by Nancy Thayer
VERSION NUMBER TWO
JOHN CONSTABLE RETURNS
TO THE BLACKSTONE GROUP
Once again was flashed on the screen a picture of John happily relaxing in his office, looking healthy and pleased with himself. The music changed back to a bouncy rock-and-roll song. A few people in the room began to cheer and clap. The music picked up in beat and volume, and the screen changed again.
WE’LL MISS YOU, JOHN!
COME BACK ANYTIME!
BEST WISHES FROM THE BLACKSTONE GROUP
Now the room was filled with cheering and clapping. The screen went blank, the lights came on, and people rose, some still clapping. A sense of relief rushed through the air, as obvious as a perfume.
“Harrison did this, the bastard,” John said through clenched teeth to Willy. “I’d like to knock his face in.”
Willy grabbed John’s arm, held it tight. “Johnny,” she said, keeping her voice low. “No. He meant well. It was stupid, I know, but I’m sure he just wanted to show you how much he hates to lose you.”
“Did you know about this?” John asked Willy, glaring at her.
“No, John, I promise,” Willy said. She was surprised at the intensity of his anger. “Johnny, don’t be so upset. It wasn’t meant unkindly, I’m sure.”
“It’s a fucking curse, Willy, surely you can see that!” John said. “I’m going to tell him off.”
He half rose from his chair, but Willy pulled him back down beside her. “No, John, now calm down,” she said. “You’re taking this the wrong way.”
“Dammit, Willy, why do you always want to hide from confrontations; why do you always have to back away from things?” John asked, directing his anger at his wife.
But there was no time for Willy to respond, because now Harrison Adder was walking to the front of the room. At the same time, the ghostly head was coming out from behind the Chinese screen in the corner. Now that the lights were on, everyone could see that the creature was really a man on stilts with a long black sheet covering him from shoulders to ankles. The head was made of light white plastic, the eyes and mouth trimmed out with phosphorescent paint.
“Ta-Da!” the creature said, and simultaneously lifted off his head and whisked off the black sheet to reveal the stilts. He jumped down, a young man in jeans and a sweatshirt, a young man who looked, with his dark hair and eyes and his handsomeness, very much like John Constable.
Harrison Adder began to applaud the actor, and the rest of the room took it up, joined in the applause.
“May I present Mike Upton, thespian and spook,” Harrison said, and the young man bowed. People clapped.
“John, will you join us a moment?” Harrison asked, smiling.
Willy felt John’s angry intentions and gently pressed his arm. John rose and took the few steps from his chair to the spot just in front of the screen where his former boss and the actor stood.
“Amazing resemblance, don’t you think?” Harrison said, and people called out agreement.
John shook hands with the actor, who had only been performing his job. Struggling between his instinctive need to bash Harrison in the face and his knowledge of Willy’s gentle dissuasion, John managed neither a smile nor a frown. He looked uncomfortable, and unhappy.
Now Harrison was talking to John, telling him how much they would all miss him, how he was always welcome back, and how they all wished him well in his artistic endeavors, in spite of their little gibe tonight. As proof of their good wishes, Harrison walked over behind Mark’s desk and came back to hand John a large present wrapped in silver paper. It turned out to be a sumptuous leather portfolio.
John took a deep breath of surprise. He should have remembered how good Harrison was at this sort of thing, at praising you, then hammering you with criticism, or, conversely, at calling you on the carpet and haranguing you till you were sick to your stomach, then tossing a gift your way, a new account, a carpet for your office, something lavish, so that you couldn’t be angry but instead felt as weak and confused as a child.
“Thank you,” John said, for what else could he say? “I’ll miss you all, too,” he went on, knowing that this was required of him but also beginning to feel it as he stared out into the room where the people he had worked with for the past eight years were gathered. He saw Donald Hood, who now leaned drunkenly against the wall, and knew that Donald drunk was better than most people at their sober best. He saw Bob Dedmond, with whom he played tennis on weekends, and Roger Strout, who had worked with him on all the major advertising campaigns; they usually had a drink together after work. He saw Erica, who was beautiful and who loved him unrequitedly; and it was always nice to be loved. With the exception of Harrison Adder, he felt affection for everyone in this room, and he knew he would miss them greatly—they had become his world.
