When he got in his car to drive away, Aurora shook her head, in criticism of herself, and without another word turned and went back to her house.
Vernon drove away feeling so confused he was almost sick at his stomach.
4.
SOMETIME IN the night Aurora awoke. She hated to awake in the night and tried to will herself to stay asleep, but it didn’t work. She woke into a state of deep tristesse— helpless and wordless. It was happening more and more often, and it was something she never told anyone about. It was too deep. She usually made a special effort to be gay after such nights; if anyone noticed anything out of the ordinary, it was Rosie, and Rosie held her peace.
When she knew she was awake, with the sadness upon her again, she got up and took her pillows and her comforter to the window nook and sat looking out the window. There was a moon, and the trees in her back yard cast deep shadows. It was a thoughtless state, a formless sadness; she could not even say whether what she missed was someone to want, or someone to want her, but the ache behind her breastbone was so pronounced that she occasionally hit herself, hoping that would make it loosen and go away. But the feeling that made the ache was too strong; her little blows didn’t affect it. It was her old off-centeredness, or uncenteredness, a sense that something was stopping that hadn’t ought to stop.
She had made every effort to remain active, to keep open to life, and yet life was beginning to resist her in unexpected ways. Men, some of them decent and good, seemed to march through her life almost daily, and yet they caused so little to stir within her that she had begun to be afraid—not just that nothing would ever stir again, but that she would stop wanting it to, cease caring whether it did or not, or even come to prefer that it didn’t.
It was that fear, finally, that left her awake and tearless at her window late at night. She wasn’t falling behind, slipping into some sort of widow’s stupor; she was moving ahead, beyond reach. Her own daughter had suddenly made her realize it by quietly usurping her right to have a child. It was Emma’s turn to have children, but what was it her turn to do? It had taken her daughter’s pregnancy to make her realize how nearly impregnable she herself had become—impregnable in a variety of ways. Let her get a little stronger, a little older, a little more set in her ways, with a few more barricades of habit and routine, and no one would ever break in. Her ways would be her house and her garden and Rosie and one or two old friends, and Emma and the children she would have. Her delights would be conversation and concerts, the trees and the sky, her meals and her house, and perhaps a trip or two now and then to the places she liked best in the world.
Such things were all very well, yet the thought that such things were going to be her life for as far ahead as she could see made her sad and restless—almost as restless as Vernon, except that her fidgets were mostly internal and seldom caused her to do anything more compulsive than twisting her rings. As she sat at the window, looking out, her sense of the wrongness of it was deep as bone. It was not just wrong to go on so, it was killing. Her energies, it seemed to her, had always flowed from a capacity for expectation, a kind of hopefulness that had persisted year after year, in defiance of all difficulties. It was hopefulness, the expectation that something nice was bound to happen to her, that got her going in the morning and brought her contentedly to bed at night. For almost fifty years some secret spring inside her had kept feeding hopefulness into her bloodstream, and she had gone through her days expectantly, always eager for surprises and always finding them.
Now the stream seemed dry—probably there would be no more real surprises. Men had taken to fleeing before her, and soon her own daughter would have a child. She had always lived close to people; now, thanks to her own strength or her own particularity and the various quirks of fate, she was living at an intermediate distance from everybody, in her heart. It was wrong; she didn’t want it to go on. She was forgetting too much—soon she would be unable to remember what she was missing. Even sex, she knew, would eventually relocate itself and become an appetite of the spirit. Perhaps it had already happened, but if it hadn’t it soon would.
The worst of the sadness passed, but when it did she felt so wakeful that she knew she wouldn’t sleep for the rest of the night. She went down, made tea, and got some cookies. Then she returned to her window nook and drank and ate, considering her options. So far as men went, all of the ones she knew were wrong, quite wrong. She had stopped feeling desperate, but she knew that unless something changed and changed soon she was going to do something sad—give up on herself in some way. She didn’t sigh or flounce at the thought; she looked out her window at the dim yard and the cold facts. The cold facts seemed to be that unless she wanted to live alone for the rest of her life, in a general and rather quiescent way, she would have to hack her way into the best relationship she could get.
