by Kitty Zeldis
Going slow enough to elicit honks of annoyance from passing motorists, Eleanor made her way down one country road and then the next until she came to the road that led into the town. There was the newsstand, luncheonette, toy store, grocery. She continued on, past the library and municipal building. The police station was in there—Patricia had mentioned it once.
Eleanor slowed down and pulled over. Her heart throbbed as she imagined walking into the station, saying she wanted to report a crime. Because what he’d done was a crime, wasn’t it? He’d attacked, no, molested her. Surely there was a law against such behavior and he’d violated it. But how to describe to the policemen what he’d said, what he’d done? Who would believe her?
She started the car and began driving again. The police would be of no help to her, even if she had told them what happened. The station receded from her vision and she let it go, becoming instead gripped by a strange, trancelike fascination with the particularities of the Cadillac: the easy glide of the wheel under her hands; the hum of the engine; the chrome dials; the sleek, toffee-colored leather of the seat. She was in this moment supremely grateful that her father had insisted on teaching her to drive; Irina had never wanted to learn. “A car is nothing but a big, hulking menace,” she had said. But Eleanor’s father prevailed. “Driving is a useful skill,” he’d said. “You never know when it might come in handy.”
She pressed the gas pedal and felt the Cadillac accelerate. The car she’d learned on was a Ford Model A; even then it was a relic. But this car was a sensitive instrument, almost animate in the way it responded. She felt her breathing relax and slow; driving was a drug, hypnotic and lulling. When she saw the sign for the highway, she impulsively merged with the outbound traffic. She could just keep driving—way up north, as far as Canada, or south, to the palm trees and turquoise waters of Florida. Mexico even. She took note, in a detached, impersonal way, as the needle of the speedometer moved past sixty, then seventy and—my God, she was speeding. What had possessed her anyway? And she shouldn’t be out here at all—she had to get back to catch that train to the city, where her mother was waiting. She eased off the gas, found the next exit, and eventually circled back to the road she’d first taken from the house.
Eleanor parked the car—rather well she thought—and then returned to the cottage. She’d been gone longer than she’d meant to be and she had to hurry. Flinging open the door, she pulled her valise out from under the bed and began to toss things inside. In went clothes, shoes, a few books. The pansy-printed dress. The pajamas and robe she knew she would never wear again.
“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been?” Eleanor glanced up and saw Patricia in the doorway. “I checked the schedule and there’s a train to New York in a little less than an hour. If we leave now, you can make it.”
Eleanor snapped the valise shut and grabbed the handle. “I’m ready. Let’s go.” She followed Patricia back to the Cadillac and got in, surreptitiously patting the seat. She felt like she and the car now shared a secret.
“Eleanor, did you take the car out today?” Patricia said.
“Why do you ask?” The question startled her, though it shouldn’t have. But she hadn’t given a moment’s thought to how she would answer it or what explanation she would give for her actions.
“I noticed that it was gone and I thought it had been stolen. And then it was back again. It was all very strange.”
When Eleanor didn’t reply, she added, “Where did you go?”
“Go?”
“Yes, where did you go?” Patricia sounded exasperated.
“Oh, just for a little spin.”
“You were in such a hurry to catch a train and you just decided to take the car—without asking me—for a little spin?”
“I know it sounds odd, but . . .”
“It’s a little more than odd.” Patricia paused, as if waiting for Eleanor to explain. But there was nothing Eleanor could say. “It certainly seems out of character—you’re always so responsible—so I suppose I shouldn’t get too upset. Only the next time you have a yen to take my car out for a little spin, will you please tell me first?”
“Of course.” Eleanor looked away, relieved that it would go no further.
They drove the rest of the way to the station in silence and when they arrived, Patricia saw her off on the platform.
“I’ll let you know when I’ll be back,” Eleanor said as she boarded.
“I hope everything’s all right,” Patricia said. “Margaux will miss you. We all will.”
