After the Fire

by Belva Plain

  She went to the telephone. It rang and rang for a long time. Could anything have happened to her, agitated as she had been, on the way home? When finally Francine's voice came, Hy blurted, “I'm sorry about this morning. Are you all right?”

  “The question is: Are you?”

  “Well, I got through the day, and I'm here.”

  “So that's today. But what about tomorrow and the rest of the tomorrows? I hope you're giving some thought to them and changing your mind.”

  “Francine, I can't change it.”

  “I have to tell you I'm very hurt. And yes, I'm angry, too, that you won't talk about this. Whatever you've done in your private life is no business of mine. But it can't deserve what Gerald is doing to you.”

  If only it were the affair she believes I had, Hyacinth thought, instead of what it is. My name in the news, and my children tainted, even though fair-minded people will say it isn't the children's fault.

  “And what is he doing to Jerry and Emma? Is he merely a beast, or is he out of his mind? I think you both are. When is he bringing them back? And how are you going to explain divorce to the children?”

  “Oh please, Francine, don't make it harder for me.”

  “When I left you this morning, I went to ask for advice. So listen to me. If you do go ahead with this, you have to tell the children very carefully. Otherwise, they'll have all sorts of terrible thoughts, that one of you is going to die, or that it's their fault. They'll have nightmares, or start to misbehave. You need to learn how to tell them, what words to choose—oh, this is an outrage! Will you at least do that much?”

  The widow in her poor black dress. Arson—felony. A prison sentence.

  “I will. I will.”

  “And fight him, Hyacinth. Show your stubborn side.”

  “I'll do my best.”

  “Where I went yesterday, the doctor said that if you refuse to tell me what this is about, I must stop asking you. So now I've stopped. I only want you to remember that I'm here for you. I'm angry and hurt, but I'm here.”

  When she put the receiver down, Hyacinth went to the back door to look out at the yard, where Gerald was playing with the children. Jerry and he were having a boxing match, complete with feints, fists, and jabs, while Emma, quite fascinated, watched from her ringside seat on the swing.

  Fight, Francine said. Very fine, except that when you have no weapon, it's rather hard to do. Still, we do not have to use the word divorce just yet, no matter what Francine says. This trip to Florida can be a “vacation.” They will stay awhile and go to a new school, while Mommy stays here because—well, because she needs to help poor, sick Granny a little.

  And the little while will be how little? Let me not think about that right now.

  They did not see her in the doorway, where she stood drinking them in with her eyes. Jerry, showing his small fists, was jaunty and tough; above his shorts, the summer's tan was beginning to fade. Emma said yesterday, with a wise nod, that Mrs. Darty—last year's nursery-school teacher, about to retire at sixty-five—was having a baby.

  “Yes, she is. She is! She told me!” When Emma was earnest, her braids bobbed.

  And still Hy stood there. She was having such strange thoughts, scraps of thought really, questions without answers. Would Gerald be so fond of his children if, for instance, the boy were like Moira's obese little fellow, who already weighed half again what he should? Was it perhaps his children's often-admired beauty that endeared them to him? Would Gerald have trifled with other women if—

  Let us not think about that, either.

  * * *

  Early one afternoon, Arnie came. There were cartons of clothing in the front hall and boxes of books, all Gerald's things that were waiting for shipment to Florida.

  “Finality,” Hyacinth said as she saw him looking at them. “The house is already starting to look abandoned.”

  “Abandoned? Does it have to be?” And at her startled expression, of which she was aware, he added, “I've surprised you. Maybe I should stay away and keep my big trap shut.”

  He was dressed in boots and the informal riding clothes that he preferred, an open-necked, warm shirt and a wide hat that he described as “semicowboy.” It crossed her mind as always that he looked twenty years younger than he was.

  “Come in,” she said.

  “You don't want me in the living room. I'll smell it up with horse.”

  He would, but it did not matter anymore whether the living room smelled horsey or not.

  “Come in,” she repeated, and then, proceeding to apologize for herself, “I'm a mess. I've been getting Jerry's and Emma's things ready. It's a bigger job than you'd think.”

