Thinking of birthdays made her remember an awful habit she had been getting into lately—opening The New York Times each morning to the obituary page and noticing at what ages men were dying. So-and-so dead at forty-seven. So-and-so dead at fifty-six. Somebody else dead at thirty-eight. And so on. And here was her father, at sixty-six, hale and hearty, going strong. He would outlive them all, and it was a perfectly horrid habit she had been getting into, disgraceful, and even thinking about it made her ashamed. If only he had not warped her so, when it came to money.
And now, of course, she had no way to mail the letter. It was a mile to the nearest box, and Charlie had the car. He always had the car. With her job, they would have to work out something about the car; he could simply not have it all day long; it wasn’t fair to her. And she was not going to borrow Genny’s car again, even though Genny, with her flu, certainly wouldn’t be using it. She had borrowed Genny’s car once, and that was enough. There was an unwritten rule on the Lane against borrowing things, and besides, she didn’t like to be a borrower. In Genny’s little car she had driven out to the Melville estate, where Tessa lived, and had stopped for a moment outside the gate, at the foot of the long, curving drive. Charlie’s car was parked in front of the house, and the windows of the sprawling white house were empty, silent, offering no clue whatever as to what might be going on inside. Somehow she had thought the house would be grander. But it wasn’t much of a house, though Charlie had said there was a pool. Behind it, probably. Maybe it was pretty inside. Then, all at once, she had noticed a tall blond young man who looked like an oarsman in his blue pullover, standing just inside the gate behind some rhododendron, taking down the number on the license plate. She stepped on the accelerator and drove away in panic.
The Rootlets had many branches. That was the significance of their name. But they all sprouted outward from Taproot, the parent organization that was dedicated to a large assortment of good deeds ranging in their concern from the mentally disoriented of Westmount to unwed mothers in Peru. No job was too big, no need too small. Some Rootlet nodules were better than others. By which they meant that in some Rootlet branches the ladies had more fun. Some Rootlets took themselves dreadfully seriously and talked about nothing but the Anti-Poverty Bill and birth control at their meetings. The group the Lane ladies belonged to was not like these. They had fun at being Rootlets and concluded all their meetings with cocktails. And it was not true, as some people had implied, that the Rootlets were snobby. The only requirements for membership were a willingness to work and being a nice congenial person who fitted in. The Rootlets were quite democratic. There was even a Rootlet group in that section of Westmount known slyly as “the Reservation,” just for Jewish girls. All this Alice Mayhew, Vera Phelps, and Jane Willey were explaining to Nancy Lord on Thursday over their luncheon table at the club.
“It really sounds great fun,” Nancy said, “but I’m really wondering if I’m going to have the time.”
“It’s just a couple of hours on Wednesday afternoons.”
“Well, you see,” Nancy said, “on Monday morning I become a working girl.”
“What?” Jane Willey said.
“Do you know that very attractive new shop in town called Singleton’s? Well, I’ve always been interested in decorating and I’m going to be helping out there, starting Monday.”
“You mean every day? Full time?”
“Yes.”
“Well!” Jane Willey said. “I’m sure that’s going to be very—interesting for you.”
“I’m looking forward to it enormously. But you see, my Wednesdays will be—”
Alice Mayhew leaned across the table and said, “Does Genny know about this?”
“I told her I was thinking about it, but I haven’t told her yet that I got the job.”
“Oh, dear!” Alice said.
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“Genny isn’t going to like this at all,” Alice said.
“Why not?” Nancy said.
Vera Phelps put down her fork. “You know? I can’t eat another bite. I feel so guilty eating food that Genny’s paying for, knowing that Genny doesn’t know about this.…”
“I don’t understand what you’re all so upset about,” Nancy said.
“Dear,” Alice said, “don’t you realize that it was Genny’s idea to ask you into the Rootlets? Don’t you realize what that means? How important it is to have someone like Genny sponsor you? That’s the whole point of this lunch, practically. Oh, dear! Genny will hit the roof.”
