Being Mrs. Alcott

by Nancy Geary

  “But . . . but what about—” She cut herself off. Birth control wasn’t a subject to be discussed with a man, not even a fiancé. Why hadn’t she been prepared? She’d somehow expected that her mother would give her some advice, or, if not, that the gynecologist would have made some suggestions in this area. Clearly, she would have to muster the courage to ask.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got all that under control.” Bain reached into the pocket of his khaki trousers, produced a square package, and handed it to her.

  She stared at the gold condom wrapper, which made a crinkling sound as she held it in her hand. She didn’t dare ask how it worked. If he owned one, she assumed he could operate it.

  Bain smiled. “It’s not wrong, remember. You’re going to be my wife.”

  That night they surprised her parents with a visit home. Losing her virginity in her own room, her own bed, seemed less tawdry than locking themselves in a dormitory room or finding a motel off Route 1. She wanted to lie under her eyelet bedcover, stare out her window, and imagine life as Mrs. Alcott while Bain held her in his arms. But she knew there was a mountain to climb before she’d enjoy the bliss of evening’s end. As much as she wanted to please him, as much as she wanted everything to work as it should, she was terrified.

  “We’re in luck,” Bain whispered when her parents announced that as pleased as they were to see their daughter and future son-in-law, they had plans: a benefit dinner for the Boston Symphony followed by a concert of Brahms sonatas. William hummed the opening measures as he escorted Eleanor out the door.

  Alone, Bain poured her a glass of sherry. He’d found the bottle in her father’s library and taken two cut-crystal glasses from the breakfront cabinet in the dining room. She put Ferris’s Meet the Beatles on the record player, the album he’d left behind when he moved into his own apartment on Marlborough Street. That it had been released more than four years earlier made it completely out of date to his trendy ear.

  They sat together on the edge of the bed, neither one knowing what to say. She wished she had a satin nightgown, something long and clingy. She wanted to be Nora Charles with high-heeled mules and a mink stole and a cigarette holder. Instead she wore an A-line light blue skirt and a sweater set.

  Bain reached for her sweater and started to undo the top buttons.

  She couldn’t bear to look, couldn’t bear to help, and wished he would turn out the lights. She fingered the piqué fabric that rested on her slim thighs.

  “Grace,” he said softly. “We’re not the first two people in the world to have sex. And we won’t be the last.”

  She coughed and instinctively covered her mouth.

  The Beatles sang at a near-hysteria speed, a beat too fast to set the right mood. She regretted her choice. Perhaps Peter, Paul and Mary would have been better.

  Then he spoke again. “This isn’t rocket science. Relax. It’ll be easier if you’re not so tense.”

  I love you. I want you. You’re beautiful. Something along those lines would have sufficed.

  Closing her eyes, she reached for what she assumed was his belt buckle and fumbled to undo it. Somehow the logistics seemed overwhelming. What was she supposed to do when she undid his pants—reach inside? What if he was already erect? How big would it be?

  “Couldn’t we just get undressed and get under the covers?” she finally asked. Her voice sounded more pleading than she’d intended.

  He nodded, perhaps relieved by her suggestion. He got up and walked to the other side of the bed. She heard the crackling sound.

  With her back to him, she folded her clothes neatly on the chair and then slipped beneath the soft sheets. She felt his whole body. Naked. It was more startling than she’d imagined.

  He rolled on top of her, but propped himself up so she would not feel the bulk of his weight. He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, her neck, her chest. He licked her nipple and sucked gently. She felt a tingle and closed her eyes, waiting. After a few moments of awkward adjustments, and a quick stab of pain, he was inside her. His hips moved rhythmically, as if he’d practiced. Within moments, they’d accomplished the task.

  “Was that so bad?” he said, as he gently kissed her ear.

  “No.” Then she added, “Thank you,” because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “My work is sure to be sold abroad, you know, published in translation,” Bain had explained to William. “Important American fiction always is.” Bain smiled a presidential grin and took a sip of his port.

  “It’s difficult for me to imagine that the Europeans are turning to us for great literature,” her father had replied.

  They’d been having dinner with her parents. Bain had just graduated; their wedding was imminent. The meal had been planned to finalize details, but minutiae bored him. After agreeing to make Ferris his best man, Bain quickly managed to change the topic from centerpieces and seating arrangements.

  “The best part is that Grace and I will travel the world together,” Bain said, appearing to have missed the irony in William’s remark.

  “You assume a great deal of success,” he replied. “Most of the writers that Eleanor and I know have professorships, too, a steady income to pay the bills. Perhaps I overstep my bounds, but I might remind you that marriage requires a certain degree of stability.”

  “I can’t wait to travel,” Grace chimed in, wanting to redirect the conversation. Bain didn’t like to be challenged, and her father was coming precariously close. Just because her parents exalted academicians didn’t mean it was the profession for everyone.

  “You’ll get lots of it, I promise,” Bain said, smiling at her. “That is, so long as you don’t get locked into some menial employment as a corporate assistant that keeps you from being an attentive wife.”

