Double Happiness

by Mary-Beth Hughes

  That’s okay.

  Good girl, said Faye.

  Sweetheart, my mother sighed.

  Don’t worry about it.

  Well, maybe when it’s a little longer than a paragraph you’ll send it to me and I can take a good hard look.

  It’s supposed to be a paragraph.

  Faye smirked, and now that it was really dark outside, my mother took off her sunglasses and gave her a serious look. But that communication was lost because my mother’s eyes were so swollen, so deeply purpled and bruised even in the dim light of the tiki torches, that Faye stopped laughing and put down her stem glass.

  I’m calling Lou, said Faye. Lou was her scum of an ex-husband. But he was also an orthopedic surgeon. My mother said, Absolutely not. But Faye plugged her ears with soft-looking fingers and marched straight into the guesthouse. Lou arrived within fifteen minutes. He and Faye were surprisingly cordial for two people who hated each other’s guts. Lou remembered me fondly from golf-club brunches when I was a child and then forgot me completely while he dressed my mother’s wounds in the surgical light of Faye’s guest dressing room. He gave my mother a sedative. In the morning she was very tired, so Faye drove me to the bus.

  I had to work that afternoon at the movie theater and my mother had urged me to go. Don’t worry, my mother said. She was incredibly sleepy. Don’t worry, Faye said. Don’t worry, said the painter when I told him on the phone.

  Soon after that, my legs began to give out spontaneously; I didn’t even have to think about my mother. My legs would wobble out of the blue and then hip, knee, ankle would collapse in a ripple. It made it tricky to walk. The steps down to the subway, which I was obliged to take from Gramercy Park to the movie theater, became a challenge. This wouldn’t have been that big a deal, since I was already making the transition from modern dance to fiction writing, but I did have one last performance scheduled at the famous White Columns. My “Pelican Song,” old Sven had called it over the speakerphone at Christmas. His last pronouncement, as it turned out. My mother and her husband had always planned to attend. They’d sent a giant check to the choreographer during his holiday fund-raiser. And he’d tacked on a three-minute solo at the end of the piece, “Wings of Love,” for me. Now the performance was minutes away. And my sudden leg-melts were trying the patience of even this well-funded choreographer.

  I decided to address my condition by writing about it. Master the problem by making it conscious. So I began work on a full-scale paragraph to describe what I understood about my mother and her husband. This was more difficult than I’d guessed. In my mother’s husband’s novels, the women, I knew from several brief glances over the years, had fabulous, surprisingly active nipples, and insatiable appetites for very straight-ahead penis-worshipping sex acts. In my paragraph, there was sex, certainly, but of a different order.

  The two weeks between my Mother’s Day visit and the performance were terrible. The worry, the rehearsals, the distress of composition (I began, oddly, to sympathize about this with my mother’s husband). And the rain. Every single day. I was forced to work double shifts pouring bagged popcorn into the pretend popper unit. Everyone in the West Village was coming to the movies, it seemed. By the time I got home each night, it was late, and the phone at Faye’s guest cottage rang and rang.

  My painter finally recovered enough to spend a night of love on my air mattress. We jiggled and drooled and painted our chests with Nutella. When the phone blared after midnight we assumed it was his mother, who’d insisted on taking my number. But the answering machine speaker played out an echoing voice in the little room that, even without words, only crying, I knew was my own mother instead. I scrambled to pluck up the receiver. Wait, wait, I said. Hello?

  She was still there, breathing hard, whimpering, Darling? And now I felt my sternum shudder and give. Where are you? I asked.

  At home. She was locked in her bathroom, the one with the pinwheel wallpaper, the Jacuzzi tub, and the pocket door she had long debated: solid core or green glass? I could hear, even behind her harsh breathing, the bang of a fist against the swirly maple she’d finally picked and a muffled growl just like old Sven warming up for his holiday message. It’s locked, she said. I listened. The window, she said. And I thought hard. The window opened onto a trellis that reached down to a patio which bounded the putting green. If she pushed her pelvis— she didn’t like that word; hips then, I said, keep your hips close to the wall of the house. She could probably shimmy down.

