by Mary Gordon
“All right, Laura,” she said. “That’s very nice of you.”
The next five days were beautiful, ideal for Laura’s purposes. Cool and fresh, the wind flew as if from the sea. On the clotheslines, the perfectly hung sheets snapped, the curtains billowed like sails, the house all day was redolent of polish and soap. Laura seemed, for the first time since Anne had known her, happy for a long, extended period. The vacant smile was gone; she wore, all day, the calm straightforward face of one in love with her vocation. She barely spoke, she left things on the table with crisp notes. Anne left the house early in the morning and did her work in the library. There was no quiet anywhere; doors banged, rugs were beaten, water gushed from faucets and was poured down drains, drawers slammed, windows were shot up like rockets and shot down like the gavel of a firm and certain judge.
Laura’s hand touched every object in the house. From the health food store she bought dried lavender, and at night she made the sewing machine whirr for hours of short spurts as she made sachets for every clothing drawer, for each shelf of the linen closet. She took out the wedding presents that were never used—the fondue set, the cocktail shaker—washed and dried and polished them and put them in some new, efficient place: in the cellar, in the steamer trunk Michael had from college. In the attic she opened the cartons of the children’s outgrown clothes. Anne had given away most of them, but she had saved some because she loved them, because they marked some season, some event of happiness. They kept the past in a shiny husk, like the shell of a nut. And now the husk was opened, now Anne had to say, “I want to keep this dress, this shirt, this pair of boots.” She had to justify to Laura—who looked judgingly at her, as if she were refraining from reminding her of the poor who needed clothing—her need to hold on to these objects to keep the past from flying away. So the past was no longer the dark contained thing it had been: now it was cracked; the inside, duller, chambered, never whole, was picked at and consumed. Anne put things back that Laura touched and questioned, but they were not the same. Even as she successfully rescued something, she felt that she might as well have given it away.
The house was cleaner now than it had ever been. How could she turn the girl out for this? Barbara told her every day how she envied her. The children weren’t disturbed. Peter was annoyed to find that something he had left out was put in some new place, but he had always been like that. Any change had always seemed to him an affectation. Sarah was swept up in the tremendous wave of energy: she dusted and polished with Laura, she ran up and down stairs, she interrupted her mother’s work to say, “Laura wants to know if we really need this, or if we can throw it out.”
Anne found it difficult to work. She couldn’t banish Laura’s peaceful, triumphant face, exhausted at the day’s end from righteous labor, to concentrate on Caroline’s paintings; she could not still the noise of tearing, casting down and casting out, the machines that roared and sucked, the objects placed down heavily, the bottles clanked together. And she was coming to the end of the letters and the journals. The last years of Caroline’s life were unhappy. She stopped to weep when she read Caroline’s letter to her dealer in New York:
You write and ask for something new. But you see, dear Frederick, there is nothing new, and will not be. It is all over. My eyes are gone; the cataract operation was botched, and I see well only in memory. And so, what now? People come and pay me homage, as if I were a statue. And my darling Jane is imprisoned by my state; she is my only joy, and knows it, so she does not leave me. I say I think she should, but if she did I would simply die. It is interesting, really, the people who become valuable when one’s senses give out. The foolish wife of a foolish landscape painter comes and sits, sews while she talks nonsense, brings her puppy. And I am grateful! I do not like this new emotion, gratitude, but it is better than the nullity that is my common lot. We dine out every night; and search for gardens. To taste, to smell seem miracles. But seeing was my life! My life is a useless old woman’s, worse than useless. For I steal life from Jane.
How she loved Jane, reading that letter, Jane, never patient, nursing an invalid, searching out gardens, restaurants. She wanted to see Jane. She longed for Jane’s wholeness and her sanity. Life now seemed to Anne made up of impossible situations: Michael, Ed, Laura; she felt, in trying to make sense of it all, as if she were trying to braid branches of thorns. But Jane had courage, she had that adorable detachment Ben had spoken of—“like an admiral walking the deck of a ship.” She had encountered dreadful things, in life and in herself, and had come through. Life brimmed in her. She never responded to it, as Anne felt herself doing now, with the conviction simply of her own fatigue that clung like the memory of illness and left her with the invalid’s incompetence. She wanted to see Jane; she wanted to be out of her house. So she contacted Ben and told him to set up an appointment with Jane and the gallery owners. It was earlier than she would have liked, but she had to be involved in something. She had to be away from her house.
