by Kitty Zeldis
“I hear,” Henryka said. “And I so sorry, missus.”
“Thank you,” Patricia said softly. “Thank you for coming.” They hugged, somewhat awkwardly, and Patricia breathed in the faint lily-of-the-valley scent Henryka always wore. Then she noticed that there was someone else standing there—Eleanor Moskowitz.
She stepped back. “You,” was the only word she could summon. But it represented the fury, outrage, grief that rose in her throat and choked off all the other words she could have said. All her life, Patricia had done what was expected of her, toed the line she’d been shown since earliest childhood. Hiring Eleanor had been one of her very few acts of rebellion, a risk she’d taken for her daughter’s sake. But where had it gotten her? To this bitter moment, filled with sorrow, reeking with disgrace. “What are you doing here?” she practically hissed.
“I invited her,” Margaux said quickly.
“I’m not asking you. I’m asking her. Eleanor.”
“It’s true,” Eleanor said. “Margaux did want me to come and I thought I should. For her.”
“For her,” Patricia mocked. “That’s so like you, Eleanor. So saintly. So good—good at ruining everything. Because that’s what you did—you ruined my life.” She had the satisfaction of seeing Eleanor’s stricken face.
“Missus, you upset and don’t mean what you say,” said Henryka.
“That’s right.” Tom turned to her. “You’ve had a shock.”
“Oh yes I do. I mean every word of it.” She turned to Henryka. “It’s because of Eleanor that you left, and because of her that my daughter can’t abide me. Eleanor came between Wynn and me too. We argued about her constantly. It was after our last fight that he left and ended up going out on the boat and drowning.” Had she ever in her life spoken so loudly in public? She was sure she hadn’t, but once she started, she didn’t want to stop.
“Mother, you have to get hold of yourself.”
In Margaux’s horrified tone, Patricia heard the echo of her own voice. How many times had she tried to rein her daughter in, and in so doing, sounded exactly like that? But what Margaux must have known—and Patricia was just discovering—was the savage joy that spewing such words, thick and hot as lava, could elicit.
She ignored her daughter and brother, and spoke to Eleanor alone. “He told me he called you that night. He said you threatened to expose him to Margaux.”
“No.” Eleanor shook her head. “You’re taking what I said out of context.”
“What are you talking about?” Margaux looked from Eleanor to her mother. “Expose what?”
“Your father called me in the middle of the night shortly before he died. He’d been drinking and he was feeling sorry for himself. He accused me of ruining his life. I told him if he ever called me again, I wasn’t going to keep his secret anymore, and that I would tell you about what he’d done.” Eleanor seemed in control of herself, yet the tears running down her face suggested otherwise. “And your mother is right—I shouldn’t have said that. But he frightened me, calling to accuse me. As if he was the injured party.”
“Did my father . . . hurt you in some way?”
“Don’t,” Patricia broke in. “Don’t you dare tell her.”
Eleanor turned to Margaux. “Something did happen between your father and me last summer. But your mother is right. This isn’t the time or place to discuss it.”
“Stop treating me like a baby,” said Margaux. “I deserve to know.”
“You do,” Eleanor said. “And you will. Only not now.”
“I suppose I should thank you for that,” Patricia said. “But I won’t. You’re not welcome here and I’d like you to go.”
“Trish, you need to calm down—” Tom tried to take her arm.
“Leave me alone.” Patricia shook him off. “I’ve been calm my entire life, and where has it gotten me?”
“I know you’re upset,” said Tom. “But this isn’t helping.”
“It’s helping me,” she said.
“Eleanor doesn’t deserve this and I want you to stop it right now.”
“Or else what?”
Tom sighed. “Or else nothing. I’m not delivering an ultimatum, Trish. I just want to spare you because I think you’ll regret all of this later.”
“That’s for me to decide,” said Patricia. “Anyway, the car is waiting. Are you coming with me? Or are you going with her?” She threw her arm in Eleanor’s direction.
