After the Fire

by Belva Plain

  “Well in my opinion, a woman that homely should stop talking so much.”

  “She's not homely, Gerald. And that's a horrible thing to say. I want you to be nice to her. We're giving them a dinner for their anniversary.”

  “My God. Why?”

  “Because they had one for us, that's why.”

  “Can't you give a present instead? I have no patience with them. The woman's an idiot, and he's not much better.”

  They gave the dinner, and Gerald was coldly polite to the couple, more cold than polite. After everyone left, Hyacinth had an argument with him, the first intense one in a long time. It was made up the next day, of course, yet it troubled her greatly.

  Gradually, she became aware of having tense moments when there was no reason to: when, for example, she was at the supermarket, or even working peacefully at the easel. And she was frightened without knowing why.

  One afternoon she was working there, when Arnie came to the door.

  “Gerald's been trying to reach you,” he said, “and the operator said your phone's off the hook.”

  “I know. I noticed it a few minutes ago. Emma plays with it sometimes, and that's what must have happened. Is anything wrong?”

  “No, he only wanted to say he won't be back till very late. I pass near here on my way home, so I said I'd deliver the message. I see you've been painting. There's a green smudge on your nose.”

  Poised in the entry, Arnie seemed to be waiting for an invitation to come in, and she gave it. She had only good feelings toward him, recollections of pleasant things like all-male excursions with Gerald and Jerry to ball games and fishing ponds. Now he watched her fill in a cluster of distant trees at the far back of a harbor view.

  “That's a nice picture, Hy. Will you sell it?”

  “I'll always sell when I get the opportunity,” she replied ruefully. “The problem is that I don't get it often.”

  “I don't know much about art, but your work, all the stuff here in this room, looks top-notch to me. Maybe I ought to own a couple of paintings. You've been in my place—what do you think? Something over the fireplace, where I have the mirror?”

  “You could surely have one there. It would be a good spot.”

  “So how about you and Gerald stopping by to take a look? See what colors will best match the furniture. You have a big choice here.”

  “I'd be glad to, Arnie,” she said, being both touched and amused.

  “Say, what's that lighted cigarette doing in the ashtray?”

  “Uh-oh, I forgot. I put it down when you rang the doorbell.”

  “I didn't know you smoked. I never saw you.”

  “I haven't smoked in years, not since before Jerry was born. And now just a week or two ago, I started again. I don't know why.”

  “That's pretty dumb, Hy, if you don't mind my saying so. I gave it up fifteen years ago, and Gerald never even began, he tells me. We don't think we'd enjoy lung cancer that much.”

  “You're making me feel guilty.”

  “So why are you doing it?”

  She hesitated. “I can't explain it, even to myself…. Please don't tell Gerald, will you?”

  “All right, I won't. But he'll find out, you know.”

  He was looking at her so intently, with such serious concern, so unfitting to his familiar personality, that she was startled and looked away.

  “You must know what made you begin again when almost everybody, including you, has stopped or is trying to stop.”

  Arnie was persistent, and she knew enough about him to know that he would not give in until he had some sort of answer.

  “I get tense sometimes, and a cigarette soothes me.”

  “Why should you be tense?”

  “Isn't everybody sometimes?”

  “Ah, Hyacinth, answering my question with a question! That's a lawyer's trick.”

  “I'm sorry, but it's the best I can do.”

  “You're a lovely woman. I can't explain it exactly, I've known a lot of fascinating women, but nobody like you. You're different.”

  It's funny, she thought, that's what Gerald used to tell me, the exact words.

  “I don't like to see you unhappy, Hy. When a person is tense, he's unhappy. And you don't deserve to be unhappy. You mustn't be. You're married to a remarkable man. My God, he did a burn case last week that you wouldn't believe! I almost couldn't believe it.”

  Arnie stood up, and with his hand on her shoulder, he continued in a manner almost fatherly. Yet there was also a frank admiration in his manner that, although entirely respectful, was not fatherly.