On the bus down she felt sick and short of breath. I am an unjust person, she kept having to come back to herself to say. I am a person who hates. She knew that she could have gone through her whole life not having to say these things about herself if she hadn’t known Laura. And now Laura had touched every object in the house. It would never be free of her impress.
She thought of Ben and Caroline, how they inhabited a world of sense rather than of morals. “Is it beautiful, is it pleasurable, is it interesting?” These were the questions that came to them, not “Is it good, is it important, is it true?” She knew how Caroline would walk into a room, into a town. In Spain once, she had stayed in one small village for six weeks because she said the girls had faces the color of aloes. She wrote about meals as if they were operas, about a piece of cloth as if it were a book. Ben did the same thing: he spent evenings with dreadful empty people because they dressed well, served wine that was superb, had beautiful furniture. She didn’t understand this, it was an instinct she did not possess. Beauty couldn’t move her to action: when her heart filled and she shed skin after skin, she didn’t assume the experience was connected to the rest of life. She might choose to vacation in a small town because of its view of the mountains, but she couldn’t settle in if the natives seemed unhappy with her presence.
She thought of Ed Corcoran, whose life had so little in it of beauty or of pleasure. The worst thing in the world had happened to him, a cruel random fate, a nemesis. There would be no relief from it, and there could be no explanation. He was never free of it; like the Furies, it buzzed always near his head, and it was never silent. He was like the victim of tragedy, but unlike the spare heroes of the Greeks, Ed had to live on day to day, looking after things: the house, the children, medicines and doctors. He had always to worry about money; Rose’s illness had put them eighty thousand dollars into debt, he told her once. He couldn’t rest for a minute; he had to work to keep up with his payments, his children needed him, his wife at any time could thrash out at him like the wounded creature that she was, saying he didn’t love her, he didn’t care for the family, that one day when he wasn’t there she’d kill herself and kill the children too. Each day the path he’d cleared the day before grew up around him. And he hacked and cut the vines and branches without anger, without rancor, as if he had all the time in the world, as if it was all not less than what he had expected. Pressing her face against the green glass of the bus window, she thought what an extraordinary person he was. She’d never known anyone like him; he was one of the most admirable people she’d ever known.
Ben said he would meet her at the bus terminal. It was unnecessary, but his courtliness pleased both of them; she wouldn’t dream of throwing on it the cold water of democracy or common sense. It was March, and the melting snow ran brilliantly down the long streets. People looked over their shoulders as if they would throw their winter coats into a litter basket if no one was looking.
“Let me tell you about Harriet Brevard,” said Ben. “A woman of parts,
as we used to say. Frightfully attractive, very sexy, though not pretty. Not at all like you. I’ve known her, of course, since she was three. We were all together in Paris. Her father made a fortune buying Klees and Legers for five dollars apiece; he filled his attic with them. Very solid, very jolly. Now, my darling, you must be at your singularly most impressive for this lunch. Harriet’s extraordinarily pleased with what you’ve done. She’s thinking of taking you on on a permanent basis. Her father used to do all the research for the exhibits, but he’s a bit past it now. So you mustn’t get girlish and modest when someone says you’ve done good work.”
“It would have been better if you hadn’t told me. Now I’ll be afraid of everything I say.”
“Nonsense, you’ll know that everyone thinks you’re extraordinary. It’ll buck you up no end.”
She couldn’t begin to make Ben understand; if someone told him he was extraordinary, he accepted it as a compliment that was his due, it was, to him, no more than recognition. But to her, it was a treasure she must be suspicious of. It could so easily be spurious, it could so easily be lost.