What seemed to be required was a somewhat cold-blooded decision, and hot blood had been the way of her life. What was obvious was that if she were to wait for hot blood to take her any farther she would probably wait in vain. Miracles did happen, but there was no counting on them. Nothing would ever be right, but it was four in the morning and she was in her fiftieth year. She didn’t want to surrender to everything middling, placid, empty. Better pride be let to fall, if pride was what it was that was reducing her spirit day by day.
She thought of the nice little man in the white car whose love she had idly called into being. It would probably be a very decent love, and it might even be possible to teach him to express it; but the thought of his decency didn’t cause her to lift the phone. Instead, when her ship’s clock told her it was five o’clock she lifted it and called her neighbor, General Hector Scott.
“Yes, General Scott here,” he said, briskly and scratchily, as wide awake as if it were noon.
“Of course you’re up, Hector,” she said. “You’ve not let down your standards. I must admit that’s something. However, I’ve decided to sue you.”
“Sue me?” General Scott said, momentarily incredulous. “You’re calling me at five A.M. to tell me you’re going to sue me? That’s the goddamnedst gall I’ve ever encountered, I can tell you that.”
“Well, I’m not likely to relent now that my mind’s made up,” she said.
“Aurora, what in the hell’s got into you?” he asked. “This is arrant nonsense. You can’t sue me.”
“Oh, I believe I’m well within my rights, Hector,” she said. “I believe your whole position in regard to our car wreck was highly illegal. However, I like to think I’m a fair woman. I’m willing to invite you to breakfast, to give you a chance to plead your case. I don’t see how anyone could be fairer than that.”
“Yes, well, I’d like to give you a punch in the goddamn nose while we’re talking of fair,” the General said, his temper flaring at the memory of how coolly she had walked off and left him in the Cadillac.
“Hector, you’re far too old to punch anyone,” Aurora said. “Anything you got you can be sure you deserved, if you’re speaking of inconvenience. Are you coming to breakfast or are you just going to stand there mouthing ineffectual threats?”
“What’s become of your little gambler?” he asked.
“That is a matter that doesn’t concern you at all,” she said. “Are you coming over here or are you going to go run around with those silly dogs?”
“They are not silly, and of course I intend to run,” the General said. “I invariably run. Then I’m coming over there and punch you right in the nose.”
“Oh, sticks and stones, Hector,” Aurora said. “How will you take your eggs?”
“Poached,” the General said.
“All right,” Aurora said. “Try not to exhaust yourself on your ridiculous little run, please. We have our lawsuit to discuss, and I won’t have you flagging.”
She hung up before he could utter another word. Three minutes later, not entirely to her surprise, someone began to bang on her front door. She put the phone back in its place and belted her robe.
The banging stopped but the doorbell began to ring. Aurora put on her robe, got a hairbrush, and sauntered slowly downstairs, brushing her hair. She opened the front door and met the eye of a very angry red-faced general. He had on the gray sweat suit he wore to run in.
“I’ll punch you in the nose, God damn you, and then I’ll do my run,” he said.
Aurora lifted her chin. “Un-uh,” she said.
The General could scarcely see, he was so angry; but even in his fury he could detect a look of cool, rather careless challenge in Aurora’s eyes. She had not even stopped brushing her hair.
“I want you to know that you’re the most intolerable, arrogant bitch I’ve ever encountered in my life, and I’ve encountered a great many,” the General said. He didn’t hit her, but he could not refrain from giving her a good hard shove.
Aurora noted that he had nice firm, rather delicate hands, the hands of a far younger man. There was something to be said for men who kept themselves in trim. She caught herself just short of her stairway, and saw that his chest was heaving and his face very red.
“You think I’m a coward, don’t you?” he said. “All these years I’ve loved you and what it comes down to is that you think I’m a goddamn coward.”
