by Kitty Zeldis
Thirteen
Tom did not appear at dinner. After her conversation with Patricia, Eleanor certainly wasn’t going to be the one to ask where he was, but Margaux volunteered that he’d met some old friends while at the club and decided, impromptu, to go off to Saratoga Springs with them.
“He didn’t even come back for a change of clothes or a toothbrush,” added Wynn, waving his tumbler of whiskey in the air as he spoke. “But that’s Tom for you. Soul of a gypsy.”
“Did he say when he’d be back?” Patricia patted her mouth with her napkin.
“Nope,” said Wynn. “Not a word about it.” He took a drink and set down the glass. “Henryka, this fish chowder breaks all records; is there any more in your magic pot?”
Henryka came in from the kitchen to refill his bowl. “More for you?” She turned to Eleanor. “You too? I can make hot.”
“No, thank you, Henryka.” Eleanor was not hungry but felt touched just the same.
Wynn launched into an account of the day’s sail and Margaux eagerly joined in. Eleanor tried to appear interested, especially when Margaux had something to say. But she was preoccupied by Tom’s sudden departure. Of course he’d had no reason not to go; it wasn’t as if he’d made any promises. Still, after the night they had shared, well, she would have thought he’d have found some way to contact her, some way to let her know his intentions. She hadn’t seen him since just before dawn, when she’d left his room, gone quietly down the stairs, and across the lawn.
As the conversation eddied around her, she tried to observe Patricia without being too obvious. Her employer seemed animated enough, asking her husband questions, offering praise, and clearly pandering to his monumental ego. Eleanor remembered his crude remark, and the way he had touched her, as if she were a part of the house and he owned her too. How she disliked him. But then he made no secret of his dislike for her either, his phony manners and pretend goodwill aside. She wondered how such a man had produced a daughter like Margaux. Or what Patricia had ever seen in him.
When dinner was over, she joined Margaux on the sunporch for checkers. Eleanor won once and Margaux twice before they decided to put the game away. “You’re not letting me win, are you?” Margaux asked.
“I respect your intelligence too much for that,” said Eleanor.
“Uncle Tommy said he would teach me to play chess.” Margaux dumped the red and black wooden pieces back in their box.
“Now there’s a game of strategy,” Eleanor said. She folded the checkerboard and handed it to Margaux. “I think you’d be good at it.”
“Do you play chess?” Eleanor shook her head. “Maybe Uncle Tommy will teach you too,” she said. “Do you want to learn? It would be fun to play together.”
“It would. We’ll ask him when he gets back.”
“If he gets back,” said Margaux. She put the board on top of the pieces and covered the box.
“Don’t you think he will?” Eleanor felt the sudden weight of disappointment, like a stone, press down on her at the thought that he might not.
“You heard what Daddy said: he’s a gypsy.”
“Well, I think he’ll be back,” Eleanor said, getting up.
“You like him, don’t you?” Margaux asked.
“Of course I do.” Eleanor tried to keep her tone light, but it was not easy.
“I mean like a boyfriend. That kind of like.”
“We hardly know each other,” Eleanor said. She was blushing, she was sure of it.
“Not true! You’ve been here over a month. And anyway, in the movies, people fall in love right away. They just look at each other”—she demonstrated a soulful look for Eleanor’s benefit—“they kiss, and presto! They’re in love.”
“That’s in the movies,” Eleanor said. “And you’re old enough, and smart enough, to know that what goes on in the movies has very little to do with real life.”
“Mother said she fell in love with Daddy right away.” Margaux sounded like she was an expert on the subject. “They met at a Smith-Yale mixer. He was wearing a white dinner jacket and as soon as he saw her, he went over and asked her to dance. She said by the time the dance had finished, she knew.”
“Is that so?” Eleanor said. She had gone to those mixers too, taking the bus from Poughkeepsie to New Haven, though she’d never found love, or anything even faintly resembling it. “How romantic.” She stretched and yawned, signaling that this conversation was over.
