After the Fire

by Belva Plain

  “Positively? Because tomorrow will be our last day. The next morning we fly home.”

  Yes, they would have the dress and shoes by late afternoon. All the way back to the hotel, she kept thinking about her children. For the first time since they had left home, she felt a painful longing for their faces, for Jerry's merriment and Emma's curiosity. With all her heart, she longed for her children.

  They had their dinner. Gerald had missed the man at the hospital, so he had spent the time buying gifts. Punctilious as always, he had chosen appropriately for Hy's parents, for Arnie, for Emma and Jerry, for the people in the office, and for Sandy, in appreciation.

  They went to a nightclub with the Americans whom Gerald had met in the hotel lobby. And sitting there beside her husband, Hyacinth felt again the loneliness that had corroded the afternoon. He and the other couple were enjoying everything, the crowd, the bustle, and the prance of the naked women. Pretending to be one with the mood, she feigned pleasure. Truly she found no fault with any of this; people were entitled to their tastes. If only she could know what Gerald really wanted, she would willingly give it to him.

  What could be wrong? Another woman? Was that absurd, or was it not? It was absurd; he had everything, her ceaseless love, his work, their children, their home, everything. She sat there twisting her rings: the wedding band and the precious diamond chip he had bought with his first month's pay.

  “Well,” he said in their room that night, “just one more day. I could turn around and come right back here again next month.”

  “I didn't think you loved it that much.”

  “Who, me? What makes you say that?”

  “You haven't been very jolly these last few days, Gerald. Haven't I been asking you why you're so morose?”

  “Morose? You mean because I didn't enjoy the tour at Chartres?”

  “Of course I didn't mean that. Please, please, don't dodge the question. Answer me: Is it anything I've done? Be honest with me.”

  “No, and no, and no again to your silly question.”

  “Do you swear it?”

  “Yes, I swear it.”

  Lamplight fell upon the bright black hair and on the dimple in the chin that softened the intensely virile face. She thought of the sculpture she had seen that afternoon, and without intending to, she made a sound that was part outcry and part sigh, blinking the tears back, although not before he had seen them.

  “What's the matter with you, Hy? What is it? Oh, I hate to see you like this. If it's my fault, I'm sorry. But there's no reason, you're imagining—”

  She ran to him. “Pick me up and carry me to the bed the way you used to do. I love you so….”

  Later, while Gerald slept his usual peaceful sleep, she lay awake staring through the darkness at the outlines of the marble mantel, of flowers on a table, and of luggage, the best fine luggage, waiting in the corner. She had wanted affirmation, and he had given it, or had at least pretended to. Can there be, she asked herself, an impersonal way of doing what is so personal? Why yes, of course there can be. It is as if you did not care who lay there with you.

  Quietly, she slid out of the bed and went to the window. It was very late, and traffic in the grand Place had slowed. Lanterns bordered the bridge that stretched across the river. On the other side stood stately public buildings, presenting to the world the face of dignity, that face which human beings present each day to one another.

  But beyond these, and all through the great pulsing city, in the little spaces where men and women live together, there are myriad others besides Hyacinth who, in a different language from hers, are crying her same cry, baffled by loneliness and a fear of falling.

  Francine's telephone call came before breakfast in the morning. “Jim died. He slipped away without warning after dinner last night.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Too many things occurred during the following six weeks for Hyacinth to think very much about herself, so that the time in Paris receded abruptly into a distant past. The present loomed large. Poor Granny, the invincible, having reached her limit with this totally unexpected loss of her second son, had gone to a retirement home. Francine, at the insistence of her sons, had left for a long vacation trip with them through the Northwest and Alaska.

  “Don't worry about her,” Gerald said. “Francine will get along. She's strong and very smart. She always was the brains of your family.”

  Rather shocked, Hyacinth protested, “Brains! And my father had none, I suppose?”

  “Very different. He was an intellectual, a gentle soul. But Francine is smarter. Smart enough not to let it show too much. I wouldn't want to be on her list of enemies.”