Your husband too? Eleanor thought with a shudder. She found her seat and settled in. There was a jolt—the train had started. It moved slowly at first, and then began to pick up speed as it left the Argyle station.
On the way to New York City, Eleanor tried—and failed—to sleep. Every time she tried to lean back on the seat, she was reminded of Wynn Bellamy’s assault by the bump, still tender, at the back of her head. She’d been so woefully naive, thinking she could come up here and, with the flimsy protection of an assumed name, meld seamlessly into a pattern of life that was defined by its exclusion of people like her. And at first, it seemed like she had proved her mother and Ruth wrong. She loved Margaux and teaching her was a pleasure. She admired Patricia—her ease in the world, her polish, her graciousness—and strove to emulate her. She allowed herself to become smitten with Tom and it seemed her feelings were reciprocated. Then Wynn Bellamy barged into the cottage and everything had changed. Carefully, she touched the bump. Not our kind, her mother had said of the Bellamys. And as galling as it was to admit, even if only to herself, her mother had been right all along.
Sixteen
“I wish Eleanor hadn’t left,” complained Margaux. There was a heat wave in Argyle and the rising temperature, coupled with Eleanor’s absence, had brought Margaux to breakfast in a snit.
“You encouraged her to go,” Patricia pointed out.
“I know.” Margaux sulked. “But I have nothing to do today and I’m bored.” Overnight, Margaux seemed to have reverted to the irritable girl she’d been before Eleanor arrived. Patricia thought the sound of that whiny voice would drive her mad. She had to do something.
“Let’s go swimming,” she said, and when she saw her daughter’s face, she hastened to add, “Not at the club.”
“Then where?”
“The place you went to with Eleanor and your uncle,” Patricia said.
“Lavender Lake?” asked Margaux.
“Yes.” Patricia thought it a wretched little spot, but so what? It would be cooler and it would give them something to do. She needed the distraction as badly as Margaux did. During the short ride, Margaux grumbled and groused; it was only monumental self-control that kept Patricia from barking at the girl to just shut up.
They arrived at the lake to find the place deserted. Patricia lugged the umbrella she’d tucked in the trunk and did her best to jam the pointed end of the pole into the gritty sand behind a clump of bushes; then she spread out a blanket and slipped out of her sundress. Ordinarily she would not have gone into the water—despite the name, it was nothing more than a poky little pond—but the unrelenting heat and her own agitation made her set aside her aversion. Margaux was already immersed and beckoning her to come in. Patricia waded out to join her and when she was in deep enough, began the easy, confident crawl she’d honed as a child; swimming and diving were just two more things on which her father had insisted. She still remembered standing on a dock in Maine with him one summer day, when she was only about three or four. He didn’t toss her off the end; that was not his style. He simply pushed her—a nonchalant, even elegant gesture—and when she shrieked and flailed in the cold water, he calmly instructed her to paddle.
Today, the water was not murky, as she had expected, but surprisingly clear and cool. “Doesn’t it feel good?” asked Margaux.
“It does,” Patricia agreed. She switched to a backstroke. They swam companionably for a while and the
n Patricia waded back to the shore. God, but it was a relief to cool off. She was seated on the blanket, wringing the water from her hair when she saw another family trooping along the pebble-strewn grass, toting their own umbrella and blanket.
Patricia’s eyes quickly glanced to the water, where Margaux moved in a steady line, parallel to the shore. She was still a good swimmer, something the disease had not taken from her. She had not seen the other family yet; well, there was nothing to be done about it. This was a public beach after all.
“Over here,” called the boy. “This is the perfect spot.” Patricia watched them settle in. It was only when the boy had taken off his long-sleeved shirt—an odd choice in this heat—that she saw the shrunken arm dangling uselessly at his side. Polio. Like Margaux, this child had survived. The arm was his battle scar, his emblem, the unmistakable legacy of the disease. Concealed by the bushes, Patricia could stare openly; they could not see her.
