Acquainted with the Night

by Lynne Sharon Schwartz

  “Oh, I forget. Except for the names it was a very ordinary dream, only I can’t seem to shake it. Do you know that feeling?”

  Her interest extinguished, Jean carried her plate and mug to the sink. Watching her, Vera received an abrupt flash of illumination: the name Brauer had something to do with the German word Frau, and “elemi” was a word she had often written in crossword puzzles. It meant a soft resin used in making varnish. Also, it was an auditory inversion of “Emily,” the name of a beautiful girl she had known at college and since lost track of. She sensed at once that these connections were true and ingenious, but finally irrelevant.

  Jean cast her mother a curious glance from the doorway. “You’re going to work today, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. It doesn’t matter if I’m late. Howard is away this week and nobody else cares.” She had worked in the advertising agency for seven years. When she needed to take six weeks off because of illness after her husband’s death, they had been very understanding. She noticed, though, that on her return, Howard, the boss, had watched her closely for signs of instability, of which there were none. Vera was recovered; it would not happen again.

  “I won’t be back till around seven,” Jean called from the hall. “I have the Dramatics Society.” Then she dashed back to the kitchen. “Do you think we’ll get a letter from Freddy today?”

  “I hope so.” Vera smiled at her. “Any day now.” Jean’s older brother, away for his first year in college, had mentioned possibly bringing a friend home over Easter, someone Jeanie might like, Freddy wrote, since he refused to do the vivisection experiment in zoology. Although boys were Jean’s preoccupation, few met her ethical standards.

  As the door finally clattered shut Vera realized that she had not even recalled Freddy’s existence this morning before Jean spoke of him. That had something to do with the dream about Brauer and Elemi, which hovered about her still like a pleasant, warm fog. All other mornings now, when she woke she mentally ticked off the names of her two children, like a miser whose hoard has been plundered counting over with melancholy the few coins remaining. She had begun it in the hospital, spurred by a chance remark of one of the nurses: “But you’re not all alone, Mrs. Leonard. Think of your children. You have a lot to live for.” Vera had smiled wanly as the nurse, round, Oriental, efficient, smoothed unruly wrinkles in the sheets with a firm hand. Trite as her counsel was, it had helped, Vera had to admit.

  Naming over her connections was not the only new habit to have taken hold since the painful weeks of her illness. With John gone, so many of her rooted personal customs had altered. (An “untimely” death, the minister had called it, and despite her suffering Vera almost grinned involuntarily: as a writer of copy she understood the lure of the ready-made phrase.) She no longer woke outrageously early on weekdays to start dinner simmering in the slow cooker; she could fix something simple for herself and Jean after work. She no longer tore the crossword puzzle out of the paper, or worried about underwear hanging in the bathroom for days or library books kept past their due date. She shopped in bits on the way home from work instead of massively on Saturdays. Magazines could be tossed out when she finished reading them, instead of accumulating in unsightly piles for John eventually to glance at. There was no need now to struggle with clothes packed tight in a narrow closet, or to feel hesitant about taking taxis home on rainy days, or talking at length to her older brother, long-distance. All winter Vera had slept in flannel granny nightgowns, heedless of appearance, and let ashtrays overflow while she smoked in bed to her heart’s content. In fact, as she often noticed guiltily, daily life was freer and easier without him. Yet she was lonely at night, and though she had tried she could not change the twenty-year habit of sleeping on one side of the bed, the right. If ever again she found herself in bed with a man, she thought in her more lighthearted moments, he had better approach her from the left or not at all.

