Almost Paradise

by Susan Isaacs

  Sally broke her waters on Anna Heissenhuber’s blue couch on a snowy Sunday in March. “Uh-oh,” was all she said as she felt the hot trickle of amniotic fluid dripping through her underpants. She sat long enough to leave a permanent stain, then reached out a hand for Richard and chirped, “Curtain going up.”

  “Please?” he inquired.

  “Let’s go to the hospital,” she said.

  Fourteen hours later, the same Dr. Neumann in whose office they’d met delivered her of a six-pound five-ounce baby girl.

  “It’s a girl,” the obstetrical nurse said to Richard. He nodded and thanked her. When she returned ten minutes later to show him the baby he was already a quarter mile away, in a drugstore, buying cigars to pass out at the bank. Then he went to his parents’ house to bathe and shave before going to work.

  “It’s a girl,” the nurse said to Sally as she drifted down from an anesthetic cloud.

  “Me see,” Sally mumbled. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt as big and heavy as a banana.

  The nurse held the pink-wrapped bundle and lowered it to bed level. The child was not pretty, but Sally had not seen enough babies to realize this and thought her beautiful. The baby’s skin was as dark gold as Sally’s, her eyes a deep blue like Richard’s, her tiny fingers delicately shaped. And Sally’s worst fear, that the child would inherit the telltale Taubman nose, was not realized. Her nose was small, although pushed to the left from the delivery.

  “Isn’t she something?” Sally said. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

  “What’s her name?” the nurse asked.

  Sally knew Richard wanted to name the baby for his parents. She looked at her baby, its mouth busy making sucking motions, its cheeks soft and round and kissable, and said, “Jane.”

  She was baptized Jane Anna Heissenhuber in a small Presbyterian church three blocks from her parents’ apartment. The minister, Dr. Plum, said she was one of the sweetest, prettiest babies he’d ever seen, although he may have just been being kind to his newest congregant, the baby’s mother, who had been raised as an Episcopalian—at St. John the Divine in New York City, in fact—and who everyone noticed seemed a little nervous taking communion at Easter, as if she expected some primitive ritual from Presbyterians. Dr. Plum smiled. By the following Christmas, young Mrs. Heissenhuber was a pillar of the church.

  Sally hulled three hundred pints of berries for the Strawberry Festival. She accepted the chairmanship of the Gently Used Books subcommittee of the Mission Society—a serious responsibility—and her suggestion to the Tree Trimmers about decorating the big blue spruce outside the church with hundreds and hundreds of red velvet bows was inspired. (It became a church tradition until 1968, when the tree was struck by lightning and died.)

  What she wouldn’t do for her husband she did for her child: Sally removed the maroon polish and trimmed her nails because Jane loved to grasp Sally’s index finger and draw it into her mouth. Jane sat up in the carriage, glanced around, and looked lonely, so Sally abandoned her thick red lipstick and Cuban heels and soon was invited on long strolls with the other neighborhood pram-pushers. Jane had the companionship of her gooing, drooling contemporaries.

  Despite Dr. Plum’s kind remarks, Jane was an ordinary baby, pleasant but a little funny-looking, with a shiny bald head and a single tooth slanting rightward from her upper gum. However, her mother persisted in thinking her gorgeous and gifted; every liquid gurgle was irresistible music.

  “Here comes the choo-choo with the yummies for the tummy.” Every spoonful of mashed banana and soft-boiled egg nourished the talent of the child who would become the world’s greatest star.

  That’s how Sally saw Jane. At twelve months, Jane walked. At fourteen she danced, imitating her mother’s “step-kick, step-turn” as agilely as her high-laced brown baby shoes would permit. At fifteen months she said “mama,” “dadada,” and “mook” for milk. At a year and a half, Jane could sing “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” “ABC,” and “I Don’t Care That My Man’s Gone Blues.”

