The Widow's Season

by Laura Brodie

  “Do you think you’ll stay in Charlottesville?”

  “I don’t know. New York has a certain attraction. I still have a lot of friends up there. But I’d be paying a fortune for a one-bedroom apartment with a closet for a kitchen. What about you? Have you ever thought of moving to the city?”

  “People move to Jackson to escape the city.”

  “But is it a mistake?”

  “Not if you have a family.” She stopped short, feeling the old acid of misery rise in her stomach. A woman without a child is an empty shell, a woman alone lives a broken life.

  “You could go anywhere in the world,” Nate continued. “Paris, London, Rome. They always need English teachers in China, if you’re feeling virtuous.”

  “Traveling isn’t half as much fun when you’re alone,” Sarah said.

  “You wouldn’t have to be alone.”

  She looked up, wondering if Nate was referring to himself. Would Nate abandon his clients to be her traveling companion for a year? Of course not. He probably envisioned her as a Peace Corps volunteer.

  “I’ll have to see what happens.” She licked the salt from the rim of her glass. “Right now I have no concrete plans.”

  After dinner they drove to Georgetown in search of “Studio Four.” The cab deposited them at a three-story brownstone that resembled a private residence, except for the small brass plaque to the right of the door. Inside, the living room, dining room, and study had been converted into a gallery with white walls, refinished floors, and a collection of Afghan rugs. Two swinging doors in the back led into a small kitchen, which wafted occasional scents of pastry and focaccia.

  Judith met them with kisses and a jingling of bracelets. “David’s paintings are in the dining room. Two have already sold . . . Let me introduce you to William Reed. He’s a sculptor from North Carolina who works with red clay.” A tall, bearded man extended a rouge-tinted hand. Beside him stood a female painter who specialized in transforming Tennessee barns into geometric marvels—triangles and trapezoids, red and green and purple. Her body was as angular as her art.

  “I like your husband’s work,” the woman said in a low drawl. “There’s something dreamy about it.”

  Sarah wasn’t quite sure what the woman meant until she stepped into the dining room, and there, above the fireplace, was the charcoal drawing of herself, rising from tousled sheets, gray shadows gathering under her breasts. She had forgotten about that one. How ironic. Just when she was resolved to keep her clothes on around Nate, here she was, on display, nipples puckered like a pair of Hershey’s Kisses.

  “It’s a nice piece,” Nate said.

  “You’re not going to buy it.”

  “Not if it would make you uncomfortable.”

  A thin man in silver spectacles seemed to connect the drawing with Sarah. He stared at her face, her breasts, her face. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, and retreated to the study.

  “How long do you want to stay?” Nate spoke across the head of a small clay child, who reached out to Sarah with a tiny soccer ball.

  “Twenty minutes. Do you like this crowd?”

  Nate looked around at the sea of black clothing. “They seem to be poised between pretension and desperation.”

  Sarah smiled. “Aren’t we all?”

  Another fifteen minutes and they said good-bye to Judith, apologizing for their haste. “Of course.” Judith kissed them twice, Parisian style. “It’s stifling in here. You two go and have some fun.”

  Outside, a current of college students was flowing along the sidewalks, wearing chinos and flip-flops. Nate glanced down the street. “Would you like to go into one of these bars?”

  “With all that free liquor at our hotel?” Sarah shook her head. “What I’d really enjoy is a walk around the monuments.”

  Nate hailed a cab and bowed as he opened the door. “Your wish is my command.”

  Together they rode past the lights and music of Georgetown, winding through the poured concrete of the Foggy Bottom district and emerging at the Potomac’s edge, beside the Lincoln Memorial. Handfuls of tourists were out walking, their voices muted by the vast proportions of the glowing columns, while inside the memorial an unseen flautist played something slow and mournful. “Erik Satie,” Sarah murmured as they ascended the white stone stairs.