  This remark, along with other idle bits and pieces of the turmoil and tragedy that accompany a death, was in Hyacinth's mind on a morning in late summer when she received an anonymous telephone call.

  “You don't know me,” a woman said, “and in a way I'm ashamed of what I'm doing, not giving you my name. It's dirty and cowardly. I've been putting this off for weeks. But suddenly just now, I decided I must. It's about your husband, and a woman.”

  The hand that held the phone shook so much that Hyacinth had to brace it with the other hand. “What are you saying? Tell me who you are.”

  “I can't. I really can't. Please understand.” The voice was soft, even trembling. “I'm not an acquaintance of yours, you've never even met me. I only know you by reputation in the community. I know you're a good woman with a nice family. I've had troubles of my own, and I just can't bear to see yet another woman being spat on, as men do. That's all. I thought if I told you what's happening, you might be able to do something about it before it's too late. The woman works in your husband's office.”

  The telephone clicked off. Hy put her head down on the desk. Dirty and cowardly, people say, and yet there was something in the manner that rang true.

  “I don't know,” she whispered.

  When she raised her head, the room seemed to swim in a circle. It took a few minutes before she was able to steady herself and call Moira. You could trust Moira. She would put everything aside and come right over.

  They sat on the porch steps. After Hyacinth had spoken her few words, there was a long silence. Sweating, hot and cold, she waited.

  Then Moira spoke slowly, not looking at Hyacinth, but out across the sun-browned grass.

  “I've known it for quite a while, Hy. The one who minded the children while you were in France—she's the one. I knew it before that, and I've kept asking myself whether I should tell you. I'm guessing that Gerald knows I know, and that's why he doesn't like me.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Are you sure you want to hear all this? What good will it do you?”

  “I have to hear it. Tell me.”

  Moira sighed. “Things get around. People talk. One woman's husband is a doctor, and his office nurse is a friend of that one, of—of Sandy. Somebody saw Gerald in the car with her, leaving the shore on a Sunday. Somebody saw—oh, what's the use? They've been seen, that's all.”

  “So everybody knows, except me.”

  Now it was the trees that moved slowly in a circle, tilted against the sky. Hyacinth stood up, leaning against the doorframe.

  “Are you going to be all right, Hy?”

  Moira's kind face was so anxious that it seemed she was the one who must cry.

  “No, I feel very weak, that's all. No strength.”

  “Go in and sit down. Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You don't deserve it. Are you sure you're all right?”

  “Yes, really. Really, Moira.”

  “Are you going to tell him?”

  Hyacinth smiled. “I'll have to, won't I?”

  “Do you want me to stay here with you?”

  “No, thanks. I have to get moving and take care of the children.”

  “I'll take them home with me. They can stay for supper. Don't worry about them.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for everything, Moira.”

  “A
dirty, anonymous phone call,” Gerald said. “And you take it seriously? Some malicious woman is envious of you, someone sick in the head who has nothing to do but spill venom.”

  “She wasn't like that.”

  “Like what? What do you know about her? This is ridiculous, and I'm surprised at you.”

  It would be wrong to involve Moira, so Hyacinth said only, “Other people know. The woman said I could ask about your being seen in a car with Sandy.”

  Gerald laughed. “Well, well! Sandy is a valuable employee, and still I'm not permitted to give her a lift in my car now and then? That's immoral, I suppose.”

  “It was on the road to the shore.”

  “Her sister lives on the road to the shore. And where on the road, anyway? It's fifty miles long, for Pete's sake. Don't you see how ridiculous this is and how insulting?”

  A small, persistent part of her mind, wanting to believe him, was holding hard against the larger part that knew differently. And she was so, so tired. It had been a long day since morning, probably the longest day in her life.

  “Come, let's get something to eat,” he said, kindly now. “I have to eat fast and get back to the hospital.”

