Belva Plain - Evergreen.txt

by Evergreen

  "I know you didn't. I came to find out how you are today."

  "The same as I was the last time you saw me."

  The girl's voice was hollow. Strange to be still thinking of her as a girl, and she a woman of thirty-six. But there was a girlishness about the slender neck, the grieving eyes.

  "I hear that Theo's home."

  "He came back yesterday."

  "And?"

  "And nothing. He should never have married me, that's all."

  "That was and is for him to judge, isn't it?" (I went about it all wrong the other day; I shall take desperate measures and win or lose.) "And suppose it were so, suppose I say, it's a little late to be thinking of that now, isn't it? A house filled with children and you talk like this? It's nuts, that's what it is!" Anna's voice rose and, remembering Nellie downstairs, she lowered it, although not the passion and intensity which mounted and filled her. "Look out there at that sky, at that world with all the sparkle! It's gorgeous, and you sit closed in here, mourning because it's not exactly what you wanted! Do you think even lucky people ever get all of what

  456

  they want? Who are you that you shouldn't have a burden of some sort to carry, even one of your own making? So many of our burdens are of our own making, anyway." She stopped, thinking: Retribution? Punishment? Punishment for me, through Iris, as I once thought it might have been through Maury? Absurd. A superstitious concept. Joseph would say it wasn't. Yes, he would say, everything has to be paid for before we're through.

  "You know I was happy," Iris said softly. "There wasn't a woman anywhere in the world, I swear it, who was happier than I was."

  It was true, it was true. Damn Theo again! The girl was dying inside because of him. Her pain could be as clearly seen as a burn on the flesh.

  This thing between a man and woman— Now, in the presence of her daughter, the ache of youth came alive again.

  "How long can you go on like this?" she asked abruptly.

  "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."

  "Have you talked to Theo since he got back?"

  "No. He's miserable too. The holiday didn't do him any good either." Iris laughed curtly.

  "Can't you feel sorry for him, then? Can you have so much feeling for the poor and oppressed of the world, and so little for him?"

  Iris gasped. "You're taking Theo's part?"

  "I'm not 'taking part' at all." What were Theo's words? 'A little bit crazy,' he had said. Anna went on, "It seems you've both gone a little bit crazy. Not that Theo didn't have reason enough. And maybe you did, too. I can't get inside your soul. All I'm saying is, we mustn't be beaten by the pressures of life. The pressures of life," she repeated and, caught in a whirl of thoughts, heard her voice die off in a minor key.

  After a moment she went on thoughtfully, "Iris, people don't like martyrs. You must learn to act, if you're to save anything, including yourself. When you don't feel joyous, pretend that you do. After a while you may actually start to feel that way."

  "That advice from you? A cheap subterfuge? Is that what you've been doing all these years? Pretending?"

  "What do you mean?" Anna stared at her daughter.

  Iris flinched from the stare. "I don't know, if you don't."

  But, Anna thought, I do know what she means. She has always had strange feelings about Paul, ever since he sent that picture years ago, perhaps even before that when Joseph and I had arguments

  457

  about the Werners. No matter. I can't help what she may have thought about me, and she has enough troubles of her own just now.

  Suddenly everything came together: panic, pity, impending doom, impatience and anger at having this mess dumped in her lap. Everything, but chiefly panic.

  "Listen to me! Come out of your cocoon and look at the real world out there! What if you were to lose him? You, who told me two days ago that you couldn't face the thought of living without Theo! You think, if he should finally get sick of all this and walk out, that there's going to be a line of men waiting to take you and your three children? Do you? Yes," Anna said cruelly, hacking at herself as well as at Iris, "and what if he were to die? What if he were to leave one morning as usual, and a little while later some stranger rings the doorbell, the way they came to tell us about Maury, and you learn that Theo is dead? What then? Tell me!" Her breath came fast and she couldn't stop the ugly words, although she saw that Iris was horrified. "Yes, in three seconds it would be all over. For good. And you left here alone in this house with your silent dignity, your wounds, your pride and your children who have lost their father. Well, it could happen!" Iris had put her hands over her face. "And don't come to me, if it should! Don't come to me for sympathy! Because I've had enough trouble to last me a lifetime and I'm not about to take on any more."

  The rotten thing was that she was taking pleasure in what she was saying, taking pleasure in hurting Iris! (You have no guts, Iris, that's what's the matter.) And at the same time she was so afraid. My God, if anything were to happen to you! Iris, my girl, my girl, why do things have to be so hard for you? You don't deserve it.

  "I don't care if you hate me. I'm saying what's right for you to hear. I don't care if you never speak to me again. Well, of course, I do," Anna said. She was losing her breath and weakening; she gripped the frame of the door. "But if you choose not to speak to me I can't help it. Now, listen to me, go out and get your hair done! And throw away that gray—that dustrag you've got on. I don't want to see rags like that on you ever again. Put a smile on your face when Theo gets home. Put one on, damn it, if you have to paste it on! Now call a taxi for me. I want to go home."

