by Belva Plain
There was a pause, Theo seemed lost in his own thoughts. Finally he said, “Your father was a mensch. He was worthy of her devotion.”
But not necessarily her love, Theo added to himself. He wasn’t the right man for your beautiful, cultured mother. I think I always knew that, in the same way that I knew Paul Werner was the right man for her after he told me the truth.
Life is messy, Iris, and humans cannot always live by the rules. You don’t want to accept that, but I think you know it’s true.
Iris’s voice broke into Theo’s thoughts. “I’m going to talk to Laura.”
“No!”
“Of course I will. I’m her mother, I have to make her see that what she’s doing is wrong.”
“You think she doesn’t know?”
Or maybe it isn’t wrong. I’m glad Paul and Anna stole whatever few moments of joy they could get. I think it was a tragedy that they didn’t have more.
“Leave it alone, Iris. I’m begging you.”
“I don’t want my daughter sneaking off to be with her lover!”
And I don’t want her to wind up like her grandmother.
“She’ll find her way, Iris. She’s a good, honorable person and she’ll do what’s right if you leave her alone. You have to believe that.” His heart was starting to pound now, he shouldn’t have let himself get so excited.
Iris saw it. “Let me get your oxygen …”
But he waved that aside. “I’m saying this as much for your sake as for Laura’s. Because someday the children will be all you have.”
“I don’t want to hear such talk.”
“Then promise me you will not say one word of this to Laura.”
“All right, I promise. Whatever you want.”
–—
Iris had given her word. And she would keep it. But in the days that followed whenever she talked to Laura on the phone she had to bite her tongue until she thought it would bleed. How could you do this to me? she wanted to scream. Don’t you know that cheating is the one thing I can’t bear?
A part of her brain knew that she was overreacting, but it didn’t seem to matter. She tried to make sense of her feelings. In the evenings, after her day’s work was done, she would run a hot bath and soak in it, hoping to soothe away her anger. But her longtime panacea didn’t help. Why? she asked herself. Why am I taking this so much to heart? Of course it is not something any mother wants to hear about her child, but I’m too upset.
I’m worried about Katie, that’s why I’m feeling this way. That child picks up on things. No matter how clever Laura is, no matter how much she thinks she is getting away with this, Katie will know something is wrong. A sensitive little girl will always know.
But even though the concern about Katie was real, Iris finally had to be honest with herself. She was furious because she felt betrayed by Laura. And so when Laura and Katie came for their usual Sunday night dinner, Iris wasn’t sure how she was going to get through the meal.
–—
Sunday dinner at Grandma Iris’s house was usually one of Katie’s favorite times. Her grandmother wasn’t the kind of great cook that Mom was, but Katie liked the food she served. It was plain and easy to eat; dishes like meatloaf and baked potatoes. Most of all Katie liked the good feelings that were in the air when her mother and her grandparents were together. They really liked one another. At least, they used to. But tonight something was wrong with Grandma Iris. Katie frowned. It seemed something was wrong with someone all of the time lately. Right now, Grandma Iris was barely talking to Mom and when she did say something her voice was harsh. Grandpa Theo was watching Grandma like he was afraid she was going to explode or something, which wasn’t good for him, because the doctors had said he shouldn’t have a lot of stress after his heart attack.
Katie had had it. It seemed to her as if all the adults were sad and angry and there was nothing anyone could do for them. She tuned out the sound of their voices, and turned away from her grandmother’s frowning face. Her eyes landed on a picture hanging in the place of honor on the wall behind the head of the dining room table. It was a portrait of her grandmother’s mother—her name had been Anna Friedman—and it was one of Grandma Iris’s most cherished possessions. It had been on the wall for as long as Katie could remember.
Great-grandmother Anna had died before Katie was born but there were a whole lot of stories about her in the family. Everyone said Mom was just like her. Mom certainly looked like her, Katie thought as she studied the portrait, and the gown Great-grandmother was wearing in the picture was something Mom would have chosen too. Mom liked full skirts that kind of swished around her legs when she walked and this gown’s skirt looked like it would do that, plus it was pink, which was Mom’s favorite color.
