by Belva Plain
It was not hard to imagine what else he was telling her. And Adam, eating their dinner with these decent, kindly people, felt suddenly like a thief, or at least an interloper, here under false pretenses. Until last week, they had not been false, but now as he looked across the table at Doris’s bland, pretty face, he knew they were.
“Everybody missed you at the anniversary party,” Mr. Buckley said. “You’ve made a hit with the family. They all asked for you.”
Ineptly, Adam had to reply that he was sorry he hadn’t been able to get there. And all through the rest of the meal, his thoughts raced; even while he joined in the general conversation, he was wondering whether he ought to move to a place where he wouldn’t be seeing them all every day as he came and went, to a place where, gradually, the relationship would die a natural death. Then, when he looked across the table at Doris, he could not believe what was happening to him.
“You’re getting absentminded,” Reilly told him the next day. “You forgot to call New York about those evening slippers I ordered, and you forgot to put in an order for the French Christmas chocolates. Cace Clothiers has them every year, you know.”
Because the vacation was too short to warrant the long trip, Emma was not coming home for Thanksgiving, and Sabine would be going to her instead. They would have a nice few days in Boston, where Emma had friends and Aunt Sabine could shop on Newbury Street.
Friends, Adam thought. So then there must be a man there, or Mrs. R. would not be going; she wants to meet the man and look him over—although perhaps she already knows him, and they are making arrangements.
What is happening to me? I can’t stop thinking about her. And the memories went flickering through his mind: the delight in her laugh, her grace as she crossed the grass, and even the way she had picked up and carried that little white dog.
Haste and uncertainty were in the air. Time rushed by. There was too much happening, or on the verge of happening, for the nation and for Adam Arnring as well. The Lusitania had been sunk last spring; the President was campaigning on the slogan “He Kept Us Out of War,” while many citizens were predicting that the war would soon be our war, too. And Adam’s private life was just as confused.
Friendly letters from Emma kept arriving, and he kept answering them. She wrote about her musical education classes, sometimes quite seriously and sometimes comically, about a cute little boy who was all thumbs. Adam replied that he personally wasn’t even good enough to move his thumbs. She wrote about the very interesting newspaper article that Aunt Sabine had sent, and was it true that the deal between Cace Clothiers and “our store” was really going to happen? Theo Brown was very optimistic. Adam answered that Theo Brown had been saying the same to him, and that you could depend upon Theo as you depend upon the rising sun.
But what do these letters back and forth have to do with us? he asked himself, while at the same instant rebuking himself for being an utter fool. She was little more than an acquaintance! So why couldn’t he get her out of his mind? Was he obsessed?
“You seem so nervous,” Doris said. “Is it because of that stuff in the paper about a merger with Cace Clothiers?”
“Well, if there’s a chance I might lose my job, that’s something to be a little nervous about. Cace has its own people they’ll want to keep, so one never can tell what will happen.”
Although there was no chance at all of his dismissal, according to Theo Brown, who ought to know, it was not a bad idea to let Doris think there was, and so start looking for a more dependable man.
But she was confident, and very kind. “If it should happen, which I doubt, you’ll get another job. Easily, Adam.”
So here was another worry, loaded with guilt, even though he had never told her that he loved her or wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. That didn’t seem to make a difference to women and their relatives.
Then there were the letters from home. In one delivery there was a batch of bad news, good news, and very good news.
Very good was news from Jonathan.
. . . and, Adam, you cannot believe how lovely Blanche is. There’s so much I could tell you about her if I had any talent with words. It’s easy enough to describe, as I have done, a piquant face—isn’t that a great word?—and short, dark curls, but how to describe a spirit? You will have to see for yourself and then you’ll understand what I mean. She speaks so well that nobody would guess she’s such a recent immigrant. She’s much too talented to be working for Berman the tailor. She could be a really great dressmaker, I think. She makes her own clothes and looks so perfect that even Pa makes comments about it. We are so in love! What else can I say? I’ve been taking a few short weekends as often as possible so I can find a little time to be with her. We plan to be married when I graduate from here. She will get a better job wherever I may end up in medical school. I’ll work in the lab some nights, and with the help that you so generously give and for which I am so thankful, we’ll do all right.
I wish you could come home sometime soon. But I know the trip is terribly expensive, and your job is very demanding. When we have our wedding, though, you’ll have to come.
Bad was a long postscript in an otherwise loving note from Pa.
The doctor tells me my heart is not beating right. I have to take it easier, he says. But you know that’s hard to do in my business. Anyway, I don’t want to do it. What else would I do with my life? I like being in the store, where I know all the customers. I grow old with them. I want to die with my shoes on. Not yet, though. I’m fifty-eight, that’s pretty old, but I have cousins in the old country older than that. They don’t write often, but they’re still around working. Leo works all right, but hardly ever talks to me unless he’s feeling nasty. He goes upstairs and reads his books. He never did much in school, you remember, so I don’t understand why he reads now. But it’s none of my business. Let him read. I would like so much to see you soon. Maybe you will visit. But I know you are busy.
Love, Pa
Bad again was another letter from Jonathan.
