by Kitty Zeldis
Patricia walked over to the window. The hydrangeas were particularly vivid this year, a deep, even lurid, pink that seemed almost to glow against the green of the grass. Pink, pink, pink. That shaming streak of pink lipstick. Hadn’t Dottie said that Eleanor was reciting Shakespeare and that everyone was lapping it up? Did everyone include Tom?
Closing the door quietly, Patricia left the room. In her pocket were the car keys; in her hand was the offending pillowcase. She did not want Henryka, Opal, or anyone else to see it.
Patricia took the coastal road to Dudley, thinking the glimpses of dunes, beach, and ocean would calm her down a little. She was wrong. The distant waves crashing to the shore only echoed and intensified her anger. How prim the girl next to her seemed. Prim and oh so proper. But she had been in Tom’s room! How could she? How dare she? The car felt stifling. Patricia rolled down the window. “Is that all right?”
“It’s fine. Delightful, in fact,” said Eleanor. “What a gorgeous day. Perfect for sailing.”
Patricia had no interest in the weather, only in what she planned to say to Eleanor when they got to Dudley.
“I detest sailing.” Patricia had never actually said this aloud. “Wynn and Margaux love it. Tom too—he used to sail with our father.” She quickly looked over to see if Tom’s name brought on any reaction—a blush, a smile perhaps. It did not. “But I never took to it. It always made me seasick, and my father had no patience with anyone who got seasick. He thought it was a moral failing of some kind.”
“I’d hardly call seasickness a moral failing,” Eleanor said. “It’s not something you have any control over at all.”
Despite her simmering anger, Patricia was interested in Eleanor’s point of view. “But that was my father. No babying, no coddling. I’m sure he’d think I was indulging Margaux terribly if he were here to see it.”
“I don’t think compassion should be confused with coddling,” said Eleanor. “She’s had a very hard time and you’re responding to that with love and acceptance.”
The waves seemed less violent now, their ebb and flow more soothing. This was one of Eleanor’s rare gifts—her ability to alter the way you had always thought about something, to turn your assumptions upside down, so you felt changed, released even. Patricia had absorbed so many of her father’s attitudes, and even though he was no longer alive, she often felt herself engaged in a silent struggle with him, a struggle in which he always won. Now here was Eleanor, who with a few words could completely subvert the terms of their relationship.
“How does Margaux seem to you these days? Do you think she’s doing better?” Patricia couldn’t help asking. Concern about her daughter trumped her indignation over Eleanor’s compromising interest in Tom—at least for the moment.
“As far as her schoolwork?” asked Eleanor. “There’s no problem there, none at all. You must have been told already how bright she is, how intellectually gifted. She has an amazing grasp of literature. Her insights are so mature and astute. They astonish me sometimes.”
“Well, yes, we knew she was bright, but after her illness and all that misery with Mr. Cobb . . .”
“Mr. Cobb was not the right teacher for her, that’s all.” Eleanor shifted in her seat so she was facing Patricia. “But academics aren’t everything. There’s still the social aspect to her development. Which is why I think she should be going back to school. She’s ready, you know.”
“She flat out refuses to go,” Patricia said. She and Wynn had had this conversation—well, argument, actually—with their daughter many times, and whenever they did Margaux seemed more firmly entrenched in her position.
“It’s because of her leg. She doesn’t want to be made fun of or ostracized. Or pitied—she’d hate that most of all. But I’ve heard about a boarding school called Oakwood where the entire student body is in the same situation.”
“You mean . . . ?” A school filled with polio victims. The thought made Patricia unutterably sad. But also—curious.
“Yes, every single one of the students has had polio. The headmaster’s son had it, and he wouldn’t go back to school either. So the father—he’d been headmaster at a very fine school in Albany—decided to start a school for other children who’d been similarly afflicted. It’s kind of new—maybe three years old—but what I’ve heard has been excellent.”
“But do we really want to put her in a school for—cripples?”
“Don’t think of it that way. Think of it as a school for survivors. Because that’s who Margaux is—a survivor.”