Her mother was sitting at the far end of the table, telling Grandpa Theo about the Good Day USA television show asking her to do a segment twice a week. Katie looked back and forth between her mom and the portrait on the wall. It was strange that a dead person could look so much like someone who was still alive, and you could see it in the painting. Then she remembered another painting that resembled someone she knew.
“Mom,” she called out. “Did you ever tell Grandma Iris about that picture we saw in the thrift shop?”
“I don’t think your grandmother would be interested in that,” Mom said really fast, at the same time that Grandma Iris said, “What picture, Katie?”
“It’s in that thrift shop on Madison Avenue—the one where they give all the money they make to the hospital where Grandpa Theo used to work. It’s a painting of a woman and she looks just like you, Grandma.”
“There’s not that much of a resemblance,” Mom said.
“Yes there is. You even said so yourself, Mom.” She turned to her grandmother. “The woman in the picture is wearing old-fashioned clothes, and she’s kind of stuck-up looking, which you aren’t at all. But her face is like yours—her nose and her mouth, and especially her eyes. They’re big and dark—”
“A lot of people have dark eyes,” her mother broke in.
What was Mom doing? It was like she was saying Katie was a liar, when she was only reporting what they’d both seen. “But this woman’s eyes were shaped like yours,” Katie said to her grandmother, determined to make her point. “And you know yours aren’t like everyone else’s. You really should see it, Grandma.”
“Don’t be silly, Katie,” Mom said. “She has much better things to do with her time.”
But Grandma Iris said, “If Katie thinks it looks so much like me, maybe I’ll make the time to see it. Where did you say the shop was?”
“It’s on Madison Avenue, on the same cross street as the Metropolitan Museum. Oh, and that’s another thing—when Mom and I asked the saleslady if she knew the name of the woman in the picture, she didn’t. But the woman who donated it used to have a store right near where this thrift shop is now. And it was a place where you and your mother used to buy your clothes … it had a French name. Shay something.”
“Chez Lea?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Grandma Iris said. “I haven’t thought about that place in years. Yes, absolutely I will go to that thrift shop and have a look at your mystery painting, Katie. I have a dentist’s appointment in the city a week from next Wednesday, and I’ll do it then.” She turned to Katie’s mom. “It’s on Madison Avenue, one block over from the museum—right, Laura?”
Mom nodded, but she looked really upset. What was wrong with her? And what was wrong with Grandpa Theo? Suddenly, Katie realized he’d been quiet the whole time they’d been talking about the picture, and that was unusual because he always had an opinion on everything. She turned to him. It seemed to her that his face was kind of white. And he was holding on to the side of the table.
“Grandpa, are you okay?” she asked.
He let go of the table and smiled at her. “I’m just fine, Liebchen.”
“You do look pale, Theo,” Grandma Iris sai
d. “Let me—”
“If you try to get that oxygen tank, I’ll strangle you, Iris.” He turned to Laura, “What I would like, my dear, is some brandy.”
“Right away, Dad.”
–—
Thank God for brandy, Theo thought, as he swallowed the amber liquid Laura poured for him. It was a remedy as old as the hills—or, at least, as old as Theo’s medical school days in Austria. It dilated the blood vessels and kept the blood pressure from shooting through the roof, and felt a hell of a lot better going down than holding a nitroglycerin tablet under the tongue. More important, it didn’t stop a conversation the way the cursed oxygen tank did. Theo didn’t want the conversation to stop. Nor did he want to draw the attention of his women to himself. He needed to think, and think fast. When Katie had started talking about an oil painting of a woman who looked like Iris he had felt like a character in a surreal play. Because if what Katie was saying was true, then in some cruel twist of fate, she and Laura had stumbled on what was probably the only evidence in existence of Paul and Anna’s relationship.
