You’ve really gone the limit, she said as Lily took off her coat. Then Jean took a step back. Lily, you smell! What in the world?
Something had stained the lower part of the nightie and Lily stank like something on a farm, fetid and grassy.
Are you all right? Jean said, worried for a moment.
Lily smiled but strangely Jean thought; her eyes looked a bit hollow.
You can’t be doing drugs. You can’t be that stupid.
No, no, I’m sorry. I just went to see a friend.
A friend.
Lily nodded.
What time was that.
Early, said Lily, and she looked down at her nightgown as if just realizing she was wearing it. I forgot my overalls, she said.
Jean shook her head. Put up her hands in surrender. I don’t know, Lily. I just don’t know.
It’s okay, Mom.
It’s not. And something in Lily’s face, some hiding sly glance she barely caught made her want to slap her. Jean forced herself to take a step backward, awkwardly, like they were playing Simon Says. She had such a quick pain in her head, right behind the eyes.
What was all that with your father last night? she finally said.
Nothing.
Nothing, okay. Jean looked toward the drawing room as if she could reinstate herself at the window with the terrible coffee and erase all this.
I’m going to school today, she said, not looking Lily in the eye. Mother Clarence wants to see me.
Lily nodded.
Any clues about why?
No, said Lily. And she must have moved because Jean got a strong whiff of the rotting grass odor she’d smelled before.
Take a bath, Lily. Now.
She was at Selfridges, in the food hall paying a fortune for frozen crab claws—she’d have something nice made on the long shot that Nick brought Billy Byron over for a drink—when Jean remembered Ruby cracking ice trays into the kitchen sink in the middle of the night. So loud she’d been woken up, but it didn’t make sense. Ruby in her bathrobe, something dark pink that Jean never liked the smell of, a wisp of foul hair lotion and hand cream. She remembered the smell like Ruby was standing right next to her. When Ruby wore her bathrobe Jean always stepped away to prevent a stray thread from touching her.
Ruby lived off the kitchen then, when Jean was small, before Clyde found her a house among his investments in Red Bank. Ruby wasn’t even trying to be quiet. She was crashing every ice tray in the house into the sink and then loading the cubes into a towel, spilling them all over the floor, making a mess. And she was sniffling. She gathered the wet towel up and startled when she saw Jean. Oh Jeanie, now you get yourself back into bed, quiet as a mouse. But Jean didn’t know why she had to be quiet when Ruby was making such a racket. Come now, Jeanie, quick as a bunny. And Jean neither bunny nor mouse was offended. Ruby was carrying the towel of ice out toward the front hall and into the dining room where Doris sat still and bent over in a side chair. The front door was wide open even though it was wintertime. Come now, little darling, Ruby whispered, as if Doris were a child. And Doris let Ruby stroke back her hair from her forehead, which was already turning green with a fresh bruise. Her hands wrapped her belly and were strafed on the knuckles. Ruby knelt down and took a washcloth she’d stuck into her bathrobe pocket and took some ice and dabbed along Doris’s forehead a bit, and then her hands. Please, said Doris. Oh god. It seemed her stomach was the problem. Hold this close to you, said Ruby. Hug it in tight it will numb everything. Then she put the towel and all its ice carefully onto Doris’s lap holding it there so it wouldn’t slip away. Soaking, said Doris, attempting a laugh. Soaking wet. Hold it close, said Ruby. Tuck into it now. That’s better, said Ruby and for a long time Doris didn’t speak. That’s better, said Ruby again and this time Doris lifted her head and then smiled just slightly and that’s when Clyde came back in the front door and shut it and no one moved. He looked at them all as if they were some unexplained mess in the pristine dining room. Then he climbed the stair and they all heard his own door slam. He must be very upset not to even see her Jean thought.