“Maybe Tom will fall in love with you,” Margaux said. She awkwardly got to her feet, gripping her walking stick. Eleanor knew better than to offer any help. “Then you could get married and be a part of our family. You’d be my aunt!”
“What an imagination you have,” Eleanor said. How had Margaux divined her wishes, seen right into her secret heart? “You’ll have to start writing your ideas down. I predict you’re going to be a writer someday.”
“Maybe I will,” said Margaux, suddenly losing her dreamy look and becoming serious. “If you’re a writer, no one has to know you have a withered leg or use a stupid old walking stick.”
“That’s true,” Eleanor said. “When you write, you can be—anyone.”
Back in the guest cottage, Eleanor found a large pink shopping bag on the table. She recognized it as the bag she’d seen Patricia carrying; it came from the dress shop in Dudley. She extracted a box from the bag, untied the ribbon, and pushed away the tissue to find the pansy-printed dress she’d admired in the window.
Patricia. She’d bought it, and left it here—her way of apologizing. When they sat down to lunch, Patricia believed herself to have the upper hand. And at first, Eleanor had felt the familiar pinch of fear: her reputation, her job. But as they talked, she realized Patricia was not about to fire her, and once Eleanor understood that, she stopped being afraid. As a Jew in a Gentile world, she’d learned it was best to remain on the margins, and had become accustomed to the deferential role. Today had been different—she was in charge and oh, how good it had felt.
She took off the dress she’d been wearing and slipped into the new one. There was a mirror on the closet door in the bedroom and she took a turn in front of it; the pansies on the skirt fluttered before settling down around her calves. A perfect fit. Should she keep it? Or wrap it back up and leave it without any word, as Patricia had left it here? She spun around in the other direction, and once again, the full skirt billowed and then settled. It was a lovely dress, an enchanting dress, and she was going to keep it—she’d earned it somehow.
Eleanor unzipped and then stepped out of the dress. She had been truthful today when she talked about Margaux, and although she had not used these exact words, she really did love the girl. She also loved the challenge of teaching a girl with the problems Margaux faced. At Brandon-Wythe, the curriculum and the methodology were all preordained; she had a bit of flexibility in her classroom but only a bit; mostly she followed a plan conceived of and established by others. Whereas now, she was on her own, inventing the plan herself. And she was good at it. Other people saw this as well. One of them was Millard Hightower, the headmaster of the special school in upstate New York, with whom she’d had a lengthy telephone conversation. He was enormously interested in her observations about Margaux. “I’m always looking for teachers of a special caliber,” he’d said. “If you’d ever like to come up for a formal interview, I’d be happy to reimburse your expenses. I feel confident that we could offer you something.” So in the unlikely event that Patricia did fire her, she had options.
Eleanor smoothed the full skirt before hanging the dress in her closet. She would have to thank Patricia—tomorrow. But she didn’t want to leave the cottage again tonight; she was worn out from both the lack of sleep last night and the drama of the day. A bath in the claw-footed tub was what she needed, and after that, one of the big white towels from the stack Opal always provided.
Immersed in the hot water, Eleanor leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Her thoughts turned to Tom. Would he like her new
dress? Remembering what they had done last night made her long to do it all over again. How bold she’d been, taking off her clothes and getting into bed with him. Maybe he thought she was a tramp, and that’s why he’d gone off to Saratoga Springs without telling her. But Eleanor did not believe it. And she did not believe the things Patricia had said about him either. Tom did feel something special for her, she was sure of it.
Eleanor stepped out of the tub and pulled the plug; the water made a loud gurgle as it began to disappear down the drain. Swathed in one of the big, soft towels, she took out the package from her mother that had arrived earlier in the week. It contained a set of cream-colored rayon pajamas with cropped pants and a Chinese-style top. The pajamas were covered in a pattern of red, blue, and green pagodas. She slipped them on and because the evening had gotten cool, added the matching wrapper. The material had a slippery feel, and she thought of Tom touching it, and then her bare skin underneath. After combing out her hair, she settled into the love seat to read a little from Great Expectations, which she had just started working on with Margaux. But she was more tired than she realized. Her eyes closed and she let her head sink to the cushion as the book slipped unnoticed from her hand.
