“I hope it rains,” Jane Louise said. “Then you’ll have to stay home.”
Saturday was clear and sunny: a perfect May day. After the babies’ lunch, Edie and Jane Louise left for their outing.
They walked to the corner and hailed a taxi. They had no idea where they were going.
“Do yoga breathing,” Edie said. “Calm down.”
“Why aren’t you a nervous wreck?” Jane Louise said.
“I’m more of a slob,” Edie said. “I worry about other things. Miranda will be fine. It’s you that misses her. She’ll have a great time.”
The driver looked around at them. “Do you two want to go someplace?” he said.
“We don’t know,” said Jane Louise. “Go south.” She leaned back in her seat. On the one hand, it was thrilling to be free. On the other, she wanted to go home.
“Now, Janey,” Edie said. “Take a deep breath and think lovely thoughts.”
“The Chef’s Bazaar,” said Jane Louise. “The art supply store. The place that has the lamps with the paper shades. Or that place where what’s her name got those beautiful red shoes. Isn’t that lovely enough?”
“We could cruise some clothes,” Edie said. “And then we can go to that new patisserie and have some coffee.”
“Or we could go home!” said Jane Louise. “Besides, I don’t have any money.”
“Now, now,” said Edie. “I’m supposed to keep you diverted and amused.”
“Do you suppose everything is all right?” said Jane Louise.
“It is perfect and serene. The babies are on the swings. Then they will crawl around on the rat-poison-free grass. Then they will pass out, and Mokie and Teddy will read the sports page. You have to disconnect a little. You can love her wildly and not be so anxious.”
“Uh-huh,” said Jane Louise, who felt that her heart was not beating properly. “In Nigeria, babies ride on their mommies’ backs until they’re two.”
“Don’t waste a minute,” Edie said. “Book your ticket now. Hey, driver! Let us out on this corner.”
She took Jane Louise by the arm, and they went shopping. Edie bought an octagonal baking pan. Jane Louise bought some colored pencils. They ended up in a fancy baby clothing store where each bought a pair of tiny striped socks. Then they decided to go for a stroll, have coffee, and do nothing.
It was one of those gentle days in spring when the slight breeze has blown away the air pollution and the flowers are out on the ornamental cherry, crab apple, and mimosa trees. People smile at each other on the street and turn their faces up to the sun. Urban lovers wander arm in arm, drifting in and out of bookshops. At the outdoor cafés, people feed ice cream to their toddlers or sit happily, reading the Saturday paper. The doors to the shops are open. It is too mild for heat and too cool for air conditioning, the perfect weather for perambulating around a city.
A Tibetan monk in full saffron robes was walking down the street flanked by two well-dressed men. A man in a duck costume stood on the corner juggling what looked like eggs. At his feet was an open cigar box full of donations. Around the corner three Peruvians played flute, drum, and guitar. In front of the ceramic shop a beautiful redheaded girl was selling misshapen, multicolored teapots.
They strolled on. In the window of the patisserie they saw tiny boats made of short pastry filled with raspberry. Inside, people in wonderful-looking clothes sat at tiny tables, drinking cappuccino and talking intensely.
“Isn’t the city ravishing?” Jane Louise said.
“I thought you were counting the minutes till you got to the country,” Edie said.
“I am,” said Jane Louise. “But sometimes, on days like this, you realize that you’re living in a kind of treasure-house. I mean when you’re not contemplating urban strife and social injustice.”
“I’d like to contemplate these adorable hats,” Edie said. “Look at that little charm-pot with the candy-striped ribbon.”
“I think the one with the little cars hanging off it is very chic—it’s wearable sculpture,” Jane Louise said. “Let’s go find someplace to have our coffee outside. It’s too nice to go in.”
“This is really very nice,” Jane Louise said. “It must be nice to have a baby and not be anxious, but I guess that only happens if you’re rich.”
“From my little bird perch as a caterer,” Edie said, “what it looks like is, you bear children, and someone else raises them.”