Jean climbed the stair after him and knocked hard on his door. Daddy? Daddy? Are you all right? But she didn’t receive an answer. She went to her own room and cried herself to sleep. What could be so wrong that her father wouldn’t see her or answer her. She felt if she had the power Doris and Ruby would be gone when she woke up and she and Daddy could be so happy again, like before. When Doris made a new room for herself—Oh, she said to Jean, I just miss my girlhood room—Jean said to her father, We can find our own house now? But he wasn’t listening to her. She remembers that whole year, the year that Doris went back to her childhood room when it was so hard to get her father’s attention. And then one day—she remembers this with so much joy, a shot of it like a cool glass laid on her arm on a hot day—in the early summertime, he got used to it. She waved down a taxi and sat in the back with her precious frozen crab. She’d been summoned by the head of Lily’s new school. Mother Clarence was expecting her at two. Jean adjusted her skirt, something foraged out of her old clothes from Jersey. A tweed skirt, a button-down cashmere cardigan, a pair of sheer stockings. Her hair in a French twist. Nick would smile to see her. She wished he could see her, because then he’d know how difficult things had become. Just looking at her. She checked her lipstick, paid the driver, and entered through the ponderous front door. All red brick and beveled glass. An eyesore. In the front foyer a short wide stairway led to a window depicting a volcano erupting in colored glass. Light bounced and wriggled in the multiple panes giving the illusion of quick-moving lava. It reminded her of Lionel and his silly skylight. She wished he were looking at this with her; they’d have a good laugh.
Mrs. Devlin? A small slender nun walked toward her with movement so silent she’d completely missed the approach.
Yes, I’m Jean Devlin.
Yes, of course, this way. Jean followed her up the stair to a parlor off the first landing. Funny how these rooms were all the same, down to the bowls on pedestals. She’d been called to a place much like this one for staying out past curfew at Rosemont. Mother Clarence invited Jean to take a seat on the horsehair settee and Jean crossed her legs at the ankle; she saw a glimmer of her shape reflected in the window glass across the room, and thought Nick really would love this performance.
Mrs. Devlin, I won’t waste your valuable time. Mother Clarence adjusted a small yellow index card on her ship of a desk, as if cuing herself for the conversation, then she fixed her light blue eyes on Jean. Your Lily seems to have something troubling her. Could you enlighten us?
Jean made a face of surprise. But Lily’s just fine, said Jean. She’s fine. She’s chagrined about all the nonsense at the Working Men’s College, embarrassed probably, but I think she fell into the wrong crowd and she’s young for her grade. We might even keep her back, if you think it’s a good idea.
Mother Clarence stepped out from behind her desk and took a small wooden chair and brought it close. She sat and smoothed the heavy black pleat in her habit. Perhaps it’s too soon to say whether she needs to repeat the year. But I did think of something that might help in the meantime. We have a young nun here who seems to have a way with the girls. She’s musical and has a delightful sense of humor. I think your Lily might enjoy her. Call it spiritual guidance, or maybe just a little extra support. It might help Lily to succeed here, or anywhere else, I imagine.
Jean felt her jaw go stiff; she could feel the prickle of sweat under the soft wool of her sweater, this preposterous woman. The smell of the cleaning fluid on the black habit. She looked at Mother Clarence’s downy cheeks and checked the anger. Tried to because she didn’t know what their other options were. There must be other options.
Is that what your index card says, Mother Clarence? More laughter and music for Lily?
Index card? Oh, no, she smiled. No, that’s to remind me to shut off the lights when I leave. A note from the housekeeper. I’ve been running up the elec
tric bill apparently.
Jean gave her a wan smile in return.
I had a twice-a-week visit to Sister Maureen in mind, nothing formal, just a chance to let Lily speak up a bit. She’s so quiet!
Lily?
Yes, she is, said Mother Clarence. And now Jean heard just the kind of manufactured compassion she couldn’t stand.
Isn’t this all a bit progressive? Because we’re looking for structure, discipline. She’s just blown the free-form quite badly. I’m sorry, Mother Clarence. I don’t see the benefit. But if you insist, I’ll discuss it with my husband.
Mother Clarence tucked her chin down and watched Jean. Her eyes were not stern or angry, almost sleepy, oddly, as if Jean had tripped into her dream.
Insist, Mrs. Devlin? No, I don’t insist. She wrapped her hand around her chin and watched Jean for another moment, then stood. She walked over to a huge and hideous blue bowl balanced on a wooden filigree pedestal. She tapped on the carved leg, made to look like a lettuce leaf perched atop a twisting vine. Amazing these legs can hold even a moth’s weight really. Don’t you think?
