Reinhart's Women: A Novel

by Thomas Berger

  The deft waitress brought his Irish stew. The aroma was the sort that expunges all forebodings. He sat there for a moment while the fragrant vapors warmed his face.

  “Gen, why not order something to eat? If you don’t feel so well, how about some soup? I suspect it’ll be homemade and very good here. Or eggs in some form? Omelet?”

  She pulled her black coffee to her and looked bleakly into it. “It’s not healthy to eat when you don’t feel hungry,” she said, and added, with a new vulnerability: “Ask anybody.”

  “Your coffee’s probably cold by now,” Reinhart said.

  She became the old Genevieve for an instant. “You just stuff your own face. Don’t worry about me! I’m doing just fine. If I wanted to eat I could go to the finest restaurant in town. If you knew anything about Chicago, I could tell you of the famous places I dined at there all the time. I knew all the best people, was invited to the best functions. I wouldn’t be back here at all but for the fact that my children need me.” She suppressed another cough.

  Reinhart was quite guiltlessly hungry, for the best reason in the world, and with unclouded pleasure he forked up a plump piece of meat and put it between his lips. Tender and juicy, exuding the quintessence of lamb, that unique identity which stewing reinforces even as it brings about the penetration of other flavors, the vegetables and herbs; but all the diverse fragrances are finally complementary. And the last condiment, that which made perfection, was supplied by the now cool bitterness of the swarthy stout.

  “This Irish stew is really first-rate,” said he. “Who would have thought that such a place could be found in a suburban mall?” It would certainly have been nicer to have had lunch with Helen Clayton, or in fact anyone else who would have eaten something, but he had survived the time when he was at the mercy of a table companion. It wasn’t as much fun to eat alone as when accompanied, but he managed.

  He even told Genevieve: “I doubt your main purpose in looking me up was to talk about Winona.” He did not add what he believed to be the truth: that she had no interest whatever in her daughter, irrespective of Winona’s sexual arrangements.

  “I expected to be insulted,” Genevieve said, and took him by surprise when she smiled in a saintly fashion. “And I guess you know it’s not easy for me to turn the other cheek, but I’m willing to try, Carl. I understand a lot more than I used to. I got out into the world. I spread my wings.”

  He continued deliberately to eat the lovely stew. He was soon down to about an inch of stout. Did he dare order a refill? The risk was not that he might defy some diet, but rather that by taking too much of an attractive flavor he would corrupt the entire experience of it. Then, too, this was his first day at a job in more than a decade, and brewed liquids tended to make him sleepy. Therefore he decided to save the last hearty draft of Guinness to follow his final morsel of lamb.

  Having made this decision, he turned to the task of fashioning a courteous response to Genevieve.

  “Yes, Blaine has kept me informed. I know you did well in Chicago, but it was no surprise.”

  “What’s that mean?” she asked suspiciously. “Are you making fun of me?”

  Reinhart wearily shook his head. “You’ll simply have to accept literally what I say nowadays. I’m not in the irony game any more, believe me. I’m too old for it. I was not surprised, because I always thought of you as being extremely good at whatever you tried.”

  She blinked, though whether she had really been appeased was hard to say. She rubbed her hands together. “I doubt you’d include being a wife in your list of my successes.”

  Reinhart had finished his stew. Now he took the last drink of stout. “I’d be the worst authority on that, considering the kind of husband I was.” He thought about what else he might eat or drink. A simple green salad would be welcome.

  “Aw,” Genevieve said, “you weren’t the world’s worst.”

  This was a sufficiently unrepresentative utterance to distract him from his thoughts of food. “Good God, I wasn’t? You could have fooled me.”

  “Now, now,” Genevieve said coyly, waggling a finger at him, “you just said you’ve given up sarcasm.” She touched her hair behind an ear. “The thing is, we were so young, Carl. So godawful young. We hadn’t lived long enough. We left high school and got married, period. There was a great big world out there that we didn’t even suspect existed.”

  How individuals assess their experiences rarely has any universal application, Reinhart had long since noticed. He could have pointed out, speaking for himself, that he had surely been young when he married, but he had also previously been halfway around the globe with the wartime Army: at least he had been made aware that a world existed from as far west as Texas, where he had trained, to as far east as Berlin, where he served on Occupation duty. However, she was right about his having been naïve in emotional matters—but that had still been true in his forties.

  “I couldn’t talk you into trying a dessert?” he now asked her. “Or a fresh cup of coffee anyway?”

  She pushed towards him the cup that had sat neglected at her elbow. “I haven’t touched this one. You might as well take it and save on ordering one for yourself.”

  The suggestion was so squalid that Reinhart could barely restrain himself from doing something rude: recoiling or sneering. He also realized that his revulsion was due at least in part to the thought of drinking from a vessel that had been consigned to her, even though she might not have drunk from it. The woman with whom he had lived twenty-two years, the mother of his children!

  Genevieve never failed to bring out the worst in him, whatever the era. Guiltily he was about to take the cup she continued to offer and do something with it—at least knock it over as if by accident—when he was saved by the arrival of the impeccable waitress.

  “We could both use hot cups of coffee,” he said to the young woman, and was gratified to see the old cup carried away with his plate and glass.

  “Just see they don’t charge you for two,” Genevieve said meanly. She went on: “This isn’t much of a place. You have to eat all your meals here?”

  It occurred to Reinhart that she had paid no real attention to him since arriving, had asked him nothing about his job, knew nothing of his talent in the kitchen—but then perhaps he was being just as bad in assuming she should be interested in these matters. But why had she looked him up?

  “No,” he replied patiently. “This is my first time here, and I think the food is very good, to my surprise.”

  But she continued to shake her head in what she apparently considered a show of pity. “Poor guy. You could use a home.”

  “I’ve got a home,” he said, with quiet force. “Winona and I have a very nice home.”

  “Look,” Genevieve said relentlessly, “I realize I threaten your ego with my intensity, my independence, but you may not really know yourself as well as you think. It’s quite possible that, underneath it all, it’s just such a challenge as I provide that you require.” She was staring at him through that odd new mask of a face.

  “Those years were not all bad, by any means,” he said, “and when they weren’t good, it was mostly my own fault. Anyway, we learned a lot, didn’t we?” What an empty phrase! If life was all learning, then where did you go to put the knowledge into practice? But it was a thing to say.

  The waitress came with the cups of coffee and the bill. She was an attractive person. Time was, when in the company of Genevieve, Reinhart might have desired this young woman, might even have imagined that her smile had a special, secret meaning for him alone, that only his wife’s presence obstructed him from making a new friend—but if he returned alone, the girl would not even be civil! Had he experienced that in reality or fantasy? Or did it make any difference now?

  He tasted the coffee. It was too weak. Winston’s did not succeed in rising above the norm in this case, but they did supply Half ‘n’ Half in the thimble-sized container that was difficult to breach without being splashed. Thin coffee was en
riched by the adulteration of cream: his was potable enough after being dosed.

  Meanwhile Genevieve suggested by her inactivity that she would not drink a drop of her current cup. He decided to take the bull by the horns. The meal was virtually over anyway.

  “Have you been getting enough to eat?”

  She let a moment pass and then said in coy reproach: “I’ve been waiting for a compliment on my slender figure. Don’t you think I’m pretty fantastic for a lady of my age?” She pursed her lips, leaned forward, and added, sotto voce: “I had a little help with my face, of course.”

  Reinhart made a neutral expression, presumably: he could not have characterized it further without a mirror. He suddenly saw the light. “You mean plastic surgery?”

  “I’d only admit it to you, Carl. Nobody else knows. If I do say so myself, it looks completely natural.”

  Poor devil. Reinhart realized that he could probably never be matter-of-fact with regard to Genevieve: she could not fail, her life long, to make him unhappy in some way, even if only in compassion.

  “Oh, right,” he said, “quite right. You’ve managed to keep your youth, Gen, but you should be careful not to diet too much. It’s not healthy. I tell that to Winona all the time, but I feel I’m talking into the wind. But at least she does stoke up on vitamins. I must admit she’s never sick.”

  This turn of subject met with little favor from his ex-wife. She sniffed disagreeably before resuming her favorite theme. “I don’t mind saying that I’ve fought back against adversity and held my ground. And yet I’ve never become cynical. Believe me, Carl, despite my sophistication there’s still a lot about me that can still remember that young girl who conquered your heart.”

  For a moment he was nonplused. Had she learned about his 1968 “affair” (such as it was) with Eunice Munsing—and approved? ...No, she was talking about herself. He should have understood that from the loving intonations.

  “I’m sure there is, Genevieve.” He picked up the check. The damages were not severe. Winston’s was not out to punish its patrons. He was definitely pleased with this restaurant: the tables were now filled, and yet one’s comfort was not reduced one whit, the noise had not increased by much, the service had not turned frenzied, the aromas remained fragrant....

  “Don’t you get it even yet, Carl?”

  He was being stared at with increasing intensity. He hated that in the best of times. He pushed his chair back and stood up. The check directed him to pay the cashier.

  “Why, sure I do, Gen,” he said with all the amiability at his disposal. “You wanted to show me how great you look and how well you’re doing. I’m glad you did. We’ll do it again some time, now that you’re back in the area.” He found his money and placed a tip on the table. He was aware that Genevieve had stayed where she was and was making no move to depart. Nevertheless he turned slowly in the direction of the entrance and began, as it were, to mark time.

  “Carl.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve got to get back to work, if you don’t mind. It’s my first day on the job. It’s very gratifying to me: I’m self-taught as a cook, you know. I’ve gone quite a ways beyond the meals I used to make when we were all together.”

  “We could be all together again,” said Genevieve in a low, penetrating voice, a kind of stage whisper.

  Standing there in a crowded restaurant, he thrilled with horror. But at last he managed to say: “We really must do this soon again.”

  Now she cried aloud: “You fool, you lovable fool, can’t you see what I’m saying?” The polite eaters at the nearest table pretended not to hear.

  Reinhart foresaw that her next speech might be at sufficient volume to command the attention of the entire room, unless he could placate her with an immediate response. She was quite capable of shaming him publicly, on his first day of work. He thought of something even worse: she might pursue him into the supermarket itself!

