Mrs. Wood speaks again: Goodness. Are you quite all right?
Her voice has lost its hardness. The room has begun whirling. And this reception hall smells of wallpaper glue. Does anyone else notice that smell?
—Here, child, she says to Ida.—Quick. Help me find a chair. She needs to sit. She’s gone white. Be quick now.
Mrs. Wood and Ida grasp you around the middle, one on either side, and guide you away from the reception. They find a high-backed chair in the corner.
—Let’s get you off your feet, Mrs. Wood says.
The room revolves. Recalcitrant room.
—My son, you start to say.
Dear God. Here it comes.
They want you to sit in the chair. No. You’ll stand and face it instead, clutching the arms, head lowered. A wave of nausea engulfs you. The upholstery stares up. The paisley fabric glows copper.
—My son—
—Pardon? asks Mrs. Wood.—What did you say?
—My son would be turning sixteen today.
—Well, happy birthday to him! she exclaims, and as you turn your head to regard her, the younger woman’s eyes light up, briefly warming with admiration, envy, respect.
Don’t correct her misunderstanding. Don’t say a word. Do not cast one’s pearls before swine. And you’re not casting; you’re vomiting. Or you’re about to. Sometimes it happens. This is a live year. Yes, indeed, folks. You’ve got a live one on the hook.
—Excuse me, you say. Tearing away, you make haste for the lavatory in the back hall. Ida hurries to follow. You shut the lavatory door on her. Sorry, Ida. She’ll have to remain outside; she’ll stand guard.
The porcelain stares up. Gripping the rim of the basin with one hand, you use the other to remove your hat and rest it on a folded towel. The merle on the hat stares up at you, accusatory. You reach back to pull up your hair. Wait, your hair’s already up. You forgot. You forgot your own hair. Perspiration wets your neck, the soft fold beneath your chin. Your heart sledgehammers.
Mrs. Wood has no idea you lost someone.
People are forgetting. No, they’re not forgetting; they’re too young to forget. Jack’s grown older than the neighbors. If you and Henry don’t remember him, if you don’t make this yearly pilgrimage, no one will. Time will erase your son, will expunge his name from its annals. It will be as if he never existed, as if his birth and his death meant nothing.
This basin is so shiny, you can see your reflection in it. You need to be sick, but nothing’s coming up. Wait for it.
Waiting to be sick is worse than being sick; waiting for the end is worse than the end; waiting to find out if your husband no longer loves you is worse than your husband no longer loving you. These things aren’t true; you’re just experimenting. Of course Henry loves you. He loves you as much as you love him.
Your head lowers again. Ida knocks.
—In a minute, child.
Why do you call her child? The word is pejorative in this case; it suggests no will, no direction, no choice. The whole concept of charity, of helping the less fortunate, functions, you suddenly see, as a ruse, a ploy, a way for the powerful to preen and pat themselves on the back for their own munificent acts. Mrs. Wood will swaddle Ida in an apron and propel her into the kitchen, where she’ll clean china caked with half-masticated roast beef, scrape fish blubber from licked plates, get rid of all the messes Maria Kip doesn’t want its benefactors to notice. And Ida won’t complain. Though she should. She needs to speak up, to say: Enough. That’s all a person can say some days. Some decades. You have said it to Henry; yes, you have. All those Wednesdays working late.
You can’t risk him being happy, for God’s sake.
And there.
Your stomach releases its contents into the basin. You pat around for the towel, something to blot your face. Don’t look at yourself in the mirror. Don’t look into your eyes, glimpse them shiny and wet.
Yet you miss him. You miss your husband: young Henry, from the Sunday of the white sheets, the white shirt, the blowing curtains, the antediluvian quiet, the day he lay beside you, propped on an elbow, and confessed he adored you. He said it twice when your own words wouldn’t come.
That man no longer exists. Or if he exists, he no longer desires you. Or maybe you no longer exist; maybe you no longer desire him.
