“Five is when I can go home. That’s when my dad’s work is over.”
“And what work is that?”
“His writing. He writes in the morning and he thinks and does research in the afternoon. He has to have private time.”
“Private time, of course.” Maggie turned this over in her mind. Private time doing what? Sorting through the big ideas while your own child waits outside in the cold? It was outrageous. And the rain. Though, to be honest, the rains hadn’t begun yet.
“You should be wearing a sweater on a day like this, Iris.”
“I have lots of sweaters. It wasn’t cold when I left for school this morning.”
“Do you have a raincoat and a rain hat?”
“I have everything,” Iris said, and smiled broadly.
Maggie poured the hot chocolate into a large cup and brought it to the table with a plate of cat-tongue cookies.
“This is very nice,” Iris said, “but truly I was not trying to ingratiate myself with you when I asked if I could walk Dickens. I really wanted to take Dickens for a walk. And use up the time. Until five.”
Ingratiate. What an extraordinary child this was.
“Do you like school, Iris? Do you love to read?”
“I love to read. I’ve read almost all the Nancy Drews.”
“And would you like to write your own books someday?”
In this way they used up the time until five, when Iris could at last go home.
* * *
—
A WEEK LATER Iris rang the bell again and once again David was in bed napping and Maggie was in her chair pretending not to. The winter rains had begun and it was good napping weather, but the doorbell rang and, like all things unpleasant in life, it had to be dealt with. Maggie opened the door to find Iris, wet and looking guilty. She stood there shivering in a pale blue raincoat that was much too small for her. The rain had seeped through, moreover, and the little girl was thoroughly soaked.
“Come in. Come in out of the rain, Iris.”
Iris stood on the doorstep and gave her little speech. “I’m not offering to take Dickens for a walk in the rain because I know he doesn’t like the rain, but I wonder if you would let me come in for a while, until I can go home?”
“Come in, dear. Come in.” Tears rushed to Maggie’s eyes and she threw the door wide open and knelt to give the little girl a hug. “You’ll need a drying out and then I’ll make you some hot chocolate. And we’ll give Dickens his dog treats.”
Dickens joined them at the mention of treats.
She led Iris to the guest bathroom, where she gave her a fluffy white towel and told her to undress if she wanted and get thoroughly dry and put on the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. By then the hot chocolate should be ready.
When they were seated at the kitchen table with their hot chocolate and cat-tongue cookies, Maggie said, “Now what’s this business of not being able to go home until five o’clock? That doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it. So long as there’s somebody home.”
“My daddy’s home. But he’s working.”
David came into the kitchen then, still groggy from his nap and surprised to find Iris there. “Iris!” he said. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”
“I’m visiting Mrs. Holliss,” Iris said. “And Dickens.”
“We’re visiting,” Maggie said, “and we’re having hot chocolate and we weren’t planning on being interrupted by any grumpy people.”
Chastised and no longer groggy, David said, “Well, it’s certainly nice to see you, Iris.” He noticed then that she was wearing the guest bathrobe. “Are you okay? Or just wet?”
“I was wet but I’m dry now.”
“Well, you two have a nice visit. I’m going to go read until it’s time to watch Judge Judy.” He left them to their hot chocolate.
Maggie and Iris sipped their drinks and waited until he had gone. Then Iris said, in a conspiratorial tone, “My daddy watches Judge Judy.”
“I watch Judge Judy. Everybody watches Judge Judy. Actually, in this house it’s David who watches Judge Judy. I just keep him company.”
“That’s why I can’t go home. She’s part of his research.” Iris sat back and waited.
Maggie looked at Iris and decided this was not an accidental betrayal of her father. The child understood what she was saying.
“He has to be alone,” Iris said.
Maggie was caught up in a conflict of emotions. She was first of all indignant, outraged that this selfish pig of a man would keep his child out in the rain and the cold while he watched an absurd television program. At the same time she was fascinated that Iris recognized not only that her father was guilty of neglect in keeping her out of the house but also that he must be ashamed to be seen watching a program where semiliterate people brought suit against each other over petty injustices and sometimes, though they scarcely seemed to realize it, over monstrous cruelties. Could an eight-year-old be so sophisticated? Maggie did not know where to begin.
“Why does he have to be alone?” Maggie asked. “Couldn’t you watch Judge Judy with him?”
Iris smiled shyly. “It’s his research”—she quoted her father—“‘into the vagaries and follies of human nature.’”
Maggie laughed softly and Iris laughed, too. They stopped, and then they laughed again, together.
“Get dressed, Iris,” Maggie said, “and we’ll go to Macy’s and buy you a new raincoat.”
“But my father won’t approve,” Iris said.
“Your father has Judge Judy. You’ll have a raincoat.”
Iris got dressed.
“And a matching hat. And boots.”
* * *
—
PURPLE WAS IRIS’S FAVORITE COLOR and she looked lovely, Maggie said, in her purple raincoat and matching hat and boots. She was telling David, firmly, about taking Iris shopping. No criticism, thank you very much.