  “I meant to cook something, but I didn't. These are just leftovers. Hamburgers left over.”

  This was not the dinner to which Gerald was accustomed. But he only said cheerfully, “Good enough. Stay there if you're not feeling well, and I'll heat them.”

  When they had eaten, she went to fetch the children at Moira's house. Gerald helped bathe them, and together they read to them before putting them to bed. Then they went downstairs, Gerald to watch a ball game and Hyacinth to sit with an unread book and a whirl of thoughts.

  Surely he could not be thinking of divorce. If only for those two asleep up there, those two whom he adored, he would never do that. And surely, if he had such intentions, would a man like Gerald, so critical, so fastidious, even dream of replacing her with somebody like Sandy? She looked across the room at him. No. The very idea was ludicrous.

  Well, suppose he had been doing a bit of flirting. Face it, Hyacinth, she said to herself, you've seen that before, as long ago as Dr. Bettina in Texas. You may not like it, of course you don't like it, but you've seen enough of life to know that no harm need come of it. This whole business could be nothing but trumped-up gossip that spreads and swells and fools even intelligent people like Moira. It happens often enough.

  The next day was Sunday, a pleasant, routine morning with pancakes and bacon, the newspaper, and a child's game of croquet on the lawn. In the afternoon, Gerald had to go to the hospital, which was neither usual nor unusual for him on a Sunday.

  But suddenly, after having placated her doubts, or having thought she had done so, Hyacinth began to feel them again; the reasonable words of the stranger on the telephone and the devastating words of Moira sounded quite clearly in her ears. And so, in the late afternoon, she called the hospital and learned that Gerald had not been there all day.

  When he came back, they had their dinner and put the children to bed, as always. Never would they argue in front of Jerry and Emma. But she was furious when she confronted him.

  “You were not at the hospital today.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I said. Don't lie to me. I called up and found out.”

  For a few seconds, she let him try for an answer, and when none came fast enough, she attacked him.

  “Where were you? Out with that Sandy woman?”

  There was that ugly line again, the tightened mouth of Gerald's scorn, very seldom seen, it was true, but when seen, dreaded.

  “As a matter of fact, I was with her this afternoon. I decided that the gossip you described might perhaps be very harmful, not as ridiculous as I first said it was. So from now on, I shall give her no more lifts to her sister's house, even though I may be going that way. There will be no more rides to the Main Street stores, even though they're on my way home. It's outrageous. But if this is what evil-minded people make of such innocent behavior, we'll simply have to change our behavior. And that's that.”

  Hyacinth stared at him. Did he really expect her to believe this flimsy nonsense?

  “You must think I'm retarded, Gerald. Tell me, then, why you had to lie about going to the hospital. You could have told the truth to me instead of what you're telling me now.” Trembling as she had done yesterday in the presence of Moira, she clutched the back of the chair where she stood. “Oh, I've seen how you bask in women's flattery. I've—”

  “Bask,” he mocked. “How literary.”

  “Yes, bask, like a cat lying in the sun. Not that there's much harm in that. It's only natural male vanity, I suppose. Many times I could have complained, but I chose to ignore them. I never thought—”

  She had stung him, and now he responded. “The wronged wife! So that's your pose. ‘Many times.’ Why didn't you speak up instead of suffering so nobly in silence?”

  “I didn't want to make an issue of it. We had a marriage, Gerald, a real one. We have children.”

  “Thanks for telling me. I forgot we have children.”

  “Yes, I guess you do forget when you climb into bed, or wherever it is that you have your fun.”

  “Go on. Some people do enjoy torturing themselves, don't they? You must be mighty insecure to shake like a leaf because your husband is friendly to some young woman. And in this case, a hardworking young woman who took good care of your children. Well, you always were insecure. Too bad you had such a beautiful mother.”

  She could not speak, nor could he. The cruel blow, the unspeakable, now spoken, had horrified them both. He looked stricken.

