We Could Be Beautiful

by Swan Huntley

  Susan and Henry dropped by with three dozen bonsai trees to give away to customers. “People aren’t going to want these,” I said. But Susan was right: people wanted anything that was free. Tourists found extra pockets in their backpacks. One guy put his in a baggie and hung it off his belt loop.

  The artists who were actually making a little money were upset, but most of them weren’t. Artists were used to curve balls. It was part of the gig. Bird dropped by to take some of her cards. She would sell them herself at an upcoming show. She said I was paying her so much for the mural that she couldn’t be mad. She assured me she had gotten keys and was working hard and yes, it would be done on time and not to worry.

  After that, I decided to send each of the artists a stack of their cards in thanks. That was the right thing to do. And it made me feel better. Swept up by the intense wave of my own do-goodery, I somehow decided that going to the post office myself, instead of asking someone else to do it, was a great idea. I hadn’t been to the post office in years, and I immediately remembered why. It was overcrowded, and everyone there was in a bad mood. A woman wheeled over my foot with her grocery-cart thing and didn’t even look back when I yelped. I stood there in line and checked my phone. Still no response from Mae Simon. Forty-five excruciating minutes later, when the package was finally out of my hands, I promised myself I would not return to a post office for a very long time.

  •

  The evening before he left for Europe, William and I took a stroll around the neighborhood with Herman. A girl in pigtails sat on the curb reading a comic book, a Lemonade sign resting against her knees. A woman with a shaved head and exceptionally strong shoulders pulled her spotted pit bull back when it leaped at Herman. “No, Tiffany,” she scolded. The dog ignored this and leaped again, barking madly. “Sorry,” she said to us.

  Herman, from behind William’s calves, squealed like a wimp. “Hermaaaan,” William cooed.

  “It’s okay,” I said to the strong woman, who was still there, her eyes like a kid’s, waiting for affirmation.

  Somewhere on Charles Street, where a man in a wool holiday sweater (why?) was kneeling on the ground, tying his shoe, William said, “You seem in good spirits.”

  “I know—it’s surprising. I expected to be devastated right now, but I feel okay.”

  “You’re thinking about the future.”

  “I am.”

  “About becoming my wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think that will entail?” We stopped. Herman was peeing. “How do you think your life will be different when you are Mrs. William Stockton?”

  “I will be officially yours then, and that makes me very happy.”

  “I feel the same.” He took my hand and we continued walking like that, hand in hand around the city. I remember thinking, Catherine, this is what you have always wanted, and now you have it. Pay attention. Be happy. But as usual, I was worried. There was always so much to be worried about.

  “I hope Mom will like you better by the wedding. She seems to be really holding on to this whole thing with the vase.”

  “Do you talk about me when you go there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Has she said anything?” His eyes were on Herman.

  “No, she just seems mad.”

  “About the vase.”

  “I guess so.”

  We walked through the arch at Washington Square Park and then around the fountain. It had been turned off for the day, but there was still water inside, and a curvy blond woman was standing there in a seashell-print bikini top and bright green basketball shorts, inspecting her belly button.

  “Our mothers got along, right?”

  “Yes, famously. They loved each other.”

  “Did you ever come back to visit us after you moved to Switzerland?”

  “Not that I can recall. My father often returned for business, but I was in school.”

  “In boarding school.”

  “Yes. Catherine?”

  “Yes?”

  “May I ask you why you have these questions now? We’ve already talked about our mothers. Has something sparked your interest? Something in particular?”

  “No.” I coughed, which I had a tendency to do when I was lying. “I’m just curious.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Well, I am of course happy to answer any questions you may have. Regarding anything. I am an open book.”

  “I know, I know, honey.” I wrapped my arm around him. We watched the voluptuous bather make her way up the steps, her basketball shorts stuck wet around her thighs. “I want to ask you something. Not for any reason. I’ve just been wondering. Have you ever cheated on any of your lovers in the past?”