Tom hesitated. “I’m going with you,” he said finally. “But not before I apologize to Eleanor for your behavior.” He looked at Eleanor, who was looking down. “Even if she won’t say she’s sorry, I’ll say it for her. For all of us really.”
Patricia was infuriated—he was patronizing her, as if she couldn’t be held accountable for her words. “If you’re coming, you’d better come now. You too, Margaux.” She turned abruptly away but not before she was stabbed by the tender, even maternal way Henryka’s arm encircled Eleanor’s shoulders and led her from the church.
The ride to the cemetery seemed fueled not by gasoline, but by Patricia’s pure and unadulterated rage. Neither Tom nor Margaux spoke a word to her on the ride, and at the gravesite, they stood together on one side of the gaping hole in the ground while Patricia stood on the other. The mahogany casket was lowered carefully into the earth and Reverend Sprinchorn delivered a final blessing. Then the gravediggers began their work. It was over.
The next day, Tom drove Margaux back to Oakwood, which worked well for Patricia, because Margaux wasn’t speaking to her. Left alone, she began the tedious task of packing up all Wynn’s things to give to charity. There was precious little she kept, and what she did—an engraved money clip, a silver shoehorn, cuff links in the shape of tiny sailboats—she left in Margaux’s room, an offering. Patricia herself wanted nothing. When it was all done, it was almost as if he’d never lived in the apartment. With the exception of the study, he’d left no imprint on these rooms. But when she finished taping up the last of the boxes, she slid to the floor beside them and wept.
In the weeks that followed, she did not become the social pariah she had expected to be. Wynn’s indiscretions may have offended their friends, but his death had wiped the slate clean. Invitations still filled her mailbox, perhaps even more plentifully than before. There were bridge games, luncheons, and dinners. She went to some, and declined others. Those she attended were laced with a new and unctuous solicitude. How are you holding up? was a frequent question. And You’re so strong, Patricia. I don’t know how you manage it. That last was tainted not just with phony concern, but also with schadenfreude, and she hated it. What she did not hate, however, was the dawning realization that Wynn might actually have done her a favor. Divorce could have been long, drawn out, and messy, especially if Wynn had fought her. Instead, his death had cut cleanly through that morass.
In late May, before Margaux’s term at school finished, Patricia decided to drive up to Argyle. She hadn’t been up to the house since last year, and the thought of spending another summer there, even alone, was unbearable. She would take what she wanted or arrange to have it sent to New York, and then she would sell the place without looking back.
The drive was traffic-snarled, slow, and hot. She put away the few groceries that she’d bought on the way, fell into bed, and did not wake until the sun was streaming through the curtains she’d neglected to close. She went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee. It tasted like poison; she poured it down the drain. The wicker furniture, the hooked rugs, the watercolors of lighthouses, fields of poppies, carousels—she cared about none of them. Even her clothes did not inspire any sense of ownership. There was nothing here—or anywhere, for that matter—that she truly wanted. But what about the books? There weren’t many—a few novels Dottie had loaned her, a quaint old volume on Argyle’s history written by some local dowager, a biography of Vincent van Gogh she’d long meant to read. And the illustrated volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets she’d bought for Eleanor and neve
r gotten around to giving her—Henryka must have put it here.
She smoked cigarette after cigarette, lighting the fresh one from the embers of the old. The room stank of tobacco smoke; it would probably waft into the other rooms and settle in the drapes and the rugs. So what? The new owners would have to deal with it. She looked down—the hand that held the cigarette shook slightly, so she stubbed it out. There had to be something she could do to calm herself, and she knew just what it was. Although it was still morning, she poured a glass of orange juice and added a generous splash of vodka. When the first cooling sip spread through her, the horrible tension in her chest finally relented, just a little.
She went onto the back porch and stared out at the yard, which was weedy and overgrown. Glow had liked to stalk her prey—small birds, the occasional chipmunk or baby rabbit—out there. But Glow was gone; she’d succumbed to some feline malady over the winter and Patricia had not had the heart to get another cat. When her glass was empty—all too soon it seemed—she filled another, promising herself to drink it more slowly. Then she returned to the porch.
