“What does Jacques do?” Misty asked.
“Money, darling,” said Hester. “They say they’re investment bankers and securities analysts, but they just make money. I remember when Jacques decided to buy a company. It made some part of a helicopter. I said: ‘Jacques, you don’t care about helicopters. You don’t even like to fly.’ He said: ‘I don’t care about the flying. I care about the money.’ That’s what he does. He makes money. A few years ago he married the dullest girl who ever lived but whose vast wealth compensated for how awful she was. Jacques of course wouldn’t know the difference. God knows where he found her. Maybe he imported her. She made him a nice little bambino all his own and the nanny takes it to the park in an English pram. It’s all very proper. I’m sure they have very traditional ideas about child rearing.”
“It isn’t called that anymore,” said Vincent. “It’s called parenting.”
“In Jacques’s case, it’s called getting a nanny over from France,” said Hester. “Let’s eat.”
During dinner, Hester discussed her lovers.
“Don’t take this amiss,” she said to Misty. “But I believe in having lovers. I used to have two. Now I’ve got three. One is a divine young thing. He just graduated from the film institute. It’s so marvelous to be adored. He’s so sweet and gloomy. He asks me to marry him about three times a week and when I say no because I’m almost old enough to be his mother, he thinks it’s tragic. I find it poignant. The next I really can’t discuss because he’s too well known and very married and then there’s Franz. You met Franz, Vincent. I’ve known him forever. He owns the Liebenthal Gallery and we go to Europe together. It all adds up. I’m crazy about the little kid who adores me. I feel all sneaky and dangerous with my married friend, and Franz is my stability. Put it all together and you’ve got the ideal marriage.”
Just as the coffee was served, Uncle Bernie appeared. He hugged Vincent, kissed Misty, and kissed Hester Gallinule’s hand. Hester sat bolt upright in her chair.
Uncle Bernie was carrying an enormous box, which he set on the floor.
“It’s your W.P.,” he said. “Wedding present,” he explained to Hester. “Open it up, kiddos.”
Vincent and Misty bent to open the wrappings. Underneath the glossy white paper and ribbons was a dark blue box. Inside was what looked to be a fur coat.
“What is it?” said Vincent. He began to pull it out of its box. “It doesn’t have any sleeves.”
“What does it look like?” said Uncle Bernie.
“It looks like a bedspread made out of fur,” said Vincent.
“You got it!” said Uncle Bernie. “That’s exactly what it is. Fritz and Adalaide would never approve. I’ll bet Misto doesn’t either but if Uncle Bernie doesn’t spoil you, who will?”
“This is the most wonderful thing I have ever seen in my life,” said Vincent.
“And it’s an energy saver,” said Uncle Bernie. “That’s right up your line of work, isn’t it, Vincent my boy? Crawl underneath this thing and you’ll never need a radiator again. Gorgeous, huh, kids?”
“I say let’s go see how it looks,” said Misty.
They trooped into the bedroom and agreed that the fur bedspread was a thing of beauty.
“Now for coffee,” said Uncle Bernie. “So, you’re in the theater, Hester. I used to be on the fringe of that myself. I was a song plugger. You’re probably too young to know what that is.”
“Sing Hester your song,” said Vincent.
“I wrote a little ditty in the forties,” said Uncle Bernie. “It was what they called a novelty number. I hoped it would start a fad, but it never amounted to more than a passing fancy. You really think Hester wants to hear a song called ‘Dancing Chicken,’ Vincent?”
“Hester does,” said Hester.
Uncle Bernie stood up. Taking the lapels of his jacket in his hands, he sang “Dancing Chicken,” did a little two-step, and flapped his jacket.
“That’s the dance I made up to go with it,” he said as he sat down.
Hester’s back had ceased to touch her chair. She looked like a girl recently let out of convent school. The expression on her face did not reveal what the sight of Misty’s bald, portly, beautifully dressed uncle flapping around the living room had done to her. Misty thought she was horrified. It turned out that she was not.
“Give me your jacket, Vincent,” Hester said. “Okay, Uncle Bernie. Show me how it goes.”
Hester and Uncle Bernie were about the same height, but Hester’s boots gave her several more inches. Uncle Bernie twirled her around the living room. They flapped their jackets in unison and then tangoed into the kitchen.
“Oh, my God,” said Misty. She was rubbing the bridge of her nose—a sure sign of distress.
“What’s wrong?” said Vincent. “We have brought light and laughter into the hearts of our relatives.”
Uncle Bernie and Hester tangoed back to the table, where they drank coffee and brandy and Hester took a puff of Uncle Bernie’s cigar.
“It’s time to go, kiddos,” said Uncle Bernie. “I leave you to your vulgar bedspread. Now I’m going to escort your delectable cousin home.”
“What a nightmare,” said Misty, as she and Vincent cleared the table.
“Nightmare,” said Vincent. “My God. It’s a daydream come true. What a perfect match. Why didn’t we think of it?”
“It seems like a terrible idea,” said Misty. “Uncle Bernie is a crook.”
