by Belva Plain
Without a warning the weather had changed, as weather does; winds and currents were buffeting the family’s little boat, and they had no chart. They drifted.
TWELVE
It was one of those mild days that sometimes appear in December when, even though fall is hardly over, one can already imagine spring. A silvery sunshine streamed through the bare trees, and sparrows flitted across the still-green grass.
Adam, looking anxiously toward the window and Randi’s back, appealed to her: “Let’s take a walk. A little air and exercise will lift you out of the dumps.”
Without turning she said dully, “I need more than that to lift me. I’m alone too much, that’s my trouble. Yes, I’m with people all day at work, but when I come back here at night to these empty rooms and silence and all that space outdoors—it’s so dismal. I can’t describe it, I can’t tell you how I feel.”
He could say only, “I can imagine. I know. I’m sorry.”
“At Thanksgiving I was a guest, a fifth wheel at somebody’s family table. All I thought of was the dinner I could have made for you at our own table.”
This was the first time that Randi had gone beyond hints or other oblique remarks, and it scared him. Looming ahead he saw a crisis; and now as she turned about, he faced a piteous kind of accusation.
“Of course, it will be the same at Christmas. Then there’ll be New Year’s Eve, all my friends kissing their boyfriends or their husbands at midnight, while I stand there trying to fake a happy smile. It’s too depressing. The fact is, Adam, I’m going into a depression.”
“No, no,” he protested. “You’re too strong, too sound, for that.”
“I’m not made of iron,” she said.
When he saw tears well into her eyes, his alarm mounted. Good natured as she was and easy to please, Randi was yet capable of making an emotional, explosive decision without regard to any hurtful consequences; had she not once before, and to her own sorrow, broken away from him?
“I know how hard it is for you,” he said hurriedly. “I promise I’ll manage a three-day business meeting someplace early in January. And we can go there together. But right now I’m hamstrung by these holidays. My kids, second cousins coming all the way from Denver, Christmas stuff at the office—you know how it is.”
“Can’t we manage a tiny little something for ourselves just once? You can knock off early one day, can’t you? Say around four o’clock? Tell everybody you have some business to take care of and run up here for supper. I’ll buy food, a feast for us two. And you can go home whenever you want. Can’t you do that?”
“Well,” he said, “I’ve been doing an awful lot of that stuff lately.”
“Come on, Adam, let’s do it. It’ll be our own secret Christmas.”
“You’re irresistible,” he said, shaking his head in wonderment at himself.
“I know it,” she answered, laughing now.
Shortly after four, as Adam left the office, the snow began. By the time he was halfway to Randi’s house, it was falling in sheets. He had an ominous feeling that he ought to turn around and go back while the going was possible. But he did not.
The house was filled with holiday cheer. He ate a fine dinner, drank a champagne toast, and made love to Randi, all the time aware that sleet was tinkling on the windowpane. When the clock began to strike, she turned up the background music to disguise the number of strokes.
“No use, darling,” he said. “I’ve got to start.”
They opened the front door onto a tumult of whirling snow, and Randi protested, “You can’t possibly drive back to Elmsford through all this.”
“I can’t possibly stay here all night either,” he said, buttoning his overcoat.
“What if you get stuck on the road? How will that look? You’re supposed to be at a meeting in the office.”
“I have to chance it.”
“Talking of possibilities, I think it’s pretty clear that this situation is impossible.”
It was clear to him that she was not referring to the night’s weather. She was asking him once again about the future of their relationship. And they looked at each other, neither speaking, while the question hung in the air between them: What is to be done?
Then he kissed her, raced to the car, and slid down the hill.
Fortunately, the route was either level or downhill all the way. There was hardly a car on the road, and those that were took care to crawl and keep away from the shoulders where, if anyone were to founder, he had better be prepared to spend a long, cold night. It had been totally foolhardy to venture up here, yet the need to see Randi had been more powerful than caution or common sense. Even as he cursed at the ice and struggled to hold the road, Adam had to smile at the picture of her in her red velvet robe and golden slippers. Temptation, sweet temptation in a velvet robe.
He was on the very outskirts of Elmsford, almost two hours into the journey, when his luck gave out. Making the final turn off the highway onto a narrow street, the car skated across the ice, turned a full circle, and landed in a heap of snow more than two feet high.
The rest was agony. He got out and tried to shovel. He got back in and tried to rock the car. The motor roared and the wheels spun; when he smelled hot rubber, he gave up. For a minute he stood there in an empty street of shut-up shops and warehouses, pondering the next move. Thinking it an unnecessary expense, he had never bought a car phone, but even if he had had one now, whom would he call at this hour? He was about to leave the car and trudge the few miles to home when two young fellows came walking around the corner and directed him to a nearby bar where somebody might have a suggestion.
And so it happened that indeed the bar owner was willing to call his brother, who had a tow truck and would, for a price, come to Adam’s rescue.
“It’ll cost you, mister,” he said.
“I don’t care what it costs,” replied Adam.