I hate to put sad words on paper. I imagine your face and the gloom you will feel, but still I think you should know that Leo is giving Pa an awfully hard time right now.
Did you know that for years he has had an ongoing crush on Bobby Nishikawa’s sister? I never knew, and neither did Pa. But now it seems that he has gotten very serious, and that she doesn’t want him. They had a terrible argument, and he was a wreck when he came home with Bobby, who was trying to soothe him. Leo swears he will never again go near the Nishikawas’ house, won’t even walk on that street. You know how he is. One nice thing is that Bobby says he will still be Leo’s friend—the only friend Leo’s ever had. It seems that the girl’s family didn’t want her to get too involved with Leo. But then, Pa didn’t like the idea, either. Of course, it’s the racial thing on both sides, but in Leo’s case, it’s more. They wouldn’t want him even if he were Japanese, and he knows it. The poor fellow has never had a girl, any girl, to love or be loved by. I feel so terribly sorry for him, as I know you do. He is so frustrated. People don’t give him a chance. They retreat from him, they pass him by as you ignore a stranger who keeps smiling at you on a streetcar. You feel that there’s something wrong, and you shrink away. I must admit that if I were not Leo’s brother, I might do the same. And yet I grow awfully impatient sometimes. I feel like shaking him when he’s sarcastic, especially with Pa, who is growing old too fast and, though he tries not to show it, is still in mourning.
Such letters cast a pall over Adam’s spirits. Fortunately in Adam’s case, this last letter was shortly afterward followed by a cheering word from Theo Brown that the merger, at Mrs. R.’s request, was now in the hands of Spencer Lawrence, who had started negotiations with Cace’s lawyers. It looked, Brown said, like a settled agreement. Mrs. R. had become quite enthusiastic about it and, he had added, she would be “richer than Croesus.” He had added that of course Adam need have no worry at all about his job.
On the v
ery same day, there was a package in Adam’s mailbox, containing a book of poems by Robert Frost, along with a note.
Dear Adam,
I bought this book for myself and loved it. Then I bought another copy for you because I believe you would agree with me. If you already have it, you can give this away to somebody like yourself who’ll understand how smart and sad and funny and wise and loving these poems are. Best wishes,
Emma
P.S. I will be home for three weeks on midwinter vacation through New Year’s.
Chapter 11
You’re mighty hungry, aren’t you?” Rea said. “There’s enough here for two.” Rea winked.
Emma wore a bicycle skirt and a new puffed-sleeve blouse printed with red poppies. In the basket were chicken sandwiches, homemade doughnuts, and a thermos full of coffee.
Sabine poked her head into the kitchen. “Five days in a row!” she exclaimed. “I don’t know that it’s so smart to go pedaling by yourself way out on those lonely roads.”
“Oh, Aunt, you’re such a worrier! I go straight through Three Corners village, and I’ve already made a friend who rides her bicycle with me. She teaches school, and we ride together. It’s fun. She’s a lovely person.”
“Well, all right, but do be careful.”
“I will.”
On the next street over, almost hidden beneath a spreading sycamore, Adam waited with his bicycle. He was too far off for Emma to see his face, but she did not need to see it; she knew it as well as she knew his tenderness and his strength, as well as she knew his words, his touch, and his kiss. Even his silences spoke to her.
People would say that we do not know each other well enough, she thought. But I remember that time we came back from Europe, when I wanted, oh, I wanted so much to see him again! I was not yet in love, but I knew that someday I would be. I knew, and I know now. How can I put this into words? Even the most sublime writers have not been able to do it.
Now, catching sight of her, he rode to meet her, leaned across the two sets of wheels, and kissed her on the lips.
“Last day,” he said. “Back to work tomorrow morning.”
“That’s horrible. I have a whole week more. When do you get another vacation?”
“A week next summer. Two weeks a year.”
“That’s horrible, too. How will it be for you if this merger goes through?”
“That depends on the position I get. The higher you climb, the more free time you get. Also, the farther you fall, as they say.”
“Stop joking. Do you think the deal will go through?”
“It looks that way, according to the lawyers and accountants. But tell me what’s doing with your friend ‘Susan’ today.”
“At the present moment, Susan and I are riding through the prairie out as far as the ridge, where it gets too steep to ride. Then we’ll go back fifteen miles, turn toward the river, rest on logs, and eat. Rea made doughnuts. She’s a darling.” Emma laughed. “She knows all about ‘Susan.’ ”
“I worry,” Adam said. “I don’t like these lies.”
“But what else can we do? Anyway, let’s not talk about it now. The day is too beautiful.”
So it was. The warmth, unusual in late December, seemed to be releasing into the air the fragrance of pine. Riding beneath peaceful white clouds, they passed fallow fields, winter rye, grazing cattle, and dense groves of trees that stood like islands on the level land.
Adam broke a silence. “We’ve had one full week, plus ten evenings pretending you were at the movies, either alone or with that Susan you’ve invented. And now you’re leaving.”
“There’s the telephone. There are letters and thoughts, always thoughts. We’ll still be together. You worry too much.”
“I know. I can’t help it.”