  “No,” he said. “Monogamy is important to me. I value commitment. I would never step out on you. Have you ever cheated on your lovers?”

  “No. Well, okay, maybe once, but it was in high school. It doesn’t count.”

  “Sounds harmless,” William said.

  “It was.” I remembered the hot summer night that happened, and Ben’s braces scratchy on my tongue. The weather that night had been a lot like this: balmy and still, a cloudless sky.

  “I’m very sorry I’ll miss the dinner at the shop. It sounds like it will be quite lovely.”

  “I hope it’s not too stressful.”

  “You look wonderful this evening,” he said. “Have I told you that already?”

  “I think so.” I laughed. I wasn’t wearing anything special, just jeans and a blouse and black flats. “William?”

  “Darling?”

  “Do you believe in fate?”

  He put his hand on the small of my back. “I believe God has a plan for us all.”

  “So that means you don’t believe in coincidence?”

  “I suppose not. Coincidence is merely a form of superstition.”

  I imagined a black cat walking under a ladder because that’s what I always imagined when anyone said the word superstition. It was very limited of me, I know.

  “Did you look for me when you came back to New York?”

  “Look for you? Catherine.” He laughed. “I didn’t even know you existed.”

  “But you knew my mother was pregnant, right?”

  “I did, you’re right. I suppose I could have looked for you. But I would have had no way of knowing your name.”

  “You could have Googled it.” I laughed.

  “That’s true.” He put his hand on his head then, twirled his hair. “But West is a very common name.”

  “But you could have Googled Bruce and Elizabeth West.”

  “I suppose I could have. But I wasn’t bright enough to do that.”

  “I guess it was fate then.”

  “I guess it was.”

  On the way home we passed a young man on the street with a change bucket and a cardboard sign that said I’m an artist. That made us laugh. I gave the guy a hundred bucks. William said, “So much?” I said, “Yes, your parents were artists! You know how hard it is!” And then we laughed again. I remember thinking, The couple that laughs together stays together. I was always doing that. The couple that strolls together stays together. The couple that goes to restaurants together stays together. The couple that hangs art together stays together. If there was anything to hold on to, I was holding on to it very tightly.

  •

  In the morning I was the best fiancée in the world. I handed him an espresso and straightened his tie when he walked into the kitchen. Lucia said, “Good morning, Mr. Stockton. I dry-clean everything.”

  “Thank you, Lucia. And please, call me William,” he said for the eight hundredth time.

  “William,” Lucia said, though she pronounced it more like “Willem.” Sometimes I got the feeling there was a flirtation between them, more on Lucia’s side than William’s. Lucia showed an adoring deference to men in general, though. It had something to do with being raised in the extreme pat
riarchy of Mexico, where anyone with a penis was just one rung below God.

  “It’s going to be a great trip,” I told him.

  “Yes,” he said. He slid one long arm into his jacket, and Lucia darted over to help him with the other. “Thank you, Lucia.”

  The gorgeous Trish emerged at the top of the stairs, ready to take Herman for his morning walk. How did she look so gorgeous at seven o’clock in the morning?

  “Let me say good-bye to my little guy,” William said. They had a long good-bye—long enough for Trish to check her watch and me to offer her an espresso, which she politely declined. Why did William let Herman lick his face like that? And why, when he kissed me a minute later, did I not object?

  I did not object for the same reason I had gotten up early to make his espresso, and the same reason I had brushed my hair and applied concealer around my eyes: I needed William. I had always needed him, but now I really needed him. The money hadn’t run out yet, and now I would get back what I’d put into the shop. But one day the money would run out, and all I would have would be him. I couldn’t have articulated any of this at the time. What I thought at the time was, I am being a very good partner this morning. I love this man, I love this man, I love this man.

  “I love you,” I told him.

  “I love you, too.”

