She was very glad she had used the guest towel. It was such a silly thing to think of, but she did think of it, and she almost mentioned the towels to Rodney, but thought better of it. He wouldn’t understand, why should he? Rodney was like a camel, and almost never had to go, which worried her sometimes: did he hold it in out of impatience with this tiresome function that would take him away from more interesting things, or was there something wrong with his kidneys? It seemed to her, if the former, quite unreasonable, seeing that men had so much an easier time of it. Zip in and out, back in and rezip. But then men were endlessly long-suffering about shaving, as if it were such a big deal, while women had to go through all sorts of rituals in order to achieve the desired effect.
She kept thinking, though, by now he knows I used one of the towels. It would please him, she was sure. The woman had dried her hands on his yellow towel. A very nice man, with his dark thick hair all curly and not very obedient, as a matter of fact quite wayward, as if it had a mind of its own. And the slow smile spreading across his face like the sun emerging from a cloud. Rodney, at the entrance to her building, kissed her on the cheek and asked her if she thought Jack had liked his ashtray.
“Of course he did, it was exactly the right thing, Rodney.”
“Your orange tree looked super on the windowsill next to his desk, too.”
She watched him walk off, jaunty as always, and then went inside, past the concierge’s desk and into the elevator that Rodney called the lift. Riding up to her floor, she mentally began dinner preparations. What a nice day. She changed into jeans and a light shirt and then went into the kitchen, consulted the menu for the evening. Roast chicken, yams, petit pois and a tossed salad. She yanked the chicken out of the fridge, dank and submissive, poor thing.
When it was stuffed and trussed she popped it into the roasting pan. It would take an hour and a quarter, about. When Bruce came home she would send him down to Baskin-Robbins for an ice cream cake.
She sat in the kitchen, doing a Times crossword. The late sun of preevening shone in through the window, her pencil filled in blank squares. It was good to be alive. She wasn’t always sure, but today she was. She had her own world, outside of the others, just as they had theirs. She kept forgetting that, but it was true. If disaster struck, say tomorrow, and she was separated from those near and dear to her, there would still be herself. It was the only thing anyone could ever really count on. They could all die in an accident. Carl, Bruce, Nancy. Who would be of support then, who would supply comfort and care? She would have to go on. It was true of everyone.
When the phone rang she answered it with the pencil still in her hand. “Yes?”
“Hi, this is Jack. Is this a bad time to call?”
“Hello, Jack. No, I’m just doing a crossword puzzle while waiting for my chicken to need basting. Did I leave something there?”
“No no. I just wanted to say thanks for being my first guest.”
She laughed softly. “Jack, the pleasure was mine, I assure you. This afternoon — well, it put me in such a good mood. Don’t thank me, please.”
“My orange tree seems happy here, I thought you might like to know.” A slight clearing of the throat and then, “Well, bye for now, Chris, see you in the morning. Have a good evening.”
“You too, Jack. Thanks for calling.”
She went back to the crossword, smiling. Carl came home an hour or so later. She heard his key in the lock and then his footsteps through the outer room. “How was your day?” he asked, brushing his lips against the back of her neck. “Something smells good. Capon?”
“Just your ordinary roast chicken. About an hour or so, or thereabouts. Bruce hasn’t come in yet.”
He filled a glass with water. “How was your day?” she asked him.
“A really rotten one. Thank God they’re not all like today.”
“Lie down for a while.”
“I’d have a drink if I weren’t determined to shed some of this flab.”
“Carl, it’s not flab, don’t abuse yourself.”
“Feels like flab to me. Okay, yes, I will stretch out on the sofa in the study.”
He works hard, Christine thought. While I fritter away my time. Still, if he really wanted to know, she had had a good and satisfying day. She had probably talked too much, but nobody seemed to mind, neither Rodney nor Jack.
He seemed to like that orange tree, too.
8.
She ran into Ruth Alexander on the way to the Villa d’Este, where group lunch was scheduled for today. They must have taken roughly the same route. Ruth was wearing a stunning pants suit, Ultrasuede, she looked marvelous, but when Christine caught up to her her friend looked glum. Ruth, turning, had a kind of silent expression on her face, as if what she had been thinking about wasn’t particularly pleasant.