It couldn’t be, Theo argued to himself as he sat rooted to his chair in his own dining room, which had suddenly become as alien to him as the surface of the moon. It was just a coincidence; it had to be. The picture in that shop could not, must not, be the portrait of Paul Werner’s mother. He smiled reassuringly at his womenfolk; meanwhile, in his mind he was comparing the story he had learned from Paul with Katie’s stunning statement.
The woman in the picture is wearing old-fashioned clothes, and she’s stuck-up looking, which you aren’t at all, Katie had said to her grandmother. But her face is like yours—her nose and her mouth, and especially her eyes. They’re big and dark …
I don’t even have a picture of Iris, Paul had said on the fateful afternoon when he’d told Theo his story. Do you know what I do when I want to see her face? I have an oil painting of my late mother. Iris is the exact image of her, so I look at that portrait and I tell myself it’s both of them.
And then there had been the final exchange between Katie and Iris: … when Mom and I asked the saleslady if she knew the name of the woman in the picture, she didn’t, Katie had said. But the woman who donated it used to have a store right near where this thrift shop is now. And it was a place where you and your mother used to buy your clothes … it had a French name. Shay something.
Chez Lea? Iris had asked.
Yes, that’s it.
That was the damning detail that Theo couldn’t ignore. Because Paul had told him that the only other person in the world who knew his secret was a woman named Leah Sherman—who was the owner of the boutique called Chez Lea. Where Iris and her mother used to shop.
… the only way I could get any information about Iris was through Leah, Paul had said on that gray afternoon in Theo’s office so long ago. Whenever Anna or Iris came into her shop, Leah could be my eyes and ears. It wasn’t enough, but it was the best I could get and I’m not ashamed to say that I let her spy on them for me.
That was the confirmation, if Theo had actually needed it, that Katie was right about the woman in the portrait she had seen. The woman resembled Iris because she was Iris’s paternal grandmother. The proof—incontrovertible and undeniable—of Anna’s infidelity and Paul’s paternity was sitting on a dusty shelf in a thrift shop in Manhattan. Those two had given up the possibility of years of love and joy to protect Iris, and now it seemed their sacrifice was for nothing. It would be washed away by this monstrous cosmic joke in the form of a forgotten old portrait.
Because Iris was determined to see it. Theo shook his head to clear away his ghosts and forced himself to listen to a discussion that was taking place between Laura and Iris. Iris was repeating that she was going to be in the city for her dentist’s appointment and she intended to run over to the thrift shop and take a look at this strange portrait for herself. Laura was trying to convince her not to do it, but after a couple of seconds it was clear to Theo that Laura was going to lose the argument. In ten days, Iris would be staring at a portrait that would destroy all of her most fondly held beliefs—and illusions. She would be devastated. Unless Theo could find a way to stop it.
Chapter Twenty-six
Most people, Theo knew, would not have believed that he was a romantic man. A flirt, yes, and perhaps a ladies’ man, although that was not a term he would have preferred. But he was sure Iris would have said that he was too practical a man of science to take on the role of Lancelot riding off on his white charger to protect his ladylove. And Iris, fragile as he knew her to be in some ways, was too practical a person to need that kind of grand gesture. Or so it had always been in the past. But now it seemed that in their old age they were to play the parts of damsel in distress and knight in shining armor after all. And if the knight did his job properly, the damsel would never know she had been saved from the dragon—or, in this case, an old painting. Because there was one fact Theo was certain about: his wife was not going to see the damn thing.
He had a brief hope that perhaps the fates might be with him, that the picture had been sold since Katie and Laura had last seen it in the shop. So on the morning after his granddaughter dropped her bombshell, he waited until Iris had left for the college, and he called the place.