  “I've watched you for almost six years now, and I'm going to tell you something: You underestimate yourself. I'm going to tell you something else, too, and I give sound advice: You and Gerald need to get away. Between work and children, you've never had a real vacation together. You need two weeks in France, or Italy, or wherever you like, and you should do it now. God knows you can afford to. Take a week to make arrangements, pack some new clothes, and be gone. No, don't argue with me. I'll tell Gerald tomorrow. No, don't thank me, either. I'm in a hurry. I'm late.”

  From partway down the front walk, he called back to where Hyacinth still stood in astonishment: “And throw those cigarettes away!”

  “It's a pity you have to rush off right now,” complained Francine.“If you could postpone it for a few weeks, you know we'd love to stay here with Jerry and Emma. But Diana's having surgery, and we've promised Tom to go there.”

  “That's what happens when you have so many grandchildren,” Jim said as he tied the loose bow on Emma's pigtail.

  They were a charming sight, the grandfather and the little girl sitting together on the big wicker porch chair. In a way, Hyacinth thought, she would just as soon stay home. But in another way, she felt a need to go. Arnie was probably right; they had been housebound for a long time.

  Jim worried, “I hope they won't miss you too much.”

  “They'll be fine. Jerry's a tough little man, and Emma loves everybody. It's only two weeks. They'll be in good hands.”

  “Are you sure this woman is responsible?” Francine asked.

  “She's thoroughly responsible. Sandy's been working at the office for the last three years. Gerald thinks the world of her.”

  “Is she young? I'm asking because you always wonder what kind of boyfriends the young ones may bring into the house while you're away.”

  “She's the quiet type, not the kind who runs around. You can tell. She's plump, with a pretty face, but in a few years she'll be fat, poor thing.”

  Francine laughed. “Some men like the plump ones.”

  “Not I,” Jim protested. “Slender with a few curves is my taste.”

  Exactly so. In her scarlet slip dress, Francine stood at the railing watching Jerry and his friends in the yard.

  “Look at that boy's curly head! Some women would kill to have hair like that, wouldn't they? What on earth are you doing with a cigarette, Hyacinth?”

  “Smoking it, Francine.”

  “Well, you shouldn't be.”

  Nagging again. Taking up where she left off years ago, as if I were still nineteen.

  “Ah well, ah well,” Jim began, and was interrupted.

  “Look at her, Jim. Don't tell me you haven't noticed, because I know you must have. She hasn't relaxed her muscles in hours. Let your shoulders drop down, Hyacinth. They're all hunched and tensed. Even your jaw is clenched. You worry me. I've tried since yesterday to keep my mouth shut, but I can't help saying that I don't like what I see.”

  It was on Hy's lips to retort “Then don't look,” but on second impulse, she said nothing. The criticism was loving, after all.

  “Leave her alone,” Jim said quietly. “Hy's old enough to take care of herself. Don't let's spoil this perfect afternoon.”

  “All right, all right. I'm sorry, Hyacinth. I didn't mean to spoil the day. Isn't that Gerald's car?”

  “Yes, he's home early to spend some time with you and maybe st
art to work on his suitcase. First trip to Europe. He can hardly wait.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the rental car with the top down, fortified with maps, Hyacinth's fairly fluent French, and a delightful breeze, they traveled out of Paris to the places that tourists go to see: the grand palaces, Versailles, Fontaine-bleau, Monet's water lilies, châteaux and gardens like living tapestries.

  “It's a dream,” Hyacinth said with a laugh. “Dream's not an original word, is it? Still to me, this is all so beautiful that it could be a dream, and I'm in love with it.”

  “But you've seen it before.”

  “When I was twelve. What did I know when I was twelve? Now I would come here every year if I could. Yes, like a dream,” she repeated.

  “So you're happy. I'm glad.”

  “Who wouldn't be happy? Look at those gorgeous poppies growing wild, like common daisies at home. And in midsummer you can see acres of sunflowers tall as men. I still remember them.”

  They drove on between the fields. A popular song came over the radio, and Hyacinth, hearing the refrain, sang along in French. Gerald turned to her with a smile.

