He’s lovely, said Jean.
No, he’s a terror. You are lovely. Let’s see what you’re wearing. Oh! Then she scanned up the stair as if she half expected someone to tumble down on top of them. We better go see, come!
Jean trailed up the stairway after Paula. The caftan had a fishtail that swept along behind her. She turned to laugh, and Jean couldn’t help smiling in return. Paula was good at this. Usually Jean disliked being a bit player in other people’s pageants, but with Paula the silliness was charming. The bikini was hilarious, a joke that teased toward very sexy. Jean was reminded of the prim Vogue photo of Paula and her daughter, Beven. Liberty blouses and Jaeger skirts on the garden bench. That must have been a good joke. Lily and Jean were cut from the final project, something about Lily’s expression, too distant, no, too contemplative. That was the word. What nonsense Jean thought, still irritated. Too sulky was the problem, and she felt that defeat like a raw spot exposed by chance. Then as if Jean had dropped her script, Paula tossed off a cue. And how’s our sweet girl?
Jean looked up, unsure.
How’s dear Lily? said Paula. Beven worships her.
She loves the Little Flower. And apparently Mother Clarence dyes her hair! You wouldn’t think they’d bother, with the habits.
Ah, there she is; there’s our monster child. Have you met Vivienne Vimcreste? No? And at this Paula began to giggle. Well brace yourself. Angel? What are you doing? We’ve just repainted and now you’re smudging everything, silly girl. Meet my new discovery. Come down off that sill this instant. I have a treat.
Vivienne Vimcreste turned hollow eyes to her hostess: lids of blue-black eye shadow and matte raspberry lipstick. She lined her narrow back against the deep casement and squinted at Paula through the crowd of her relaxed rescuers. Who is it? she said in plaintive voice of someone being awakened much too early.
It was a handsome room; even the young woman with one leg out the window couldn’t keep Jean from looking up at the intricately carved ceiling. Yes, whispered Rupert behind her. She felt his hand on her shoulder light as warm sand. It’s a beauty. Did it myself.
No, she turned to look at him.
No, he said. Quite right. No is our watchword.
She blinked, startled, pleased.
You silly cunt, he shouted out. If you don’t come down this instant, you won’t have your dessert. I’m quite serious. Don’t test me, Vivienne.
The girl shivered then, dragged a slim shaking leg back inside and slipped off the sill. Cake? she said mournfully and blinked her large eyes.
Of course, my love, said Paula, and pulled her close, brushed the long angled sleeve of the caftan out of the way and drew the girl in closer. Cake for our safest darling. Paula didn’t actually snap her fingers, but gave more of a Balinese twirl of the wrist and soon a caterer’s server was standing with a triangle of chocolate mousse cake, gleaming and fragrant. The Vivienne girl accepted it without thanks, then examined the fork for a long time. Spoon, she said. And the server was back, nearly panting.
Vivienne, just eat it, said Paula. It’s for you. Your favorite.
Vivienne brought a large mound up under her nose. Stinks like last week’s cigarettes doused in water. Why is that, Pooh-lah? What’s the secret.
You’re jet-lagged, sweetie. It’s all the smoke still trapped in your nostrils from the flight.
The flight, sighed Vivienne, patting the cake flatter with her spoon. The flight.
Darling, this is my dear friend Jean Devlin. Say hello like a good girl.
Vivienne looked up, mouth hanging open, chocolate smeared her teeth like lipstick. Jean Devlin?
That’s right, said Jean. I think I’ll have some of that cake, too. It looks marvelous.
The fuck you will, said Vivienne, and dropped the plate onto the carpet with a splat. She marched out of the drawing room with her arm covering her face.
Christ, now Paula was snapping her fingers, and servers were scooping the cake out of the carpet. She’s an infant, said Paula. And of course, she’s a garbage can. Whatever crap is floating around, she’s taken it. You can count on that.
Before Jean could reply, Vivienne was back pointing a too slender finger. She was a model, Jean realized, now remembering photos in various ads. Cheap ads, for inexpensive booze and panty hose. And then she recalled all of Emma’s nonsense about her. You’re that stupid bastard’s stupid wife, said Vivienne, smiling, head tipped far back, mouth open, a sad hollow stomach stink coming off her breath.
