“I’m so sorry, Elizabeth.”
August
“Would you like to tell me what is going on, William?” Catherine asked, looking over the rims of her glasses at me. It was just after our morning meeting, and I’d become distracted as I so often did those days.
“Well, as of July, we were up in the Northeast markets but trending slightly slower in—”
“That is not what I meant. What is going on with you?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said. Come on, Darcy. Stiff upper lip.
* * *
Catherine scoffed. “Who do you think you’re fooling? You’ve been moping around the place for months. You don’t seem at all happy to be back. I can’t complain about your work because that’s all you seem to do anymore.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“You’re just not yourself, Darcy. You’re acting like . . . well, like your father.”
That one stung, I had to admit. But she was right.
“Who is she?” Catherine asked.
“I’m sorry?”
She smiled knowingly. “I’m not so old I don’t know lovesick when I see it. You’re in love. Who is she?”
For one crazy moment, I thought of telling her everything. But what good would it do? Catherine would never approve, and it was all beside the point. I thought of the stack of messages I’d left Eliza since I’d come back after Tomas’s funeral, messages she clearly had no intention of returning. I’d wanted to stay and help her, do what I could for her, but her grief was her own and she’d clung to it fiercely. The last time I’d seen her we’d been standing on the baking-hot sidewalk outside of her apartment building. She’d traded in her sex-kitten cigarette pants for a loose-fitting black dress that made her look so frail. She gave me a watery smile and kissed me while the taxi waited. My arms clasped her waist, pulling her closer.
“I can stay,” I’d entreated her. She only shook her head, dislodging herself from my arms and said, “No, you can’t.”
She felt more lost to me now than ever before. It made me feel adrift, anchorless. I thought of John Glenn orbiting the Earth and wondered if it had been lonely for those hours he’d spent up there—the only living thing in a vast unknowable emptiness.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said to Catherine. “I think . . . I think it’s time I moved on anyway.”
Catherine’s eyebrows rose. “Just like that? Well, I must say I’m glad to hear it, though I’d prefer it if you didn't go back to helling every night. And I know a fine lady who is just your type. She’s the daughter of a gentleman I sit with on the board of the Met. He introduced us at the last gala, and I was very impressed. She’s just back from Dartmouth.”
I nodded absently. I didn’t want a fine young lady with a degree she had no intention of using, a woman whose aspirations went no farther than a house in Connecticut and two babies. It was all too placid, too . . . expected. I wanted the woman who would want to stay in the city until we were shriveled and old, the woman who would challenge and vex me, who would drive me crazy and fill our every moment with music and laughter and incessant chatter. I wanted the storm. But the storm didn’t want me.
“Fine,” I said as I gathered my papers. “Set it up.”
September
Another night out with Anne, the Dartmouth ingénue. She was everything my aunt had promised: lovely, refined, the daughter of a real estate magnate. I found her hopelessly dull. We had box seats at the symphony, and I knew that I should be enjoying myself, but the woman beside me never offered an opinion on the music other than, “I liked it,” or “It was nice.” I couldn’t remember ever being so bored, and then I heard the mournful swell of Vitali’s Chaconne, and I was no longer sitting in the plush box seats. I was back in Buffalo, in a colorful apartment surrounded by music and laughter and happiness. I remembered Tomas bending like a tree with the music, and my eyes filled with tears. I blinked them back, heart racing as the music swirled around me. I still wanted to reach out for Eliza, to feel her steady fingers intertwining with mine. Instead, I gripped the arms of my seat, riding out the wave of emotion until the song was over. Anne looked over at me and gave me a mild smile.
“I liked it,” she said. Somehow, I didn’t howl in frustration.
October
The shrill ring of the telephone woke me from my half-sleep . . . one short burst of a ring and then nothing. I picked up the receiver, head still muddled.
“Hello?”
“How may I direct your call?” the operator spoke in my ear. Whoever it was had hung up.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Sorry.” I placed the receiver back on the cradle and rolled onto my back, staring blankly at the ceiling.
For ten days, we’d been holding our breath—waiting for news, for hope—waiting for the end. A sickly feeling had come over me when they’d announced the blockade off the coast of Florida. I’m only afraid of the things I can’t control. Why else would I be so afraid of flying? The last ten—now eleven—days had felt like that moment of weightlessness after takeoff. I’d seen the school children doing drills on the news, obediently climbing under their desks, as though a simple bit of wood and metal could protect them from anything as powerful as a nuclear bomb.
As expected, I hadn’t slept well. How could I? How could anybody? Even the ever-polished Catherine looked somewhat haggard in our morning meetings. I’d postponed dates with Anne, knowing that I would be ending our fledgling courtship. It seemed silly to worry about such things, with the threat of obliteration hanging over us all. I supposed I could have always descended into indulgent hedonism, but that hadn’t appealed to me either.
The phone rang again. I picked it up and answered, knowing who was on the other line.
“Eliza?”
“Hi.” The sound of her voice made my breath catch for a moment. “Did I wake you?” Strong, vibrant. Her voice soothed and excited me at the same time.
“Not really. Haven’t been sleeping much.”