They passed a famous shoe store on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street. A sign was in the window: 2/3 OFF. Anne stopped and looked. Her eye fell on a pair of green leather boots, soft and low-heeled like riding boots, except that the tops could fold down. Two-thirds off. It was like being at the beach on a fine day; it might never happen again. But probably they wouldn’t have them in her size. Still, they were two-thirds off, and Harriet Brevard might want to hire her.
“Ben, can we stop here a moment?”
“Of course, my darling, we have piles of time.”
He opened the door for her. There were no men like Ben in the world now; if there were, she would have to dislike them.
The shop was as big as a ballroom. Fashionable women walked around as if it were their kitchen. They tried on shoes they couldn’t possibly walk comfortably in, but then, Anne thought, they probably never had to walk very far. The salespeople were blessedly ordinary, shabby even. They looked tired, grumbly, overworked. A woman of about sixty, her hair the color of face powder, walked over to Anne.
“You want something?” she asked in a Middle European accent. Her expression was so pained, it was clear she was hoping Anne didn’t want anything, had wandered in by mistake. It occurred to Anne that the woman looked as if her feet hurt all the time. Surely that was bad for business.
Anne pointed to the boots in the window and told the woman her size. The woman disappeared into the back room with a shake of her head that conveyed that she thought the project was doomed from the start. A few minutes later she returned, carrying a box.
“You’re lucky,” she said. “Not many people wear size eleven.”
The boots slid onto her feet, her legs, like a silk sleeve. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was so pleased with what she saw that she began to blush.
“They do suit you wonderfully,” said Ben.
“How much are they?” she asked the woman.
“Now a hundred twenty-five. At the beginning of the season they were three seventy-five.”
Nearly four hundred dollars. She didn’t spend that much on clothing in two years. Now they were a hundred twenty-five. Still, they were a great extravagance, boots you wouldn’t feel right wearing in the snow. She looked down at her feet. Her heart lifted. What would Michael say? He would want her to have them, but she would see his eyes go worried about the money and she would back down. But it was different now: she had more money. And if Harriet Brevard hired her, she would have even more. What a nice thing money was. It said, you can have this, and this, and this, this you can put against your skin, that in your mouth, and on your feet boots that make you swoon with pleasure. This book is yours, it said, that record. You have all the time in the world, it whispered. Don’t rush, don’t be worried. She hated to say it, she hadn’t believed it, ever in her life, but at this moment she knew it to be true: money made a difference.
“I’ll take them,” she said to the woman whose name, she saw pinned on her jacket, was Solange.
What exalted past had she dropped down from, to be kneeling here, her hair the color of face powder, writing a bill out on her lap?
Harriet Brevard answered the gallery door when they rang the buzzer. She was a tall woman of fifty with short black Japanese hair. Her hands were distractingly large, and as if knowing that and deciding to acknowledge it by drawing more attention to them, she wore a large square emerald the size of a pat of butter.
She shook Anne’s hand and looked her frankly up and down. Anne was glad she was wearing her new boots; she felt they gave her something more to offer.
“You’ve done a remarkable job,” she said. “You’re to be profoundly congratulated. I’ve done a lot of exhibitions, hired a lot of people, and you’ve done the best job I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you, I’ve enjoyed it,” Anne said, forcing herself not to look at the floor.
“Jane said we’re to meet her at the restaurant,” said Harriet. “You’ve got a good press agent there, you know.”
“Jane’s very kind.”
“She’s as tough as a sailor and nobody’s fool. She terrified me for twenty years.”
Anne laughed. “What happened after twenty years?”
“I had a baby. Jane Watson is absolutely dotty about children. Spends a fortune on little sweaters. Well, I couldn’t quite be terrified after that.”
“My son’s in love with her. It’s the first grand passion of his life.”
“How old is he?”
“Nine.”
“My dear, wait till he’s twenty. My son is living with one of his high school teachers. Earth science, whatever that is. I’m chilled to imagine.”
Anne laughed again. “How many children do you have?”
“Two boys. Older than they have any right to be. One’s sailing down the Amazon, finding himself. It drives me mad. What drives me maddest is that they’re out of the house. I miss them dreadfully.”