“Hmmm,” said Jane Louise. “Tell more.”
“They have huge living spaces, very neat,” Edie said. “No baby toys around. They can have a house full of toddlers and never worry about their antique porcelain.”
“How come?”
“Separate quarters for the children,” Edie said. “They’re also very big on stenciling. Many newborns have ABCs stenciled under the moldings on their wall so they can learn to read when they aren’t sleeping.”
“Timesaving,” said Jane Louise.
“But don’t think they don’t have worries,” Edie said. “They worry about lots of things. Out-of-season fruit and flowers are always a big worry.”
“A vexing problem,” Jane Louise said.
“Finding a source of unpasteurized cheese is another, and then, of course, there’s always the agony of trying to find a conservatorial cleaner who really does well by antique linen. Money does not buy everything, Janey.”
“But you worry all the time,” Jane Louise said. “Tell the truth.”
“I have less imagination,” Edie said. “You do art. I do food. I really and truly do not believe that someone is going to throw a bathtub out of a high window and that I’m going to be walking underneath it, but you do.”
“Someone might throw a bathtub out a window. This is a big city. Anything could happen,” Jane Louise said. “You just don’t read the paper.”
“I don’t read the lurid parts of the paper. I don’t worry about Tallie all the time. I think he’ll be fine without me for a few hours.”
“A few hours . . .” said Jane Louise.
“I’m not to bring you home before three-thirty,” Edie said. “So let’s get some more coffee. Oh, look! Speaking of things happening. Look down the street. Isn’t that Sven?”
There, walking toward them, was Sven himself, his blond wife Edwina, and their little boy, Piers, who was five, a white-blond child with dark brown eyes. Piers was carrying a plastic sword with which he attempted to smack his mother, who wore impeccable clothes, a bright smile, and polished fingernails. Jane Louise was made to realize that she and Edie were wearing jeans, scuffed loafers, and that in certain lights the various baby stains on their blouses could easily be seen.
“Oh, Sven!” called Jane Louise. Sven spun around as if being seen with his family was some sort of naughty act.
“Ah, the young mothers,” he said smoothly. “Edwina, come here and say hello to Jane Louise and her friend Edie.” Edwina dragged her little boy over and said hello. Then Piers pulled her off down the street.
“How unusual to see you without your satellite,” Sven said. “Where’d you stash the babies?”
“With their dads,” Edie said.
“How nice for them,” Sven said. “While you two laze away the time.”
“We work hard,” Jane Louise said.
“Hmmm,” Sven said. He looked at Edie and Jane Louise in a speculative way. The look on his face clearly said: I’ll dump the wife and kid and we can go to a hotel. It was plain that he was seeing himself on a rumpled bed, surrounded by a pile of long limbs.
“Nice to see you together,” he said. “And you, Janey. I haven’t seen you since last week. The office is very tense these days. We need you.”
“Your family is slipping away,” Jane Louise said.
Sven gave her a hard look. “They tend to do that,” he said. “Are you coming in next week? There’s a huge amount of work. Oh, by the way, did you get a baronial-looking card from the former Mrs. Samuelovich?”
“We got a card and a little baby hat t
hat’s too small,” Jane Louise said.
“I hope she’s happy with her rich French bore,” Sven said. “A nice change from a down-at-the-heels Russian bore!”
“I thought Nick was sort of funny,” Jane Louise said.
“Really?” Sven said. “She didn’t. I think little Mrs. Samuelovich had many interesting plans when she was married to him. What a girl.” He looked at Jane Louise in a kind of sultry way. “You have baby marks on your shoulder,” he said. “Drool—very attractive on you. You really must come in next week, Janey. I miss you.”
This made Jane Louise’s heart thump. How nice it would be if her life were seamless—if she were sealed, almost like a mummy, into what she ought to be: the wife and mother—a smooth, integrated being without strange feelings, loose ends, and no unwanted twinges of doubts of any kind.
“Your family has disappeared,” Edie remarked to him.