  We all walked down the stairs together. Lucia said, “I bring your suitcase, Willem,” and William said, “No, no, I’ll take it, thank you.” Trish and Herman walked off down the street, the driver took William’s suitcase from Lucia, William and I kissed again. Then it was Lucia and me at the door, waving at the black Escalade as it disappeared around the corner.

  “Very nice man,” Lucia said, walking back up the stairs. She stopped to rub a spot on the banister.

  “You really like him.”

  “He give me Christmas bonus. And we in summer!”

  “He gave you money? How much?”

  She widened her eyes. “Five hundred dollars.”

  My honest thought: That’s not much; I’ll have to give her more at Christmas. “Wow, that was very generous of him.”

  “Yes, muy generoso.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t tell me.”

  “He said you no need to know.”

  “He said I didn’t need to know?”

  “Yes. He, uh, very humilde.” Lucia nervously scratched her armpit. Maybe she realized then that she shouldn’t have told me.

  “What?”

  “Humilde. With H.”

  “Humble.”

  “Humble,” Lucia repeated. “One day I speak English perfect.”

  “Perfectly,” I said.

  “Perfect-lee.”

  •

  His closet belonged in an advertisement for a closet: perfectly organized, all the things in it spaced perfectly apart. Suits, suits, suits. A bureau of undershirts and casual wear, all folded into orderly stacks. There was nothing tucked beneath the socks. Nothing in the pockets of the suits. Above and below, boxes of shoes. Below were the shoes he actually wore. Above were the ones he never did.

  In the hall closet were his suitcases, more shoes, more suits.

  On his desk, a stack of work papers. Contracts, contracts, boring, boring. Inside the desk was nothing interesting. Blank legal pads, a too-neat row of untouched pens, a stapler still in its box. The bottom drawer contained more work papers, a few gallery catalogs, a pair of Cartier sunglasses, two orange golf balls, and an X-Acto knife.

  He’d added his books to the shelves: a bunch of coffee-table art books, a few boring investment books, Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet. I flipped to the part about the two cypress trees growing together but not in each other’s shadow. Maybe I hoped to find it underlined. It was not. And actually, the book looked like it had never been opened. Maybe a gift. There was no inscription.

  I sat back in William’s ergonomically correct chair. It was made of a light mesh material, with a protruding headrest like a dentist’s chair. The big wooden desk made me feel important. I imagined William feeling important as he sat here, in this gorgeous den, working at this desk. Did he ever turn on the TV? To watch golf, maybe, while he worked late at night?

  I looked out the window. There was the trunk of my tree. There was a woman carrying a pie who said, in a deep baritone voice, “I know exactly how you feel.” Was she on the phone or talking to herself? A cab drove by. I moved the mouse. The computer screen lit up. “William,” it said. He’d chosen the icon of a hang glider. I couldn’t get further than that. I didn’t know the password. I tried his birthday. No. I tried my birthday. No. Our engagement date. Our wedding date. I tried random words. Geneva. Switzerland. Ilovebanking. No no no.

  I opened the cigar box at the edge of the desk, picturing myself smelling one of the cigars and putting it back. But inside there were no cigars. There were pictures. Old pictures, in different sizes. The first one was very small, the size of my palm. Little blond William in a sailor suit. He was so cute. On the back, someone (his mother?) had written, “William, age 2.”

  “William, age 16,” the next one said. Here William was onstage, playing the violin. He looked passionate and lanky. His shirt unbuttoned. His long hair was matted to his forehead. The photo had been taken from below the stage, by someone in the audience who was sitting very close to the front. That told me something: involved parents.

  The next picture was of William and his parents on the boardwalk at Coney Island, the roller coaster in the background like a faint etching, the sky bleached. His father towered over his mother by a good two feet, looking stern. They were all overdressed. Not beach clothes but church clothes. His mother wore a blue felt hat with a feather in it and a green suit. William, who must have been around five or six (the back said nothing), stood in the center, wearing a suit just like his father’s, holding his prize in a limp hand at his side: a goldfish in a plastic bag.