It was after half past one in the morning when he entered his own driveway. Lights were on in the house, and Margaret would be waiting for an explanation that he really did not have.
The moment he put the key in the lock, he heard her racing downstairs and calling.
“I was frantic! Where in heaven’s name were you? I phoned the office, thinking that perhaps you were all marooned there, but all I got was an answering machine. Then Megan heard me and got up. We were both imagining some horrible five-car pileup—but where were you?”
“The meeting lasted forever. Afterward, I’m embarrassed to say, a couple of us went over to the Hotel Bradley bar.”
Margaret sighed. “Well, as long as you’re home and safe. It just never occurred to me that you’d go anyplace afterward.” She managed a little laugh. “You’ve never been the type to go ‘out with the boys.’ But, please, next time, take a minute to phone.”
“I know. I should have. It was stupid of me. I didn’t think.”
“Well, all’s well that ends well. You’re soaked through. Better take a hot shower right away. Poor Megan, I sent her back to bed. She was so worried that she even called Fred.”
“Called Fred?” he cried. “Why the hell did you let her do that?”
“I didn’t. She went downstairs and did it, then told me. She wanted to ask Uncle Fred whether we should phone the police.”
“Police! And what did he say?”
“Not to call them and not to worry. He said he was quite sure you were all right. I can’t imagine what made him so sure. But then, you know Fred. He always looks at the bright side of things.”
The bright side? Oh, very bright indeed, said Adam to himself. Even after the hot tea and the hot shower, he shivered.
The next night was the night of the company Christmas party. Most often held at the office, it was to be held this time in a private dining room at the Hotel Bradley.
“That looks like a good omen,” Margaret said as they were getting dressed.
“Why so?”
“Well, things must be looking up for them to be spending
that much extra money.”
“Not necessarily. It could be just the reverse, that they’re expecting bad news and want to soften the blow, especially at Christmas. It would be typical of those fat cats.”
Margaret did not answer. There was something fundamental in their differing approach to life. She was an optimist, perhaps sometimes foolishly so, while he was the pessimist, perhaps sometimes more wisely realistic than she was. Recently, though, she had been observing in his remarks an overlay of cynicism that was saddening.
She was determined to use this social evening to raise her spirits, which had for so long now been sunken. To that end she had bought a new dress. It cost more than she had ever spent, but it was her favorite color, periwinkle, that odd, lovely shade hovering between violet and blue; she had been unable, and had not wanted, to resist it. Now, at the mirror as she adjusted a new pair of imitation sapphire earrings, she was pleased with herself.
Megan and Julie were enraptured. With upturned, expectant faces, they were waiting at the foot of the stairs when Adam and Margaret came down.
Laughing, Margaret said, “You look like bridesmaids waiting to catch the bouquet.”
“But, Mom! We never see you like this. You’re gorgeous! Isn’t she gorgeous, Dad?”
Adam looked. “Yes, that’s a very nice dress.”
“You should be dressed up like this every day, Mom,” Julie said.
Megan scoffed. “What, in school? You are such a dope.”
And Adam said, “Let’s go. We’ll be late.”
They drove the first few blocks in silence. If I knew anything about psychology, Margaret thought, maybe I would analyze myself and understand whether this weight on what poets call the heart—and is more likely the solar plexus—is the weight of grief, fear, pity, rage, or all of them.
And quite abruptly, she blurted, “Do you really like this dress, Adam? Somehow I have the idea that you don’t.”
“Why, yes,” he replied. “Of course I do. Why do you ask? I said I liked it. It’s very pretty. Very.”
He had turned his head toward her as he spoke. His voice had warmed. But if he had only put his hand on her arm! If only he would give her something! Something.
Eventually, she must speak out, laying everything flat upon the table, saying: Here it is, it’s your fault, I don’t want to blame you because I love you, but I’ve been waiting long enough, I can’t bear it any longer, it’s your fault that you won’t tell me anything, won’t do anything about it, if you’re ill I’ll help you because I love you, don’t you understand that in spite of everything, I love you—
Tears started. Stupid tears. Stupid thoughts sometimes that maybe there was another woman. But that was absurd. In the darkness she fumbled for a tissue, and through sheer force contained the thoughts.
Don’t be an idiot, Margaret. Act your age.
Silence resumed.
Then, slowly, a kind of defiance began to rise in her. She smoothed her mother’s gold bracelet and stroked her silk skirt. It felt smooth and rich. This was to be a festive night, and there were so few of them at best in the routine of their lives. She was damned if she wasn’t going to have a good time!
Adam asked pleasantly, “Wasn’t Megan saying something about taking AP European history next year?”
“Yes, her advisor thinks she should. She’s not especially interested in the humanities, but she’ll do well. She always does.”
“It’s hard to believe she’s only going on seventeen next year, isn’t it?”
“Megan was always five years ahead of herself.”
And the rest of the ride was spent in the agreeable discussion of their children.
She had always been able to pick herself up quickly after a stumble. By the time she walked into the Bradley’s rooms, her head was confidently high. She was even faintly amused at herself for being as pleased as a child with the very idea of “party.” The sights and sounds of music and bright clothing, chandeliers and flowers, came toward her in a vivid wave, and she plunged right into it.
