The Four Temperaments

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  After the intermission, Ginny did not dance again, so Gabriel had a hard time concentrating on the performance. He fidgeted and tried to calm himself with thoughts of Ginny sitting in the dressing room, changing her clothes, perhaps, or combing out her long, newly blond hair. He was tempted to find his way down there now; if he gave the usher a note, she might be able to come out and meet him even earlier. Suddenly, this seemed like a very good idea and to the extreme annoyance of the other people in the row, he got up and pressed his way past them.

  In the empty lobby, he took a paper schedule and wrote a hurried note to Ginny. Then he found an usher who was willing to deliver the note for the twenty-dollar bill that Gabriel gave him with it. A few minutes later, the usher returned and Gabriel followed him down two flights of stairs and through several wide, brightly lit corridors. Finally, they arrived at an unmarked door. Gabriel knocked gently. The door opened and there she was, all painted like the last time, only now her hair—still bound tightly in its austere bun—gleamed even brighter than her glowing face.

  “I'm so glad you thought of coming early,” she said. “I missed you.” She wrapped her arms around him and he stood there feeling the heat from her small body. Then he pulled away, suddenly aware that they were standing in the hallway and someone might walk by. “Come in for a minute,” she said, and pulled the door shut. “I don't think anyone will be down for a while.”

  Gabriel looked around the dressing room with costumes hanging upside down—Ginny told him that this was how they were stored—and its row of built-in dressing tables and lighted mirrors. The tables were densely covered—he could see tubes, jars, packages of cotton puffs, Q-Tips, hair spray, combs, brushes, bobby pins.

  “Which one is yours?” Gabriel asked, and Ginny sat down on the small stool in front of one of the mirrors.

  “Do you want to wait while I take my makeup off?”

  “Leave it on,” he said. “I like the way it looks. And your hair too.”

  “I'll take that down now,” she said. He nodded, and watched while she deftly extracted the bobby pins and uncoiled the tightly wound bun until it was a shining ponytail, snaking down her back.

  “Let me help,” he said and moved behind her. He gently loosened the elastic band from her hair, and when it fanned out around her shoulders, he leaned his face down into it. He felt himself grow hard and wanted to push her forward, pull up her dress, right there, right then. But she was pressing something into his hand, a hairbrush, and he began instead to brush her hair, watching it become even more smooth and glossy under his even strokes.

  “Mmm, that feels so good.” Gabriel stopped brushing and leaned over to kiss her neck. He was reaching for her zipper when he heard a sound outside. Ginny must have heard it too because she got up quickly and reached the door before it opened. One of the other dancers moved past Ginny into the dressing room. She looked curiously at Gabriel but Ginny had him by the hand and out the door before they could even be introduced.

  “What about your coat?” he asked. They stopped walking. Ginny was wearing a tight, beaded red dress with a matching jacket. Gabriel thought it looked really good on her, especially with her blond hair. But the jacket was cut so short and high it would do nothing to protect her against the damp, foggy air outside.

  “I left it in the dressing room,” she said and they both knew that she didn't want to go back.

  “Here, take this,” he said, shrugging off his jacket and handing it to her. Of course it was much too large, and its masculine boxy shape made her look unusually delicate. She put her hand in the pocket and pulled out a small gold box.

  “For me?” she teased.

  “Actually, it is.”

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice.

  “Go on, open it.” She did, and lifted out a silver charm bracelet on which dangled two tiny silver charms. One was a pair of pointe shoes; the other was a crown. Gabriel had found the bracelet in a jewelry store near his office; he selected the charms there too. He knew they were tacky—he could imagine Penelope's disdain of such a thing—but somehow the silly sentimental gift seemed right for Ginny. Still, she hadn't said anything. Maybe he had miscalculated. “I hope you like it. The charms, well, they seemed to fit.”

  “Like it? I love it,” she said softly. “How did you know about the silver slippers?”

  “What about them?”