Which one of you gave up first? You did. But Henry’s was permanent.
Henry
—WHAT WAS IT Hubbs called the cemeteries?
A menace.—“We must fight this menace,” you say, reminding Kerr of the attorney’s words.
The hearse is pulling away from Odd Fellows’. Bess shakes her coat, spraying the air with droplets. Reluctantly she plods forward.
—What else? Kerr asks.—I forget. Near the end. It was horseshit.
For reply, you give him your best imitation of the Richmond Property Owners Protective Association chairman:
—“Mr. Plageman. The city cemetery could be made into a beautiful spot, fronting the bay, the Golden Gate, and the Pacific.”
—Right. And then you said, “It already is a beautiful spot. It already does what you say.”
—Yes, and he ignored me. “These things will all come when the graveyards are gone and the quick, not the dead, inhabit San Francisco.”
—That’s the line. Kerr nods.—That’s the one. “The quick, not the dead.” Pure horseshit, I say.
—Then things started to deteriorate.
—I never thought I’d see the day Henry Plageman took to using brute force.
—Not brute force, Kerr. I merely addressed him with my shoulder.
The foreman chuckles. Bess pauses to nuzzle tall grasses sprouting along the edge of the street.
—If she doesn’t move any faster, I can walk, you say.
—We’re moving, we’re moving. Just have to check my chickens.
—Chickens?
—Yep. Won’t take but another second. Right on our way.
He grins as you quietly curse. Clucking, he coaxes the mare forward.
The beginning of the end, continued: Nine months ago, September of last year, you took Blue and Lucy to the Cliff House in a rare public outing. You were trying to compensate for your spectacular failure with the Shoobert House. Your invitation followed Blue’s return from a month of travels with her grandmother.
You had tried to explain, had tried to tell Lucy what happened that night you didn’t show up.
Marilyn had happened.
An hour before your scheduled departure for the Sausalito ferry, your wife received a letter relieving her of her volunteer duties at the San Francisco Nursery for Homeless Children. She had balanced their account books too well. She’d discovered oddities in their ledgers, discrepancies they didn’t want exposed. Be careful what you ask Marilyn Plageman to tackle, what problems you ask her to solve.
The letter eviscerated her. She wasn’t expecting it. She retreated to her bedroom and locked the door, would not let you inside. You checked the time; you were nearly due at the ferry. You had told Marilyn you were heading off on one of your business trips to Portland to purchase hard-to-come-by goods for the store. You pounded on her door; she ignored you. So you picked the lock with one of her hairpins. It took several minutes. Inside was no better than outside. She had given herself over to the bedcovers. Facing the wall, she lay curled on her side in her old yellow nightgown. The covers half buried her. She would not allow you near her; at the same time, she needed you not to leave.
You didn’t make the ferry. You could not just walk out on her, on a wife falling apart in a yellow nightgown. You had failed Marilyn on many occasions. But not this time.
You spent the day at her side. Didn’t step out of the house. Didn’t even reach the front porch except to let Richard out to heed the call of nature. The ferry to Sausalito departed. The ferry after that departed also. You paced, parlor to kitchen and back again. You considered trying to send word. Could someone deliver a message? Who? Stevens? You could tell no one
. And Lucy was waiting for you. Lucy was wondering what had happened. How long would she wait? Too long. Not long enough. Both.
The following morning, you went and begged a favor from one of your customers, an old Episcopalian priest. Within two hours that retired priest had finagled a new position, complete with letter of invitation, for Marilyn at the Maria Kip Orphanage, whose director needed volunteers.
Marilyn doesn’t know you orchestrated the assignment. To this day, she thinks Maria Kip wanted her for her skills.
When you delivered the letter with the news about the appointment, your wife lifted her eyes from the newspaper she was halfheartedly reading. You sat next to her on the edge of the bed, extracted the paper from her hands, laid it aside. You stroked her hair.
