Not Our Kind

by Kitty Zeldis

  Even if Wynn hadn’t waited that telling second, Eleanor would have declined. She’d had enough of the club to last her an entire summer. A lifetime, in fact. She had gone, twice, with Patricia; once for lunch, and another time for cards. Both times she had felt extremely self-conscious, and all too aware of the other patrons—well, the women anyway—sizing her up, asking her questions, angling to find out who she was and where she had been raised. The name Moss was a poor shield against their pointed interest. “You say you live on Second Avenue? But aren’t there only shops on Second?” one had said. “What year did you graduate from Vassar?” asked another. “You look about the same age as my sister. She lived in Jewett. Maybe you knew her?”

  She was too restless to write or read, too restless, surely, to sleep. A light shone from upstairs in the main house across the way. Henryka. She had not warmed toward Eleanor one bit, even though Eleanor had steadily tried to win her over. Knowing how proud Henryka was of her cooking—especially her desserts—Eleanor had made a campaign of compliments, all sincere. It was to no avail. But oh, how that woman could bake! There had been a pie at dinner tonight, a luscious mixed-berry pie with a flaky crust and a sweet, dark filling. Eleanor was seized with a sudden hunger for a second slice. She walked out of the cottage and along the brick path that led to the house. The night was hazy; no stars were visible. Still, the air smelled sweet and the pale fluttering moths seemed somehow benign, and even, quite possibly, magical.

  The kitchen door was unlocked, and Eleanor stepped inside, flipping the switch to illuminate the empty room. There was the pie, sitting on the counter under a glass dome. Maybe Henryka had left it out for the Bellamys, in case they wanted a piece when they came home. Well, she’d take just a tiny bit for herself so there would be plenty left for everyone else.

  When she went to the cupboard for a plate, she heard music; it seemed to be coming from the next room. The light was off though; maybe Patricia had left the radio on? Or it could have been Henryka or even Margaux, who quite enjoyed listening to her “stories” at night. Thinking it would be best to turn it off, Eleanor opened the door and patted the wall for the switch. When the light came on she gasped softly—there, as if conjured up by her imaginings, sat Tom, his lanky frame resting against the back of the wing chair, his feet resting on an ottoman. In one hand he held a drink, and the other propped up his chin. Even from where she stood, she could see that his sunburned cheeks had begun to peel.

  “Well, hello,” he said. “Another night owl.” He smiled and raised his glass to her.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Enjoying the music.” “It Had to Be You” was playing on the radio. “And the dark.” He smiled.

  “I thought you went to the club.”

  “I did. But I got bored. What a dreary crowd. Not an interesting or original thought among them.” Eleanor loved him for saying that. “The Talbots were leaving early so I got a lift with them. What are you doing here?”

  “Having another slice of Henryka’s pie.”

  “Ah, Henryka and her pies,” Tom said. “Let’s drink to that. Except you don’t have a drink. Well, that’s easy enough to fix.” He stood and ambled over to the liquor cabinet. “What can I get you?”

  “What are you drinking?” He held a dark, ruby-colored glass in his hand; she could not tell what was in it.

  “Scotch on the rocks. But that’s not a drink for you. Let me make you something else. What about a sweet Manhattan? Patricia loves them. Margaux too.”

  “Patricia is letting Margaux have a drink with you?”

  “Only a taste, and only when Wynn isn’t around.”

  “She must love that.” Eleanor enjoyed trying to picture it.

  “How’s she doing anyway? With her schoolwork and all?”

  “Really well. She’s a bright girl. I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned out to be a writer.”

  “Our Margaux? You think?”

  “I do,” Eleanor said. “You just wait.”

  “You sound very sure of that.” Tom handed her the drink.

  “She’s already shown a lot of promise.” Eleanor sipped her drink. It was so good. Or did she feel that way because Tom had made it? “Some of her compositions are first-rate. As good as any student I’ve ever taught. Better in fact.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Trish said you used to be at Brandon-Wythe.” Eleanor nodded, hoping to discourage further questions. “An excellent school. Or at least that’s what I hear. Why’d you leave?”