A loud knock woke her. Perhaps Tom had come back and was here to see her. She hurried to greet him, but no, it was Wynn Bellamy. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to the elbow and the shirt itself was untucked and partially unbuttoned so she could see the ribbed undershirt he wore beneath it. His feet were bare. She’d never seen him so unkempt. And he’d been drinking too; she could smell it.
“Well, hello,” he said. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“At this hour?”
“If you don’t mind.” He leaned heavily against the door frame.
“It’s kind of late and I was going to . . .” She didn’t want to say the words go to bed in front of him.
“Just for a little while,” he said. “I promise I won’t stay too long.” And then, without waiting for a reply, he pushed past her and strode into the cottage, his sense of ownership clear. When he sat down on the love seat, she remained standing.
“That’s a nice outfit you have on. Very nice.” He let his knees flop open so that even if she’d wanted to sit, there wouldn’t have been any room. “Does it come with a matching hat?”
“It’s not an outfit. I’m wearing pajamas.” Eleanor instinctively tightened the wrapper’s sash around her waist.
“Pajamas. Of course.” He looked her up and down appraisingly. “I was just teasing you about the hat. Because you wear such nice hats. My wife is always saying so.”
“Thank you.” How she wished she were fully dressed. Or that he would just leave.
“Say, would you like a drink?” And he produced a silver flask from his pocket. “It might help you to relax. Loosen up a little, you know?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’m relaxed enough.”
“You’re not,” he said. “You’re anything but relaxed. You’re a bundle of nerves. And you want me out of here. I can see it all over your face.”
She felt the heat pricking her cheeks. “Well, I was just getting ready to go to—”
“Bed,” he said. Why did that word sound so fraught? He unscrewed the top of the flask. “You don’t mind if I do? Even though you’re not joining me?”
She shook her head, but she did mind. He’d had enough. What was he doing here anyway? He’d never come to visit her at the cottage before.
Mr. Bellamy took a drink and then leaned back. “Can I ask you something, Eleanor? Because it is all right to call you that, isn’t it? Something of a rather personal nature?”
“You can ask anything you like,” she said. “But I might not answer.”
“Clever.” He took another sip. “Very clever. Everyone’s always saying how clever you are. But then your people are clever—” He stopped himself.
Eleanor was becoming quietly frantic. If she was going to get him to leave, it had to be his idea. “Are you planning to go fishing tomorrow?” Fishing meant getting up early—a reason for him to leave the cottage now.
“Fishing? I hadn’t thought about it actually.” He raised the flask to his lips—again. “Back to my question though. The one you said you might not answer. Here it is. I want to know why you don’t like me.”
“Who said I don’t like you?”
“Come on now.” He smiled. “We don’t have to pretend, do we? You haven’t liked me from the start.”
What could she say? “Maybe I’ve felt that it was you who didn’t like me, Mr. Bellamy.”
“Wynn,” he said. “Surely we’re on a first-name basis by now.”
“All right . . . Wynn.” She had never actually said his first name aloud.
“Now we’re getting somewhere!” He took another drink and when he saw she was watching he asked, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have a sip?”
“Quite sure,” she said.
“I wish you did like me,” he said, gazing into the shining surface of the flask as if it were a mirror. “You seem to like everyone else around here—my daughter, my wife, my housekeeper. And my brother-in-law. Especially my brother-in-law. And they all like you! So much. It’s always, Eleanor says this and Eleanor does that. I feel left out, excluded in my own home. It’s not a good feeling, Eleanor.” He took a big swig from the flask. “So I propose that we start again. Fresh. You and I. Do you think we can do that?”
