by Minot, Susan
You must have seen some awful things in Korea, she said.
He looked at her oddly and took his hand away. I don’t think about it, he said. It doesn’t help to think about.
She ought not to have brought it up. You must think normal life awfully usual, she said, meaning to apologize.
Not at all. He said nothing for a while then with an effort said, Not at all. It’s something which took place on another planet, it has so little to do with what’s here. Every once in a while I think … he trailed off. There were people there who … He shook his head. Anyway, he said, I don’t.
I can’t imagine it, she said.
One thing I liked about playing music, he said. You don’t have to talk about it. You just do it. I like that.
Before sunrise she watched the sky in little pieces between the leaves change from dark blue to pink to white. She’d once had a life but was no longer in it. Nights without sleep and hours spent staring did not make up a life. For moments the pain lifted like a sail filling with wind and the white bed sailed along then something slid under digging in its points and the wheels began to churn and the steel machine to hum. One endured suffering but it never took any shape, it was made simply to be borne. It produced nothing and after it was over was forgotten.
Where to turn? She looked about the room, into the corners, out the windows. She lay and lay and lay and lay. It seemed as if she’d been crossing this ceiling all her life. She wanted a song to sing, she wanted to be singing. Where had her life gone? She’d not even had it. An old longing billowed out like a curtain in a gazebo, flapping out as if to say, there was something you wanted … Someone was snapping his fingers in time with the music. Someone was playing Duke Ellington through the trees. He played beautifully. Will you have dinner with me? he said. He had nervous dark eyebrows, was thin as a wire. He nodded a lot, encouraging himself, and snapped his fingers as if biting off something hard. There was a song on the radio, it was one of his singers, he took her to a low-ceilinged room where a band played hunched over their instruments, they were let in without tickets, smoke filled the wedges of light. He got up to play. He played piano with the boys onstage. The music was lively and filled up the room. He looked stricken smiling after applause, then sang “Imagination” and her knees buckled hearing his voice and she leaned against a column. Other people listened sitting at tables or dancing, some more rapt than others but all were under the spell. The music fell over her like a net and she thought of Phil Katz in a new way. He was a sort of poet. She never thought of him as a husband or a father and actually neither did he and yet that’s what he became, for a while.
He brought her soup when she had the flu reading Nancy Mitford and talked nonstop and when he kissed her she said he might get sick and he said, I’m not too concerned.
He held out his hand, he pulled her off the bench, his arm was wiry and firm, he was smiling, she was lost and did not know it. She took his arm. They walked by towering buildings, she looked up, he looked down, it had been raining. She could not remember what she said, she remembered holding onto his arm. They were wed at City Hall. She felt she was herself sometimes then at other times felt she was just another girl. He said my wife, she sat beside him driving into the sun, he called her from the next room, she ironed his shirt, he waited while she got dressed. Then she couldn’t fit into any of her clothes.
They had a little girl, Constance. Phil had wanted a girl. Then another, Margie right away. She was scrambling eggs, Phil was slamming the door, she made deviled eggs, Phil wore a hat. They took a picnic in the park wearing sunglasses, they ate half an egg salad sandwich, walked the baby carriage on Monday. Sunday Phil slept all day. He took her out, he came home late, he came home at dawn. He took Constance on his bony knee, Margie was wrapped in an eyelet blanket. Fiona Speed stopped by in a new Chanel suit. Phil hitched his arm into his overcoat hurrying out. Margie lay in the crib, strawberries on her jumper, Constance wore a pom-pom on her hat, Phil’s knee beating in time with the music. Don’t get around much anymore …
Her face changed after the babies. At night the music was louder, she left early, Phil put her in a cab and went back to the people he had to see. At home she paid the babysitter, fed Margie. Her sweater smelled of smoke, tears were streaming down her cheeks. Phil had an office in midtown. In at noon, home for dinner, out again. His clients were three singers and one band, a few musicians who came and went. She wrote checks from the family account. Phil had the business account which also went to backing other enterprises, shaky despite inside tips, visits to the racetrack. He stood very still sweating as the horses ran and if he won burst into a sort of spasm, his arms awkward, not like you’d expect from a musician. When he lost he stayed away from the apartment and the flowered chairs and Ann not looking at him. His daughters looked at him with his own brown eyes.