  “Oh, I had a pair almost exactly like this, ages ago. It was a pin my mother bought me. Not nearly so nice as these slippers, but I loved it too.”

  “But you don't have it anymore?”

  “I lost it. I don't know how. And now you've given them back to me, only better.” She raised her face and he bent to kiss her.

  “We should go,” she said finally. “Maybe you could drive me back to my hotel. And when we get there we'll sit in the car and kiss good-night, like teenagers.” Gabriel thought that she was not so far away from being a teenager, but didn't say it. They left the theater through the stage door, and walked back to the underground parking lot.

  When they reached Gabriel's Audi, he looked at his watch. “You know, it's not that late,” he said. “I have a little more time than I thought.”

  “Enough time to go to the hotel?”

  He shook his head. The hotel was even farther from his apartment than the theater. “Isn't there someplace closer?”

  “What about right here?”

  “In the garage?” She wasn't serious.

  “In the car. The performance isn't over for a while.” Ginny got in the car and first shrugged off Gabriel's jacket and then her own. He watched while she reached around to unzip her dress and pull it over her head. She was serious, all right. He quickly opened the door and joined her in the cramped backseat. “Take your shirt off,” she instructed and Gabriel began undoing the buttons. “We don't have a lot of time.” He pulled her close then, her small, pink nipples cool and smooth against his bare skin.

  PENELOPE

  Penelope hoped there would be a spot at the garage. She had decided to join Gabriel at the ballet after all, and she didn't want to have to waste any more time looking for parking. As it was, she was going to be late. But she still was determined to go. She knew that he was perpetually annoyed because she wouldn't leave the baby, wouldn't spend time alone with him. Penelope wasn't sympathetic; she thought he was selfish. Nonetheless, she would try to accommodate him, at least a little bit. Tonight, for instance. She wouldn't leave the baby—she couldn't bring herself to do that—but she would compromise by taking Isobel with her. That way she and Gabriel could watch part of the ballet together. And maybe after that they could take a drive somewhere, over to the Bay to look at the lights, the way they used to before Isobel was born.

  Penelope had grudgingly come to appreciate San Francisco. At first, though, the sharp ascent and swerve of the streets gave her an intense sense of vertigo and she blamed Gabriel for bringing her here. That feeling gradually subsided, and there were times she even liked the city; she had felt herself grow taut and strong pushing Isobel's stroller up and down its hills.

  The hills seemed to bear some analogy to her moods. The other OCD sufferers she chatted with on-line claimed to experience similar mood swings. It was frustrating because on the up days, Penelope felt she had some control of her life, but on the down days, she required new and more stringent preparations to keep it from disintegrating completely. She now had to disinfect her nipples before the baby nursed as well as wash her hands and dry them two separate times every time she changed Isobel's diaper. Exhausting, but Penelope rarely allowed herself to think that. These things were necessary. And it was the necessity that made her comply.

  Ever since Gabriel had gone to New York to see that woman, the one with the sinister French name, a small alarm had been steadily bleating in Penelope's mind. Even though she was often impatient with her husband's mere presence, she didn't want to lose him. The life they had built together was better than any she could remember: the calm, white apartment w
as just a sign, the outward manifestation of that order she had finally brought to bear on things. Isobel was at the center of it all, and Isobel was part of Gabriel. Penelope couldn't bear the thought of Gabriel with anyone else, not because she felt so betrayed—she hadn't had a shred of interest in sex after Isobel came along—but because Gabriel was Isobel's father, and the idea that he could be intimate with someone outside their circle nearly choked her with anxiety. So she would have to start paying more attention to her husband if she wanted to keep him. And she did want to keep him—for Isobel's sake as well as her own.

  Joining him at the ballet would be part of her campaign. She stood in front of the bedroom mirror brushing her hair. She wore a lightweight silk sweater in a pale shade of apricot along with a pair of white slacks. The sweater was something she had bought several years ago, and because the color was so pale and soft, she could tolerate it, especially since she knew Gabriel was exasperated by her refusal to wear anything but white. I'm trying, she told herself, I really am. She anointed her throat and earlobes with scented oil from a tiny bottle—not an actual perfume, which would be filled with potentially noxious chemicals and dyes—but a wholly natural, flower-based essence. Then she rapped three times on the doorjamb before leaving her room to fetch Isobel, who was already asleep for the night.