—Tomorrow will be better, you said.—You’ll start at the orphanage.
—How can you say tomorrow will be better, she replied.—How can you possibly know for sure?
In the morning she drank a glass of milk and ate a boiled egg. As you walked with her to the streetcar stop, her gait looked unsteady, almost somnambulant. But it strengthened during the walk. Maria Kip had opened its doors to her.
That’s all a person needs sometimes. An open door.
Lucy said very little when you told her what had happened. She listened. She heard you out. When you finished, she said:
—You did the right thing, Henry.
She buried her face in her hands and wept.
An hour at the Cliff House is a poor substitute for a week in Sausalito. During lunch, Blue called you Pa, and without thinking, you shushed her, right there at the table, surrounded by crab cakes and clams with lemon. Blue flushed, irritated. Being shushed is not something she tolerates. Your attempt to quiet her made no sense anyway; you were already sitting with her and Lucy in public, already risking exposure.
—You’re my pa, and I will call you Pa if I want to, she said, glowering, resembling a miniature version of her mother. She reached across the table and, for punishment, honked your nose.
—What if I let you call me by my Christian name? you offered.
—What’s a Christian name?
—The same thing as a regular name.
She rubbed her eyes.—Why do people make things so complicated?
—Good question, Lucy said. Under the table she rested a hand on your knee and squeezed, harder than your knee wanted.
As the waiter took away the remains of your meal, the new Welte Orchestrion in the main dining room started playing music by itself, without human assistance. Blue asked if a ghost was in the keys.
—There’s no such thing as ghosts, Lucy said.
The three of you left before the end of the concert. Outside, Lucy folded her arms across her chest and scanned the churning sea.
—Next week? you asked her over the pounding of waves against rocks. You were asking when the three of you could next be together.—Our usual time?
The wind whipped Blue’s hair. Your daughter had squatted down to dig in the sand for shells. Lucy took your arm and steered you out of Blue’s hearing.
—Don’t say you’re coming if you’re not able to come, Henry. Don’t do to her what you did to me. I won’t stand for it.
—I’ll be there, you declared.
You returned home. An hour later you started to seethe.
Lucy has no idea how much effort you expend daily protecting her, keeping her safe, building a wall between her and your other life. She has no idea what it’s like to live with a double conscience. A double consciousness. Every day you must carry her and Blue, and every day you must carry Marilyn. They are all three yours. And every day you must not let them collide, must not allow their spheres to touch. They can’t even jostle each other by accident.
Lucy has no idea the amount of energy this requires. Even Atlas shouldered only one world at a time.
Lucy
—How come WE’RE GOING to the cemetery?
You’d better think before answering her. Choose every word with care. She’s eight. She’s too young to understand.
Or maybe it’s the opposite problem; you’ve already waited too long to tell her. Not just about today. About everything.
—We’re going to see your father, you say.
—But why?
—That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To see him. To tell him what happened to you today. You’ve been asking for the last hour.
—I think it’s what you want.
She stares distrustfully up at you. Your voice sounds snappish, high-pitched, even though you don’t want it to come across that way, even though a churlish tone is the last thing your daughter needs.
You try again: We’ll get you home and into dry clothes first, and you can see your snails. But quickly. Just for a minute, okay? Then we’ll walk to the gravesite.
—Pa’s in a grave?
Now she’s crying.—What happened to him? she sobs.
You exhale.—Oh, sweetheart, he’s fine. No, it’s not what you think. He’s just there visiting someone. And we’ll visit him. We’re visiting your father while he’s visiting someone. Does that make sense?
She shakes her head vigorously as, once again, you fold her into your arms.
—Just for a few minutes, you say.—That’s all. That’s what you wanted, right? Please, Blue. I’ll explain everything on the way.
—Who is he visiting? Put me down!
Stop trying to carry her. Let her be. She is eight. She’s starting to awaken to her life.
