Bethlehem

by Karen Kelly

  At this point, there were several handkerchiefs dabbing at cheeks, and the other men at the table gazed down with blinking eyes.

  Hollins raised his glass and spoke up. “To many years of friendship, both in the past and yet to come. And, lest we forget the purpose of this little gathering, I offer a toast to the young man across the table. Who could have predicted that the runt of the litter would turn out to be a veritable Viking?” There was laughter all around as Wyatt grinned and shrugged. Hollins waved his glass in a semicircle, engaging the table. “Congratulations on a most spectacular accomplishment, and a toast to your future—on the water and off. To Wyatt!”

  * * *

  Now, standing in the driveway, Wyatt tucked the cookies into the wicker hamper as Chap came out of the house.

  “Not so fast,” Chap said, reaching under the napkin to grab a snickerdoodle before his brother could close the lid. With a crunch, he hopped into the driver’s seat.

  Wyatt walked with Susannah to the Stutz, where Jimmy was waiting. He opened the door, and as she slid into the backseat he leaned forward to plant a quick peck on her cheek.

  “Time’s up, lover boy. Let’s go.” Chap was looking at his watch as he hollered out the window.

  Wyatt shot a hot look over his shoulder, but his expression softened as he turned back to Susannah. “Don’t let him boss you around next Saturday. I’m sorry I can’t be there.”

  “Don’t you worry; I can take care of myself. Besides, India’s new beau can’t make it … so I may as well just hand her my dance card at the outset.” They both knew it—despite India’s love interest in New York, her heart still beat true for Chap. But, although Chap had been her accommodating escort for her own debutante ball, he always managed to keep a brotherly distance. India had fretted about it untold times, late at night on Susannah’s bed. “I can tell he just thinks of me as Kit’s sister,” she lamented once. “Maybe even his own sister.”

  “Oh, I hope not.” Susannah had grimaced. “That would make Wyatt quite the case.”

  Sitting now on the edge of the deep leather car seat, Susannah gently brushed her hand against Wyatt’s cheek. “Row your boat, hotshot.”

  Reluctantly, Wyatt stepped back from the car. “I’ll write when I get there. And I’ll be back in four months. It’s not that long. It will go fast.”

  He looked so bereft standing there that Susannah was reminded of a little boy left alone for the first time, convincing himself that his mother would be home any minute. She blew a kiss out the window as Jimmy pulled away, and Wyatt gave her a small, desultory wave before turning toward his brother, who was honking the horn in the driveway.

  Seven

  NOVEMBER 1962

  “This weather is marvelous. I can’t remember a nicer November. I believe I’ll ask Harriet to set the table for dinner on the terrace.”

  It was unseasonably warm, as it had been all autumn. Susannah had just returned from a short trip to New York and found the others in the conservatory, where Charlie was practicing scales on the Steinway. Daisy was sprawled on the terrazzo floor with a coloring book while Joanna stood behind her son, checking his fingering.

  Although the old upright in the Raffertys’ living room had a few chipped keys and a squeaky pedal, Joanna would be forever grateful that her mother had insisted on piano lessons. At least she could claim that refinement, and she knew her husband’s family approved of her accomplishment. Neither Frank nor his sister, Gigi, had stayed with their childhood lessons, and their mother didn’t hesitate to admit she couldn’t play a note. The piano had been India’s territory.

  In her day, Helen had been quite proficient, but her arthritic fingers no longer complied and she often asked Joanna to play for her while she rested in one of the deep bergère chairs by the tall windows. She even enjoyed looking on while Joanna gave Charlie his lessons, smiling fondly at her great-grandson as he stumbled through “Shortnin’ Bread.”

  “A candlelight dinner under the stars. Lovely idea.”

  As Helen’s voice rose from the depths of the chair, Susannah started, putting a hand to her heart. “Heavens, Mother, you are like a cat in the shadows over there.” She shook her head briskly, recovering her composure. “I may have to put a bell around your neck.” She moved to the piano and smoothed her hand lightly over her grandson’s hair. “Very fine playing, maestro. Please continue.”