She needed a walk, she needed some air, she took a walk is there something wrong when she got back, Yes I thought, You tell me, I already … we already … What’s the matter leave me alone why do you care what does it matter I just thought it shouldn’t matter I will always this is the last time I won’t what now not again Phil Phil not again I will always be I just wanted my wife they said I will always they said I just want to make it better I just what were you thinking I thought I could I thought we were I thought I’d be I thought you you were wrong I want to spend it with you I thought you were right I didn’t know you were enough you were not enough if only you had if only you could when did this happen it was always it was never so this is the room where we say good-bye no that was somewhere else not them that was before is there someone else that doesn’t have to do with us is there someone it was too late it was always too late I should never have I should have known I didn’t want I didn’t mean I will always I will never who is she nobody no one
She was no one, she was Gina Harvey one of his singers, crosseyed with plucked eyebrows, but he’d never been with her on the same day if he’d been with Ann. That was a point of honor with him, he told her after the divorce. And it hadn’t been so easy either.
She took off her ring, it went into a box, it was still in the box. She crossed the street in the snow holding the children’s hands after signing the papers stepping over the slush in ankle boots and nylons, she packed the clothes and furniture, moved to the country, wore low heels. She slept in a new bed without Phil. He stayed in the city, took the girls to the zoo, then he was going to Paris for a short trip. That was the last she heard. Months later some men not reputable came looking for Phil Katz at the Rolands’ carriage house and she could say without having to lie that she’d not the slightest idea what had become of her ex-husband whom her daughters never saw again but she hoped he was well.
She breathed in against the pillow, smelling the balsam. Across the bay the islands were washed in haze. They motored into Bishops Harbor past the rock they called the Pulpit. Pain flooded through her, she was shot back into her small frame, Phil was being dragged out the door, she noticed a curled brown burr in the bouquet of cosmos and wanted to snap it off but her arms were snapped off and lay there unable to lift up. Leaves against the window, that was here. Light dappled on the sill, here too. Glass clicking on the table. Here. The sound of water slapping a dock. Not here.
She was with the water.
They walked up the ramp of green sandpaper, and paused to look toward the bay where the fog bank was now a wall blocking the entrance to the harbor.
No plane’s going to get through that, Carl said. No boat either.
Harris stood beside him assessing the situation. Maria hates to fly, he said.
Ann was walking by and having her name spoken to someone else Maria suddenly sprouted up real.
I’m making a complete mess, Margie said, hunched over her toes.
Anyway, Constance said, concentrating on brushing polish on her thumb, the article said that patients let go once they’ve said good-bye to everyone.
That’s ridiculous, Nina said, waving her hands
and feet languidly in the air. As if you can choose.
Who else does she have to say good-bye to? Teddy said.
I hate saying good-bye, Margie said.
Who likes it? Nina said. She studied a fingernail to see if it was dry. Everyone’s always saying they hate to say good-bye as if they’re revealing some rare personality trait. People should say if they like to say good-bye. I’ve never known anyone who did.
I have, Teddy said.
Who?
Me. He stood up. I’m leaving the menstrual hut, he said and left his sisters smiling.
