by Belva Plain
“Hyacinth, it's been a long day, and it's late. Why don't you go up with Jerry and Emma? You have lots to talk over, while I clean up. No, don't protest.”
What she meant was: Talk to them about the divorce. I can't do it, since I really don't know anything about it, do I? And besides, it's not my place to do it. You're their mother.
Francine was even angry at the dishes, which had been part of Hyacinth's “trousseau.” Jim had urged them on her after Hyacinth had said that they were outrageously expensive. “But you love roses,” he had told her. Fran-cine recalled the time distinctly, a dark afternoon, a freezing snow like tonight's. But who could have foreseen this night? Even she, with all her doubts, could not have imagined it.
“Let me help you,” Arnie said. “I know all about dishes. I'm a bachelor.”
Gerald, too, had liked to make himself useful, at least at the start, when it was essential to ingratiate himself. But Arnie was different. She liked him.
“If you really want to help,” Francine replied, “you can tell me, please, what's going on with your partner. Hyacinth is keeping some secret. The situation is shaky, as you saw just now at the table, and I am sick with worry over it.”
Arnie gave a long, whistling sigh. “If I could tell you, I would. I'm very fond of Hy and don't like this crazy separation from her children. It's wrong. Wrong. But I can't get anything out of Gerald, and frankly, I've stopped trying. It makes for a delicate situation, you understand.”
“I do understand. Partners don't break up because one of them is having a marital problem.”
“Exactly. Gerald's a great doctor, and”—here Arnie gave a sheepish grin—“and he has a great social life, too. Who was that guy who had all the women? Don Juan?”
“So that's what he does with his free time.”
“You mustn't think he neglects the kids. Got to be fair and square. He's crazy about them. They have a nice nanny, takes good care of them. He likes to show the kids off. Proud of them.”
“Yes, because they happen to be beautiful, both of them. That's why.”
“Gerald would like to talk to Hy sometime, but she hangs up the phone.”
“She can't talk to him, Arnie. It would be unbearable. He has destroyed her faith and trust—or almost, because she does trust you.”
“I hope so. I would do anything to help her.”
“I wish I could, God knows, but until she tells me, or somebody does, what's at the bottom of this affair, there's nothing I can do. I think of her all alone in this house when we leave.” A cry, against Francine's strong will, came out of her throat, out of her heart and soul. “So tender, so trusting! Filled with goodwill as she has been all her life! Even as a child, she was kind, not like most other kids, the selfish little beasts. She was always so—so decent, do you know?”
Arnie nodded. “Sure I know. Nice guys finish last. It's always been that way and always will.”
A stand of poplars in the neighbor's yard drew dark blue shadows in parallel streaks across the unmarred snow. For a long time Hyacinth, oblivious to the cold, stood alone at the open door and stared at the slender tracks with their shadows all mathematically correct. It would be an interesting study in watercolors, she reflected.
They had gone. The house was empty without them; no more wet towels on the bathroom floor, no toys to stumble over in the hall, and no board game on the kitchen table. The house was absolutely still.
They had cried. Even the little boy, so brave in his maleness and his three years' advantage in age over his sister, had finally given way. He thought maybe it was his fault; had she been angry at him for being so messy? Or had Dad been angry because he teased Emma? But he hardly ever did that anymore!
“I will talk to you both on the telephone every day,” she had promised. Oh, she had promised and explained, somehow explained, told them all the right things about how they were loved; she had made foolish excuses about Granny's illness, had talked and talked them into comfort, and at last, into sleep.
So now they were gone. Perhaps I should kidnap them, she thought. I can sell this house; it's in my name. I can use the little money that Dad left me, and Francine will surely help me, too, and my brothers will if I should need them. Then I'll take my children and leave the country for the farthest place on the earth: Australia, Siberia, anywhere to hide and stay.
But this is nonsense. It would be terrifying for them, and it wouldn't work anyway. Gerald would know how to get them back, and he would be so furious that he would tell the whole story.
Arson. A man died.
* * *
As suddenly as the mercury had fallen, it rose, and a January thaw began to soften the hard, pristine snow. On first impulse, Hyacinth had begun the snow scene, but when after several tries it had failed to “come right,” she had thrown down the brush. Her heart was not in it.
Her “heart” was not really in anything. Her heart was the organ that pumped blood and sometimes fibrillated in a state of panic. It was quite clear that she would have to “do something.” This was the first advice that anyone with half a brain would give her if she were to ask. Fran-cine, controlling her own panic—ah, poor Francine, the trouble I made for her—insisted that she “do something.” Moira, in her tiptoe, tentative voice, had done the same. And even Arnie, over the telephone, was trying to be tactful when he inquired, as he always did, what she was “doing.”
For the present she was working on the dress that she had promised to that woman at the R. J. Miller store. Last week the head of the children's department had asked her whether she would make half a dozen more for some special customers, and she had agreed. Why not? By now the repetition of the pattern was automatic, a mindless process.
One day Will Miller came. He had cornered her on the telephone, asking whether he might drop in. There had been no way she could possibly refuse him. She had been his guest at dinner, and having accepted that, did she not owe him something in return? It was unavoidably a question of good manners.