  “William, age 14.” A school picture. He wore a blazer with an emblem at the breast. The words were too small to make out. I assumed this was from boarding school. He looked like his gorgeous self, but thinner, his cheeks hollowed out. His eyes were the same: deep blue and very focused.

  The back of the next photo said, “William, Michelle, Pierre, Edward, and me, Catskills.” A black-and-white, no one smiling except for young William, who appeared to be seven, maybe eight years old. He kneeled between Edward and Donna, hugging a dog—one of Pierre’s, no doubt. And in the background, art, of course, but it was tacked to the wall, not framed. This must have been Pierre’s studio. Pierre was grizzly and unshaven and smoking a cigarette. He was also notably older than Michelle, who had her arm around his waist. Michelle looked familiar to me. Her thick-framed rectangular glasses…Michelle, Michelle. And then I got it. Michelle Bellario, the sculptress. Famous for her sculptures of pillows. Michelle was one of those people I saw all the time at openings but didn’t really know. She still wore those glasses—the exact same style. Her calling card. Smart. I did remember that Pierre had a girlfriend named Michelle, but I hadn’t realized until now that it was this Michelle. And she’d been friendly with the Stocktons? Had she known my family, too? She must have. The art world. It was so, so small.

  The last picture was of William lying next to his mother. It was more recent: 1996. He appeared to be dozing off. Her long arm was draped over his shoulder. They weren’t posing; it was a candid shot. His mother wore a white tunic and sunglasses on top of her head, her hair in a loose bun. William also wore white. Their white shirts and the bright, bare glow of the sun gave the impression of Africa, or the Mediterranean. Her skin was the exact color of a Starbucks Caramel Frappuccino. She had long, sloping features, and her face was like the mold of a face set in clay and left to drip: nose stretched and thin, downturned mouth, the wide, sad eyes of a basset hound, drooping at the corners. Just as he had said, they looked nothing alike.

  That was it—the box was empty. I put the photos side by side on the desk, and I began to string a story together. William had had
a happy, well-groomed childhood. His dad had been a total asshole. I was sure that that fish had died three days after that photo was taken, or had lived an incredibly long time, as goldfish won at carnivals tend to do, or so people claim. He had been very good at the violin if they’d let him play a solo. This suggested greatness, which his asshole father demanded of him at every turn. He had excelled academically. He was the best in the class. He was the valedictorian, or the runner-up. He did this both to spite his father and to please him. His teenage years had not been miserable, or at least not outwardly. No acne, no braces. And he and his mother were obviously very, very close.

  I hadn’t known what I was looking for when I started looking through his things that morning, but when I found these pictures, I understood. I had been looking for a way in: something to make me feel like I knew William beyond the surface of what he presented. I reminded myself it wasn’t William’s fault that he was a private person. That was his nature. I would not try to change him. I would respect his need for privacy. Also, even if he had described these moments to me, he wouldn’t have fully been able to. The deficiency of language—words could never fully capture a moment. Maybe images couldn’t fully capture moments either, but they certainly helped. I now had a sense of his past. The photos filled in the blanks. They provided a picture of William’s innocence. William, the innocent boy. William, the innocent teenager. William, the innocent man. I would hold on to this for a long time.

  23

  Sunday morning I skipped church, despite what William had said: “It would be nice for you to go and keep Marge company.” I didn’t like church enough to go there alone. I worked out with Chris and went to the shop instead. Maybe I should have canceled my massage—we had only a few days left at the shop, I should be there all the time—but Chris assured me I would need it after the workout we’d had, and also I was stressed. (Was I ever not stressed? Was anyone?)

  At three I opened the door, expecting Dan, but there was Max, holding his violin.

  “Hi Mrs. West.” He shifted the case from one hand to the other as though it weighed a thousand pounds.