The Carousel

by Belva Plain

  “What is your price range?” the woman inquired.

  “That’s not the first consideration. The first is that I have to like it, and the second is that I want to move in no later than two months from now.”

  “That will be difficult—Mr.—”

  “Grey. Clive Grey. You can reach me at Hawthorne when you have something to show me. I’m assuming you’ll get busy on it right away.”

  “Oh. I’ll do my best, Mr. Grey.”

  Never in his life had he spoken to anyone with so much authority. And he leaned back in his desk chair, chuckling: “Hey, Clive, you don’t even recognize yourself, do you?”

  For two days he rode around the area with the agent, considering this house and dismissing that one. Some he even refused to enter. This, his first foray into ownership and domesticity, must be nothing less than perfect. Here the grounds were too small to fit the house. There the architecture was a hodgepodge. Another house was ostentatious. Still another was cold and unfriendly. Finally, he made his choice, a classic Georgian, old, rosy brick trimmed in white. It was neither too large nor too small, with spacious grounds. There was a splendid stand of full-grown blue spruce. He went through once, finding it all delightful, especially the master bedroom, where the bed would face a fireplace. On winter evenings they would go early to bed and watch the dreamy flickering …

  “I’ll take it,” he told the agent.

  She looked a little doubtful. “That’s a quick decision, Mr. Grey. Are you quite sure?”

  “Quite sure, provided I can have it in a month. I’m going away, and I want to move in as soon as I return.”

  She still looked doubtful. “I have to see whether they’re willing. The closing and the moving don’t go that fast. But I’ll ask.”

  The first asking was unsatisfactory, but as soon as the owners learned there would be no haggling over the price, that, indeed, Mr. Grey was prepared to pay even more if they should insist, a satisfactory answer was given, and Clive would have his house on time.

  He said nothing about it to anybody. One evening, though, he found an excuse to stop in at Dan and Sally’s with the real intention of examining their furnishings.

  In the broad entrance hall and all up the staircase, the walls were hung with Sally’s photographs, not the professional portraits, but assorted subjects that had appealed to her in the ordinary round of life: two horses out on a field in the rain, a close-up of a bee in the cup of a honeysuckle flower, an old man, bearded like some medieval scholar, gazing out of a tenement house window.

  “You’re an artist, Sally,” Clive said, meaning it wholly. Yet at the same time, he had been absorbed in the elements of the house’s style.

  Light, plenty of light from unencumbered windows and pastel walls. Fresh flowers, books, and comfortable spaces among objects.

  “That’s a handsome cabinet,” he observed.

  “It was my grandmother’s,” Sally said. “Half the things in this house are hers, antique or good reproductions. The modern stuff is what we added.”

  “That would take skill, I imagine.”

  She nodded. “Oh, yes. Thank goodness for Lila Burns. We had plenty of help. She’s a marvelous decorator who knew how to put the whole thing together in almost no time and saved us money in the long run. I surely couldn’t have done it alone.”

  “Is she from around here?”

  “Why, yes.” Sally stopped and regarded Clive with curiosity. “Since when are you, Clive Grey, so interested in decorators?”

  “I’m not. I was only admiring.”

  “Well, thank you. By the way, you haven’t been riding lately. Tina’s missed you.”

  “I know. I’ve missed her, too. Things have picked up in the office. I had a head cold, and—” Faltering absurdly, he stopped, then added, “But I’ll get back on track.”

  “Good. We’ve put her in a beginners’ class at the academy, anyway. It seems to help her shyness.” Now Sally hesitated. He was wondering why when she continued, “I know Dan mentioned once that we were having problems with her. Of course, they’re just the usual upsets when a new baby comes into the family.”

  “Of course,” he agreed, and wondered why she was so earnest, so emphatic.

  Presently, Dan brought cold drinks. They sat awhile in pleasant conversation about nothing in particular until Dan brought up the matter of the consortium, Amanda, and Grey’s Woods.

  “I still can’t see why Uncle Oliver doesn’t take a stand,” he complained. “That land is his spiritual treasure. Hell, I grew up knowing it was part of his religion. The preservation of the wilderness—now he leaves it to us to squabble over it. And we’re heading nowhere except into trouble.”