“How long have you loved me, Hector?” she asked in a friendly tone.
“Years … years,” he said heavily. “Since the forties. You know that. Since that party you gave us before I was sent to Midway. You remember that. Your baby had just been born and you were still nursing her. I remember the dress you wore.”
Aurora smiled. “What amazing memories men have,” she said. “I can barely remember that war, much less that party or that dress. Let me have your hand.”
The General held it out. To his amazement she seemed to want to examine it. “Well, it was around then,” he said. “I thought about you a lot while I was overseas.
“Pacific theater,” he said, to help her memory.
Aurora linked her arm companionably in his and kept his hand. “I’m sure there were any number of sentimental scenes I’d enjoy remembering, if I could,” she said. “You men have such patience too.”
“How’s that?” he asked.
“Never mind, dear,” Aurora said. “I suppose I’m just feeling rather ashamed. In all these years I’ve never shown you my Renoir. You might come and take a look at it now, if you aren’t in too great a hurry to get to your run. I think that’s the least I can do for someone who’s loved me twenty years.”
General Scott instantly freed the hand she held, but only in order to grasp her more firmly in both his hands. The agitation of anger gave way to another, equally powerful agitation, and that increased when it became apparent that finally, finally, after all those years, Aurora had stopped being reluctant to be grasped.
“Aurora, I’m not interested in your art, I’m only interested in you,” the General managed to say before passion choked him completely.
Aurora heard a new resonance in the familiar scratchy voice. She smiled, but ducked her head, so the smile was only for herself.
“Oh, well,” she said, “never mind about it, Hector. My Renoir is not likely to walk away. We’ll save it until all else fails.”
She looked up and met his eye. The General felt a fool, an old frightened fool, but not so frightened or such a graceless fool as to question miracles. Amiably, rather merrily, and with a great deal more conversation, Aurora led him upstairs, to a place he had long since ceased to expect to go.
CHAPTER XII
1.
ROSIE, THAT same morning, awoke to find that her hot water heater was on the blink. Little Buster, her baby, fell down and split his lip trying to take a toy duck away from his big sister Lou Ann, and Lou Ann made matters worse by laughing at him. Little Buster’s lip bled so profusely it looked like his throat was cut, and all either child could think about was when their daddy was coming home. When that might be, or where their daddy was, Rosie had no idea. There had not been a sound out of Royce in three weeks. Every day she went home expecting to find him there, lonely and repentant, and every day she found nothing but an empty house and two disagreeable children. It was almost too much, and by the time she got Little Buster cleaned up and shuttled the two of them down the street to the neighbor who kept them during the day, she was feeling desperate. She boarded her morning bus almost in tears and rode across Houston with her eyes closed, so tired of the world that she just didn’t want to look at it anymore.
When she opened her eyes again one of the first things she saw was F.V. d’Arch sitting on the curb near her bus stop. That was the first time that had ever happened, and Rosie was mildly intrigued. F.V. looked like the bottom had fallen out, but then so far as she knew the bottom had always been out where F.V. was concerned. It was only the fact that he was sitting on the curb that surprised her. He had on his chauffeur pants and his undershirt.
“What’s the matter, you get fired?” she asked.
F.V. shook his head. “Worrit sick,” he said.
“Yeah, me too,” Rosie said. “I don’t know if Royce is alive or dead. I don’t know what he thinks I’m supposed to tell the kids. I never would have married him if I’d known it was going to end up in a mess like this.”
“Guess where the General’s at, an’ you’ll know why I’m worrit sick,” F.V. said.
“Where is he, off somewhere buyin’ a tank?”
“Naw, he’s up at Miz Greenway’s,” F.V. said. “Ran up there two hours ago. Never even took his run. Them dogs is about to scratch the door down.”
“Uh-oh,” Rosie said, looking up the street.
“There ain’t no light in the kitchen, either,” F.V. said. “There ain’t no light in the whole house, if you want the truth.”
