The Four Temperaments

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “I'll just go straight to bed,” Ginny decided. She cursed again when the elevator didn't come immediately and, instead of waiting, she hurried up the stairs. The key was already in her hand when she jumped back, as if she had stepped on a wasp. There was a big, dark shape hovering by her apartment door. Ginny didn't know whether to be relieved or more frightened still when she realized that the shape was Oscar.

  RUTH

  You mean he's schtuping her? That scrawny, toothy one who was here on Thanksgiving?” Molly shook her head in disbelief. “When he's married to that goddess? Men.”

  “I guess it isn't about her looks,” Ruth said weakly.

  “And she's a shiksa besides!” added Molly.

  “So is Penelope,” Ruth pointed out. “If you want to get technical about it.”

  “But Penelope is a classy shiksa. The other one is straight out of a trailer park. It's a matter of style, Ruth. You know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” Ruth said, “I suppose I do.”

  Oscar was at the theater tonight and Molly had dropped by unannounced, which was good because Ruth wanted to see her, though she wouldn't have summoned her here. To do that would have made it seem like an emergency, and it felt essential to her, if she was to keep soul and body together, to pretend that it was not.

  “If it's not about her looks, then what is it? Her brains?” Molly reached for one of the rugalach she had brought with her in a white, string-tied bakery box.

  “I don't know. I don't understand her appeal.” Ruth regretted this as soon as she said it; she hadn't told Molly about Ginny and Oscar yet. She would, because eventually she told Molly almost everything. She just wasn't ready to discuss this particular hurt; she needed to nurse it by herself for a while, like a sore tooth that you run your tongue over again and again before finally breaking down and phoning the dentist.

  “So you saw them kissing that day she was here. So what. Maybe they both had too much to drink and got a little frisky. I remember in the old days, when Bernie and I used to have those big parties. There was always someone kissing someone else's husband in the kitchen. It never amounted to anything.” She munched noisily on the pastry and Ruth heard their mother's words, repeated often and with exasperation, “Molly, stop chomping like a chazzer and eat like a lady!”

  “Well, that's what I thought too. But then he told Penelope that he was going to Santa Barbara to visit clients and it turned out that he was here. In New York.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Penelope called here. She was very upset.”

  “So you think he's seeing her? This what's her name, Gina—”

  “Ginny,” Ruth corrected. “I'm sure he's seeing her. Why would he lie, unless he was doing something he didn't want Penelope to know about. And what would that be, other than—”

  “Schtuping that girl.” Molly sighed. “You're probably right, though it makes no sense. Still, he might get over it quickly. Penelope just has to sit tight and wait for him to get tired of her.”

  “Molly,” Ruth said, feeling a little annoyed at how obtuse her sister was being. “Molly, we both know that Penelope is not the type to sit tight and wait for anything like that. You should have heard her on the phone.”

  “All right, then. So she's angry. Can you blame her? But she'll calm down. She has the baby to think of. Look at it this way—” she paused to pop another piece of pastry, whole, into her mouth—“even if she did leave him, she'd have to reconsider. After all, how many men are going to want the trouble of a baby that isn't even theirs?”

  “She might go home to her mother's in Connecticut,” Ruth said. “I'm sure Caroline would have her back.”

  “Well, and if she did? Would it be so terrible? Everybody gets divorced now. Gabriel would get married again. She might too. You would get to see Isobel, I'm sure. Divorce isn't such a dirty word anymore. We're just behind the times, you and I.”

  “And I intend to remain that way,” Ruth said firmly. “Divorce is fine for the two people who are doing it. But it's not fine for the children.” Ruth remembered the phrase “broken home” from her own childhood, and remembered too the sense of shame and sorrow it conveyed. “You have to forgive her,” Ruth's mother would say of a playmate who had, in her opinion, behaved badly. “She's from a broken home.” Somehow, even all these years later, the words seemed apt. From the child's point of view, divorce—that abstract, impersonal word—meant something broken, shattered, beyond repair. Ruth had no intention of sitting by and watching it happen to Isobel.