  Mr. Bellamy—she couldn’t call him Wynn—had asked her the same question. “It was time to move on.” Eleanor hoped her voice remained light, and did not betray her. The song ended and Nat King Cole’s “Sentimental Reasons” came on next; she jumped on the distraction, swaying her head and humming along to the music.

  Tom took another sip of his drink, set it down, and grinned at her. “Shall we dance?” he said. Clearly, her ploy had worked. Pie forgotten, Eleanor set her own drink down and moved easily into his open arms. They danced without speaking for a few minutes, but the silence brimmed with sensation. Tom felt so different from Ira—tall, sinewy, with an expansive, easy way of moving.

  The song ended and an announcer’s unctuous voice came on, extolling the many and considerable virtues of the latest-model Chrysler. Tom let his arms remain around Eleanor and she did not move away. They stood listening as the sounds of the commercial—which had now shifted to an engine revving up—filled the room. When it was over, Tom tilted her chin up toward him and kissed her. She closed her eyes—yes, kissing really was better that way—and felt his tongue bloom inside her mouth. The kiss was long, slow, and gentle. When it finally ended, she was desperate for it to happen again.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that since I cracked your lobster,” he said. “But Trish won’t like it.” He traced her lips with a finger.

  “Does she have to know?”

  “Trish makes it her business to know everything,” said Tom. “Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

  Eleanor thought about the visit Patricia had made to her mother’s shop, the visit she had never mentioned. “We’ll be careful,” Eleanor said. She wanted him to kiss her again.

  “You’re such an optimistic girl,” he said, his arms still around her. “That’s what I like about you.”

  “Is that all?” Eleanor knew she was fishing for a compliment but she didn’t care, she wanted him to flatter her wildly, shamelessly, extravagantly.

  “No,” he said, “it’s not.” And then he leaned down, finally, to kiss her again. But as much as she’d wanted the kiss and reveled in it when it came, she was the one to pull away first. Tom was the brother of her employer; she knew she was treading on dangerous ground. She’d already walked away from one job because of a man. She could not afford to walk away—or get fired—from another. Tom seemed to understand her reticence, and did not press further. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you back.”

  He took her elbow as they crossed the meadow separating the house from the cottage, and when she’d stepped inside, he did not kiss her again, but cupped her face in his hands. “Good night, lovely Miss Moskowitz,” he said.

  “Miss Moss, if you please.”

  “Moskowitz is just fine with me,” he said. Then he turned, and she watched until he had walked across the grass and disappeared into the house.

  Ten

  Two days after the party at the club, Patricia was driving toward the outskirts of town, to the farm where Margaux’s horse, Clover, was boarded. Next to her in the passenger’s seat sat Margaux, glumly staring out the window and kicking the floor in front of her with her good leg.

  “Would you please stop that?” Patricia said, trying to keep her voice even. “It’s quite annoying.” Margaux gave her a look that said she thought Patricia was annoying. The kicking continued. Patricia fought the impulse to snap at her daughter, but it was difficult. This was the post-polio, pre-Eleanor Margaux, the one who sulked, stormed, and general
ly made everyone around her miserable.

  They drove in silence for a few more minutes. Patricia had been looking forward to this ride all week and she was not going to let Margaux spoil it. She had always loved horses and had been quite an accomplished rider as a girl. Even when she was at Smith, she’d driven the little sports car her father had bought her out to a local stable on the weekends. She’d placed first in a couple of local shows, and her father had offered to buy her a horse as a graduation gift. Patricia was tempted by the offer, but said no. She had developed a crush on Wilhelm Lustenader, a senior at Amherst who boarded his horse at the same stable. Instead of the horse, she asked for a white fur capelet that set off her blond hair and hugged her shoulders in such a flattering way. Willie—that’s what she had called him—told her she looked like an angel. Then she’d met Wynn at a dance and she forgot about Willie. Would she have been any happier as Mrs. Lustenader?