  That’s crazy, said the painter, and laughed. (That laugh ended our relationship.) Flush the toilet, I said in a whisper, as if her husband could hear me, flush before you open the latch. I would get the next bus to Freehold. Just walk into town, can you do that?

  Of course, she said, putting me in my place. If she could get out the window, she’d see me there. He called me a sick, rotting cunt? she said, as a question, as if reviewing whether she was making the right move.

  Well, you’re not, I said. Be careful of your feet. There might be broken glass.

  Sweetheart, she whispered, for goodness sake.

  My mother was a woman who dressed for bed. When the bus pulled in at the all-night diner in Freehold I scanned beyond the parking lot for where her cream satin peignoir might be flitting through the holly bushes. The exhaust-smelling heat of the bus had made the Nutella gluey. My sleep T-shirt stuck to my chest. I backed down the exit steps, uncertain. The bus driver stared at me. Eyes on the road, you pervert, I barked, then felt ashamed. My mother would be ashamed, too, if she’d heard me.

  I had a coat for her and some shoes. Sneakers are for athletes, she always maintained. So I carried my only pair of black sling-backs and a lovely silk overcoat she’d given me, but no money. I’d borrowed the fare from the painter. Now, I realized, as the bus chugged away and the quiet settled in, that my mother probably didn’t have much cash on her, either. Didn’t matter. First I’d find her, and then, once she was appropriately dressed, we’d hitchhike our way to Faye’s guest cottage.

  Was it an hour? It’s hard to know in the dark. But eventually, when she didn’t show up, I began the long walk past the cornfields to her house. I was shivering though the weather was balmy, and I was hungry. Each lumpy-looking shadow made me afraid I might find her lying by the side of the road like some fallen animal. But I didn’t find her. When I came to the end of her drive the house was lit as if for a holiday party. The button lights glowed to trace the curve of the the drive through the fragrant peach trees. The deep porch, its long planters thick with ivy and juniper, was aglow. It seemed every room was lit: the writer’s den, the guest suite, all the reception rooms, the master bedroom. Around back the garage doors were flung open as if the party might flood into its bays. The blue Caddy my mother liked to drive was parked close to the mudroom door, but the Mercedes, her husband’s staid sedan, was missing. I didn’t need to go inside the house to know she wasn’t there.

  My dearest heart, my mother wrote to me. You’ll find it strange, I know, but we’ve flown away to try again. It’s difficult for a writer, maybe for any true artist, to make a good life here. Old Sven was kinder to you than to his own son, as you will see from the enclosed. I love you more than anything, always have, always will.

  My birth date was penciled on the envelope. A bonded courier slid it beneath my door. The letter was typed and unsigned. The bank check was for a hundred-thousand dollars.

  The house in the orchard was sold by old Sven’s personal lawyer in a private auction. He phoned me about furniture and, of course, the manger, but I didn’t want anything. This lawyer tells me from time to time, when I press, that they are both fine, they are in a quiet place now, they just need a little peace. He tells me that my mother sends her best love, as though she’s right there waiting on another extension. Sometimes I think my mother is still looking for me. She just doesn’t recognize me in my suit and leather shoes. Sometimes I scan the back pages of books. I pay close attention to long murder mysteries with women as dispensa
ble, secondary characters. I read the acknowledgments, especially of the authors with phony-sounding names, hoping he will have the courage someday to say how amazing she was, how beautiful, and how she made everything, absolutely everything, possible.

  Horse

  WHEN ISABEL STEPPED FROM HER HONEYMOON BED AND drew the drapes, the view of Atlantic City was awful. Tilted houses, scattered parking lots, municipal buildings rusty from the sea air. The arrangement seemed badly planned or not planned at all, and the elevation of their bedroom was wasted because the ocean was out of sight. Just behind me, Isabel thought. She turned as if to find it there. Tom was sleeping. His lips sometimes vibrated on the exhale. I have wasted him with kisses, she thought. Or at least she hoped she had. Marriage required a certain alignment of mind and body, and she was determined to make good on her end.

  Isabel left the window and went in to draw her first bath in the heart-shaped tub. She chose the lavender bubble bath. She tried to remember, lavender was for fidelity? Lavender was for kindness? She couldn’t recall but earnestly allowed its stream to join the bath water. She was twenty-two. The year was 1967.

