Not Our Kind

by Kitty Zeldis

  Somehow they managed to endure the few days between Christmas and New Year’s, and early in January, Patricia drove Margaux back up to Oakwood. Much of the ride was spent in silence, or listening to whatever Margaux, who fiddled incessantly with the dial, found on the radio. But shortly before they arrived she asked, “Why haven’t I heard from Eleanor? Doesn’t she care about me anymore?”

  Patricia kept her eyes on the road ahead where crescents of snow could be seen at the edges. “Yes, I think she does,” she said finally. “But maybe it’s best that you don’t hear from her now.”

  “Why? Because Daddy doesn’t like her?”

  “That’s not it.” It was though, wasn’t it?

  “Well, whatever it is, it’s not fair.”

  They were about to turn onto the drive that led to the school. “I’ll see what I can do,” said Patricia. Which was probably going to be absolutely nothing. She didn’t tell Margaux that Eleanor had asked whether she could write or call; she didn’t want to stir up those feelings again. Now that Eleanor was no longer their employee, Patricia had to recognize that she had no place in their lives anymore. Or rather, the place she had was problematic. Even the mention of her name in front of Wynn could cause an argument. And she wasn’t exactly the sort of person they were used to socializing with. Tom may have cultivated his colorful assortment of creative types, but Patricia had not. Eleanor was, at this moment, quite frankly, a headache. What was even more annoying was that Eleanor kept pressing her—couldn’t she read between the lines and just discreetly back away?

  When Patricia arrived back in New York City, she sat down to dinner. Bridget was adept at stews and roasts—tonight it was lamb—and she baked delicious soda bread. But she didn’t have Henryka’s touch with desserts or make any of the dishes that Henryka had perfected. And unlike Henryka, who was a quiet and unobtrusive presence, Bridget announced herself in a dozen ways—all of them loud.

  “How was the drive?” Wynn asked.

  “Fine.” She turned to Bridget, who was hovering, waiting to see if they needed anything else. “I think we have everything we need here.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Bellamy,” Bridget boomed.

  Patricia had to will herself not to flinch and was relieved when the woman stepped into the kitchen.

  Wynn cleared his throat. “Margaux was all right? I know she wasn’t keen on going back but I think the school’s the best thing for her.” When Patricia didn’t reply, he asked, “Don’t you?”

  “Don’t I what?” Bridget’s roast was fine, but not hot enough.

  “Think that the school is a good place for her.”

  “Yes.” Patricia took a bite of the mashed potatoes. Not even tepid, but cold. Still, she didn’t want to bring it to Bridget’s attention because that meant calling her into the room and having to listen to her apologies; she would mention it later.

  “I’m glad you agree.” Wynn looked down at his plate, where the pyramid of carrots and peas appeared to fascinate him.

  Patricia thought this conversation might drive her quietly mad. But ever since that night in October when he’d slapped her, Wynn had been nothing but meek and contrite. At first his ingratiating attitude had appeased her, but as it continued, she found it tiresome and even contemptible. He’d moved, by unspoken agreement, into the guest room, though he continued to take his meals with her. They spoke to each other with elaborate courtesy and formality, their conversations littered with phrases like “could I trouble you” and “would you please.” Their apartment was a series of well-appointed rooms in hell.

  When the dinner was over, she declined dessert. “I’m awfully tired,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Good night.” He looked at her with the abject expression of a dog just scolded for chewing the master’s slippers. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Patricia escaped to the privacy of the bedroom, where she undressed and slipped under the covers, and tried to focus on a rather tawdry novel that Dottie had loaned her. She was just about to turn out the light when she heard a light tapping on the door.

  “Come in,” she called, and Wynn stepped into the room. It was only when he was standing there that she noticed how much weight he’d lost recently; the robe seemed to billow around his body.

  “May I sit down?” He walked toward the bed, their bed, but instead of sitting down on it, he chose the pale blue slipper chair nearby.

  “Is anything the matter?” She tightened her robe more securely around her waist; she was glad she was wearing it.