Mrs. Wittenborn and Lila sat at the dining room table, puzzling over the gaps left in the evening’s seating plan. Lila took a cigarette from her mothers pack on the table and Mrs. Wittenborn, not looking at her, said, Don’t let your father see that. Ann Grant took the traveling skirt of Lila’s she’d promised to hem and went onto the back porch. Outside she could still overhear Harris Arden in the telephone closet, only the tone of his voice but it was enough to tell her he was talking to the girl. After sitting for a moment she stood up and walked around to the front porch where through the screen door she saw Gigi standing in the hallway listening either to her mother and sister arguing or to Harris’ conversation. Ann took her needle and thread onto the lawn. Pacing down near the pink mallow was Ralph Eastman holding a piece of paper, gesturing with his hands, practicing his toast. She turned back to the guest cottage and as she approached the open windows heard the voices of Lizzie Tull and Gail Slater inside as they tied ribbons around the bridesmaids’ bouquets mentioning Ann’s name in conjunction with Harris Arden. Ann turned around. She took the path down to the rock garden. When she came out of the trees she found the small round lawn occupied by Buddy Wittenborn lying asleep on his back with his bare feet crossed and his hands folded on his chest in protection and then she saw he wasn’t asleep though his glasses with the black topped frames were set up on his forehead. His eyes were open and he was gazing up.
How is she today?
I can hear you, Grace. I’m awake.
Ann, how are you? No, Fergus, over here.
What are they doing down there? said Ann Lord.
Painting their nails. Grace sat in a chair.
The usual culprit has finished the milk.
What’s that? Grace snapped.
Ann shook her head. No, she frowned. Her gaze drifted then she focused on the nurse. How did we do today?
We did our best, was the nurse’s reply.
Grace Stackpole looked over her shoulder. I’m sorry, she said. What was your name again?
Ann Lord answered. It’s Nora. Nora Brown. After Nurse Brown departed the room, Ann Lord said, She says she’ll never leave me.
THREE
8. FOG
She stood in a crowd on a mountainside in Austria. Beside her a foot taller was Ted lighting a cigarette with bare hands, his mittens on the end of his ski poles. In front of them people shuffled forward on skis a few inches at a time. A cloud blew patchily by blotting out hats and shoulders. No one spoke. Up ahead empty chairs clattered through a little shed. Now and then the machine grinded out a shriek. When a chair emerged from the shed it picked up two figures, whisking them up with a swing, then disappearing in the clouds. Ann Stackpole had on a pink parka. Why was no one talking? She looked at her husband and saw his unshaven cheek and noticed grey whiskers among the black ones, grey she’d not seen before, and suddenly had a premonition she would not see him grow old. Behind her silent figures inched forward, she inched toward the front. It was a random crowd lumped together, it didn’t matter if she were with Ted or not, if she were wearing a pink parka or ermine cape or rags, if she were a woman or child or dog. It was like waiting to get into heaven.
She stood on the porch in her high heels listening to the hammering of the men building the dance floor. He came up from behind, startling her.
Don’t turn around, he said.
I was just thinking about you.
You look very nice, he said. She leaned back and felt his chest against her.
She’s not coming tonight, he said. The plane can’t make it.
I know, she said. The fog hovered above the lawn. She felt she knew everything. Her perceptions had not changed, but they were sharper. It came from him. His chest against her shoulders. It was monumental.
You look nice tonight they said you look beautiful I don’t know what to put on an ice-blue satin sleeveless cocktail dress a yellow coat to the knee a white shirt with the same pants which is better the wrap or the jacket she was walking up blue steps in a silver evening dress there was gardenia in her champagne a chiffon top gathered in the front she’d worn it in Italy but they hadn’t seen it in Newport you’re all dressed up tonight she wore pearl bracelets shoes with a squarish toe hated ruffles should I wear it up or down I always like it up they said I like it better down the beaded bag with beaded leaves the white linen was too summery for October aren’t you going to change the neckline was good on her you look beautiful they said she could take it in at the back she didn’t like it with the pockets so low it was too busy with the scarf better without the belt she should have worn the other shoes the sleeves were too tight is that new she changed the buttons she felt overdressed you look perfect they said she took off the bows the snaps went on the other side she had nothing to go with the green skirt she found the perfect grey coat couldn’t bear to put the black thing on again it had had it the red dye ran in the rain her neck looked like it was bleeding they were her favorite boots they’d lasted forever the hats were just her size she bought two one black one navy had the sandals copied wrapped fur at her throat waited for them to bring the car around waited in a cloud of perfume she had only one sweater left it was a black cardigan
Ann Grant drove to the Yacht Club with Ralph Eastman. In the back sat Lizzie Tull next to Carl’s friend Monty in whom she had developed a growing interest. Monty remained sphinx-like. Because they arrived on time there were no other guests save an elderly couple standing looking past each other sipping highballs. On each crowded table were the centerpieces Lila and Ann and Lizzie and Gail had gathered from the island fields—Queen Anne’s lace, loosestrife, goldenrod, sweet pea, cow vetch, clover, daisies. A blue awning stretched over the deck to a white railing. Ann crossed the floor and stood looking down at the water.