  At noon, a tiny bellboy, probably not more than fourteen years old, wheeled in breakfast. As the boy backed out the door, Tom, who was barely sitting up, reached for various pockets, but couldn’t find anything smaller than a twenty and said he would catch him later. The bellboy nodded and smiled, but when Tom rose from the blankets and went into the bathroom, Isabel retrieved a five-dollar bill from her purse and settled the account on the spot. The moment the door whispered shut, she felt uneasy, almost dizzy, and hoped Tom would forget all about the bellboy. She imagined Tom’s confusion when the boy said he’d been tipped, overtipped. Already she was making mistakes. She fiddled with the silvery tops on the dishes, piling them into an awkward stack before Tom came to the table. He mentioned his eggs were cold.

  Breakfast was brief. They were both anxious to get on with the day. Tom hurried into his clothes, barely glancing at Isabel as she sat legs crossed in her new stockings, new shoes, pretty new dress. It was only in the lobby, heading across the massive expanse of green carpet, that Tom pulled her to him. She was walking slightly ahead, looking in her purse for a booklet on sights she had borrowed. He pulled her to him, as if overwhelmed by the sight of her, and kissed her just beneath the earlobe, and whispered, My sweet wife. She felt her heart would break open with relief. She was certain she heard the word newlyweds whispered by admiring bystanders she sensed all about them. The word danced very lightly on the air: newlyweds.

  Beyond the gilded doors she could see how thick and gray the day had become. The cold was nearly visible. She pulled her collar high on her pearl-colored coat, winter-white, a bridal coat, and snuggled against Tom’s arm. The boardwalk was immensely broad, its slats of wood arranged like a herringbone fabric. The waves sputtered and coughed a gray spume far to the left. So far away they seemed like a reel of film draped across the low horizon. Isabel nonetheless was transfixed by the sight of the drab sea. She’d grown up inland and was unaccustomed to water sprawling just out of reach.

  Tom released his arm from Isabel’s and scratched his bare head. Sweetheart, you forgot your hat! Isabel almost said, then stopped. She satisfied the impulse with a brief loving stroke across his windblown hair, then devoted herself to the pages of her tour book and was pleased to find something that would interest them both. The World Famous Diving Horse! Certainly better than skeet ball or the merry-go-round. It wasn’t far, according to the map, and open year-round. So much was still closed in March.

  Tom was willing to be led to the exhibition pier until a better idea presented itself. Did Isabel want to get a drink? Why not? They were on vacation. Honeymoon! Isabel cried. But she wanted to see the horse, didn’t Tom? They could go watch, it wouldn’t take long, and then they could go have a drink.

  It was farther than Isabel’s map had indicated. By the time they reached the pier, Isabel’s cheeks were chafed from the cold. Tom’s gloved hands were deep in his pockets, his collar pulled nearly over his ears. They paid the three-dollar admission then went inside through a low damp tunnel that led to the end of the pier. They were well out into the ocean when they emerged to find a rather rickety arrangement, something like a small arena. Not very sturdy, Isabel thought. The planks rigged for seating looked barely stable. One whole side of the tiny stadium was completely open and a large chunk of gray ocean was revealed in the breach. The sky looked like the water, just a white shade of gray with brackish clouds bumping against each other. A harsh wind scorched through the opening. Tom and Isabel waited perhaps ten minutes for the other spectators to arrive, but no one else came.

  Finally, a gate was released on a platform high above them. The platform had a long tongue, which extended through the gap and over a patch of ocean. Three men struggled above to bring a white horse, a beautiful, mammoth white horse, out onto the stand. Its eyes were covered with blinders, but even so it seemed to sense the waves were sharp and unwelcoming. Isabel thought its eyes must be very gentle, very kind. Some animals had very knowing eyes. She could tell, even from a distance, the white horse was one of them. The men struggled to get the horse to move forward, but it wouldn’t, and each progression toward the sea was accomplished by the horse being dragged as though its hooves were skates across the wood planking, and each forward pull was followed by a desperate skittering back.