“Oh yes, we still have that picture you described. It’s a hard piece to sell,” said the man who answered the phone. It was clear that he was more informed about the store’s stock than the woman who had waited on Katie and Laura. “The artist was popular enough in his day, but that was at the turn of the century, and I’m afraid his work hasn’t stood the test of time. As for the subject of the picture, she might have rated a few lines in the social columns back then, but she wasn’t anyone memorable. Sic transit gloria mundi and all that.”
“Do you happen to have the woman’s name?” Theo asked.
“She was one Florence Werner.”
“Thank you.” But of course Theo had already known it.
“I could do some more research about the painting, and get back to you.”
“That won’t be necessary. But I would like to come to your store to see it. I’m in the city regularly,” Theo lied. He had only gone into the city four times since his heart attack, and in each instance he’d been with Iris, who had done the driving. His family felt that he shouldn’t undertake the trip often, and when he did he should not be unattended. He had agreed with them. Until now.
–—
The best way to get himself into Manhattan, he decided, would be to go on the train. It would take longer than it would if he were in a car, but he wasn’t up to driving. He didn’t want to take any foolish risks. He would drive himself to the train station, he could handle that, then he’d let Metro-North get him into the city, where there would be taxis to carry him to the thrift shop and back to Grand Central Terminal. It would require more exertion than he was used to, but he would pace himself carefully. He had to admit that he was rather enjoying planning this outing without a babysitter. And so far it didn’t seem to be doing him any harm. As he’d been making his plans, he’d waited to feel the skipped heartbeats, the pounding in the chest and the shortness of breath he’d come to know so well. There hadn’t been so much as a flutter.
He set Friday as his date since Iris wasn’t going into the city until the following Wednesday. She had a full schedule of classes on Fridays, so she would be out of the house by nine and would not be back until six. He’d have plenty of time to accomplish his mission.
–—
“This is splendid,” said the elderly man with the silk cravat who had identified himself as the manager of the thrift shop. “I’m so pleased that you’ve come in, Mr.…”
“Stern … off,” Theo supplied. Before that moment, he hadn’t thought about using an alias.
The man led him to the interior of the shop. The lighting was dim, but Theo could see that there was indeed a portrait propped up on a shelf. “Even though you told me not to, I did a little research for you. As I said
, the lady in this picture was one Florence Werner, nee De Rivera. The Werners were one of the more prominent Jewish families in the city in the early part of the century.” The man lifted the picture off the shelf and handed it to Theo. “There she is,” he said.
And there she was indeed, with her slender neck and her narrow waist—and most of all, her face. There was no mistaking that face, with those big black eyes, that mouth, and that nose. They were the familiar, much-loved features of the woman Theo had been looking at for more than three decades.
Naturally, there were differences between Iris and her ancestress. As Katie had said, Florence Werner did have a grand attitude that Iris, bless her, would never acquire. But no one who knew Iris would ever doubt that in some way this woman was related to her.
“How much?” Theo asked the man wearing the silk cravat. “I want to take this with me.”
He paid the man, and asked him to take the picture out of its heavy antique frame—shocking the dapper manager, who pointed out that it was probably worth as much as the painting—but Theo didn’t want to try to lift it. The painting itself was light and the manager wrapped it and tied a string loop at the top for a handle. Theo carried it out of the store, and hailed a cab to take him back to Grand Central Terminal.
It wasn’t until he was stepping off the train in Westchester that he felt the first little twinge of protest from his heart. He thought about sitting on one of the benches on the train platform to rest, but it was already after four and his plan was to burn the picture in the backyard before Iris came home. He put a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue and waited until the twinge subsided. He told himself to walk slowly to his car.
The pain didn’t come back until he had entered his house. It wasn’t a bad pain, and once again, it vanished quickly with medication. All the same, he wished Iris were home. He thought about lying down on the couch in the living room and waiting for her. But then he remembered that he couldn’t lie down yet. Because he was still holding the portrait. The portrait Iris must not see. He had planned to burn it, but now he thought he’d rather not make that kind of effort. Not at this moment. He went to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy, which made him feel better—but he still didn’t want to push it.