  Iris looked up. "That's a good idea. I was just going to ask you to leave my house."

  458

  "Well, I beat you to it."

  For the first time in her life Anna went to bed without being ill with a fever. But she had never been so exhausted. It had been like pushing an enormous round load up a hill; it kept slipping back and you had to push harder to regain what you had lost.

  Fortunately Joseph had gone with Eric to the city for dinner and a hockey game at the Garden. Eric always saved a day out of his vacation for his grandfather. Really, they ought to give him a great party for his twenty-first birthday, she thought, lying back against two pillows and warming her hands around the cup of tea. A beautiful party, with a little band, a group of youngsters to make live music.

  We've come a long way since that day we drove home from Brewerstown with a terrified, brave little boy. Thank God for that. And pray that this trouble with Iris works out as well. But I don't know, it's so far gone. Theo's awfully independent, not easy to handle, and she's impossible.

  I wonder when you can ever stop eating your heart out over a family? I hope the children haven't overheard or sensed things. Stevie especially: he's so bright, he sees everything. Sometimes I think he has a worried face, although probably that's just because he's the first child and the first child is supposedly more sensitive, more attuned to what's going on among adults. Although Maury wasn't—oh, yes, he was! You forget, you didn't find out until much, much later what had been going on under the sunny manner. Still, it's true he was never as complicated as Iris, I think.

  Everybody's difficult. I, too. My God, am I difficult!

  I can't agonize anymore. I want another cup of tea and haven't the strength to get up for it. I've done what I could for everyone. What counts most now, what has to count most now, is Joseph and me. I wish once more that I had his absolute faith. Still, since I know he has it, why do I guard him from all this trouble? He ought to be stronger than I. And he is, in so many ways. Only not where Iris is concerned.

  The front door opened. "Anna! I'm home!" Joseph called.

  "I'm upstairs, in bed."

  She heard him coming up two steps at a time, like a young man. "In bed already? What's the matter?"

  "Just a chill. Start of a cold. I've taken an aspirin," she fibbed.

  "You're always running around with your err
ands and charities!

  459

  Why don't you think of yourself and take it a little bit easy?" His voice was irritable and anxious.

  "Don't yell at me, Joseph. Besides, look who's talking about running around. Did you have a good time?"

  "Sure did. I dropped Eric off for a 'late date.' There's a crowd over at some girl's house near the Point."

  "That's good. I was thinking, we ought to give him a party for his next birthday."

  "Great idea! Shall I get you another blanket? Are you cold?"

  "No, I'm fine. Really. I'll be perfect again in the morning," she said cheerfully.

  He drew the blanket around her shoulders. "Well, I hope so. I just hope you've caught it in time before it turns into anything worse. God forbid."

  "I think I have," she said. "I think perhaps I've caught it in time."

  Theo came in and saw that the two narrow beds had been taken away. The old bed with the white and yellow spread was back in its place. Iris came out of the dressing room. She was wearing a robe of some sort, a hostess coat, they called it, or something like that. Anyway, it had a kind of pretty ruffled thing like daisy petals around the neck. She had been at the hairdresser's.

  "Good evening," he said. A small laugh like a bubble rose in his throat. "I see there have been some changes in the furniture."

  "Are you pleased?" she asked, without looking at him.

  "Very." He waited a moment and when she looked up he moved and put her head on his shoulder. She didn't come nearer, but she didn't go away, either. They stood like that for a minute or two. He remembered the night not so long ago, when it was he who had rested his head upon her shoulder and she had tried to give comfort to him. Well, that was past.

  His hands moved over her.

  "Not yet," she whispered. "Not just yet."

  "But soon?"

  "Yes, all right. Soon. Quite soon."

  40

  On a day in the early fall of Eric's senior year at Dartmouth he met his cousin Chris Guthrie for lunch in New York. It was Chris's first visit home from Venezuela in three years.

  "I've saved all your letters," he told Eric. "They're real nostalgia for me. I feel I'm back on the campus, snow in the air. You write extremely well. You know that, don't you?"

  "They tell me I do."

  "What are you planning after graduation?"

  "My grandfather has a place ready for me in the firm."

  Chris stirred his coffee. Then he looked up acutely. Eric reflected that all 'men of affairs' had that look. He'd been watching them at neighboring tables, in their dark suits and English shoes; they had a way of concentrating keenly, of making the moment move. Their eyes never dream, that's what it is, he thought; they never rest on anything for more than a second or two. They don't see that beyond the window the September haze is dusty amber and the city is waking to a brisker season—

  "I asked you," Chris said, "I asked you whether you'd like that?"