  With rote and even precision, Charlie shifted from minor to diminished, while Daisy slinked over on her hands and knees, softly meowing and rubbing her shoulder against her grandmother’s calf.

  Susannah looked down in mock dismay. “Yet another cat!” She furrowed her brow, leaning down to pat the little girl’s head. “Just a kitten, though—it must be a stray. It certainly looks hungry.” Her hand came away quickly as Daisy tried to lick it, and Joanna had to suppress a laugh.

  “How did the meetings go, dear?” Helen was standing shakily, leaning on her cane for support.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Walter and Richard send their best.” Susannah had adjusted very well to her role as financial manager after her husband died. She now sat at the head of the family foundation, meeting with the advisors regularly. “The city was a zoo. You can’t imagine the traffic, and no place to park. Poor Wayne had to make circles around the block during dinner, and to get from Delmonico’s to the Waldorf took forty-five minutes.”

  “It’s a new day. I’m afraid I wouldn’t care for it anymore.” Helen made her way toward the French doors, patting her daughter’s arm as she passed. “You must be worn-out from all that hubbub. Go and draw yourself a nice hot bath, and I’ll tell Harriet to set up the terrace.”

  “I had a thought,” Joanna spoke up as it occurred to her. “Let’s have dinner in the courtyard. It’s so pretty, and no one ever uses it.”

  The courtyard—enclosed on three sides—was situated in the center of the house, just behind the staircase. There were double doors on either side leading to a beautiful stone square with a trickling fountain in the center. It was featured picturesquely from the enormous leaded glass window on the first landing of the staircase, but Joanna had never seen anyone in it but the gardener, tending to the potted wisteria and orange trees. She had noticed a round marble table with curved benches surrounding it that would seat the small group perfectly.

  But her suggestion was met with silence, and then Susannah turned and moved toward the door, her voice oddly distant. “I think I’ll take your advice, Mother. A bath sounds like just the thing.”

  As her daughter left the room, Helen wore an inscrutable expression—vaguely troubled and somehow shrouded. “I think the terrace would be best,” she said softly. “It’s closer to the kitchen.”

  With that, she tottered away, and Charlie launched into his arpeggios.

  * * *

  In summer, the broad terrace on the west side of the house was graced with lingering light, but this far into the year the sun had set well before the dinner hour. Flickering illumination glowed from tall candelabra, and a cavalcade of gas lamps flanked the wide steps descending to the lawn. Because it was a school night, the children had been fed an early dinner and tucked into bed. Frank was in Burns Harbor again, so the dinner party consisted of the usual threesome—what Frank called “the unholy trinity.” While Joanna could still appreciate having companions for dinner, the burden of sustained conversation was getting heavy, and she sometimes thought longingly about taking a TV tray into the library, with only Ed Sullivan for company. The children usually provided a reliable topic, but that evening it wasn’t necessarily a safe one.

  Charlie and Daisy had been born a year and three days apart, and Joanna had always taken great care that each birthday be celebrated individually. A few days earlier, however, her mother-in-law had suggested a single party at Brynmor with a carnival theme and a hired magician. Later that night Joanna had discussed it with Frank. It was a rare opportunity for pillow talk, so instead of responding to her husband’s … less prosaic overtures �
�� she responded to the small shoot of resentment that was growing rapidly into a reedy stalk. Sitting up in bed, she clutched a pillow across her lap. “It’s a little over-the-top, don’t you think? They’re awfully young for that kind of extravagance. And besides, I’m not sure how they’ll feel about sharing the spotlight.”

  Frank reached over to tug on the pillow. “I don’t think it will do any harm. Gigi and I shared a birthday every year. Mother has always been a good party planner.”

  The pillow stayed put. “I guess I never envisioned raising children who had a private circus at their disposal. That seems like a good recipe for distorted values.”

  Frank let go of the pillow and sat up, giving his wife a long, cautionary look. “I would think twice before saying something like that. There are people around you who may take offense.”

