Terms of Endearment

by Larry McMurtry

  “Besides, I do like them,” she said thoughtfully. “They are mostly quite charming men. I seem to have been bred for either more or less than charm. I’ve had less and I can’t find more. You yourself have certainly settled for considerably less than charm.”

  “I hate charm,” Emma said at once.

  “Yes, you’re much too immature for my necklace,” Aurora said, putting it around her neck. “Would you help me fasten it?”

  She considered the moon a moment longer with a restful expression. Emma had noticed the expression often, usually before social occasions. It was as if her mother was suspending herself for a little while in order to be the more energetic later.

  “Besides,” Aurora said, “it is not really a great disparagement to say that I prefer my Renoir to a given man. It is a very fine Renoir. Few enough can measure up.”

  “I like it but I’d still rather have the Klee,” Emma said. It was her grandmother’s other good picture, bought when she was a very old lady. Her mother had never loved it, though she allowed it to hang in the living room. Apparently it had been the last of many subjects of controversy between Amelia Starrett and her daughter Aurora, for at the time it was purchased Klee was no longer cheap. Her mother had not wanted her grandmother to spend such a sum on a picture she had not found congenial, and the fact that the picture had multiplied in value many times over had not diminished her resentment at all. It was a striking, stark composition, just a few lines that angled sharply and never quite met, some black, some gray, some red. Her mother had allowed it a panel on the white wall near the piano, and too near the large windows, Emma thought. At times the picture was overwhelmed with light and became almost invisible.

  “Well, you may have it as soon as you acquire a proper residence,” Aurora said. “I don’t dislike it enough to consign it to a garage, but if you ever have a whole house you must take it at once. It was one of your grandmother’s two serious mistakes, the other, of course, being your grandfather.”

  “Now there was charm for you,” Emma said.

  “Yes, Father was charming,” Aurora said. “No one reared in Charleston has ever lacked charm, that I can see. He never raised his voice to me until he was eighty, but then I must say he certainly attempted to make up for lost time. He screamed at me for the last ten years of his life.”

  “Why?” Emma asked.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Aurora said. “Perhaps Charlestonians are only granted eighty years of charm.”

  “I hear the doorbell,” Emma said.

  Aurora stepped into her bedroom and looked at her clock—a beautiful old brass ship’s clock that she had inherited from an uncle who had been to sea.

  “Drat that man,” she said. “He’s early again.”

  “Just ten minutes,” Emma said.

  “You go let him in, since you adore him,” Aurora said. “I intend to stand on my patio for another ten minutes, just as I’d planned. You might tell him I’m on the phone.”

  “I think you’re awful,” Emma said. “You’re already ready.”

  “Yes, but I intend to see a bit more of the moon,” Aurora said. “After that I will do my best by Alberto. Besides, he’s Genoan through and through. If you’d read any history you’d know how calculating they are. They almost stole America, you know. Alberto’s always ten minutes early. He’s hoping I’ll mistake that for wild impetuosity—something he once actually possessed. Go let him in and make him open the wine.”

  2.

  WHEN EMMA opened the front door most of a flower shop walked in, in the arms of two short Italians, one young and one old. Alberto the wildly impetuous staggered in carrying red roses, blue irises, a small potted orange tree, and some anemones. His son Alfredo bore an armful of white lilies, some miniature yellow roses, and what appeared to be a bundle of heather.

  “Big load,” Alberto said, gritting his teeth to keep from losing his grip on the orange tree.

  “I’m bringing her flowers tonight, oh boy,” he said. He and Alfredo, both of whom, heightwise, had only an inch on Rosie, lurched into the living room and began to distribute the flowers in piles on the rug. As soon as he was relieved of the orange tree Alberto turned and came quickly to Emma, holding out his arms. His eyes shone and his smile seemed full of spirit.

  “Ah, Emma, Emma, Emma,” he said. “Emma. Come and kiss her, Alfredo. Look at her—gorgeous yellow dress, gorgeous hair, what eyes! When you havin’ your baby, honey? I love you.”