  “And a sadder one. I feel terrible about this business, Hy. I know I should stay out of it, only your mother phoned me when I got back from the stable just now, and that's why I rushed here. She's worried sick about you. Thought maybe I could do something. She doesn't know, and I don't know, why the kids are going and you're not going. It doesn't make sense.”

  The familiar, friendly eyes made an appeal to her, as if the man, knowing that he had no smooth vocabulary, wanted to compensate with warmth for the lack.

  “Arnie,” she said, “you're the kindest person. I know you would like to help, to do something if you could, but you can't.”

  “Can't patch it up? Do a little reweaving, the way you do on an expensive suit? You don't throw it the hell out.”

  Bereft of words, she threw up her hands.

  “You can level with me, Hy. Gerald's told me it's about Sandy. I always had my suspicions anyway, you know. Geez, I'd have expected better taste from him. Why, he's finished with her already. Piece of junk, a tramp, a big you-know-what, that's all. Ten years from now, she'll be a tub of lard.”

  “It's more complicated than that.”

  She was wondering tiredly, and dreading, the number of times she would have to dodge these questions and fabricate explanations. First, of course, there would be Moira, who in spite of her decency and affection would have to be given the same evasions that everyone else would get. And after Moira would come a stream of others, unless of course the unspeakable truth should reveal itself….

  “It was a stupid affair, not worth this, Hy. Frankly, I don't understand either one of you. Gerald loves his life, his work, the kids—”

  Hyacinth interrupted, “But not me.”

  “Oh yes, he does, Hy. He's tickled to death over your paintings, always talking about how you're going to be famous, always talking about what a great mother you are to the kids.”

  “You don't know the whole story, Arnie.”

  “I know it's a mess. Your mother said Gerald called her, and she hung up. Everybody's angry at everybody. Everybody's worried. Gerald is worried about you—”

  Again, she had to interrupt: “I assure you Gerald is not at all worried about me.”

  He shrugged. “Well, I don't know. I want to be neutral. I liked you both, first time I met you, and I still do. Gerald's my partner, and a good one. I respect him. We're going to have a great thing in Florida. I only wish you'd go there, too. Why the devil can't you just buck up and go? Take a chance that it'll work out fine.”

  Ignoring his question, she asked one. “Exactly when are you all leaving? We don't talk very much, Gerald and I.”

  “Week after next. Hy, this is awful, the kids going without you. Seems like a dirty deal all around. I can't make head or tail of it.”

  When she put her hands over her face, Arnie was silent until she had gained control. It occurred to her that, at least for the present, she must have cried herself out.

  “Whatever the trouble is,” he said, “it can't last forever. You'll change your minds, both of you. In the meantime, I'll be in touch. I'll be going back and forth. Got to get rid of the land under the building here. It's worth a bundle. And I've got affairs in New York, so I'll be running up here and seeing you pretty often. Tell you about the kids. I'll take them to the stables down there, teach them to rid
e. I always promised, and now I'm going to do it. They're great, cute kids.”

  Suddenly there was nothing more to say. For a moment they looked at each other. Then Arnie spoke abruptly.

  “You shouldn't go to the airport, Hy. Just kiss them good-bye at the front door and run inside before they see you cry.”

  “I know. Are you on the same flight, Arnie?”

  He nodded and stood up. “Well, I'll be going. I'll give you my numbers—you can call me whenever you want, every day if you want, and I'll tell you what's happening. But you don't have to worry. Gerald loves those kids. You know that.”

  “I wish it was tomorrow. Do you understand?”

  “Sure. I don't understand the whole business, but I know what you mean. You want to get it over with. Well, it won't be long. Only a few days. They'll go fast.”

  And mercifully, they did go fast. On the final one, Hyacinth smiled and kissed her children, who were too thrilled with the thought of the airplane to care about anything else.

  “See you soon,” she said as they followed the luggage to the van and climbed in.

