No More Lonely Nights

by Nicole McGehee

  “My room’s this way.” Anton picked up two bags and indicated the direction with a jerk of his head. Dominique started to follow her husband up the stairs, as his mother silently watched the pair.

  Anton stopped, one foot on the step above. “Will you bring up one of the bags?” he said over his shoulder to Dominique.

  They had no household help? It was a concept totally foreign to her. In Egypt, all but the poorest had servants. But perhaps the same wasn’t so in America. Dominique’s only reference point, once again, was the movies. In most of the films she’d seen, a uniformed woman with a white pinafore hovered in the background. Dominique tried to recall if Danielle had ever referred to domestics in her letters. She couldn’t remember.

  With each moment that passed, Dominique felt more out of place, but she didn’t want to show it. She turned and looked at the bags lining the foyer. Mechanically, she went and picked one up.

  At the top of the stairs, she and Anton turned into a narrow, dim hallway. They passed a large bedroom with several windows. Dominique glanced inside, noting a white chenille bedspread and a run-of-the-mill bedroom set—headboard, bureau, and end tables in matching wood. Then they entered a smaller room.

  Dominique stopped in the threshold and gasped. It was a world unto itself, a cavern of treasures. A canopied double bed draped with extravagant maroon brocade dominated the space. It was beautifully complemented by end tables of rosewood and walnut marquetry upon which rested silk-shaded chinoiserie lamps. Opposite the bed, a burled walnut chest of drawers—obviously a valuable antique—was decorated with items that revealed its occupant’s sybaritic bent: a sterling silver brush, comb, and hand mirror; a brass-trimmed mahogany case containing three Baccarat decanters labeled “port,” “whiskey,” and “sherry”; a mirrored tray of men’s colognes; and a tooled leather box for cuff links and studs.

  Anton watched his wife with a smug expression. She could see that he enjoyed her astonishment. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve given Maman the bigger room.”

  “No…” Dominique said vaguely, still trying to take in her surroundings. She did a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn, noting the gilded wall sconces and fine paintings. When she stopped, she was looking into the hall. The door opposite must be the bathroom, she thought. She crossed to it and looked inside. Black and white tile dating from the 1930s; old, worn-looking fixtures. The space was only slightly larger than her shower at home, and a rack of drying nylons told her that they would share it with Anton’s mother. But, Dominique tried to rationalize, it was clean and contained all the necessities. She’d have to get used to it, she told herself firmly.

  She crossed back to the astounding bedroom. “Anton”—she hesitated— “are these all things you brought with you from your other house?”

  Anton emptied the contents of his valise on the bed and looked up with a puzzled expression. There was a second of silence. Then he said, “Oh, yes, yes.” He straightened and brushed past Dominique. “Put those things away. I’ll get the trunks.”

  She stared at Anton’s departing back, still a little bewildered. Why was his room the only one containing items of value? Didn’t he care about the rest of his house? And wasn’t a man accustomed to such resplendent surroundings also used to having servants? Before Anton reached the staircase, Dominique ventured a question. “Anton…” He turned, his expression one of elaborate patience. Dominique continued, “Don’t you have help?” The change on his face stopped her cold.

  His brows drew together and his complexion darkened. He came back to where she was standing and gripped her upper arm, leading her back into his room. “Things are expensive in America!” he said in a low, fervent voice. “I told you I had a downturn! As soon as we get the first payment from your mother’s cotton, we’ll be able to do more.”

  Dominique tilted her head and gave him a look of bewilderment. “But Anton, when you proposed, I never thought we’d have to depend on Avallon Cotton stock!”

  He pointed an accusing finger at her. “You’ve had it easy all your life. You’ve been spoiled,” he declared, his voice rising. “And I don’t intend to coddle you. You can ask your mother to send you more money, but don’t complain to me!”

  Dominique recoiled. He couldn’t have surprised her more if he’d punched her. In a split second, he’d changed from welcoming to antagonistic. Until now, Dominique had supposed that he was at least attracted to her, a much younger woman. Did he find nothing admirable, alluring, or even likable about her? Was it only Solange’s money?