They had reached Dudley and Patricia pulled into a space in the town center, which was a grassy square with a bandstand at its center and several handsome old oak trees at the perimeter. She turned off the ignition and shifted to face Eleanor. “If we did consider such a place, and actually sent her there, you do know it would mean you’d be out of a job.”
“I’d be sorry about that,” Eleanor said. “But it’s Margaux I’m thinking about. The more isolated she is now, the harder it will be for her to lose that sense of isolation in the future. She needs to be in school with her peers. And if her peers have suffered the way she has, all the more opportunity for her to find companionship and build real friendships. I wrote asking for an application. I can show it to you as soon as it comes.”
Patricia was stunned. Here she’d been preparing to lambaste the girl for what she’d been doing behind Patricia’s back and it turned out that one of those things was researching a school for Margaux and requesting an application to it. “Thank you,” Patricia said awkwardly, as she tried to navigate the abrupt shift in her own feelings. “Thank you very much.” Yet the business with Tom—she had to say something. But she would wait until lunch.
They got out of the car and began to walk along Old Post Road, the town’s main street. When Wynn had suggested sending Margaux away, Patricia had balked, but that was because he had made it sound like a punishment. What Eleanor was proposing was quite different. A school where Margaux could be herself, yet have friends her own age . . . What could be more ideal?
Her righteous indignation had evaporated, leaving Patricia pensive and unsure of what to say. Accusing Eleanor of being promiscuous, a gold digger, or both seemed wrong, even beside the point now. And yet she was still worried about the girl’s connection to Tom; she knew it would result in nothing but disappointment. The fact that Eleanor was Jewish would make it difficult, if not impossible, for her to fit into Tom’s world. Didn’t he know that? Didn’t she?
Besides, Tom was thirty-eight; he’d never even been engaged, let alone married. He was just an incorrigible flirt, toying with Eleanor the way he’d toyed with so many before. When their mother used to lament that she’d never see him walk down the aisle, he’d say, “I’m waiting for the one who’s half as wonderful as you are, Mother darling,” which always got her to smile. And to end the discussion. Their mother had died, of cancer, five years ago, and their father of a heart attack shortly after that; Patricia clung to Tom even more closely in the wake of their deaths. But that didn’t mean she was always happy with his behavior—and she certainly wasn’t happy with it now.
As she and Eleanor walked along the tree-lined main street, they passed a florist, a jeweler, and a sporting goods store, where they paused to look at the window. Mannequins cavorted in tennis whites and a large sign offered 70 percent off on all ski equipment.
“Margaux used to ski,” Patricia said. It went without saying that she’d never be able to do it again. “She was good too.”
“That’s too bad. I’d love to have gone with her sometime.”
“Do you ski?” Patricia hoped her surprise was not audible.
“Ever since I was a little girl. My uncle Oscar owned a ski shop on Long Island. I used to go upstate with our cousins a few times every winter. Of course I haven’t done it in a long while. My cousin Sylvia is married with children now.”
“Were you close to your cousin?” Patricia asked. Now Eleanor was the one who sounded re
gretful.
“Back then, yes. But our lives are so different. The boys take up so much of her time. They’re just darling.”
“You’d like to have children, wouldn’t you?” Patricia said.
“Well, yes,” Eleanor said. She sounded guarded. “When the time is right.”
“Is there a special young man in your life?” asked Patricia.
“There was,” Eleanor said. They had moved beyond the sporting goods store and had come to a dress shop.
“But no more?”
“He decided he preferred the company of someone else, only he didn’t have the courtesy to tell me. He let me . . . figure it out for myself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Eleanor said with quiet dignity. “If he was the sort of person to do that, then he wouldn’t have been the sort of person I’d have wanted as a husband. Or the father of my children.” She smiled then, a small, and to Patricia’s eye, brave smile. Tom, Patricia thought, do not break the heart of this one. Please.
