An incident from a couple of years before came to Peter’s mind.
Holly and Jonathan and Charlotte and Peter had driven together to visit a friend of Charlotte’s who lived several hours north of New York. The trip, partially through a snowstorm, had been very difficult. They had gotten lost and members of the group had held sharply divergent opinions as to where to lay the blame for this problem and the best way to remedy it. Likewise, when a tire went flat, those changing it, as snow fell, expressed the view that the comments being made by the others were not helpful.
When they arrived, they were frustrated, tired, cross, and very hungry. The assumption that a good dinner would be waiting for them had kept them going, but as it turned out their hosts had eaten some cheese and crackers for dinner and that was all that they could offer the travelers. At the mention of cheese and crackers, Peter had almost begun to cry. They had been brought into the dining room, and Peter could still see the friend’s boyfriend, who had not greeted them or helped with their luggage, sitting at the table. He had a thin face with sunken eyes and a beard, and he wore a big, cream-colored cable-knit sweater. Cracker crumbs fanned out from his place. Charlotte’s friend herself, Margo, was cylinder-shaped and wore a down vest over a couple of layers of fleece and flannel. Peter realized the place was freezing.
Oh, why had they come! Margo was an old elementary-school classmate of Charlotte’s who was from a family of high rank but who had moved up here and gone native. Holding a master’s in social work, she was employed by the state, for which she labored tirelessly She had a dozen bumper stickers on her car urging care for the planet and votes for liberals. Her boyfriend, Lester, made mandolins or some such goddamned thing. Peter had noticed the various pairs of boots and bootlets and Muck shoes by the door. His feeling of loathing for this footwear was indescribable; he despised it.
The visitors said they were really starved and asked if they could make an omelette, but there were no eggs. No restaurants would be open except the fast-food places back out toward the highway. There was a supermarket open twenty-four hours a day, though, and it was decided that Holly and Peter would drive there and pick up a few things.
Peter could not have been in a fouler mood. The supermarket was a run-down place, one of the last outposts of a once great chain. Holly asked Peter to get a couple of items while she headed in another direction. Mustard? Heavy cream? What in the world? Peter asked himself. Why can’t we just get hamburger meat and rolls and get out of here? He carried out his mission, and Holly sent him on another, then another. “Spinach. Frozen is okay.” Finally, when Holly wanted him to look for cilantro, he could stand it no longer.
“Cilantro? Cilantro?! Jesus Christ, Holly! What are you talking about? Are you crazy? Are you actually saying that you want me to hunt around for cilantro in this place? Holly, this is the kind of place where the peanut butter is past its sell date! Nobody’s going to find cilantro here! We might as well try to find truffles! Or eel? Yeah, I think I’ll just go over to the seafood department and ask how their eel is today. Come on! I’m getting a couple of frozen pizzas and we’re getting out of here.”
Holly looked at him with fury. Her face was red, except where she had scrunched up her brow, making white bulges. “I bet they do have cilantro,” Holly said, “because every goddamned grocery store in the country has cilantro nowadays. I was going to make a chicken thing, which is really good and takes about half an hour and that I thought would be a nice thing for me to make—me—after this goddamned trip so we would have a good meal, especially since it looks like for the rest of the weekend we won’t be eating anything.”
Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “But forgive me. Please forgive me for presuming that you would like to eat anything halfway decent. I do apologize. Please, you go off and buy whatever the fuck you want.”
She turned and started pushing the cart away. Only a few people were in the store and they all seemed to have been watching the argument. An obese teenaged checkout clerk, with a black smudge of nascent mustache on his upper lip, stared at Holly and Peter. Peter took a couple of steps toward her, then stopped and watched her move off with an indignant stomp. Screw it, he thought, and went off to find the pizzas. When he actually saw them, though, he couldn’t go through with it. They looked like props for a school play that someone had painted to look like pizza, and he knew they would taste like it too. So he skulked around until Holly appeared at the checkout. She had put her hair up in what seemed a frosty gesture, and she silently refused his offer to help with the bags. Neither said anything on the trip back.
Jonathan had brought some very good wine as a house present. When Peter and Holly returned, they found him drinking a glass of it. Red wine gave Margo a headache; Lester was a recovering alcoholic and drug addict, as he informed them all; only Charlotte had joined Jonathan, and she was nursing half a glass. Jonathan had obviously already had a glass or two. He was asking Lester about the latter’s time on a shrimp boat, while Charlotte listened patiently to Margo. Margo was the kind of person who had one and only one topic of conversation, her workplace. In no time she was telling Charlotte about all her crises there and presenting them in such a way that only someone intimately familiar with the individuals involved and their duties could possibly understand what she was talking about (“So when I took over Patty’s unit …”).
“Oh, hi, you guys,” Jonathan said when Holly and Peter came in the door. “How did it go? Here, let me help.” He leapt up and took a couple of bags.
“It went fine,” said Holly. They bustled into the kitchen, Margo following. Holly made many apologies to her for taking over her kitchen and asked if it was okay and explained that they were all just so starved they really needed a meal, and of course she and Lester would never have expected them to be so late or, if they were to arrive so late, that they wouldn’t have eaten on the road.