“I would have preferred the yellow, but when a child wants purple, she should have purple. And she looked adorable in it.”
“You aren’t afraid you’re interfering?” David was treading carefully because he could see that Maggie had made up her mind on this.
“It’s for the welfare of the child.”
“But she’s somebody else’s child.”
“Who desperately needed a raincoat.”
“I understand. I understand. I understand. But will Parker understand?”
“Well, we’ll see, won’t we!”
David recognized this as one of those moments when you didn’t tangle with Maggie.
“She wants me to shut up, Dickens,” he said, and Dickens sighed his elderly sigh. He had lately become used to being invoked as intermediary.
* * *
—
THEY DID NOT HAVE to wait long to see how Reginald would react. He sent Maggie a thank-you card expressing Iris’s gratitude for her new purple raincoat—and matching hat and boots—and he added his own thanks for such a generous and practical gift. Instead of a signature, he drew an arrow to indicate there was more on the reverse side where he had written, “A special note: It’s so embarrassing to be in need of a loan, but we are grateful to have friends who understand. Please forgive me that I once more find myself in a financial bind and humbly request a loan of four hundred dollars.” He signed this special note, “Your grateful friend in the Lord, Reg.”
Maggie sat down at once and wrote him a check. She put it in an envelope and walked it to the mailbox at the corner of the street. Then she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and went to David’s study to tell him everything, nearly. She omitted mentioning that on the previous occasion when Reginald borrowed money, the loan was returned short by two hundred dollars.
Later she wondered why she hadn’t told him everything. Why keep back this
tiny fact? Because it was damning, that’s why. Because it was simply too embarrassing to talk about. Because she was a shirk and a mess. She began to get a headache from so much contrary thinking. It’s a sin of omission, she told herself. So shoot me. But with so much to confess, why not confess this as well? She should take it up with Judge Judy. Or Dickens. Or to hell with it.
10.
The Hollisses had seen little of Reginald in the many weeks since the dinner from hell—and not seeing him pleased them greatly. They would not have been pleased, however, to learn that he had become a regular email correspondent with Claire.
Cara mia Chiara, you’ll never believe the latest. I had finished my day’s writing and had prepared tea for Helen and Iris, as is my wont, when my enchanting daughter who had left for school in her pale blue raincoat returned to my home wearing a new purple (purple!) raincoat, with hat and boots to match. Gifts from your mother. Bought without ever asking me or even mentioning to me her intention of doing so. I begin to see why you call her Misery. How could she be so insensitive to my feelings as a father and provider? It is undoubtedly this lack of awareness of other people’s feelings that, paradoxically, has made you such a sensitive and feeling woman. The source of your art?
Claire gave a great deal of thought to Reginald’s email before she wrote back. What was her mother up to? Was she deliberately interfering in the Parkers’ family life or was this just another example of her misdirected good intentions? She thought of the Little Sisters of the Poor and that dull Mother Superior’s obsession with charity. Maggie was like that, too. It was another form of self-involvement to intrude like this into somebody’s life. She wrote back to Reginald.
I am tempted to say that their self-indulgence is beyond understanding, except that I have understood it almost from the start. Now you begin to understand the Hollisses and you will have the key to understanding me. And my art (if that doesn’t sound too grandiose).
For a long time now Claire had underestimated the influence her mother had exerted over her life and career. It was natural enough. As her daughter you had no choice: you either became like Maggie Sedgwick or you revolted against her. The Sedgwick name had early on become a shaping force that Claire had acted against. Being rich, being thin, being kind, being beautiful: these were the code words that influenced what you wore, how much you ate, the way you behaved toward other people even when you didn’t like them. Being beautiful had been out of the question, however, and realizing that fact was the start of her rebellion against ever becoming a Sedgwick. She would not be a hypocrite. She would be homely and frank about it and honest.
She found herself famous in high school for her frankness and honesty.
She furthered her rejection of the Sedgwick hypocrisy by attending Columbia, where people valued her frankness and where just being rude was enough to make you popular.
She joined a commune and left it and formed a lesbian union with Willow.
All this she had explained to Reginald in emails of considerable length and detail over the weeks since the dinner party and their lovemaking that followed it. What she had not truly understood until now was the paradoxical nature of her mother’s influence, how this lifetime of pursuing honesty by rebelling against her mother had—a wonderful paradox—led her to her true vocation, acting. For this discovery she experienced a sudden rush of gratitude to her mother and even a kind of hearty affection for her. Good old Misery. With all her imperfections, she was something special. How could you not love her?
Claire wrote a follow-up email to Reginald.
Dear Old Reg: You have to forgive my mother who, I am convinced, meant no harm. She, too, is a victim of her upbringing. You ought to have seen Grandma Sedgwick!!! Early influence is very much in my mind as I prepare my performance of Hedda Gabler, a proto-lesbian victimized by society. More about this later. Love, Chiara.
Reginald read her email and began a reply but decided that he would write the required daily lines of his novel before answering her. It didn’t matter how many. Even two or three, if they were good enough, would suffice. Like Hemingway, before he became so crass. To be an authentic artist meant you had to work at it every day, weekends and holidays excepted. As he did.