“Oh, them,” Sven said. He stared at Jane Louise and Edie. “Good-bye, girls,” he said. “What an enchanting encounter.”
“He’s sort of a devil,” Edie said.
“Yes, but he’s my devil.”
“It’s amazing,” Edie said. “He has a really and truly dirty look.”
“But it isn’t smutty,” Jane Louise said. “There’s nothing furtive about it. It’s straight up front. He’s some kind of elemental force with nothing mitigating it. It’s pure sex. Sometimes I wish he would disappear and I wouldn’t have to be reminded that although I am a happily married woman, my extremely weak flesh can still be made to creep.”
“Huh,” Edie said. “You want everything to be pure. You think everything ought to be just one way, and that if it isn’t, it’s wrong.”
“Well, I do feel that,” Jane Louise said. “I tell you, Edie, just when you believe you’re turning into a drudge or a mindless dispenser of liquids, Sven comes around and lets a person know that there’s only one thing really interesting after all. I hate to admit this about myself, but it cheers me up.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous. Motherhood swallows a person. The other day I went to talk to this corporate guy about a party, and I realized he was staring at me. I was wearing my big hat with the flowers on it. I was in ecstasy—all alone with a grown-up!”
“Life is too complicated,” Jane Louise said. “I don’t like to be complicated. It makes me nervous.”
“It’s been complicated, and you’ve been nervous, since the first day I ever met you,” Edie said. “You’ve managed to have a pretty good time. Let’s go home.”
They walked for a while in the warm spring air, and then they parted. Both of them had errands to do. They had been instructed to go home and not meet the babies in the park—this was their afternoon off, after all.
Jane Louise walked slowly through Washington Square. All along the east side of the park were parents with little children. There were children everywhere, like swarms of birds. On the west side college students held hands, and unsavory types attempted to sell drugs.
Her anxiety came and went in little waves. She felt curious and light-headed with nothing to carry.
It was nearing the end of the academic year. Everywhere she looked students were lugging boxes of books, clothes, and standing lamps out of their dorms. She stood on the sidewalk and watched a serious young boy haul two duffel bags into the trunk of his father’s car and dash into a building. His father, a gray-haired man with a wide chest and a linen sports jacket, was loading the trunk. Jane Louise stood perfectly still, blinded by the sunny glare. Hazy light poured down around her.
Someday Miranda would grow up and go to college. Day would follow day: She would lose her baby teeth. Her adult teeth would come in. She would go to school, learn to read, go to high school, have boyfriends, leave home. To her amazement, Jane Louise found herself in tears. Her throat got hot, and tears poured down her cheeks. She felt powerless to brush them away or to move.
The gray-haired man walked past her, carrying a pair of suitcases. When he saw her, he stopped and set his cases down.
“Are you okay?” he said.
“I was just thinking about my child going to college,” Jane Louise said.
“How old is your child?” the man asked gently.
“Just five months old,” said Jane Louise, and she began to sob. “You must think I’m a nut.”
The man looked at her thoughtfully. “When my kid went to sleep-away camp for the first time, I wanted to lie down in the driveway and eat dirt,” he said.
Jane Louise looked up at him. He filled her vision entirely. The hazy sunshine swirled around them. She grabbed his wrist and kissed his hand. He was wearing a beautiful gold watch.
“Thank you,” she said. “Oh, thank you.”
Then she collected herself, The man picked up the suitcases.
“It’ll be all right,” he said. “You’ll grow into it.”
“Thank you,” said Jane Louise again, and she began almost to run in the direction of home.
CHAPTER 33
At the end of June they went to Marshallsville. Eleanor had found a crib at a rummage, which she put into a shady, underused room at the back of the house near the guest room where Teddy and Jane Louise slept in the ornamental bed. Jane Louise packed one large case of crib blankets, bumpers, crib sheets, and stuffed animals.
