Belva Plain - Evergreen.txt

by Evergreen

  Enough! She got up and emptied the rest of the tea into the sink, took an apple and a book, went into the living room and turned on all the lamps. She was sitting there with the apple core and the book in hand when Joseph came home with Malone.

  "Let me fix you a drink," Joseph said to Malone.

  "Just a quick one. Mary's waiting up for me." He sat down heavily and as quickly jumped up. "I've got Joseph's chair."

  "Goodness, no. Sit wherever you want."

  A good man. Going quite gray, looking much older than Joseph, although he wasn't that much older.

  "You seem especially thoughtful, Anna."

  "Do I? I was remembering the first time I saw you, up on the Heights. Joseph brought you in, carrying your plumber's tools. You were going into business together."

  "I remember the day."

  "And the war was just ended. It felt more like a war then, I was thinking, with all the songs and parades. This time it seems like just suffering and getting it over with. We've learned more, I guess."

  Malone said, "My boys are in places I never heard of. I looked some up on the map, took me ten minutes to find them."

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  I know that my son is dead and I've learned to live with the knowledge; I've had to. But Malone is tortured every day: Are my sons still alive this morning and will they be alive by tonight? "How's Mary?"

  Malone shrugged. "Worried, as everyone is. One thing's good, though: Mavis is taking her vows in June. That's something Mary prayed for, and thank God it's one thing that's come true."

  "I'm happy for her," Anna said truthfully. Mary Malone had been praying that one of her daughters would enter a convent and at least one son become a priest. So half of her prayer had been answered, and for that Anna was glad, although for the life of her she would never understand it.

  Joseph came back with the drink. "You know what I was thinking on the ride home? I was reminded of when we started out together, Malone. We had nothing but energy and hope, and it's not a hell of a lot different now."

  Malone sighed. "Except we've learned a few things in between." He raised the glass. "This drink's to us! If we don't make it this time-"

  Anna asked, "What do you mean?"

  "Didn't he tell you? We bought the land, three hundred acres of potato farms."

  "I always thought you were joking about the potato farms." "No joke," Joseph explained. "There's no building going on now, but after the war there'll be ten years or more to make up for. You remember, when the Bronx River Parkway opened in 1925, how they started building houses, how the towns spread out? It'll be the same after the war, only more so, because the population's bigger. And the prices will soar. That's why we're taking every penny—and I mean penny—we can lay our hands on. ... After this I've got my eye on a farm in Westchester. I want you to go out with me on Friday, Malone." His words snapped briskly, his alert eyes snapped and he looked six feet tall. "Listen to me," he went on, "there's going to be a whole new way of life. People are going to move out of the cities. There'll be a big demand for low apartment buildings with green space between them. There'll be a need for shops. People won't want to go into the city to the stores, so we'll bring the stores to them. I predict that every one of the major New York department stores will have suburban branches within ten years after the war."

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  "You talk as if the war were going to be over tomorrow," Anna said. "We've got a long way to go yet, it seems to me."

  "True. But I want to be ready. We'll have something for your boys to do when they come home," Joseph said, turning to Malone with a smile.

  The men stood up and went to the door. "Give my love to Mary. I'll let you know what time Friday."

  Anna put out the lights and they went to the bedroom. "The salt of the earth," Joseph said.

  "There's something sad about him, I always think."

  "Sad? I don't know. Of course he's got a lot on his mind and always has. It's no cinch to raise seven children."

  "I suppose not."

  "Still," Joseph said, drawing off his shoes, "still, I wouldn't have minded having that many. I think I could have managed."

  "You would have. Sometimes I believe you could manage anything."

  "You mean that? That's the nicest thing you could have told me. A man likes to think his wife has faith in him. And I'll confess, Anna. Lately I feel young again! I feel I'm going to accomplish big things, to put us on top of the world."

  She had a vague, floating sensation, hard to define. It was almost a fear, a fear of challenge, of conflict and tension. She thought of the breathless rash of their first ascent, how hard he had worked, and all of it come to nothing. She wanted to say, We've had enough of that; let us live quietly in a small way, with no more large undertakings, no more feelers put out into a cutthroat world. And she said, not knowing how else to express all of that, "Joseph, we don't need to be on top of the world. There's nothing the matter with the way we are right now."

  "Come on! Nothing the matter? We've lived this meager existence for almost thirteen years! We haven't been any farther than Asbury Park! I want to move out and up. Some day, not too far off, I want to own a house with ground around it. I've got a head full of plans for us."