“You’ve gone on liking them for twenty years?”
“Of course. They’re wonderful people. Who takes care of yours while you work?”
Anne groaned. “It’s a long and dreadful story.”
“You must tell me all about it at lunch. I’m sure I can top it. Cressida,” she called over her shoulder.
One of the young women Anne had lunched with appeared at the door of the back office. She seemed to have shrunk in Harriet’s presence, she was almost shy.
“We’ll be back at two-thirty. Take messages. Dreadful girl,” Harriet said. “They’re all dreadful. Anorexic and ungrammatical. That’s why I want you to come work for me. I always know if I’m going to work well with someone within twenty seconds of meeting them. Don’t you?”
“No,” said Anne. “I’ve come to believe I’m a very bad judge of character.”
“She’s too kind by half,” said Ben.
“Ben, you must stop saying that. You’ve no idea what goes on in my mind.”
“It’s like the way you go on about her being pretty,” said Harriet. “No one wants to be told they’re kind and pretty anymore.”
“Whyever not?” asked Ben.
“Because it makes them seem powerless. As if they ought to be dozing by the fire, wearing a pink ribbon around their necks. People want to be more tigerish nowadays.”
“Harriet’s absolutely right,” said Anne.
“Of course this is all guesswork,” said Harriet. “No one’s ever accused me of being kind. Or pretty. My words are ‘striking,’ and ‘dynamic.’ I think I must come across like a stevedore.”
“Women are never satisfied with their looks,” said Ben.
“Jane is,” said Harriet. “She knows she’s beautiful. But that’s because she’s had Ben for forty years, and he’s told her so often.”
“That’s not why,” said Ben proudly. “It’s because her beauty is so undeniable. She’s the finest woman of her time.”<
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Jane was waiting outside the restaurant.
“How are you, Harriet?” she said. “Have you told Anne you’re going to hire her?”
“Not yet, but I’m about to.”
“And, of course, Anne, you’ll say yes.”
“I’ll have to hear first, Jane.”
“Nonsense, it’s perfect for you.”
She was right, Anne learned, when Harriet made her offer. She would work in the office three days a week: she would research the exhibits and do the catalogues. Her first job would be to do a complete inventory of the gallery’s holdings. The pay would be small. Ten thousand dollars a year. But she would be free to do more work freelance if she desired.
“So you’ll take it, of course,” said Jane, reading the menu in a slow bored way.
“Of course,” said Anne.
“Bravo,” Ben said. “Let’s order wine.”
They toasted Anne and Harriet. It was luck, Anne thought, once more good luck had brushed her with its tender and enlivening wing. She knew that she had done good work, but many others did and were not so conveniently rewarded.
“I must tell you about my worst au pair and then I want to hear your story,” said Harriet. “She was a sculptress from Bennington, in love with a young Algerian man who had come here for a year. She ran up phone bills of hundreds of dollars, which I could never get her to pay. I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t feel I could withhold her salary. She just kept saying ‘I can’t pay for that, I don’t have the money.’ But she kept on making the calls. She said she couldn’t help it, whatever that meant. The children hated her. Every time I walked in the door, everyone was screaming and crying. But there was nothing I could do. I had to finish a show. I sat them down at the kitchen table and told them they would simply have to cope for six more weeks and there was nothing else to say.”
“And did they?” asked Anne.
“Of course. They always do.”
“My situation’s so much less bad than that,” Anne said. She told them about Laura’s lurking presence, her eavesdropping, her fanatical cleanliness. To her astonishment, as she told the stories everyone laughed. When she described Laura’s refolding all the paper bags into precisely identical shapes, the three people at the table thought it was hilarious. Anne felt as if she had just been told she could put down the sack of stones she carried around her neck. If she could see Laura’s behavior as ludicrous, perhaps she could be free of her. It was only another two months; if she could just laugh at Laura. She felt as if her friends had introduced her to a new invention, the typewriter or the vacuum cleaner. It was wonderful what they had done for her.