The boy was younger than Margaux. Ten or perhaps eleven. Small, with a wiry, scrappy little body. Sandy hair, an alert manner. Since the polio had ravaged an arm, not a leg, he was more mobile than Margaux. And she could see he had learned to compensate for his infirmity. “I’m heading in,” he called to his mother.
“Just stay where we can watch you,” she said.
“You heard her, Larry,” said the man. He was lighting a pipe. “Not too far out.”
“I heard, Dad,” the boy said, eager to be released. He scampered down to the water’s edge just as Margaux was emerging. She’d left her walking stick on the shore, and was on both hands in the shin-deep lake, propelling herself along until she reached the stick and used it to hoist herself up. Patricia watched as the two children took the measure of each other. It was clear to her that this family had sought the privacy of this lakefront beach for the same reason she and Margaux had.
Patricia got up and dusted sand from the backs of her legs. She hurried over to where Margaux stood, staring uncertainly at the boy. He turned in her direction.
“Patricia Bellamy,” she said. “And this is Margaux.” The boy’s parents had joined them and the father extended his hand. “Ray Sharp,” he said, and gesturing to the woman added, “This is Pauline, and that’s our boy, Larry.”
“You had polio,” Margaux said to Larry. Patricia’s first instinct was to chastise her, but something told her to keep still.
“Yeah,” Larry said, looking at Margaux’s leg. “So did you.”
“When?” Margaux asked.
“Three years ago. I was eight.” He scratched his ear with his good hand. “How about you?”
“Over a year ago. It was like being in hell.”
“Margaux!” Patricia couldn’t contain herself any longer.
“That’s all right,” said Ray Sharp. “Don’t worry about us.”
“We understand,” Pauline said. And lowering her voice she added, “It was like being in hell.”
Patricia smiled in nervous relief.
“And we’re the lucky ones. So many of the children on his ward didn’t come home at all.”
“Where was this?” Patricia asked.
“Outside of Boston. There was a special hospital there.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Norwalk,” Ray told her, then puffed on his pipe.
“Mother, Larry and I are going in the water,” Margaux said.
“As long as you stay where we can see you.”
“That’s just what I told him,” Ray said with a smile. Pipe smoke wafted around his head.
Margaux set down her stick but instead of dropping to her knees, she took the arm Larry extended. Patricia had to make an effort not to show her surprise. It was rare that Margaux let anyone help her; she’d rather struggle, or even fail. For her to let someone she’d met only moments ago offer any kind of assistance was a radical departure.
“Will you join us?” Pauline said. “There’s plenty of room where we’re sitting.”
“There’s plenty of room everywhere,” said Ray, looking around.
“That’s why we came,” Patricia said. “Margaux won’t expose her leg in most public places. She doesn’t care how hot it is.”
“Larry’s the same way about his arm,” said Pauline.
Ray helped Patricia relocate her blanket and umbrella and the three of them chatted while Margaux and Larry frolicked in the water. She told them about Oakwood; Pauline said she had heard of the place and had been considering it for Larry as well. Despite the horrible tension she felt about Wynn, something in Patricia released as she watched the children play; how long had it been since Margaux had spent time with anyone even close to her in age? Wasn’t that Eleanor’s point?
She looked up to see Margaux, dripping water in a small dark puddle at her feet. Larry was standing right next to her, creating a puddle of his own. “We’re hungry,” she said. “Can we have lunch now?”
“We didn’t bring any sandwiches,” Patricia said. “Remember when Henryka asked, you said no, you wanted to drive into town for lunch?”
“Oh,” said Margaux. “I forgot.”
“We can all do that together,” Patricia said. She looked at Ray and Pauline. “Would you like to join us? My treat.”
She saw Ray and Pauline look nervously at each other. “No, that’s all right,” he said. “We were just going to have a picnic here.” He gestured to a wooden basket sitting at the edge of the blanket.
“Can’t we go with them instead?” Larry asked. “Please?”
“Not this time, honey,” said Pauline gently.
Patricia wondered why they declined. Maybe they felt patronized and she ought not to have offered to pay.
