by Evergreen
Paul smiled again, without comment.
"And the children are grown. Jimmy is going to be a doctor and-"
He interrupted. "The husband? It's still a good marriage?"
Anna nodded. She could have told him volumes, couldn't she? But the thought of putting into words the myriad complexities of all those lives was exhausting. There wasn't enough time and anyway, the effort would be futile. It wasn't possible to make them real to him: Iris, Theo, Steve and all the rest. People he didn't know at all.
"Nothing to tell me?"
She threw up her hands.
"I understand I'm asking you to give flesh and life to phantoms. To sum up years in a few minutes."
"I know you would like to see them, Paul. I know that."
"And I know I never can. Unless—" he stopped.
"Would you like to see some pictures, at least? I've just fixed up an album of new ones. I'll bring it out," Anna offered.
He bent over the album. He had a graceful back, his body unthickened and unslowed by age. He would live to be very old, quite likely, remaining supple to the end. She had a flash of memory: the day she had first seen him, still almost a boy, dashing up the steps of his house, with arms full of gifts from abroad.
"The girl looks like you, Anna. She's lovely."
"She's a lovely person, Laura. Kind and sensitive and gay."
"Fine-looking boys, too. Who's the young one?"
"That's our Philip." (Joseph's little genius, she thought wistfully. Oh, he's good, but he's not that good!) "I'd forgotten, he wasn't even born when I saw you last." The words rang mourn-
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fully. She wanted to defy the mournfulness. "Iris has a happy household," she said. "All growing up well." Why mention Steve's crisis or the worries over Jimmy's acceptance at medical school or the worries about Laura's boy friends? These were all normal nowadays, anyhow, more's the pity.
"It seems like madness when I realize that these are all partly my people," Paul said.
"I know." jShe felt a darting pain in her chest. Or had she only imagined it? They said one could. Psychosomatic.
He put the album aside. It occurred to Anna that it was rude to keep him sitting outdoors. "Would you like to see the house?" she asked.
He nodded and they went into the coolness, through the dining room where Joseph in his dark suit looked soberly from the wall, and finally into Anna's favorite sitting room at the back of the house. Here the light was caught and held in every season. It was the room where she lived now; magazines lay on the tables, and a ski sweater that she was knitting for Laura lay on the white and yellow sofa.
"This room looks familiar," Paul said.
She didn't understand. "Familiar?"
"You don't remember? My mother's sitting room was always yellow and white. They were her favorite colors," he said quietly.
That room! Oh, yes! She felt a prickling flush from her neck to her forehead. She had forgotten.
Paul was examining the watercolors that covered one wall. "These are very fine. Did you select them yourself?"
"Yes, years ago. Joseph always left things like that to me. He wasn't interested in art."
"Very good taste, Anna. You could get triple what you paid for them. Not, I suppose, that you care about that."
"No, I bought them because they make me feel contented. That's the only reason."
They were simple works, spare of line: pond lilies and water weeds; a long vertical painting of a dead tree raising its arms into a thunderous sky; a small square picture of lichen on a wet, black rock.
"Charming," Paul said. He walked to the window again and stood looking out at the shimmering afternoon, just stood silently looking.
When she followed his gaze she saw only the tea things on the
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garden table and the tops of the phlox, their towered flowerets showing mauve and cerise above the wall. A breath of their pungent fragrance came through the open window.
Anna sat down and waited. How strange it was that he should be standing here in her house! How briefly he had entered her life, only a few weeks' worth of hours at most, if you were to add them all together! And he had done as much to change her life as anyone could. She recalled now what had not crossed her mind in years, for she had buried the memory, locked it away in a top drawer and hidden the key: those nights in his parents' house, so long ago, and her own dry sobbing, the swallowed tears, the fist in the mouth. Youth, its pains more piercing than any of the deeper griefs that come later!
"You've had some good in life, when all's said and done." Paul spoke into the stillness. "In spite of the trouble I gave you, haven't you, Anna?"
"It wasn't only trouble," she said gently.
"Wasn't it, Anna?"
"There were moments of great, great joy."
"Moments!" he exclaimed. "Moments! Out of a lifetime! That's all I was able to give you."
"Are you forgetting? You gave me my daughter as well."
"And how are things between you?"
"She is a real daughter to me. I,couldn't want more."
"I'm glad."
He sat down facing her. She began to feel tense, and, picking up her knitting, twisted the yarn mechanically around the needle.
"I'm glad I could do something besides make life hard for you, Anna."