  “I don't see what you can do about it,” said Molly. “You can't send Gabriel to his room anymore. Or take away his allowance.”

  “Maybe I can't do anything,” Ruth conceded, “but I am certainly going to try.”

  “You're meddling,” Molly warned.

  “Molly, you don't know her!” Ruth burst out. “If they get divorced, Penelope will never let us see Isobel! We'll lose her, don't you understand?” Molly looked at Ruth wordlessly, then reached out to hug her.

  When Molly left, a short while later, there were only two pieces of rugalach left. Ruth decided to save them for Oscar and she retied the string on the box. She called two of her friends from the reading group, but neither one was home.

  Then she found herself looking around, as a stranger might, at the apartment, the place she had called home all these years. She could still feel calmed by the cleanliness and order: the floors that were washed weekly with Murphy Oil Soap, the surfaced dusted, cushions on the sofa and chairs freshly plumped, beds made and folded towels neatly stacked in the linen closet. When her sons were little, she used to despair of the clutter they created in their wake: dirty socks and underwear, Popsicle sticks, cookie crumbs, wet towels, treasured rocks, toys and candy wrappers they left behind. She asked them to pick up after themselves, of course, and when asking failed, she nagged, scolded, threatened, cajoled and at times shouted. None of it did any lasting good. Now they were all married, and their mess was someone else's to contend with. Ruth's own little corner of the world was tidy and within her control. Or so she would have liked to think.

  Glancing up at the clock, Ruth saw that it was still early; Oscar wouldn't be home for nearly two hours. She brewed a pot of herbal tea, and brought it over to the low table by the couch. All About Eve was on, and it suited her mood exactly. She slipped off her shoes, and drew her feet up as she clicked the remote control. Even though she had seen the film many times before, she still laughed when Thelma Ritter compared the pile of fur coats in the bedroom to a dead animal act and when Marilyn Monroe pointed out that somebody's name might be Butler. Sipping the fragrant tea, Ruth watched the screen and waited patiently for her husband to return.

  OSCAR

  Oscar sat on the terrazzo floor, carefully studying its flecked surface. There was something solid, well made and, yes, even elegant about it, despite the fact the apartment building—a modest one on Seventy-first Street—had been never intended as a luxury dwelling. He reached out to press his fingers against the heavy metal door of the apartment; he inspected the thick molding that separated the floor from the walls. Everything he touched had that same well-made feeling. Oscar felt as if he knew this building, and so many of the buildings like it, that lined the streets and the avenues of the Upper West Side. They were good, substantial and dependable structures, places where a person could comfortably lead a life. All the sweet and humble domestic pleasures—making dinner, making love, raising children—could be contained in spaces like this. Oscar loved them all.

  Of course, since the real estate market had shot up beyond imagining, this building had become expensive, much too expensive for the sort of modest life he was conjuring up, the life he and Ruth had led when they moved here all those years ago. These apartments had become high-priced cooperatives or condominiums, affordable only to wealthy couples who worked on Wall Street or in Park Avenue law firms. This very building was a condo; Oscar knew the owner of Apartment 6B, in front of whose door he now
sat. The clarinet player from the orchestra used to live here until she retired and moved to Scottsdale. She had bought the apartment years ago, and now rented it out. Oscar was able to secure its lease for Ginny, and it was Ginny for whom he now waited, seated and patient on the chilly terrazzo. He could have waited in the lobby, he knew that, but he had no desire to endure the speculative glances of everyone who entered or left the building tonight. Ginny had given him the keys to the apartment; he used one to let himself in downstairs, though somehow he couldn't bring himself to actually go into the apartment without her. So instead he sat here by the door, looking only occasionally at his watch, and waited.

  The performance had been over for quite some time, but since she had that solo role, he suspected that she was enjoying a newfound bit of celebrity with her fellow dancers. He thought of the review in which the critic had raved about her dancing. Oscar had read it silently and offered no comment. What could he say? That he agreed with what the critic had written? That he believed in this girl's talent, and was awed by her furious cultivation of it? That this was one of the things he had loved about her? That despite everything, he loved her still?