  “You're a cheerful person, Hy. You're good company.”

  “You are, too,” she said, meaning it.

  Why, I am feeling like myself! Myself! she thought in surprise. The fog, or whatever it was that had been smothering her, was gone. Suddenly she realized that she had not wanted a cigarette for the last two or three days. Arnie had given fine advice. They had really needed to get away together, away from work and house and children, much as they loved all that. We must do something like this again, must refresh ourselves, even if it's only to take a weekend in the city or at a country inn.

  “We're staying at another lovely place tonight,” she said. “I showed you the picture, didn't I? It's a nice drive from Chartres, not too far. Wait till you see Chartres, Gerald. It's one of the greatest cathedrals in Europe, some say the greatest. There's a wonderful guide there, a real scholar, who writes about it and lectures all over the world. He explains its history and the stained-glass windows—”

  “I guess I can look at a window and figure it out by myself.”

  She glanced at him. He was driving, so that seeing only his profile, she was unable to read his expression. After all these years, she was still sometimes unsure whether a remark was meant to be facetious or not.

  “We're early enough to walk around the town,” she suggested. “We can have a good lunch and still be in time for the tour.”

  “How long is this tour? Not too long, I hope.”

  “You can leave at any time you want.” She was puzzled. “I'm sure very few people do, though. I've read his book, and it's fascinating.”

  “To tell the truth, I'd like to get back to Paris. We only have a couple of days left, and we should get in some more night life, get together with those people at the hotel, do some shopping. We haven't even bought any gifts to take home.”

  Why he should want to leave this enchanting countryside and get together with a group of tourists at the hotel, she could not imagine. She had learned, of course, especially during these last few years, that he was far more gregarious than she was, but even so—

  Nevertheless she said agreeably, “Our Paris room's reserved again, and we can be back in no time. We'll make an early start in the morning.”

  “I was even thinking we might go back today. Maybe just have an early dinner at the inn and forfeit the overnight. I'd be willing to start back now, if it weren't for your wanting to see this cathedral.”

  “I do want to. We're almost in sight of it. You can see the two spires in the distance.”

  Gerald's words had taken some of the exuberance out of her mood. But no doubt it was self-centered to expect that he should share all her enthusiasms, any more than she had ever shared all of his.

  The lecturer was a superb teacher. The season having just begun, the crowd was still of a comfortable size, and along with it, Hyacinth followed him. Down the great aisle they moved to the transept and apse; then, retracing the distance on the opposite side, they arrived at last at the resplendent rose window where, to her astonishment, Gerald stood tapping an impatient foot and looking bored.

  “So you left us,” she cried pleasantly.

  “I thought he would go on talking all night,” Gerald said.

  “I'm sorry. I thought you would love this.”

  “I guess I don't fall in love with everything as easily as you do.”

  “Fair enough. Let's drive to the inn, have another marvelous dinner, and then back we go to Paris.”

  During the last hour, the sun had abruptly disappeared. It began to drizzle, and they put up the top. On the winding, unfamiliar roads, Gerald had to drive slowly, while Hy watched the map and the signs.

  By the time they reached the inn, under furious rain, the dinner hour had already begun. In a dining room not much larger than what one might find in an aristocratic mansion of the eighteenth century, Hyacinth started the conversation.

  “Gerald, do look at the portrait over the door, the man with the peruke and the lace cuffs. This might even have been his house.”

  “It might.”

  The mushroom soup was smooth and rich, the bread was warm, and the wine, although she was hardly a connoisseur, must be, she thought, extraordinary. Gerald was enjoying it.

  “Wonderful food,” she said.

  “Oh, very.”

  “Gerald, are you angry about anything?”

  “Angry? Why should I be?”

  “You shouldn't as far as I know. But you do seem put out.”

  “Well, I'm not. I'm just tired, driving all day and now this miserable rain. We can't go back to Paris tonight on these unfamiliar roads.”