  "A house? Now, at our age? It's not as if we had a family to rear. What would we do with a house?"

  "Live in it! And what do you mean by 'our age'? Look at yourself! You're a young woman still."

  "Are you really serious about the house?" "Not now, not yet, but as soon as I can."

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  "Iris wouldn't want to leave the city."

  "Iris will come, and if she doesn't, she has her own life to live. Anyway, she'll probably be married in a few years."

  "I don't think so. I worry about her so much; I don't always tell you."

  "I know how you worry. But you can't be all mother forever."

  "You're a fine one to talk! You don't worry?"

  He laughed ruefully. "You're right. We're a pair of worriers. I suppose we're no different from other parents. No, I'll correct that. Everybody isn't like us and maybe they're right, and we're wrong. People owe something to themselves, not just to their children."

  From her dressing table she could see him in the mirror. He had laid the newspaper down and was sitting up in bed, watching her.

  "I like your new hair style," he said.

  Since the war began people had started to wear their hair high over the forehead in a pompadour, then flowing softly over the ears. Her mother had worn it that way. More and more Anna saw her mother in herself, or, at least, what she thought she remembered of her mother.

  "I didn't think you'd notice," she said.

  "Do I neglect you so much, Anna? I don't mean to."

  She laid the brash down, a monogrammed silver brush from a long-ago birthday. "You don't neglect me."

  "I don't want to," Joseph said seriously. "You're the heart of my life, though I don't say it well."

  She looked away, down at the pattern of the carpet: three whorls of rose against beige, a spiral, a moss-green leaf, three whorls of rose.

  "I'm very glad," she answered, "since you are the heart of mine."

  "Am I? I hope so. Because I know I wasn't when we were married."

  "You shouldn't say that!"

  "Why not? It's true," he said gently. "It doesn't matter now, but don't deny it. Everything must be open and honest between us, always."

  "I was a very young, very ignorant girl who didn't know a thing about life! Nothing at all, don't you understand?" Tears prickled and she wiped them roughly away. "Don't you understand?" she repeated.

  "Now that we're talking about it, I'm not sure I do understand

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  everything. I've felt—I feel-there are things I still don't know about you."

  Fear that was almost panic washed through Anna. "Why? What can you possibly not know?"

  He hesitated. "Well, as long as we're talking, I'll tell you. Do you know when I was really beside mysel
f?"

  "I can't imagine," she lied.

  "It was the time when Paul Werner sent you that picture, the one that was supposed to look like you. I tried not to let you see it but I was pretty frantic inside."

  "But that was—that was years ago! And I thought we had talked it all out and settled it then!"

  "I know we did, and I suppose it's foolish of me to let it stay in my head. But I can't seem to help it."

  "It's a pity to make yourself miserable for nothing," Anna said softly.

  "You're absolutely right. But tell me just once again, and don't be angry: did you love him? I won't ask whether he was in love with you, because it's obvious that he was, and besides, I don't mind that. I only want to know whether you loved him. Did you? Anna?"

  She took a deep breath. "I never loved him." (I went through agonies of longing, and often I still do. But that's not the same, is it? Is it?)

  I wonder what it would be like for me now if I were married to Paul. Would I feel that he needed me the way Joseph does? Does perfection—and it was perfection—would it, can it, last?

  Joseph was smiling. "I believe what you tell me, Anna."

  "You won't bring it up again? It's really finished and over?"

  "Finished and over."

  She thought, if only I could feel sure of that, Joseph! What I would give not to have hurt you! You've become so dear to me, you couldn't know. And it's strange, because we are such different people. We don't even like or want the same things most of the time. Yet if it were necessary, I would die for you.

  So, is that love? Love is only a word, after all, like any other word. If you repeat it a few times you take the life out of it. Tree. Table. Stone. Love.

  "Anna, darling, put out the light and come to bed."

  Her bathrobe dropped to the chair with a swish of silk. The wind struck again, shivering the windowpane. Feeling her way in

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  the dark across the room, her thoughts flew as they had been flying

  ^wTare driven by random winds, blown and crushed under passing wheels, or lifted to a garden in the sun. And for no reason at all, that anyone can see.

