After the Fire

by Belva Plain

  Still, in these present circumstances, she could not— nobody could—expect to find inspiration or energy for art. Oh, she would go back to it! She must. But not yet, not today.

  Downstairs again, she put on a disk with quiet piano music and lay down on the sofa in the den, knowing well that she had been spending too much time on that sofa, dozing, waking, fighting her fears, and struggling to find some way out of the morass.

  It was cold. Soon it would be time to start up the furnace. The very thought of the long, dark winter that was approaching made it seem colder still, and rising, she went to the hall closet, where an old shawl of Granny's had been lying since her last visit months ago. The color was a dull maroon that Granny liked and Hy did not, but it was warm, not only of itself but because Granny had made it. Wrapping it over her shoulders, Hyacinth lay down again. After a while, her thoughts began to float along with the tranquil nocturne. All the sweaters, afghans, and little dresses for Emma that Granny's hands had made!

  And suddenly, she remembered something else: We never went back for the dress in Paris. Such a lovely dress it was, with roses running down the front, and the rosy shoes to match. She could still see every detail of it. With a little patience—no, a good deal of patience—she could copy it, she could make a Paris copy for her Emma.

  Having sewn many a doll's dress in her time, she knew exactly how to go about it. With a sewing machine, she could have completed it in a day. But she had none, and anyway, the French dress had been handmade. If you were particular—or, as some people might call it, “fussy”—you could certainly tell the difference. The tiniest scissors were to separate each leaf and petal from the flowered cloth, and the tiniest, invisible stitches were to apply them to the fine white linen background. This was to be a small piece of art.

  Working several hours every day until her eyes got tired, she finished it in a week. With some surprise, she realized that it had taken all of her attention in the same way that a painting did.

  Now she made a plan. She would take this dress to Florida herself, perhaps for Thanksgiving. Arnie had promised to help her, and he would arrange the visit. Gerald would be ashamed to make any objection to it. Francine had also mentioned a visit to the children, so perhaps they would go together. The children loved her. And if she would promise to ask no nagging questions or make reproaches, it could be very pleasant to go together.

  Armed with this first ray of hope in so long, Hyacinth took the dress with her and went out to the local department store intending to find a pair of shoes for Emma.

  The R. J. Miller Company faced the town square. Now part of a small chain, it was the place that natives of the town liked to recall as the source of their baby clothes, their prom dresses, and their bridal gowns. Hyacinth, by now a steady customer, went directly to the shoe department, there to find, as she had expected, that there was no rose-colored match.

  The saleslady, who knew both Hyacinth and Emma, remarked that white shoes would be better than black patent leather. “It's such a darling dress. Do you mind telling me where you bought it?”

  “I made it. I remembered one I had seen in France.”

  “You made it yourself? What a lot of work that must have been! I'd love to show it to Mrs. Reynolds up in dresses. Would you mind?”

  “Not at all.” It was good, after so much silence at home, to have even a few minutes' conversation with anyone who didn't know her well enough to ask questions.

  “Jerry hasn't been in school, Kevin says. Oh, Florida with his father? Do they plan to rebuild the office in the same place?”

  And then she heard Moira, very gently: “I'm not going to bother you, Hy. Whenever you're ready to talk, let me know. Let me know how I can help you.”

  “This is really outstanding,” said Mrs. Reynolds. “I'd like the buyer to see it. She's in the office waiting for Mr. Miller. I'll ask her to come out if you have time.”

  All the time in the world.

  The buyer, Sally Dodd, a smart young woman in black, was also impressed. “It has that French look. Well, not every French look these days. But it does have charm.” Stepping back, she regarded the dress. “It's interesting. Do you realize that anybody of any age can wear it? Have you thought of doing one like it in an adult size?”

  “Not really.”

  “Would you consider it if I wanted one for myself?”

  Hy was astonished. “Well, I don't know. I'm not a professional. I mean—I don't know. Sewing isn't even a hobby for me.”