A mirthless laugh from her. “Tell me about it. How are we city folk supposed to deal with this? Though I suppose you’ve got some fancy doomsday vault to live out the end in style. Probably has a full eighteen-hole golf course and its own subterranean Rockefeller Plaza.”
“I do not,” I protested, feeling myself smile for the first time in days. “What point is there to life if the Yankees and the Giants are gone?”
She laughed, a sultry sound that electrified me. How was it I felt more alive, more in the world just hearing her voice?
“Well, I’ll have you know that Charlie has built himself a rather impressive fallout shelter in his backyard.”
“Will you go there?” I asked.
“Absolutely not. He built enough space for Jane and her entire family. Mom, dad, three bratty kid sisters. Seven’s a party; eight’s a crowd.”
I laughed and shook my head. God, but I missed her. “How’s the station? Is Regina Bliss still giving you a hard time?”
“Only every week. Luckily, the music is louder than she is. We’re still holding on to the number one spot, but I guess you knew that already.”
She fell silent before speaking again in a more resolved tone. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back or return your letters. After Pop, I just sort of . . . fell away.” There was silence on the line and then—“I don’t want to meet my maker with any more regrets.”
I sat up. “Elizabeth Rebecca Benowitz. Are you saying goodbye?”
“You never know!”
“We’re not going anywhere,” I said with a confidence I didn’t quite feel. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
She sighed. “I knew you’d say that. Look, I gotta go. I’m calling long distance.”
“I’ll see you again, Eliza. When the world doesn’t end.”
“Yeah. See you then.”
November
A few days after my phone call from Eliza, a fragile peace was declared. There would be no bomb
s, no death from above. People smiled again, though cautiously and never on the subway. Halloween had come, more jubilant than ever. And autumn took a long study of winter as Thanksgiving approached, while the leaves shivered their last on their branches.
I’d been dropping off some paperwork to the company attorney in Gramercy Park when I noticed all the people out shopping for their Thanksgiving dinners. One couple in particular caught my eye: a tall, well-dressed man and his wife—a long-limbed woman with a cascade of dark hair, pulled up into a half-beehive. He carried a box emblazoned with “Polaski’s Meat Market” that no doubt contained the requisite turkey. I thought about what I was doing for Thanksgiving and came up short. I’d ended things with Anne, so that was out. A quiet dinner with Catherine didn’t sound like so much fun either. I had wondered what Eliza would do without her father . . . probably eat with her aunt and uncle or Jane and Charlie.
“Don’t get too far ahead,” the man called to his child, a little boy wearing his Roy Rogers cowboy hat, the kind that tied under the chin. The boy turned and gave his parents a tip of his hat, making the couple giggle. The woman leaned against her husband, and he put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him for a quick kiss. I looked away, a lump rising in my throat. I envied them.
It was such a small moment that anyone could have observed without giving it a second thought, but for some reason it shook me down to my bones. I felt as though a crack had opened beneath me and I was falling, weightless, waiting for the ground to catch me. I was John Glenn, falling to Earth.
That does it, my heart, that neglected masochist, spoke up once more. This has gone on long enough.
I hailed a taxi to take me to Central Park West. I was at Catherine’s door a few minutes later and much to her surprise.
“William! Come in! What on earth is the matter?”
“You’re right, Cate.” I called her by the name I hadn’t used since I was a child. “I am in love . . . with that woman . . . Eliza Bennet.”
Catherine blinked, stunned. She sank into the closest chair, scowling at the carpet I was currently pacing. I continued talking without waiting for her reaction.
“If the last year has taught me anything, it’s that there isn’t any time to waste. When you find happiness, you take it. Or you let it take you . . . I don’t know. I’m still learning.”
Catherine looked up at me, her eyes sharp. “Darcy. Pour me a drink, if you don’t mind. And pour yourself one, too.”
I did as I was bid despite every part of me being pulled away, towards her. I handed Catherine a glass and took a seat opposite her.
She seemed to consider her words carefully. “Are you sure this isn’t some infatuation? Are you thinking with your brain or your . . . other brain?”
I threw my head back and laughed. “Both, actually. But this isn’t some whim. It came on slowly, over months. I thought at first she got under my skin, but now I think . . . I think she might have been there all along.”
“Will,” Catherine said in a more delicate tone, “you do know that she is a Jewess?”
“I know, Cate. And I don’t care. I think Christ might give me a pass on this one, too.”
Catherine sighed. “You’re sure? What about the company?”
“We’ll figure it out,” I promised. “I’m not leaving you high and dry, that I promise. But I don’t want to end up like Dad, more in love with work than life.”
She paled and sat up straight. “Is that what you thought? Well, I suppose it would look that way to you. You don’t remember your mother. You couldn’t have known . . . how very much he loved her. How very much he loved you both.”
She put her drink down carefully. “Wait here,” she said, and strode out of the room. I got up and resumed my pacing, thinking of Eliza. What would I say to her? How would she respond? I knew her well enough to know that she might very well turn me out on my ear.
Catherine came back in, holding a box in her hand. She handed it to me.