“Hester loves crooks. Besides, Uncle Bernie is only a little crooked. He said so himself. Hester loves a high roller. Honest to God, Misty. I sometimes think there’s something wrong with you.”
“There is.”
“Well, what?”
“You believe in happy endings. I don’t. You think everything is going to work out fine. I don’t. You think everything is ducky. I don’t.”
“Why don’t you?” said Vincent.
“Vincent,” said Misty. “Sometimes I think you don’t have the sense that God gave a chicken. Your family has been sleeping peacefully in Petrie since the beginning of time. I come from a family that fled the Czar’s army, got their heads broken on picket lines, and has never slept peacefully anywhere.”
“That may be true,” said Vincent. “But you slept peacefully in Chicago. Your daddy grew up on a farm and as far as I can tell, your mother was brought up at the Art Institute. You never fled anyone’s army. So explain yourself.”
“It’s cultural,” said Misty.
“I’m for it,” said Vincent. “We need each other. Neither of us is safe alone.”
“Sometimes I think you don’t understand how very different we are,” said Misty.
“I realize every day,” said Vincent. “But I think that love cures everything.”
“You would,” said Misty.
Nothing was heard of Uncle Bernie or Hester for several days. On the weekend, a formal thank-you note from Hester was received. In large, curly handwriting, she praised the duck, the charm of the apartment, her delight at Misty and Vincent’s marriage and remarked that she and Uncle Bernie had been out dancing several times. A telephone call from Uncle Bernie confirmed this. He was just about to leave for Chicago and Medicine Stone and he called to say goodbye. He and Hester, he said, had found a number of wonderful places to dance: hotel roofs, Puerto Rican nightclubs, and shabby dance halls.
“We’ve been having a bang-up time,” he said.
It was late Saturday morning and Vincent had gone off to a meeting of the Ecological Union. Misty was curled up on the couch watching the rain and reading the paper. She was about to take a nap when she was roused by the doorbell. She thought it might be Vincent coming back early, but it was not. It was Guido.
Misty and Guido had not had a private conversation since their first meetings at the Magna Charta office. Those two conversations had tacitly sealed the deal: unstated affection abounded between them—a nice, warm, and free-floating affirmation. One look at Guido told Misty that he was in trouble o
f some sort. This made her slightly nervous. Guido had probably come to see Vincent, but there was no Vincent to see.
“Vincent’s out,” she said. “Come in and have a cup of coffee.”
“I know he’s out,” said Guido. “He’s at the Ecological Union. I didn’t come to see him. I came to see you.”
Misty collected Guido’s wet raincoat and umbrella and sat him down at the table for coffee.
“Oh,” she said.
“Holly’s pregnant,” said Guido, wearily.
“Oh,” said Misty. “Vincent doesn’t know that.”
“No,” said Guido. “And I don’t want him to know. I’m afraid I just can’t face his smiles of delight at this wonderful news.”
“I see.”
“You probably do,” said Guido. “I guess I thought I could count on you not to chirp with joy. I need to talk to someone, and that someone is you.”
“It’s Holly, isn’t it?” said Misty.
Guido stood up and began to pace. He looked haggard.
“I want to have a baby,” he said. “I want any old kind of baby. I want a kid I can teach to swim and take to the park and make up stories for. I want to take my kid to French restaurants on Saturdays and put wine in its water and put things to taste on its plate. I want to stay up all night when it gets sick and go to its piano recitals. I never knew how much I wanted to be a father before.”
Misty asked, “What does Holly want?”
“I have no idea,” said Guido. “She dropped this on me a few days ago. I didn’t know she wanted a baby. I don’t even know if she wants a baby now. She never said a thing about it. Now she’s presented it to me as a fait accompli and she’s involved in the details. For example, she wrote to a cabinetmaker in Maine about getting a crib made. I saw the letter. She’s been making sketches of the back bedroom so we can turn it into a nursery.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see the problem,” said Misty.
“I don’t know how she feels,” said Guido. “You don’t know her. She’s like a business person. She said: ‘Guido, we’re having a baby,’ and that was that. I wanted to go out and tell everyone in the world, buy a box of cigars, fill the house with roses. You can’t do that when you don’t know whether your wife is glad or sad. She just makes plans. She hasn’t said another word about it. She drops this meteor at my feet; it makes a big hole and she just sweeps it up, makes it level, and goes on.”
He sat down and slumped in his chair, setting the coffee cup down a little too violently on its saucer. He pulled a cheroot out of his pocket and lit it. His hazel eyes looked liquid and troubled.
“Guido,” said Misty. “Maybe you need to know too much.”
“Vincent knows too much,” said Guido. “It’s not hard to tell how you feel. I’m living with a walled fortress.”
“Vincent is living with a partially ruined walled fortress that is trying to get up the wherewithal for repairs,” said Misty.
“I think she’s going to leave me again,” said Guido.
“What makes you think that?”
“I know her,” said Guido. “It’s time for her to retreat.”