Looking out past the weeds, her gaze was drawn to the cottage. Wildflowers had sprung up around the door and it had an enchanted look, like a dwelling in a fairy tale. But that was where all the trouble in her life had started. Right there. A little unsteadily, she went outside and crossed the matted grass.
Tiny white butterflies flitted around the Queen Anne’s lace and bumblebees lazily hummed around the clover. There was always a key under a flowerpot; Patricia found it and let herself in. The cottage was warm and stuffy, the bedroom door closed. She opened the windows in the main room and sat down on the love seat, the one she’d had redone before Eleanor had moved in last summer, and ran her hand over the floral pattern, a medley of pink, pale yellow, and white. Had Wynn sat here with Eleanor? She knew Tom had.
Unsure of what she was seeking, Patricia went into the bedroom. The curtains were closed here too and the room felt oppressive. She pulled the curtains apart and opened the window. The light that poured in revealed the coating of dust on the furniture, and, under the bed, the smallest glimpse of something red. She got down on her hands and knees to investigate. It was the corner of a leather case or envelope of some kind. She wiped the layer of dust that covered it with her hand and opened it. It was filled with papers—letters, it seemed—in various stages of completion. It belonged to Eleanor; she must have left it behind.
Patricia sat down on the bed. These letters weren’t meant for her eyes. She ought to leave them alone—didn’t she want Eleanor out of her life and out of her thoughts? But the temptation was too great; she just had to read them.
Margaux Bellamy is such a proud, angry girl. I love her for that, the anger as much as the pride. What happened to her is such a blow; she needs her anger to burn her clean so she can move beyond it. Only that way will she have a chance at the rich, fulfilled life she deserves. I’m not sure her parents understand this—certainly not that father of hers—but I do, and I’m glad I can be here for her.
Then, another page that was about—her.
I admire Patricia, I really do. First of all, she is the most truly elegant woman I have ever met, and I mean that in terms of character as well as looks. She is measured, refined, and she thinks before she speaks. I want to be more like her. And I wish we could be close—friends rather than just employer and employee. Maybe if we’d met under different circumstances that would have been possible. Instead, there are too many things that divide us and I don’t think either of us can get beyond those obstacles. She will always look down on me a bit—daughter of an immigrant hatmaker, and a Jew besides. And I will always resent her sense of entitlement. Yet we are bound by our mutual love for Margaux, and that counts for something. Quite a lot in fact.
Eleanor could have been right—in other circumstances, they might have been friends. But they had no other circumstances, only these, the ones that shaped and defined them. Some of the sheets were blank. Then she found one addressed to someone named Ruth and dated almost a year ago. It was about her late husband.
Wynn Bellamy was here last night. I was sleeping when he showed up, and I was too afraid to ask him to leave. He’d been drinking—no surprise there—and he wanted to dance with me. Even though I didn’t want to, I said yes again because really, how could I say no? He was my employer. Margaux may love me and Patricia may like me, but in the end, Mr. Bellamy is the boss. So I agreed to the dance and then he wanted a kiss—and who knows what else. He was holding me so tightly and I tried to get away. We struggled, and when we fell, he landed right on top of me. He grabbed my face with one hand to kiss me and then he tore the buttons off of my pajamas—I was frightened, Ruth. Terrified. For a moment it seemed that he might—rape me. But I scratched his arms, and threatened him with a pitcher, and he finally left. I would never have told anyone what had happened but I was seeing double and I’d thrown up, so I knew I needed to see a doctor. Henryka—she’s the cook I told you about, the one who didn’t like me—was actually kind enough to drive me. I didn’t tell her what happened, but she guessed. I didn’t tell that Dr. Parker either. What good would it have done? No one would believe me. Maybe not even you, Ruth.
Patricia felt invaded by a familiar revulsion as she read these words. The account of Wynn’s behavior was not a surprise. But the extent of Eleanor’s fear and powerlessness—these were a revelation, and one that made her feel ill. It wasn’t just what Wynn did, it was the potential embedded in his actions. And there was something else too—this letter was never sent. Eleanor said that she had not shared the events of that night with anyone and Patricia believed her. Yet Eleanor had needed to unburden herself and here was the proof.