  They stopped at the foot of the statue, where the toe of Lincoln’s boot jutted over their heads. Sarah examined the shadows carved into the sculpture’s eyes, and considered the surrounding words: . . . that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom. She turned her back and looked to the other side of the reflecting pool, where the Washington Monument stood circled with unmoving flags. It seemed so small, a spotlit pin piercing the sky, with red serpent eyes that blinked as she watched them. Behind her, the flautist’s last breath faded into a few seconds of quiet, shattered by the crescendo of a jet, descending over the Potomac.

  “The World War Two memorial is straight ahead.” Nate pointed. “Korea’s to the right and Vietnam’s to the left. What would you like to see?”

  Sarah hesitated, trying to choose a war. “None of them,” she said, because it had suddenly occurred to her that this was the wrong place to be. Tranquil as the setting was, she didn’t need to stand in this quadrangle of memorials. Memory of the dead was the one human compulsion that she had mastered. The last thing she needed was to walk downhill past a wall of dead men’s names, thousands upon thousands, the list growing deeper until it was over her head, and all the flowers at the base, and the children with their rubbings, and the veterans with their black-and-white POW flags. Washington was little more than a giant mausoleum—the Holocaust Museum with its depressing shoes; the Pentagon hatching its shameless plans; the National Museum of the American Indian, a government’s weak apology for genocide. Even the teary-eyed mammals in the Natural History Museum, which she had enjoyed so much as a child, now struck her as an exercise in morbid illusion. Every corner of the city was saturated in death, and for the first time in four months she felt ready to scream, scream at all the lives thrown away.

  “Are you all right?” Nate wrapped his jacket around her shoulders.

  “Let’s go back to the room,” she said. “I want to raid the mini-bar.”

  Back at the hotel they drank vodka and watched TV long past midnight. Nate kept her laughing with a running commentary on the idiocy of reality shows, and when she saw his face lit by the flashing screen, she remembered David years ago, watching Tales from the Crypt.

  She was grateful for Nate’s company, grateful for his willingness to take her to art exhibits and trendy restaurants. He was the perfect companion for this juncture in her life. But she didn’t love him; so she kept reminding herself. How could she love the quintessential capitalist, a man whose happiness was tied to the Standard & Poor 500, who went through cars and women as if they were glasses of water? Nate’s appeal was the appeal of all vices, a momentary pleasure followed by weeks of guilt. And yet, when she tried to classify him along with chocolate truffles, as just another sweet to be given up for Lent, she could not dismiss him so easily. He had been kind to her, more than generous with his time, and she liked him for it.

  “Shall we have breakfast in the morning?” he asked when they turned off the TV.

  “Not early.”

  “No, not early. I’ll probably go down to the fitness center when I first wake up. I’ll take a shower and maybe we could have brunch after that?”

  She nodded and Nate leaned forward briefly, as if he were inclined to kiss her cheek. But he thought better of it.

  “Well, good night, Sarah.”

  “Good night.”

  The next morning, after an elaborate breakfast buffet, they went for a walk around the hotel. The neighborhood was full of clothing stores and restaurants in the ground floors of dull, rectangular office buildings. Sarah followed Nate into Burberry, where an older gentleman in a gray suit offered his assistance. While she admired the Christmas ties, Nate and h
is attendant strolled the labyrinth of racks, speaking a language of cuffs and collars and thread counts. What was it that gave her brother-in-law the unmistakable aura of a spender? Was it only the cut of his hair, or the leather in his shoes? She glanced at the other women in the store, with their skirts and boots and expensive jackets, then looked down at her own meager blue jeans and sneakers.

  When Nate was finished they continued down the street.

  “I can’t believe that you spent one hundred and eighty dollars on a shirt.”

  “Do you think it’s immoral?” Nate smiled.

  “I think you could have gotten something just as nice for half the price.”

  “But every time I put it on I would feel the difference.”

  “That sounds like a line from ‘The Princess and the Pea.’ ” Sarah shrugged. “But never mind. Please yourself.”

