Not Our Kind

by Kitty Zeldis

  As she headed down Lexington Avenue, she realized her hair hadn’t fully dried. Would her mother believe she’d been caught in a sudden shower even though it was only her hair, and not her clothes, that was wet? But when she climbed the stairs and let herself into the apartment, she found that her mother had gone to bed, saving her from telling yet another lie.

  Eighteen

  The heat had finally broken, so Patricia told Henryka they would be eating outside. Tom had returned that morning but Eleanor was still in New York. Margaux’s friend Larry Sharp would be joining them too; his parents had dropped him off earlier in the day. Oh, she’d had to tap-dance her way around the lie she’d originally told Wynn about the family in Darien when she revealed the true identity of the boy Margaux had met at the lake. Wynn had blustered a bit when he found out. But after she engineered an unexpected afternoon detour to the bedroom, his grumbling subsided and turned into a mercifully brief lecture about the importance of Margaux having the right kinds of friends from the right kinds of families.

  The table looked lovely—pale pink cloth, white napkins, some late-summer dahlias in a vase—but Patricia realized there were no dinner rolls for the meal. She went into the kitchen to ask Henryka if she could quickly bake a batch before they all sat down.

  “No flour,” said Henryka.

  All right, so there wouldn’t be any rolls tonight. “How about iced tea? Can you make a pitcher?”

  “No tea.”

  “We’re out of flour and tea?” Patricia couldn’t figure it out. Henryka prided herself on running the household with nearly military precision, so running out of two items was somewhat surprising.

  “I go to market.”

  “Thank you. And could you pick up some ice cream while you’re out? Vanilla, and that rum raisin Margaux likes so much.”

  “Of course, missus.”

  After she had left, Tom wandered out into the yard, newspaper under his arm and drink in hand.

  “Where were you all afternoon?” Patricia asked. She hadn’t seen him all day.

  “In the arms of Morpheus,” he said. “Jasper threw a party last night and I didn’t get to bed until dawn, and then drove down here on almost no sleep—I was exhausted.”

  “Well, I’m glad you had a chance to rest. I need you to keep the conversational ball rolling at dinner.”

  “Something wrong?” He settled himself on a chaise longue.

  “Wynn’s not enamored of our houseguest.”

  “That boy Margaux invited?”

  “Larry Sharp. She met him at the lake. Wynn thinks he’s not the sort of person she should be . . . cultivating.”

  Tom shook out the paper with a decisive snap of his wrists. “Wynn should leave the cultivating to the gardener.” He looked at her with his disarming smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure everyone has a good time.”

  “Thanks.” Patricia felt something inside her uncoil slightly. She headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll make myself a drink and come and join you.”

  “By the way, when is Eleanor coming back?”

  Patricia turned. Tom’s face was hidden by the paper. “I thought you said you were afraid of her.”

  “Actually, I’m afraid of me.”

  “Well, she was supposed to be back tonight but she called to say she needed another day or two in New York. She’s helping her mother.” When he didn’t answer she added, “Are you relieved? Or disappointed?”

  “Maybe a little of both.” He set the paper down and gave her his most endearing, rueful smile.

  When Henryka returned, she’d bought a five-pound bag of flour and two boxes of tea but no ice cream. “I sorry,” she said as she began to assemble the ingredients for the rolls. “I forget.”

  “That’s all right,” Patricia said, though again, she was surprised and, quite honestly, exasperated. “Tom can pick it up, can’t you, Tom?”

  “Sure, I’ll go now.”

  As Patricia went upstairs to change out of her slacks—Wynn preferred her in a dress at dinner, even here in the country—she had to acknowledge, if only to herself, that something really was amiss with Henryka. Did she need a raise? A vacation?

  Dinner was a little later than usual, but by eight o’clock, the table had been set and Henryka was taking the rolls out of the oven. “Margaux,” Patricia called, “why don’t you and Larry wash your hands and then you can sit down?”

