He smiled, and seeing the smile, she was glad that he had come. “I can do almost anything,” he said, “except the thing I want to do most.”
“It will take time,” she said, and remembered saying the same banal phrase to Marcus of his condition after the war. She searched the pantry for something sweet to serve with the tea. Without Tad home, Annie provided a scant assortment. She returned from the pantry to find him reading Annie’s note where it lay on the table.
“Forgive me,” he said, looking up. “I did that automatically. I was not thinking about what I was doing.”
“Annie’s notes are scarcely private. I’ve been trying to figure out why she always tells me that she’s visiting my father’s cousin when it’s her cousin also, and one I don’t think my father ever actually met. Perhaps that’s it,” Martha answered herself.
Reiss went on into the library and when Martha came with the tea tray, the fire was already glowing.
“Do you have a very strong family feeling?” Reiss inquired.
“About Tad I suppose I do,” Martha said.
“I mean about your parents, your own origins.”
“No. When I was a child I often thought I must be an orphan. Most children think that sometimes, I understand, but I never really got over it. I came in time to understand it.”
“Your mother I remember to be a beautiful woman, but with a beauty different from yours.”
“Nonetheless, I am reasonably sure she is my mother,” Martha said in sly jest.
But Reiss was serious: “No one could doubt it, comparing wit as well as comeliness.”
“That’s a nice word, comeliness,” Martha said. “One does not hear it often.”
“I remember liking the sound of it myself and then I found it in the dictionary.” He explained himself with a sort of innocent candor she found beguiling.
Martha tried the tea for strength. As the fire flared up, the sluice of rain occasionally hissed in the chimney. She thought: the harshness of the letter “s” had all but disappeared from Nathan’s speech.
“Something brought me here this afternoon,” Reiss said. “You have never asked me, but I felt that I must come even if I must ask myself.”
“I have asked no one, and I’m not always grateful to those who come anyway. But I am glad to see you, Nathan.”
“It is enough. More in my present condition I could not endure. One must not be too kind to the infirm. Which is what you have just said to me, isn’t it?”
“In a way, I suppose it is.”
“One comes to understand,” he said. “I have been terribly spoiled—for an orphan.”
She brought his tea to him and set it on the low table before the fire. He was looking at the painting above the mantel. “Is that yours, Martha?”
“Yes.”
He said nothing except a murmured thanks for the tea.
“You’ve seen worse, haven’t you?” she said, amused at his silence.
“Much worse,” he said quickly. “And the pictures I have liked better were probably much worse also.”
Martha laughed. She brought her own tea and sat beside him.
“The Baroness tried very hard to give me a proper education, but always I have had the one-track mind, to be a surgeon.”
“What do they say of your hand, Nathan?”
“Maybe. That is the most they will say: maybe.” He looked at her. “Which is better than never, isn’t it?”
Martha touched her fingers to the plate of confection on the table, moving it a little toward him. “These cookies have Tad to recommend them,” she said. “But one’s taste must run to raisins to like them.”
He caught her hand where it fell on the couch as she leaned back and drew it gently the half-distance between them. “I hurt you, Martha, because I would heal you. Sometimes that is the way.”
Martha did not withdraw her hand from his. They sat thusly, mute, for a long time, the tea growing cold on the table before them, and the fire brighter in the grate.
“Oh, Nathan, I am desolate,” she said at last. “I often wish for death and I think of my father and try to remind myself that I am his daughter.”
“You are also your son’s mother.”
“Yes. I think of that even more often.”
“It is not good to be alone when one is hurt—and useless.”
She glanced at him, her eyes soft with sympathy.
“That is even worse,” he said, “to see you look at me like that.”
Suddenly the tears rose to Martha’s eyes—pity for him, for herself, God might know. She did not.
“I have made you cry,” he said. “Perhaps I should have tried to make you laugh.”
She shook her head.
He lifted her hand and turning it palm upward, put it to his lips. She allowed her fingers to caress his face.
Again their hands rested, folded between them.
“The tea will be cold,” she said, but leaned her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes.
“We are alive, Martha,” he said, his mouth close to her ear. “Can you feel it?”
“Yes.”
“Alive,” he whispered and kissed her mouth.
2
EVERY NIGHT AFTER SUPPER Sylvia and Tad were in the habit of waiting for Martha’s phone call. Sylvia tended to worry if it came late. She had tried to persuade her to come more often than she did or to stay on for a time entirely. Tad loved the farm, and it was much better for him than the house on Oak Street, Martha agreed. But she could not bring herself to leave the house. She had not slept a night away from it since Marcus’s death. That night when the call had not come by seven-thirty Sylvia called Traders City. It was Annie who answered the phone. She had got home from her cousin’s to find a note saying that Martha would be away for the week-end. She had assumed Miss Martha was in the country with them, the very thing she had prayed for that afternoon.
“She’ll be wanting to surprise us,” Sylvia said. “Let’s not spoil it. Thank you, Annie.”
She spoke to reassure both Annie and Tad who was within hearing. Hanging up the phone, she said to the child: “Go upstairs to Maria. I’ll come up as soon as I hear from your mother.”