“Your mother asked me to hold onto that until the day came,” she said, picking her drink back up and downing it. I opened it to see that it was full of letters, in my father’s familiar handwriting.
“I think she knew, or at least suspected, how he’d be if he lost her. If I’d known . . . well, I’m sorry it took me this long.”
“Thank you,” I said. I was itching to read them, to know that the man I’d always thought incapable of love had actually been human.
“You can read them on the train,” she suggested.
“She may send me packing, you know.”
Catherine laughed. “If she’s half as pitiful as you are right now, I doubt it.”
I stood and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.” She nodded silently, dismissing me, and I was out the door.
I managed to get on the last train to Buffalo, not even stopping at my townhouse to pack an overnight bag. I read the letters, even the ones I probably shouldn’t have. I tried to reconcile this man who burned with love, to the cold stranger I’d buried nine years ago. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on my part, but I thought I did remember a pained, faraway look in his eyes from time to time.
The gentle rocking of the train lulled me into a light sleep plagued with strange dreams of being very small, jumping into a pile of wet leaves, hearing my mother’s laugh as my father swept her into his arms. When I woke, I couldn’t be sure if these were my real memories or if I only wanted them to be. I looked down at my watch. It would be two hours before Eliza came to the station for her shift, and another three hours before I could get there. A thought occurred to me, an idea of how I might proceed. It would either be my greatest success or my biggest failure, depending on her. Everything depended on her.
Three hours and one taxi ride later, I found myself staring at the familiar facade of WPNP, a tumult of emotions. I took a deep breath and strode in, set on my purpose. The station receptionist, Charlotte, jumped visibly when she saw me.
“Mr. Darcy! Welcome back, sir! Was Mr. Bingley expecting you?”
“No, but I know where to find him.” I gave her a careless wave as I strode through the double doors leading back to the offices and studio. Charlie was, as expected, hovering near Jane. Very near. It was a wonder the man got any work done.
Charlie caught sight of me and startled, jumping up and straightening his tie. Jane looked embarrassed, shuffling the stack of papers on her desk. On any other day, I would have laughed.
“Darcy!” Charlie said, reddening too. “I wasn’t expecting you! Did we have a meeting?”
I shook my head, catching the song piping through the overhead speaker: The Crystals singing “He’s a Rebel.”
“Well, if there was ever a time for that,” I muttered to myself. Charlie gave me an odd look.
“I’m here to see Eliza,” I said flatly.
Charlie and Jane exchanged a wide-eyed look.
“Right.” I didn’t give either of them a chance to speak. “I’ll just go do that.”
I didn’t wait around to see Charlie’s reaction before turning and barreling towards the studio. The click of heels against the linoleum told me Jane was following. Where Jane went, Charlie was sure to follow.
“Mr. Darcy! You can’t go in there; she’s on the air!”
“Yes, I can see that for myself, Jane.”
The red light over the door told me as much, and there, just beyond the door and the window, was Eliza. She was looking down, absorbed in flipping through a stack of records in her lap. I stood there a few moments, drinking in the sight of her, her slight frame, hair falling in a cascade around her shoulders. So unfashionable, so beautiful. So heartbreaking and unique.
Jane put a careful hand on my arm. “Mr. Darcy, surely there’s a better time to—”
“There isn’t,” I said shortly, before swinging the door open and walking into the studio.
Eliza gasped and looked up at me, dark eyes huge in her face. “What are you doing?” she said with a hiss. An excellent
question. I pulled the needle off the record. Her hands flew up to her face in horror, the records in her lap sliding to the floor.
“Eliza Bennet, you will listen to me, even if that means all of Buffalo has to listen too.”
The look on her face became murderous. Here goes nothing.
“I love you,” I blurted. “It took me too long to see it for what it was, but there it is. I love you. You’re the single most infuriating person on the planet. You talk entirely too much and you have caused me no end of trouble, but I need you like I need air. I couldn’t wait to leave this place, and then I got back to the city and all I could think about was the way you laugh or that damn smile of yours, or the way you occupy a chair like a cat in a sunbeam. I don’t want it to take another loss, or another world-ending scenario to bring us together again. I told you months ago, that night your father played the violin for us, that I’ve never met anyone like you, and I haven’t, and I don’t want to—”
“Good God, William Darcy, shut up!” She shouted. “I love you, too!” She turned and spoke into her microphone. “Did you hear that, greater Buffalo area? I love William Darcy, the rudest man in New York! Now, here’s that new one from the Four Tops.”
She dropped the needle on the other turntable, and the room filled with music. She stood, pushing me out of the studio, teeth bared. My lioness.
“Jane! Get in there and cue up the next song. Just pick anything. It doesn’t matter.” Jane scurried past her into the studio, leaving them alone in the corridor.
“How could you do that, you ass? You’ve ruined my show. Turned it into a damn soap opera!”
Her eyes blazed at me, color standing high on her cheeks. I felt myself grinning even as her eyes narrowed dangerously.
“You love me,” I said.
She sniffed. “I do not.”
My grin widened. “Oh, yes you do. You love me.”
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 35