* * *
—
IRIS STOOD ON THE DOORSTEP in her purple raincoat even though it was not raining and had not been raining for the past three days. She was smiling and eager and was not prepared for Maggie’s dour expression. Even Dickens seemed unwelcoming.
“Come in, dear, come in. It’s lovely to see you, but I’m sorry that we won’t be able to have a long visit today.”
Iris, with her highly developed social sense, responded at once. “I can come back some other time, if today isn’t convenient. Why don’t I do that?” and she turned to leave.
Iris had, in fact, visited almost every afternoon this week. Her visits had been the subject of several short, unpleasant exchanges between David and Maggie. David was charmed by the little girl, though to a lesser extent than Maggie, but he still possessed a strict sense of noninterference in the lives of other people. Or so he insisted. Buying the girl clothes had been bad enough—the request for a loan had followed almost immediately—but this new business of Iris stopping by for a visit nearly every day was positively unwise. Maggie was alienating the girl from her family whether or not that was her intention, and there were bound to be repercussions. There were bound to be consequences. And he didn’t mean financial ones. He meant there would be trouble with the Parker clan. Misunderstandings. Fights. And, inevitably, accusations. “You’re turning our daughter against us. You’re giving her false ideas of her own importance.” And then he thought of the ultimate accusation. “Because of you she no longer walks in the way of the Lord.” Maggie recognized the rightness of his objections but what David did not understand, she said, was the tenderness of the little girl, her loving nature, the way she returned Maggie to those long-gone days when Claire was eight years old and gave her unconditional love. Yes, yes, I know, he agreed, and it’s all good. Except that it’s dangerous for the child, stuck as she is in that crazy family, and you’ve got to make her less dependent on you. In this way Maggie and David decided that, unpleasant though it was, they would have to limit Iris’s visits to once a week, and anything they might buy for her would have to be agreed upon beforehand. Together.
And so when Iris stood on the doorstep in her purple raincoat and said, “I can come back some other time, if today isn’t convenient,” Maggie softened and tears came to her eyes and she said, “Come in, sweetheart, and we’ll have a lovely hot chocolate and a chat.”
Iris came in and Dickens nuzzled her shyly, as if he was uncertain that this was a good time for pats.
They had their hot chocolate and cookies.
“So you see, once a week is best,” Maggie said, having successfully delivered her little speech on limiting the frequency of Iris’s visits. They were sitting together on the couch, looking out over the back garden and the leaf-filled swimming pool. “It’s better for you, really,” Maggie said without conviction. “You’ll spend more time with your family. Much as we love you, David and I are not your family, are we? No.”
“But I wish you were,” Iris said, and leaned her head against Maggie’s shoulder. “I wish you were my grandma.”
“You already have a grandma. Two grandmas, and I’m sure they love you very much.”
“I have only one, Grandma Parker,” Iris said, burying her face in Maggie’s sweater. “And she won’t let us visit her. She won’t talk to me.”
Maggie smoothed the girl’s hair and said nothing. What could this mean?
“It’s because I’m illegitimate,” Iris said.
“Now, now,” Maggie said. “I’m sure . . .”
“My mommy and daddy aren’t married and so I’m illegitimate.”
“But we know they love you very much.” Maggie
was suddenly filled with indignation. This poor child. Her poor mother. Men were swine, really, they were. Except for David. Even her own two sons were swine, Sedge with a new marriage every few years and Will abandoning his wife and three daughters for a graduate student half his age. And now Reginald, using and abusing poor Helen and depriving Iris of a proper grandma. She could be Iris’s grandma! She’d be a devoted and loving grandma. She found herself about to say, All men are swine, Iris, you should learn that while you’re young, but she caught herself in time and said, “All men are different, Iris, and I’m sure your mother and father have excellent reasons for not marrying. And I’m sure your father loves you all the more for it. I’m sure he’s a devoted father.”
“He wants me to walk in the way of the Lord.”
“We should all walk in the way of the Lord,” Maggie said. “And we’ll start by walking Dickens. Come on.”
So she got herself up off the couch and swept Iris up with her in a big, grandmotherly hug and they took a tired but willing Dickens with them to the dog park.
* * *
—
CLAIRE WROTE REGINALD a lengthy email detailing what life was like growing up with the Hollisses. It was, for Claire, a remarkably sympathetic version of what she had regarded as familial torture while she was a child. She had been obliged to attend concerts, the opera, and on one terrible occasion the ballet. All this was in the interest of cultivating Sedgwick tastes, or perhaps they were merely general tastes appropriate to an academic family, but it was awful in any case. The music was fine and the singing, she supposed, was great, but the awful part was the obligation to spend time with all those old people and to be improved in the process. She never felt improved. She felt attacked for not enjoying the higher reaches of culture. These experiences warped her, she knew, but now she recognized that they had kept her from discerning that her life did indeed lie with the arts. She was born to act.
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