“Oh, yes,” I whispered, “Claude, darling, I do want it, I do, I want you, come back to me, come back,” and his body tensed, and he shuddered and cried out. Then he breathed deeply and rolled off me. In a few minutes he got up and went into the bathroom, and I lay looking up at the ceiling and listening to the water running.
“So tell me,” he said from inside the bathroom, “how’d you like your present?” His voice was light, cheerful.
“I loved it,” I said, looking at the ceiling.
I loved you.
“You really did? It looked so great on you.”
“Claude, I think Rose needs me, I’m going to her room.”
“Okay.”
I pulled the negligee off and got into my nightgown and walked down the hall to Rose’s room. She was sound asleep in her new “big girl” bed, surrounded by her menagerie. I pushed a few animals aside and climbed in beside her and she stirred, then turned toward me and opened her eyes squintingly.
“Mommy, hi.”
“Hi yourself.”
After a moment, she really woke up. “Mommy! You’re in my bed.”
“Is that okay? I was lonely.”
“Is Daddy at work?”
“No, I just mean I was lonely for my Rosie.”
She wiggled with happiness.
We lay quietly together. There were no other sounds in the house, and I began to breathe more easily. So often I’d hold my breath and wait without realizing what I was doing: waiting for the footsteps, the shouts, the blow. Waiting for things to get better. Or worse. But there would be no more trouble tonight. Claude was undoubtedly already asleep.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Will you read Goodnight Moon to me?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” I said. I got up and found the book and got back into bed and switched on her lamp.
“In the great green room there was a telephone,” I began. Rose gave another squirm and closed her eyes and smiled. She’d heard this one so many times, she didn’t need to see the pictures. The book’s worn-out cover and wrinkled pages testified to the love it had received and the comfort it had given.
“Goodnight room,” I read. “Goodnight moon. Goodnight cow jumping over the moon…”
Rose settled, and I could almost feel her slip into sleep.
“Goodnight, my little love,” I whispered.
Goodbye, marriage.
Goodbye, Claude.
12
At Christmas, we gave the party that Claude had insisted on giving, and afterward, having received a savage post-party battering, I now found myself under the piano gripping its ebony leg as if it were a person who could somehow save me. I had very recently been the hostess at my own party, all dressed up and bedecked in fine jewelry, receiving guests and kissing them, telling women they smelled wonderfully and asking after their children. I had been dressed in a rustling party dress, with a string of jade and diamonds around my neck, my face flushed and hot, and now I was alone, crouched in pain and fear under my piano.
And one of these days, perhaps not tonight but one day, Claude would kill me.
The guests were long gone: Mitzi and William, the Wall Street shark, with their lackluster sex life; Anne Marshall with her green thumb and love of gossip; Lola Winter, the jazz singer with her new big breasts; and the rest of Claude’s cosmetic surgery circus. I’d even dreaded Gillian’s presence at the party, because she was onto me, and that only made me feel trapped and even like some sort of criminal. All evening I’d noticed that Claude seemed to be in great spirits as he moved from one guest to another, joking and laughing. I even thought that maybe I’d been too worried about how he would behave tonight, and so I’d picked up a glass of champagne as Lola Winter began singing, You Go to My Head…
I don’t know how I made it down that long hall and stairs except I understood that Rose had already seen and heard far too much. The cold marble in the foyer had felt good and bad on my skinless knees, like ice on a burn, like the burning shock of seeing myself in the mirror. There was the smell of pine and snuffed wicks and a calming cold stillness before I heard the creak in the floor that I thought was Claude approaching that sent me crawling under the piano, which felt like a safe place to be.
Though of course it wasn’t. There are no safe places here.
I must have dozed off for a while, for I woke up to the sound of the front door shutting and Claude’s footsteps going down to the street. I went to the window and squinted in the early-morning light, my head pulsing with pain. I saw him with his attaché case. He got into his Mercedes and drove off to work like he always did, as if nothing had happened. As if: two words that seemed to define my existence. But today I was determined to get the rest of the money I needed and leave with Rose at once.
I was supposed to be at Victoria’s at eleven, and though I felt terrible and surely looked it, too, I decided to get myself together and go. I’d beg her for an advance, even though I wouldn’t be working for her for much longer – I could even ask for a loan, though I dreaded going that far. And I couldn’t tell her what had been happening to me.
With Claude at work, I was safe for the day. I took one of his pain pills and, as my mind cleared, moved from one task to the next, seeking comfort in motion. I cleaned the Persian rug, put my shredded dress in a garbage bag next to the front door, and took a hot shower that both soothed and stung me, then got dressed and tried to fix my face before Rose woke up.
My nose was badly swollen but, I hoped, not broken, and black-and-blue puddles had pooled under my eyes. I didn’t have time for ice, besides which it was probably too late for it to help, so I used Claude’s concealer. I drew the matte stick across my face, blending it in as best I could.
At breakfast, over her Cheerios, Rose asked, “Why are you wearing sunglasses, Mommy?”