  He embraced her, squeezed her tightly, kissed her loudly on both cheeks, patted her behind for good measure, and then, as abruptly as he had assumed it, dropped his ham-Italian manner completely, as if five seconds of it had been all he had energy for.

  Alfredo, round-cheeked, popeyed, and nineteen, bustled up to do his part of the kissing, but his father abruptly stiff-armed him aside.

  “What do you flatter yourself for?” he said. “She doesn’t want to kiss you. I was teasing. Go and make us some Bloody Marys; we gonna need them if we’re not lucky.”

  “You haven’t been to the store lately,” Alfredo said, ogling Emma with his goggle eyes. He was starting at the bottom of the family business, which happened to be musical instruments. The bottom happened to be the harmonica department, and Alfredo would talk harmonicas at the drop of a hat.

  “Why do you bring that up?” Alberto said to his son. “She doesn’t need a harmonica.”

  “Anyone can learn to play one,” Alfredo said. It was a statement he made eighty times a day.

  Emma put her arm around Alberto and led him off to the kitchen to find vases and open the wine. He looked up the stairs longingly when they passed them. It had been many years since he had been allowed up them, except once for a hasty look at the Renoir, and then, much to Aurora’s annoyance, he had spent most of his time looking at her bed. Once things had been different between them, and Alberto could never forget it, though since then he had had two wives. The direct approach had worked with them, but with Aurora he could no longer find a direct approach to the direct approach. Even in his fantasies he could no longer quite attain to the upper reaches of her house; such conquests as he could still imagine always took place in the living room.

  “Emma, will she ever have me?” he asked. “Am I dressed enough? Is she happy today? I think she will like my flowers, at least I can hope, but I don’t think I should have brought Alfredo. I try to keep him from talking about harmonicas, but what can I do? He is young, what else does he know to talk about?”

  “Aw, don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” Emma said. Alberto had given her voice lessons when she was fourteen. He had been a respected tenor once and had sung in every important opera house in the world, but an early stroke had ended his career and forced him into the instrument business. Where her mother was concerned, his suit was doomed, and yet he kept on, which was partly why Emma loved him. No gallantry touched her quite like that one. He had already managed to rumple himself badly. His old gray suit was floppy and too heavy for the hot night, his tie was knotted awkwardly, and he had spilled dirt from the potted orange tree into one cuff. Worst of all, he was wearing Kiwanis cufflinks.

  “Why are you such a fool, Alberto?” she said. “You know how Momma massacres people. Why don’t you find somebody nice? I can’t be here to protect you all the time.”

  “Ah, but fantastic woman,” Alberto said, frowning at the wine. “Best woman of my life. I have you on my side now, maybe we get her for me.”

  Suddenly from the living room came the wail of a harmonica—and a harmonica being played as loudly as possible. Alberto sprang to life and flung the corkscrew into the sink.

  “Idiot!” he yelled. “Traitor! This is the last stroke. He has ruined me. My hair stands up at this!”

  “Oh, God,” Emma said. “Why’d you let him bring it?”

  “Listen! Listen!” Alberto insisted. “What is he playing?”

  They listened a moment. “Mozart!” Alberto cried. “This is the last stroke!

  �
�I’ll box him one,” he added, heading for the door. “Maybe she has gone deaf.” He rushed out of the kitchen, Emma just behind him.

  The scene they came upon was even more amazing than the scene they had expected. Aurora, instead of being at the head of the stairs looking horrified, was sitting on her living-room sofa, resplendent in her rose gown and amber necklace, her wonderful hair shining, holding the miniature yellow roses in her hands and listening with every appearance of happiness and interest as Alfredo—who had planted himself squarely in the middle of the floor, next to the bundle of heather—blasted away at something that only a professional musician could have recognized as Mozart. Alberto already had his fist doubled up, and he was forced to undouble it and wait out the little concert with as much grace as possible.

  As soon as Alfredo was finished Aurora rose with a smile. “Alfredo, thank you,” she said. “That quite charmed me. I think perhaps you’ve not got quite the delicacy of phrasing you might aspire to if you’re going to play Mozart, but then you know as well as I do that perfection never comes easy. You must keep working, you know.”