  To Clive on this evening, nothing could have mattered less than the wilderness, the consortium, or Amanda. So as soon as he decently could, he said good night and departed. Once in the car, before he could forget, he scribbled the name of Lila Burns. The minute the house was in his hands, he would call her with instructions to do the entire place, using Dan’s house not to copy but for inspiration. He was certainly not capable of doing it himself. Nor, he thought with his usual tenderness, was Roxanne. Not yet. For she would learn.

  And he thought of Pygmalion. He would show her many things that she had had no chance to see or hear. How bright, how quick she was!

  They would have their honeymoon in the Greek islands. He scribbled another note: travel agent, deluxe suite on upper deck. They would dine, dance, and make love. They would sail the blue waters and he would explain the islands’ history, tell her about Ulysses and Athena, and—He scribbled another note: Replace scuffed luggage for self. New set for Roxanne. She would need clothes, too. He would take a whole day for that. With her figure, she was surely a perfect size. A day would be sufficient to outfit her.

  Today was Tuesday. Let’s see, he thought. By Friday, everything will have fallen into place. The ring is already here, the ticket reservations will be complete, and I’ll get permission to show her the house. So Friday is our day.

  He had no doubts and no qualms. He was supremely confident, supremely happy.

  Chapter Nine

  Late June 1990

  The heavy red silk curtains that were protective on a winter’s night now merely concealed the glorious noon outside. From above the mantel Lucille Grey in her white gown and pearl choker cast her melancholy, lovely eyes upon the luncheon table. Conversation, courteous as always, was desultory in spite of Oliver’s brisk efforts to create a warm “family” atmosphere.

  Every one of us here, Sally was thinking, would rather be someplace else on a summer afternoon, reading the paper, taking a swim, or having a nap in the hammock. Certainly Tina had been convinced to come only by Uncle Oliver’s announcement that he had a Japanese doll to give her. Now, sullen and silent, she sat between her parents eating cake while clutching the yellow silk doll in the other hand.

  It was, however, hardly nice of them all to feel put-upon. To Oliver it was important to keep the ritual of midday dinner on Sunday, a ritual that like so many others in the last half of this century most people had long abandoned. But it made him so happy to see them all gathered at his table. It didn’t take much to please him, after all.

  She hoped he wasn’t noticing the barely perceptible coolness that had existed between Ian and Dan ever since the time Ian had hung up on Dan. At the office, Dan reported, work was going on as usual. Ian’s mood was still dark, but they had avoided their dispute. Or, to be more accurate, postponed it. Happy was probably aware of what had happened, but neither she nor Sally would ever think of mentioning it. They were friends. Let the men fight it out by themselves.

  As it was, the two men were letting the women take the conversational initiative. Happy, always garrulous and cheerful, wondered aloud whether Clive was out riding so early today.

  “I mean, he’s always here at dinner.”

  “He wasn’t home last night,” Oliver said.

  “Out with the girls again,” Ian said,
grinning.

  “Why not?” Dan countered. “He’s not married.”

  Ian changed the subject. “This new cook of yours is something else, Father. You can’t get better pastry in Paris.”

  Oliver was pleased. “My sons with their sweet teeth! Your mother had a sweet tooth, too, thin as she was. Well, shall we have our coffee on the porch?”

  The party transferred itself to the screened porch, which was furnished in white wicker, and shaded by green-striped awnings. Through the trees there blew a mild, soporific breeze; lying back on soft upholstery after a heavy meal, it was hard not to yawn. Only Oliver in his linen suit sat upright.

  “There’s nothing to play with,” whined Tina, who was understandably bored.

  “You might take the new doll for a walk. Show her the pigeon house,” Sally suggested for lack of a better idea.

  “I don’t want to. I hate this doll.” And Tina threw it on the floor.

  Dan intervened. “It’s naughty to treat a beautiful present like that and when Uncle Oliver is so nice to you. You should tell him you’re sorry.”

  “I won’t. I’m not sorry. It’s an awful doll. It’s ugly.”