  “Janie, honey, you’re gonna be a headliner,” Sally confided. Jane, at two, with, at last, a full complement of teeth, smiled. She thrived on mother love. If her own idea of heaven was digging up dirt with an old spoon and mixing it with spit to form mud cookies, she was sweet-natured and smart enough to realize that paradise for her mother was her singing “Little Baby Booboo” and wiggling her fanny; so she sang and wiggled a great deal and dug in the flower beds less often than she might have wished. “You’re gonna be a big star,” Sally said, and kissed the toddler on her little pot belly. “But listen, Janie, you’re gonna have to change your name. Know what I mean, jelly-bean?”

  Her father was more distant. What thrilled Sally unnerved Richard. He did not like Jane to sing and dance. She had tried once, flinging out her pudgy arms and belting out “Love Me Again,” but he seemed more shocked than appreciative. After that, when she tapped her tiny toe to a radio tune or adjusted the ribbons in her pigtails, her mother would cut short her warm-up techniques, yank her away, and offer her a lollipop—management’s recompense for a canceled performance. Jane was bright. She caught on fast.

  Richard was fond of his daughter, but he was stiff. He simply did not know what he was supposed to do with a very small female child who did not wish to be read to. He would return from the bank and call out “How are my girls?” and Jane and Sally would run and welcome him with a kiss, Jane’s somewhat more enthusiastic than her mother’s. Then they would sit down to dinner. Jane would move the tiny dices of pork chop around her plate and listen to her parents’ forced, effusive recountings of their day. She did not understand the words, but she could see Sally lean forward, waiting until Richard put the last spoonful of custard into his mouth, then leap up to clear the table. And she watched Richard sighing, patting his lips with his napkin, then plodding toward his wing chair and the evening’s reading.

  She was not to disturb him until, bathed and brushed and powdered, she climbed into his lap and received his goodnight kiss. Then Sally escorted her to her crib, where she received more lavish bedtime embraces. The only time she spent alone with her father was the half hour on Saturday afternoons when he took her for a strawberry ice-cream cone. However, if Richard couldn’t give Jane warmth and tenderness, at least he wished her well. Many little girls have had to do with less.

  And big girls too. Sally knew Richard’s inquiries into her day were strictly for show, so the baby wouldn’t have to sit through a silent supper. He didn’t want anything to do with her except in the hay. His interest had bloomed again after Jane’s birth, not with the ardor of early marriage but with real three-times-a-week, humping, pumping sincerity. Except she wasn’t interested. His rejection of her during her last huge trimester of pregnancy had hurt and she just couldn’t kiss and make up, especially since there had been no apology. And he only wanted her Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays and always the same way. No more twisting her up into all sorts of funny positions or stroking or probing one part of her. Now it was kiss-kiss, squeeze-squeeze, boom-boom-boom. He spent more time on his crossword puzzle. Or listening to his records, those Wagner operas that sounded like funeral music for a dead cat.

  Richard needed solace. He was not doing well at the bank. A man two years younger than he had been made a junior vice-president. Mr. Forsyth, the head of the Trust Department, who was reputed to have independent wealth, had invited each young executive out for lunch at his private club. Richard was the last one asked. He could not understand why.

  He had expected better. Much better. Soon after Pearl Harbor, when he learned a relatively innocuous quirk in his kidneys had rendered him 4-F, he had expected to rise high and fast. He had confided to his father that since his competitors—Buzzy Long and Matt MacDougal—were about to be delivered into Uncle Sam’s good hands, his path to the top was clear. “No place to go but up,” Carl had agreed. “You’ll have your name on a door by next December. March at the latest.” But nothing happened. And he still had to share
the secretaries’ pencil sharpener.

  So when he came home from work and Sally waved the invitation in front of his nose—Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Forsyth cordially invite you to attend their New Year’s Day Open House—Richard experienced a flash of hope he had not felt since his wedding day.

  “Can I get a new dress?” was, naturally, the first thing Sally demanded.

  “Nothing too dressy,” Richard said. “The Forsyths are old money.” At least he didn’t have to torture himself any more about what new plunge-necked atrocity Sally would be wearing. Since Jane’s birth nearly three years before, Sally’s wild Spanish nature had been conquered by her better British half.

  “Very tony,” Sally said to Richard.

  “Shhh.”

  “You’d think with all their money they could afford wall-to-wall carpet.”