“Yes, you can. Come on. Let’s race these bikes for a couple of miles, shall we? Then back to the river.”
On the blanket that Adam had brought, they lay in the sun. Even through the thicknesses of layered clothing, she felt his heartbeat, as his lips pressed hers. More, she thought, there needs to be more. Not only more time, a thousand nights of it, but deeper.
“I can’t,” he said, and moved away, letting her go. “There’s only so much a man can stand.”
“I won’t say no to anything you want,” she murmured.
“No, no, I won’t do that to you.”
“Why? Who would ever find out?”
“Emma! You are innocent after all, aren’t you? What if you—if you were to have a child, and—”
“We would get married. Isn’t that what usually happens?”
Then as she heard herself flirting and teasing, but actually trying to divine his intentions while not fooling him for a second, she was ashamed, and changed her tone.
“Since I have no idea whether marriage is in your plans, and really don’t care, I’ll promise to divorce you after the child is born.”
He joked back. “That’s no way to get married, a pregnant bride in a white veil—”
When he stopped, she was moved by the sudden sadness that came upon him. Then, remembering what he had told her about himself, she laid her hand upon his and spoke softly.
“You’re thinking about your mother. I understand. Do you think of her often?”
“Not often.”
“You must have pictures of her.”
“Only one, a snapshot, and not a very good one.”
Now something was leading her to tell him things about herself that nobody except Sabine could know.
“That’s more than I have,” she said. “You see . . . you ought to know . . . I’m not Sabine’s niece. I’m adopted.”
For a moment, while his kind eyes examined hers, he did not speak. Then he said, “Try to remember that your mother loved you enough to see that you went to people who would care for you.”
The hard knot that sometimes rose—oh, very rarely, because she would not allow it to—now constricted Emma’s throat. And the voice that came out of her throat did not sound very much like her own.
“I don’t think my mother could have loved me very much. I was a foundling, dumped on the steps of a church in New York, without a name, without a note, without anything.”
Now it was Adam who reached for her hand. And she continued, “You are the only person I’ve ever told this to. What’s the use? It’s only food for gossip, a good story for people to pass around. Who was my mother? A terrified girl from a strict family, or a prostitute? Who was my father? God knows. I used to walk on strange streets, see faces, and wonder: Is she the one? Is he? Especially if the person had hair the color of mine. I have felt so sorry for myself, you can’t imagine. But long ago I decided that this was sick, not worthy of myself. I am me, and it doesn’t matter at all who they were.
“So you see why I owe so much to Sabine. She read about the abandoned baby, and she took me in. She treats me like a princess. It’s absurd. The more she can buy for me, the better she feels about herself. Money is everything to her because she can’t forget the time when she had none. So she wants me to marry somebody rich and distinguished, somebody powerful, who will never lose his way.”
“Have you ever met any man like that?”
“Yes. There are families you meet in college, the kind who donate a building that has their name on it. Yes, I have met them.”
When he did not speak, she understood his thoughts: that as far as Sabine was concerned, he was nobody, and he had nothing. Nothing, she thought, except that he loves me. And he also has a tremendous powerful pride that will never bend.
The mood of the day had changed, and it was time to leave. As the sun moved westward, the light dimmed with it, and by the time they were again back in the town, it was chilled with a deep, gray dusk.
There was a pain in his heart, although hearts are not supposed to hurt. Every day they go about their steady beat, and people don’t think about them . . . until one day you feel a pain there. Standing before the mirror, Adam gazed at himself.
I feel weak, as if my legs don’t want to move. I have never felt weak like this in all my life. Emma fills me and drives me.
He walked to the window and looked into the night, as if there in the rising wind he might find an answer. Old Mrs. R. had all the common sense on her side. What had he to give to Emma, she with her beauty and talent, her degrees and her future success? To say nothing of the Rothirsch money, which he would never, so help him, never accept?
For a long time he stood there, while a surge of emotions heated his face: feelings of pride, of anger, and also of shame. Hiding himself on the street behind that house so that Mrs. Rothirsch would not see him skulking like a common thief! And worst of all, lying, lying to that fierce old woman as if he were afraid of her!
Then suddenly he knew what he must do. Out of his closet, he took his best suit, put on a white shirt and a fine striped tie. He would present himself as a gentleman, “upper class,” as Mrs. Rothirsch would say. There was no time to get the Tin Lizzie out of the garage down the street, so he walked and, energized now, walked faster and faster toward the boulevard, up the hill to the great, grim place that looked like the witch’s house in the fairy tale. He rang the doorbell.
“They’ve just finished dinner,” Rudy told him, looking surprised. “Does the missus expect you?”
“No.” Then it seemed to him as he followed Rudy that he had not even decided what he was going to say. Emotions, all kinds of emotions, had simply overwhelmed him, and here he was, confronting both Mrs. R. and Emma, who, having heard voices, had come to see what was happening.
Mrs. R.’s frown darkened her broad face as her voice boomed.
“What is it? What happened? Is the store on fire?”
“Nothing’s happened. No troubles. I only—it’s only that there are some things I wanted to talk about,” he faltered, looking not at her, but at Emma’s great, startled eyes.