  But this was a pointless way of thinking. She had been so happy when she first married Wynn. So happy and so much in love. All the little pet names he had for her—not just Silver Slippers, but also Princess Patricia, Blond Venus, and when she was riding, Galloping Gal. He’d leave her notes under the pillow and in her books, chocolate-covered cherries—her favorite—on her dressing table, a heart-shaped gold locket in her coffee cup. Where was that locket now? And where was the man—not yet drinking so much, not yet so bitter—who’d put it there?

  Patricia glanced over at Margaux. The kicking had stopped, only to be replaced by a series of sighs—loud, exasperated, and clearly for her benefit. She decided to ignore them as she slowed the car and guided it down the long dirt driveway. Then she turned off the engine and faced her daughter. “Don’t you want to see Clover?”

  “I told you before: no!” Margaux leaned back in the seat. “I’m only here because you made me come.”

  Patricia said nothing. She had thought that once they got here, Margaux would change her mind. “Are you sure?” she asked finally.

  “Why would I want to see her when I can’t ride her?”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Patricia said quietly. The doctor had said Margaux could ride, albeit in a carefully monitored setting. He thought it would be good for her, and might even build up some muscle in her weakened thigh.

  “Can’t! Can’t!” Margaux was shouting now.

  “Lower your voice,” Patricia said.

  “You can’t make me! I’ll be loud if I want!”

  Margaux was right. Patricia couldn’t make her. She got out of the car. “Suit yourself. You can wait for me here.” She opened the back door and reached for her black velvet riding hat.

  “Where are you going?” Margaux’s defiance had suddenly evaporated.

  “Riding of course. You know that’s what we planned to do.” Patricia gestured down at her lightweight khaki jodhpurs, white cotton shirt, black boots, and the riding hat, now tucked under her arm.

  “Without me?”

  “I told you I wanted you to go with me,” Patricia said. “I begged you.”

  “I can’t.” These were the same words Margaux had used only a few minutes ago, only now they were a lament.

  “Yes, you can,” Patricia said, thinking of how Eleanor treated Margaux—as someone who could do things, not as someone who could not. Instead of answering, Margaux began to cry silently, the tears sliding down her face and dripping off her chin into her lap.

  “Baby,” crooned Patricia, opening the door so she could slide in and embrace her daughter. “Darling girl.” She held her while she wept, smoothing the hair away from her face and offering her the monogrammed handkerchief she kept tucked in the glove compartment of the car.

  “I’m afraid,” Margaux said finally. “And I’m afraid Clover will know I’m afraid.”

  “The doctor said you could try to ride,” Patricia reminded Margaux. “He said it would be good for you.”

  “I know but . . .”

  “But what?” Patricia prompted.

  “I wish Eleanor had come, that’s all. I might have been able to do it if she’d been here.”

  “She needed some time to herself today,” Patricia said evenly, unwilling to let Margaux know just how much this remark had hurt her.

  “I guess . . .” Margaux blew her nose loudly. “How about if I don’t ride today, but just say hello to Clover? And then I can watch you ride.”

  “All right,” Patricia said, eager to accept the compromise. Just getting Margaux to make any contact with the horse was good. As for Eleanor, well, maybe she would come next time. Margaux had asked her along today, but Eleanor had demurred, saying she was afraid of horses. Odd. It was not like Eleanor to be afraid of much, and certainly not a horse she would not even be riding. Still, Patricia did not press. Eleanor had devoted herself to Margaux utterly these past weeks; if she wanted a little time on her own, Patricia was not going to begrudge her a few hours. Yet she suspected that the reason Eleanor had said no was that she hoped to spend time—alone—with Tom. Patricia had not been keen to leave them together; on their various outings to the lake—a forlorn little spot whose appeal utterly eluded her—and elsewhere, Margaux had been their unwitting chaperone. The only reason she’d felt at all comfortable driving over here today was that Tom had gone to Greenwich and she knew that he would be gone for hours—a long lunch with potential art buyers at the club, maybe swimming or tennis after that, cocktails or even dinner before he drove back to the house. Patricia would be home well before he would.