  Nate stopped at a window where a trio of mannequins glittered in sequined snow. “When was the last time you pleased yourself?” He took her hand and led her inside. There, they were greeted by a wave of potpourri and a saleswoman who looked to be about twenty-two. Nate flashed her a charming grin. “My sister-in-law is looking for a new evening dress.”

  “No,” Sarah said. “I’m not.”

  Nate smiled again at the young woman, then tilted his head toward Sarah. “What are you wearing tonight?”

  “The same dress that I wore to the show in Jackson.”

  “You look terrific in that dress, but how long have you owned it?”

  She hesitated. “Eleven years.”

  Nate exchanged knowing glances with the saleswoman, then turned and looked directly into Sarah’s eyes.

  “Indulge yourself,” he said. “Indulge me.”

  Twenty minutes and five dresses later she was rotating before a semi-octagon of mirrors, wearing a sleeveless silk affair with a beaded skirt, looking like a Gypsy soaked in Merlot. She glanced over her shoulder at the back, where gentle oval folds rippled beneath her shoulder blades. Why had she been wearing jeans and sweatshirts for the past ten years? Was it a habit from graduate school, her preference for thrift stores? Now she was only satisfied when wearing a bargain.

  But perhaps this was a bargain. She watched the beads shimmer as she swayed from side to side. So what if the price tag made Nate’s shirt look like a Target special? If a woman had a chance to buy a little happiness, wasn’t that money well spent?

  When she stepped out of the dressing room Nate’s smile confirmed her thoughts.

  “Perfect.”

  The saleswoman nodded. “Have you got shoes to go with it? There’s a wonderful shoe store on the next block north.”

  By noon Sarah found herself walking toward Dupont Circle with two shopping bags on her arm.

  “I’ve never worn heels that high in my life.”

  “That’s because you’ve spent your life in Birkenstocks.”

  “I’ll probably never wear them again, after tonight.”

  “Then you have a very limited view of your future.”

  “So.” She stopped to consider the bookstores and restaurants. “Where to now?”

  Nate surveyed the street. “I have an idea.” He hailed a cab and opened the door.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  They drove into Georgetown and emerged from the cab at a sign that read ROMAN HOLIDAY.

  “A spa?” Sarah laughed.

  “Why not? It’ll be my treat.”

  The last time Sarah had tried a spa was early in her first pregnancy. Then, she had understood the old adage of the body as a temple, something to be polished and painted and filled with edible offerings. But with each new miscarriage the deities had abandoned her, until she felt that her unproductive flesh didn’t deserve to be pampered.

  “I’ve signed you up for a Swedish massage and a manicure.” Nate spoke from the counter, holding up a leather-bound menu that resembled a wine list. “Is that okay?”

  “I guess.”

  “Try to have fun,” he called as an assistant led Sarah away.

  She felt embarrassed, lying naked beneath a cotton sheet, her face pressed into a crushed-velvet halo while her eyes wandered a maze of purple veins along the marble floor. Beside her, an Asian woman with a cartful of bottles folded the sheet down to Sarah’s hips, and she felt the woman’s fingers run lightly across her sides and arms, tracing the form that was about to be filled in. Then she heard a tinkling of unstoppered glass, smelled a wave of lavender, and experienced the full pressure of the woman’s palms, oily smooth, kneading her neck in symmetric swirls. The hands worked one by one, progressing in a seamless spiral, so that Sarah couldn’t tell where one hand ended and the other began. From the base of her neck the waves pushed down, puddling at the small of her back and spilling onto the floor, until, unexpectedly, she found herself smiling. Let it all fall away, she thought. All the sadness and the guilt, the puritanical repressions. Fall, fall on the floor and disappear into the purple maze. She would enjoy this hour of peace, this entire decadent day. She would enjoy the dress and the shoes and the brother, her rewards for just being alive. Nate was a brilliant man; he had a genius for pleasure. She must remember to thank him.

  Ninety minutes more and she was sipping an Evian, her right hand spread on a piece of cloth while a manicurist rubbed oil into her cuticles.