“Well, because the light hurts my eyes today, honey.”
“Why, Mommy?”
“Oh, just a big, silly headache,” I said, and I smiled at her which made my face feel as if it might crack apart. And a little later, while I was helping her get dressed to go to my mother’s, she said, apropos of nothing, “I hate Daddy’s monster face.” Had she made the connection between my headache and the sunglasses with Claude? Somehow I both wanted and didn’t want her to do that. When I took her away from her daddy, I needed Rose to be able to understand how things were, but I needed her not to be traumatized by the life she’d already led here in the house with us both. This was going to be a trick: if I pretended everything was okay, she would wonder why I was taking her away from her beautiful home and her daddy.
Out on the street, I threw my bagged and bloodied dress in the corner garbage can and walked with Rose to my parents. At the door my mother greeted us, then looked at me apprehensively.
“Are you all right, Katie?”
I needed either to laugh or to scream.
“I’m fine, no thanks to you,” I said. But how could I blame her? She couldn’t go against my father to support me in leaving Claude; I knew all that from living with Claude and trying to keep the peace through agreeing, deferring, lying and keeping silent. But there was the difference between us: my mother felt she had no life without my father, and would never leave; I knew I had no life if I stayed with Claude, and regardless of what was ahead, I had to get out. She’d made her choice. I would make mine.
I said I would pick Rose up at four. If my voice betrayed some urgency, neither of us acknowledged it. Rose said, “I’ll save you a sugar cookie,” and I kissed her goodbye and walked back up the block. My mother didn’t ask where I was going or what I was doing; maybe by staying ignorant she was helping as best she could.
At the door of Victoria’s colonial town house, Charles took my coat and showed me into the living room where Victoria stood in dark pants and a white silky shirt, her hair up in a loose chignon.
“So, Katie, what do you think?” Victoria asked, pointing to a large abstract painting over the green velvet sofa. “I
t’s on loan from the Fitzgibbons Gallery. Naturally, they want me to buy it, but once again I need your advice.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “It’s a Clyfford Still?”
“Yes. I’d never heard of him before. What do you know about him?”
“Oh, not a lot, just that he’s American and one of the founders of Abstract Expressionism. You know, along with Philip Guston, Franz Kline, Willem de Kooning. That whole crowd.”
“That’s quite the crowd. And I do have a Guston and a Kline.”
“Still is an important artist, one of the big boys. Do you have the provenance?”
“I do, and it’s impressive, but I’m concerned this might not be the best addition to my collection.”
“Of course,” I said, “and there are so many great artists you could collect, but he’s important,” I said. I’d begun to feel light-headed; I hadn’t recovered from the previous night and after the morning’s burst of activity I was running on fumes. I heard myself chattering away, but it was as if I were hearing someone else’s voice.
“But what’s your opinion, Katie? I don’t trust my own eye, I trust yours. Do you think I should buy it?”
I walked up to the painting to have a close look. “Well, it seems like it’s in very good shape. Look at the thick paint and the vertical jagged bolts of color that are cut off by the edges of the canvas; that’s typical of Still.” I noticed my hand was shaking, so I pulled it back, hoping Victoria hadn’t seen.
“Yes, it’s quite amazing,” she said. “Why don’t you take off your sunglasses so you can see the colors as they are?”
Why are you wearing sunglasses Mommy?
“That yellow is quite vibrant,” she said, “don’t you think?”
“Oh, I wish I could see it better,” I said in the false voice I’d perfected, “but I have an eye infection that’s made my eyes sensitive to light. The eye doctor told me to wear the glasses until they get better.”
“Oh,” Victoria said. “What a shame. I hope you’re better soon.”
“Thanks,” I said, and I hastily turned back to the painting. “It seems to be in excellent condition,” I went on, “and it’s a powerful work. In my view it would be a wonderful addition to your collection and the catalogue.”
“Well, then, sold,” Victoria said. “How much of the cataloguing do you have left to do?”
“Not much, about five more pieces, with this one.”
“Oh, that’s all? We’ll have to figure out something else for you to do when you finish. I’d love to keep you here forever, frankly, but sometimes it’s not the right thing. It’s clear that you have so much potential, and I wouldn’t want to see you waste it on an old lady who’s completely out of the art-world loop. It’s important that you move ahead with your knowledge of art and go out and make your own money, so you have your independence… regardless of whether you’re married or not.”
What did that mean?
I opened my mouth to ask for the money and said, “How great that you had such a big career.”
“Well… yes. Over and done with. Let’s go have lunch; you must be starving.” She led me across the foyer and into the Chippendale dining room, a place of tranquility, sunlight, and polished wood. Lunch was laid out and waiting for us.
“How was your Christmas?” she asked when we’d sat at the table. “Mine was very quiet,” she went on. “When you get to be my age it’s better that way – essential that way, I should say.”
“It was fine,” I said softly, as I took a bite out of a cucumber sandwich – one of my favorites that now was tasteless and hard to swallow, even without crusts. My throat felt strafed, and my appetite had all but vanished, and I was trying to get up the courage to ask for the money. There was a buzzing in my ears.