The two of them passed very quickly in front of the dining-room door, on their way into the bar. They had not seen her; Nancy was sure of that. But the other women at the table had seen the two of them going into the bar, and now the silence was awful.
Nancy took a deep breath. “That was Charlie and Tessa!” she said brightly. “I just saw them go into the bar.”
Heavily: “Yes.”
“That means she’s finished posing. She gets so restless, Charlie says. They have to break it up—”
“Yes.”
“I probably should go in and say hello to them,” Nancy said.
“Really?” said Vera Phelps.
And suddenly they were all very excited and, dear God, it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do.
“Oh, take us with you, please!” Jane Willey cried. “I’d love to meet her!”
“Oh, yes!” said Vera.
“I hate to interrupt them. They’re probably talking business, and we’d be—”
“Oh, they’re not talking business! What business would they be talking about? They’re just having a drink!”
“Please, please! Introduce us.”
“No, I think—”
“Oh, please! Why not?”
Alice Mayhew, who had been much less fervid than the others, looked at her watch, and applying fresh lipstick to her round mouth, said, “Actually, I’ve already met her. And I do have an errand to do this afternoon. Jane, can I drop you somewhere?”
“Oh, Alice!” cried Jane. “Why do you have to spoil everything for the rest of us? We haven’t met her! You’re getting just like Genny, Alice, always bragging how she knows Tessa Morgan!”
Nancy looked gratefully at Alice, who had become her ally. “And I’ve never even met her myself,” she said. “And so I really don’t like to barge in.”
“But she’s with your husband, for heaven’s sakes!” Jane said.
“And Alice has to be on her way.…”
“It would be only for a minute.…”
“Oh, please—we’re finished with our lunch,” Vera said. “Let’s go.”
Tessa had just said to him, “The more I come here, the creepier this place gets.” She put down her drink. “Feel them looking at us? And without Bruno—let’s get out of here, hon.”
They had started to rise when he saw them all coming, and he touched Tessa’s arm quickly and said, “Brace yourself. This is it.”
“Oh, God.”
“Tessa, I’d like you to meet my wife, Nancy. And this is Mrs. Mayhew … and Mrs. Phelps … and Mrs. Willey. Tessa Morgan. Isn’t this nice!” he said. “I had no idea you were all going to be here.…”
“How do you do.… How do you do.…” Tessa was saying with a series of her most beautiful smiles. She was really magnificent; he had to admire her. What did she mean, saying she was not an actress? “Mrs. Lord—I’m so glad to finally meet you.” She clasped Nancy’s hand. “Your husband talks about you so much. May I call you Nancy?”
He wished he were an eighth as magnificent as she, because he felt himself on the verge of hysteria. “Where can we round up more chairs?” he said.
“Oh, we can’t stay a minute. We have to run,” Vera Phelps said.
“We hate to interrupt …”
“You’re not interrupting, darling!” Tessa said. Magnificent.
“Miss Morgan, I’ve got to tell you that you are absolutely my favorite star!” Jane Willey said.
> “Oh, thank you,” Tessa’s warm voice said.
Oh, magnificent. All he wanted was for someone to run into the room shouting, “Fire!”
“Your name isn’t—Parsons, is it?” Tessa asked Alice Mayhew. “You look terribly familiar to me.”
“No, it’s Alice Mayhew,” Alice said, looking flustered, “but we have met, at a party here in Westmount—very briefly, several months ago.…”
“Oh, that’s it. How are the darling Parsonses? I haven’t seen them since that evening.”
“Yes. I mean—yes, they’re fine. It’s Parkinson,” Alice said.
“That’s what I said, Parkinson,” Tessa said.
“Wouldn’t you girls like a drink?” Charlie said.
“Oh, we’ve really got to go. I’ve got a fitting at Altman’s,” Alice Mayhew said. “Jane, have you got a way to get home?”
“Are you going to Altman’s?” Jane said. “Oh, that’s perfect—I’ve got to go to Altman’s too. I’ll go with you.”
“Vera, you came in your own car, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I’ve got to pick up Billy at day camp.”
“That leaves Nancy. Nancy, do you have a way to get home?”