  Dim lights on the driveway revealed a wild, windswept night, bringing a picture to her mind.

  “It rained like this the day we met. Do you remember how fierce the wind was? I could hardly hold the car on the road.”

  “Damn! This had to happen while we're stuck here in the middle of nowhere. Nothing to do but go upstairs to bed.”

  Nothing to do but lie together in that charming room, all snug and safe without a care, while the storm beat outside.

  I don't understand, Hyacinth said to herself. And for no reason at all except perhaps to have something to do, she looked around the room.

  A little family, a couple with three children, sat directly in her view. The children were sweet, French and well behaved. The wife was just an average woman. But the man had a remarkable face. Bulky and square, it was not like Gerald's, not a classic face that anyone would talk about, but it had something else, an expression that brought her back to look at it again. It was the way he was gazing at his wife. There was such tenderness in that small crinkle of a smile! It brought an answering message from the wife, as if they, too, had some knowledge between them that was their secret and only theirs. Then he reached over and for a moment covered her hand with his own.

  “What are you staring at?” Gerald inquired. “What's so interesting?”

  “Was I staring? That's awful of me, I didn't mean to. They just seemed so nice.”

  “Did you notice that she has no chin? A little surgery would improve her.”

  “He loves her anyway.”

  “Ah, you still do notice things! That I didn't see. How can you tell that he loves her?”

  “There are ways…. Tell me, do I need any surgery?”

  Gerald regarded her carefully.

  “You're examining me as if you had never seen me before.”

  “No, actually you don't need it. You have good bones—a trifle angular, but good. No, you're all right.”

  “Just dull,” she said.

  He laughed. “Ah, Hy, stop fishing for compliments.”

  “I don't always have to fish. Arnie admires me. I get fine compliments from him.”

  “Arnie! He's got women all over the place. Kentucky, Florida, every place. Wherever there are horses, he has a wo
man. Women.”

  Her hands were trembling. Blinking her eyes so that no moisture would show, she fumbled in her handbag for a cigarette. Before she had lighted it, Gerald cried out.

  “What, again? Oh well, what's a little lung cancer? Of course, you might remember that you have two children.”

  Dropping the cigarette, she stared at him. “All right. But why, why, why don't you tell me what's wrong between us? A blind man could tell that there is. I have a right to know. Am I boring? Ugly? Mean? What?”

  “Nothing's wrong! For God's sake, Hy, nothing. Eat your dinner. Have some more wine.”

  I don't understand.

  In bright sunshine the next day, they raced through Paris. Hyacinth was barely able to keep up with him; from the Etoile down to the president's palace, across the river and back to the Place de la Concorde, they rushed through the shimmering afternoon.

  “You need to be young in this city,” he said, and then to her astonishment, “I'm already too old.”

  “Why, that's nonsense!” she cried. “Old at thirty-four?”

  “No. This is a city made for youth, for youth that has leisure and means.”

  He is feeling sorry for himself, sorry about all the years when he did not have this, she thought, and was angry at his self-pity.

  “I'm going to visit the hospital,” Gerald said. “A man at home gave me the name of somebody who'll show me around.”

  “Fine. I'll go to the Rodin museum and meet you later.”

  She was forcing cheer that she did not feel even on reaching the museum, so filled with treasures. Half-seeing them, she walked about feeling heavy and cold.

  Then suddenly something struck her as if she had been stabbed: a small sculpture of a man with a joyous young woman raised high in his arms, as one picks up a laughing child. “Je suis belle,” she read. Yes, of course. I am beautiful when I am loved. And for long minutes she stood there looking at the faces, the wonderful young bodies and the gladness.

  After a while, she went downstairs and out through the lovely gardens. To be in Paris, of all the places in the world, and to be so troubled! To feel so lonely! She walked on. At a shop window filled with children's clothes, she stopped before the prettiest little dress she had ever seen—white linen, unadorned except for a band of roses appliquéd from neck to hem. There were rosy shoes to match. Emma would love those shoes. They did not have her sizes, but they could have them by tomorrow.