  The Forsyths’ house, with its Chinese rugs, matching Chippendale dressers, and Sheraton secretary, was in that part of Cincinnati that reflected the antebellum mint-julep gentility of the South that lay across the Ohio River. The Forsyths’ house might have served as a set in Gone With the Wind if it had been a low-budget movie; it was a white-columned demimansion on three acres of bluegrass.

  Sally ran her fingers over the chintz on a club chair. “I suppose you’re going to tell me this ratty old flower print is old money too.”

  “Shhh.”

  “I bet they haven’t reupholstered in twenty-five years. No wonder they have all that old money lying around.”

  “Sally, someone will hear you.”

  There were probably fifty people in the Forsyth living room and an additional fifty hanging around the mammoth silver punch bowl in the dining room, but none of them seemed keen on eavesdropping on the Heissenhubers’ conversation. In fact, nobody seemed keen on them at all. Mrs. Forsyth had greeted them at the door, exuding charm. “Happy New Year. So very, very pleased to meet you, Sally and Richard,” she had said. “Just walk right in, grab a drink, and I’ll see you later.” But she didn’t. Richard glanced toward the door; DeLayne Forsyth was still greeting her guests.

  Richard turned back to Sally and in a soft voice began identifying Queen City Trust employees. He didn’t really care if Sally was interested; he merely wanted to seem absorbed in a social encounter. In their three trips to the punch bowl and their two to admire Mrs. Forsyth’s collection of porcelain cats, they could find no one willing to stand and chat with them. “And that’s John Crane, in Foreign Correspondence. No, not the fat one. The one next to him in the plaid jacket.”

  “Oh,” said Sally. Her new dress was white wool with a white lace collar.

  “The fat one is Tiny Brody. He’s with—”

  “Hello, Richard.” A deep, soft voice slid between them. “Now don’t tell me. This must be Sally.” Ralph Forsyth, who had begun drinking at six the evening before and had not stopped since, lifted his bourbon in a toast. “To Sally Heissenhuber! A beautiful—” He listed to the left and grabbed Sally’s shoulder for support. “Um, a beautiful snowflake!” His puffy face had the purple luminosity of the binge drinker. His body was severe and lean. “Richard, can I steal her away for a minute?” He didn’t wait for Richard’s nod. “Come on, Snowflake Sal. Let’s get you a drink.” He slid his arm around Sally’s waist. “Love to be around the pretty ladies,” he said to Richard, who looked stupefied. He had believed Mr. Forsyth was interested only in wills, horses, and dogs; he kept a picture of his golden retrievers on his desk in the bank.

  “Well, Mr. Forsyth,” Sally began as they headed toward the dining room.

  “Ralph.”

  “Well, Ralph—” He had led her to a window and, pointing out his property with his glass of bourbon, showed her the stables and the paddock. “Lovely paddock,” she murmured. “One of the nicest I’ve ever seen.”

  “Know what else is nice, Sally? You. Sweet little you.”

  “Thank you.” The hand that had been around Sally’s waist inched up and girdled her midriff. Up and up. By the time Mr. Forsyth was speaking about his favorite mare, Lady Linda, he was kneading Sally’s breast. “Please, Mr. Forsyth.”

  “Ralph, Snowflake. Listen, you are one cute little package. I mean, here’s old Richard, coming in day after day, year after year, and no one knows what a sweet little Snowflake he’s keeping at home. I mean, keeping such a doll locked up in the house.” He moved his hand from her left breast to her right. “What a shame, keeping so much all to himself.” He sipped the last of his drink. “Like the view, Sal?” he whispered.

  “Yes, Ralph.” He was drunk and getting sloppy, but Sally couldn’t figure out what to do. He was her husband’s boss, so she couldn’t offend him. She couldn’t tell him to get his clammy claw off her and that he was an old fart with nose veins who was stewed to the ass. Besides, what he had said about Richard keeping her locked up really made sense. Here she was, thirty-six years old with so much to offer, and her biggest thrill in life was Dr. Plum’s asking her to make her lima bean and green onion salad for the Elders’ annual dinner.