In theory, she supposed she ought to welcome pleasant company, but in practice, in her circumstances, he was a complication to be got rid of after this one time. In an odd way, however, the small preparations that she made for lunch were energizing. The table had to be nicely set, and the house put in perfect order; this was a matter of pride. She bought daffodils, a salmon steak, and ingredients for salad. She pressed the linen luncheon mats that had not been used since the last PTA luncheon. And she checked the house for any visible object that Emma and Jerry might have left behind; there was no reason why this stranger should know anything about her private life or her private agony.
When he appeared at the door, he did not behave like a stranger. “Notice anything different about me?” he demanded.
“The horn-rimmed glasses are gone.”
“Right. From now on it's contacts only. I wore the horn-rims, you see, because everybody advised me to look older. Now that I'm past thirty, I need to look younger. Oh, this is a nice house! It looks like you. I rather imagined it would be like this, with outdoor colors, soft greens, all these books—you're making another dress!”
Next to a chair in the living room where they stood, she had left an open basket with her sewing. Had she done so on purpose so that he would see it? She was not sure; there had been some thread of a thought when she had put the cover on the basket, and then removed it.
“I heard from Sally Dodd. She was delighted with your dress. And now they've asked you to make some more, I hear.”
“Yes, but these are the last. Painting is my work. I need to get back to it.”
“You said you'd let me see it sometime, you remember?”
“Yes, of course. After lunch. I hope you're hungry.”
“I hope you didn't fuss.”
People who lived beyond themselves, who could never seem to do enough, read enough, hear or learn or see enough, always had things to talk about. And so once the customary opening remarks were over, their dialogue sped along. Hyacinth contributed from wha
t she had stored up in the attic of her mind; it was old stuff, all of it, since of late she had not been garnering anything new. But of course Will did not know that. And from the lively interest in his eyes, she knew that he was enjoying himself.
After a while, though, she saw—with that famous sixth sense—that he was nervous, though perhaps nervous wasn't the right word. Tense, then? Ill at ease? No, certainly not that. He was as fluent as he had been at their two other meetings, yet not as casual, more hurried. Yes, that was it, more hurried, as if he wanted to finish the unimportant preliminaries and get to something else.
Over the homemade apple tart, he paused and almost apologetically inquired about the divorce. This might have been the subject he had been wanting to approach.
“Tell me. Are you getting near the end of your troubles?”
“The law moves like an iceberg, by inches.”
“More painfully, though. Not that I've had any personal experience. The closest I've come—since we're going to know each other, I might as well tell you—is a love affair I had with a married woman. She was going through a divorce. It was awful for her, and maybe even more awful for her children. They were all still in their house, and fighting the whole time. I must make clear that I was not the cause of the divorce. The husband didn't even know about me. I say I was not the cause; what I meant was, not in any sense known to the law. But I was afraid that in the moral sense, the emotional sense, I might be partly to blame. And so I stepped out. And that, I can tell you, was painful.”
Why was he telling her all this?
“You see, I really knew that they should stay together. There were things I had been told, things I felt, that led me to believe they could work things out between them if they tried. I think people are far too casual about divorce, especially when there are children.”
He was waiting for Hyacinth to make a comment, but she was unable to make one.
“I'm not trying to present myself as a saint, Hyacinth. God forbid that I should be such a fool. I'm not a prig, or a prude, either. But I have certain feelings, and they led me down the right path that time because”—Will smiled—“they got together again. They've even had another child.”
Deeply moved, Hyacinth was hoping that her eyes would not fill as she replied, “I honor you for those feelings. But they do not apply in this case. We shall not get together again. Ever.”
Why had she spoken so firmly? It would be better for him to think otherwise, so he would never come back.
“That makes it easier for you, then, doesn't it? Especially since you have no children.”
Why did she sit there toying with the apple tart, for she had no appetite, and say nothing? In all honesty, she ought to speak out. But then he, or anybody, would naturally ask about them. For is it not very, very strange when, after two fairly long sessions of conversation, a woman makes no mention, not the veriest hint, of the fact that she has children?
It was her turn to say something. It must not be too obviously a change of subject—rather, an easy glide away.
“Yes, may it be over soon. But who knows? In the meantime, I concentrate on painting. I don't mean to sound important, but it's hard to find the right words without seeming to puff oneself up. The fact is that painting is the most important thing in my life. Does that sound too puffed up?”
“No, not at all. Don't you think that Zuckerman would say that about his violin? It's great that you're so enthusiastic. How about showing me something now?”
They started upstairs. Taking an idea from her old home, Hyacinth had lined the staircase with photographs, although so far there were only two, those of Jim and Francine. Will stopped to look at them. He missed nothing. Like me, he is curious, she thought.
“You're like your father,” he remarked. “He must have been a quiet man. Was he? Gentle and serious like you?”
At the top of the stairs, a strong light poured into the hall, and under it his scrutiny caused her to fill a sudden uncomfortable pause with the first words that entered her head.
“I can't tell about myself, but yes, he was rather quiet. My mother is different. She's the family beauty, as you can see.”