“Well,” John said, “I’m not good at speeches. I guess that’s why I draw. I’m better with pictures than words. But I don’t think I could draw what I’m feeling now or what I’m seeing. If I did try to put it in words, I guess it would have to be some kind of metaphor, a corny metaphor, too, like a picture of a fine and unique jigsaw puzzle, where all the pieces were beautiful, and fit, or maybe a drawing of an elegant and elite social club where only the best belong. I’m sorry to be leaving you all, and I have to say that I hope the future holds a better prospect for me than the one you’ve prophesied, but no matter what, I think you all know I’ll remember you all with great affection, and in a way, I’ll always stay a part of you. Of the Blackstone Group. Oh—and thanks again for this,” he added, holding the portfolio high.
There was applause. Erica was crying openly. Willy was looking pleased, her smile on him as warm as the sun. The sound of corks popping shot through the air, and John saw, at the back of the room, Donald opening champagne and pouring it into tall crystal glasses as Mark entered the room with more bottles in his arms and Anne and others followed with ice buckets.
John shook hands again with the actor and with Harrison and was relieved when Donald approached with glasses of champagne.
“A toast!” Donald yelled, and once everyone had a glass, they all drank a toast to John’s success as an artist.
John went to Willy and put his arm around her as they toasted him. He was happy, and he felt that this toast, this unanimous wish of good luck to him by all the people who knew him best, would wipe out any jinx placed on him by the slide show.
Then the formality of the moment passed, and people broke into groups, some coming up to shake John’s hand and wish him well, others crowding around the actor. Erica Hart, never one to ignore a good-looking man, was one of the first to be at the actor’s side, and John and Willy, standing nearby, could hear him explaining just how the ghost head had worked. Conversation stopped a moment while everyone looked at the powerful miniature cassette player he had had strapped to his belt, which had sent out the sounds of creaking and clanking and laughter. The music for the slide show had come from a tape Harrison had made and asked Mark to put in his cassette player, which was hooked to stereo speakers. It was all entirely explainable, and very clever.
Still, when at last all the guests had left, Mark and Anne and Willy and John collapsed with drinks in front of the dying fire, and John confessed that he had not been entirely thrilled by the surprise.
“I didn’t know what to do,” Anne said. “Harrison called me yesterday and said he had a surprise going-away presentation for you, something he had worked on especially. Mark and I didn’t know what to do; we really couldn’t refuse.”
“I think he hates me,” John said.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Willy protested.
Mark agreed. “I don’t think he hates you at all, John. Perhaps he’s just jealous of you. What artist wouldn’t be jealous of you, giving up the crass materialistic world to go off and be an honest artist. What you’re doing looks noble and brave compared to what he’s been doing all his life.”
“Still, that’s no reason to curse me,” John said.
“Oh, John, I really think you’re taking this too seriously,” Willy said.
“Well, I don’t think you’re taking it seriously enough!” John snapped.
“I didn’t realize you were so superstitious,” Willy replied quietly.
“I’m not, Willy,” John said. “It’s just that—Oh, hell.” He couldn’t explain.
Willy rose from her chair and crossed the room to snuggle down on the sofa next to John. She touched his arm. “It will be all right,” she said. “It really will. You know it will, John. Once we’re on our way, it will all be lovely, and someday you’ll laugh at tonight.”
“She’s right, buddy,” Mark said. “That old snake doesn’t have the power to curse you even if he wanted to. Forget about his stupid slide show. Remember all the stuff you’ve been told by your teachers and critics and artist friends. You can do it. You’re going to do it. God, think of it, John, you’re on your own now! You’re going to go off and live your dream.”
“Yeah,” John said, relaxing, grinning. “It really is going to happen.”