  “Really great view, Sal.” Mr. Forsyth was wheezing. She hoped he was getting excited, not sick.

  Actually, it was exciting to be admired by a top bank officer, not a junior exec. And looking out the window, innocent as can be from the back and getting the world’s biggest feel in the front. She peered outside at the stillgreen lawn, the split rail fence, and, on the edge of her consciousness, began imagining herself in a pink gown with a pink feather fan, greeting guests at the front door. “I really should be getting back to Richard,” she said.

  “Oh, come on, you sweet little flake.” Mr. Forsyth tightened his grip on her breast. “It’s Happy New Year. Happy. Happy time. Come on, I’ll show you another view.”

  Obediently—in fact, obligingly—she followed him through the kitchen, through the mud room, down the stairs, and there, in the octopus shadow of the boiler, Sally Heissenhuber and Ralph Forsyth welcomed 1943 with a bang.

  The big boys throw curves; in the world of commerce, action is subtle and oblique. Thus, it was not until mid-March, a week after Jane’s third birthday, instead of January 3, that J. Rufus Curry, bank president and Ralph Forsyth’s boss, called Richard into his office late one afternoon and told him he would never be an officer at Queen City. Richard managed to ask why. Mr. Curry said it was that indefinable something Richard lacked to fit in with Queen City’s top echelon. But he might fit in elsewhere, at another bank. Mr. Curry offered to help Richard find a more comfortable slot. Naturally, if he was happy at Queen City, if he felt he was fulfilling his potential, he was welcome to stay on. Richard said thank you, he would think about it. He was not one of the big boys. He did not understand that he was dead and that Ralph Forsyth had killed him.

  “What does it mean?” Sally demanded.

  “Nothing. I don’t know. They think I’d be happier someplace else.”

  “What do you mean, ‘happy’? Bankers aren’t happy. I don’t get it.” She pulled her voice into tight control so she would not wake Jane. “Did Mr. Forsyth say anything to you?” It was the first time since New York’s Day that she’d mentioned him. Down by the boiler he had sworn to call her the next day. She waited for four days, cooking one-pot dinners from canned foods so she would not have to market, doling out sweets to Jane, hush money so the child would not protest her imprisonment. For two weeks after that, she left the house for only an hour at a time. Then she knew.

  Richard, of course, never knew anything. In fact, he believed Sally and Ralph Forsyth had gone for a long, companionable walk. When they returned to him in the living room, their faces were still flushed and Mr. Forsyth said, “Richard, sorry I kept Sally so long. But she’s an admirable woman. Admirable.” Sally had smiled sweetly, although later that night she admitted that holding up her end of the conversation had been a bit of a strain.

  “What are you going to do now?” Sally asked.

  “I have to weigh all the possibilities.” Richard wished someone would tell him the right thing to do
.

  “Does this mean we can’t buy a house?”

  By July, Richard had still not weighed the possibilities sufficiently. He still received the same courteous “good morning” from all the bank officers, still was handed his biweekly pay check every other Friday at eleven, but his desk grew to be an island of tranquility in a turbulent sea of trusts and estates. Queen City clients continued to die, wills were probated, and everyone in the department seemed to vibrate with activity. Except Richard.

  On an oppressive July afternoon, they sat on the clammy wrought-iron benches in the elder Heissenhubers’ backyard. For the sixteenth Sunday in a row since Mr. Curry had summoned him, the family discussed Richard’s future.

  “It’s a solid institution,” said Anna. She wanted Richard to stay, put his nose to the grindstone, and show Mr. Forsyth and Mr. Curry that he really had the stuff.

  Carl, a teller at the Mt. Airy branch of Queen City, thought Richard should move on. “They’re getting a little stodgy, Richard. A little too cautious.” He hefted a cloudy pitcher of lemonade and poured himself another drink. “You ought to be someplace where they’re open to young, fresh ideas. Maybe not a bank. Maybe a brokerage house. Maybe—”

  “Do you have any idea where?” Richard asked. He leaned forward so eagerly he stepped on Sally’s foot.

  “Well,” said Carl, “I can’t think of anything right off the cuff. Anywhere they’ll appreciate a solid man with a good education.”