Jean could scarcely listen; she was already telling Nick they needed to find someplace new for Lily. Such a nuisance. But she knew he wouldn’t agree. He was high on the nuns, generally. Look at you, he would say. Just look. But she had been a favorite and Lily, so far, was not.
Mother Clarence’s gaze turned shrewd. Assessing and not kind. Jean adjusted her skirt.
Let’s compromise, said Mother Clarence, her fingers now tracing the rim of the big blue bowl. To Jean, it seemed a sensual gesture, odd, even sexual. She was staring now.
Compromise?
Lily once a week with young Sister Maureen and we’ll see if we don’t have a star student on our hands by year’s end.
Mother Clarence’s hands were red-palmed and looked overwarm and Jean felt warm herself and suddenly weary of this wheedling woman. She closed her eyes and sighed. And for the first time since she’d arrived in London she missed Doris. She would call her the moment she got home. She’d been so remiss, so negligent; there was no excuse.
Mrs. Devlin? Are you all right, may I get you something. Some water?
Mother Clarence, why don’t I phone you?
Yes, of course. In the meantime, I’ll alert Sister Maureen.
Please don’t.
I don’t understand.
Please don’t alert anyone. I’ll speak to my husband and will call early next week. Thank you.
Certainly.
Jean stood, and then dizzy, sat back down again. Mother Clarence bent over her and took up her wrist. Jean pulled away as if scorched and leaned back against the itchy settee, nauseated. Oh lord, she said, and vomited all over her tweed skirt and her stockings. She might be sick again. Her shoulders shaking, she clasped her knees and waited.
Somehow she thought Mother Clarence would raise an alarm and she’d be rushed out, possibly to some cloistered infirmary, but instead she stood quiet, a damp washcloth retrieved from a water closet apparently nearby. Jean closed her eyes and tried to calm down her ragged breath. Mother Clarence knelt before her and touched her face with the warm cloth and Jean recoiled. Stop please, I’ll— Let me. Please. She took the cloth and wiped her cheeks and mouth. Lipstick and crème blush smeared the overbleached white patch. I’m better, she said. Mother Clarence had a cruet of water; she poured and offered Jean a small glass. Thank you. Yes, she sipped, eyes closed. I think I may be pregnant, said Jean. That must be it. She looked up and thought she detected a headshake as if she were doubted. I am, she said, insisted.
My dear, said Mother Clarence. Let me refresh that, and she took the cloth from Jean’s hand. Jean watched, hunched over, and felt a coiling fear, as if this nun had the power of life and death. She felt such a flash of hatred that she vomited all over her skirt again, twice more. This is what happens, she said. This is exactly what happens.
Let me call your doctor.
I don’t need a doctor. Can’t you see. This is normal. And she wretched once more, now gagging.
Mother Clarence picked up a phone on her desk and dialed a single number. Could you send Maureen, please.
Oh, for chrissake, said Jean. Are you crazy? I said no.
Mother Clarence was holding out a fresh washcloth. And Jean taking it felt the same frustration she’d always felt with Doris, trapped in someone else’s stupid ideas, all of them wrong. A young nun came bustling in, fat as a ball with wide blue eyes on alert. Woo-hoo, she said. My goodness. Mrs. Devlin? May I take your hand? Jean stared a warning to back off, but Sister Maureen felt her pulse and soothed her wrist when she was done. We’re all right. Nothing racing away from us.
Will you call my husband? Jean said. Her voice croaked; her throat hurt. Please? And she looked at the young round nun as if she would know whether or not Nick could be found, and something in her face let her know this was doubtful. Weeks at a time her father would go off leaving her alone with Doris and Ruby. Weeks, until he came strutting in the door calling for her first and foremost. First and foremost, Huey behind him lugging in whatever box of bribery he’d found in Kentucky or Louisiana. He knew marketing; he needed to go where ignorance prevailed and he could plant some fresh sense about the new way things were going to work now. He was an educator he explained. He was a flimflam man Ruby said once and Doris pretended not to hear her because then she’d have to fire her. Jean was popular with the nuns but never did do well in school. As wrong as Ruby was about her father, Jean got things confused and couldn’t believe or listen to her teachers; she was always bored until she met Nick. So bored. And then she was sixteen, almost seventeen and Nick was like some kind of boy she’d never seen before. In her yearbook her friends were already calling her darling and writing about that fabulous man you’ve snared. She was glamorous and envied but Doris was talking about college. College? Nick was already a junior at Villanova on the GI bill. What about Rosemont? Doris said. By Christmas, Nick and his older brother, Lionel, were secured for dinner on Christmas Day. They’re orphans! cried Jean, when her father wanted to know why strangers would be at the table.