  She gave him a pat on the hand in passing and came over to his startled father. “Al-berto, as usual,” she said. “That’s the most wonderful heather, dear, and I haven’t had any for such a while.” She kissed him on both cheeks, and to Emma’s surprise, seemed to be beaming at him.

  “All this is little short of overwhelming, Alberto,” Aurora said. “You have the most wonderful florist. I don’t know what I do to deserve such abundance.”

  Alberto was just recovering himself from the shock of the harmonica performance. He was not quite yet able to believe the evening still had a chance, and he could not keep himself from glowering at Alfredo, something Aurora noted at once.

  “Now, Alberto, just stop scowling at that boy,” she said. “I wouldn’t scowl at a wonderful boy like Alfredo, if I had one. I was very devilish with him, in any case. He showed me his new symphonic harmonica and within two minutes I had tricked him into playing it for me. I do hope you’re going to see that he gets proper musical training, and I do hope too that you got around to opening the wine.

  “And if you didn’t, it was Emma’s fault,” she added. “Her instructions in that regard were quite precise.” She gave her daughter an airy smile.

  “It was my fault,” Emma agreed. The evening was young and Alberto still had plenty of time in which to accumulate black marks.

  “I can play rock too,” Alfredo said, causing a vein to bulge out on the side of his father’s nose.

  “No, you’ve done enough,” Aurora said. “Your father’s not likely to tolerate any more of my little indulgences just now. Besides, I’ve fixed us some trifles to nibble on while we watch the evening, and I’m sure we’d all like a drink. You look like you’ve been having your nervousness again, Alberto. I don’t know what’s to be done with you.”

  She took Alberto’s arm, and with a glance at her daughter that left her with the responsibility for anything that might need to be done she meandered off toward her lower patio. Alfredo treaded behind her as closely as he dared.

  3.

  ALBERTO HAD come in like a lamb and Emma fully expected to see him slaughtered and cooked. Instead she saw him turned, for an hour or two at least, back into the lion he must once really have been. She had known that her mother was not without charm, and had suspected that she was not without sympathy either, but she had never expected to see those qualities exercised so generously on Alberto’s behalf.

  Her meal was wonderful, starting with mushrooms stuffed with pâté and proceeding to cold watercress soup, endive, and a veal dish Emma didn’t know the name of, in a tart sauce and with ratatouille, followed by cheese, a pear, and coffee, at which point Alfredo put his head on the table and went to sleep, leaving them to have brandy without the threat of his harmonica.

  They had eaten on the patio, and by some miracle Aurora had even arranged for a minimum of bugs. Alberto was so buoyed by his nice reception that for a time he recovered his energy and rose to great heights of Italian charm. He popped up every two minutes to keep the wine glasses filled, patted Aurora every time he passed her chair, and stopped eating after every third bite to praise the food. Aurora accepted both the compliments and the patting without complaint, ate a healthy amount of her own food, and pressed no attacks at all, though she did devote a certain amount of attention to Alfredo’s table manners. It was all so pleasant that Emma might have scintillated a bit herself, if she could have got a word in edgewise.

  Then, for no visible reason, while they were all sitting quietly holding their brandy, Alberto’s spirits suddenly plunged. One minute he seemed fine and the next he was crying. Tears ran down his cheeks, his chest was heaving, and he shook his head mournfully from side to side.

  “So good,” he said, gesturing at the remains of the meal. “So beautiful…” and he turned his eyes to Aurora. “I don’t deserve. No, I don’t deserve.”

  Aurora was not surprised. “Alberto, surely you’re not going to cry,” she said. “A wonderful man like yourself—I’m not going to have it.”

  “But no,” Alberto said. “You feed me this meal, you are so nice, Emma is so nice. I don’t know… I am old and crazy. I don’t sing no more…. What do I do? I sell bassoons, electric guitar, harmonica. Is no life. What am I gonna offer?”

  “Alberto, I’m taking you right out in my garden and you’re going to get a lecture,” Aurora said, rising. “You know I’m not going to allow you to disparage yourself this way.” She took his arm, made him get up, and walked him off into the darkness. Emma sat for a moment. Alberto must have gotten worse, for she could hear him sobbing, and her mother’s voice over the sobs.