  The smart young woman was persistent. “It's simply caught my eye. It really has. I'm going on a cruise, and I would love to have it.”

  Hyacinth was not only more and more astonished but immensely flattered. Then came a feeling that the suggestion was quite absurd. And that feeling brought an impulsive reaction: Why not? The evenings were long. So why not?

  “All right,” she said. “Although I'm not going to make a hobby or habit of it.”

  “I'll pay a top retail price. I'm about your size, an eight. And I wear your length.”

  Hyacinth looked down at her old skirt, a good tweed, the kind that lasts forever.

  “I'm an eight, too.”

  “Good. I'm really thrilled. Will you take down all the data, Mrs. Reynolds? Addresses and all that? Excuse me, I see Mr. Miller coming in, and I surely can't keep him waiting.”

  “Mr. Miller,” Mrs. Reynolds explained, although Hyacinth had not asked her to, “is the fourth generation in the family. He used to work at the store over in Ox-field, but he's been promoted to supervise all six of the stores.” Obviously, she was enjoying this little break in the sameness of the day. And she continued, “He's a very bright young man. A lucky one, too. With all the changes taking place in this world, the R. J. Miller Company seems to be keeping afloat.”

  Out again on the street, Hyacinth began to feel foolish. With only a few seconds' thought, she had promised to do something that a few more seconds' thought would have regretted. Since when had she become a dressmaker?

  But having thus gotten herself involved, there was nothing to do now but return to the shop and buy more of the materials she had used for Emma's dress. After doing that, she walked slowly around the square.

  Temporarily at least, the tranquillity of this old town was soothing. Time had not exactly stood still here; you might say, rather, that it had slowed down. It hadn't destroyed its past. The Civil War monument stood in the center of the park that long before that war had been a public green where cows grazed. In the heart of the shopping district the Red Cross met in an old clapboard house with the well still preserved in the yard. There was a friendly comfort here, even in the dry leaves rustling underfoot, and she dreaded going home. The thought of turning the key in the front door and walking alone into the empty silence was forbidding.

  Perhaps she should stop at the bookstore again and browse for something new to read. Or perhaps go into the record shop for new music. Or do both. And turning about to recross the square, she reminded herself of the times she had criticized people who spend idle hours wandering around malls and Main Streets to gaze in windows or spend money on things they do not need. Ah, but now she knew that many of them were only trying to escape whatever it was that they needed most to escape.

  She was leaving the shop with two books and the sewing goods in her hands, when a man coming toward her from the opposite direction stopped.

  “Didn't I see you a while ago in Miller's dress department?” he asked.

  “Why yes, I was there.”

  “I had a glimpse of you as I was walking in, and then they told me about the dress you're making for Sally Dodd. There is an original story for you, I thought: Our customer making a dress for our buyer.”

  “I'm a little bit sorry about it. I'm worried that it may not turn out all right.”

  “Well, if there is a risk, it's Sally who took it, so I wouldn't worry if I were you.”

  Standing there on the narrow sidewalk, they were blocking traffic. She would hav
e walked on, but he seemed to hesitate, which brought about an exchange of names, Hyacinth for Will, and a question about her direction.

  “Across the square,” she said. “I'm on my way home.”

  “So am I. Do you mind if I walk with you?”

  “No, not at all. I go left at the corner on the other side.”

  “So do I. I'm staying with friends on South Street for a few days before my next stop.”

  She had an impression of horn-rimmed glasses and a cheerful mouth. It was a nice face, healthy and ruddy, as if he had been in the sun or wind.

  “I always enjoy staying here in this town. It's got a lot of charm, old houses, and so much history. Before Miller's was built—my grandfather had a dry goods store here in 1910, a two-story-and-attic affair—this park was three times the size it is now. And way back, so they say, it was public grazing land—oops!”

  For the bookshop's paper bag had split, dropping her two books to the ground.