“That’s fine,” Margo said dully, turning to leave.
“Oh, Margo?” Jonathan said.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering if there was any more of that toast with cheese. It was so good.”
The fluorescent kitchen light made Margo’s round face shine like a waxed apple. “That was all the cheese,” she said, and went on her way.
“Margo made us—well, Charlotte didn’t have any—some little toast points with melted cheese,” Jonathan explained. “It’s too bad there’s no cheese left because it was delicious. Oh, well. Now, what can I do?”
Holly set him about a task and went to work herself. Peter was leaning against the opposite counter and watched them from behind. Holly had not addressed him since she had stormed off at the store, and she did not now request his assistance. After a few moments of feeling uncomfortable, he finally said, “Well, guys …” and strolled out of the kitchen as casually as he could. He felt the sting of Holly’s glare on the back of his neck, like a poisoned dart. Half an hour later, dinner was ready. It was very good. Peter could taste an especially delicious ingredient. Cilantro.
Later that night, when everyone was going to bed, Peter looked around for Holly. She was brushing her teeth at the sink in the bathroom the guests were sharing; the door was open.
“Oh, Holly, hi,” Peter said.
“Hrgl,” said Holly, still brushing.
Her hair was down and had been brushed. She wore flannel pajamas.
“Look,” said Peter, “I’m really sorry I got so pissed off back there. I’m really sorry. I was so cold and tired and hungry—and so frustrated.” He tilted his head and rolled his eyes to take in the whole household. “I thought we were going to get some microwavable cheeseburgers or something that would be ready in three minutes, so when there was a recipe involved … But it was really good, and you were completely right, it was much better to actually eat something.”
Holly looked at Peter while he spoke but continued to brush her teeth. Peter noticed a hardness in her eyes, and he became frankly alarmed when he reached the end of his speech and saw that
they had not softened whatsoever.
Holly spat. She rinsed her brush, and then used it once again. She looked at Peter with cold contempt. Again, she spat. Again, she rinsed her brush. Taking her time, she put it in a holder above the basin. She filled a cup of water, swished some water around in her mouth, spat, and repeated the sequence. Finally, she returned the cup to the shelf and patted her mouth with a face towel. She looked at Peter with those hard eyes and spoke evenly. “I think we both know that this fight wasn’t really about cilantro.”
Peter gulped. Uh-oh. Had he stumbled into some intense conflict with Holly? Then he intuited the truth.
“No,” he said. “Uh … it was really about cumin?”
“Shoot!” Holly said with a laugh. “I had you going.”
They stood there for moment.
“Anyway,” Peter said, “I am sorry.”
“Me too,” said Holly.
“Well—good night.”
“Good night, Peter.”
They embraced. Peter held Holly with a polite tentativeness that he believed was suitable given her state of dishabille. Holly kissed him on the cheek.
The image from that night that came to Peter now was Holly’s face when she had finally smiled at him. She had had a little crescent of toothpaste under her lip. She had left some of it on his cheek when she kissed him, and later he had had to wipe it off. He couldn’t say that he had enjoyed it when Holly was yelling at him in the store, but, at the same time, he wasn’t completely averse to repeating the experience. Charlotte had never yelled at him; she had sulked, or become arch. Being married to Holly and having a life in which every so often they had a huge fight about some ridiculously trivial matter, this appealed to Peter. It meant that their lives really would be mixed up together; he liked the domesticity and marriedness of it. What better proof could there be that he really loved Holly?
That ultimately was where his thoughts led him: to the fact that he loved Holly, really, actually did love her. It wasn’t only that he was in love with her. He couldn’t put “in love” and “love” in separate categories, for the sexual, romantic, and affective aspects of his feelings for her all partook of and reinforced one another in an incomprehensibly multifarious way as part of one organic system, but he loved her. He really loved her. No matter what happened, what he really cared about was her happiness. He knew this. He loved her.
Peter had a very clear idea of what would happen when they returned to her aunt’s apartment—up to a certain point. Watching her from behind as they entered; tossing aside his coat; making a drink; settling on the soft sofa of her aunt’s cushioned, pillowy library; talking about the party. What a spectacular house! Holly would say. Did you see the paintings in the Music Room! Then the moment when they would fall silent, and Peter would stare at his drink, feeling Holly’s tender, expectant gaze on his profile. She would have taken off her shoes and her legs would be curled up under her. What’s up? she would ask.
Then he would tell her what had happened with Charlotte. He would speak of it with the underlying tone of seriousness that one ought to use in a case like this, out of respect for the emotions, persons, and customs involved. Holly would think him heartless if he appeared to view Charlotte’s departure with no sense of loss. But he would also add touches of self-deprecating humor. Then, bringing Holly down with him into a deeper zone of intimacy, Peter would confide that while there was of course a feeling of sorrow, he had to acknowledge, as hard as it was to admit, that the marriage had been a mistake and that he didn’t doubt that Charlotte would be happier. Good for her, in fact, for having the courage finally to join the man of her dreams. A soft laugh. True, not necessarily the man of everyone’s dreams …
Yes, Holly would say, almost to herself, good for her.