  “Come along, Gen,” he said, trying for a devil-may-care grin. “Let’s take a walk.”

  Wondrously, this worked. At least she left the table. Now the nearby people decided to abandon their discretion and gawked rudely. Reinhart hoped no one who had seen him cooking crepes would recognize him now. That’s the kind of thing you could not control once you went amongst the public. But it bolstered him to think of himself as a celebrity whom everybody was out to get the goods on.

  He hastened ahead to the cashier’s station, but that woman, as if in league with his ex-wife, found trivial things to occupy her until Genevieve reached his side and even put her hand through the elbow he necessarily crooked while tendering his money. Then, while the cashier was in the very act of counting out his change, her phone rang. Anticipating that he would be harassed by Genevieve while this woman engaged in a lengthy conversation, he found the energy to say impatiently: “Would you mind? I’m in a real hurry.”

  This was the sort of thing that he could not have succeeded at in the old days, especially when accompanied by the saboteur to whom he was married, but either the times or his style had improved.

  “Oh, sure.” Without a hint of annoyance the woman let the telephone ring and completed their transaction.

  Once they had passed through the door, he tried discreetly to break Genevieve’s hold on his forearm, but she only took a firmer purchase with her talons. This was the woman who, ten years before, had derided and demeaned him in all the classic ways and perhaps invented a new one or two. There had been a time when a moment like this could have occurred only in a desperate fantasy. She was abasing herself before him! He should see it as a triumph. But these reversals traditionally fail to happen at the right moment: when your adversary is at last at your mercy, he is no longer the proper object of revenge.

  Moving decisively, Reinhart lifted Genevieve’s fingers off him.

  “I have to say good-bye,” he said with the same firmness. “I’m due back at work.”

  She was leering at him. This could not have been a successful expression even when she was still pretty. Now it was ghastly.

  “Hell,” she said in a husky low tone, “you got time.” She came close and dug at him with an elbow. “Want to go to a motel?”

  “No, Gen, not really.” He decided, on a whim, to add: “That won’t be necessary.”

  She was still leering, even as he drew her aside so that an oncoming party of four could enter the restaurant—four businessmen, by their look, the kind of fellows Reinhart had in his day tried to resemble. He had exhausted a lot of life to arrive at where he was now.

  Genevieve said: “I know I used to be naïve.”

  Reinhart was reaching the end of his string. “No, you weren’t. You were O.K. Now I really have to go, Genevieve. But please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help Blaine.”

  But she persisted, horribly: “I’ve improved, Carl. I really have. I know how to do everything now. I’m not shocked by—”

  He felt a sneeze coming on, all at once, and whipped out his handkerchief. No doubt she said something vile during his nasal explosion. Fortunately he had not heard it. He put his handkerchief away.

  “I’m sorry, Gen. You see, I’ve taken a vow of chastity. It’s a religious thing.”

  A piece of rank cowardice, to be sure, but it was the best he could do on short notice, and if he stayed longer in her presence, he might lose all responsibility for his actions.

  As he walked away she cried in a voice that sounded as though it might have come from a loudspeaker: “You pansy!”

  She was really broadcasting her age: that had been an archaic term for ever so long.

  CHAPTER 7

  IT WAS NOT TO be believed. No sooner had he gone back into the world than he encountered his old nemesis. Fate always arranged it so that Genevieve was there to hamstring him at the beginning of any race.

  He slowed his stride, looking unhappily across the parking lot at the supermarket. He had half a mind not to return: simply to bug off and not be seen again. It would scarcely matter th
at much to Grace Greenwood. He suddenly convinced himself that this employment could have no possible motive but to please Winona by giving him a sinecure. Blaine had recognized that truth. And even DePau had been quite right: it could not be imagined that the gourmet department would ever come to any good.

  What a fool he had been to spend all morning cooking crepes, and in a foolish costume! The result had been that he now felt worse than at any time during the last decade. In his despair he even began to think otherwise of his lunch: had the stew really been all that good? And as to Winston’s in general, what did he know after eating only one dish, not even followed by a salad?

  The sequence of unhappy thoughts was interrupted when, slowly as he walked, he was almost struck by a car, a white Cadillac that rolled swiftly across the blacktop on the bias, so to speak, in defiance of the painted parking slots. Reinhart was called back to responsibility. He straightened up, looked left and right... and heard an ugly cry behind him. It was Genevieve. Had she been shouting all this while, unheard by him in his slough of depression?

  “...warn you; you pervert. I’ll tell the world. I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do!”

  She was not following him. It was far worse: she remained in front of Winston’s and raised her voice to a greater volume as he receded from her. Never had he suspected that her vocal cords could be so powerful.

  He refused to look about and count the persons who were observing this ugly episode. No doubt there were some, but fortunately at any given time in such a place most people were contained in cars, usually with the radio playing and, according to season, heater humming or air conditioner blowing, deaf to outdoors. Not to mention that few nowadays had the stomach to interfere with a disorderly person: this was even true of policemen, who could be killed, and doctors, who could be sued.