  Will picked them up. “Stephen Spender. ‘I think continuously of those who were truly great.’ Do you know it?”

  “Yes. ‘The names of those who in their lives fought for life—’ How does it go? ‘Who wore at their hearts—’ ”

  “ ‘… the fire's center. Born of the sun, they traveled a short while toward the sun and left the vivid air signed with their honor.’ ”

  “Are you an English teacher?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I don't know many people, especially men, who can quote poetry.”

  “If anybody had told me when I was getting a master's in European lit that I would eventually be working in the family stores, I wouldn't have believed it. The funny thing is that a person like me is supposed to be filled with regret, or even a little shame, about leaving academia, and I'm neither. I happen to like the business. I think I'm fortunate to have this chance. Tell me, do you enjoy shopping at Miller's?”

  “Very much. I'm not a great shopper, but I can usually find what I want there.”

  “Glad to hear it. I hope it wasn't a brash question, but to tell the truth, it's part of my job to keep in touch with the buying public whenever I can.”

  There was a mixture of earnestness and self-mockery in the way he spoke. She liked him. But then, as Gerald always had said, she liked everybody.

  Gerald. The name poisoned the air. Literally. It darkened the air. It lowered gloom, which was not helped by the fact that she was now about to enter the street where the scorched ruin was being torn down.

  “And what do you do besides sell, may I ask?”

  “I don't sell. I'm a painter. I used to work in a museum, restoring art.”

  “What kind of painting do you do? Tell me about it. I'm an art lover and an art ignoramus, both at the same time. Whenever I'm in New York, I spend a couple of hours at the museums trying to get a slapdash, fly-by-night education.”

  “I don't know nearly as much as I'd like to know. I just paint what I love.”

  She was staring straight ahead so as not to glimpse the ruin. Nevertheless, she was conscious of his eyes upon her. At another time, she would have felt that slight frisson that comes to a woman when a man gives her a look of admiration.

  “It's a long time till dinner,” Will said as they came to a sandwich shop on the corner, “and I could use a sandwich. What about you? Will you join me?”

  “Yes, I'll join you. I just remembered that I had no lunch.”

  The place was messy. Mayonnaise oozed from the sandwiches, and the coffee slopped onto the saucers. Will smiled, took paper napkins from the adjoining table, and wiped the saucers.

  “Only one waitress,” he said. “She's rushed off her feet.”

  Gerald would have made a face and probably reprimanded the woman. Am I ever going to get Gerald out of my life? she wondered. Stupid question. He is the father of my children and the master of my fate. In half a minute, he can destroy me.

  She sat up straight. Will was talking to her, telling her about his father, who had not been well and should be taking it a little bit easier, but he was a workaholic, and you couldn't hold him down—

  She must pay better attention. It had been weeks since she had spoken to anyone who was neither inquisitive, nor feeling pity, nor waiting for her to produce some explanation. So this contact should have been a relief. She ought to appreciate it and act accordingly. Yet it could lead to a complication. His eyes had traveled to her hand, on which there was no wedding ring. Most likely he was going to ask when he might see her again. Strange! Because really, she looked like the devil. How else could you look, when you had not been eating, had not been sleeping, and had not been exercising?

  Now he was being very considerate, turning the conversation away from R. J. Miller to the subject he thought she would welcome. Did she find that the museums in France were more enjoyable than seeing all the Renaissance art in Florence? And was her own work realistic or abstract?

  The conversation veered to movies, with agreement on comedy, tragedy, drama, and mutual condemnation of violence. It continued after the sandwich, on the walk that remained, and came to a halt at Hyacinth's front steps. At that moment, the streetlamps came on. Will looked at his watch, exclaiming, “I had no idea it was so late! They are expecting me at my friend's house. Oh, look at that pair, perfect specimens.”

  The “perfect specimens,” small and blond, were being led on a leash across the street.

  “King Charles spaniels,” he said. “I have one at home.”