“But Nancy has Charlie. She can go home with him now, can’t she?”
“Do you have your car, Charlie?”
“Yes, but—”
“Oh, then that’s perfect. Everything works out,” Alice said.
“I brought Tessa in my car,” Charlie said. “I have to—”
“Look, I can always call a taxi,” Tessa said.
“Oh, Miss Morgan!” Nancy said. “Don’t be silly. I can call a taxi myself. Please. You and Charlie have to—”
“Call me Tessa, please.”
“But you and Charlie have things to do.”
Vera Phelps consulted her watch. “I suppose I could drop you off, Nancy. It will make me late for Billy, of course, but—”
“Oh, no, no.”
“I’ve simply got to get to Altman’s,” Alice said.
“Look,” Tessa said. “It’s simple, isn’t it? Charlie and I are finished for the day anyway. Nancy, you just come with us—we’ll all go back to my house and I’ll buy you both a quick drink. How’s that? Then you can both be on your way.”
“Well, if you’re sure it isn’t—”
“It’s settled,” Tessa said. She turned to the three others. “Good-bye, it’s been so nice meeting you.”
“Good-bye.…”
Tessa stood up. “Hold my hand,” she whispered to Nancy. “I hate getting in and out of these damn places.”
When they were getting into the car there was the usual argument about who would sit in front and who in back, and in the end they all got into the front seat, with Tessa squeezed between Charlie and Nancy, her feet up on the center hump, because she kept insisting—though it was certainly not true—that she had shorter legs. They drove to her house.
Tessa led them into the library, and Nancy said, “It really is a lovely house, Tessa.”
“This dump? It’s falling down. What’ll you have to drink?” She was reaching for the buzzer by the chair.
“I really don’t think we’d better stay,” Charlie said.
The library was in much worse than its usual state of disorder, with phonograph records and many other things that looked equally breakable strewn about the floor, and one had to pick one’s way carefully into the room between the scattered objects. “Minnie and I were playing Monopoly in here all morning,” Tessa said. “Minnie, honey,” she said when Minnie appeared, “clear away some of this junk, huh? It’s like a fucking pig pen.”
“Goodness! What a lovely bowl!” Nancy said, picking up the Paul Revere. “And it has an inscription on it.” She read it. “‘The last nymph of Mégara.’ Isn’t that pretty?”
“I forget who gave me that.”
“It’s signed ‘Harry.’”
“Harry?” Tessa took the bowl from Nancy’s hand and studied it. “Now who the hell was Harry? What’s Mégara, for that matter? I draw a blank.”
“Mégara’s in Greece—near Athens. Oh, I know!”
“Have you got a clue? I don’t think I’ve ever been to Mégara.”
“Yes you were!” Nancy said eagerly. “And yes—it was just about nineteen-fifty-nine. Don’t you remember? You made Storm of Life there. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, that’s right. Harry must have been the producer or something. Hey, but that was a long time ago. How do you remember these things?”
“You were wonderful in that picture.”
“Was I?” Tessa said thoughtfully. “There was one shot in it that I remember. A shot of a deer—leaping across water. Across a brook. I remember that.” Her eyes were dreamy and distant. “It was a beautiful shot.”
“Oh, but you were so wonderful in it!”
Tessa knelt on the floor, helping Minnie gather up the records. “At the time,” she said, “I was trying to follow in the exquisite footsteps of Norma Shearer. In my own hideous sneakers, of course.”
“John Kemp was with you in that picture.”
“Yes.…”
“I’ve always wondered—what’s he like?”
Tessa smiled at the stack of records in her lap. “Just another pretty face,” she said.
Charlie was perspiring so heavily now that he was sure at any minute the dark stains would come spreading through his cotton jacket. His palms were damp, sweat sprung from his scalp and coursed down the small of his back, down his stomach, and even down the insides of his legs. “Honey,” he said to Nancy, “I really think we’d better be going.…”
“Can’t I buy you a drink?” Tessa said, not looking at him.
“We’ve got to get back.”