  Happy and Ian were considerately looking the other way. Their consideration made Sally’s embarrassment more painful. It wasn’t hard to guess what they were thinking about Tina.

  “I’ll be glad to get you a different one,” said Oliver. “The minute I saw this one in the window, I thought you’d like it. But that’s all right. Just tell me what you’d rather have.”

  “Uncle—” began Sally, wanting to suggest that he not reward the child’s behavior.

  But she was interrupted by Oliver. “Tell me, Tina. Come here and whisper it in my ear.”

  “No, I said. You’re deaf. No, I said.”

  Oliver walked across the porch and, lifting the shrieking child, coaxed, “Listen to me—”

  In the midst of this disturbance came the sound of voices on the gravel path.

  “Guests, Father?” asked Happy.

  Oliver put Tina down and looked across the lawn. “I’m not expecting any. Why, it’s Clive! Clive with somebody.”

  Up the steps and onto the porch came Clive, holding by the hand an astonishingly beautiful young woman who wore a fine, cream-colored silk suit and a matching straw hat above a magnificent cascade of burnished red-brown hair. They stopped before Oliver, and Clive spoke.

  “Father,” he said in a loud, clear voice, “I’ve brought you a surprise. This is Roxanne Grey. We were married last night.”

  “A surprise,” said Oliver. “A surprise. You’re quite serious? Not joking?” he cried.

  At this the girl stretched out her hand up to the level of Oliver’s face. “Not on your life. And here’s the ring to prove it.”

  Oliver blinked and sat down. Shock overwhelmed the little group on the porch. It was as if a giant wave had crashed upon a beach and then receded into silence.

  No more than a few seconds could have passed, but it seemed like a long time before Clive said gaily, “I’ve dropped a bomb, haven’t I? This is the last thing you expected me to do, and to tell you the truth, I never expected to do it, either. Until I met Roxanne.”

  Wicker creaked in the stillness as the little group shifted in their chairs, waiting for the head of the family to respond.

  “Of course, we wish you all the happiness in the world,” Oliver said in his formal way. “But there was no need for secrecy like this.”

  “Not secrecy, Father. Haste. Impulse. Blame it on me. I didn’t have patience for the usual fuss and delay.”

  Disjointed thoughts sped through Sally’s mind. The pair looked awkward there, like people who perch uncertainly in dentists’ waiting rooms or unemployment offices. It’s strange that no one of us has cried out in amazement or with curiosity, or stood up to make some attempt at congratulations. A handshake or a hug. We’re all numb as stones. It would make a stunning photo, forbidding in a way, like the painting “American Gothic,” stiff and painful.

  Dan’s astonished eyebrows were practically up at his hairline, and Happy’s mouth had dropped open. Ian raised himself from his chair and fell back. His face was a raging crimson. With that temper, he would have a premature stroke one day. It’s no business of his, anyhow, that his brother decided to elope, Sally thought indignantly.

  And somebody really ought to welcome the girl! So, saying the first trivial thing that came to her head, she addressed her.

  “Roxanne! What a pretty name.” She went over and took Roxanne’s hand. “We might as well introduce ourselves. It seems that the bridegroom, like all bridegrooms, is too flustered to do it.” And dropping a kiss onto Clive’s forehead, she continued, “I’m Sally. This is my husband, Dan.” For Dan, too, had risen and gone over to shake hands.

  Now everyone stood, and things began to fall into place.

  “This is Happy—her real name is Elizabeth—but everyone calls her Happy, and this is her husband, Ian.”

  Ian bowed over the extended hand. “Roxanne. Do people call you Roxy?”

  “No,” said the bride with a sweet smile, “no, they never do.”

  How ridiculous of him to bow like that as if he were a viscount greeting a baroness! The gesture had been almost ironic.

  “And this is Tina, our daughter.”

  “What a pretty girl,” said Roxanne.

  “I’m not,” Tina said crossly.

  “That’s not polite,” Dan remonstrated. “You should say thank you and shake hands.”

  Tina bellowed, “I don’t want to shake her hand.”

  “She doesn’t have to,” Roxanne said.