  Joanna sighed and closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sorry. Of course I wasn’t thinking of you. But look at Gigi. I mean, she isn’t exactly a model of discipline and self-reliance.”

  Frank chuckled. “Well, you’ve got me there. But that’s just Gigi. She would have been a hedonist even if she’d been raised in a convent.”

  Frank’s twin sister was an inveterate globetrotter who traveled in illustrious circles, and from Joanna’s perspective it was an existence that was, indeed, circular. Gigi never seemed to actually get anywhere—she wasn’t grounded in any sense of the word. Frank referred to his sister’s pattern of behavior as “impulse slavery,” shaking his head at the long parade of whimsy, featuring spectacles like the time she followed the man of her dreams to Thailand, only to find that he ran an opium den.

  “Could we discuss this later?” Frank asked wearily as he leaned back on his pillow. “I’m bushed and I’d like to kiss my wife, if she would just stop talking.”

  But Joanna couldn’t let it go. The months of living at Brynmor in forced companionship and congeniality, largely without Frank by her side, were taking their toll. The pressure was subtle, but nonetheless it had built up a good head of steam. She looked around slowly. It was a beautiful bedroom—the largest of the guest rooms in the east wing—with gilded Louis XV furniture and fringed silk taffeta draperies on tall, leaded windows—but the absence of anything that would identify it as her own hit her with sudden force. It was a breathless, bewildering moment, and a feeling like fear pushed at her heart.

  “Later … like, next year? Their birthdays are coming up. If we don’t stop this train before it leaves the station…” Joanna wiped the sleeve of her nightgown brusquely across her eyes, further frustrated by her tears. They were born not only of the feeling that she was losing her identity and control of her life, but also—and even more acute—of the threat to a sacred expectation: if there was going to be a power struggle in the household, she needed to know that her husband would stand behind her.

  Whether the want was in the ken or the caring, Frank effectively put up his own roadblock when he rolled his eyes with a small, exasperated huff. “It’s a birthday party. What’s not to like about magic? I think you may be contriving problems where there aren’t any.”

  “Contriving?”

  And that was that. Joanna reached over to switch off the lamp on the nightstand, and turned toward the wall—still clutching the pillow.

  * * *

  Under the moonlight and unaware, Susannah broached the topic again. “I found a wonderful magician in New York. He does a children’s show with rabbits and doves, the usual things. And he can bring an apparatus to make cotton candy. I think the children would love that, don’t you?” The question was clearly just rhetoric; she took a dainty bite of tomato aspic and looked to Joanna for agreement.

  Joanna could have kicked herself for not having a ready response. In the dim recesses of her subconscious, she wanted to kick Frank, too. He had left very early the morning after their conversation and they hadn’t spoken since. Although the stew had been simmering for several days, she wasn’t ready to serve it yet. She needed his backup. As usual, he wasn’t there.

  “Well, I’m not sure they need all of that.…” Joanna could hear the meek hesitancy in her voice. She straightened her back, forcing a light laugh. “The most they’ve experienced so far has been pin the tail on the donkey. Maybe just some games and cake … We could let them each have their own little party with their classmates.” She took a sip of water; as a diversion, it was a feeble resort.

  “Nonsense. The entertainment of children is best left to professionals.” Susannah made the pronouncement as a matter of fact. “And it isn’t as though we’re bringing in acrobats and ponies. Just a simple magician. Efficient and effective.” She snapped her fingers, her smile beneficent.

  In its dismissive, patronizing, revealing resonance the word rang in Joanna’s ears: nonsense. She looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap. She could see she was defeated—any attempt to put forth an argument would make her look peevish and ungrateful, or worse, rigid and neurotic. There was no real option to stand her ground. She was in the strange, winless position of having to cede control so as not to seem unreasonably controlling.

  She drew a deep breath. “Yes, I see your point. Just a simple magician. They’ll be thrilled.” Her smile was tight and the tone of her voice was at distinct odds with the words, but the other women at the table didn’t seem to notice as they moved on to the news of Eleanor Roosevelt’s recent death.