Marilyn
IDA HAS NOT LEFT HER STATION guarding the lavatory. She’s still at her post when you reappear in the hallway. You’ve splashed water on your face, blotted your nose and mouth with a handkerchief, but the damage remains; you’re officially in disarray.
—It’s all right, you tell her.—Come with me.
She complies. Her cheeks are delicate, the skin across the bones nearly translucent. She’s thinner than she ought to be. You elbow through the guests and return with her to Mrs. Wood, who stands outside the kitchen, surveying her domain.
—I’m afraid I can’t stay, you tell her.
—You’re ill. I understand, she says, nodding.
—I’m sorry. I’m all right; I just have to leave. I’m expected elsewhere.
Brow furrowing, Mrs. Wood retrieves a piece of paper from the pocket of her skirt and unfolds it: the volunteer schedule.
—According to what I have here, you aren’t supposed to depart for nearly an hour. You’re leaving us terribly shorthanded, you know.
Childless women have no sense of what constitutes an emergency. That Mrs. Wood is about to be left shorthanded—that is not an emergency. That you are about to go stark raving mad—that is not an emergency either. It’s uncomfortable and it’s unpleasant; an emergency, it is not. Yes, you can feel the madness creeping in through the corners of your eyes. Yes, you see redly. What of it?
Ida holds tight to your fingers. Yes, Ida, keep the faith. We are on the same team here.
—Mrs. Plageman . . .
Mrs. Wood has recovered the poise she lost following your earlier exchange about childlessness. She has smoothed herself into position, calmed everything down, save those maroon spots of color on her cheeks. But she will not forget the child she never had. Years from now, after age has dried up her womb, she will still think of it.
—Mrs. Plageman, she says again, quietly.—If you need to leave, of course I can’t stop you. But I must let you know I’m not sure we’ll have a place for you on the summer volunteer schedule. You’ve been with us only ten months. I’m afraid I cannot guarantee your future.
Your laugh surprises you.
—Only God is in the future-guaranteeing business, you say.—And He doesn’t do a very good job.
Ida begins to babble something about taking responsibility, about wanting to help with the reception. She’s nearly hyperventilating. She dreads arguments; she’ll do almost anything to placate an angry person. She fears confrontation.
Mrs. Wood darkens.
—Hush. No one gave you permission to speak, girl. Mrs. Plageman and I are talking.
—Her name is Ida, you say.
—Pardon?
Your throat stings with leftover stomach acid.
—Her name. If you’re going to reprimand her, please use her name. It’s Ida. And she and I are both leaving.
Ida, astonished, looks up at you.
—You can’t remove a child from the orphanage. That’s tantamount to abduction.
—I’ll return her before day’s end.
—Don’t be absurd! Mrs. Wood exclaims.—I cannot give you permission.
—That’s all right, you say.—I’m not asking for it.
You do not believe children should be seen and not heard. They should be seen and heard both. They should not be quiet. They should not hush. They should not pray, go to bed early, say please and thank you, or finish their mathematics schoolwork. They should not obey their parents at all times. Children should stay alive. That’s all. You have set the bar exceedingly low where these things are concerned.
Ida seizes your hand once more. Holding hers tightly, you weave through the crowd to the door, past wallpaper decorated with hummingbirds, a gauntlet of pearl-bedecked women.
Outside, a cocoon of quiet replaces the pumping of trombones and trumpets. Light rain dampens Ida’s countenance. Never before has someone rescued her, never has someone plucked her up from the muck and set her on dry ground.
—Mrs. Plageman, where are we going? she asks.
In the course of a single morning, you have lied about your husband not being locked up in the park station; you have left said husband locked in the park station; you’ve thrown up, quit your volunteer position, seen redly; and now you’ve stolen a half orphan. The only thing left is the cemetery.
12:30 p.m.
Blue
MA’S EYES ARE CLOSED, but she’s not sleeping. It’s the face she wears when she’d rather be alone but can’t get away from me.
The Half Wives Page 17