  09

  o o

  PS

  L

  27

  Gramp had a blue Chrysler with a top that could be rolled down in fine weather, and usually was, even on such a cold, bright April day as this. He was a believer in fresh air as a medicament for everything. The car had been specially fitted for his almost powerless legs; the clutch worked by hand when the gears were shifted. They kept the car back of the house in what for past generations had been the barn and stables. When Gramp went out on his crutches, he reminded Eric of a crab, the way his legs jerked, the way he veered to swing himself up onto the front seat. When he was seated there with his cap on and his pipe in his mouth he looked like anybody else; you couldn't tell he was crippled. Maybe that's why he liked to go driving so much.

  "Okay, young fella," he said, "be sure the door's closed; put the button down." He reached to fit the key into the ignition and suddenly stopped. From the clump of trees between the barn and the lake came a sweet whistle: "Pee-weel Pee-wee!"

  Gramp put his finger to his lips. "Shsshsh . . . know what that is? That's a wood pee-wee. Close cousin to the eastern phoebe."

  "What does it look like?"

  "Gray, like the phoebe, except for two white bars on the wings."

  "Pee-wee! Pee-wee!"

  "Could I see it if I got out now?"

  "You probably could if you went in under the trees there verrr-y quietly and sat down and didn't move, not even a ringer. I

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  wonder whether you could learn to use my binoculars? I don't know why not. Maybe tomorrow I'll show you how. They're on the second shelf of my cabinet in the library, next to my bird books."

  The car slid into gear and down the driveway, turned through the gate posts and on down the road past his friend Teddy's. Next came Dr. Shane's big yellow house, then the Timminses' and the Whitelys' who kept saddle horses on their long fields. The car slid into the main street of Brewerstown.

  "We need gas," Gramp said. "Reach me the ration book in the glove compartment, Eric, please."

  The gas station man was stooping under a car. When he saw them he straightened up, wiping black, oily hands on a rag.

  "Afternoon, Mr. Martin. Fill her up?"

  "If you please, Jerry. I'm being extravagant today. It's Eric's birthday and we're going for a ride."

  "Is that a fact? Happy birthday! You must be nine, or is it ten?"

  "Seven," Eric said, very pleased.

  "Seven! You're mighty big for seven!"

  "Tell me, what do you hear from Jerry junior?" Gramp inquired.

  "He'll be finished with basic training at Fort Jackson next week. I guess he'll be going over soon after that."

  Gramp didn't answer. There was no sound but the whir of the pump; then it shut off, and they waited while Gramp handed over the ration book and some bills. Jerry tore out the stamps and handed the book back soberly.

  "Well, good luck," Gramp said softly. "Remember me to Jerry junior. Tell him I expect him back. We all do, soon."

  "Thanks. I will."

  Gramp started the car again and they rolled down Main Street to the lake road.

  "Where we going, Gramp?"

  "I'm doing a will for Oscar Thorgerson. You know the big farm on the other side of Peconic? I thought I'd run over with some notes to see how he likes them. Then I can draw it up officially. It'll save him a trip in ploughing time and it gives you and me an excuse for an outing." He smiled down sidewise at Eric.

  The road ran beside a strip of groves and summer cottages, still boarded up. There were glimpses of the lake between the trees. Then the road curved away from the lake, mounted a ridge of hills

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  and straightened, dividing a wide valley with farms and fields on either side. The wind made a rushing noise like a waterfall in Eric's ears. A man was ploughing an enormous field; ahead of him it was dry tan with stubble of last year's corn; behind him it was dark and wet like melting chocolate. The great horses trudged steadily uphill.

  "It's been years since I've seen horses pulling a plough," Gramp

  said.

  "Why? How else can you do it?"

  "With tractors. But now there's a war on and no gas, so the horses are out again. Say, look at that!"

  A flock of birds soared and slid and whirled across the sky.

  "Swallows," Gramp said. "Oh, birding has been one of the great pleasures of my life! I've sighted birds that people wait years to see. And when we lived in France I had to learn a whole new vocabulary, not just the names, but new kinds of birds that we don't have here. I remember the first time I heard and then saw a nightingale. It was a delight, a pure delight."

  "Say something in French, please, Gramp."

  "Je te souhaite une bonne anniversaire."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I wish you a happy birthday."

  "It sounds pretty."

  "French is a beautiful language. It's like music."

  "Can you say anything you want to say in French?"

  "Oh, yes. Although I'm not as proficient as I was when we lived there. You need to use a language or it slips away from you."

  "I'd like to go to France. Are the trees and houses and everything the same as they are here?"

  "Well, yes, and then again, no. I mean, trees are trees and houses are houses, aren't they? But there are differences. Someday you'll go and see."

  "Will you go with me?"

  "I'm afraid not, Eric. It would be too hard for me to travel with