  "Excuse me. I didn't hear you. I hope to like it all right. It's an opportunity most people don't have, isn't it?"

  "Starting at the top in a family business? I should think not!" Chris went on thoughtfully, "You know, when I drove you down from Brewerstown seven years ago—now I can tell it—I was as sorry for you as I think I've ever been for anyone in all my life.

  461

  And now that my own kids are growing up and I look at them and think of what happened to you—well, I wouldn't want them to have to face what you did."

  "On the scale of world suffering I rank pretty low, in spite of everything, Chris."

  "Well, if you mean hunger and want, that's something else. But there are other kinds of suffering. You had an awful lot of courage, and—"

  "Chris, I'm fine. I really am."

  "I can see you are. Tell me, when you think back, are things very different from when you lived with Gran and Gramp? No reason for asking, except curiosity."

  "Well, the personalities are different. Very. But as to feeling wanted and all that, it's the same."

  "Good. Let's see, what else can I ask you? Have you got a

  girl?"

  Eric laughed. "'A' girl? No."

  "Good again. Don't tie yourself down too young. But to get back to the work business: tell me, have you ever considered not going in with your grandfather?"

  "Not really. I haven't got any special ambitions. What makes you ask?"

  "I'll tell you. I'm being given a tremendous job. A promotion. It'll mean four or five years in the Middle East, based in Iran."

  "Gosh! Cloak and dagger! Lawrence of Arabia!"

  "You can kid, but there really is a helluva lot of that stuff going on. Anyway, I was thinking: I'm supposed to get a staff together, four or five bright, young eager beavers. So I thought of you. I'd have no trouble getting you approved, that's sure." He lit a cigarette and waited a moment. "How does it sound?"

  "What would I have to do?"

  "Sales. Contacts. Politicking. You name it." Chris waited again, then added, "It's a fantastic part of the world. Literally. I've been there and it really got to me. When you see your first Bedouin in his kaffiyeh, riding a camel—"

  The restaurant, the dark suits, the table with its cloth and cutlery dissolved into a bazaar of burning colors and a gaudy sky. Eric had to smile at his own extravagance.

  "It's very tempting, very alluring and very sudden, Chris," he said cautiously.

  "Of course. You don't think I expect a decision this minute, do

  462

  you? I'm coming back around Christmas and we can talk some more then. But I do want to leave one thought with you, Eric. No, two. The first is obvious: that there's a real future in a company like ours. The second ties in with your ambition to write."

  "In what way?"

  "Well, in order to write you have to have something to write about, don't you? You have to know people and cultures and conflict. Think of the memory bank you could establish on a job like this! Enough to draw against for the rest of your life! And I'd see that you had plenty of time for exploring."

  Again, that quick look of estimation. Eric answered it slowly.

  "It would be such a—a defeat for my grandparents."

  "Yes, but they've had their lives and done what they wanted. Now it's your turn, isn't it? In time I'll have to be moving over myself, to make room for my own boys. I'm almost forty-two, you know." Chris summoned the waiter and took out his wallet. "I've got a train to make. Eric, it's been great. Every time I see you I realize how much I've missed you. Think it over; there's no rush, but I truly believe this could be the start of something great for you. I'll get in touch. And oh, yes, remember me at home."

  For the last year he had been feeling that his life was sliding steadily toward the unknown. Except for the few who knew that they were fated for something definite like law or medicine or engineering, this feeling was common, Eric knew. It wasn't strong enough to be called panic; it was just there, a kind of scary drift into a world in which perhaps one would never be entirely at home. He tried to imagine himself sitting in the office every morning of his life, conferring with bankers and mortgage brokers, then driving out to an enormous tangle of construction out of which would emerge another grid of look-alike, boxy houses. Not that it wasn't a decent product and therefore a productive life, but as far as he was beginning to understand, it wasn't something to which he could look forward with any exhilaration. When a man has completed a thing he had wanted with all his heart to do, he sits down to rest and says, "There, that's over. I wanted to do it and I've done it!" It wasn't like that at all, at least as far as he could see.

  So he kept thinking about what Chris had offered.

  He certainly hadn't intended to mention it to anyone, yet one

  463

  day when he was home over Thanksgiving he found himself telling Aunt Iris.

  "Maybe I'm rationalizing the whole thing because I want the adventure," he concluded.

  "There's nothing wrong with wantin
g adventure, is there?"

  "I suppose not. And ever since Chris planted this seed the building business has looked duller and duller."

  Iris said slowly, "Without actually thinking it over, I've sort of assumed you would write. I don't know how or in what form, but I've just thought of you that way. Perhaps because your father and I both had vague desires to do something with words . . . only, neither of us had any true gift and I believe you have."

  "One doesn't just rent a room, buy a typewriter and begin to write," Eric argued and, paraphrasing Chris, "you have to live first and have something to write about."