  At the end of the walk, she turned back to the house. There she stopped to read again, and yet again, a clipping that Gerald had just put into her hand: “Reopening of 4-Year-Old Mysterious Case of Arson.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  First, after closing the doors of Emma's and Jerry's rooms so that she would not have to look inside, Hyacinth cleaned the house. The bed, which up until a few weeks ago she had shared with Gerald, had to be totally refreshed. The heavy mattress had to be reversed, and she would do it even if it were to break her back. The perfectly clean quilt must be sent to the cleaners, and the pillows replaced. His clothes closet must be scrubbed; even empty as it now was, she could smell his cologne. There was to be no vestige of him anywhere, not in the garage where he had forgotten a torn old umbrella, nor in the hall closet where he had forgotten his new raincoat. Up and down through the house she went, lugging the vacuum cleaner and a basket of dusters, furniture wax, brass polish, and anything else she could think of.

  Her thoughts were as frantic as her legs and arms.

  How can I live with these thoughts? Right here in town in the cemetery on Grove Street lies a man who died because of what I did. His children will grow up without him—and my children will grow up without me. How can I bring them back? How?

  The telephone rang. Oh, please don't let it be Moira again! She's tactful, she stays away because she knows I don't want to see anyone. Still, I can't keep telling her the children aren't in school because Gerald has taken them on a short vacation. She doesn't believe me. It's a stupid excuse, but the only thing I can think of. I'm not thinking very well.

  It was Francine. This was the third time today. Her voice was anxious, her question plaintive.

  “Are you sure you don't want me to drive over, Hyacinth?”

  “It's a two-hundred-mile round trip for nothing. But thank you anyway.”

  “Don't be formal with me. If I weren't able to make the drive, I wouldn't offer. You might remember that I care about you.”

  Dreading another round of insistent questions, Hyacinth sighed.

  “I hear you sighing.”

  “You think it's that I don't want you. The truth is, I don't want anybody right now. I need to be alone, to get my thoughts together, not that my thoughts are worth much.”

  “What have you been doing today?”

  “Cleaning house. Throwing things out, things like our wedding photograph, for instance.”

  Now Francine sighed. “Take care of yourself, Hyacinth. Call me if you need anything. Promise?”

  Like a mother, Hy thought. And she thought again, she could have said “I told you so,” and she hadn't done it. If I had only listened to her! But then there would be no Jerry, no Emma. My babies. In his hands. “This rage will ruin me,” she said aloud. “I have to stop it.”

  For several days, she did not leave the house. Outside, the afternoon glowed with primary colors. The first yellow maple leaves, a few fluttering red oak leaves, and over all a pure, cloudless sky. Winslow Homer would have painted this sky. She herself had not touched a brush or even entered her studio in weeks.

  Without making any determination to do it, she sprang up, took a sweater, and left the house. There was time enough before the shops closed to get to the bookstore and send two books to Emma and Jerry. Jerry was always pleased to read to Emma. It would make him feel proud and superior. She had a vision of them sitting on the floor, or on the bottom step—but what floor, or what step? Arnie said that the children's rooms overlooked a waterway, and that the house was beautiful.

  To get to the bookstore, she had to pass what was left of the office, a scorched relic, its windows like blind eyes. The shine of prosperity and authority was gone, destroyed like the fire of her first love.

  A woman in passing stopped next to Hyacinth, stared, and murmured, “Horrible. They say it was deliberately set. I wonder whether they'll ever find out who did it.”

  “I wonder.”

  Not wanting to have any further conversation, she went on toward the bookstore. The wreckage had produced in her mind a vivid picture of a man falling through flames. The scream of terror! The agony! An ice-cold shudder penetrated her bones. Yet if I were to spend the rest of my life in prison, she thought, it would not bring him back. All this accident has done is to give Gerald an excuse for getting rid of me, which, perhaps not even fully realizing it, he had long been wanting. So now he is free.

  We made such a nice couple, or so I always thought, both of us in our house, at our table with guests, or on the lawn with our lovely children; an enviable couple we must have been to many who were not as fortunate as we. How deceptive is the surface!

  At the bookstore, still in this frame of mind, she bought an easy storybook for Jerry and a picture book for Emma that was filled with animals; many of these were horses, in preparation for the promised visits with Arnie to the Florida stables.