The Cranes had made no close friends among the people at ADS, Adam being of the belief, which Margaret did not share, that business life ought to be strictly separate from life at home. But she herself had contacts here, many of them originating in her school, since so many of ADS’s families had children whom she had taught or was now teaching. So she had barely gone through the door when she was seen and greeted, caught up into the swirl around the bar, introduced to new people, and approached by others whom she had known for most of her life.
Adam stood quietly beside her, holding a drink. She was used to drawing him into social situations and did so now.
“Who is the new man from the main office?” she whispered.
“Who? The new man?”
“The one you mentioned a while back. I think you said his name was Hudson.”
“Oh, him. Over there. The gray-haired man with the woman in the black dress.”
“It would make sense to be friendly with him, Adam. He’s next in line after Ramsey, isn’t he? One round above Jenks.”
“I’m hardly unfriendly with him, Margaret.”
“That’s not the point. Take me over and introduce me.”
“This whole business is a pain. All right, let’s go.”
Rudy Hudson was immediately cordial, as was his wife. They were an older couple, of the sort whose sense of position was unmistakable without being in the least offensive.
“I’ve heard a lot about you since we moved here,” Ruth Hudson told Margaret.
“About me?”
“Yes. Two of our neighbors know you from school. From the way they praised your teaching, I somehow assumed you were a much, much older woman, an old-timer. And when I joined the Red Cross, I heard you work there too.”
“Not as often as I’d like. There’s never enough time for everything you would like to do, is there?”
The other agreed that that was true. Rudy Hudson, who, Margaret was aware, had been looking at her with interest, remarked to Adam, “You’ve never said a word about your beautiful wife. I suppose I can’t blame you for keeping her a secret.”
Embarrassed, Margaret observed that the door to the dining room was opening. As the couples moved apart, Adam murmured that the man was an idiot.
“Why?” she countered. “Because he said I was beautiful, which I’m not?”
“It was just bad taste,” Adam said.
Suddenly, she wanted to needle him. “Yes, ‘beautiful’ really is an exaggeration. But how about ‘pretty’? Would you argue with that, or not?”
“Now you’re being an idiot,” he said. “You know very well you are.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to hear it from you once in a while.”
“All right. You’re a very pretty woman.”
Now she was angry. Crazy, how her moods shifted from moment to moment! And with valiant determination she concentrated her thoughts away from her injured, angry self.
At the table, where inevitably among the men a stream of business talk flowed back and forth, the women were forced into their own conversations. Margaret was seated near Madeline Jenks and Ruth Hudson.
“So we meet again,” said Madeline. “Seems we never see each other between one Christmas party and the next, unless we happen to run into the supermarket at the same time.”
Margaret nodded. “I know. But we’re all so busy. I sometimes think we could use four or five more hours in our day.”
“Well, we women could, anyway. The men have it so much easier. Home on the dot every night to eat and relax while we’re hardly through before midnight.”
“Some men, yes, but you don’t mean the men at ADS, that’s for sure.”
“Why, what do you mean?” asked Ruth Hudson in surprise.
“The late hours! All the night meetings. I think the men here work very hard.”
“There are not that many meetings,” said Madeline Jenks.
Now Margaret was surprised. “Not many? Two or
three every week. Of course,” she said, mindful that she must not seem to be complaining, “the work has to be done. Goodness knows, they do marvelous work. Oh, but yesterday! Half past one in the morning! In all that storm. I thought Adam would never get home from the office. It was awful.”
The other two women said nothing. Then the men’s conversation took their attention; somebody rose to give a brief welcoming speech, and the orchestra struck up for dancing.
Adam, not liking to dance, moved stiffly around the floor with Margaret. After that she had three or four dances with assorted men, one nice old man whose wife was on crutches and a couple of young ones who had come without a companion. She danced well and was complimented for it.
When the time came to leave, she made a mental assessment of the evening: Like her life it had been satisfactory—except for its one bewildering, huge, miserable trouble.
Adam sat in his office unable to concentrate on the work that lay piled before him. The pounding in his head had begun to nauseate him. The pounding questions would not and could not possibly let him alone. They were crying for a solution. Should he end it with Randi? On the one hand: yes. He should never have begun with her. On the other hand: no. They loved each other. But Margaret was so visibly distraught; he thought, knowing her as he did, that her heart must be aching now, and surely it would break entirely if she should find out. As for the children—he could but shudder at what the news would do to them. And yet, how could they possibly go on as they were? The mood of the house was grim and dark; whenever light did flash through the gloom, it was artificial light and all of them must feel that it was.… Besides, how long would it be before his deception would become known? And he thought of Fred, hovering silently in the background, and of last night’s narrow escape.
It was a mess, a dreadful mess. He got up to stare out of the window, as he tended to do whenever he needed to think hard, and as if there were some solution to be found in the air or on the street. But the air was empty and the street was banked with dirty snow.