  On the bus going to work Vera let her eyes close and lapsed into a waking daze. She saw Brauer and Elemi again, this time following an Hispanic building superintendent up the stairs to see a vacant apartment. It was spacious, with five good-sized rooms and large windows overlooking Central Park. The walls were dingy, but the super promised they would be freshly painted for the new tenants. Brauer and Elemi were holding hands as before, their faces glowing with joy. When they looked at each other they knew immediately, without words, that they would take it. Brauer spoke to the super and gave him some money. Outside they stopped at the corner to buy frankfurters and orange drinks at a stand. Walking across the park, they passed the pond where miniature sailboats glided in the brilliant sunlight, then discovered a trio of students—violin, cello, and clarinet—playing ethereal chamber music under a grove of trees. Brauer tossed some coins into the violin case and they walked on, holding hands, to the Frick museum, where they sat down in the indoor sculpture garden. Vera was so enchanted that when she opened her eyes—some part of her mind attuned to the duration of the ride—she had to hurry through the crowd to get off at her stop. Again she was struck by the realism of the dream. She would have been less surprised had the dreams been re-creations of her own experience: there had been a phase, just after John’s “untimely” death, when she brooded over episodes from their past. But she and John had not done any of the things that Brauer and Elemi did.

  There were meetings with clients all morning, then a festive staff lunch for one of the young copywriters, whose wife had had a baby. Through it all Vera was suffused with a calm, happy glow which made her think of Eastern philosophies of acceptance, feeling beyond desire, the flow of being. These were things her son, Freddy, home from college at Christmas, had talked about. Later, in the company library, Will Pratt, one of the head accountants, approached her, slapping her warmly on the back so that she quivered. “Hey, Vera, you’re certainly looking great today. I meant to tell you at lunch. What’s up?”

  “What do you mean? Nothing is up.”

  “Oh, come on. You don’t get that glow just from martinis at lunch. You must be seeing somebody.” He was gazing at her earnestly, with kindness beneath the brash grin, the nervous, swift dark eyes. She had known Will for years—he had been a help during the months of John’s dying, letting her cry in his office, bringing her cups of coffee, even fixing her slipshod account sheets without complaint—so she shouldn’t be alarmed by his bantering now. Nonetheless it made her eyelids twitch.

  “No, really. No one.”

  “No one? Then you’re a naturally beautiful woman. Lucky. Have a drink with me after work.” Will had been divorced for some time and prided himself on his bachelorhood. She might have gone out with him now, as a friend—he asked her often—had he not also asked her often when John was alive and well.

  “Thanks, Will, but I’m sorry. I’ve got to get home for Jean.”

  “Oh, Jean is no baby. What is it, Vera? Aren’t we friends? Can’t friends have a drink?” He came closer, frowning. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek, not unpleasant. When she kept silent his voice grew sharp and tight. “You’ve turned me down three times in a month. What the hell is suddenly wrong with me anyway, I’d like to know?”

  Vera stepped back in fright, holding a large slick magazine before her as a shield. “Nothing is wrong with you, Will. Of course we’re friends. It’s just that evenings, you know, I’m tired. And I worry about Jean—she’s lonely too. I’m sorry.” Not yet, she was screaming inside her head. Not yet. Not ever.

  Will was lighting a cigarette, his hands cupped around the match so a small glow was visible between his thick fingers, like a distant bonfire. He didn’t answer.

  Vera took another step back. A clasp had become unfastened; she felt the slow sliding of her hair down the back of her neck. In a moment it would be hanging loose. “Why don’t we have lunch tomorrow, Will? Or Monday?” Lunch seemed less perilous than drinks after work.

  “I’m generally tied up with business at lunch.” Will moved to the door. “But I’ll give you a buzz n
ext week, maybe. Take care.”

  Vera breathed deeply, as though she had barely escaped annihilation by a massive natural phenomenon, an avalanche. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders and the clasp fell to the floor, but Will was gone by then.

  On the bus that evening she closed her eyes as if in prayer and whispered, Brauer, Elemi. And they came. They were lying in bed under neatly arranged blankets, side by side, Brauer on the right and Elemi on his left. Vera waited, but they did not stir. They lay flat on their backs, holding hands, smiling and at peace. The peace that passeth understanding, Vera murmured, and wondered what she meant by that.

  They came often in the days and weeks that followed. Brauer and Elemi did not make love, but they were certainly in love. There was no mistaking their constant hand-holding, their long searching glances, the soft sensual haze that floated about them. They furnished their new apartment with colorful wall hangings, lush ferns, and big floor pillows, and lay on the shag rug listening to chamber music and jazz. Other evenings they danced the latest dances in discotheques or went to Charlie Chaplin movies, where they shared bags of popcorn, laughed, and sometimes cried. They went ice-skating in Central Park, skimming along arm in arm through clusters of slower, more awkward skaters. Elemi, who was small and slight, wore a crimson velvet skating skirt with beige tights, a white turtleneck sweater, and a crimson beret. Tied to the laces of each skate were two red fur balls which bounced as she moved. She was a delicate sight. Vera, who did not skate, wondered if it was too late to learn. One day Brauer and Elemi rode into the country on their new mopeds—red for her, blue for him—and picnicked in a field under an elm tree. They tore chunks off a long French bread and drank red wine, then lay back to rest in the sun, with Brauer’s head in Elemi’s lap. She stroked his hair.

  Vera was looking well, radiant, people told her, and she had stopped taking the sleeping pills altogether, which made Jean very happy. One of her women friends, less brash than Will, said Vera looked as though she were having a love affair. Vera shook her head and smiled, but inside she said, Yes, indeed I am.

  Freddy brought Thomas, the boy who had refused to do the vivisection experiment, home for the Easter vacation. He was an amiable boy with a soft voice and long straight hair tied in a rubber band. Vera was glad to have him as a guest, and glad also to see Freddy thriving: his only complaints were about the dormitory food and the fact that he had no car. “I’d like at least to get a moped, Mom.”

  “Mopeds are about four hundred dollars.”

  “I’ll get a part-time job and pay you back, I promise.”

  “I’ll think about it.” She hated to refuse him—he was a good boy, hardworking, not greedy, and she still remembered with emotion how he had hated to leave her so soon after his father’s death. It had been poignant, his young grief mingled with his eagerness to start college. Naturally Vera had urged him to go. It was only after he left that she became ill. But deserving as he was, she had to be careful with money: there were still some hospital bills, Jeanie wanted contact lenses, and in a year and a half she too would be going off to college. Vera shuddered at the thought of her daughter gone. But she would have to release her, and when the time came would do so bravely and cheerfully.

  Freddy was kinder to his sister since he had been away, and Jean, to impress Thomas, was agreeable and unselfish. Vera was thankful for the peace. If only John could see the children now. Enraged at their nasty quarrels, which had persisted for several years of shared adolescence, he often used to shout, “Don’t you two have any feeling for each other besides hate?” She had tried to placate him with assurances that it would pass. Had he lived, she could feel vindicated.

  In the evenings the four of them would linger at the table over coffee and have long, animated discussions. Freddy was not so much “into” Eastern philosophy anymore, he informed Vera. He was more into genetics, and he told of brilliant and daring experiments with DNA molecules. Thomas was into anarchy. After a while the young people would move to the living room and continue their talk sitting on the floor listening to records, while Vera finished cleaning up. They offered to help, but she said she didn’t mind, it relaxed her. Besides, she didn’t feel overburdened. Thomas liked to cook, and several evenings she found an excellent dinner all prepared: eggplant casserole, soybean ragout, salads with bean sprouts and alfalfa. When she inquired, he told her shyly that he was also into health foods. Vera was interested in those talks that continued in the living room, but she was hesitant about intruding, and so she went to her room. Often, sitting up in bed holding a forgotten book, she would lapse into visions of Brauer and Elemi traveling on foot through the jungles of South America. There were many dangers: disease, snakes, losing their way in the rough, unfamiliar terrain, but they were unafraid.

  Once she saw a man in a television commercial who looked remarkably like Brauer, with broad shoulders, sandy, lank hair, generous eyes, and a stubborn mouth that lost its stubbornness as soon as he smiled. Hot from tennis, the man was reaching for a glass of iced tea. Vera jumped out of bed to flick off the set before he could say a word. She clapped her hands over her ears, for sometimes a few dying words escaped after it was switched off.

  Jean was delighted to have Thomas around. Vera could tell by the brightness in her eyes and by her clothing, only the newest jeans and sweaters. But after the first four or five days the boys started to go out at night, leaving her at home. Jean sulked pathetically at the kitchen table, gnawing on a strand of hair.

