Her view was that in a friendship it is possible to enjoy the company and the support of a friend without constantly watching out for the emotional temperature of the other; therefore, it is less demanding and less vulnerable than marriage is. Perhaps the reason is, at least partly, the shared gender; those of the same sex tend to think more alike and there is less need to grind down the rough edges. The emotional differences are fewer and since there are no sexual excitements, no turbulent emotions, and no unrealistic expectations, the relationship in a friendship is calm and comfortable. With men, especially with Clyde, she felt as if she walked on a road paved with fragile eggs, or with land mines.
For the rejuvenation crusade to rescue Adrienne’s powder room Lena chose dark pants, a white silk blouse and a cashmere sweater, the color her mother used to describe as “the tired pink of fading rose petals”. It went well with her chestnut hair and dark eyes. She applied the makeup carefully in order to appear most natural, and arranged her hair into a windblown look that looked best on her.
While being busy with her appearance she was still thinking about the conversation with Clyde. Strange as it is, nobody knows himself all the way to the core, she thought, and people see us only through their personal biases. Although a person is always true to himself, the strange prism of bias through which he is observed distorts his real character. This explains the illogical phenomena when thoroughly wicked people enjoy the admiration by some, while others with saintly disposition may be bedeviled. The viewed person does not change, but each viewer perceives him differently according to his personal emotions and preconceptions.
The miracle is that at times it is possible to meet someone, who manages to see us as the person we really are. This happens usually when the other is not emotionally blinded, as he would be in a love relationship. Getting the feedback about ourselves from such a person provides a deeper self-knowledge, and a heightened sense of self-esteem, she thought. And this too is an important element of friendship.
Yes, that was it.
For a moment she wanted to share this with Clyde, but then decided against it. He would certainly find fault with the logic of it, or worse, ridicule it. The modus operandi was that if she called something white, he would promptly explain that it is really black. Of course, if she called something black it was inevitably white. He was officially admired for his critical mind, but privately he was often singularly irritating. Perhaps, as he remarked often enough, she was an incorrigible romantic, dangerously close to being sentimental. His teasing was never malicious, but it did carry a note of lofty superiority that grated on her. He often talked to her as if she were a child, and not a very bright one at that.
Just the other week he was talking about the Christmas letters, which Lena happened to enjoy. He could not see the point, but assured her that he understood perfectly what these letters mean to her and then destroyed the gift of understanding by adding that the chain letters give the perfect occasion to tell the world how many fabulous places they have visited, how many wonderful things they have done, how happy and successful their children are, how much they achieved during the past year, and so on. The secret motive is to make the world realize how wonderful they are, and of course, if others would feel a bit envious while reading about these unmatched and unmatchable felicities, well, that is part of the holiday joy. He then asked her with an condescending smile, whether she thought this was what was friendship, and most of all did she believe that this was done in the true spirit of Christmas?
She was vexed at his reference to the spirit of Christmas, as he had absolutely no religious inclinations and had no idea what that spirit is all about. In a continued argument she would have pointed this out and she could not irritating, meant by have kept out a certain sharpness. That would not do. The best way is always to smile and deftly change the subject, even at the cost of insincerity. As she snapped on her wristwatch she moved toward him and gave a wifely hug.
“Will you be home for supper?” she asked.
“You bet. But will you?”
“You know I will. Deciding how to spruce up Adrienne’s powder room should not take very long. It is a very small room, and I suspect she already knows what she wants to do with it. So long, darling.”
He stepped into the waiting limousine and it disappeared to the left; Lena in her sports car drove off to the right. She glanced in the rearview mirror but his car was no longer visible. Like our marriage, she thought bitterly. In the greatest harmony we are heading off in two different directions.
THREE
Adrienne was greeting her with the usual exuberant joy and with the promise of complicated and exotic foods later on. “I won’t let you leave for quite some time, so get ready for a good talk. I also want to discuss with you the programs offered by our fair town for the winter season, because oh boy, they do present an irresistible fare! We shall have a hard time choosing those that we absolutely cannot miss. I hope you know that the powder room was just an excuse.”
Adrienne guided her visitor to a small corner room on the east side of the house. Windows on two sides admitted whatever spare light the winter sun could offer. The upholstery on the comfortable furniture was softly sensuous and cheerful with summer colors. A vase on a side table held masses of white lilacs, scenting the room and hinting at spring. Hothouse flowers would not have much fragrance, thought Lena; these must have been flown in from somewhere where people on this day are not shivering with cold. Putting these in the powder room would be more than enough to spruce it up. Anybody spending time in there would feel pampered in luxury, while sinfully expensive imported flowers were keeping fragrant company.
After careful consideration they decided what concerts and lectures to attend and also discussed whose holiday party was the best, or the most boring so far, and what to wear for the New Year celebration.
After an early lunch, the maid cleared the table. Well-fed and content, the attack on the powder room lost its importance and they settled comfortably in Adrienne’s study. It was another cozy place, situated on the southwestern side of the mansion. Adrienne was a sun worshipper and she was very careful when she was searching for a house. The rooms had to be so arranged that as the sun progressed in the sky from east to west, she could follow it in the various rooms of the huge mansion. All day long she could always find a sun-flooded room somewhere in her house, provided the weather did not spoil the arrangement. “I am the daughter of the Eternal and Infinite Light” she used to tease, but there was always a breath of seriousness over her flippancy. “I need light, otherwise I would perish.”