  She faced him squarely, her hands on her hips, her eyes snapping with indignation. “I am not complaining, I am merely asking a question, which you’ve now answered! And I am not going to ask my mother for more money!”

  Anton looked taken aback by the strength of her tone. With an air of wounded dignity, he said, “I would have hoped for my wife to be supportive. My business has succumbed to… difficulties. You’re well off…” His sentence tapered off. He was silent for a moment. He tugged at the knot of his tie as though it were too tight. Then he resumed. “After all, it isn’t unusual for a wife to help her husband when there’s trouble.”

  Dominique studied her husband. “What trouble?” she asked suspiciously.

  Anton’s eyes shifted away from hers. “Well, the business has been difficult to reestablish. You see, I—”

  “What!” Dominique had no patience for a long, oblique explanation. She looked around at the exquisite bedroom, at her husband’s suit. Everything was of the best quality. “How do you pay for…” She swept her hand downward in a gesture that clearly indicated his clothes. Then she threw her arms wide to indicate their surroundings.

  Dominique saw the same sly look on Anton’s face that she had seen earlier on his mother’s. “I have savings… investments,” he said cryptically.

  Dominique regarded him steadily. In Egypt, it was not uncommon for well-off men to live on their investments and never work. Like European aristocracy, they spent their days playing polo, golf, or cards. But now that she’d seen Anton’s home, she could hardly believe he was wealthy enough for such a life.

  As though reading her thoughts, he said defensively, “I want to work, you know. I just need some money to get my business back on its feet.”

  Dominique’s eyes narrowed. “And you thought I would provide it?”

  Anton shifted his feet. At first his expression was sheepish, but Dominique could see that whatever shame he felt he quickly suppressed. The cold mask fell back into place. “We are married. What’s yours is mine now.”

  Dominique raised her eyebrows sardonically. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but unless you want some of my dresses, you’ve already taken all my assets.” She was now thankful that she’d been too frightened by the customs house incident to risk bringing any important jewelry from Egypt.

  “Well…” Anton hesitated. “Then we’ll just have to wait for the cotton money. It’s only a few more months.”

  But Dominique had already decided she wasn’t going to wait for anyone to give her money. “In the meantime,” she announced, “I’m going to find a job.” She prepared herself for an onslaught of protest. She remembered Anton’s shock and disapproval of her job with the RAF.

  But, surprisingly, Anton protested not at all. He shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.” Then, as an afterthought, “But remember, I handle the money.”

  Dominique turned her face toward the feeble light and opened her eyes. Everything was smoky. With a gasp of surprise, she jerked to a sitting position. Her eyes were wide open now, but she had no idea where she was. She looked around. The sheets beside her were rumpled and there were oily stains on the pillow. Suddenly, she remembered. Anton’s hair pomade. She shuddered and averted her eyes until she was once more gazing out the window. The fog, it was so thick! Dominique had never seen any like it. Fascinated, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded to the window. The grayish white cloud obscured everything. It seemed hard to believe that
the day before had been bright and sunny.

  She turned to the gold Florentine clock on Anton’s nightstand. It was already past nine! With sudden vigor, Dominique moved to the closet. She selected the first casual dress she came to, a pale yellow cotton shift, then hurried downstairs, eager to search the newspaper’s Help Wanted section.

  When she reached the living room, she found Madame Renard in one of the brown armchairs. The older woman had a pair of glasses perched on her nose and she was mending a shirt of Anton’s.

  “Bonjour” Dominique said.

  The old woman raised her head and returned the greeting with a lukewarm smile. Once again, Dominique was acutely conscious of the woman’s scrutiny.

  Dominique tried for a friendly tone. “Have you had breakfast?” she asked.

  “I don’t eat breakfast. Anton already had his. He’s gone out. There’s some coffee left, I think. And there’s some bread if you want to make toast.”

  Dominique smelled bacon and noted that she was offered none. But she didn’t care, she was used to the French-style breakfast of bread, jam, and café au lait. “Thank you,” Dominique said. She passed through the living room, then the small dining room behind it, and leaned into the swinging kitchen door.