“How about a cup of tea? That always perks me up,” Victoria said, and without waiting for an answer she picked up a small silver bell and shook it.
“That would be nice.”
“This is more like high tea than lunch,” Victoria said, “but I’m not sure you love tea sandwiches as much as I do. You’ve barely finished one. Here, try the chicken,” she said, putting one on my plate with a pair of silver tongs. Then, without changing her tone or so much as glancing at me, she said, “You look as though you had quite a Christmas celebration last night.”
A million replies raced through my head.
“Oh, we did. Claude wanted a party and it just went on and on. Too much champagne, I guess. I’m not really feeling my best today.”
“There’s no such thing as too much champagne, my dear,” Victoria said, smiling gently. “And now you’ve reminded me of all the parties back in Hollywood. Goodness – Cary Grant, Barbara Stanwyck, Humphrey Bogart and Betty Bacall. What a time we had, all those marvelous people, the beautiful clothes, the incredible cars, and more champagne than you could ever drink, and more of everything else you could think of, most of it behind closed doors. It’s amazing to me that we lived like that, that we had all those experiences, and then they just ended. But I guess that’s just the nature of life, isn’t it? Things happen, and then they’re done. At least with the movies, we have the beauty of celluloid to keep some of the memories intact.”
“Oh yes,” I said. “I’m very glad about that.”
I had barely talked about movies with Victoria before; we’d always talked about art, not film. Of course, it had been a long time since I’d even seen a movie, and I missed those outings with Gillian. Even more, I missed Gillian. And suddenly the past I had loved seemed to recede, and to take some part of me with it, the part that loved movies and was a good friend and felt free to do what she wanted. Like nineteen-forties Hollywood, it had faded away; no – it had died, and I didn’t even have any footage to remind myself of what I was like in the past, before Claude, and our marriage, and everything that had happened…
I moved slightly and a jolt of pain shot up my side; the pain pill was wearing off.
“The parties back then were tremendous fun, of course, with Cole Porter at the piano,” Victoria said. She smiled, looking abashed. “I’ve become quite a name-dropper. But of course, while it all sounds quite elegant, it was real life, you know, and terrible things happened, too. In some ways it seems to have been unnecessarily cruel. Have a little tea, dear.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, back then a woman couldn’t get an abortion – at least not legally – and if you did, you were at the mercy of butchers in back alleys. I took two friends to get abortions. They were both actresses like myself, and they were terrified their careers would be ruined if anyone found out.”
My pain was getting stronger, and I needed to ask for the money and leave. I’d already had two cups of tea, and soon I would have to go pick up Rose.
“What happened to them?” I asked. “The women?”
“One died of infection, poor thing – she was so talented, so young. The other one couldn’t have any more children after the doctor – if he was a doctor – finished with her. I had my own problems, too, when I first got to Hollywood. I met a man who was a producer, and said he wanted to help me. We fell in love and got married very quickly. I was deliriously happy in the beginning; everything was perfect. We were both working hard, but then it changed. I was never sure why, but after my first film, and the good notices I received, he grew mean, and then violent.
“That was another subject you couldn’t discuss – wife-beating – but I was lucky. I didn’t have children, and I’d saved some money. I was offered a picture in New York with Joel McCrea, so I took it and left. By the time I got back to Hollywood, my husband had found someone else and was happy to divorce me. Sometimes it’s not so easy to get out of nasty situations, and it’s hard to take care of yourself… don’t you think?”
I stared at her. Then I slowly took off my sunglasses.
“Forgive me for intruding, Katie, it’s really not my way,” she said, putting her hand over mine. “I have no real idea of what your life and yo
ur marriage are like. But as I said, I was a young woman in trouble long ago, and unless my perceptions have really gotten screwy with age, or my eyesight is failing, I know another one when I see one.”
“Victoria, I—”
“Yes, dear. You’re in trouble, and that’s all I have to know.”
I grasped her fingers and held on for dear life. I felt that if I let go, if I so much as moved or breathed, I would explode into a million fragments of rage and sorrow. She returned my grasp.
“Yes, dear, that’s right. Now, I wanted to give you something special for Christmas because you’ve done such an outstanding job for me. I never would have gotten around to organizing all of these works of art, or anything else, for that matter. I was spinning my wheels when I met you, getting plastic surgery far too often – being foolish – as if it might somehow bring back the past. But now I’ve taken your advice about buying and selling, and I trust your judgment, Katie. You have a gift, a gift and a talent. But more than that, I’ve grown very fond of you, dear. If I could pick the daughter I never had, it would be you.”
I began to sob. I didn’t want to, but what I wanted didn’t seem to matter very much right then. Tears flooded down my face. Victoria got up and stood beside me and held my shoulders, which were bucking with my sobs. When I quieted down a little she went over to the sideboard and then came back.
“This is for you, Katie,” she said, putting an envelope in my hand. “Open it when you leave, but I think you know what’s inside. We don’t need to pretend.”
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