Both friends were convinced that for a room to work, it must feel good to the touch and to the body, pleasing to the eyes, and it must offer a sense of warmth and security. This room possessed all these virtues. The chairs were invitingly roomy; it was a pleasure to touch the earth colored, velvety upholstery; the bookshelves loaded with books were welcoming. The winter sun, now halfhidden behind tattered clouds, could not compete with the warmth of the fireplace, but even in its fading weakness it was better than having the icy rain, predicted by the weathermen.
It was now the time to talk of more personal issues. “How is life treating you, lovely Ophelia of the poetic soul?” Adrienne asked.
“Not treating me all that well, if you really want to know. Success is as carefully avoiding me as if I had the bubonic plague. By the way, I haven’t tried poetry since I was sixteen, in love for the first time, and therefore deeply fascinated by death. You have no idea about the exquisite pain I thought I felt at the time! To die gracefully, pale and melancholy, surrounded by flowers and ethereal music—what more could a young girl wish for herself? Young Werther’s sorrows paled next to mine. I could have taught Goethe a thing or two. When I sobered, I burned my poetic output in deep shame, never to attempt it again. However, I am not particularly successful with prose either, but by now I am settling comfortably into my misery. My short story was rejected by the jurors of the contest.” Lena could not
tell Clyde about the contest, but Adrienne knew all about it although she never read it.
“What a disappointment! I can’t believe that your writing had gone unnoticed! Even your shopping list is fascinating. Did you bring it along? I mean the story, not the list.”
“As a matter of fact, I have. Now that the deed is done, I am ready to share it with you. For some deeply buried reason that could make a psychoanalyst rich, I keep lugging this burden with me, just like some people carry their sins, their troubles, or the murderer his killing hatchet.”
“Would you let me read it? Actually, it would be better if you read it to me, I think an author knows best what she wants to convey.”
“I hope the meaning is in the words, not in the inflection of my voice.” She glanced through the window at the bare trees bending in the wind and added an afterthought, “December is almost gone and we did not get any snow yet.”
“Isn’t it funny, how we all wish snow for Christmas? What does it have to do with the holiday? There was definitely no snow in Bethlehem. What is more, the average temperature at that time was higher globally than at the present. Palm trees would be more in style during the holidays if we want to stay relevant, but we all want snow.”
“And get the predicted ice-rain instead.”
“Let us not get unduly depressed. Go ahead and read.”
Lena sighed. Since she received the rejection she reread her story several times, and the more she read it the more convinced she was that the jurors were right and her writing was poor. A few weeks ago she would have been delighted if many would have read it; now she was uncomfortable sharing it with her best friend. Nevertheless, she began reading, although somewhat reluctantly.
OCTOBER REFLECTIONS. The last days of October were unusually mild. The warmth of the late sun filtered into my dark place, and with it came the old excitement for adventure. To be specific: Halloween, the only chance granted to us for an excursion to the world of the living, was coming. The sudden desire to visit the upper world was inconsistent with my experiences of the rare visits during the centuries past, when I saw little in the world to gladden my heart. I was always happy to return to the tranquility of my still grave.
Those Celtic gods, who agreed about these yearly trips, were divinely wise. They knew in advance that a few hours in the upper world would be a strain on us, and that it would take a year to recuperate from the experience. Once a year would be more than enough, they concurred, and they were right. When the rooster signals, I always feel gratitude for the peace in my unmarked grave at the fork where the two forest roads meet. Who needs all that rush, all that excitement, the endless sensual occupation with food, sex, beauty, pain, yearnings, and the sick craving for success? No, thank you. Give me my grave, its stillness and the dreams, which amuse, but never happen. I feel at peace there in the uncomplicated finality the grave offers.
Yet at the end, I too rose from my grave, just like all the other spirits do on that day, but I knew almost immediately that it was a mistake. The aggressively dizzy rush of the living, the poison of noise, pollution, the dissonance, the futility of it all was more than what I bargained for. As always, the familiar pain of memories rushed at me. A serene soft blanket of oblivion envelops me in the grave, but in this upper realm I forget nothing.
I floated my ghost among the branches of a tree at the town square. The place below me was neatly packed with these impersonal, metal boxes, which whip people from one place to another, and then kill them with amazing efficiency. Apparently, they also serve another purpose. A curiously dressed young couple came to one of these contraptions. He had tattoos on his arms, rings in his ears; she was apparently insensible to the evening’s cold, and exposed a bare midriff. Her body was pierced at such odd places that I had to wince. Her nose, navel and tongue were decorated with jewelry, and they laughed shrilly and mirthlessly before climbing into one of these things; however, they did not proceed anywhere. I am old enough and mother enough to know what they were doing in there.