  When the sobs were silenced and the two of them still didn’t reappear, Emma got up and began to clear the table. One of her mother’s firmest principles was that Rosie was not to be burdened with the remains of her parties. While Emma was scraping the plates her mother stuck her head in the kitchen door.

  “That’s nice of you, dear, but it can wait,” she said. “Could you come and make your goodnights? My friend is better, but he is still somewhat crestfallen. We had better walk them to their car.”

  Emma left the dishes and followed her mother. Alberto was standing in the living room looking small and sodden, and Alfredo, barely awake, was yawning on the front porch. Aurora had stuck the heather in a great green vase and put it by the fireplace, and the irises and anemones were on the window ledges of the deep curved windows.

  “Emma, I am sorry, honey, I have ruined the party,” Alberto began, but her mother went up to him and imperturbably tucked his arm in hers and began to lead him toward the door.

  “Hush, Alberto,” she said. “We’ve heard quite enough out of you this evening. I don’t know how I’ll be able to sleep now, your banter has stirred me up so. Why a man with your taste in flowers wants to stand there belittling himself is more than I can fathom. But then I don’t know that I’ll ever understand the male of the species, clever as I am.”

  They all walked out and stood for a moment on the front lawn, Alfredo dozing, Alberto standing sadly with his arm around Aurora’s waist. There was a soft breeze, and thin clouds were moving overhead.

  “I do love the nights this time of year,” Aurora said. “The air here is at its best just now, don’t you think, Alberto? I’ve always supposed it was because of the trees that our air is so soft. It has a kind of weight, you know. I believe trees have something to do with the making of air.”

  She looked down at Alberto fondly. “How are the nights in Genoa, dear?” she asked. “You’ve hardly mentioned your own birthplace all evening, you know. I’m afraid you sometimes take my little strictures a bit too seriously. You really can’t allow me to suppress you, Alberto. It can’t be good for you, that I can see.”

  “Yes, in Genoa I was another man,” Alberto said. “We were there… you remember?”

  Aurora nodded and put him into his car. Alfredo was guided d
own the driveway without incident. The car was a Lincoln, and even older than Aurora’s Cadillac. It was a relic of Alberto’s heyday as a tenor.

  “All right now, you call me at the crack of dawn,” Aurora said once Alberto was under the wheel. “Otherwise I shall worry about you. I’m sure we can devise something pleasant to do next week. I do think you ought to promote Alfredo, though, dear. He’s your own son, and he’s been in harmonicas too long. If he grows discontent, then the next thing you know he’ll follow in my daughter’s footsteps and start having babies by someone you may not approve of. I’m not sure I’d care to see Alfredo have a baby just yet.”

  “Maybe he could sell guitars,” Alberto said doubtfully, looking out at the two women. He tried to gather himself for a last gesture.

  “Was wonderful,” he said. “The mother is wonderful, the daughter is wonderful, just alike, my darlings. I am starting.” And as the car shot forward he took both hands off the wheel and began to blow them both kisses.

  “Oh, dear, there goes Alfredo, it seems,” Aurora said, watching him slump onto the floorboards as the Lincoln pulled away. It only pulled away from them, however; as soon as Alberto removed his hands from the wheel it veered straight for the curb. Alberto wrested it into the street, but not before there had been a hideous scraping of tires.

  “There, you see what happens?” Aurora said to Emma, gritting her teeth at the sound. “I trust you won’t be so quick to criticize my parking after this. In all likelihood he will have a flat in the next few days.”

  She had put on her sandals to dine but kicked them off at once.

  “You were awfully nice to Alberto,” Emma said.

  “I don’t see why that should be worthy of comment. After all, he was my guest.”

  “Yes, but you’re so mean about him when he’s not around,” Emma said.

  “Oh, well, that’s just my way,” Aurora said. “I’ve been allowed to become sarcastic, I suppose. Your father made little effort to correct me in that regard. It’s a general failing in our family—the men are never adequate to correcting the women when they need it. It’s certainly not likely that Thomas will ever correct you.”