  The man at the counter was friendly and talkative. He, too, bought books for his grandchildren, he said, for they were the most valuable present you could ever give to a child. A well-spoken man, he could have been a teacher. Yet in spite of his friendly talk, he was nervous, “new on the job,” as he explained. Observing his wrinkled shirt and shabby tie, Hyacinth was touched. What had brought him here, no longer young yet still unsure of himself? She tried to imagine his life, but of course could not, any more than he could possibly imagine hers.

  It was a long way home, but Hyacinth walked slowly. There was no reason to hurry. Nobody waited for her. The autumn equinox was only a few days away, and dusk fell abruptly at the end of the short afternoon, so that lights were already shining in some windows. Where no shades were drawn, you could see people in kitchens, or a dining table with chairs around it, ready for use.

  Arrived at the foot of the driveway, she looked up at her own house, where no lights were lit. A queer sensation flowed through her body, a feeling of emptiness, a feeling of having no feelings, where for so many weeks past she had been churning with conflicting emotions. She had been a pot about to boil over.

  All of sudden, there was nothing to do. After her fanatical cleansing, the house was antiseptic, and no single possession was even an inch out of place. The spotless refrigerator was almost empty. Women living alone were apt to neglect their nourishment; well aware of that, it was nevertheless too much trouble for her to prepare any food. So, taking a pear and an apple, she sat down on the sofa and was starting to read the newspaper when the telephone rang.

  Jerry's hearty voice blared in her ears. “Mommy! We have a puppy! Daddy took us where they have so many puppies, and we picked out our own. Then we bought him two dishes, one for water and one—”

  A scream interrupted the account. “Let me! I want to tell Mommy! You know what kind he is? A tannel, he's a tannel.”

  “He's a spaniel, stupid, a King Charles spaniel. That's why his name is Charlie.”

&nbs
p; “I'm not stupid! Mommy, he's brown and white. His tail is mostly brown, and I love him.”

  Her heart was pounding so! Where a moment ago there had been chill vacancy, now all was melting soft and warm.

  “I'll send you a picture of him,” Jerry said. “Uncle Arnie bought me a camera—”

  “It's for me, too.”

  “You don't know how to use it.”

  Now Arnie's voice came. “I'm going to show Emma how to use it, Jerry. I meant it for both of you. Let me talk to your mother a minute when you are both finished.”

  She wanted to hold them on the telephone. She could have listened to them all night. And her questions flew. As soon as one was answered, she had another.

  Yes, school was nice. It had a red roof. Jerry had a friend, really two friends, because they were twins, Jeff and Larry, and they were ezackly alike, ezackly! And Emma went swimming yesterday. Wasn't it too cold? No, it was not in the ocean, it was warm, in a pool. Didn't Mommy know they had pools in Florida?

  “And palm trees,” Jerry added. “We don't have any at home. When are you coming here, Mommy?”

  “Soon,” said Hyacinth, and corrected herself, “I'm going to try to come soon. May I speak to Uncle Arnie now?”

  “I know what you want to ask,” Arnie said. “Everything's just fine. Believe me. I would tell you if it wasn't.”

  “But are you able to talk right now?”

  “Yes, Gerald's still at the office. I took an afternoon off and stopped here to leave some papers for him. Yes, everything's fine.”

  “Just say—do they miss me?”

  “There are questions about ‘when.’ You understand? But contented and busy.”

  “I thought about Thanksgiving. If I could come then and see them at my hotel? I don't want to go to that house.”

  “I understand. Let's see what we can arrange. I always tell you that I'm neutral, and I have to be, but I'm with you, too, if that's not a cockeyed contradiction.”

  “Bless you, Arnie.”

  After this conversation, she cried a little, controlled herself, and returned to the newspaper in which she, an always eager reader, now found nothing of interest. Then she went, as she often did, into the deserted studio, there to stand in silent contemplation of her work. There was nothing more recent than last year's picture of Fran-cine and Emma sitting on the garden bench in front of a butterfly bush. It was the sort of scene that the Impressionists always did so beautifully, and Hyacinth was not so foolish as to rank herself with any of them. Yet as she looked with a critical eye at her own work, she knew it was good. Indeed, it was very good.