Eleanor had turned away and was looking at a dress displayed in the window. It had an allover pattern of pansies—yellow, several shades of purple, dark green—as well as a full, gathered skirt and becoming scooped neckline. Eleanor’s own dress was made of blue eyelet. Patricia had seen it several times already this summer; she guessed it was Eleanor’s best and pressed into service often. Her hat, a fine straw with a matching blue grosgrain ribbon fastened to the underside of the brim, must have been made by her mother to go with the dress. It was far nicer than any of the hats in the window.
“Lovely dress,” Patricia said, and when Eleanor agreed she added, “Do you want to go in and try it on? We’re in no hurry to get back.” But Eleanor shook her head and they kept walking. She must be concerned about the price, Patricia thought. A pity, because the cut of the dress would suit Eleanor’s delicate figure and the bright print would offset her dark hair and eyes. It really was too bad, wasn’t it, that the girl had to worry about every penny she spent.
Patricia stopped when they reached a cheerful apple-green-and-white-striped awning. Beneath the awning was a familiar sign:
TRACY TOLLAND, LUNCH AND TEA
“Here we are,” she said, pushing open the door.
Tracy Tolland’s restaurant had been serving the ladies of the area for decades; Patricia could even remember coming here once with her own mother, both of them in matching summer dresses and identical pairs of short white gloves. The round tables were still laid with white napkins and green cloths; a bud vase holding a single white rose stood at the center of each. In the wide picture window was the same brass birdcage, though, presumably, not the same pair of canaries that flitted from perch to perch, occasionally bursting into a chorus of song.
The hostess, whom Patricia recognized from more recent visits, took them to a window seat, where a waiter held out two green-and-white-striped chairs.
“This is so charming,” Eleanor said, looking around.
“It’s where we’ve always come,” Patricia said, trying to see it through Eleanor’s fresh eyes. The waiter came to fill their glasses with ice water and Eleanor drank hers down quickly. Thirsty girl, Patricia thought. Why did this bother her?
The waiter returned to take their orders: Lobster Newburg, endive salad, and the house beverage, raspberry limeade.
“I’ll talk to Wynn about the school,” Patricia said when he’d gone. Eleanor was silent. Patricia could guess the reason. Henryka may have thawed toward Eleanor but Wynn had not. “I don’t trust her,” he’d said to Patricia when they were alone. “Never did, never will.”
“Why not? What has she ever done to make you say that?”
“Nothing. Yet. You wait though. You just wait.” And, unwilling to elaborate, he’d gone back to the newspaper.
At the time, Patricia had dismissed his comment. But after this morning’s conversation with Dottie—coupled with that telltale smear of lipstick on the pillowcase—she was once again thrown into doubt. Yes, the concern and initiative Eleanor showed about the school revealed the best of her character. But her behavior with Tom—did that reveal the worst? Was she conniving, as Wynn had said so often, and looking to Tom for a way to advance her place in the world? Or was she just an innocent, about to get her heart not just broken, but shattered?
The waiter appeared with a basket of rolls. Patricia took one and summoned her nerve. Now, she told herself, say something to her now.
“Eleanor,” she began. “There’s something I want to discuss with you. It’s about Tom.” There, she had started it; her stomach felt as if she had just taken a swooping dive off a precipice.
“What about him?” Eleanor did not look away.
“It seems to me that you two have become very friendly.”
Eleanor looked uncomfortable. “Well, yes . . .”
“Eleanor, I know Tom’s effect on women,” Patricia said. “All women. He even charms Henryka.”
“Is that . . . a problem?” Eleanor reached for a roll.
“It would be a problem only if you read too much into his behavior. If you thought that it meant more than it does.”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to know what his behavior means.” Eleanor put down the roll.
The effrontery of that reply forced Patricia to look away. The gall of her. The waiter came back, bearing their food, and so they were spared having to make conversation while it was placed on the table.
“Be careful,” the waiter said. “Those plates are hot.” When he’d gone, Patricia looked over at Eleanor again.
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” Eleanor said. “But I think I can judge for myself whether Tom is being . . . sincere in his attentions.”