  “I read that she had requested a small, private funeral, but it turned out to be quite the affair.” Despite the mournful topic, Helen was smiling. “Both President Kennedy and Vice President Johnson were there, can you imagine? Eisenhower and Truman, too. A remarkable show of respect! She was an astounding woman.” Helen looked to Joanna. “Did you know that Hep and I had dinner with President and Mrs. Roosevelt when they were in the White House? It was in appreciation for the company’s contribution to the war.”

  Joanna was mute. She should have been accustomed by now to the rarefied air of her new surroundings, but at times like this it could still make her feel faintly dizzy.

  Her dismayed silence didn’t seem to register, however, as the old woman continued. “Mrs. Roosevelt was a splendid conversationalist. She was just full of curiosity about the industry. She knew quite a bit about the company’s curriculum vitae—the buildings and the bridges and such—but she wanted to hear all about the defense contracts … the tank arsenals and bomber plants and armor-plate operations. What a curious, bright mind!”

  “Good lord, that sounds absolutely dreadful.” Susannah shook her head in distaste. “I can’t imagine a more tedious topic. I was always thankful that neither my father nor my husband was inclined to talk shop at the dinner table. Raw-steel production capacity does not a dazzling discussion make.”

  Helen chuckled as Harriet cleared the dinner plates. “At any rate, I held that woman in the highest esteem, and I’m sorry to hear she’s gone. It’s a loss to our country.”

  “I can’t think of the name of that compound—the Roosevelt home. I remember seeing a photograph and thinking the house resembled Brynmor.” Susannah dipped her spoon into a small ramekin of chocolate mousse.

  “Yes, Springwood. It is remarkably similar in style. It’s on the Hudson, in New York. She’s buried there now, with her husband.” Helen’s eyes traveled the distance of decades. “Do you recall that darling little Scottie, Fala?” It had become evident of late that Helen was forgetting things in the day to day, but her memory for times past was as clear as glass. “He never left the president’s side. Mrs. Roosevelt said the poor thing wasn’t the same after her husband died. And do you know that dear little dog is buried there too? Right next to his master.”

  With these words, the image of a grave marker—small, plain, practically hidden from view—came to Joanna. Leaning back in her chair, she gazed absently at the flame of a candle, drifting to a day in October.

  She was walking behind Daniel as he pushed a handcart laden with a heavy granite headstone. Suddenly he stopped and put one knee to the
ground, laying his hand on something Joanna couldn’t see. Looking down, he spoke in a subdued, measured cadence:

  “Soon will be growing

  Green blades from her mound,

  And daisies be showing

  Like stars on the ground,

  Till she form part of them—

  Ay—the sweet heart of them,

  Loved beyond measure

  With a child’s pleasure

  All her life’s round.”

  Joanna had stared at him, moved beyond words. Stepping forward, she saw a small stone marker in the grass.

  Daniel looked up at her. “Thomas Hardy. You probably know it.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t. It’s beautiful.” She couldn’t see the inscription, and was almost afraid to ask. “Who is it?”

  Rising, he brushed his hand over the grass—a quick back and forth, like a rough caress. “This is the very unauthorized grave of a very good dog.”

  Before she had really gotten to know him, Joanna knew just a little about how Daniel had come to Bethlehem. Doe had given her a briefing shortly after they’d met. She began by explaining that it would have been entirely plausible that she’d have failed to recognize her own grandson. Although her daughter, Sarah, had written with the birth of each child, every time the Janssens made the two-hour drive to Lancaster, they were placidly but resolutely turned away at the door. Nonessential association with the outside world was forbidden by the tenets of the Community. The appearance of their old Dodge in front of the neat, white clapboard farmhouse was looked upon as the worst kind of breach—as if someone had parked a plague cart in a schoolyard. And so, Doe and Nico would head home heartsick—with nothing to show for their efforts but a glimpse of small, serious faces peering out the windows.