“Uh-oh,” Rosie said again. She sat down on the curb beside F.V. and both of them stared at Mrs. Greenway’s house. The sun was up and it was a fine bright day, but somehow the house seemed dark and ominous.
“What are you thinkin’ about?” Rosie asked.
F.V. shrugged an expressive Cajun shrug, signifying general calamity. Rosie accepted the fact of calamity but wanted something more precise.
“This is awful,” she said. “I wish Royce would come home.”
“I was gonna tell you about somethin’,” F.V. said. “I was plannin’ to mention it to you, but now all this happened.”
“What, what?” Rosie asked, thinking he had news of Royce.
“Dance,” F.V. said. “It’s tonight, out at the J-Bar Korral. You know, that place on McCarty Street.”
“Aw, yeah,” Rosie said. “What about it?”
F.V. pulled on his mustache for a while. A minute passed, but he seemed unable to bring himself to speak.
“F.V., I can’t stand no more suspense,” Rosie said. “What about the dance?”
“Wanta go?” F.V. managed to utter.
Rosie stared at him as if he was crazy. In fact, it seemed to her the whole world was crazy. Royce had disappeared into nowhere, and General Scott had disappeared into Aurora’s house. Now F.V. d’Arch had just asked her for a date.
“You oughta get out more,” F.V. mumbled, staring at his shoelaces.
“I guess it’s the truth,” Rosie said vaguely. “I oughta get out more. Little Buster’s driving me crazy.”
F.V. fell hopelessly silent, waiting for Rosie to rule on his invitation.
“Aw, well, what’s the use,” Rosie said. “If Royce don’t like it he can lump it.”
F.V. decided that meant she would go, but he wasn’t entirely sure.
Rosie looked up the street. “If he ain’t killed her that means they’re involved,” she said. Involved was a word she had picked up from Aurora’s soap operas. “It’s gonna break poor Vernon’s heart.”
“We still goin’ to the dance?” F.V. asked. The fact that his boss was involved with Mrs. Greenway faded into insignificance beside the fact that he almost had a date with Rosie.
Before Rosie could say a word Vernon’s white Li
ncoln pulled into the street.
“Oh, my God,” Rosie said and rushed out to stop it. Vernon saw her and pulled over. He had spent a sleepless night pacing his garage and had finally decided to ignore what seemed to be his orders and return for breakfast.
“Stop right there!” Rosie yelled dramatically. Vernon looked at her questioningly, at which point Rosie suddenly found herself at a loss for words. She turned around and looked at F.V. to see if he had any inspiration. F.V. had stood up and was carefully balancing himself on the edge of the curb as if it were a tall building. After a moment or two of euphoria he was beginning to have intimations of calamity again. He had nothing at all to say.
Fortunately just at that moment one of the phones rang in Vernon’s car. The fact that he was on the phone gave Rosie time to gather her wits.
“I’ll take him to Emma’s,” she said. “Maybe she can help me break the news.”
“What about the dance?” F.V. asked.
Rosie felt very annoyed. It was just like someone from Bossier City to try and pin her down at a time when she didn’t know her own mind two minutes in a row.
“Aw, honey, let me call you about it later,” she said. “Right now I don’t know up from down.”
F.V. looked so gloomy that she reached out and gave his hand a little squeeze. After all, they had spent many happy hours together tinkering with the General’s Packard. Then she ran out and jumped in the Lincoln.
“Turn around,” she said as soon as Vernon hung up the phone. The order came too late: Vernon was staring down the street. Rosie stared too. General Hector Scott, in one of Aurora’s bathrobes, was walking briskly across Aurora’s lawn. He found the paper, walked briskly back into the house, and shut the door behind him.
Vernon put the Lincoln in reverse and took his foot off the brake. The big white car began to ease slowly backward. F.V. appeared in front of them in his gray pants and his undershirt, still balanced on the edge of the curb. He didn’t wave.
“I don’t know what come over her,” Rosie said.
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