“Fancy seeing you here, Chris. No, I mean hello. I tried to get you yesterday but no answer.”
“What time?”
“About two. I’m not sure.”
“I was out. Anything wrong?”
“What should be wrong?” Ruth asked rhetorically, because she followed that right up with, “Chris, Michael’s come down with mono.”
“Oh, no.”
‘Oh, yes. That means the whole bit. God knows how long it will linger. Isn’t it loathsome?”
“God, I’m sorry, Ruth.”
“I don’t believe it, you know. That this had to happen. I simply don’t believe it.”
“Darling, fortunately it’s summer vacation. It should be licked by the time school starts again. Don’t you think?”
“Chris, you know as well as I do that it can mean months! We’ve paid his tuition for next quarter. It’s just so damned discouraging.”
She sagged. “Of course he’s fallen completely to pieces. He’s just a discouraged, wretched lump. He’s reverted to about seven years old, all whining and hiding himself under the bedclothes. I feel so sorry for him, but who bears the brunt? Yours truly, as you can well imagine. What the hell’s to be done? I got the news yesterday and after tucking him into bed went out and bought this thing I have on, which to tell you the truth I can’t afford, but I’ve lost my looks and I’ve lost my spirits and I had to, simply had to spend some money on myself. Hag that I am.”
“Ruth, you’re a handsome, young, bright and delightful woman,” Christine assured her. “You’re lovely! And you know it, you dope. Don’t let this get you down. Please. Please.”
“It’s got me down,” Ruth said grimly. “I ain’t kidding, it’s got me down to gutter level.” Her lips tightened. “What I really want to do is stand on this street corner and swear, say all the most profane things I can think of and laugh in people’s faces when they stand stock still and stare at me, the madwoman.”
She put an arm through Christine’s. “But I won’t,” she promised, one of her impish smiles suddenly appearing. “Hey, what would you do without your friends to spill your beefs to?”
“I say that almost every day of my life.”
“Yeah. Oh, what the hell. Do you like this suit?”
“I saw the suit first, before I realized it was you,” Christine said truthfully. “It’s a knockout I was telling myself, all envy and greed. Where’d you get it?”
“Bolton’s. At that, it set me back two hundred. Anne Klein, I was assured, sotto voce, and I believe it. It has good lines, and it hides my middle-aged spread.”
“You’re as thin as a stick.”
“Not around the middle, dearie. It takes money spent to fool people into not noticing. But I have lost three pounds drinking not much but beef bouillon for several days, and to celebrate I’ll have a whopping lunch. I deserve it.”
“Give Michael my love, will you? And I hope this will be of very short duration. Sometimes it is, you know that.”
“And sometimes it isn’t, but I won’t dwell on it. We’re here for merrymaking, I won’t cast a pall over the proceedings.”
The others were already there, in a cloud
of cigarette smoke and perfume. “Don’t say anything about Michael,” Ruth muttered in Christine’s ear. “Let it go, just let it go, okay?”
Room was made for them on the banquette. “Greetings, you two.” The waiter came over, an old friend over the years. “Don’t tell me, I can guess,” he said. “Martinis with an olive, be right back.”
“I love your pants suit,” someone said to Ruth.
“I love yours,” she replied.
“I’m wearing a dress.”
“So you are. Yes. Oh, I — one of those sedative hangovers. I’m seeing out of one eye.”
“Valium?”
“I don’t know, triple bromides, I can’t remember.”
“Which eye are you seeing through?”
“I’m not sure. The right one, I guess. I remember when I lost a contact in the elevator, starting out on a date. As a matter of fact, my first date with Lloyd. It fell out and I was in a panic, but I was so vain. I didn’t even look for it. My contact lens! We went to the movies. I sat the whole time holding a hand in front of my eye. He thought I had a headache. It was ghastly, and I did have a headache after a while. I would have died rather than tell him I was nearsighted, and it was much, much later that I learned Lloyd had had a nose job, which he was too vain to tell me; his sister did.”