None of that, said Paula slowly, as if telling a private joke, trying not to laugh. You don’t know what you’re talking about, love. Give me one minute, she said to Jean, taking Vivienne by the arm. Come with me, girlie, right now. And Vivienne collapsed against her and was led like a sleepy child up the vast staircase.
Just after midnight Jean walked out through the cool white quiet blocks of Belgravia to the rush of late-night traffic flying around the circle at Hyde Park Gate. She flagged down a cab and waited while it found a corner for her to climb into the back.
Grosvenor Square, she said.
Right, miss, and up went the flag that set the meter ticking like an egg timer. She sat into the wide flattened leather of the seat, so peaceful, the ticking, the stern, smooth seat, all a comfort.
Darling Jean, take my car. I insist, more, I protest! But she’d escaped Rupert Clark’s summoning to anyone who would follow his order.
Please, she’d said, and watched the happy effect her voice had on the contours of his face. His eyes liked her. Found her pleasing. They’d danced and he stroked the curve of her waist and looked with fond frankness down her dress. Damn you with your tricky elastic, he plucked the ribbon on the back that kept her deep neckline close to her body.
The saleswoman at Harrods had objected. An elastic? Are you an old lady? Cut to the South Pole, she said, just as it should be. But in the end she’d tacked in the elastic. This pale aqua was Jean’s color, and silk jersey had the right heft for her, better than more flyaway silks. She liked the hang and the weight holding her down.
This is quite nice, Rupert snuggling up in the slow dance, plucked up a gold medallion with amethysts. Like this! he hummed and dropped his lion’s head into her shoulder. It was much too heavy; she tried to squirm out from under him. Her legs went stiff and she lost the rhythm.
He pushed his thick fingers into her tailbone. Release, he whispered. No more foolish games, now. You’re with me.
With me? The idiocy, the arrogance, she laughed now, sitting back into the mitt of the taxi seat, but her body had caved inward against him, and her legs had gone willowy. Lovely, he said, and she sighed, not wanting to. Home, I think, and soon, she’d said. Pulling away, with a bleary smile, she could feel the vagueness in her own eyes and tried to tighten her focus. Yes. Home is best.
Philip will take you! And that will be convenient because tomorrow, two sharp, he’ll pick you up for lunch. Are you listening?
I’m not, she’d laughed and flew down the stairs in search of the clutch she’d left stowed somewhere on the lowboy. But there pressed against the elegant chest was Beven. She was a funny girl, oat-colored hair, split in the middle, two exact curtains hung to her shoulders. Someone’s careful layering gave her face a sweet shape. At thirty she’ll be doughy, thought Jean. But now, the round cheeks and chin, the round neck, round everything, gave her a milkmaid sweetness even with the frown and the crushed black velvet of her tunic. She was having no part of the beach party.
Beven, will you tell your mother I’ve slipped out? I’ll call her in the morning.
Not the morning, said Beven, examining her rubbed cuff. Jean kept Lily on high alert for this kind of rudeness.
Thank you, dear, said Jean.
He’s just an old perv.
It’s been a lovely evening, said Jean. She found her purse just behind a small perfect orchid screen.
He’s already jacking off somewhere; he won’t even remember you. It’s all one big wanking operation. Cut.
Good night, Beven. And thank you.
What did it say about her that the favorite part of her life was being alone at night in a taxi. Dark, the red and yellow flashing lights along the park, a swaying turn into her street, and then the wait for the cash. This was heaven. And she knew it.
Inside the lobby, Cyril slept in his closet and she didn’t wake him by calling the lift. She slipped off her heels and climbed the stair along the edge to feel the marble treads cool on her insteps. Impossible to know if Nick would be there, likely not. She didn’t care now. Such freedom, such heaven. The feel of that heavy awkward hand on her spine, she could summon it and then it would slip away. She put her own hand there, felt the rise and fall of her round hips climbing the stair. Any hand anywhere on her body would be happy. So odd to have that confidence. That was her new deal, dead and confident. Like someone had stolen into her and robbed the fear and confusion that made her feel alive.
In the morning Rupert Clark’s driver delivered a note: Our troubled young friend Vivienne made good on her threat. It’s no one’s fault, darling, of course not. But we have all the arrangements on our heads now, and good god, the funeral. So, all bets are off, dearest girl. Big hug, R.