“Well, let her,” said Misty. “From what I understand, she didn’t leave you the first time. She just went away for a few weeks.”
“That’s leaving.”
“Jesus, Guido. I thought I was marrying into an intelligent family. You are not married to Woman. You are married to one specific woman. That one specific woman behaves in one specific way. She needs to be by herself every once in a while. What difference does it make? Unless you don’t trust her.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust her. It’s just that I don’t understand and she can’t explain.”
“You don’t understand because Holly isn’t you,” said Misty. “If you went off, it would be for some specific reason having to do with you and Holly. You can’t believe that she can go off and not have your reasons. Well, she isn’t you. She has reasons of her own. As long as she loves you and she doesn’t stay away for very long, why don’t you leave her be? Having a baby is a big deal. Maybe she needs a little time to get used to it.”
“This is a very disconcerting conversation,” said Guido.
“You asked for it,” said Misty.
“Don’t tell Vincent for a bit, will you?” said Guido. “I’ll tell him—but not until I get this thing straightened out.”
“You and your friend Vincent are hopeless,” said Misty. “There isn’t anything to straighten out. Ask her if she’s glad she’s having a baby and then let her go.”
“But what about me?” said Guido. “What about my right to fatherly joy? How about my feelings?”
“You’ll get your big chance,” said Misty. “Just wait till you have your baby in your arms and it drools all over your suit.”
Holly was going off, and she was going off to get used to the idea of having a baby. Misty had been entirely right, and so had Guido in his choice of the word “retreat.” Holly was going to a monastery. She had found an order of Anglican nuns and she was making a retreat.
“You don’t have one ounce of religious feeling,” said Guido.
“I may not have religious feelings, but I like a religious atmosphere,” Holly said. “Besides, the thought of being pregnant makes me feel medieval. It’s a contemplative order and I need silence. And furthermore, I have an impulse to be around a lot of women.”
“Really?” said Guido fiercely. “And how did you find out about these saintly women?”
“It’s a famous place. I’ve always wanted to go. There’s a retreat mistress, and there will be other women making retreats too.”
Holly was lying on the sofa wrapped in a plaid rug. A tea tray was on the floor next to her with its flowered cup and saucer, pot, and jug of milk. A little glass plate held the remains of toast with honey and butter.
Holly made you think of painting, of composition, Guido thought. You could not look at her and not think of her elements: the flush on her cheek, her thick, silky hair, the contrast between her wrist and the cuff of her shirt. She looked warm, but not lazy: Holly knew how to clear the deck for action. She would find maternity clothes that looked just like her usual clothes. She would find perfect clothes for the baby. She would invent a diet for expectant mothers and fathers and when the baby came, she would invent a diet for it too. Guido had always found the sight of beautiful women with reading glasses or babies very moving. Soon he would come home to the sight of his beautiful wife and baby. If all had been equal, Guido would have been swooning with joy.
Next to the couch was a pile of books: a copy of The Rule of St. Benedict, Diets for Mothers, and a white-jacketed book entitled Prenatal Serenity. Holly worked fast, but she kept his joy in check. He wanted to fall on his knees and sing for gladness, but Holly was talking about her retreat.
“I can’t think of a healthier place to be,” she said. “They have lots of land, so the air is very clean. They grow all their own food. They have a farm, a vegetable garden, and a dairy. They make their own butter and cheese. They have a guest house for people like me. And it’ll be good for the baby too. Dr. Margot Justis-Vorander in this book on prenatal serenity says that it is crucial for babies to spend the first weeks of their incipient life in real tranquillity. That’s something very few people realize. The mother ought to be as serene as possible.”
“What about the father?” said Guido.
“I have to work on impulse,” said Holly. “Pregnancy seems to have its own instincts. I must have some real silence. It’s good for the baby. Besides, you don’t have to lug this baby around—I do. I have to get used to it and think about it. It’s just a few weeks.”
“How many is a few?” said Guido.
“The retreat is ten days but you can stay longer.”
“You mean, you can stay longer,” said Guido.
“Don’t be ferocious, darling,” said Holly. “After all, having a baby is serious business.”
Serious business meant that H
olly would not be back in ten days. It meant that she would come back when she felt like it. Guido was a brooder, not a sulker, but now he felt his options had been taken away from him. He sat down and sulked. Life was unfair to those who were just, he thought. No matter how maddening Holly was, he was forced by temperament to see her side—or what he thought her side might be if she had ever bothered to really explain herself. The fact was: she was having the baby and Guido was only a witness. Was his desire to keep her by his side the terrible possessiveness of an onlooker? Maybe he was jealous. Maybe all men were. Perhaps his present anger at Holly was really anger at his position: he had been present only at the conception. Now the mystery began and it was Holly’s own.
Perhaps he did need to know too much. Perhaps he needed everything spelled out in big block letters. Holly was not an explainer. She was a contented accepter. How could life be so graceful and confusing at the same time?
“Don’t look so stricken,” said Holly. “Come curl up with me. A little love in the afternoon is probably very good for our incipient wonder child.”
Happy All the Time Page 15