“. . . but if you’d like, you can join our picnic. Pauline always makes too much food, don’t you?”
Pauline nodded. “Please do. I’ve got sandwiches and soda. And grapes.”
“I’d love a sandwich,” Margaux said.
Patricia looked at her sternly but Margaux ignored the look. How many times had she been told not to ask, but to wait to be offered?
“I’ve got peanut butter and jelly or cream cheese on date-nut bread,” said Pauline, rummaging in the basket.
“Can I please have one cream cheese and one peanut butter?” asked Margaux.
“It’s may I, not can I,” said Patricia. But at least the girl had said please.
The Sharps were a welcome distraction from her own oppressive thoughts. Ray sold insurance in Hartford; Pauline had been a librarian. Like Patricia, she had wanted more children. “We tried and tried,” she said. They had finished eating and Ray was down at the water with Margaux and Larry. “But it just never happened.”
“The same with us,” Patricia said. She found a package of cigarettes in her bag and lit one. She didn’t feel as hot now and the smoke filling her lungs felt oddly cooling. “We wanted another but it wasn’t meant to be . . .”
“And then when the one you do have takes ill—” Pauline did not have to finish.
“We didn’t lose them though, did we?” Patricia extended the package of cigarettes to Pauline, who took one and lit it. The tip glowed, a small orange jewel against the blue of the day.
Ray, Margaux, and Larry returned to the blanket. “Mother, Larry’s invited us back to his house for dinner. Mr. Sharp said it was all right with him but that we would have to ask you and Mrs. Sharp. Please will you say yes, Mother? Please?”
Patricia looked at Pauline. “We’re having a cold supper. Because of the heat,” said Pauline. “If you don’t mind that, we’d like for you to share it with us.”
“I’ve got a new rabbit,” Larry said. “His name is Bucky. He won first place at the county fair and I wanted to show him to Margaux.”
“Mrs. and Mr. Sharp say yes,” said Margaux. “And I really do want to see Bucky.”
The Sharps’ house was a perfectly acceptable, if slightly shabby, colonial set behind a massive oak on the front lawn. When they got to the door, she noticed something small attached
to its frame. It had Hebrew letters and so must have been one of those things—she didn’t know what to call it—that Jewish people posted on their dwellings. So they were Jews.
Pauline was gracious; they both were, really. Decent, hardworking, intelligent were words to describe the Sharps. Not brilliant, not scintillating. But Margaux seemed so comfortable here, and was inexplicably smitten with Bucky, a docile gray creature with floppy ears and a ceaselessly twitching nose. When it was time to leave, she said, “Larry invited me to spend the night.”
“We’d love to have her,” Pauline said. “You see how much room we’ve got.” She lowered her voice. “And it’s such a pleasure to see them having a good time together.”
Patricia had to admit that it was. “But what about your things?” she said to Margaux. “Maybe we’d better make it another time.”
“I could follow you back to Argyle and pick up her bag,” Ray offered.
“You see?” Margaux said. “It would be so easy, Mother. Everything’s all worked out.”
Patricia did not answer. Dinner with the Sharps was one thing; leaving Margaux here with them was quite another. Then she looked at Margaux, arms around the rabbit, face shining with hope. “All right then, if you’re sure it’s no trouble,” Patricia said to Pauline. “I’ll call Henryka and ask her to pack a bag.”
“Oh, Mother, I love you!” Margaux cried. She kissed Bucky’s furred gray head.
Was this all it took to make her so happy? A chance to spend some time in this dreary house with a little Jewish boy and his pet rabbit? Patricia got back in the car, this time as the leader, while Ray followed behind. At the house Henryka was there to meet them with Margaux’s bag and a bundle of brownies wrapped in wax paper, which she handed to Ray through the open window.
“We’ll take good care of her,” said Ray from behind the wheel. “You don’t have to worry.” Patricia could see the curved pipe stem protruding from his breast pocket. “And I’ll have her back safe and sound tomorrow.”