For a moment I got one of my dizzy spells, an unfortunate weakness even death did not obliterate. I clutched at a branch: an old, useless reflex. It is easy to forget that the body is gone, and the self is reduced to pure abstraction. It is futile to clutch to a tree with nonexistent hands to support a body that is not there. A wave of memories followed, and the usual self-doubt swept over me and I felt weak and bereft.
Why was I so strict with her? Why couldn’t I accept that she grew up, her hormones were roaring, and that she was blinded by a passion she could not control? She wanted her own dreams, wanted to control her own destiny. Everybody wants that, especially teenagers. I was scared and protective and in my fear I conjured up disastrous consequences. With proper dramatics and anguished tears I delivered lecture after lecture with the hopeless goal of saving her from disaster. She pouted, did not listen, and ignored my warnings and pleas. I suppose gradually she learned to hate me together with all the virtuous ideals for which I stood.
Yet, in comparison to the behavior of these two down in the metal box, she was, despite her sneakiness in the affair, an angel, an innocent flower. She was my beloved daughter. I feared for her and I became a regular drama queen. I thought I made good sense and considered my arguments valid, even elegant. Now I am no longer sure. I probably sounded like a wind-up doll, which repeats the same words over and over again, although I was certainly more passionate than any man-made doll ever could be.
Foolish me. I thought I should and could stop the world! Nobody can do that, not even a mother, who fears for her daughter. Things happen, and life goes on. At that time I did not know this simple truth.
The twist in the story is, which still irritates me so many generations later, that she, Rapunzel, is remembered as a beautiful victim, and I am cast as the ugly, rapacious hag, a witch, more wicked than your dime-a-dozen stepmother. Kids hate me, and I suppose so do many fathers, who are contemplating a second marriage with kids from a first marriage in the bargain. I was made into the prototype of the wicked stepmother, if you know what I mean. Since not only adults, but children too like to generalize, many a romance shattered, because his children would not accept a stepmother, even if she came straight from heaven with impeccable credentials, was blessed with the goodness of angels, the patience of Asia and the wisdom of Solomon. However, kids have been brainwashed through fairy tales from the earliest age and they grew up knowing that stepmothers are wicked. Professional analysts slander me; only Bruno Bettelheim conceded that my motives were rooted in love, which while wrong and selfish, was still love. So he said. Well, here is to public opinion, and while I am at it, here is to psychologists as well!
Our story was grossly distorted during the centuries that followed, because fact-finding and honest reporting was about as rare then, as it is today. I should have left things alone; nobody elected me to be the patron saint of hopeless cases, or to solve social problems others created. Yet, I got involved. Wisdom and emotions are not necessarily in harmony.
I was a young and good-looking widow. As a rather poor orphan, I had no other recourse, but to marry the old, cranky, domineering, cruel, and very rich man my guardian chose for me. It was the accepted custom of the day, and I was smart enough to know that there were fates worse than mine. Although I was young and woefully inexperienced I guessed that it would not last long, and I was right. After a few bleak years, it was over for him. Medical science was then limited to bloodletting, herbal poultices and prayers, so I do not know what ailed him. Probably old age. To tell the truth, relief overshadowed grief.
I lived during a time in history, when women did well not to play the merry widow, and therefore I was most circumspect. If the widow was careless and lacked a mighty protector, it was easy to part her from wealth, freedom, even life. Divesting her from everything she owned usually happened in one of two ways: either a useless, money-hungry suitor ended up in her bed, or else she was accused of witchcraft, and ended up on the pyre.
Not one of
these possibilities enchanted me and I took great pains to avoid both. I surrounded my house with a sturdy wall and discontinued most social contacts. As an added precaution, I dressed in drab colors, avoided ornaments, hid my hair under an unbecoming hood, and became an ardent churchgoer. Soon I won the reputation of being extremely sensible, pious, and a perfect widow. Women praised me freely, because my lackluster appearance did not excite their husband; men were thankful for me because their wife did not resemble uninteresting me. It suited me fine. I liked my splendid and safe isolation, my beautiful garden. I enjoyed the peace, and spent many hours painting, or gardening. Life was good, even though I realized quite early in my life how evil-minded people could eventually easily translate these very trappings into the attributes of a sorceress.
But then, like in all good stories, conflict entered.
A young couple moved next door. They were loud, disorganized, and almost overnight created an authentic slum of their dwelling. This was bad enough, but I caught the man stealing salad greens from my garden. I thought my walls were safe and high, but he vaulted my fence easily. To tell the truth, it was not even the salad greens he wanted. At the back of my garden I had a stand of trees and under it grew a carpet of what some people called rampions, or bear’s garlic, or in the local dialect, Rapunzel. It is a hardy plant, its leaves and roots equally edible, and is supposed to be a cure for a dozen ailments. However, ever fearing to earn the reputation of a witch, I did not use it in my kitchen, and did not offer it to anyone. I disliked its very presence, because during the spring my garden reeked of the smell of garlic, not my favorite fragrance. Its sole benefit to me was that people walking past my house noticed the aggressive odor and suspected huge amounts of garlic, which plant is a sure remedy against witches. They murmured with approval, “Wise woman that widow, she is. Keeps garlic to ward of witches.” In translation: obviously, this widow is not a witch, because she too fears them.
The Reluctant Trophy Wife Page 4