“Oh, poor Ruthie.”
Some confidences of Clover’s. About Anton. “He’s so darling,” she said. “I love his phone calls, they’re always interrupted with hellos. I don’t know whether it’s European or not. Maybe it’s just Anton. He’ll be talking away and suddenly he says, ‘Hello?’ As if he thought I’d gone, hung up. ‘Hello,’ I say back. A little later it’s the same thing. ‘Hello?’ It’s a little bit like Victor Borge doing a sketch.”
“Does he have much of an accent, Clover?”
“Oh, very Paul Henreid. Charming, it is to melt. No, not one of those barking Kommandant accents, God forbid.”
“Me?” Christine said, when asked what she had been up to. “Busy as ever. Now that Rodney’s place is finished I have another assignment. How about that?”
“How about that?” Helene echoed. “Who is it this time?”
“A friend of Rodney’s. No, not British, I’ve had enough Rule Brittania. We met him when we were looking for an apartment for Rodney. It won’t be much of a challenge, he only needs a few additionals to add to what he has. Anyway, it’s something to keep me occupied. He’s a writer, I’ll have you know.”
“Who?”
“You mean a recognizable name? No. Anyone with a recognizable name would be better fixed financially. I guess. Just a guy.”
“Why are you involved in all this?”
“A woman’s sure touch. Or something like that. He’s a dear creature, a friendly soul and rather at sea. Divorce, or whatever.”
“Or whatever? That’s like saying someone’s slightly pregnant. Is he or isn’t he?”
“He did mention divorce.”
“Is he nice?”
Christine laughed. “By that you mean is he toothsome?”
“Is he?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. He’s a younger man.”
“Younger than what?”
“Than me. I like him. That’s about it. Not very interesting.”
“It sounds interesting to me.”
“To me too. Chris, if you’re tired of helping out bachelors and divorcés I’d be glad to take over.”
“Thanks, but it’s all rather fun. Tomorrow I’m going to wear him out again shopping for necessities and pretty trimmings. He’s as helpless as a baby.”
“Doesn’t he work?”
“I don’t think he’d thank you for the slur. He’s self-employed, a free-lancer. According to him, it’s no snap.”
“What does Carl think of this new — ” Meryl giggled. “Assignment, I think you called it?”
“Carl?” She thought it over. “Actually I haven’t said anything.”
There was a chorus of cries. “Why, it sounds positively illicit,” Meryl said, leaning forward. “Secret trysts!” She turned to the others. “Do you realize none of us has ever mentioned our own secret trysts?”
“You must be kidding,” Ruth said jadedly. “I’ve never had one of those. No one ever asked me.”
“As for secret trysts,” Christine assured them, “this is work, I’d like to point out. You knock yourself out finding little treasures for their pads and you go home feeling like a wrung-out mop. It’s merely a favor asked and a favor done. Everyone ready for another drink?”
“I know I am,” Meryl said. “I have to go to Campbell’s tonight. A friend’s father has died. I’m not looking forward to it.”
“I’m sorry,” Clover murmured. “Someone you know well?”
“Well enough. His daughter’s someone I’m very fond of. Her kids are in the same class as the twins. Laura’s an Electra personality, and I know this will be a great sorrow.”
“ ‘I weep for Adonais, he is dead’,” Clover said, sighing. “Okay, another drink. Art is long and life is fleeting, but a good martini goes a long way to vanquishing that old devil Weltschmerz. All in favor say aye. And after that I’ll have to order, because I have an arduous afternoon, so time is of the essence. I guess I’ll have to skip dessert and coffee today.”
“I thought travel was dropping off,” Helene commented. “You always seem to be the busy bee, though. How do you manage that?”
“I haven’t lost any regulars. They keep on wending their ways hither and yon. It’s not easy to get new people, though. There is, naturally, a lot of resistance. God, European prices are soaring, far worse than ours. I wouldn’t want to go into the business right now, start from square one, I can tell you that. But I’m doing all right, though I should throw salt over my shoulder or something for tempting fate.”
“You’re not the superstitious type.”