  Grace didn’t recall whether her father had agreed with the statement, or even whether he’d had a thought about his daughter’s career. Surprisingly, neither her mother nor her father had even questioned her decision not to return to school in the fall. She didn’t need a degree to be a spouse.

  Being an attentive wife. She remembered Bain’s words as the minister of Trinity Church now read their marriage vows. Love, honor, obey. Attentive wasn’t on the list. But she would nurture and cook and dress the part. Bain was the genius; he was to make the mark on society. Nothing she could do could ever compare.

  He lifted her veil.

  It was gauze held on her head by a diamond tiara with a slight train, her mother’s choice, as was almost everything about the wedding, right down to the pale pink spray of roses that made up her bouquet. She would have preferred white peonies. Given her preference, she also would have had a much smaller gathering, a lunchtime service instead of evening, and an informal reception in the small garden behind her parents’ town house. But the Montgomerys had friends and colleagues, and the Alcotts had friends and relatives, so anything less than two hundred was out of the question. That number meant a gathering at home was impossible. They needed a hotel ballroom with all the institutional elegance that accompanied it.

  She glanced down the aisles at the bouquets attached to each pew with a white gauze bow, and then scanned the sea of faces. So many of them were unfamiliar, even several of the women who now dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs. For a fleeting moment, she had the odd sensation that they’d gone to the wrong ceremony, and that strangers were now witnessing their union.

  Then she spotted her mother and knew she was in the right place. Without expression, and certainly without shedding a tear, Eleanor sat absolutely straight and motionless in the front row. She wore a pink silk suit, a large matching hat, and a string of pearls. Since it was June, Grace knew she’d purchased new underwear. Not for the occasion but because it was that time of year.

  Bain brushed at her veil to make sure it was out of the way, then leaned forward and pecked her lips, surprising her with his speed. She’d expected the first man-and-wife kiss to be long and dramatic, a Hollywood sort of kiss where, with
his arms wrapped around her, she would lean back almost parallel to the floor. After the kiss, he’d pull her upright in a great sweeping motion. But none of that came to pass.

  Perhaps he didn’t want a public display of affection.

  The crowd applauded. She could see Ferris over Bain’s shoulder. He caught himself in a yawn and forced a smile.

  The organ struck the opening bars to Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. Bain linked his arm through hers and escorted her out. She wondered if he, too, was as eager as she for the reception to be over, for the party to end, and for them to be alone in their hotel room, sharing a room and a bed all night for the first time in their lives.

  They took a monthlong honeymoon, traveling to London, Paris, Madrid, Rome, and Venice. The days were a blur of activity, of long walks through winding streets, of visits to museums. Bain had everything planned— itineraries and meals and time allowances at each destination. When she lingered too long at a store window or a statue, he took her hand and pulled her away.

  At night they both rushed through meals, skipping appetizers and dessert, eager to return to the solitude of their luxurious hotel room. Bain was insatiable, and for her, too, lovemaking improved. “It’s all about practice,” Bain explained as he orchestrated her movements, repositioning her body, urging her to explore with her hands and her tongue. “By the time we return to the States, you’ll be a pro.”

  Finally, lost amid the down pillows and sateen bedspread of her five-star hotel, with the noises of the street, the buzzing sounds of motor scooters, honking cars, and animated voices coming through the open window, a warm shudder of joy emanated through her body. She let herself go and allowed a cry of bliss to escape her lips.

  As he lay beside her, she slid her hand under the covers and touched the wetness between her legs, a mixture of them both. This was what it was to be Mrs. Alcott, and she felt closer to Bain than to anyone in the world. It was a feeling she wished she would experience every day for the rest of her life.

  In London, Bain was fitted for three custom suits. Standing in the haberdashery, they stared at row upon row of fabric bolts, rich wools and gabardines, flannels and cashmeres.

  Over Grace’s objections, Bain selected a navy and a gray pinstripe, along with a black wool. “You’ll look as though you belong on Wall Street,” she said. “Why not an elegant smoking jacket or a casHmere blazer? Isn’t that more suited to the life of a writer?”

  Bain held her chin in his hand, tilted her face toward him, and kissed her forehead. “My romantic,” he said with a smile. “I hope you never lose your flair for the dramatic.”

  She didn’t know exactly what he meant. In silence, she watched the experienced tailor with his mouth full of pins and a tape measure draped around his neck pull and pleat the soft fabric to envelop Bain’s frame. With a white crayon, he marked where the buttons should go.

  “You should have them by the end of September, depending upon customs in America,” the tailor said.

  “I may need them sooner,” Bain replied. “I’d like to receive them by the time I return home at the end of this month.”

  “You can get by in your pajamas for a few weeks,” Grace teased.

  Bain ignored her. Handing the man an additional twenty-pound note, he said, “Make sure they are there by August thirtieth.”

  In Paris, they strolled through the Jardin des Tuileries. The view was breathtaking, the majesty of the Louvre behind them and the grand esplanade opening before them. By a marble-edged pool, an elderly man in a beret and a striped shirt stood smoking. Beside him, his collection of wooden sailboats and pushing sticks was assembled neatly in a cart. Bain paid a franc to rent a red-painted one, and Grace marveled at how weightlessly the small craft floated across the water, leaving a ripple of wake behind it.

