “Did you do these?”

  “No, those are all by other artists.”

  “Why don’t you put your own up?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it’d be like putting your own photograph on the wall. Seems a bit egotistical.” Phil grinned and scratched his nose, leaving a small blue mark there. “You want to see some of my stuff?”

  “Sure.” She looked over at him. “You’ve got paint on your nose.”

  Phil laughed and got to his feet, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping it off. “I get it in my hair and everywhere else. Come along. I keep some of my old things over here, along with some of the paintings I don’t want to sell.”

  “How much do you get for a painting?”

  “Oh, it depends. Some of them pay pretty well. Others don’t.”

  He opened a large cabinet and began to pull out canvases. He lined them up on a shelf built specifically for temporary displays. “These are some of my early things.”

  Grace moved closer until her nose was almost pressing against a painting of a poor young woman sitting on the doorstep of a dilapidated old house with a baby in her arms.

  “You don’t look at them that way, Grace. You stand back. When you stand that close, it’s just a smear of paint.”

  “Why it is, ain’t it?” she said with amazement. She had never looked at a real painting. All she had ever seen were reproductions that looked about the same up close as far away. She stood back and tilted her head to one side.

  “Why do you paint poor people?” she said with some distaste. “Why not paint flowers or something?”

  “Poor people are a real part of life, aren’t they?”

  “Sure they are, but who wants to look at a crummy old house? You see enough ugly things in the real world. I’d rather see a picture of a pretty baby or a lake or maybe a cat.”

  “I used to paint those types of things when I first came to New York City, but I was stunned when I saw the hard life that people led in the tenements. So I changed my direction. I think artists should show life as it is, you know.”

  “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”

  They moved on to the next painting, and Grace listened carefully as her father pointed out the colors he had used to create contrasting brighter areas and shadows. “I guess I’m prob’ly the most stupid person in the world when it comes to art,” she said.

  “You’re never too old to learn. I’ve got some books downstairs.”

  “I wouldn’t understand ’em.”

  “I could explain some of it to you if you’d like. It might be fun.”

  “All right,” she said, “but not now. You’re busy.”

  “Stay and watch if you’d like.”

  She hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not a bit. I think I could paint in the middle of a carnival and not even look up.”

  He grinned then, which made him look much younger. She was impressed at how handsome he was. He picked up the brush and resumed work on the painting. Grace stood there fascinated by what she saw. She liked Phil Winslow very much. He did not seem like a father to her, and for some reason this made her sad.

  Phil worked in silence for the next half hour. Grace watched him for a while and then went back to study the paintings he had set on the shelf.

  “That’s that,” he finally said. “I’ll have to let that dry.” He put the paintbrush in the Ming vase. “Did your mother tell you about the party she’s having for you tonight?”

  “No, I haven’t talked to her today.”

  “It won’t be a big affair—she’s just having a few people over to meet you. Paige’s fiancé and his parents will be here, along with some other folks.”

  “I don’t wanna go.”

  “Why, it’s nothing serious. It’ll be fun.”

  “I dunno. Do you think your friends are ready for me?”

  Phil felt a keen pity for this young woman. “I know this has been tough on you, but we’re your family. It’ll take a while to get used to each other. We’ll all have to learn.”

  “You don’t have to learn anything, but I do, and I don’t think I can.”

  Phil put his hand on her shoulder. When she drew back and half closed her eyes, he removed his hand at once. She clearly wasn’t ready for any expression of physical affection.

  ****

  The knock caught Francis Key off guard. He had been pounding away at the typewriter, and the sound of the sudden rapping on his door made him straighten up. He shoved his chair back and went to the door, wondering who it was. He had few visitors and didn’t really want any. With the money he’d earned from the Winslows, he was able to get back to work on his novel again, and he’d been making good progress today. But the knock was insistent.

  Opening the door, he saw Grace Winslow standing there. She was wearing a dress he hadn’t seen before, but one as tasteless as the two he had seen. “Hello, Grace,” he said, not moving.

  “Ain’tcha gonna ask me in?”

  Key heard the slur of her words and knew she had been drinking, even though it was only early afternoon. He reluctantly stepped back. “Of course. Come on in.” He caught the smell of alcohol as she passed by. She was steady enough, it seemed, so at least she was not falling-down drunk. He closed the door and turned to where she was standing in the middle of the room, looking around.

  “These are your digs, huh?”

  “Yes ... pretty small, isn’t it? How’d you find me?”

  “I burgled Phil’s desk. He had your name in his address book.”

  “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “I’m not a nice person, Francis. I thought a smart guy like you’d already figured that out. Everybody else has.”

  “Oh, c
ome on. Don’t talk like that.”

  “It’s true enough. Everybody in the family’s tryin’ not to look shocked at baby sister Grace.”

  “Here, sit down. You want something to drink?”

  Grace giggled. “I already had something to drink. Maybe I’ll have another one. What’ve you got?”

  “Juice. Coffee.”

  “None of the hard stuff? Nah, you wouldn’t have none of that. Not the holy man.”

  Key shifted his feet. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

  “Maybe I won’t if you do me a favor.”

  Key felt an alarm go off in his head. “What kind of favor, Grace?”

  “My new family’s havin’ a little party for me tonight. I don’t wanna go by myself. You come with me.”

  “Why, I haven’t been invited.”

  “Sure you have,” Grace said with a grin. “It’s my party and I’m invitin’ you.” She came to stand directly in front of him and asked suddenly, “How tall are you?”

  “Five-eight.”

  “So am I. So we got somethin’ in common. But with these high heels on I’m taller than you. You got any cowboy boots?”

  Key grinned. “No, afraid not.”

  “Maybe I can go barefooted. Why couldn’t you have been taller?”

  “Man cannot add one cubit to his stature.”

  “Cubit? What the heck is that?”

  “Oh, it’s just an old measurement—the distance from your wrist to the end of your longest finger, around eighteen inches. It means you can’t make yourself taller by wanting to be taller.”

  “Why do you talk like that? You’ve been educated too much. That’s your problem.”

  Key laughed. “You may be right. One of my professors told me I’d been educated beyond my capacity. He didn’t like me much. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  “Not too hard. So you went to college, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t even finish high school.” She started reading the titles of some of the books on the bookshelves. Finally she turned back around to face him. “Well, are you goin’ to the party or not?”

  “I don’t think I’d better, Grace.”