Rising, she clasped the records to her bosom and said to Nancy, “Well, I’m glad I’ve finally met you.”
“It’s been such fun.”
“Come sometime and—stay longer. Have a swim, or—something.”
“I’d love that.…”
Then, looking at Charlie for the first time since Nancy had appeared, she said, “And call me when you want me to pose again.” It was a curious look, whose meaning he could not interpret. “He won’t let me look at it, but he says it’s almost finished,” she said.
“It is. I’ve seen it and you’re going to love it,” Nancy said.
In the car, driving home, Nancy said, “Oh, she is beautiful. And I really like her. The language, of course, is a bit of a shock, but—”
“That’s Hollywood,” he said.
“And is her house always so untidy? And, goodness, but she’s nervous. I’ve never seen such a nervous woman. Isn’t it a shame? To have all that beauty, all that fame, all that wealth—and still lack—what? Inner serenity, I suppose.” Then she said sharply, “Good God, what time is it?”
“Three-thirty.”
“Oh! Dr. Harding! Three o’clock I was supposed to be there! Oh, Charlie—can you hurry?”
He speeded up the car. “Does half an hour make that much difference?”
“Oh, yes—yes, he gets so annoyed with me.” She leaned away from him and rested her head weakly against the windowpane. He looked at her quickly. Her eyes were closed and she was biting her lower lip and she looked about to cry. “Just hurry!” she said. “Oh, why am I so awful about appointments! Why am I so awful about everything!”
15
A summer no sooner begins than it has begun to end. July moved toward August with another hot, dry, windless day. The newspapers had begun to talk about drought and to count the days since it had last rained, and many Westmount lawns were turning an autumnish brown, and the crabgrass spread. The newspapers warned against using garden hoses, but Edgar Willey had installed an underground sprinkler system so his lawn remained singularly green. In the heat the leaves of elms and maples wilted and dripped a viscous substance which seemed to eat right into the finish of the cars parked beneath them. Nancy had started walking to work, since the weather was c
lear and Charlie still needed the car; it was good exercise for her and was especially pleasant in the morning. On the hottest afternoons, the tarred surface of the Lane became soft and tacky, and walking home, she had to be careful of her high heels.
At the dark bottom of the Lane the mosquito wigglers had long ago grown into imagoes and had flown away, and the swamp had subsided, leaving spongy clumps of thick grass between the flat and powdery stretches where the water had lain, and the brook itself had shrunk to a few small sullen puddles. The shadowy branches of the willows, haunted with the tents of caterpillars, had become a meeting place for summer birds, and no one knew where the peepers might have gone. Nancy was lucky. The shop was air-conditioned. On her very first day at work, though the temperature outside was ninety, she had found herself needing a sweater. Thinking of Charlie at home, working in his hot studio upstairs, where, even with every window open, there was not so much as the slightest breeze, she ordered an air-conditioner for his room during her very first lunch hour. It was something else they could probably not afford, but he was working so hard trying to finish the portrait, poor guy, and besides, she was sure she could expect some sort of birthday check from her father. But when she tried to telephone Charlie at home to tell him about the air-conditioner, there was no answer, which probably meant that … Oh, well, it didn’t matter what it meant, because the portrait was nearly finished, and she had made a little rule for herself not to worry about things she really didn’t know about. It was important, in a job like hers, to be always cheerful or at least to pretend to be. And it was too late to cancel the order for the air-conditioner. Men were dying in Vietnam. A Girl Scout had been raped in a Brooklyn subway station. Fire hoses had been turned on a group of Negro children in Alabama. Her problems were fixed, precise, particular. She had made herself another rule, her first day of work: I will try to live through this day only, and not try to tackle my whole life problem at once. I can easily do something for twelve hours that would horrify me if I thought I had to keep it up for a lifetime. The heart is like an air-conditioner: turn it on exhaust, and all the problems go flying out the window. Monday was always a slow day in the shop, Mr. Singleton had explained. She had spent the morning learning the stock, studying the heavy sample books of fabrics and wallpapers, and looking at photographs of interiors Mr. Singleton had done.
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