“I don’t think that you can,” Patricia insisted. “That’s the point. He’s darling, he’s lovable, and everyone adores him, including me. Especially me. But he’s not to be trusted, Eleanor. He’s just not.” She took a bite of her food.
“How can you say those things?” Eleanor was visibly upset. “He’s your brother.” Her Lobster Newburg remained untouched.
“That’s exactly why I can say them,” Patricia said. She was twisting the napkin in her lap, winding it into a tight, angry coil. “Because I know him so well. I’ve watched him do the same thing over and over. Someone’s heart always gets broken. I don’t want it to be yours.”
“My heart’s already been broken,” Eleanor said. “I’m not as innocent as I seem.”
“Evidently not,” Patricia said, unable to curb the sarcasm, and yes, cruelty in her voice.
“What do you mean?” Now Eleanor looked alarmed. She still had not touched her lunch.
“I was in Tom’s room this morning,” Patricia said. “I needed the car keys and knew he kept them in that golfing trophy. While I was in there, I couldn’t help noticing that there was a smear of lipstick on his pillowcase.”
“What does Tom’s dirty linen have to do with me?” But color seeped into her cheeks; Patricia saw that she had struck a nerve.
“It was pink. The exact shade of pink lipstick that you were wearing at the party.”
“Are you saying it was mine? That I was in Tom’s room? In his bed?”
“It certainly seems that way,” Patricia said. When Eleanor did not respond, she went on. “Were you in Tom’s room last night?” More silence. “I can’t prove anything. But it certainly has the look of impropriety, and given that you are acting as teacher, companion, and role model for my daughter, it poses a problem.” She stopped twisting the napkin and forced her hands to remain still.
“You know how much I care for your daughter.” Eleanor seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “And how much I’ve helped her. Still, if you feel I’m ‘not a good influence,’ you’re free to let me go. I’ll be very sorry if you do. And I think Margaux will be too.” Eleanor was fighting for self-composure; Patricia could see the struggle playing out on her face. “But I’m a grown woman and I can make my own choices. I won’t let you, o
r the appearance of impropriety, make those choices for me.”
Patricia felt smacked. Had she ever been spoken to in this way by someone in her employ before? She was certain she had not. She could fire Eleanor on the spot. But beyond the momentary satisfaction this would give her, what good would it do? She, and most significantly, Margaux, would feel the loss of Eleanor’s presence far more than Eleanor would feel the loss of theirs. Eleanor may have been the employee, but right now, she had the upper hand. Did she know it?
“Is everything all right, ladies?” Patricia looked up to see the waiter fairly bouncing on his toes in anticipation of fulfilling their next wish. “Can I get you anything else? More rolls? A refill on your drinks?”
“Everything’s fine,” Patricia said. “And no, we don’t need anything just now.” Would he ever go away? The waiter, looking crestfallen, retreated. Eleanor picked up her fork and probed the lobster; Patricia picked listlessly at her own. The birds in their brass cage trilled and chirped. Neither woman was interested in dessert and when the waiter asked if they wanted to take home the mostly uneaten meal, Patricia shook her head and asked for the check. This entire enterprise had been a failure, and she could not wait to get home. They turned and walked back along the main street, toward the car. When they reached it, Patricia said, “Can you wait for me here? There’s something I need to do. I’ll just be a few minutes.”
“All right.” Eleanor got into the car.
Patricia returned a few minutes later, stowed something in the trunk, and then joined Eleanor in the front seat. During the ride back, they both seemed intent on keeping the conversation light and inconsequential. Patricia skipped the coastal road in favor of the highway and they arrived home very quickly. Wynn’s car was in the driveway, so she knew that Margaux—and Tom—were back.
“Thank you for lunch,” Eleanor said as she got out of the car.
“My pleasure,” Patricia said, mouthing the expected, rote phrase that was of course an utter lie. She waited until Eleanor had crossed the lawn, gone into the cottage, and closed the door before she got out of the car. Only then did she exhale, and she went into the house, in search of a drink.