  But Oscar was not a cruel man, nor a stupid one. There was no life for him with Ginny, no future other than the one painted in such vivid hues by his imagination. His place was with Ruth, and he was grateful, more grateful than he could express to her, that she had forgiven him. He knew that preserving Gabriel's marriage to Penelope was the most important thing in the world to her right now, so here he was, his immediate plans unclear but motivation firm and unwavering. He must talk to Ginny about Gabriel and, if at all possible, he must extract from her a promise that she would not see him again. He listened carefully to the sounds made by the elevator as it rose and descended. So intent was he on trying to determine if the elevator would stop at the sixth floor that he hardly noticed the light tapping of footsteps on the stairs. But then he intuitively knew who it was, and when he looked up, there, standing over him, was Ginny.

  “Oscar,” was all she said when she saw him. In the soft light from the fixture above them, her hair—loose and spread out now over her shoulders and back—gleamed pale, almost blond. She was wearing a nubby black coat with a fluffy black collar. It was absurd, of course, the way all of her sartorial choices were, but endearing too: it made her look like some small animal, a rabbit, perhaps, or a kitten. Oscar got to his feet with difficulty, as he had been sitting for a while and the cold floor had made his legs stiff.

  “Here,” she said matter-of-factly, giving him her arm. “You might as well come in.”

  The apartment was as cluttered and disheveled as he remembered; as he took off his coat, he gingerly tried to avoid stepping on a large mound of towels. Ginny, meanwhile, dropped her own coat on the table. Oscar kept his in his arms.

  “I needed to see you,” he said. “I suppose you know why.”

  “It's about Gabriel.” Oscar nodded, looking around in vain for somewhere to sit. Ginny watched him. “We can go in the bedroom,” she said. So Oscar followed her dutifully, still clutching his coat. He noticed a small, potted Christmas tree in a corner. Next to it were three gaudily dressed dolls posed on what appeared to be a staircase. Oscar couldn't place the dolls, though he felt he had seen them before. Hadn't Molly's daughters played with such things, years ago?

  Once in the other room, he sat down carefully on the bare mattress. He could see that the dirty sheets—were they the ones that were on the bed when he was last here?—had been dumped on the floor but he did not see any clean replacements. Maybe there were none, and she would have to sleep wrapped in her soft, dark coat all night long. Ginny bounced more than sat down, and the bed springs bent slightly beneath her weight. “Look,” she told him earnestly, “I know how awkward all this is. I mean, because of what happened between us. And because he's married. But what I have or want with your son—” she stopped for a deep breath—“has nothing to do with you.”

  “That's not true,” said Oscar slowly. He was having trouble concentrating on the task at hand. Under the coat, she was wearing a very tight black Angora sweater. Beneath its deeply scooped neck, he could see the outline of her tiny breasts; above, the long, eloquent line of her neck. Her scar seemed to smile at him. Suddenly, Oscar felt he had nothing to say, nothing to demand. All he wanted was to reach out, grab her slender arm and pull her down under him on the quilted blue surface of the mattress.

  “Oscar,” Ginny said gently. “Oscar, wake up.” She smiled and Oscar felt an overwhelming urge to weep. “I know how you feel about me.”

  “You do?” he said. But then his wanting her was so obvious, of course she saw it.

  “Because it's just how I feel about Gabriel.” She wrapped her arms around herself, as if she were cold. “But you don't have to worry. No one will find out.”

  “Ruth and I already have,” Oscar pointed out.

  “I'm sorry about that. Really I am. Can't you pretend that you haven't? It would be so much easier.” Oscar stared at her, remembering the girl who criticized his playing that first night. Could she really be in earnest? Or was she mocking him?

  “No,” he said finally. “I can't pretend.”

  “All right, then. It's up to you. Look, I know what a bad idea it is to get involved with him—”

  “Then don't,” Oscar said.

  “I can't help it,” Ginny said. “And neither can he.”

  “There's nothing I can say that will make you stop? That will make you leave him alone?”

  She shook her head, still holding herself tightly.