  Sprinkled throughout the garden were artists with portable easels, palettes of oils, and cans filled with paint-splattered brushes. Their canvases reflected the scenery: the pond with its colorful array of boats, a man scooping glace framboise out of a small ice cart, a child with a balloon, a lady on a bicycle. But one canvas in particular caught her eye. It was of two figures, a man with good posture in a light blue polo shirt and a young woman beside him in a lilac sundress and matching hat. She looked at the painter, a man about Bain’s age in black pants and a gray smock, and smiled. He’d captured them—Mr. and Mrs. Alcott—as they stood admiring the Parisian landscape.

  “Look at that canvas,” she whispered. “It’s us. We have to buy it.”

  “Is that what you’d like?” Bain asked.

  “Yes,” she replied, circling around him. She wanted to skip. “A memento of this glorious day, this wonderful honeymoon, a reminder that I am the luckiest woman in the world.” She stopped in front of him, leaned forward, and kissed him gently. “And it can be our first piece of art.”

  “You’re being generous to call it that. More like our first bad investment in something with no intrinsic value. Let’s hope it’s the only one of its kind that we ever make.” He squeezed her hand.

  With that, Bain approached the painter. They spoke briefly, the artist clearly struggling in broken English. A few francs exchanged hands, and the man removed the canvas from the easel, making gestures to handle it carefully since it was still wet.

  Bain presented it to Grace. “For you, my darling.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Believe me, he was quite thrilled.” Bain glanced back over his shoulder at the man, who was packing up his paints into a worn leather bag. “Let’s hope we never get to a place where I’m selling a day’s worth of work for less than twenty-five dollars.”

  “Don’t worry for a moment. I can live on love alone,” she added, playfully.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’m glad at least one of us can.”

  Their last evening abroad, they sat together at the Club del Doge sipping Campari and soda and staring out at the street lamps reflected in the black water of the canal.

  Grace had spent a good part of the afternoon packing, leaving each trunk and suitcase in its place by the door of their hotel room. The valet would come in the morning and bring everything down to the water taxi that had been ordered for eight. Bain hadn’t helped; he’d received a series of telegrams and withdrew to the business center to place overseas calls. He hadn’t mentioned the nature of his business, or why it was so pressing that it couldn’t wait for their return, but she knew it had to be important. He wouldn’t take time away from her unless it was. Maybe the editors at Life were offering him an opportunity. Maybe now that a full-scale war was under way, they were reconsidering their rejection. And so she comforted herself in his absence by folding his clothes and packing them between layers of tissue. Each shirt, each pair of boxer shorts, each belt, now had a distinct memory, an association. In the course of thirty days abroad, she felt as though she had learned everything about him.

  Bain ordered another round. The waiter returned with the drinks and handed Bain a leather folder with the bill discreetly tucked inside. In a few minutes, they would retire to their opulent room with its tasseled drapes and ornate furniture, but they were both tired and content to sit a while longer.

  The Gritti had been her favorite of all the hotels in which they’d stayed. She leaned back in her chair and fingered the strand of pearls around her neck. “Venice is as magical as I’d dreamed,” she murmured.

  Bain sat forward, as if startled by the sound of her voice. “I’ve good news to share.”

  “Of what?”

  “I’ve taken an analyst position at the Bank of Boston,” he announced. “I wired my acceptance today. That’s what all the time and fuss was this afternoon. But I wanted to make sure everything was lined up, the contract signed, so that I could surprise you tonight. I’ll start upon our return.” He reached for his wallet. “It’s a prestigious appointment and a lot of money.”

  “But . . . but what about . . . your writing?” She struggled to speak.

  “Grace, you and
I both know that was unrealistic. If I had any doubts, all I needed was this honeymoon to make certain. I’ve seen how happy you are, how you delight in nice hotel rooms and fancy restaurants. I want to be able to give that to you forever, to take care of you—you and the family I fully expect we’ll have, if we don’t have one started already.” He winked, no doubt referring to their disregard for birth control since their wedding. “And I want to do that now. We’re young, and it’s not responsible to rely simply on what our parents may give us, or on an inheritance we won’t see for years.” With that, he presented her with a small velvet box. A pair of diamond earrings sparkled from their padded liner.

  “They’re beautiful,” she said, shocked. “But you shouldn’t have. The last thing I need is a present. The trip, this time with you, you’ve spoiled me already.”

  “With the salary I’ve just been given, this was the least I could do,” he said, grinning.

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just . . . I . . . ,” she stammered. “I can’t bear that you gave up your dream for . . . . for . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

  He took her hand. “Sweet Grace, you must trust me. It’s not only about money. It’s about stability, building a foundation for us. It is for the best or I wouldn’t do it.” He lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. “Besides, the struggling-artist thing is seriously overrated.”

  She pretended to watch the movie offered in the first-class cabin of the American Airlines flight to Boston. It avoided conversation.

  She pulled the synthetic blanket up to her chin and stared at Sean Connery as 007 on the small screen. In her mind, she replayed all the conversations they’d had about his career. Beside her, Bain read The Economist and sipped a small glass of champagne.