“I’m a closet worrier, but on the other hand I’m stubborn, I refuse to let circumstances get the best of me. You have to believe you’re lucky if you want to be lucky. Like that James-Lang theory I always felt applied to me. You’re happy because you laugh, sad because you cry. Rather than the other way around.”
“Which is just another way of saying keep a stiff upper lip.”
“No, there’s a big difference. All the difference in the world. Maybe it isn’t your cup of tea, kiddo, but it has a very special meaning for me, and I’ve fallen back on it for years.”
Meryl said it might be a good idea to try a little psychology on herself. “I have this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach just thinking about tonight. It’s terribly infantile, but I can’t help wanting to back away from death, and I think the whole schmear is barbaric, the body offered up like a trophy or something, and everyone praising it, admiring the mortician’s handiwork. How well he looks, how natural, as if it was a copy of the real thing.”
“Never mind psychology,” Helene said. “Drink up, Meryl, gin’s better than psychology any day in the week.”
• • •
She didn’t feel at all like going out tonight. She generally didn’t go anywhere on the evenings following one of the ladies’ lunches, usually checked to be sure there was nothing on the agenda for later on. This was duty, though, and nothing that could have been foreseen. There was a condolence call to pay. You couldn’t write down on a calendar or in your day book that you were going to visit someone in order to console them about a bereavement, since you didn’t know in advance, did you, that someone was going to die.
A condolence call — she had heard someone or other refer to it in this manner. Probably Amy Vanderbilt had it listed in her Book of Etiquette. How to behave at a wake. But of course Amy Vanderbilt wouldn’t say “wake.” Nor would I, Meryl thought, so why did I use that word?
Anyway, she had to go. Ralph was off the hook. Her husband played chess on Thursday evenings with a neighbor down the hall. He had offered, half-heartedly, to scratch tonight’s game, but Laura Morrison was really Mery
l’s friend, not Ralph’s. Ralph and Hank, Laura’s husband, had never hit it off, so the four of them didn’t socialize. It was the women who were amicable, and quite fond of each other. Now Laura’s father had died, was lying “in rest” at Campbell’s, and although Meryl was not going to the funeral it was certainly incumbent on her to show up at the funeral parlor with Laura’s other friends and relatives.
She cleared up the dinner dishes, rinsed them and then put them in the machine, turned it to ON. She went to the liquor cabinet, poured out a small measure of scotch, drank it straight, then lit a cigarette, which she puffed at quickly until it was half smoked, after which she crushed it out in an ashtray. Now she must hurry and get dressed.
Laura had said about eight, so there wasn’t much time. Not enough time, really. She might not be able to get a cab, and at this time of the evening buses would be few and far between. Maybe she’d have to walk, but she hoped not. The days were long in this season of the year, but just the same most of the avenues were inclined to be deserted after seven o’clock.
She hoped the “piece” would be all right. She loved buying cut flowers as a general rule. Anemones, mimosa, African daisies. But funeral flowers were something else. “A basket, I think,” she’d told the florist. “Something graceful and unostentatious. But of course fine blooms. Just not — oh, solemn. Or tortured. Simple and lovely. Quietly distinguished.”
The end of a life and people went into florist’s shops and bought posies to put around the bier, so it all came down to that. Duty and etiquette. The machine didn’t work anymore, the machine had stopped running, a loose sparkplug somewhere, and what was left was thereupon exhibited and paid tribute to. An inoperative model, but it had worked fine in its day and the least you could do was give it a respectful send-off to wherever broken machines went to.
It was a topic of discussion, though, threshed out even at cocktail parties, where you ran into people who had made living wills. Wills that forbade unnatural means of prolonging life when there was no further hope, wills interdicting against embalming and “laying out” for viewing. Instant cremation and instant privacy. She and Ralph were in agreement with this sensible kind of arrangement, but they hadn’t got around to doing anything about it yet. After all, they were only in their early forties. Some day, though. She’d bring it up with Ralph again soon. She didn’t want anyone paying condolence calls for her, or buying baskets and flowered wreaths. And yet …
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 12