She read the note several times, Rupert’s sloppy hand spilling along the thick gray notecard. She thought about the pointed misery on the girl’s face when they’d met. The spitting anger. Jean finally understood Paula’s private joke and why she’d been invited.
Part III
Winter 1971
24
Patsy in a sterile blue smock swept into Jean’s room as though the door had never been shut. Jean opened her eyes in surprise. She had a headache that made the river light bouncing through the window an assault. She squinted to see what she was expected to do now.
I’m not supposed to be here, said Patsy, hovering.
Oh? said Jean.
I just wanted to say don’t blame yourself, she whispered. That’s all.
For what?
Patsy looked toward the door, then folded down the top sheet and yanked on the blanket. Let’s just say I’ve seen this happen before, more than once. Maybe twice?
Jean frowned, unsure how to answer. Patsy patted her on the wrist.
Have you had babies yourself? Jean tried.
Me? No, thank you!
She looked to be about seventeen or eighteen years old to Jean. More candy striper than nurse. Someone sent around with pamphlets on how to care for the incision. How to clean the baby’s ears. This is all very new, said Jean with a small smile. Maybe that’s what she wanted.
Even women who have done it a bunch of times freeze up. They just get scared.
I’m sorry?
It’s not your fault, that’s all. Patsy nodded, smiling.
But she’s perfect, said Jean. She’s beautiful.
She’s lucky!
Jean felt groggy with confusion. What was the girl saying? She edged herself up a little higher on the pillow and read the name tag on the blue smock.
Patsy, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Jean felt her eyes gray over and a powerful need to sleep.
You stopped your own labor. But it happens all the time! Here at least twice before. Or maybe only once.
You must have something wrong.
Patsy bent in close, a swift odor of too sweet freesia. She plumped Jean’s pillows and the bed rocked. It couldn’t be right, all this motion. Then Patsy was standing at the end of the bed studying the clipboard attached to the rail. She did a convincing imitation of someone who knew what the numbers meant.
It may feel like you made a decision, like, the heck with this baby? But even if you thought that, and the contractions stopped right then? It still wasn’t your fault. Okay?
Patsy, I think—
So you can hold off on any emergency confessions to the padre.
Patsy—
No mortal sins here.
I’m so tired.
Of course you are.
Just dog tired.
Sleep now. You won’t even know I’m here.
Jean closed her eyes and her breath felt shallow. Her chest pounding, the blood began to trickle again between her thighs, though the incision on her belly felt too dry, too tight and sore. Everything hurt here. Why couldn’t she just go home? Finally Patsy clomped out the door, and the need to shout subsided.
Of course, Jean’s father’s all-time favorite story had been the birth of Lily. As if the wedding never happened and time leapt ahead to the December morning, the twenty-sixth of December. Everyone hungover from the festivities the day before, and not an ambulance for three counties for love or money, he liked to say. Something had gone wrong between a Bloody Mary with a celery stalk shaped at one end to look like a candle flame, so clever, and the smell of her water breaking, like bracken and clay all mixed together, all over Doris’s new slipcovers. A brown thick embarrassing stain seeped from beneath her and the pain shocked her. Just shocked her, as if she’d never heard a word about what this would all be like. Sweetheart, Doris said, actually smiling. Let’s get you going! I’ll call Nick from the hospital.
Jean insisted she wouldn’t go to the hospital without him.
But, honey.
No, Jean said and closed her eyes and groaned. I can’t. I can’t go without him.
Doris went to the kitchen to make the call and she could hear Jean moaning all the way from there, crying. Her fingers shook so that Ruby took the phone out of her hands and said, Who do you want to dial?
Mr. Clyde, said Doris. Call Mr. Clyde. We know where to find him.
This was a sore spot, Nick’s whereabouts, more with her father than with Doris, who accepted everything about him as delightful. Still, it was true. Nick was hard to reach. But Clyde could always be found, just like the sky. A stormy sky, said Ruby. The man was like cloud cover. So within the hour Huey was pulling the Cadillac into the turnaround. Front door! Clyde shouted. Front! Because there was his princess, bundled up, sitting on a folding chair under the portico. What the hell was she doing outside? Ruby dabbing her head with a washcloth. Doris grasping her own hands. Jean looked like she was conscious. Clyde was out of the car before Huey could put on the brake. Get away, both of you. Get away!