  But the muted sound of the doorbell—she had made Gabriel replace the vicious-sounding buzzer that had been there when they moved in—stopped her and she went to open the door. There stood her downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Erikson.

  “Hello,” said Mrs. Erikson, whose sun-freckled hands held a large, leafy green mass. “I went to the farmers' market today and picked you up some of that organic kale you like.” Although Mrs. Erikson had often asked Penelope to call her by her first name, Lissa, Penelope couldn't bring herself to do it. Something about the woman's manner seemed to demand a more formal address. Yet Penelope liked her. Mrs. Erikson was a radical vegan too, and the two often discussed how their refusal to eat meat and dairy foods was misunderstood by their respective families.

  “Thank you,” Penelope replied. “That was so thoughtful.”

  “Well, I know you're busy,” Mrs. Erikson said. Her face was as tanned and spotted as her hands, and tiny lines spread from the corners of her eyes. “Isobel is a lucky little girl.”

  “I wish I could invite you in,” Penelope said. Mrs. Erikson was the only person who really seemed to approve of Penelope as a mother. Everyone else was filled with criticism. “Only I'm on my way out now.”

  “That's all right,” said the older woman. “I just wanted to give you the kale. In case you wanted to steam it for the baby.”

  “I will. Tomorrow. Tonight I'm going to the ballet.”

  “The ballet?”

  “I'm meeting Gabriel there.”

  “Are you bringing Isobel?”

  “Of course,” Penelope said. Mrs. Erikson nodded in a satisfied way. “I wish my daughters-in-law were more like you.” Mrs. Erikson had frequently complained about the wives of her two sons. One was a lawyer and the other a teacher. Both left their babies with sitters while they went to work. Penelope had sympathized with Mrs. Erikson's lament and wished, more than once, that she were her mother-in-law—or mother. She was well aware of how both Ruth and Caroline patronized and pitied her. As if all her careful rituals were going to harm Isobel in some way.

  “Come by in the morning,” Penelope said to Mrs. Erikson. “I'll tell you about the ballet.”

  “Can I give you a hand going downstairs?” Mrs. Erikson asked, looking at the heavy diaper bag Penelope had waiting by the door. Folded neatly on top of the bag was a white cotton blanket.

  “That would be great.” Penelope walked quickly into Isobel's room. The baby stirred a little as Penelope lifted her up but then settled peacefully against her mother as Penelope walked down the hallway. Mrs. Erikson walked slightly ahead and pushed the button for the elevator. She carried Penelope's bag over her shoulder and Isobel's blanket under her arm. In the lobby, she started toward the parking area out in back of the building, but Penelope stopped her.

  “I'm parked out front,” she told Mrs. Erikson. “There's a waiting list for a second parking spot. I should be getting one next month.” Mrs. Erikson followed Penelope through the front doors. They nodded to the doorman, who smiled at both women but let his eyes linger on Penelope.

  In the street, Penelope awkwardly moved Isobel from the baby sling into the car seat in back. Isobel opened her eyes briefly, but at the sound of Penelope's soothing voice, she closed them.

  “Asleep?” Mrs. Erikson asked.

  “We were out a lot today,” Penelope explained. “She's really tired. I'm hoping she'll sleep through the ballet.” Once the baby was settled again, Penelope tucked the blanket around her, picked up the diaper bag and got in the car. She had popped the trunk, intending to put the bag inside. But she then decided it would be easier to retrieve the bag from the front seat when they finally arrived at the theater. Only after she had said good night to Mrs. Erikson and strapped her seat belt did she remember that the trunk was still open.