  Madame Renard’s voice stopped her. “By the way…” Dominique stepped back into the dining area and looked attentively at the older woman. “I made Anton’s breakfast this morning. But in the future, I’m sure you’ll want to get up and make it for him.”

  Dominique raised her eyebrows. What was she supposed to say to that? She decided on the truth, though she knew Madame Renard would disapprove. “I’m afraid he wouldn’t like that. You see, I have no idea how to cook.”

  Madame Renard put down the shirt she was mending and removed her glasses. She gave Dominique a penetrating look. “Anton told me of your background. I’m afraid it hasn’t prepared you for life in America. I warned my son—” She stopped. After an awkward pause, she said with a trace of sympathy, “Anton tells me that your father died when you were a child.”

  Dominique came forward until she was standing at the threshold of the living room. “Yes, I was nine.” Her voice grew somber, as it always did when she spoke of her father’s death.

  Madame Renard tilted her head. “Of course I understand that you were not brought up with a man in the house. But surely a woman of your mother’s breeding has told you what’s expected of a wife.”

  An icy calm settled over Dominique. For the second time in as many weeks, she—and Solange—were being criticized for her failure to behave as Anton’s subordinate. She bit the inside of her mouth, determined not to lose her temper, but equally determined to stand up for herself. “Frankly, Madame Renard, your son led my mother to believe that he was a wealthy man with an active business. Mother—and I —assumed that my life here would be very much as it was at home.”

  The older woman regarded her daughter-in-law steadily. She showed no sign of surprise.

  Dominique continued. “As I’m sure you know, the payment to Anton when my mother’s cotton is sold will be very generous. And he’ll continue to profit from his stock. Furthermore” —she walked slowly toward her mother-in-law—“he took two thousand dollars from my handbag as soon as we were married.” Dominique stopped and crossed her arms. “So, to put it bluntly, Anton has profited from this marriage while I—” She hesitated, afraid she would go too far. This was her mother-in-law, after all. She owed her some respect. In addition, what good did it do to criticize Anton to his mother, who adored and depended on him?

  Madame Renard’s lips tightened until they were nearly invisible. “A woman’s duty is to look after her husband. These are things that every wife does for her husband and you’ll need to learn. You don’t intend to neglect that, I hope,” she challenged.

  “I’ll do my share,” Dominique replied at once. “But I won’t be the maid here,” she warned. “And I’m going to find a job.”

  Anton’s mother leapt to her feet. “Your first duty is to your husband! If working is an excuse to neglect—”

  “I’ll do my share!” Dominique cut in, her voice rising. She fixed the other woman with a level gaze.

  Madame Renard threw the shirt she was holding on the chair and strode from the room.

  Dominique’s stomach churned with tension. It occurred to her that, so far, she had found little in her married life to recommend it.

  After the first few bumpy days, however, Dominique discovered the key to peace with Anton: the promise of money. She quickly found a job as a secretary in the international currency department of San Francisco’s largest bank, and she looked forward to going to work each day. As soon as she hopped aboard the cable car that whizzed her downtown, she felt more alive. The atmosphere in the financial district throbbed with vitality. Everyone walked purposefully, eager to get on with their work. And when Dominique entered the sprawling marble lobby of her bank, she felt as though she belonged. She quickly made friends, and one in particular, a pretty Chinese-American named Susan Lee, became her daily lunch companion.

  Anton, on the other hand, took little interest in her job except on Fridays, payday. Then he waited outside the bank for her and collected the cash she had in her purse, leaving her enough for the next week’s lunches and nylons. What he didn’t know was that Dominique had opened an account and was depositing almost one third of her fifty-dollar paycheck in it. It was her secret way of rebelling.

  As for the disputed housework, Anton’s mother prepared the evening meals and made the beds. After dinner, the women took turns cleaning up. Dominique would then retire to the bathroom to wash and set her hair for the next day. Anton would either remain in the living room with his mother or, just as often, go out to play cards.