  Hyacinth thought: My children have one now in Florida. And the usual dart of fear, like an arrow, pierced her middle.

  “This was nice,” Will said. “Will you give me your telephone number? Here's a pencil.”

  She wrote it, shook hands, and went up the steps. Without trying to see, she was almost sure that he was watching her. Thinking, some young woman is going to be lucky, she opened the door.

  “No, Arnie,” said Hyacinth, “I really can't. I never want to hear his voice if I can possibly help it.”

  They were having one of their customary telephone conversations, whose frequency astounded Francine.

  “Arnie is unique,” Francine always said. “I can't think of any man I've ever known, including your father, who would take so much time and trouble to help somebody in a crazy situation like this. He simply has to be in love with you, Hyacinth. That's the only explanation.”

  Ridiculous. Arnie was extraordinarily thoughtful, that was all. He was an uncle figure, younger than uncles usually are, but like a good one, kind and patient.

  “I'm pretty sure Gerald will agree, Hy,” Arnie said now. “He told you that you will be able to visit the children.”

  “He can just as easily say no, not yet, and I couldn't bear that.”

  “Well, as I always tell you, I'm in the middle, but what the hell, you seem to be a lot unhappier than he is over it all, so I do have to lean in your direction a little bit. I'll tell him he damn well has to let you have Thanksgiving.”

  “I so want to go. We can eat at my hotel. Plenty of people celebrate holidays that way, although we never have in all our lives. But if you have to, you do what you have to, and I want to see them so badly that it hurts.”

  “Take it easy, Hy, take it easy. You're all worked up. I'll talk to Gerald and call you back by tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Arnie. I love you for it. Francine loves you already. She wants to come with me, and though I don't need her, I think it's a good idea. The children always have fun with her.”

  “Well, you have fun. Me, I've got relatives in New York. They're all old as the hills, but they're expecting me, so I'll be heading north for the holiday while you're heading south. Well so long, Hy, and stay cool.”

  True to his promise, Arnie had everything arranged: the agreement with Gerald, the plane tickets, the hotel rooms with the best view of the ocean, and Thanksgiving dinner, complete with chocolate turkeys, in a private alcove off the main dining room.

  “It'll be home awa
y from home,” he said, “even though Florida isn't usually your thing.”

  Francine, on being told of all this, could think of no word for Arnie except “angel.”

  They were loaded down with gifts. Hyacinth had baked favorite cookies in two flavors. She had bought more books, a beginner's chess set for Jerry, a baby doll for Emma, who was already maternal, and clothes for them both, including first and foremost the Paris dress.

  “It feels like Christmas, not Thanksgiving,” Francine remarked, “except when you look out of the window. Then it doesn't look like either.”

  Below them lay a world of color: blue-green water, scarlet beach umbrellas, green palms, and the blazing white of sand. To the right lay tennis courts, all occupied, and to the left lay a fractional view of the marina with a bare glimpse of what must be a sumptuous, gleaming yacht. The entire scene was festive.

  “I'm so happy, I'm afraid I'm going to cry,” Hyacinth said.

  Francine made no comment. So far today she had made no comments at all about Hy's affairs. Not that Hy had really feared she would. Francine had too much heart in her to spoil this day.

  “Let's go down and wait in the lobby, Hyacinth. It's half past, and they might be early.”

  “I hope the nanny brings them.” She was dreading the sight of Gerald, even at a distance.

  “Don't worry. When he sees me, he won't stay more than a second.”

  The lobby was busy, not crowded to the point at which one saw only a mass, but merely busy enough so that the space was constantly in motion. While Francine read a magazine, Hyacinth watched. Now down here among people, the Florida scene turned personal, which surely was the last thing she wanted it to do, yet she could not prevent it. A beautiful young couple with new luggage were on their honeymoon. An old couple sitting in the corner were laughing at some private joke. A father was carrying a heavy toddler, while his wife carried an infant. And she sat there trying not to see, while the earlier joy faded.