  She got out of the car, intending to pull the trunk shut. That's when she saw something marring the smooth, white finish. Was that a smear of dirt? Or, worse, a scratch? Penelope was very particular about the Volvo, which engendered its own set of rituals and preparations. Lead-free gasoline and regular tune-ups. Weekly trips to the eco-friendly car wash. And now something had spoiled the pristine surface she tried so hard to maintain and protect. Damn it.

  Penelope marched around the other side of the car to inspect it better. It wasn't as bad as she thought; the repair shop could easily fix it. Penelope was now frustrated by all the delays. She wanted to be on her way. If she lost much more time, she would miss the ballet entirely and her whole plan would be ruined.

  She didn't see the SUV as its driver hurriedly turned a corner and gunned the engine before the light changed again, but was aware of its hot air enveloping her. The large, dark vehicle swerved slightly. It was enough. The SUV slammed her shoulder; the impact then threw her up and into the path of an oncoming red hatchback. The hatchback's driver frantically put on his brakes, but the startled body flying through the air and toward his windshield came too suddenly, and with too much force. Penelope's last thought was of the deer by the side of the road. Don't hit her again, she pleaded. Don't.

  GABRIEL

  The first people had just begun to trickle down from the theater as Ginny was gathering her disheveled hair back into some kind of ponytail. Gabriel consulted his watch again. Just a little after eleven. If the traffic wasn't bad, he wouldn't even have to lie about Jeff and the drink. While Ginny was smoothing her dress, he tried calling Nel, but there was no answer. She had probably gone to sleep. He pulled out of the parking lot and out into the light stream of cars. They were at Ginny's hotel in minutes. He kissed her twice and watched while she disappeared through the revolving door.

  As he turned the corner that led up to his street, he noticed the police car sitting at the curb in front of his apartment building. What was it doing there? The red light was off, though, and he didn't see anyone around, so it probably wasn't anything serious. Still, he pulled over to check before taking his car around to the parking area behind the building.

  But before he could do that, the police officer who had been sitting at the wheel of the car now got out. His mustache, thick and dark brown, looked too big for his upper lip, which it nearly covered. He bent down to Gabriel's open window.

  “Mr. Kornblatt?” he said quietly. “I'm Officer Carmichael. We've been trying to reach you.” The cell phone. He had turned off the cell phone in the theater and never turned it on again. Looking past the officer's earnest face, his eyes were drawn to something he hadn't noticed before—a large, dark stain on the sidewalk. “I think you should get out of the car now, Mr. Kornblatt.” Gabriel turned off the ignition and got out. The stain was wet. There was another officer in the car, and he joined Carmichael.
This one was very thin and young. When he took off his hat and gripped it in his hands, Gabriel began to shake.

  “Is it my daughter? Is she all right?” Gabriel asked the thin one, who said his name was Baxter.

  “Your daughter is fine,” Carmichael said.

  “It's your wife,” Baxter added. “There's been an accident. We'd like you to come with us. Please.”

  “What happened? Is she all right?”

  “That's why we want you to come with us. To the hospital.” Gabriel noticed that he didn't answer the question. The shaking intensified.

  “Is that where Isobel is?”

  “That's where she is, Mr. Kornblatt,” Carmichael said.

  “The hospital.” Gabriel looked at the dark patch on the sidewalk once more before getting into his car. “I'll follow you, all right?” Baxter and Carmichael looked at each other.

  “Why don't you come with us instead?” Baxter said.

  Gabriel couldn't believe there was so much blood. Blood matted Penelope's hair, caked her eyelashes, clotted her nostrils; blood was smeared on her face, neck and arms. With her pale skin, who would have thought that so much bright red blood could have been hidden—seething, churning—inside, just waiting to find its way out? He nodded dumbly as the morgue attendant pulled the sheet back over her. Yes, the woman lying there was his wife. Or had been. Then he followed an orderly back upstairs, where he was brought into a small, windowless cubicle. He saw their neighbor, Mrs. Erikson, waiting for him. Tears pooled in her eyes and as soon as she saw him, she began crying again.