Maybe it was the warmth of the room, the vodka, or both, but Patricia felt robbed of energy, and after putting the letters back in their case, she stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes. When she awoke, over two hours later, she was at first unsure where she was. Then she remembered. She had violated Eleanor’s privacy, but that violation was a portal to a new way of viewing what had happened, and it loosened the stubborn knot of her anger. Eleanor had loved her daughter and Margaux loved her; she had expressed admiration for Patricia and a wish to be her friend.
Patricia left the cottage and returned to the house. The vodka bottle was on the counter in the kitchen and on impulse, she poured what remained in it down the sink. Then she went into the bedroom she had shared with Wynn to do a more careful appraisal. She would leave most of the furnishings but began to methodically pack her summer wardrobe—sundresses, straw hats, bathing suits, riding clothes, sandals—as well as her toiletries and a sterling silver dresser set with her mother’s monogram engraved on the hand mirror. To these things, she added the book of sonnets and the biography of van Gogh.
It started to rain as she worked, a soft, misty rain that made the air smell fresh and sweet. She kept the windows open, shutting them only right before she left. If she started out now, she could be in New York by evening; the traffic would be lighter on the way into the city. But she decided to drive up to Oakwood instead, and surprise Margaux with an impromptu visit. She was on a new footing with her daughter. Margaux’s anger—stubborn, implacable—had turned her into an adult almost overnight, and Patricia was almost afraid of her. But she missed her too, especially now that she was alone, and she was going to risk the visit no matter what the outcome.
With everything packed and ready, Patricia put the key in the ignition and started the car. On the seat beside her sat the batch of letters and the two books. She was finally going to read that biography, and to go see the painting again too. Might it help in reclaiming that part of herself, the part that was so drawn to the self-contained, slightly aloof Comtesse and the mystical fury of those blazing stars? Tom had been talking about starting a gallery—what if there could be a place for her there? She would talk to him about it. The windshield wipers began to move, tracing a graceful arc as she began her journey north.
Thirty
It was warm for early June, a slightly muggy afternoon. Eleanor walked swiftly along Hudson Street until she came to the bottle green door. She put down the bags filled with groceries and pressed the bell. There was a short pause and then Tom appeared. “I got everything but the wine,” she said. “It was too heavy to carry.”
“I didn’t expect you to bring that,” said Tom. “The liquor store said they would deliver it later. Three cases of white, already chilled.”
“Three cases!” she said. “You’re expecting a big crowd.”
“A mob.” He smiled, and picked up the packages. “I’ve invited everyone I know.”
“Including your sister?” asked Eleanor. She hadn’t spoken to Patricia since the day of the funeral, and although she and Margaux had been writing to each other, she knew Margaux had not told her mother about their correspondence.
“Well, yes, but you don’t have to talk to her if you don’t want.”
“I don’t,” Eleanor said and then asked, “Will Margaux be coming too?”
“She’s got exams and couldn’t get away. About Tricia though—do you think you two will ever make it up?”
“Don’t ask me that,” she flared. “Ask her.”
Tom looked hurt and Eleanor went to lay a white cloth over the long table at one end of the gallery. Eleanor tried to calm herself as she began setting out the food. Of course Tom would invite Patricia. Had she thought otherwise? She would just be sure to steer clear of her. Right now, she would focus on the prospect of Tom’s success, which made her very happy. It wasn’t about the money. He had more than enough to cover his own needs, especially since he didn’t want to live the life—posh apartment, expensive car—for which his upbringing had prepared him. No, she saw this gallery endeavor as a step toward maturity and adulthood that Tom was just now taking.
She arranged the thin, almost translucent slices of the prosciutto—treyfe, she couldn’t help but think—and the cheese on gold-rimmed oval platters Tom had bought expressly for this purpose at an antiques shop on East Twelfth Street. “I may not be an artist,” he said, “but I have an artist’s eye. I want everything in here to reflect that.”