  As they ate, Tom regaled them with stories of his dabbling in the art world. “And there’s this guy I met, Jackson. Jackson Pollock. He doesn’t even use a paintbrush. He just drips and flings the paint all over the place—a crazy, wonderful mess.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Margaux. “Who would do that?”

  “Scout’s honor,” said Tom as he passed the rolls. “I bought one of his paintings, and when you get home, I’ll take you downtown to see it.”

  “Why not take her to the Metropolitan or someplace where she can see some real art and not something that sounds like any five-year-old could make it?” asked Wynn.

  “There are lots of artists who weren’t recognized in their own time,” said Patricia.

  “Like Vincent van Gogh,” said Larry. It was the first time he’d spoken during the meal.

  “Van Gogh was a sick man who sliced off his own ear,” said Wynn. “I don’t think he’s much of an example.”

  Patricia shot her husband a look—did he really need to demolish a child, and their guest besides? “There’s no doubt that van Gogh was a tormented soul,” she said gently. “But that has nothing to do with his painting. In fact, I think he was his best self when he painted. Not his worst.” She turned to Larry, saying, “And he’s a perfect example. He couldn’t sell a painting in his own lifetime but now his work is admired and revered.”

  “That’s right, Daddy,” said Margaux. “I saw that painting, Starry Night, at the Museum of Modern Art and I loved it.”

  Patricia loved that painting too, but during the short, tense silence that followed, she didn’t want to say so. Then Tom said, “Look at the Impressionists. They weren’t even allowed to show their paintings with the more established artists but had to create their own venue, the Salon des Refusés. Now they’re part of the canon.”

  Patricia let out her breath. Tom was always a bridge over troubled waters. Larry looked less stricken and dug into his baked chicken. Despite his useless arm, he was surprisingly adept with both fork and knife. The charged moment passed, but Patricia couldn’t forget the sharp edge in Wynn’s voice when he’d gone after Larry.

  Once the pie and ice cream had been served, the children asked to be excused so that they could play a board game, leaving Tom and Wynn at the table. Wynn lit a cigar, and even outdoors, the stench was offensive. “Did you play the ponies up in Saratoga?” asked Wynn.

  “Not even once.” Tom took out a pack of cigarettes. “Jasper kept me busy—he’s a regular impresario. You wouldn’t believe the guest lists at his parties—poets, painters, opera singers, a composer or two, and a whole gaggle of ballet dancers he’d invited up from New York. You could spot one from all the way across the room—perfect posture and necks like swans.”

  “Does he know anyone who actually makes any money?” Wynn puffed on the cigar.

  “Making money isn’t the only thing in life,” Tom said.

  “Maybe not, but it’s the most important thing.”

  “Not to me.” Tom usually got along with Wynn, but right now he seemed testy.

  “Well, if you’ve never worked a day—”

  Just then, Margaux reappeared. “Uncle Tom, come play with us!”

  Tom stood and stubbed out his cigarette. “You’ll excuse me,” he said, all at once gracious again. “I’m being summoned.”

  When he’d gone, Patricia glared at Wynn, or rather at the glowing end of the cigar, since the dark now obscured his face. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Why blame me? Did you hear him?”

  “You started it. You know Tom. He lives
to charm, not quarrel.”

  “Well, he’s a little too charming if you ask me.”

  “What are you talking about?” But she knew.

  “He’s just waiting for her to return so they can start their little hanky-panky again.”

  “Eleanor?”

  “No. Henryka.”

  “Very funny. But Tom and Eleanor are not news.”

  “Still, I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I.” She sighed. “There’s nothing we can do about it though.”

  “We can ask him to leave before she gets back.”

  “But Margaux will be sad. And besides, we’re going to be in New York soon enough. They’ll be able to see each other then if they want.”

  “It won’t be under our roof. Do you want Margaux exposed to that sort of thing?”

  “No, I suppose not.” She had said pretty much the same at that lunch in Dudley, and she still burned a bit when she remembered how Eleanor had deftly but firmly put her in her place.

  “Talk to him.” Wynn rose from the table, taking his odious cigar to befoul some other part of the yard or house. “Or else I will.”