  Stupid horse, Tom said. What? said Isabel. But Tom didn’t even look at her. He had his wallet out and was counting the bills inside. I’m not staying for this, he said, it’s a waste of time and money, and he stood up, indicating that they should leave. Well, said Isabel, stalling until she had a clear idea of what to say. She looked up at the horse. It was on its hind legs, its hooves drawn close to its heart. How could she leave? I think we should stay, she said to Tom, I think the horse will jump, don’t you? Fine, he said, stay, and before she knew it he was ducking into the tunnel.

  It had happened so suddenly. They had had a fight, or it seemed as if they had and Isabel didn’t know why. She sat, too confused to follow him and ask what was wrong. She huddled in her coat, which was far too thin for the gusts blowing off the water, and felt a sticky darkness opening up inside of her. She sat there, unable to budge, and watched the horse being coaxed into a dive. Now the men had something tempting in their hands. They waved some treat over the edge of the platform so the horse would be fooled into jumping, but still the horse stayed, impervious to threat or seduction. Isabel couldn’t stop watching. When the horse went up on its hind legs she felt she understood that better than anything she’d ever known. She understood that drawing in, the way the horse’s head lifted back and to the side, away from the foolish men. She understood all that.

  Someone was gently touching her shoulder. She turned, so relieved. Of course he’d come back. She knew he would, even if she’d been afraid to think it. But it was the attendant from the admission gate offering Isabel her money back. Isabel shook her head, no, it was all right, she didn’t want her money. The horse had done the right thing, she said, made the right decision, it’s too cold to jump into the ocean today.

  When the horse was finally led off the platform and the gate had been bolted, Isabel stood, wrapped her coat tighter around her body, and prepared to return to the hotel.

  When she unlocked the door of their suite, Tom’s back was to her. He sat slumped in the black-leather armchair, facing the television. Someone had sent flowers. Plump irises sheathed in pink cellophane were uncentered on the coffee table, the card still sealed. Tom was having his drink. He set a miniature empty bottle down by way of greeting. She approached him unsure what to say. He didn’t ask her anything, didn’t say hello. His face didn’t have that hinged-shut look he had when he was angry. Still, there was nothing to guide her, nothing to signal her.

  She opened the drapes wider. He didn’t stop her or comment. He watched the television screen with indifference. Isabel shook back the gauzy sheers in the windows s
o the whole of the sky and the topsy-turvy buildings were laid out in their unpredictable pattern before her. She pulled her coat close to her chest though the steam heat was stifling, and turned to watch her husband. After a very long while, when he didn’t say anything, she told him, deliberately, on that first full day of their marriage, that the horse had jumped. The horse jumped, she said. It was incredible, she said. Then she stepped up onto their double honeymoon bed without removing her coat or shoes. She let the black heels scar the silver spread. She didn’t care. She lifted her legs up and down, shoes scraping against the bedspread, and held her arms tucked in close to her, bare hands balled like hooves. She couldn’t help it. She twisted her head back and let out a cry. The horse jumped she said, and Tom got up from his chair, a little afraid. My God, Isabel, he said, and thought she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. She teetered on the edge of the bed, her arms starting to wilt, her face wrecked for a cry.

  Come on, Isabel, he whispered, opening his arms. He gently pushed the black chair out of the way. Come on, Isabel, he said and bit down on his lip when he stepped forward needing to catch her.

  Blue Grass

  WHEN I SEE A PRETTY WOMAN NOW, I NO LONGER SAY to myself, Nice face. Instead, I think, There’s someone Sonny could love. If I’m sitting in a coffee shop, I sink behind my cup and hand him over. I imagine him looking at her obliquely, then full on, then straight into her eyes because some tilt of a lash tells him her beauty runs deep.

  Lately I find myself making pilgrimages to Saks Fifth Avenue. I listen to the saleswoman talk about anything, even how everyone paid cash this Christmas, so that she will tell me what I really want to know: some device or potion, some answer. The person I talk to most is Rita. She doesn’t wear a tag, only a discreet SFA enameled clip attached to a cunningly draped scarf. I know her name because of the embarrassing number of visits I’ve paid to her counter.