  Geraldine Morris, the owner of the stable, was there to greet them when they walked out to the barn. “It’s good to see you again, Margaux,” she said. “Would you like to visit Clover?” Margaux nodded, and Geraldine led the way. The horse—who had clearly been well tended in their absence—seemed to recognize Margaux; she came right up to the edge of the stall and nudged her. Patricia felt a flash of fear: What if the horse knocked her down? But Margaux gripped her walking stick tightly and remained steady. “She wants an apple,” she said.

  “I brought one,” Patricia said. She rummaged through her bag to find it and handed it to Margaux, who in turn offered it to the horse. Clover peeled back her lips to reveal large, stained teeth. The apple disappeared between them, and in a crunch it was gone. She nuzzled Margaux again, as if asking for more.

  “You’re so greedy!” Margaux said. She balanced on the walking stick so she could rub the velvety spot between the animal’s wide, quivering nostrils. “That’s enough!”

  “She’s glad to see you,” Geraldine said. “Will you be riding her?”

  “Not today . . . ,” Margaux said, looking down. “I’m not ready. But I can stay with her, right? While Mother rides?”

  “Of course,” Geraldine said. “She’s yours after all.” Then she turned to Patricia. “Do you want me to saddle her up?”

  Patricia patted the muscled column of the horse’s neck. “She’s too small for me. I’ll feel like I’m riding a hobbyhorse.”

  “I’ve got Sparky and Midnight available,” said Geraldine.

  Midnight was a large horse, maybe seventeen hands, but he was gentle, a big baby. Sparky was smaller, yet as his name suggested, more spirited. “I think I’ll go with Midnight,” said Patricia. Geraldine tacked him up and walked him out into the ring so Patricia could mount.

  “Do you want to take the trail through the woods?” Geraldine asked. Patricia glanced over at Margaux, whose eyes clearly communicated No, don’t. It was as if she had regressed several years since their arrival and could not stand to have her mother out of her sight.

  “No, not today,” Patricia said. “I’ll do a little warm-up in the ring and then take the bridle path around the barn.” Geraldine nodded, and Patricia gave Midnight the command to move. So there would not be a long trail ride through the woods today; that was all right, she was a bit out of practice. She hadn’t been riding all year, and even this summer, whenever she’d planned on going, something had always seemed to prevent it. But perhaps most inhibiting of all
was the situation—what looked to be a budding romance between her daughter’s tutor and her own brother. Tom had turned his charm, full force, on Eleanor, and the naive girl—she was a virgin, Patricia was certain of it—had succumbed so very easily. Their behavior was so obvious, so transparent—the glances that passed between them, the hectic flush on Eleanor’s face whenever Tom was around—how could they think she didn’t know? Honestly, in other circumstances, it would have been funny, in a drawing-room-comedy sort of way, except that these were not other circumstances, this was Tom, amusing himself with the young woman she had found to save Margaux from being engulfed by despair. There was nothing even remotely funny about it.

  Midnight stalled and she gave him a prod to get him going again. “That’s a good boy,” she said when he began to move. The next time she came out here to ride, she’d be sure Eleanor accompanied them. Maybe in her presence, Margaux would get on Clover and she and Patricia would ride together; they used to do that, and it had been such fun. One year there had been a mother-daughter horse show in Argyle and they had taken first place. Patricia remembered how straight and proud Margaux had been on the horse, and the way her thick blond braid had gleamed in the sun. Patricia looked over at Margaux, who was standing by the fence and watching her; Margaux waved.

  Midnight was fidgety; he could sense she was not fully in command. She tightened her grip on the reins and rode him toward the gate, which was unlatched. Just a short ride around the perimeter and then back again. She had to make it clear to him that she was in charge. Then they would be fine. But just as Midnight reached the gate, he abruptly reared and bucked violently. Patricia was not expecting this and let the reins slide from her hand; in a moment, she had been pitched forward and tumbled to the ground.

  “Mother!” Margaux came hobbling over as quickly as she could. “Mrs. Morris!” she called out. “You have to come! Midnight threw her!”