  “Yes,” he said. “There is.”

  “Did something happen at work?”

  “No. Work is—work. I meant things are wrong between us,” he said. “I don’t like the way we’re living. Sleeping in separate rooms. Acting like acquaintances. I’m lonely, Tricia. I miss you. I miss us.”

  Despite everything, this admission touched her, yet she had no adequate response. The “us” Wynn spoke of seemed so far in the past, she couldn’t see it, she couldn’t touch it. Too much had gotten in the way.

  “Is this how it’s going to be from now on?”

  Patricia had not been able to think very far ahead. Every time she did, a heavy curtain came down in her mind. Behind that curtain lay her future, but it was blocked, and she could not see it. “I don’t know,” she said. She gestured to the place beside her on the bed. “Come here. We can talk in the dark. It’ll be easier that way.” She switched off the light.

  He sank into the space beside her. “It’s her, you know. That girl. Everything was fine until she showed up.”

  “Everything was not fine.” She ran her fingers over the folded-down hem of the sheet. The raised bumps she felt were an embroidered monogram, the P on one side, the W on the other, and the larger B in the middle, uniting them. “Our daughter was suffering. Eleanor helped her. Why did you want to drive her away?”

  “I know she was good with Margaux,” he said. “But hadn’t her time with Margaux come to an end? Margaux couldn’t stay holed up here forever. She had to start living again.”

  “You have a point.” And it was one Eleanor had made as well. “But even so, why go about it like that? Putting those earrings in her pocket . . .”

  He was silent for a moment and then he began to cry. “Don’t,” she said gently. “Please don’t.” Her arms went around him instinctively and he sought her throat, and then her breasts.

  “No.” She put her hands on his chest to stop him. “Not now.” She couldn’t let this happen; it was—unendurable.

  “All right.” He moved away. “Not now. But—when?” When she didn’t answer he said, “You’ve got to give me some hope, Tricia. Some little scrap.”

  “Don’t make so much of it,” she said. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  He put a hand to her cheek—the same cheek he’d slapped. “Do you think it’s too late?”

  “Too late for what?” She pitied him, and that pity frightened her; it might engulf and drown her.

  “For us to start over. I want to leave New York,” he said. “I hate my job. I’ve hated it for years.” He took his hand away. Patricia was relieved; she did not want him to touch her again.

  “I know you have.”

  “We don’t really need the money either. Especially if we lived somewhere else, somewhere less expensive. Remember Uncle Walter’s house?”

  “What does your uncle’s house have to do with us?” Patricia had never been there but recalled that Wynn’s uncle had left him a house and property upstate a few years ago. She’d always assumed they would sell it.

  “It’s lovely up there. And the house, Tricia, you’d love it. Big, spacious, well constructed. There’s a garden too. I remember the lilacs covering the entire back fence. What a smell.”

  “Wynn, I don’t want to live in Rochester,” she said quietly. Rochester was so . . . provincial—no theater, ballet, or opera, and whatever museums there were couldn’t begin to rival the institutions to which she had access in
New York City. And she knew no one up there, not a soul. Pity was receding now, driven away by her dread of such a scenario.

  “We’d be closer to Margaux,” he continued as if she had not spoken. “She could come home on weekends. We could go to visit her too. It could be wonderful. Leaving this slick, nasty town behind, finding a simpler way of life. I could devote myself to you, Trish. To you, and only you.”

  “Did you hear me?” she said. “I don’t want to live upstate.” Her tone was sharp and painful even to her. But she had to stay strong or else she’d succumb, and in so doing, lose herself for good.

  “I just thought . . .”

  “I know what you thought. And it can’t be.”

  “What can’t be?”

  “Us,” she said simply. “At least not the us we were—before.” Patricia got up. “I’m not asking you for a divorce.” Divorce to her meant failure and unending shame. Divorce would stigmatize Margaux. “But I won’t share your bed ever again. Do you understand? Our private lives are going to be separate.”