"I never thought that. But you know, I have just thought of something else."
"What is it?"
"I've never had a chance to tell you and thank you. After that time at the opera, when Joseph was so terribly angry and I told you I couldn't see or hear from you again, you never betrayed my trust, or subjected me to the smallest risk. And you could have. Another man might have."
Paul looked at her steadily. "I would have cut my right arm off first. You know that, Anna."
She put her hand to her cheek. "Oh, God!" she cried.
There was a silence. After a moment he spoke again.
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"So that's how it's been for us. I wish it had been otherwise."
A locust rattled like a rivet and cut itself off in mid-rattle. From the tall wild grass beyond the lawn came the steady chirp of grasshoppers. Sounds of summer past the halfway mark: full bloom of summer moving toward its close, while late roses curled at the edges, scorched in the heat.
"The sad end of summer," Paul said as if he had been reading Anna's, mind. "When the locusts make all that noise you can be sure it's almost over."
"Until next year," she said.
"You always were an optimist, weren't you. You find the cup half full."
"And you find it half empty."
"Often I do."
She smiled at him. "Then you must rush to fill it, mustn't you?"
"As a matter of fact, that's what I plan to do. I came to tell you about it. I'm going to go abroad to live."
"Abroad? For good?"
"Yes. I've been, as I needn't tell you, the most loyal American. Yet a part of me has always been in love with antiquity. I have a longing for one of those old villages in southern France where the ruins go back to the Greeks. Or else perhaps someplace in Italy. The lake country—Lugano, Como. Have you been there?"
"No, I missed those."
"Ah, you'd love Lugano, Anna. It's not tropical, but golden warm, with great, great peace. Yes, I'd like to buy a place there. Would you come with me? Would you?"
"Why," she said, astonished. "I really-"
"I know I've dropped a bombshell. And it's late, I know that too. But that's all the more reason why one ought to salvage something."
Why was it that the distant past was so much clearer than things which had happened only a few years ago? She was able now to feel herself, yes, actually to feel herself, back in the posture of the adoring greenhorn girl when he, a young god descended, stood so high above her. Yet here he sat, supplicating, and she could have wept for him, wept for them both.
"It could be very lovely for us to be married, Anna, even now."
Lugano. Stony,
narrow streets and blossoming trees. The two of them walking the streets, under the trees. A table on a terrace in the sun and a bottle of wine and the two of them. A room in an
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old house, with the night breeze coming through the windows as they fell asleep together and the morning breeze flowing when they awoke together. She couldn't speak for longing and delight.
And yet she already knew the only possible answer.
"You know," Paul said, "that something sprang to life between you and me at the very beginning. And it's still alive. It's lived through every kind of disappointment and mistake, through time and distance. Nothing's killed it. Can't we give it a chance to flourish at last? Can't we let it go free?"
"If we were alone in the world—" she began. "But we never are. There are always others."
"Tell me what you mean."
She met his anxious eyes and spoke with utmost tenderness. "There are those who came before and are gone. There are those who came after. It's just not possible. Not possible."
"But why?"
"Because this is Joseph's family, Paul. Don't you see?"
He shook his head. "No, Anna. No."
She rose and came to stand before him, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Look at me. Listen, my dear, my very dear. Can you imagine yourself at Theo's and Iris' table, facing them and me and their children? Can you see how I could possibly bring you into this family, in which your daughter doesn't know she is your daughter and your grandchildren don't know who you are?"
He didn't answer.
"Iris has always had vague, uneasy thoughts about you and me, I know she has. And if they were to be sharply awakened again— can you imagine that?"
Still, he didn't answer.
"It would be madness. Don't you know that it would be? And that I couldn't bear it?"
"You couldn't bear it," he repeated, very low.
"And you couldn't, either."
She broke away and walked to the end of the room. Tears came and, with her back to him, she rubbed them roughly away on her arm.
I mustn't touch him again, mustn't let him touch me.
"Again the family," Paul said. "Always the family, coming ahead of everything else."
"But you do understand why, don't you?"
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"Yes. Still, if I could change your mind, I would. And to hell with them all."
"You don't mean that."
"No, of course I don't." And then, abruptly, he said, "You know, I envy Joseph."
"Envy him? He's dead!"
"Yes, but while he lived he—lived."
The mantel clock chimed in the next room, marking the hour— that indifferent, cheerful little clock which his parents had given— as it marked all the hours, whether of pleasure or pain, of coming or going. All the same, no matter.
"Is this truly final, Anna?" Paul asked.
She turned to look at him. This was the last time, really the last. Oh, the eyes, the marvelous blue eyes, the laughter, the strength, the gentleness; the wonderful mouth, the hands—
"Is this your final answer?"
"Paul, Paul-it has to be."
No tears, Anna. You've said good-by to people you love so many times and in so many ways, all your life long. This is another good-by. That's all it is. No tears, Anna.
"Well, then. I shan't see you again. I shall be in Europe before the end of the year."
"I'll think of you. I'll always think of you."
She gave him her hand and he held it for a long moment between both of his own. Then he dropped it.
"No, don't see me out. Good-by, Anna," and he left through the tall door to the terrace, stepped over the low wall onto the grass and out of sight.
The engine started up; the gravel spurted. When she knew he was gone, she went out to the terrace. The glass from which he had drunk was on the table; his fork lay on the plate. She looked at the chair where he had sat.
All, all a mystery. Our contradictory loves and loyalties. What we want to do. What we ought to do.
The clock chimed through the open window, chimed the half hour and the hour. Shadows laid long blue-gray streamers on the lawn and the sun had gone far west before Anna finally stood up again and went back into the house.
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Some call it the Sea of Galilee. The Israelis call it Kinneret, the harp-shaped lake. The hotel is crowded with people come from all over the world to see it: Americans; Japanese with their cameras, two or three apiece slung over their shoulders; a party of French nuns whom Anna and Laura have encountered three or four times by now, from Eilat northward through Jerusalem.
Laura is already asleep. Light comes through the windows; light of the moon or stars? Anna gets up to look out where the lake lies below and trees droop like dark blue fountains. There is a diamond glitter on the water, the scattered radiance of phosphorescence. She thinks she hears the splash of fish.
Sleep comes quickly to her but so lightly that it doesn't last. She remembers how Joseph used to complain about that and about early waking. For a long time she lies now, hearing Laura's soft breathing from the other bed, thinking of the morning. As soon as she falls asleep again she dreams.
Some are old, troubling dreams. There is the dream in which two people are one and one is two: Maury and Eric are each other. There is the dream in which Joseph comes driving up in his car, and she runs to him with impulsive joy, but he turns his head coldly away. He will not speak to her; she knows it is because she has wounded him and there can be no balm for the wound.
She dreams a new dream about Laura and Robby McAllister. He is a nice boy, intelligent and friendly, with freckles and thick blond eyelashes. Laura has been living with him in college. He is
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of the wrong religion. Besides, he won't marry her, anyway. Men don't marry women who are had so easily. Or is that no longer true? Life has been changing so fast that she is often not quite sure whether a thing is still true or not.
She stirs and wakes again.
And if he should want her, his parents won't. They will surely reject her. Fear dries Anna's mouth. In the first morning light she sees Laura's shirt and jeans on the chair: childish clothing for a child. Careless, foolish little thing!
Iris knows about it. "Does your mother know?" she asked Laura. "Oh, yes, she knows, she's a little afraid I'll be hurt. She hopes I know what I'm doing." Is that all? Nothing about right and wrong, nothing at all of the truths we've been living with, or trying to live with, for all these thousands of years? What can be the matter with Iris? What kind of mother is she, anyway?
I sound like Joseph.
Laura said in Paris, "Mother told me not to tell you, that you'd be shocked."
"Then why have you told me?"
"I like to be honest about everything."
Honest about everything! The byword of this generation. It doesn't matter what you do as long as you come out in the open with it.
"Does your father know?" Anna asked her.
"No, he'd be too upset. He believes in the double standard, you see. It's natural for men, but nice girls mustn't."
"I quite agree with him."
"Nana, I don't understand you! Why? What's the difference between men and women. I mean—"
"Women get pregnant," Anna said scornfully. "That's the difference."
"Not these days, they don't."
Can you believe it? Can you believe it? Anna thinks now. She moves quietly around the room, getting dressed. Throwing themselves cheaply away, cooking and washing for and sleeping with a man who owes you nothing in return, no loyalty, no responsibility; who can walk out between now and an hour from now! Good God!
Loud voices go down the corridor. People have no manners anymore, no consideration, making a racket at seven o'clock in the morning.
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Her foot hurts where the new shoe has raised a blister. Outrageous, at the price you have to pay for shoes. Nobody gives honest value anymore. Everything is, as the kids say, a "rip-off."
Yes, it is, and they're the worst of the lot, ripping off their elders.