A few feet out was a wall of grey fog. The water clacked under a float and rowboats which were invisible. Harris Arden, she said to herself. It was a nice name. You look very nice. Ann Arden. It sounded like a movie star. She knew she ought to be more distressed but nevertheless felt happy. She believed that Harris Arden’s feelings for her were bigger and more important than the ones he’d had for so long with this other woman. She had nothing to support this beyond Harris Arden’s sighing into her neck, she was carried by her own feeling. She’d never had such a giant emotion. It seemed a physical thing. Her instinct told her this was what one based one’s life on. Lizzie Tull’s laugh pierced the soft night and Ann looked back to see her eager upturned face between Ralph Eastman and Carl’s friend Monty. Had any of them had such a feeling? She suspected not. Maybe one day they might. She glanced over at the man straightening bottles at the bar—she recognized him as the island electrician—and wondered if he knew the feeling. She hoped he did. And Harris? She believed he knew it now.
A wall of people dressed for evening mounted the shallow steps off the driveway, the women in belted dresses, pearl earrings and white sweaters, the men in blue blazers with brass buttons. Ann saw people she’d met over the years visiting the Wittenborns. There was Sally Thatcher whose husband had run off with a younger island girl. Seth Thatcher must have had this feeling. He and the girl were now on a boat sailing around the world. She saw the Hornblowers with their daughter Kitty in an enormous pleated dress looking more matronly than her mother. Not Kitty. The Holt brothers were shoving each other into the trophy case. She saw Ollie Granger dapper in a white dinner jacket guiding forward a small girl in a grey cocktail
dress. Mrs. Wittenborn in a pale narrow sheath with jewels clustered at the neck looked the most sophisticated woman there. Her hand lingered on a man’s back greeting him and Ann thought maybe Mrs. Wittenborn could be included in her group then after a moment’s consideration decided it would not have been with her husband Dick. Across the room Mrs. Wittenborn caught sight of Ann, raised her glass and rolled her eyes.
The chatter increased, a few musicians in the corner started to play thumping tunes. Ann saw Lila in the teal blue dress they’d found together at Lord & Taylor with the wide straps and full skirt. Ann marveled at Lila’s mixture of friendliness and reserve. How had she gotten to be so balanced? Her family teetered around her, nutty, while she had the wisdom to fall in love with the solid rock of Carl Cutler. Ann felt a surge of pride at having her as a friend. Then he was there, bigger than everyone else with eyes which saw more, wearing a not completely dark suit and white shirt and dark tie with his hair a little less sprung out than usual. Gigi Wittenborn in a daffodil yellow tea dress with fluttering sleeves and a tight low top was clinging to his arm. Had Gigi experienced the feeling? Ann shrank a little. Gigi was the feeling.
He caught Ann’s eye and she saw right away the smile for her and the playful glint slightly embarrassed slightly amused having Gigi’s ruffled breast pressed to his arm.
Satisfied Ann crossed the room to the bar.
I’ve always loved the fog, Mr. Wittenborn was saying, relieving the bartender of a brimming drink. His eyelids drooped, he wore tiny jet buttons down his shirtfront and thin needlepoint slippers on his long feet. Wonderful for the skin, he said.
Ann asked for a Dubonnet on ice and said she had a fondness for fog herself.