  Vera dried her soapy hands and sat down. “Listen, they’re in college—they feel there’s a great gap. In a year or two Thomas may think you’re the most exciting person around.”

  “How can you be so idiotic as to think I care about that nerd,” Jean replied coldly. “It’s not him. It’s me.”

  “What do you mean, it’s you?”

  “There is not one single boy in the entire junior or senior class who interests me at the moment, or who is interested in me. It makes life extremely tedious. But you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I certainly do understand about being lonely,” said Vera. “Things will change.”

  Jean leaped up and shrieked, “You always say that but they never do! No one will ever like me and I’ll die a virgin! I’m ugly, who would ever want me!” She burst into tears and ran to her room, slamming the door. Vera followed. She sat near her on the bed and tried to take her hand, but Jean yanked it away.

  “A virgin, how absurd. At sixteen! You have your whole life ahead of you. Lots of men—boys—will want you. Anyway, you’re always telling me that women can have a full life without men, marriage is a trap, and so forth.”

  “I don’t want to get married,” Jean wailed. “I just want somebody to like me. I mean, look at this hair.” She pulled at it wretchedly. “It’s disgusting. Every girl in school has long blond hair. If they don’t have it they bleach it. I’m so ordinary.”

  “You could cut it,” Vera suggested. “Then you’d look different.”

  “Oh, you, you’re impossible. You don’t understand a thing. Would you please leave me alone in my room? I know you probably mean well, but I’d prefer to be alone.”

  “All right,” said Vera, shrugging her shoulders. “But I don’t think you’re ordinary.” She understood perfectly the dynamics of these scenes: in the morning Jean would once more brew her fine coffee, having forgotten everything. Vera had pity for her daughter, as well as tolerance for the sputtering fireworks of midadolescence. Still and all, it was terribly wearing, terribly debilitating. When she finished in the kitchen she sat down at the table, cradled her head in her arms, and closed her eyes. Brauer, Elemi, she murmured.

  Suddenly, she didn’t know how much time had passed, in the deep stillness of the apartment she thought she heard her name from far off. She didn’t stir. The next moment someone was shaking her by the shoulder.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Leonard? I’m sorry to wake you.”

  Baffled, she looked up at the thin, freckled face. Ah, of
course, it was Thomas, the boy staying with them for Easter. He was into anarchy and natural foods. “That’s all right, Thomas. I’m fine.”

  Brauer and Elemi had been sailing to Europe, where they planned to go backpacking through France and Italy. They had just returned from a tour of the ship’s kitchen and were deciding whether they wanted to play shuffleboard or simply laze in the sun. Meanwhile they stretched out on deck chairs and drank bouillon. The shock of the intrusion made the blood pound behind Vera’s eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you, but it’s so late. You’ll get a stiff neck sleeping like that.”

  She rose and rubbed her eyes with a tight fist. “Where’s Freddy?”

  “Freddy—uh—he gave me an extra set of keys.” He walked quickly away from her to the sink, turned on the water and filled a glass. “He was taking this girl home. She lived very far out. I don’t know how long ...”

  Vera could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he gulped the drink. “That’s quite all right, Thomas.” She smiled. “I don’t mean to pry. Turn out the lights, will you, when you’re finished. Good night.”

  Climbing into bed, she thought to herself, You’d better watch it, Vera, with your Brauer and Elemi.

  When the holidays were over and Freddy and Thomas returned to school, Jean acquired a boyfriend, a curly-haired, wildly energetic boy named Donald, who wore thick glasses too and was reputedly a mathematical genius. They spent long hours in her bedroom discussing intellectual and moral issues with the door open. Vera liked Donald, who often accosted her while waiting for Jean and elaborated complex mathematical theories.

  “Mrs. Leonard, did you know that if the fastest rocket ship devised by man were to race the earth in one complete orbit around the sun it would arrive two years later?”

  “Is that so?”

  She was lost in his fevered explanation of objects hurtling through space at frenetic rates of speed—he paced rapidly as he spoke, occasionally bumping into furniture—but impressed by his mental stamina. When he left she felt as though a whirlwind had passed through the apartment, and she sank down in a chair, murmuring, Brauer, Elemi.