  When he remained motionless, Patricia leaned over and touched his shoulder. “It’s time for you to go back to your room.” Because this room was hers, and hers alone.

  Twenty-Four

  Early in February, Eleanor received another note from Tom, Missing you, two terse words orphaned in an expanse of white paper. She ripped it up and burst into tears. How, after all these months, could he think that was enough? But she hadn’t ripped up the envelope, and later she checked the postmark. New York City. So he was here. She couldn’t stop the swoop of her heart, though it made her angry that he still had that power over her. The cad.

  The following Saturday, Eleanor went to the shop to help her mother and spent the morning attaching small red tickets to all the hats earmarked for Irina’s big winter sale. When she’d finished, she took a break and went upstairs for a cup of tea. The phone rang and it was Tom. “Why are you calling me now?” she asked.

  “Because I miss you. Really. I understand if you don’t believe me though—I acted like a heel.”

  “I don’t know what to believe.” Despite her hurt and her anger, the words were a balm.

  “Look, we should talk in person. Can I see you, Eleanor?” She thought about putting the phone down. Instead, she remained on the line, and the next night, she told her mother she was going to an engagement party for Ruth and that she’d be home late. Then she went downtown to meet him, walking along streets that had by now become familiar. She was even familiar with the place he’d suggested, Caffè Luigi, and when she came to it, she paused in front of the big picture window. The place was softly lit and cozy, with a blaze in the brick-lined fireplace and a convivial cluster of small round tables. And there, seated on a black bentwood chair, was Tom. He didn’t see her, so she was free to gaze at the fine blond hair that had felt so smooth under her fingers and at the aquiline cast of his profile. He was drinking from a tiny white cup and still wore his coat, though his scarf was draped over the empty chair—the chair that would be hers as soon as she crossed the threshold to join him.

  Only she didn’t. She stood outside in the cold, watching as he glanced toward the door—she stepped back so he couldn’t see her—looked at his watch, and called the waiter over to order another cup of whatever it was that he had been drinking. She was chilled all over but the longer she stood there, the more impossible it seemed for her to move. There was a hard, knotted piece of her heart that wanted to hurt him as she’d been hurt. Let him see what it’s like to wait and wonder. Let him suffer too.

  Finally, Tom took his scarf and got up, leaving some money next to the empty cups on the table. As he emerged from the cafe, she scurried back and hid in a doorway. He began to walk, his long strides making it hard for her to follow, but she felt pulled along in his wake. Now this was crazy. She didn’t go in when he was waiting for her, and yet she was following him? She kept him in her line of sight, but stayed far enough back so he wouldn’t be aware of her.

  He walked quickly, hands in his pockets, until he came to Jane Street. His pace slowed and hers did too. Then all of a sudden he whirled around and with his long stride, doubled back so he was right in front of her. “Why are you following me—” He stopped. “Eleanor! I waited and waited—”

  “I know,” she said. After thinking about him so much and for so long, seeing him was jarring. “I was there. I saw you inside.”

  “So then why didn’t you come in?”

  “Because I didn’t want to,” she said.

  “But you followed me.” He stepped closer, as if to embrace her, but she stepped back. “It’s good to see you,” he said.

  She nodded, but didn’t know what her nod meant. That she thought yes, it was good to see her? Or that it was good to see him? Which, in fact, it was. He wore a camel chesterfield coat and plaid scarf but no hat; his dark blond hair, so like Patricia’s, was pushed back carelessly from his forehead and the tip of his nose was pink from the cold. “I live here,” he said. “Please come up. We can talk in my apartment.”

  Should she go up with him? His key was in his hand, the same hand that had fed her that first morsel of lobster, that had touched her so deftly in so many places. “All right,” she said. He unlocked the front door—no doorman for him—and let her walk in first. There was no elevator either, and they took the stairs to the second floor. Then he was ushering her in, taking her coat and hat, inviting her to sit down. “I’ll be right back.” She sank into a worn though elegant sofa, covered in a plum-colored velvet that was balding around the arms. The rugs were beautifully patterned but fraying and worn too.