The four began to talk about plans for the next day then, when the movers would come and when Willy and John would arrive for dinner and to spend the night at the Hunters’.
The fire died down, and the room grew dark. Outside, the wind blew autumn leaves against the windows with little pattering noises. Even though it was late, the four sat talking, not wanting the night to end. They were all enjoying the sense of being on the edge of an adventure while still sheltered safely in the comfort of the warm house and the friendly company.
Chapter Two
Willy and Anne were looking out the attic window down over the rooftops and trees to Nantucket harbor.
“This street,” Willy said, “Orange Street, used to be called the captain’s lane during the whaling days. The wives of the captains of whaling vessels could look out from their widow’s walks to see if a ship was returning to harbor. The next street down, down the hill, was called the first mate’s street. Sometimes the husbands were gone for three or four years. Imagine it. And then, when they returned home, there were times when the tide wasn’t right and they couldn’t get into the harbor. The wives could stand on their widow’s walks or here, at windows like this one, and look out and see the boats waiting to come in.”
“I couldn’t stand it,” Anne replied. Her hands were clasped protectively over her stomach as she stood by Willy’s side, looking out. Now almost seven months pregnant, she couldn’t get as close to the windows as Willy could. “How did they stand it, those women? They must have gone mad.”
“Or had affairs with their gardeners.” Willy grinned.
“Or with each other.” Anne laughed. “Something.”
“They took laudanum,” Willy said. “It’s a derivative of opium. The Realtor told me. It was a common practice. But when their husbands returned, they were so wealthy, brought back such treasures, silver, Chinese porcelain, ivory, silks …”
“Forget all that,” Anne said. “I just want Mark in bed with me every night. That’s all the treasure I want.”
“Well, not quite.” Willy smiled, looking at Anne’s tummy.
“What about you?” Anne said, turning away from the view so she could lean up against the wall. She sighed. With the baby pressing on her, she was always sighing these days. “Willy, you’re thirty. If you’re going to have a baby—”
“There’s time,” Willy said. She moved close to the window and rested her cheek against the cool pane. Through the filigree of bare tree branches she could see the bright blue water of the harbor. It was filled with small boats, scallopers. “John wants five years to paint. To be really dedicated, committed, uninterrupted. It’s necessary to him, Anne. It’s the whole point of our move here. You know that.”
“Five years,” Anne said. She sighed again. “You’ll be thirty-five.”
“Everyone’s having babies late these days,” Willy said. “I can get pregnant at thirty-five.”
“Maybe,” Anne said almost sullenly.
“Oh, you just want everyone to be pregnant because you are,” Willy said, tilting her head away from the window and laughing at her friend. “Don’t be silly. Don’t worry, Anne, we’ll have babies. Or maybe we won’t. I want children. John wants children, eventually. But first he really wants to work on his art, and you know my priorities. I want John to be happy. I want our marriage to be good. It’s been so good for eight years now, just think of it. Oh, Anne, it really is something these days to have such a good marriage after eight years. The same with you and Mark—what is it, six years now? Talk about treasures, I think a happy marriage is the ultimate treasure.”
“Yes,” Anne said. “You’re right. We are lucky. We really are lucky.”
“And look at this place,” Willy said, turning from the window and stretching out her arms. “Won’t it be heaven for John to work in? Of course he’ll need to put in banks of fluorescent lights. But the space and the wide-board floors and the views …”
Anne smugly crossed her arms over her enormous stomach and watched Willy as she moved around the big open attic. Slightly miffed because Willy didn’t share her enthusiasm for pregnancy, Anne looked at Willy now with a critical eye.
Willy was such a large woman, as large as her husband, but still graceful and feminine. She had played enough tennis and swum and ridden and skied enough so that she was perfectly at ease with her body. Willy moved through the world with a sort of lovely laziness, as if she never needed to be quick or alert.