“Surprise?” Tad said.
“Maybe,” Sylvia said, putting on an air of conspiracy.
But alone she began to pace up and down the long, low room, pausing now and then to listen to the sounds from upstairs: Francesco’s noisy thump across the floor. He was almost accustomed to his new leg. It no longer pained him to wear it and he had put away his crutches. He would be taking them home soon, a gift to a child who needed them still, but a gift with a legend: he would be the proudest boy on Via del Duomo.
Outdoors the rain had stopped, but the wind was coming up, a sound Sylvia could not abide.
At ten minutes to eight the phone rang. It was Western Union. Sylvia picked up a pencil but she did not write the message. After the first four words she felt a sickness creeping over her that made her very nearly faint.
NATHAN AND I MARRIED AT CROWN PEAK. KISS TAD FOR ME AND TELL HIM WE SHALL COME TOMORROW. WISH US WELL DEAR SYLVIA. MARTHA.
A few minutes later Sylvia went upstairs to where Tad was waiting. He had heard the phone ring, but all the same he waited to be called.
“Your mother is coming tomorrow, Tad—she and your Uncle Nathan.”
The boy looked puzzled. To save her soul Sylvia could think of nothing more to say to him. But Tad said: “It’s too cold to go swimming, isn’t it?”
Swimming: such was his association with Nathan Reiss. She wished to Almighty God hers was as simple.
3
SYLVIA AND MARIA RETURNED the children to Naples in time for Christmas. In another year, Angelina would return to America for further surgery, but her face was much improved. Francesco was home to stay—until he was old enough to emigrate to the United States. Winthrop remarked, when Sylvia told him of the boy’s intentions: “He’d better put in now for his quota number.”
“My God,” Sylvia said. “It’ll be China next.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be China for any of us for a long time.”
“You don’t want to come home, do you, Alex?”
“I think I’ve got a more important job to do over here just now.”
“One you don’t have to manufacture for yourself?”
Winthrop brushed the hair back from his forehead. “My dear, it’s a wonder you ever got a husband at all—much less one like me.”
“I’ve manufactured too many jobs for myself,” Sylvia said, “not to know the symptoms. The curse of being rich is too much choice and no necessity.”
“It’s a pity you weren’t born poor,” Winthrop teased.
“I’ve often thought that myself,” she said.
They sat in a newly decorated room, furnished in modern style, very un-Romanish, Sylvia said. Even the glasses sent up with the ice for their drinks were grotesquely modern. Sylvia got up and began to rearrange the tinsel on the artificial Christmas tree that stood in the center of the teakwood table.
“I don’t know why I got that damned thing,” Winthrop said. “I don’t like them. Superstitious probably. I’ve had one every year since I’ve been over here.”
Sylvia turned to him. “Alex, I need your help. I’ve lost heart in the Children’s Plan since Marcus’s death. But it’s even more imperative now that I go on with it.”
“Imperative for whom?”
“You’re right,” she said. “In human decency Reiss must have the job.”
“That was a shocker, wasn’t it—their marriage so soon?”
“I’ve gotten over that,” Sylvia said. “Martha had to get out of that house. Maybe it was the only way.”
“You don’t think she’s in love with him?”
“I don’t know, Alex. It seemed to me an act of violence on her part, marrying him. But I can’t tell. She’s making a good show of being normal—whatever that is. I suppose if your will is strong enough you can do anything.”
“Why shouldn’t Reiss have the job?” he said after a moment.
“The matter of the hospital is still unresolved. I simply cannot, I do not want to cope with George Bergner, Alex.” Sylvia poured herself another drink and returned to the chair. When she reached for a cigaret her husband got up and lit it for her.
Winthrop said: “I think we’d better go over the whole affair from the beginning. Whether you know it or not, Sylvia, Doctor Albert was a cruel father. I’m not defending George, but I can understand his resentment of Marcus.”
Sylvia threw up her hands. “I don’t care what the reason, I don’t care if a psychiatrist turns him into St. Francis tomorrow, I will not work with George Bergner.”
“And Nathan Reiss?”
“I can manage that, Alex.”
“I seem to remember you being all for my recommending Reiss to Marcus—before the war. Remember the night Tad was born?”
“I remember.”
“If you have objections to him now, we ought to settle them, Sylvia. It will be difficult later.”
“I have none.”
“When the best man is dead, my dear, he is no longer the best man.”
Sylvia crushed out her cigaret. “Why? Why did it happen?” She bit her lip, grimacing against tears.
“There’s no why. Good men die young sometimes. Old age doesn’t make a long life either. I think of that myself, more and more. You and I aren’t young ourselves. But we’ve got to make do.” He stroked her hand. Sylvia caught his and held it while he went on:
“I’ve given a good deal of thought to the matter of the hospital myself. I’ve had quite a correspondence on it … from the Foundation people and a few other sources. The University is interested in it, too … I understand Reiss has started teaching, by the way.”
“He has to earn a living.”