  Patricia remained where she was. She could hear laughter from the sunporch, and from the kitchen, Henryka, who was singing a Polish song as she cleaned. Her voice wasn’t particularly good but the song had a tender, even mournful sound. Finally Patricia got up, but she didn’t want to go back inside, so she began walking outside, around the house, toward the front door. Just as she had turned the corner she spied a woman sitting outside—the white dress made her visible. Dottie. Patricia called out to her and then crossed the road.

  “Out for some night air?” she asked.

  “I’m just so relieved there’s been a break in the heat,” said Dottie.

  Patricia sat down beside her and they chatted briefly about Dottie’s daughter, who would soon be a freshman at Bryn Mawr. Then Dottie put a hand with manicured, rosebud pink nails on Patricia’s arm. “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you. I’m not sure if you know it already, and if you don’t, maybe I’m speaking out of turn. But I know that if the situation were reversed, I’d want someone to tell me.”

  “Tell me what?” Patricia prayed this didn’t have anything to do with Eleanor, or Larry Sharp; Larry’s parents had seemed hesitant about letting him spend the night but Patricia had assured them it would be fine, perfectly fine. They had not expressed exactly what their concerns were but they didn’t have to.

  “It’s about Henryka.”

  “Henryka!” said Patricia. “What about her?”

  “Well, she told Colleen that she was looking for another position, and asked her to keep her ears open. Colleen was supposed to keep it a secret. But she told me anyway.”

  “I had no idea,” Patricia said. “She hasn’t mentioned wanting to leave.”

  “She’s been with you a long time, hasn’t she?”

  “I’ve known her since I was a little girl.” Patricia had been four or five when Henryka had come to work for her mother, and while Henryka had not been a warm presence, she’d been a constant one. Patricia remembered sitting in the kitchen of their Sutton Place apartment while Henryka baked, her plump arms covered in a blur of flour, the commingled smells of cinnamon, vanilla, and browning butter in the air. This was thirty or so years ago. Henryka’s hair had not gone gray yet, and her braids were as yellow as the butter. Patricia was not even supposed to be there; her mother had not wanted her anywhere near the kitchen. But Patricia was drawn to the place, and to Henryka’s dominion over it.

  “Well, she ought to have told you first.”

  “Yes . . . I wonder why she didn’t.”

  When the cookies or cake or pie or tart was done, Henryka would pour her a tall glass of milk and offer Patricia the first serving, still warm from the oven.

  “Really, some of these people don’t have a shred of loyalty. I’m sure you’ve been very good to her.”

  She was very good to me, Patricia wanted to say. When she had a cold, it was Henryka’s dill-infused chicken soup that helped her mend; when she returned to Smith after a weekend at home, a tin of Henryka’s pecan turtles went with her. Henryka had been with her and Wynn through the deaths of all their parents, and Margaux’s birth and her illness. And now Henryka was planning to leave them. Leave, and wield her whisk and her rolling pin in some other woman’s kitchen.

  “Patricia, you’re so quiet. Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right. Honestly, she’s only a cook. I’ll find someone else in no time.”

  “Absolutely. I can even ask Colleen if you’d like.”

  Patricia got up and brushed off the back of her dress. “Oh, that won’t be necessary.” And then she turned and walked back across the road before Dottie saw the tears that brimmed in her eyes, and then began rolling slowly down her face.

  Nineteen

  Two nights later, Patricia had just slipped out of her shoes and taken off her dress when Wynn walked into the room. She could barely look at him. All through dinner he had once again seemed intent on baiting her brother. Tom, to his credit, didn’t take the challenge. But the strain of watching this, along with her bottled-up confusion and grief over Henryka’s planned defection, had put Patricia in the worst of moods. Wynn, however, seemed quite cheerful. “I’ve just had a chat with my brother-in-law,” he said.

  “You certainly can’t blame him if he felt attacked—”

  “Nothing of the kind,” Wynn said. “We understood each other perfectly. He’ll be gone in the morning.”