Anne secretly thought that Willy had a “midwestern face”—open, honest, healthy, with bright blue eyes and perfect rosy skin and a bland, rather undramatic bone structure. It was the kind of face that makeup couldn’t improve; but then it was also the kind of face that the lack of makeup couldn’t hurt. She looked as pleasant early in the morning as she did at a party. Her hair was the color of wheat, and it was thick and long; today Willy wore it pulled into an intricate clump at the back of her head. Willy tended to wear jeans and turtlenecks or pleated kilts and wool sweaters; if her face was midwestern, her overall image was more British, Anne thought, like one of those large, comfortable women who train dogs or horses.
And Willy was all those things—open, honest, healthy, pleasant, comfortable, and large. But Anne had to admit that her friend had secrets.
The first Anne had discovered eight years ago when Willy was given introductory passes to a new health spa in Boston. It was an especially cold winter, and Anne jumped at the chance to spend a few hours with Willy one Saturday, swimming, taking a sauna, sitting in the whirlpool, lying in the sun room. Anne didn’t know Willy well then; her husband and Willy’s had been childhood friends, had gone to BU together, but Anne and Willy had met only through their husbands. They had not had a chance to get to know each other. This was a good afternoon, a friendly, warm time when the women had relaxed in the swirling water and discussed freely all sorts of things: their marriages, their pasts, their work.
They used the sun room last and had to take turns at it, and Anne went first. She was in the locker room, getting ready to take a shower and then dress, when Willy walked in from the sun room. She was naked, rosy, and relaxed from the heat, and as she entered, lazy in her nakedness, she reached up with both hands to release her hair from its pins. Her hair fell rich and thick, honey-colored, all around her face and shoulders.
“My God,” Anne said, looking at her friend, “no wonder John’s so much in love with you. You look like some kind of … goddess.”
Willy did look like some kind of goddess. Her body, which seemed so practical, so plain in clothes, was downright fabulous naked. She was not fat, but she was large and full, with ample hips, long full thighs, and huge, firm breasts. Her waist was not small—nothing about Willy was small—but it curved in a lovely line from her rib cage in and out again to her hips, something else Anne had not realized because of the shapeless clothes Willy wore.
Willy had smiled at Anne. “Well,” she s
aid, only slightly embarrassed, “John likes me. That’s what matters.”
“But, but,” Anne stammered, “how can you be so relaxed about it all? I mean, I’m always worrying about some part of my body, whether I’m too fat or too thin—”
“You’re lovely, Anne,” Willy had interrupted, moving on into the shower.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Anne had replied. “But I’m still always worrying about something. Aren’t you? Don’t you?”
Willy thought about it as she turned on the water and soaped herself. “I used to,” she said. “Oh, of course, in the teenage years. What do you think, Anne, imagine how it was; I was always taller, bigger, than most of the boys. And my name! Wilhelmina! Even my nickname, which I prefer, isn’t pretty. So masculine. It took me a long time to get comfortable with it all, my size, my name, but I just don’t even think about it now. You know, since I’ve married John, I’ve gotten, well, satisfied with myself. And John certainly seems to be … satisfied with me.” Willy grinned.
That was Willy’s first secret, that in spite of her rather plain appearance she was a marvelous sight naked and so moved through the world with, if not a certain smugness, then a definite calm. She was not much bothered by the opinion of others.
Her other secret was better known: Large Willy did the most delicate, intricate embroidery work on earth.
Anne still was amused at the sight, at the idea even, of big, wide Willy, seated so still with an embroidery hoop in her hand or with material stretched over a larger frame, so carefully poking the tiny needle with the slender bright threads in and out. The silver needle looked ridiculous in Willy’s large hand. Willy looked silly at her work, like a lumberjack playing with toothpicks, but she didn’t know that, or didn’t care. She was very content with her craft. Seated in her sewing room, with penciled sketches or designs thumbtacked or taped to the walls and her precious virgin garments hiding in tissue and boxes, waiting to be adorned, and her even more precious brilliant threads and fine needles meticulously arranged in quilted silken boxes, she was in her own kind of paradise.