  Tom disappeared into the kitchen to make drinks and Eleanor looked around. A carved wooden mantel but no actual fireplace. Several mismatched candlesticks—brass, silver, crystal—lined the top of it, their white tapers in various states of molten decay. A mirror with an ornate gilt frame hung above the candlesticks; flecks of gilt littered the mantel and the rug. The walls were covered with paintings, drawings, and even a few photographs. There was a still life in oil—blue-and-white vase, yellow flowers, patterned tablecloth. Portraits in pencil, in ink, and in charcoal. Another oil, this one no bigger than twelve inches, that depicted a bird’s nest filled with three pale blue, faintly speckled eggs. More framed artwork was propped on the floor, around the perimeter of the room, sometimes two and three deep.

  Tom returned with two Manhattans and joined her on the sofa. “Our drink,” he said, handing her a glass. “Remember?”

  Eleanor took a tiny sip. Our drink. There was no our anything. “Why did you disappear?” she said.

  “I guess you believe in getting right to the point.” He lifted his glass and touched it lightly to hers. “Cheers.” But he hardly sounded cheerful.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I believe in.”

  “You think I behaved pretty badly,” he said.

  “No,” she replied. “I think you behaved terribly.”

  “I deserved that.”

  “Tom, what was I supposed to think? After that night we spent—”

  “A night I’ve thought about and relived a hundred times.”

  “Then why did you disappear? Not once, but twice.”

  “I just felt our being together was . . . too complicated.”

  “Well, maybe it is.”

  “But not because of Patricia or Wynn. It was you—you scared me, Eleanor.”

  “I scared you?” She sat up. “Why? Because I’m—Jewish?”

  “No, that has nothing to do with it. It was because I felt like I was falling in love with you.”

  Falling in love with her! “Were you planning on telling me anytime soon?”

  “I didn’t know,” he said. “I just knew I had to see you again. That’s why I called you, asked you to meet me—”

  “That is about the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said.

  Instead of answering, he leaned over and kissed her.

  Had she thought she was over him? Well, she was
wrong. He continued to kiss her and she gave herself over to it. The drink she was holding but not paying any attention to spilled, wetting the front of her skirt.

  “I’ve missed you too,” she said, when he finally lifted his face from hers. “Even though I hated you sometimes.”

  “I deserve for you to hate me. Especially after what happened with Wynn.”

  “What are you talking about?” She moved away.

  “I had a call from Margaux. She was at that school . . . what’s the name of it?”

  “Oakwood.”

  “Oakwood, right. She told me some wild story about Wynn’s having planted a pair of earrings in your pocket.”

  “He did, and I left because of it.” But she was relieved he didn’t know about that night in the cottage. “I might have told you—if you’d been around.”

  “I was an idiot,” he said. “Can you forgive me?”

  “I don’t know yet,” she said.

  He leaned over to put his arms around her, and she stiffened. That earlier kiss notwithstanding, she was still nursing the hurt she’d felt when he disappeared. And there was that night Wynn Bellamy barged into the cottage too. She’d thought that if she didn’t talk about it, she could make herself believe it hadn’t happened. Not true. He was here in this room with them, right here, right now.

  Tom didn’t press her. “It’s all right,” he said. “We don’t have to do anything. We can just be here together. Would you like that?”

  She nodded, grateful that he seemed to understand.

  “I’ll put on the radio, okay?” He got up to switch it on and then rejoined her on the couch. The moody, jazzy notes of a clarinet filled the room, pushing the memory of Wynn to its margins. Tom began to stroke her hair, a soothing, even hypnotizing caress. His hand moving from the crown of her head and down, over and over again. She closed her eyes, trying to relax. Then the music changed to something loud and percussive and she jumped. Tom stopped his stroking and got up to change the station. But the mood was spoiled. No, everything was spoiled. She had wanted to be with Tom. Wanted it so much. Then why did it feel so wrong?