Eleanor did not know what to say, but her panic receded just the slightest bit. He was drunk, that was obvious, but maybe, just maybe, he really did want to make amends. And if that was the case, shouldn’t she accept the olive branch he was offering? “All right,” she said finally. “A fresh start.”
“Splendid!” He jumped up from the love seat, surprisingly graceful for such a bulky man, and turned, as if looking for something. “Is there a radio in here?”
“Yes, but why do you—”
“I think we need to inaugurate our newfound understanding. Celebrate it even. And since you won’t drink with me, you can at least dance with me. I’m a good dancer, you know. Anyone will tell you that.”
“I’m not going to dance with you.” Her voice was quiet but firm.
“Why not?” He spied the radio and turned it on. “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” was playing. “Just one little dance. How can it hurt? Pretend we’re at a party. A party for two.”
“I said no.”
He stood facing her, his chest heaving slightly, and she felt the challenge implicit in his stance. She had to get away—now. But in the few seconds of her hesitation, he’d crossed the room and grabbed both of her arms tightly. His face was close to hers now, much too close. And he was angry. Maybe she ought to dance with him—give him what he wanted, and then he would leave her alone. “One dance,” he pleaded.
“All right,” she said. “One.”
Immediately his grip relaxed and he let one arm slide down so it was resting lightly on her waist. “There,” he said. “Isn’t that better?”
Eleanor didn’t answer, but concentrated on keeping her body as far from his as she possibly could. She acknowledged that he was a good dancer and that had he been someone—anyone—else, she might even have been enjoying herself. The song ended and she stopped but he did not release her. “You said one dance,” she said.
“The song was practically over when we started,” said Wynn.
“This is the last one,” she said. “Really.”
He said nothing but tried to draw her body nearer to his. “That’s not dancing when you’re so far away,” he said.
She moved toward him, acutely aware that her breasts, naked under the thin fabric of her pajamas and robe, would be pressing against him if she stepped any closer. As it was, the hand at her waist was rhythmically kneading her flesh and—
“Kiss me,” he said softly. “Please.”
Again, Eleanor stopped moving. “Mr. Bellamy, I’m not—”
“Wynn, it�
�s Wynn—”
“Mr. Bellamy,” she repeated. “You have to leave now.” Panic was banging in her chest, her head. Why had she agreed to dance with him? She was a fool, an idiot— He brought his mouth close to hers but she turned her face away. “No, I won’t, you can’t force me—”
“Why not? What do you have against me? I’m trying to be nice. I’m trying very hard.”
“You’ve had too much to drink, Mr. Bellamy.” They were no longer dancing, but he hadn’t let her go. “Please go back to the house now.”
“I’ll bet you kiss other men,” he said. “You kiss my wastrel brother-in-law. I’ve seen you. And I’ll bet you two do more than kiss. Everyone knows about your people—they’re hot blooded.”
“Let me go,” she said. “Let me go right now!” She could scream, but then Patricia would hear—and Margaux. Unthinkable. So instead of screaming, Eleanor gave a sudden, violent twist away from him; she was unable to break free but she’d succeeded in unbalancing him. The two of them staggered together briefly and then went crashing down, her head smacking the floor with a sound like a bowling ball hitting a strike. The pain was instant and enveloping.
And even worse, she was now pinned under him, his chest a crushing weight, his alcohol-laced breath foul in her face. “Come on,” he said. “A kiss, just one measly little kiss.” With one hand, he held her face and tried to press his mouth against hers and with the other, he reached inside the robe for the opening to her pajama top and yanked until the buttons gave way. Her panic gave her strength and she managed to rake her nails along his forearms, drawing blood in their wake.
“What the—” He pulled away to run his fingers over the wounds and she used the opportunity to scramble to her feet. But oh, her head hurt. It hurt so much. Her eyes couldn’t focus and instead of one Wynn Bellamy, she saw two. Yet she still was able to grab the ironstone pitcher from its spot on the side table. “If you come any closer, I’ll throw it.” He hesitated and then he was across the room and out of the cottage, door banging behind him.