Teddy, who had bought a secondhand car from a colleague, drove up one afternoon with Mokie, drove down again, and then he and Jane Louise packed. They strapped Miranda into her infant seat and took off. A few days later, Mokie, Edie, and Tallie would appear to stay in the rented house of the appalling Paul and Helene Schreck.
Jane Louise sat in the car looking out the window and dreaming. This would be her first summer as a mother. She would take Miranda to the lake in the afternoon, when the sun was not so fierce, and she would hold her tight and walk her into the water. She would nurse Miranda in Eleanor’s old rocking chair.
Having a baby in a small town made all the difference. She was no longer some transient friend of Edie’s, or Eleanor’s daughter-in-law: She was the mother of a child—a Marshallsville child. She had gained citizenship. People who had never spoken to her before now spoke to her: A baby provided a common language. If Jeanne Pugh at the hardware store had never said more than hello, she now quizzed Jane Louise on Miranda’s development, and compared notes with her. People she barely knew now began to say things like: “Why don’t you and Teddy start thinking about moving up here? Old Mrs. Burner’s house is for sale, and the Phillips want to sell, and there’s that nice house on the river—it’s a little damp, but it has that view.”
Down at the beach, the lifeguards—all college girls—greeted her warmly and cooed over Miranda. Late in the afternoon Peter, who was Miranda’s godfather, would stop by, pluck her from Jane Louise, and dip her tenderly in the water. It often seemed to Jane Louise that this life, so orderly and well arranged, had parted just an inch and let her in.
Her companion on the beach was Teddy’s godchild, Harriet, who said she did not want to be called Birdie anymore. She was now nine, still skinny, freckled, and somewhat clumsy, although Jane Louise could see that she would develop into a great beauty. Her deep hazel eyes were framed by very dark lashes. Her mouth, for such a young child, was soulful. Her years of struggle were written all over her. She had finally learned to read, slowly and painfully. She loved Jane Louise because Jane Louise so openly adored her, and because Jane Louise seemed genuinely not to care whether she read or not. When Miranda was asleep in the shade, covered with a little net tent Teddy had rigged up, Jane Louise and Harriet sat side by side at the picnic table sketching.
At ten o’clock three mornings a week, Harriet was delivered to Jane Louise. Beth and Peter’s enormous van drove up, and out jumped Beth, who even in the morning looked pulled together, cheerful, and eager to meet the day. Laura and Geneva, in white shorts and blue shirts, their brilliant hair pulled back by black headbands, jumped out with her. They were pink and gold, blooming, with rosy cheeks and bright
brown eyes. Jane Louise, who never slept through the night even if Miranda didn’t wake up, felt old, wrecked, exhausted.
Last of all was Harriet, still called Birdie by her mother, who was constantly saying: “I’m sorry, Harriet, I forgot.”
Harriet was a bit disheveled and barefoot. Her eyes were cast down, and her sisters appeared to be glad to off-load her. They were going to Heathfield to buy shoes and to go to the library.
Jane Louise’s heart opened like a flower. Going to the library had always filled Harriet’s heart with dread. Even her little sister had been able to read when she could not. She had been surpassed on every side. Jane Louise knew that feeling of exclusion, of being weird and odd, of never quite fitting in. When she saw it in Harriet, it brought out a fierce, protective streak—the same fierce love she felt for Teddy and Miranda. She wanted to hurt anyone who had hurt them, and when she saw Beth, Laura, and Geneva, so effortless, so fitting, she wanted to take bony, beloved Harriet into her arms and cover her with kisses. She put her arms around her husband’s goddaughter.
“You two look alike,” said Laura, who was twelve. “Don’t they, Mom?”
“Our Birdie is a little changeling,” Beth said with a tender smile.
It never ceased to amaze Jane Louise what people said out loud.
“I think she looks like her daddy,” Jane Louise said, pulling her close. “She has those beautiful hazel eyes.”
Laura peered at her sister, whose eye color had never been of much concern to her. Harriet was not much fun for Laura, who had a red-blooded competitive spirit and found Harriet useless to compete with. Instead she fought with Geneva, who was very advanced for six.
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