  “Can you leave me alone? Didn't you come here tonight knowing what a bad idea it was? Aren't you sitting here on my bed right now”—she uncoiled one arm and patted the mattress—“wishing you could get me in it?”

  “I came because of Gabriel,” Oscar said, but he felt as if he were sinking, drowning in his desire for her.

  “Really, Oscar? Just because of Gabriel?” Her arms moved down to her sides now, and she splayed her small hands against the mattress. This caused her back to arch, just a bit, and the subtle movement pushed her breasts—her maddening, lovely little breasts—up and out. Oscar could contain himself no longer. He reached across the quilted expanse that separated them, pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Surprisingly, she neither pushed him away nor resisted; instead, she kissed him back. Oscar's mind was reeling, but he didn't let go. Tentatively, he moved his fingers up the furred front of her torso until—finally—they cupped her breasts. Only then did she move back, place both her hands on his heaving chest and disengage herself.

  “You see?” she said, almost sweetly. “No matter how wrong, how crazy it is, you still want me. And if I hadn't stopped you . . .” She didn't have to finish. Oscar knew she was right. Despite Ruth, despite Gabriel, Penelope and Isobel, he would have let himself fall, all over again, right into her arms. He didn't look at her because he couldn't.

  “Maybe you'd better go now,” she said. Oscar said nothing, but started to look for his coat, which he had let drop when he embraced her. Ginny walked him to the door.

  “You have no clean sheets,” he said stupidly, for want of anything else to say. “How will you sleep tonight?”

  “Don't worry about me,” she said as the door closed. “I'll find something.”

  Once in the street, Oscar saw many vacant cabs heading uptown but he didn't stop to hail any of them. He was not sure how he would face Ruth, and he needed some time to compose himself before he did. Instead of going toward West End Avenue, where he lived, he turned the other way, toward Central Park West, and walked along its edge, the side that actually bordered the park. This was inviting trouble, he knew, as it would have been all too easy for a mugger to demand his wallet and disappear into the dark sanctuary of trees. Still, Oscar continued on, soothed somehow by the bare, delicate branches, almost indistinguishable from the night sky, and the throb of life—unseen and mysterious—that lay beyond the park's low stone walls. Birds and rodents
lived there; also stray cats and maybe some stray dogs too. Snakes. Frogs. Once, years ago, he saw a group of parrots squawking companionably in a pine tree. A whole world that neither included nor excluded him, but existed on its own plane, parallel to the one that was his. Why this made him feel better, he didn't know, but it did, and by the time he reached his own apartment door, he had regained some sense of equanimity.

  He understood that he had been spared, though he could take no credit for it. Had Ginny been willing, he would have done anything she wanted. But she had said no, and in so doing, she had set him free. Oscar realized just how lucky he was. He could face Ruth with a clear conscience, because in fact nothing had happened. His desire remained just that; there was no action, no consequence that he need feel ashamed of. He would not seek Ginny out again, because he knew just how frail his resolve really was. But if he could avoid the transgression by avoiding the temptation, well, that was something. Something he could hold on to.

  “Oscar?” Ruth called out as he slipped his key quietly into the lock. “Oscar, is that you?”

  “Yes,” he was able to say with some real assurance. “Yes, it's me.”

  GABRIEL

  It was only as Gabriel guided his car into the parking space that adjoined the back of his apartment building that he remembered he had not called Penelope. The trip across town had taken so long; there hadn't been time. And he hadn't wanted to do it when he was actually with Ginny. Later, it had seemed wiser to just come home and not call too much attention to his whereabouts.

  The car, which was dark green, new and imported from Europe, glided smoothly into place, stopping precisely and immediately within the painted lines. He had never owned such a car before, and were it not for Penelope's largesse, he would not have owned it now. Why did this make him angry? She hadn't offered any objection to his buying it. But he was nonetheless always aware that his own salary could not provide him with this kind of luxury. For that, he depended on Nel. And while he could truly say that money was not the reason he had married her, he also had to admit that he didn't like the prospect of giving it up should their marriage end. Not that he wanted it to end.