“I wish you luck today, Greg. I offered to put you up, you know. I told Jane. Sounds ridiculous because she’s got a bigger place. But if ever you’re in this neck of the woods, I have a friend nearby I could stay with overnight. You could stay here. No trouble at all.”
“I wish all of you wouldn’t treat me like a kid,” Greg said. “I’m going to take a furnished room. I like to be on my own.”
“I understand. It’s normal.” But Fran didn’t really understand. Separating himself from his friends like that? “I don’t consider you a child, honestly!”
“It’s enough to smother anybody. I hope you don’t think I’m rude, saying that. It’s like a clique—I mean the group last night.”
Fran’s polite, self-protective smile spread. She almost said, All right, try it on your own, but controlled herself for which she felt rather well-behaved and superior. “I know. You’re a big boy.”
“Not even a boy. I’m grown up.” Greg nodded by way of affirmation or farewell, and went to the door. “Bye-bye, Fran, and I hope the roast is good.”
“Luck, Greg!” she called after him, and heard him taking the stairs down. Six flights, there were.
Two days passed. Fran rang Jane to ask how Greg was doing.
Jane chuckled. “Not too well. He moved out—”
“Yes, he told me he was going to.” Fran had of course telephoned Jane to say how good the pot roast was, but she hadn’t mentioned Greg’s saying he was going to move.
“Well, he got rolled the same night, night before last.”
“Rolled?” Fran was horrified. “Was he hurt?”
“No, luckily. It was—”
“Where’d it happen?”
“Around Twenty-third and Third around one A.M. Greg said. He’d just come out of one of those bars that serve breakfast. I know he wasn’t tight, because he hardly drinks even beer. Well, as he was walking to where his room is—”
“Where is his room?”
“Somewhere on East Nineteenth. Two fellows jumped on him and pulled his jacket up over his head, you know, sat him down the way they do elderly people on the sidewalk, and took what money he had. Fortunately he had only about twelve dollars on him, he said.” Jane laughed softly again.
But Fran was pained deep within herself, as if the humiliating, sordid event had happened to a member of her own family. “The best thing is, if it teaches him a lesson. He can’t walk the streets alone that late at night, even if he is young and strong.”
“He said he fought back. He’s got bruised ribs for his pains. But the worst is, he refused to see the man Marj wanted him to meet, another buyer who knows all kinds of cabinetmakers. Greg could’ve got some well-paying—finishing jobs at least.”
It was unbelievable to Fran. “He’s headed for failure,” Fran announced solemnly.
Fran telephoned Jeremy to tell him about Greg. Jeremy was as surprised as Fran that Greg hadn’t followed up Marj’s introduction.
“Boy’s got a lot to learn,” Jeremy said. “Good thing he had just a few dollars on him this time. Maybe it won’t happen again, if he’s careful.”
Fran assured Jeremy that that was what she’d told Jane. Fran’s heart, unfulfilled by maternity, was suffering the most awful perturbations since Jane’s news.
“I know a couple of painters in SoHo,” Jeremy said. “I’m going to try there, ask if they need any cabinet work done. You know where I can reach Greg if I come up with something?”
“No, but I’m sure Jane’ll know. He’s somewhere on East Nineteenth Street.”
A few minutes later, when they had hung up, Fran went out and walked a couple of blocks in order to deposit her disability check at her bank and to pick up a few things at the delicatessen supermarket downstairs, and when she got back, the telephone was ringing. She just made it before it logically should have stopped ringing, she thought, and found that it was Richard.
“The Tricolor people didn’t have anything for Greg,” Richard said. “I’m sorry about that, but I’ll think of something else. How’s he doing? Have you heard?”
Fran filled him in. She lit a cigarette and spoke long into the yellow telephone by the sofa, expressing her philosophy of no stone unturned, of not trying to be bigger than you really were. “I don’t mean Greg’s swellheaded. He’s just so immature . . .” What she meant was that he had to come under their collective wing, that they mustn’t let him escape, or rather fly away, to certain doom. “Maybe you should talk to him, Richard, man to man, you know? Maybe he’d listen, more than he listens to Jane.”
On Friday, when Fran’s cleaning woman came to do two hours in the apartment, Fran made a date to return Jane’s iron casserole. Fran loved Jane’s apartment on West 11th. Jane had nice, knobby furniture always shining with polish, lots of books, and a real fireplace. Jane had made tea, and said something about spiking the second cup with vodka if they felt so inclined. When Fran asked how Greg was, Jane lifted a finger to her lips.
“Sh-h, he’s in there,” Jane whispered, pointing towards a bedroom door.
“Is he all right?”
“He’s a little shook up. I don’t think he wants to see anybody,” Jane said with a quiet smile. Jane explained that just last night when Greg had gone back to his place after a late movie, he had found that his room had been broken into and everything stolen, his portable typewriter, his clothes, shoes, everything.
“How awful!” Fran whispered, leaning forward.
“I think what hurt him the most is losing his stud box with his father’s cufflinks. My nephew—Greg’s father—died two years ago, you know. And a ring or something that his girl friend in Allentown gave him. Greg’s having a bad day.”
“Oh, I can understand—”
“It’s a shame, because I’d suggested that he leave anything valuable here with me, you know. This house has never had a robbery, knock wood.” Jane did so.
“Does he—What does he want to do now?”
“He’ll try again, I know. He’s bloodied but unbowed.”
“We’ve just got to help him.”
Jane said nothing, but Fran could see that she was thinking too. Jane went and got the vodka bottle.
“I think the sun’s sufficiently over the yardarm,” Jane said.
How nice it was, Fran thought, to have friends like Jane.
The telephone rang. It was near the fireplace, and Fran could hear Jeremy’s slightly husky voice asking Jane if she knew how he could reach Greg.
“He’s here, but I think he’s asleep. He’s had a tough day. Can I take a message?”
Then Jeremy talked, Jane took a pencil, and she smiled. “Thanks so much, Jeremy. That does sound—rather ideal. I’ll tell him as soon as he wakes up.” When she had hung up, she said to Fran, “Jeremy found out that Paul Ridley in SoHo needs a lot of shelves put up right away—along a whole wall. You know how big those studios are down there. Sounds like Greg’s dish.”
“Good old Jeremy!”
“And Ridley—he’s tops now. I bet it’ll lead to other things—freelance. That’s the way Greg wants to work.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t turn it down just because it came from us,” Fran murmured.
“Ha! Maybe he’s learned something. All the young have to learn.” Jane swept her long, straight, graying hair back from her face and picked up her vodka.
Fran felt suddenly—civilized. That was the only word she could find for it. And strong. And solid. All because of people like Jane, all because of communicating. Fran went home in a glow. She took the bus up Eighth. The subway rattled just below the pavement outside her apartment building, a subway entrance was right there, but Fran never took the subway anymore. Buses were cleaner and safer, and often she bought “day excursions” as she and her friends called them, a ticket for three rides for seventy cent
s instead of a dollar ten, if you used it from 10 A.M. to 4 P.M., not in the rush hours. And one day a week the Museum of Modern Art was free, all you had to do was make a contribution, pay what you felt like, or pay nothing. Fran forced herself to wait two days before she telephoned Jane to ask how Greg had made out.
“My dear, it couldn’t be better,” Jane said in her drawling way. “He’s got work lined up for the next six weeks and he’s happy as a clam. He likes the informality down there. And I think the SoHo people like him too.”
Fran smiled. “Tell him—Jane, you gotta give him my congratulations, would you? I don’t care if he doesn’t want my congratulations, tell him anyway.” Fran laughed with joy.
The happy news about Greg even made Fran feel unworried and quite confident about the visit from the black Columbia Fire Insurance inspector due tomorrow morning at eleven. He worked for Columbia Fire, but Con Ed apparently employed Columbia Fire. Greg’s success had given Fran a big charge of self-assurance.
Fran put on her limp the next morning, and admitted the black inspector to her clean and tidy apartment, even gave him a cup of coffee.
“Takes time,” Fran said, “but the doctor says I’m doing as well as can be expected. Believe me, I’ll tell Con Ed when I feel up to working again. It’s not much fun doing nothing day after day.” Work with the system, Fran was thinking. Don’t try to buck it, let it work for you. All the money she was getting she’d put in in the past, so why not use it now, because how did she know she’d even be alive by the time—
“Okay, Miss Covak, could you sign this please? Then I’ll be on my way—Glad you’re feeling better.”
What a relief—to be alone again! The phone rang. Verie. She told Verie about Greg. Then Fran cleared out and tidied her chest of drawers, which she’d meant to do for months. At 6 P.M. her doorbell rang, and Fran saw through the peephole that it was Buddy, her doorman, in visored cap and shirtsleeves as usual.
“Flowers, Miss Covak.”
Fran opened the door. “Flowers?”
“Tha’s right. Just delivered downstairs. Thought I’d bring ’em up. Got a birthday?”
“No.” Fran was fussing around in the pockets of her coats in the front closet, looking for fifty cents to give Buddy. She found two quarters. “Thank you, Buddy. Aren’t they pretty?” She could see pink blossoms through the green tissue.
“Bye now,” said Buddy.
With the flowers was a small envelope with a note in it. Fran saw it was signed by Greg before she read the message. It said: “Sorry I was a little abrupt. Sure appreciate your kindness. Also of your friends. Best, Greg.”
Fran hastened to get the long-stemmed gladioli into the tallest vase she had, set them on her glass-topped coffee table in front of the sofa, then made for the telephone to call Jeremy.
Fran said, “Jeremy! I think Greg’s one of us now . . . Yeah, isn’t it great?”
The Pond
Elinor Sievert stood looking down at the pond. She was half thinking, half dreaming, or imagining. Was it safe? For Chris? The agent had said it was four feet deep. It was certainly full of weeds, its surface nearly covered with algae or whatever they called the little oval green things that floated. Well, four feet was enough to drown a four-year-old. She must warn Chris.
She lifted her head and walked back towards the white, two-story house. She had just rented the house, and had been here only since yesterday. She hadn’t entirely unpacked. Hadn’t the agent said something about draining the pond, that it wouldn’t be too difficult or expensive? Was there a spring under it? Elinor hoped not, because she’d taken the house for six months.
It was two in the afternoon, and Chris was having his nap. There were more kitchen cartons to unpack, also the record player in its neat, taped carton. Elinor fished the record player out, connected it, and chose an LP of New Orleans jazz to pick her up. She hoisted another load of dishes up to the long drainboard.
The doorbell rang.
Elinor was confronted by the smiling face of a woman about her own age.
“Hello. I’m Jane Caldwell—one of your neighbors. I just wanted to say hello and welcome.We’re friends with Jimmy Adams, the agent, and he told us you’d moved in here.”
“Yes. My name’s Elinor Sievert. Won’t you come in?” Elinor held the door wider. “I’m not quite unpacked as yet—but at least we could have a cup of coffee in the kitchen.”
Within a few minutes, they were sitting on opposite sides of the wooden table, cups of instant coffee before them. Jane said she had two children, a boy and a girl, the girl just starting school, and that her husband was an architect and worked in Hartford.
“What brought you to Luddington?” Jane asked.
“I needed a change—from New York. I’m a freelance journalist, so I thought I’d try a few months in the country. At least I call this the country, compared to New York.”
“I can understand that. I heard about your husband,” Jane said on a more serious note. “I’m sorry. Especially since you have a small son. I want you to know we’re a friendly batch around here, and at the same time we’ll let you alone, if that’s what you want. But consider Ed and me neighbors, and if you need something, just call on us.”
“Thank you,” Elinor said. She remembered that she’d told Adams that her husband had recently died, because Adams had asked if her husband would be living with her. Now Jane was ready to go, not having finished her coffee.
“I know you’ve got things to do, so I don’t want to take any more of your time,” said Jane. She had rosy cheeks, chestnut hair. “I’ll give you Ed’s business card, but it’s got our home number on it too. If you want to ask any kind of question, just call us. We’ve been here six years—Where’s your little boy?”
“He’s—”
As if on cue, Chris called, “Mommy!” from the top of the stairs.
Elinor jumped up. “Come down, Chris! Meet a nice new neighbor!”
Chris came down the stairs a bit timidly, holding on to the banister.
Jane stood beside Elinor at the foot of the staircase. “Hello, Chris. My name’s Jane. How are you?”
Chris’s blue eyes examined her seriously. “Hello.”
Elinor smiled. “I think he just woke up and doesn’t know where he is. Say ‘How do you do,’ Chris.”
“How do you do,” said Chris.
“Hope you’ll like it here, Chris,” Jane said. “I want you to meet my boy Bill. He’s just your age. Bye-bye, Elinor. Bye, Chris!” Jane went out the front door.
Elinor gave Chris his glass of milk and his treat—today a bowl of apple sauce. Elinor was against chocolate cupcakes every afternoon, though Chris at the moment thought they were the greatest things ever invented. “Wasn’t she nice? Jane?” Elinor said, finishing her coffee.
“Who is she?”
“One of our new neighbors.” Elinor continued her unpacking. Her article-in-progress was about self-help with legal problems. She would need to go to the Hartford library, which had a newspaper department, for more research. Hartford was only a half hour away. Elinor had bought a good secondhand car. Maybe Jane would know a girl who could baby-sit now and then. “Isn’t it nicer here than in New York?”
Chris lifted his blond head. “I want to go outside.”
“But of course! It’s so sunny, you won’t need a sweater. We’ve got a garden, Chris! We can plant—radishes, for instance.” She remembered planting radishes in her grandmother’s garden when she was small, remembered the joy of pulling up the fat red and white edible roots. “Come on, Chris.” She took his hand.
Chris’s slight frown went away, and he gripped his mother’s hand.
Elinor looked at the garden with different eyes, Chris’s eyes. Plainly no one had tended it for months. There were big prickly weeds between the jonquils that were beginning to open, and
the peonies hadn’t been cut last year. But there was an apple tree big enough for Chris to climb in.
“Our garden,” Elinor said. “Nice and sloppy. All yours to play in, Chris, and the summer’s just beginning.”
“How big is this?” Chris asked. He had broken away and was stooped by the pond.
Elinor knew he meant how deep was it. “I don’t know. Not very deep. But don’t go wading. It’s not like the seashore with sand. It’s all muddy there.” Elinor spoke quickly. Anxiety had struck her like a physical pain. Was she still reliving the impact of Cliff’s plane against the mountainside—that mountain in Yugoslavia that she’d never see? She’d seen two or three newspaper photographs of it, blotchy black and white chaos, indicating, so the print underneath said, the wreckage of the airliner on which there had been no survivors of one hundred and seven passengers plus eight crewmen and stewardesses. No survivors. And Cliff among them. Elinor had always thought air crashes happened to strangers, never to anyone you knew, never even to a friend of a friend. Suddenly it had been Cliff, on an ordinary flight from Ankara. He’d been to Ankara at least seven times before.
“Is that a snake? Look, Mommy!” Chris yelled, leaning forward as he spoke. One foot sank, his arms shot forward for balance, and suddenly he was in water up to his hips. “Ugh! Ha-ha!” He rolled sideways on the muddy edge, and squirmed backward up to the level of the lawn before his mother could reach him.
Elinor set him on his feet. “Chris, I told you not to try wading! Now you’ll need a bath. You see?”
“No, I won’t!” Chris yelled, laughing, and ran off across the grass, bare legs and sandals flying, as if the muddy damp on his shorts had given him a special charge.
Elinor had to smile. Such energy! She looked down at the pond. The brown and black mud swirled, stirring long tentacles of vines, making the algae undulate. It was a good seven feet in diameter, the pond. A vine had clung to Chris’s ankle as she’d pulled him up. Nasty! The vines were even growing out onto the grass to a length of three feet or more.
Slowly, Slowly in the Wind Page 3