Then there would be a pause. Peter would look into Holly’s eyes. He would take her hand. “Holly,” he would say, “there’s something else …”
From this point, Peter couldn’t predict how things would go. He knew what he hoped for: Holly would cry and embrace him. “Oh, Peter, I love you, too!” For a long time they would kiss, pet, and caress each other, murmuring the sweetest endearments. Peter happened to know that a collection of ballads recorded in the fifties, Lee Wiley’s Night in Manhattan with Joe Bushkin, was in the CD player, and they would listen to it over and over, set on repeat.
Would this happen? Yes, Peter thought now, yes it would. In his current mood, he was sure that this ultimate triumph awaited him. He had never before allowed himself to be so certain of it. He closed his eyes and imagined her lips on his, her hand stroking his hair. His heart was pounding as hard as a blacksmith hammering on an anvil. He had to find her and bring her home.
Peter first sought Holly in the State Drawing Room, but she wasn’t there. She wasn’t in the Yellow or Blue Drawing Room either. A smattering of people were lounging around the Library; some were playing cards. But there was no Holly. Peter found three men in the Antelibrary who were huddled together whispering. When Peter entered, they looked at him and scowled. Now, this was strange: Holly should have been in one of these rooms. Peter returned to the State Drawing Room. It had thinned out a bit as people had begun to go home. He walked around twice. No Holly. He rechecked the other drawing rooms without success. When he returned to the Library the group was smaller, and as for the Antelibrary, the three men had vanished.
Peter was at a loss. It was inconceivable that Holly had left. There simply had to be some out-of-the-way place that he hadn’t found, where she had become engrossed in a conversation. He shed his brandy and cigar as he set out on a more intensive search. The Orangery? He hadn’t been there, but it was completely empty when he arrived. The Music Room? Empty. Likewise the West Hall. In the Studiolo, a man and woman were admiring the fantastic trompe l’oeil marquetry representing books and musical instruments on shelves; but the woman was not Holly. He returned to the Sculpture Gallery. No one. Then Peter thought he heard voices. He stopped to listen. While the words were indistinct, it seemed to be a man and a woman. There was laughter. The sound bounced around, making it difficult to figure out where it was coming from, but as best Peter could tell it originated from somewhere farther along in the direction he was headed. The room where Peter had eaten dinner was on the far side of the Sculpture Gallery, and the other room, the feminine one, was beyond that. Peter walked through the gallery and came to the first room. White tableclothes still covered the tables, but they had been cleared of everything but their flowers. He could hear a man’s voice easily now. It was coming from the farther room. Weaving between tables, Peter headed toward it. Before reaching the door, he stopped. He heard a woman’s laughter. Peter walked a little ways and then passed through the doorway to the other room, the one with the panels depicting amorous children of the ancien régime. He had taken only one step inside when he came to a sudden halt. To his left, catty-corner from him, at a table about forty feet away, seated side by side, in chairs facing out, leaning their heads close together, speaking in a very confidential fashion, then breaking apart in laughter, were a man and a woman. The woman was Holly. The man was Arthur Beeche. Peter saw flowers and two champagne glasses on the table. Nearby, a stand held an ice bucket. A bottle protruded from the bucket with its neck covered in gold foil, like an Egyptian queen’s necklace.
As Peter took in this sight, all the blood in his head and body seemed to rush to his feet, as if someone had pulled a plug. His stomach seemed to fall several stories, as if someone had opened a trapdoor beneath it. It is interesting how powerful the effect of an entire gestalt can be even when its discrete elements, in and of themselves, are of little importance. No doubt early man, in adapting to life on the savanna of southeastern Africa, developed the skill of meshing the information he received from his different senses and then comparing the result with similar combinations stored in memory. A movement in the grass, the cry of a bird. But like so many of our mental adaptations to our original environment, this one could produce the effect o
f instinct overruling reason, and, as a result of our primitive fears, we can draw unwarranted conclusions. For, taken individually, what would each datum confronting Peter really signify? There was a man. There was a woman. There was a table. There were flowers. There were glasses of champagne. There was a bottle of champagne. The man and woman were inclining their heads so close to each other that they almost touched. Why, without knowing more, one could interpret these details in a thousand different ways!
Holly saw him. She turned to Arthur and said something, and then Arthur also looked over at Peter, smiling broadly. Holly smiled broadly, too. “Peter!” she called. In a gesture worthy of a ballerina known especially for her graceful arms, she raised her hand to beckon him. “Peter!”
“Hello!” Peter cried with a wave and a smile.
Locking his eyes on the pair and maintaining his smile as if rigor mortis had set in, Peter barely avoided walking into tables and tripping on chairs as he approached his destination. Arriving there, he found an Arthur and a Holly who slid their eyes over to look at each other even as they greeted him.
Arthur rose; he had a powerful presence, and his movement created a heavy wake in the ether. “So! This is our Mr. Russell!” he said cheerily, holding out his hand.
“Hello!” said Peter. He and Arthur shook hands vigorously. Arthur had a big, powerful hand.
“Hi, Peter,” said Holly.
“Holly! Hello!” said Peter.
Love In the Air Page 33