  “I'm sorry, Hy. I didn't mean that. It isn't true. It was crazy. But you made me angry. This is all crazy. I'm sorry, awfully sorry.”

  Biting her lip, Hyacinth controlled herself. “Get out. Go to her, or to anybody. Go anywhere. I don't care.”

  “Yes, yes, let me out of here, too.” He clapped both hands to his head, groaning, “Take a walk, take a ride. Anyplace.”

  An hour later, having settled the hastily summoned baby-sitter, Hyacinth went to the garage. Gerald's car was gone. Very likely he had fled to the office; there was no safer place for them to meet than in their familiar surroundings after dark.

  In her pocket she had his duplicate key ring, with which to silence the burglar alarm. In her handbag was a miniature flashlight to guide her up the stairs to the room where they would most likely be. On her feet were the sneakers that would not spoil the surprise.

  Half a block away, where it could not be seen from the building, she parked the car beneath the cover of trees. The short street that was so cluttered by day was now vacant and so quiet that her tread on a twig was alarming. Like cotton batting, clouds smothered the night sky. The scene was as eerie as something out of Sherlock Holmes.

  A weak beam from the streetlamp fell upon the graceful facade of Arnie's “little gem.” For a moment or two, with the key in her sweating hand, Hy stood facing it as if to make a final decision; then having made it, she mounted the shallow steps to the entrance and turned the key.

  The main hall was without any obstacles that could cause a noisy bump or stumble, so that she moved easily and without sound to the room where they were most likely to be. It was vacant. Aware of her hammering heart, she went from room to room, through consulting rooms, surgeries, record rooms, X-ray cubicles, everywhere, keeping the flashlight low to the floor. Where were they then?

  At her house, most likely. But she lived with a sister. Yet what difference would that make? The sister might well be no better than she.

  She! I never harmed her. I was good to her, yet now she takes my husband. She destroys me. My children. My home. My life.

  A dreadful rage such as Hyacinth had never known now swelled in her chest. It seemed to be flooding her with hot blood whose salty taste was in her mouth. Think. Think. Up and down she walked, back and forth, trying to focus her thoughts on some sort of action. She
lit a cigarette, and then another one, and kept on pacing.

  Here was the desk where Sandy sat. Here were her tidy tools: the telephone, a lamp, the computer, and a glass paperweight enclosing a glass Eiffel Tower—souvenir from Paris, from Gerald. As patients came and went, his door would open upon a view of her. Would they acknowledge each other's presence, or pretend not to? Most probably they would pretend indifference, for Gerald was not one to risk decorum.

  The center drawer of the desk was ajar. This was where women in offices kept personal belongings: a spare lipstick, mirror and comb, tissues, and even sometimes precious letters that they wanted to have with them. She rummaged, and yes, there at the back lay an envelope fastened with a rubber band. Inside was a bundle of little notes, addressed in Gerald's writing and sent to her home.

  In the narrow beam of the tiny flashlight, his backhand script was bold. Sandy, you don't know what you do to me. I walk these streets every day thinking of you. Why aren't you here with me? Another cathedral, a miserable rainy night in a godforsaken country inn, and a big bed without you in it.

  Hyacinth went mad. And strangely, in her madness, she directed her hatred toward Sandy—not Gerald. Yo u were in my house for two weeks. You saw my beautiful children, you went snooping through all my things! she cried. My clothes, my books, my mail. All my secrets, my private ways. You and he have been laughing at me, and oh how you'd love to take my place, to live my sweet life! If you can, you'll do it, you'll work, you'll eat away like a termite.

  Hyacinth's arm whipped out into the air. It struck the desk lamp and smashed it to the floor. It swept over the surface of the desk and cleared it of papers, paperweight, telephone, and computer. All came crashing to the floor.

  In Gerald's room she repeated the destruction, a paltry revenge for insult, for what he had done to her very existence as a woman. And with a spreading smile, she stood there surveying her work, imagining his face— their two faces—when in the morning they would see this wreckage.