Now, Clyde, said Doris. She’s all right; this is normal.
What would you know. Get away. I’m warning you. And for the first time since she’d made the horrible smell Jean felt herself. Go away, her father shouted one more time. The washcloth fell from her forehead and the air cleared all around her. There was more shouting about the doors, the doors, meaning the car doors, and her father had lifted her in his arms, like she was a baby. That he could still carry her seemed a miracle, but he did it, and this was his favorite part. I can barely lift a cigar he liked to add. Normally.
When did Nick get there? Always a confusing part of the story. At the hospital Huey and her father presented Jean at the emergency entrance, Huey running in to announce their arrival and her father carrying her, though losing strength. She can remember the feeling of utter safety, divided by a tiny slit of terror opening black before her eyes that he might drop her and kill them both. She shuddered the idea away. Safety, safety. Her father’s love.
No one inside the hospital needed to be told this was urgent. Besides, it was a quiet morning after a busy night. Jean was put on a gurney and wheeled directly to maternity. No foolish questions. Her father would take care of everything.
Tucked loosely into a bed in the prep room, all nice white sheets and green curtains. A sterile ammonia scent in the cool bright masked by something lemony. She remembers the massed green fabric suspended by invisible rods beginning about two feet below the acoustic tile ceiling. Beyond the soft pleats the low moaning of another girl, quiet and muffled, gave Jean the unhappy sense that this most private event wasn’t private so far at all, with the saving grace that she was central, that her section of curtains was the most advantageous somehow. Then the piggy bank pink of Dr. Logue’s glove
s when he came in fully masked to examine her. She smiled to see him. His hands like a pair of toys, she remembers. Deep folding green curtains and pink hands. Looking wonderful, Jean, he said, pulling back one glove to feel her forehead with an exposed wrist, a funny delicate gesture. Nothing to worry about, he said. He stank so strongly of eggnog. She vomited, immediately, all over the pink gloves.
We’re in fine shape here, he said, peeling them off at the sink. Everything will be over before you know it, he said, and instructed the nurse to shave her. This is the part that Jean can’t think about. Something in this procedure—Standard, said the nurse. And: I’ll be careful. And: Don’t you worry, now. But do hold still, dear.—convinced Jean she couldn’t, wouldn’t continue without Nick. She’d wait.
A half hour later when Dr. Logue came back in, frowning, she tried to tell him about her husband and that he was sure to be on his way. But Dr. Logue was looking at her in her terrible state. He’d lifted the paper bib and was patting, poking all around the place she’d just been scraped. She looked away, tears streaming, blocking him out, putting him far away. She said, very loudly, I’ll wait.
Jean, dear, he said, tucking the paper bib back around her and lightly placing a new clean sheet. He was even older than her father; soon he’d leave all this and devote himself to birding. Jean, there’s no waiting allowed. He was smiling at her as if she were a little girl too sleepy to know her own good. You’re afraid; that’s normal. But there’s nothing to be afraid of. We’ll do this gently and then it will all be over. The nurse had alerted him and he was humming all this like a lullaby. He had on new yellow gloves and he’d scrubbed away the eggnog. I’ll check back in a little while. Let’s make a bet you’re in delivery within the hour.
But he was wrong. She would wait. And she did wait, until her contractions slowed down to nothing at all.
It was almost dark outside the green curtains and Nick still hadn’t come. Dr. Logue was listening to Jean’s heart again, heavy stethoscope pressed cold against her sternum, across her swollen breast at tapping intervals, just as he’d done all day long. Now he said she’d need to make a choice soon. She was in charge he said. Okay? he said. And that was the last time he spoke to her. He’d moved the thick metal piece down her belly and when he couldn’t get a steady heartbeat from the baby, he started. Oh good Christ, he said. And made a jerking motion and the nurse brushed a quick swab of something then put a needle, already prepared, into Jean’s arm, while he repositioned the stethoscope. There, he said. Right there. And then: Let’s go, let’s go. Let’s go.
The Loved Ones Page 21