  “How was your massage?” Nate asked from behind a copy of Fortune.

  “Heavenly. I feel like I could slide right into the floor. Did you have one?”

  “Yes.”

  “A beautiful girl with a cartful of bottles?”

  “No. A big thug who pounded the crap out of me. I feel like a pulverized steak.”

  “You requested that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I thought you would have chosen an Asian woman with eucalyptus oil.”

  Nate smiled. “That doesn’t relax me. That arouses me.”

  “Ah.” Sarah watched her thumbnail disappear beneath a layer of crimson. “Enough said.”

  That night, they arrived at the Kennedy Center five minutes before the downbeat. Inside the concert hall, their seats were midway down the tenth row.

  “So close,” Sarah murmured. “The one time David and I came, we sat in the cheap seats.”

  The mention of David’s name left a silence between them, and Sarah opened her program in search of a prompt.

  “Oh, look! Colleen Britain is singing soprano.”

  “Wonderful.” Nate rested his program on his knees. “A feast for the eyes, as well as the ears.”

  “She has the perfect voice for this. Sweet and clear and young.”

  “Good,” said Nate. “I hate listening to hefty, fortysomething sopranos belting out the lines of adolescent virgins.”

  The concert began with a few orchestral preludes from the twentieth century. Then, with a rustle of fabric and footsteps, the chorus flowed in from the right and left—a choir of young boys in the middle, surrounded by altos and tenors who spread sideways, while the sopranos and basses rose to the top. A round of applause marked the soloists’ entrance. First came Colleen, sweeping across the stage in purple velvet that shimmered against her coffee-colored skin. She was followed by an alto in an ankle-length golden dress, and a tenor and bass in modest tuxedos. All smiled and nodded. They stood before their chairs as the young conductor trotted on stage, his arms spread wide toward the musicians. Spinning around to the audience, he fell into a low bow, long black hair brushing at his cheeks. He jerked upward and stepped onto the podium, while the chorus opened their folders and the soloists took their seats.

  The conductor lifted his baton, and at stage left, in a mirror image, the timpanist raised his mallet to an equal height. A moment of exquisite silence followed, as the two arms remained frozen, then the baton and mallet fell simultaneously, the deep boom of the timpani sounding at the bottom of the conductor’s stroke, and on the upbeat of his arm, the full chorus and orchestra exploded in a fortissim
o chord:

  O Fortuna

  velut Luna

  statu variabilis.

  They held the last note while the conductor stood with both arms raised, his hands shaking, until the sound ended as abruptly as it had begun. The brasses and percussion fell silent, the hall still ringing with the aftershock, while the chorus and strings launched into a hissing pianissimo. They whispered about the cruelty of fate, the whirling wheel, how happiness melts into misery as the moon waxes and wanes. The bassoons and cellos maintained one low pulse, letting the violins press forward in an agitated pizzi cato, and at the third verse the music erupted again, with a gong crashing into each measure. As the chorus held the last note there was a brief orchestral frenzy—a crash of cymbals, a roll of timpani, and the trumpets double-tongued a staccato pattern that landed on one long exhale, cut off by the flick of the conductor’s baton.

  That was the first song. There were twenty-two to go. Sarah settled her mind into a medieval frame, imagining a time of lords and ladies wandering dark castles. A baritone sang in a boyish voice, Omnia sol temperat, and she opened her program notes: “The sun warms everything/pure and gentle . . . the soul of man/is urged towards love.” Now the chorus echoed the call, “A wretched soul is he/who does not live/or lust/under summer’s rule,” and soon the music began to dance, the language changing from Latin to German: “Wol dir Werlt,/daz du bist/Also freudenriche!” Two hundred singers hailed the joyous world, pledging their faith to all its pleasures, and Sarah was ready to join them. But first she listened to the baritone’s cautionary despair:

  I am eager for the pleasures of the flesh

  More than for salvation,

  My soul is dead,

  So I shall look after the flesh.

  The first section ended in a tavern, with a male chorus singing in praise of Bacchus: