Tim whispered something to the secretary, they sat, they rose. Doors opened on a study like Rex’s, two old men looking up from pages spread across a blotter behind a walnut desk.
“My goodness, Hamish. Look at her.”
“MFK Fisher. You might have mentioned your youth and beauty. Our hearts are not what they used to be.”
“Mr. Saxton,” Mary Frances shook his hand. “What kind of writer would I be, if I gave everything away?”
The men laughed. Tim let his hand fall from her waist. “Gentlemen,” he said, and he was gone.
* * *
They loved her. They loved how she traveled and read and pulled from all corners. They loved how she was not a homemaker, not Mrs. Something Something, and her manuscript not like anything else they’d ever seen, written by a woman or a man. A personal history of food, of eating; they wanted 45,000 words as soon as she could possibly write them. They would publish the book here and in London, through Hamish Hamilton. They would draw up the contract as soon as she said yes.
“And?” Tim was laughing. “So you said?”
“Oh, yes. Yes!”
He toasted her with champagne in the dark downstairs bar at the Warwick Hotel. He said how happy he was, and proud, and how he’d known it all along.
“I must write Claire and thank her,” she said. “I must write Al.”
“Call him. You can go upstairs.”
She didn’t though. “I want to share this with him, of course I do.”
“And yet?”
“Mr. Hamilton said they sent a letter. It must have arrived after I left, but Al didn’t mention it when I called, or when he wrote. He would have seen the return address. Everybody knows Harper.”
“Your success is not his failure, my dear.”
“No. Of course not.” And she knew it wasn’t. But would these men have looked at her work if Tim had not asked? And would Tim have asked if she were still back in Laguna, inviting him and Gigi to share a pot of stew and some California red?
“Well.” Tim pushed back from the bar. “Perhaps it can wait.”
“Perhaps.” Mary Frances drank down the last of her coupe. “Perhaps.”
* * *
If she watched carefully, as you would a bird perched on your finger, it was almost a dream. The Hansa was white against the midnight pier, the air frigid, too cold to snow, too cold to think. Mrs. Parrish prattled on, only the shrill chime of her voice in the darkness, and Tim, who seemed everywhere.
Of all the boarding passengers, their little group appeared to be the soberest, with only dinner’s drinks under their belts, and the bottle they had shared of Chambertin in honor of the crossing. They were also the only ones who did not know any beer garden songs.
“You never know with whom we’ll be lunching,” Mrs. Parrish said.
“That sounds so ominous,” Mary Frances said.
“I often find it is.”
The steward led them first to Mrs. Parrish’s rooms, red and blistered as a poached shrimp. There was a drawing room, with a games table and a writing desk that looked out to the blackness, the sea beyond. There was none of the clever compartmentalization Mary Frances had so admired on the cross-country trains. Her cabin would be smaller, she was sure, and below decks; she had hoped for privacy. Imagining this trip in California, privacy had seemed filled with much more ease than it did now; she had not been able to think past being alone. Now there was Tim, and the idea of being alone with him or without him, and then what? Her thoughts seemed bound by this mincing, obvious pace.
She could hear the singing and laughter above decks, the jangle of women letting go of themselves. The whole effect was like a very apposite, and clean, bordello.
“Al and I took a German ship home from Dijon,” she said. “But it was full of Americans.”
“Another time,” Mrs. Parrish said.
“But still, I remember there was a woman at our lunch table, a young wife who had run away with an Italian, returning with her mother who had fetched her back. There was such a peculiar light in her eyes when she told the story, she and her mother grasping at each other, as though they were at the opera.”
“Precisely what I’ve been talking about,” Mrs. Parrish said. “You can learn the strangest things about people at sea if you’re not careful.”
Tim was sitting on the edge of his mother’s puffy red coverlet, one knee crossed over the other. His mother directed the steward, and he watched Mary Frances.
“Fetched her back,” he said. “For her husband?”
Mary Frances nodded. She felt suddenly like crying. She had put herself in a difficult position and locked all the doors on it; for god’s sake, she was setting out to sea. Tim was right. What would she do next? What choice had she left for herself?
She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, and then stood quickly. She would not be melodramatic, no matter what. And she would not be stupid.
“You’re tired,” Tim said. “Mother, let her go.”
Mary Frances followed the steward down the corridor to her own cabin. She looked back, and Tim stood in the hall.
“You know,” he said casually, “it’s not like there’s a switch anyone can flip.”
“I know,” she said.
“We’ll be at sea a week,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Ah, Mary Frances. Good night.”
She sent the steward away and locked the door behind him. She was an idiot, a schoolgirl, a prude, a coward. She sank down onto her own rose-colored carpeting. She thought if she could get on with it, get over, go on, she would come out the other side of this, but she felt no bottom or end to her appetites. She might just always want this way—after Tim, something else. She might just always be this hungry.
Later that night, staring at the ceiling, she heard a light rapping on her door. Perhaps her door, perhaps the one next to hers, or across the hall. She wanted it to be Tim. She wanted it to be Tim so much, Tim coming for her, that she couldn’t bear to get up and check. The rapping stopped, and the ship left the pier without her waving, without her cheering face amongst the crowd, the ribbons and streamers flying, the drinks on high.
* * *
The next morning she stood on deck in the icy February wind to punish herself. The ocean was endless in all directions, nearly the same color and texture as the sky, mirrors set against each other toward infinity. Her coat was buttoned to her neck, her scarf around her ears, her arms clamped tight. She was in the middle of nothing, nowhere, countryless, familyless, husbandless, homeless. These two lives she had been living, the one inside and the one out, how much longer could she pretend they mattered when nothing out here held its borders?
She turned from the deck rail to find a young man watching her from inside the lounge, sipping his coffee. She felt her guts shift delicately against her spine with the movement of the ship, an action both effortless and sick at once. He raised his cup in her direction. She needed, first, a drink.
* * *
Tim answered her knock, and she passed through the door, already opening her clothes. His smile was gentlemanly, and she shut her eyes to it, the buttons of her blouse beneath her hands, the next and then the next and then the next. He cupped her face, his kiss the one she’d gotten after every dance in boarding school, soft and warm and pleasant and over all too quickly.
“I’m very glad you’re here,” he said.
“Oh, for chrissake. You should be. Turn out the lights.”
She sounded brassy, and she could feel the work of the whiskey she’d taken in the bar at the back of her throat. She stepped out of her skirt, yanked her slip over her head. None of it seemed delicate now, and none of it seemed right, but only pushing through to the next thing, and then the next. She felt frayed to tears, and then Tim clicked out the lamp beside the bed, and they went down.
It was not pretty until much later, until they’d made excuses for lunch and his mother’s invitation, until they’d pulled the damasked sheets from the mattress, strewn the pillows across the carpeting, until she’d bruised her wrist against the headboard, broken a glass, burned the skin off her tailbone, the room ripe with what they’d extracted from each other, then something turned another way than desperate.
They lay side by side, crosswise on the bare ticking, Mary Frances’s face tucked into the bend of her elbow like a bird asleep. Her dark hair spilled over the edge of the mattress. On the floor, a scatter of hairpins amongst the shards of water glass, a few flecks of down, as though a brittle animal had given up. Tim wished he had his sketchbook. He could not think of what to say, and he did not have it in him to go another time, he was exhausted and starving and empty of absolutely everything.
He opened his mouth to tell her how beautiful she was again. She rolled her face from where she tucked it and looked at him from underneath those eyebrows, at first sly and teasing, then seeming to realize what he was about to say.
Her hand shot out to cover his mouth. “Don’t you dare, Dillwyn Parrish. I didn’t come all this way to be patronized.”
He took her wrist and kissed it. The muscles in her chest bowed and arched to hold her shoulders up, to hold him quiet, so many lovely hollows. He reached beneath her armpit; she had not bathed before she came to him, a fine bristle of hair and her travel there. She had not stopped for much of anything, and his hand fit against her perfectly, his fingers cupping against her shoulder blade, and the completeness of it nearly made him sigh.
He pulled her onto her back. He wiped his hand between her legs and across her thighs, slick as paint. He took his mouth across her hipbones and down. She told him to wait, and he told her to be quiet, that she had not come all this way to be patronized.
All the delicate things undone with the mouth every day, and she had never thought of this, never asked for it before, and the sense it made was like threading a needle, pulling the end of thread to a point with her lips and then carefully, with concentration, looping it through. They were lovers now, flesh and beating blood, lovers, and there was nothing to do but dive in, headlong.
* * *
At sea, the sunrise was like a bloodletting, and to see it, Mary Frances had been up all night. She was sore. Tim, asleep beside her, her hip now pressed against the length of his back; his nakedness was strange and her alertness to it strange, and outside the small ship’s window, the sky pulsed.
She let her hand fall into his white hair, and he stirred, turning to her.
“How do you think I’ll get out of here?”
“You’re better at breaking in, aren’t you.”
“It’s morning. The stewards.”
“The well-tipped stewards?”
“They’ll be here soon, regardless. I have to go.”
Tim’s hand pushed against the sole of her foot, pushing her back against the headboard. “I don’t have to open the door.” His mouth found the inside of her knee. “You don’t have to do anything.”
But she would, of course.
* * *
She wrote to Al in the mornings from her desk in her stateroom. It took time to settle there, the far horizon outside and nothing but the ocean to watch. She felt herself dividing, everything happening twice, and she filled page after page as though to show him she was busy.
The flowers, she wrote, are everywhere, little gardens and terrariums, so much that I seem always to be broaching a wall of perfume, lilies big as fists, chrysanthemums, orchids. They never seem to wilt; secretly there has to be a team of stewards whose sole job it is to garden.
One night, Tim at her door, the bouquet he’d stolen crushed between them in a cloud of sharp green scent. Stargazers, he said. Casablanca, the largest lily in the world. Later he painted her hip with yellow pollen, the flowers never meant for the vase.
The eating goes on at all hours, she said. You would love the strange little smorgasbords in the afternoons, the pickled vegetables and corned meats, the hard sausages that smell like the floors of the barns they hung in. The chef’s consommé is clear as a bell. And one day it had been sunny, almost warm on deck, and she and Tim took their mugs to the deck chairs, wrapped in blankets side by side, her body still tender from the night before, the morning, already lit in anticipation of the night to come, and the warm consommé in the mug in her hands, in her chest, headed to her belly, Tim’s voice, half lost to the water and the breeze, calculating his own pleasure and exhaustion, the tenderness with which he planned to handle her neglected parts: What about your ankles, Mary Frances? What about your little toes?
They were alone, except when they were with Mrs. Parrish, and so at all other times free to say and be what they thought to each other. It was glorious, frightening, to care so little. Passengers stared at Tim’s head in her lap in the lounge, his hand inside the low back of her dinner dress at the bar, late at night, all the Germans drunk around them.
Mrs. Parrish thinks it’s funny, how I am always setting things aside for you, but I can tell she’s truly pleased. I think all the time of our crossings, the little Dutch ships and freighters, how odd and magical it all felt and how it still does, and will again. I wonder what you are doing now, morning here, but still night for you, and I think of what we were doing then, mid-morning, mid-ocean, on our way to France for the first time. I feel all these parallels acutely, Al. At sea, I remember other times at sea, and they overlay these times.
Tim seems better. He looks very well, strong and straight in a way that I remember, and he seems glad to be on this trip with his mother. He rarely mentions Gigi, except in the way that someone speaks about a pet that ran away when they were a child, a passing kind of wistfulness, but maybe the truest kind. I know he will always love her.
In fact, Tim never mentioned her. It was Mary Frances who brought her up, and only the once, asking if he’d gotten news from her. Saying Gigi’s name aloud was different from writing it in a letter. She watched it skitter across Tim’s expression, a rock on a still pond.
“No,” he said. “No, I have not. I’m sure she’s married now. She was planning to marry him as soon as she could.”
She wanted to ask if it still upset him, but she didn’t want to hear him say it. Have you heard from her, Al? Have you seen her around town? Perhaps she and John have already gone to Laguna.
You should use the house when it gets warmer. Or drive out now and lay a fire, look out the window, and watch the sea. It is so peaceful there, and it reminds me of the days when we were first married.
I am still thinking of our plans. Perhaps I was never meant to carry a child, and that will be our lot. There are plenty of children in the world already. Surely there is one who would want us.
Against the flat of Tim’s inner thigh, she traced the curl of him with the tip of her finger. Something was unbalanced.
“I had tuberculosis.”
“Here?”
“Well. Here is where it left me. They had to cut it out.”
She cupped her hand around him, and he breathed out languidly. His body seemed to move against his breath: what was slow becoming fast, what was soft, hard.
“Everything seems to work all right,” she said.
“Not quite everything.”
It seemed somehow another sign. Still, like athletes, winded, they would roll away from each other and eat from the trays the stewards left them, rare roast beef sandwiches and champagne in her room, stout in his, sometimes bracing themselves against the walls, draping themselves like rags. She would tell him not to touch her for a minute, stretching her long white back over a chair, and he would watch the lift in her hips and take it as a dare. They would start again, acrobatically, dynamically, never so much for the coming as for the act itself. There were times she was not sure if Tim came at all, his shoulders curvi
ng off the bed to meet hers, the small hot sphere they made together, kept making, kept working at, the thing between them, their own.
It’s all right, Al, she wrote. And I know we have the spring and summer before us to figure it out when I return, and that there is no rush. We are young still, even when we do not feel it, and this life is longer, larger than we think. I feel we are on the cusp of something. Who knows what lies ahead? Who knows.
She did not mention the meeting at Harper. She was waiting for him to do it first.
When she was finished with her letter, she would stand from the desk and run a bath, the bottle of violet-scented oil from the Warwick rationed out, and she would scrub to her toes with the thick white washcloth. She would dress, and Tim would come to the door and ask her if she’d finished her correspondence, and she would point to the letter on the desk and feel a kind of allowance about it all. She’d follow him down for a beer before lunch, the bar already packed with Germans, Tim with his sketch pad, she with her notebook, and they would sit quietly and wait for Mrs. Parrish.
She loved to write with Tim beside her, to write smart things they would pass back and forth more than they talked, a line, a thought drawn out. He sketched her, sometimes as she sat, and sometimes from memory, from the night, the afternoon before, the arc of her spine over the chair back, only her mouth, her lips open.
They ate with Mrs. Parrish in the little restaurant with the caged birds—Italian, Swedish, Mexican-German food, always heavy and rich, good and strange. Afterward they found conversations and card games and concerts for her, swapped novels with other passengers for her, and invented excuses to be alone. Mary Frances often forgot her wrap. Tim was often curious about the weather. If the elevator was empty, he kissed her. If the stairwell was empty, he ran his hand beneath her dress. Two, three steps away; there was no one here who knew them. He offered his arm, and she fit her side against him, her head sinking back on its stem, how delicious, how well they fit together, what a satisfying lock.
The Arrangement Page 16