  It was distressing. You got tired of it after a while. Other children didn’t behave like this. Distressing.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Roxanne said gently. “I’ve been around kids. Mothers always feel bad when kids act up.”

  At this point Oliver resumed charge. “Well, Clive, I must say you have good taste. Now that we’ve seen your beautiful wife, you must tell us something about her. Are you from Scythia, my dear?”

  “Oh, yes. My family’s always lived here. We’ve all worked at Grey’s. I work in the shipping department.” She spoke easily and frankly.

  Sally liked that. Most girls coming into Hawthorne in these circumstances would be intimidated. Obviously, this girl was sure of her own worth. She had traded her exquisite body for the right to be here. That was evident enough. You might not approve, but you had no right either to condemn. At any rate, the situation was interesting, a minor drama.

  Clive put his hand over Roxanne’s and corrected her. “You did work there. In the shipping department. You don’t anymore. We have bought a house, Father. It’s not far from here, on Brookside Road, about two miles out.”

  “I’m flabbergasted.” And Oliver shook his head in bewilderment.

  Dan looked at Sally. He must be, the look said.

  “We’ll take possession next month. In the meanwhile, I have someone working on the furniture.”

  “Oh, it’s simply gorgeous,” Roxanne cried.

  “And in the meantime you’ll be staying here?” asked Oliver. “Or with your parents, Roxanne?”

  “Parents? I only have my father, and I darn sure don’t want to go back to him.” She gave a hearty laugh with her head thrown back. “No, I’m starting a whole new life with Clive.”

  No comments were made, no one spoke, until Clive entered the silence with an announcement that they would be away on their honeymoon during the next month.

  “We’re going on a cruise of the Greek islands. After that, Italy. Venice and the lakes, Cuomo and Maggiore.”

  “Ideal choices for a honeymoon. Some of the most beautiful places in the world,” Oliver said agreeably.

  Unlike Ian, whose outrage was almost palpable, Oliver had, typically, regained his equilibrium in these few moments. His thoughts, however, could only be imagined as he regarded his son and his new daughter, the son so exceptionally unattractive at the moment, swe
ating in collar and tie through the midday heat, half slumped on the sofa and dwarfed beside the cool, graceful girl. The contrast was grotesque. Characters out of Dickens, Sally thought.

  “If only you had come earlier and had dinner,” Oliver said. “But we must have some sort of celebration, anyway. A little supper tonight instead.”

  “We’ll have to postpone it till next month, Father. From here we’re going to drop in at Roxanne’s father’s for a minute and then catch the plane to New York to spend the night before we fly overseas tomorrow.”

  “Very well, but we can’t let you go without some festivity. Ian, will you go to the kitchen, please, and ask them to bring up the champagne from the cellar? And plenty of it. Perhaps some little cakes or biscuits or whatever they have. You’re boiling red, Ian. Don’t you feel well?”

  But Ian had already rushed out of hearing.

  Meanwhile, Happy invited Roxanne to take a short tour of the house. “Women always like to see houses, don’t they? And this is the kind that will never be built again, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, I’d love to. I said to Clive when we were coming up the driveway, this place must have cost a fortune. More than a million, I’ll bet. Not counting the furniture, I mean. Am I right?” Roxanne asked, turning to Oliver. “A million at least?”

  “I really can’t say. It was built right after the Civil War. The value of money has changed considerably since then.” Graciously, he smiled.

  And again, Dan’s glance met Sally’s. It was as though they were automatically exchanging their similar impressions. Oliver would in his propriety be shrinking inside at such a question concerning his home. But considerate gentleman that he also was, he would accept an accomplished fact. He would make the best of this marriage.

  Gathered now in the library, they waited for Oliver’s “festivity” to begin. Growing slightly impatient, he asked what Ian was doing.

  “Gone for the champagne,” Dan reminded him.

  “I didn’t expect him to bring it up himself.”

  “Oh, this is a gorgeous house. And this is a gorgeous room,” cried Roxanne, looking around at the carved stone mantel, the beamed ceiling, and the tall shelves crammed with curios and books.