  “Gone in the morning? What are you talking about?”

  Wynn began to undress. “Tom’s going back to New York. Trust me. This will be better for everyone.”

  “Everyone?” Patricia felt things were moving too quickly. “What about Margaux? What about me? I like having Tom here. So does she.”

  “Well, you have Eleanor to thank,” said Wynn. “If she hadn’t let your brother push up her skirt and—”

  “Oh, would you stop! Would you please, please just stop such smutty talk—” She broke off when she saw his expression reflected in the mirror above the bureau. She wore only her brassiere and diaphanous half-slip and he was staring.

  “Of course I can push up your skirt.” He walked over to her. “I can do that because we’re married, and it’s my right.” His hands were on her shoulders, nudging down the straps of her brassiere.

  “Not if I say no, it isn’t.” She stepped forward, reaching for her robe. She’d finish undressing in the bathroom. But he moved along with her and this time he was more insistent, yanking the whole brassiere down so that her breasts were momentarily exposed before he grabbed them.

  “Wynn, no.”

  “You don’t mean that.” He was kissing her neck and roughly kneading her flesh.

  “Yes, I do.” She tried to free herself, but he was too strong.

  “I’m tired of your excuses. So many nights it’s Not now, I’m not in the mood . . . Well, I’m in the mood.”

  He was being petulant, even ridiculous. She would have laughed, but there was something in the way he gripped her arm that was unfamiliar—and a little frightening. Fear took the defiance out of her and it just seemed easier to acquiesce. She let him lead her to the bed, and pull her down. And she lay still while he climbed on top of her and did what he always did. When he was done, he rolled away, still breathing heavily. Soon he began to snore. Patricia thought of that night last spring, when she’d taken the lead in a way that had been new for both of them. But the newness had not lasted, and the next time she’d tried it, he’d rebuffed her. “Once was fun,” he said. “I’m not about to make a habit of it.”

  Tonight it had been different, though not in the way she used to hope for. She had seen something violent in him. Or maybe the violence had always been there, and she’d just willed herself not to look. In any case, that moment of fear had dissipated. Now she was just—disgusted. She slept fitfully and was up with the light, dressing
quickly while Wynn slumbered on.

  Early as it was, Henryka was already downstairs, engaged in the familiar ballet of rinsing, wiping, storing, stacking. Her braids were neatly pinned, her lace-trimmed apron fresh. Making lace was her hobby and her signature; Patricia remembered how as a child she’d sat transfixed as Henryka’s nimble hands moved this way and that, spinning inches, feet, and yards of the snowy, lavish stuff.

  “Why do you want to leave us?” Patricia burst out. Oh, that was all wrong, this wasn’t what she wanted to say or the way she wanted to say it.

  Henryka stopped what she was doing to look at Patricia. “I sorry,” she said. “I no want to leave. But I no can work here anymore.”

  “Why on earth not? Do you need a raise? I’ll give it to you gladly. More time off? You can have that too.”

  Henryka just shook her head.

  “Then what? Have I said something? Done something?”

  There was a pause during which Henryka took a pan to the sink to soak. “No you,” she said finally. “Mr. Wynn.”

  Wynn! What had he done? “Can’t you tell me what’s happened? Please? We’ve known each other such a long time and—” She’d started to cry, and she used her napkin to blot the tears.

  “Missus, I so sorry.” Henryka came over and sat down across from her. “You husband—he no good. He hurt Miss Eleanor . . . I take her to doctor.”

  “He hurt Eleanor? I can’t believe it. What did he do?”

  “You ask. Maybe she tell you.”

  “But you don’t even know if she was telling the truth.”

  “I know.”

  “How?” Patricia asked.

  Henryka looked down at her hands. Even though she was long widowed, she still wore her wedding ring, the plain gold band cutting slightly into the flesh of her finger. “Long time ago, he hurt me too.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “At Christmas, he try kiss me. And when you were in hospital having Margaux . . .”

  “What did he do while I was in the hospital?” Henryka was silent. “Please, you have to tell me, I need to know—”