They were men, all grown up and Lionel had been in the European theater, fought in Italy and then Germany at the end. Or so he said. He smoked cigars and drew maps on Doris’s damask tablecloth with his thumbnail and Clyde bent to watch the imaginary soldiers taking action. And Nick followed Jean out the back door, down through the cold starry night to the water’s edge and sat on the iced bench and listened to the river creak and stretch. Their breath was fogged and sour with bourbon; his mouth pulled her and pulled her. She couldn’t stop until his hand was inside her. They were freezing and she pushed into him until he settled her down. We’re okay, he said. We’re fine. And she took that as something permanent. There’s time. He laughed, Lots of time. Lots of time. Then Doris was shouting out into the darkness they’d freeze to death, where are you two? And Nick was already answering, already linking a soothing laughing answer to her chronic distress. We’re here. We’re coming right in, he called but kept his hands still, one around her shoulder the other, curled around the top of one thigh, until she was buttoned up and calmed down. He pulled her closer. Okay?
Now this fat nun was holding her knees and asking the same thing. Mrs. Devlin? Let’s lie you down. Okay?
No. She wouldn’t do that. Just get her a taxi. But then her head was lying on a hard needlepoint square and she was flat on the mean settee her legs angled strangely, her bones hurting. If only Nick would come and get her, she’d be fine. Would they call? She heard herself whimpering. Yes, they had called and her housekeeper was already on the way. Not now, said Jean. Excuse me? said Sister Maureen. But Jean didn’t explain.
As it turned out that long ago Christmas Lionel had lied to her father, and this was so easy to discover. Lionel never left New Jersey during the war. He was a junior officer in procurement stationed in Harrison. Only friends in very high places got him an honorary discharge. Why would he tell such a stupid lie Jean
asked Nick after her father confronted her. Why? Lionel never tells a stupid lie, said Nick. And it was true. From that day on Lionel and Nick were welcome because Clyde felt he had the full compass of them. Jean felt bile rising now and she jutted upright. Gagged and closed her eyes. The fat nun was humming something in her ear, but she refused to listen.
I think I’m pregnant, Jean said, now watching. I think I am.
I think you’re very upset, Mrs. Devlin.
Only some notion of dignity got her off the sofa and into a taxi without kicking the fat one out of sight. Late in the afternoon, she was able to see Dr. Cecil Bathrick on Harley Street, the man who came in the middle of the night with the epinephrine shots for Nick.
How’s our champ? he asked. As if she and Nick were to be treated like imbeciles just because they were American.
You do know, he must ease off a bit, he said. I’ve told him so. More than once, I’m afraid. It can’t go on.
Jean had heard this before, about Nick burning too brightly, which meant he experimented too much, tried too many new things, uppers, downers, but wasn’t everyone these days?
Now Cecil Bathrick had done the exam and was drawing a tiny bit of blood. She looked away.
We’ll have your answer in a day or two, he said. Sound all right? But by the look of things, I’d say the culprit here is a bit of turned beef. He dabbed at the needle prick with a cotton ball.
I’ll ring you when we’re certain, he said from the door. And she was left alone to straighten herself out. As promised, he called on Tuesday morning, very pleased to confirm the diagnosis: tummy bug.
22
Nick idled in the bar of the Connaught where Chandler was staying until midnight. Nick could buy him all the drinks he wanted, but Chandler couldn’t recall a backgammon game, a man called Harry, or even a mews house in Kensington. Nah. I’m in Leeds when not in the nick, here. All about this album, see. All about the album. Till we get it right, I’m all crammed in.
The Loved Ones Page 19