“The family beauty, you say? The only one? No, not at all. If I had to be the judge, I would choose you. The face in the photo is certainly beautiful. It has perfect symmetry. But your face is interesting. Spirit shines through it. One wants to look again at splendid eyes, perhaps a bit too large for the face, and a beautiful mouth, a chin perhaps a bit too strong—but lovely together. Yes, one wants to look at you again.”
Pleased, surprised, and a trifle embarrassed at the unusual comments, she murmured her thanks and led him toward the paintings. Personal compliments might be embarrassing, but compliments to her work were eagerly and unashamedly awaited. So allowing art to speak for itself, she stood quietly while Will walked slowly around the room.
He paused before the portraits: her old favorites of Jim in a lounge chair and Francine in a white evening dress. He looked carefully at her last year's favorite of Moira's fat little son, in which she had cleverly arranged shadows so as to make him look thinner. He moved to the landscapes: a couple in a rowboat on a dark lake, and snow scenes in blizzard and sunshine. Slowly and carefully, he lingered before each, tilting his head or stepping back, the better to see. Here was no ordinary, polite acquaintance who, having no interest in art, would say the right things to the artist. And as the minutes passed now, a thrill of expectation mounted in Hyacinth's chest.
Last was one of her best, the still life of carrots and marigolds tossed in a gardener's basket. The oranges and yellows, some blending and some clashing, resembled Matisse's way with colors, she liked to think. A kind of daring was in it. You thought, when you put them all together, that it wouldn't work, but it did.
“At one of the charity art shows in town, a benefit,” she said, concealing her pride, “somebody wanted to buy that one, but I wouldn't part with it.”
“Have you sold many?”
“Well, maybe a dozen.” Mentally she added up her sales. Arnie had bought two. “Mostly to people I know. I haven't had any real exposure yet,” she explained and continued, “but I intend to get some. It's all I want to do with my life.”
When he said nothing, she was surprised. He had turned back to the carrots and marigolds and—how strange it was!—she thought he looked sad.
After a moment, he asked a question. “Do you go to art museums very often? I know you mentioned that you used to work in one.”
“Not just at present, but I've surely been in enough of them, the best of them. It's what I dream about. Walking into a museum someday in the future and finding something that I've done hanging on the wall.”
“In the Metropolitan or the Louvre?”
Hyacinth stared at him. Was he being serious? “Well no, not exactly. How many people ever can expect that? You have to be a genius.”
“Well then, where do you see your work?”
“I hope to see it in a gallery, where people who know good art go to buy good art. On Madison Avenue in New York, for instance, or on the Left Bank in Paris.”
“That's a tall order,” Will said with a dubious shake of the head.
“What are you telling me? That you don't think I can do it?”
“Well, I only mean that—oh, in any field it's some-times—it's not wise to aim too high.” Hesitating, he repeated, “Too high,” and he smiled.
Something was wrong. Suddenly she realized that he had not shown any admiration, hadn't spoken any praise, during his slow walk around this room. Such a thing had never happened to her before.
And she decided to be forthright. “You don't like any of the pictures. Tell the truth. I won't mind.”
He looked doubtful for a moment before answering only that he was hardly an art critic, but merely a lover of art who had done a good deal of reading—still far from an expert—
The evasion was both irritating and troubling. She had sensed enough about him to be sur
e of his honesty, and now she demanded it.
“Please Will, the truth, I know you're hiding it from me.”
“All right. I don't think you'll like it, but I'll say it because I like you very much, Hyacinth. So here it is: whether it's money you want, or honors, or both, this work won't get either one for you.”
She was stunned.
“You've wanted this badly, and you've deluded yourself, or other people have deluded you. Everything you have here is imitative.”
How dared he! Boldly, he stood there, sure of his judgment. Cruel and merciless were his words.
“Plenty of accepted art is imitative, that's true; goodness knows, there must be thousands of brand-new Impressionists floating around. But even they have the ‘something’ that's hard to define, but that you recognize when you see it. It's the difference between someone who plays a Mozart nocturne recognizably, and the concert performer who plays it.”
She was devastated. If she could conceivably have ordered him out of the house, she would have done so.
He continued. “You have everything here from Norman Rockwell's barefoot farm boys to Turner's pale sunsets over London. You have great skill. But that's not enough. You—” And then, as though he had suddenly realized what he was doing, he broke off. “Oh, I'm sorry, Hyacinth! I don't mean to hurt you. Only to help you. In the short time I've known you, I've seen that your life is troubled, more troubled than you want to admit. So I don't want you to waste your hopes and your energy getting nowhere. I wouldn't speak this way if I didn't understand how much the work in this room—it must be several years of effort—means to you. Today is our third meeting, and on each of them you have talked so passionately about art, and that's why I'm telling you this so passionately. I would never, never hurt you, Hyacinth.”
“So what is it all good for?” she demanded. “Shall I simply stuff it into the trash can, or shall I burn it up? What are you telling me to do?”
“Keep it for the children and grandchildren you'll have. Keep it as a hobby. Or you can probably sell this kind of thing to a department store that has an art section. There are plenty of people who buy pictures to go with the furniture.”