  Sunday was the family’s day for major house cleaning. The first time, Dominique, in her ignorance, allowed Anton’s mother to “teach” her. This meant that Madame Renard hovered over Dominique, every so often issuing laconic criticism. The next Sunday, Dominique insisted that they would finish more quickly if they divided the tasks. So Anton’s mother dusted, vacuumed, and changed the sheets, while Dominique scrubbed the bathroom and kitchen and swept. She even persuaded Anton to haul the basket of wash to the basement laundry room on the grounds that the job required a man’s strength.

  It was the only work Dominique ever saw Anton do. He disappeared from the house before she left for work, but what he did all day, Dominique didn’t know. He occasionally brought home a new item of clothing for himself—a silk tie or a set of handkerchiefs. These he would carefully place between layers of tissue in his bureau.

  One evening, as Dominique watched this meticulous procedure, she asked him, “Have you ever thought about decorating the rest of the house? I feel a little guilty that our bedroom is so much grander than your mother’s.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Anton said flatly. “Hers is bigger.”

  His shortness made Dominique wonder if he begrudged his mother the master bedroom. But why should he? It was his house. It had been his choice to give it to her. Dominique changed tacks. “But wouldn’t it be nice to redecorate the living room?”

  Anton shrugged. “We’ll see in November.”

  It was a constant refrain. Anton made it clear that almost every aspect of their future depended on the cotton money. Dominique didn’t like that, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it. And she couldn’t help looking forward to the day when Anton would start his new business and they would no longer depend on her dowry. She imagined that when he was busy again—earning a living, feeling productive—he would be less withdrawn. It was this hope that made her daily life with him bearable.

  Nights, though, were more distressing. Dominique read as late as she dared, but all too often, when she turned off the light, she would hear Anton’s voice in the dark.

  “Lift up your nightgown,” he would instruct. It was a frequent ritual, an odiously frequent ritual. Dominique had learned to insert her diaphragm before
going to bed, as routinely as she brushed her teeth, all the while dreading what was to come. Oddly enough, it wasn’t Anton’s touch that was so objectionable, it was the sickly sweet smell of his hair pomade. It would assail her nostrils as he rose and fell on top of her. The smell had begun to symbolize all that repelled Dominique about Anton. It was greasy and suffocating—a failed attempt at order and refinement, like Anton’s entire life. So she turned her head away and imagined he was Stephen in order to get through the invasion.

  Afterward, her mind would drift to thoughts of divorce. What if Stephen were free? What if his reconciliation with Serena hadn’t worked? To see him again, just see him… But then what? Dominique had been indoctrinated since childhood to believe that marriage was permanent, divorce unacceptable. How could she face her family if she left Anton? He might be lazy, but he didn’t abuse her. She might not like the fact that he had taken her money, but it wasn’t unusual. Besides, marriage demanded compromise.

  Then an event occurred that changed everything.

  Dominique was home one Saturday in July enjoying her solitude. Anton had gone to play cards and his mother was at the market. The sun sparkled through the living-room window, urging Dominique outside. She threw open the front door and stepped onto her porch, inhaling the warm, fresh air. Her next-door neighbor looked up from his roses and waved his pruning shears in greeting.

  “Hello, Mr. Vitalli.” Dominique smiled with pleasure. The old man was a masterful gardener and the sweet fragrance of his blooms perfumed the air.

  “Gorgeous day!” Mr. Vitalli called back.

  Squinting her eyes against the sun, Dominique peered at the flower-filled terra-cotta pots that lined Mr. Vitalli’s stairs. She wondered if Anton would give her money to buy flowerpots for their own house; she wouldn’t use her own savings.

  The ring of the telephone interrupted Dominique’s thoughts. She turned and hurried into the house, wondering if it was Susan, from the bank. They had talked about seeing a movie that afternoon. She eagerly picked up the phone, which rested on a table near the couch. The voice that greeted Dominique was that of a stranger. The woman spoke in rapid French, clearly mistaking Dominique for the elder Madame Renard.