“Sylvia, try and think about what I’m going to say—dispassionately. Isn’t it possible Marcus was wrong about it? Now think for a moment, dear. Marcus was one of those rare birds who didn’t want fame, prestige. I shouldn’t be surprised if he was afraid of it, afraid it would get in the way of his being a good doctor. But if he had lived, you would have had to move very slowly with the plan—a few children at a time. The kids you want to help need it now, don’t they? The sooner the better, and as many as you can manage? I was in Athens last week, Sylvia. It’s worse than Naples. And their souls are bitter. They fought the war against Italy, a war they didn’t choose, which Italy did. When I saw those poor wretched kids I thought to myself: Christ in the mountains, what is she waiting for?”
Sylvia thought carefully of all he had said. Finally she asked: “Alex, why haven’t you said this to me before?”
“Because for the first time today you said to me: Alex, I need your help.”
“I’m a great do-it-yourself type, amn’t I?” she said after a moment.
Winthrop smiled. “You have other lovable qualities, however. And I’ve missed you like the very devil.”
“I shall spend some time with you in Greece. If you want me to,” she added quickly.
Winthrop drained his glass and got up. “Shall we burn that damned tinsel tree and go out and see if we can find ourselves the real thing? The pines of Rome after all.”
“Alex, I’m going to say something sentimental. I don’t care, I’m going to say it anyway—you’re the real thing.” She laughed, embarrassed. “Shall we get drunk? I haven’t been drunk in years.”
Winthrop said: “I’ve got a better idea.”
4
SYLVIA DOUBLE-PARKED THE STATION wagon outside the apartment building and gave three short beeps with the horn. But Martha was already at the window, having watched for almost an hour. She leaned out and waved. Tad, on the street, shouted up to her. Sylvia got out her side of the car. “How does he look?”
“Marvelous. Put the car in our garage …”
“I can’t stop,” Sylvia said. “Alex’s plane is due at six.”
She helped Tad upstairs with his luggage. “Here he is, safe, sound and sassy, and at least six inches taller.”
“At least,” Martha said. He came up to her waist. She gave him a hug and kissed his forehead. There was always an hour of shyness between them when he came home from the farm at the end of summer. He saw Nathan once or twice a week, and Martha several times over the two months, but coming home was not the same as their visiting him.
Annie came pounding down the hall from the kitchen, the floor creaking beneath her. “Where’s my boy?” And reaching him, she cried in a great spiraling voice: “Oh, Lord, will you look at the length of him! He’s going to be taller than his father. Didn’t you feed him at all, Mrs. Winthrop?” She persuaded Tad to the kitchen.
And thus would begin the long winter ceremony of trying to fatten him even as in other days, Annie had devoted herself to putting flesh on one after another of the people she called her own.
Sylvia said: “I must go. Alex will be absolutely beside himself. He’s bringing four of the Greek children, and you know how he is about red tape. To say nothing of children. I’m kind of frightened, Martha, his coming home after all this time. I don’t want him to be restless. And I know he’s going to be. So many things have changed. It’s been seven years, do you know that?”
“Stop worrying,” Martha said. “With the four children he won’t see anything until you’ve got him home.”
“It’s home I’m worried about. Can you see Alex living on the farm? Tell me the truth.”
“Yes
. Part of the time. And you’ve still got the flat in town.”
“I hope so. I mean I hope you’re right.”
“Dinner here next Saturday,” Martha reminded her.
Tell me the truth, Martha thought when Sylvia was gone. Tell the truth and shame the devil: one of Annie’s precepts. She went to the living room window and watched Sylvia drive away. She could see her only as far as the curve onto Lake Shore Drive. There would be a lovely sunset, its first traces to be seen reflected in the clouds over the lake. She drew the drapes and lit the lamps over the paintings. She did not very much like Nathan’s special lighting effects. But they were dramatic.
By the time he had finished his supper, Tad was at ease with her again. His head was full of things to tell and he needed to be prodded into eating. He was not especially interested in going back to school. At this point he wanted to be a veterinarian which he seemed to think was learned entirely from animals. He came home knowing a great many things about pigs and chickens and cows and horses, that pigs were born with heads nearly as big as their bodies, that cows had two stomachs, tongues like sandpaper and no upper teeth at all. He followed Martha around until bedtime telling her the purposes of such anatomical arrangements. Annie refused to listen to them. She approved fantasy entirely, but physiology not at all.
Martha had to dress for the theater after an early dinner. She and Nathan were going to a benefit, and since Nathan was one of the sponsors, it was not to be got out of. Nor did she want to. She was determined not to be over-protective of the child who did not want or need an excess of protection. All he really needed, she thought, hurrying along to his room with almost a half-hour before she would have to leave, was an audience.
His eyes were very blue, especially in contrast to the summer tan of his face. More and more he came to resemble Marcus. But his smile was sudden in the way of her own, and his teeth were coming in quite straight.
“Now,” Martha said, sitting at the bottom of the bed he had not yet got into, “tell me the most important thing that happened to you this summer.”
Evening of the Good Samaritan Page 38