Authors: Belva Plain
Well, suppose he had been doing a bit of flirting. Face it, Hyacinth, she said to herself, you've seen that before, as long ago as Dr. Bettina in Texas. You may not like it, of course you don't like it, but you've seen enough of life to know that no harm need come of it. This whole business could be nothing but trumped-up gossip that spreads and swells and fools even intelligent people like Moira. It happens often enough.
The next day was Sunday, a pleasant, routine morning with pancakes and bacon, the newspaper, and a child's game of croquet on the lawn. In the afternoon,
Gerald had to go to the hospital, which was neither usual nor unusual for him on a Sunday.
But suddenly, after having placated her doubts, or having thought she had done so, Hyacinth began to feel them again; the reasonable words of the stranger on the telephone and the devastating words of Moira sounded quite clearly in her ears. And so, in the late afternoon, she called the hospital and learned that Gerald had not been there all day.
When he came back, they had their dinner and put the children to bed, as always. Never would they argue in front of Jerry and Emma. But she was furious when she confronted him.
“You were not at the hospital today.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I said. Don't lie to me. I called up and found out.”
For a few seconds, she let him try for an answer, and when none came fast enough, she attacked him.
“Where were you? Out with that Sandy woman?”
There was that ugly line again, the tightened mouth of Gerald's scorn, very seldom seen, it was true, but when seen, dreaded.
“As a matter of fact, I was with her this afternoon. I decided that the gossip you described might perhaps be very harmful, not as ridiculous as I first said it was. So from now on, I shall give her no more lifts to her sister's house, even though I may be going that way. There will be no more rides to the Main Street stores, even though they're on my way home. It's outrageous. But if this is
what evil-minded people make of such innocent behavior, we'll simply have to change our behavior. And that's that.”
Hyacinth stared at him. Did he really expect her to believe this flimsy nonsense?
“You must think I'm retarded, Gerald. Tell me, then, why you had to lie about going to the hospital. You could have told the truth to me instead of what you're telling me now.” Trembling as she had done yesterday in the presence of Moira, she clutched the back of the chair where she stood. “Oh, I've seen how you bask in women's flattery. I've—”
“Bask,” he mocked. “How literary.”
“Yes,
bask,
like a cat lying in the sun. Not that there's much harm in that. It's only natural male vanity, I suppose. Many times I could have complained, but I chose to ignore them. I never thought—”
She had stung him, and now he responded. “The wronged wife! So that's your pose. ‘Many times.’ Why didn't you speak up instead of suffering so nobly in silence?”
“I didn't want to make an issue of it. We had a marriage, Gerald, a real one. We have children.”
“Thanks for telling me. I forgot we have children.”
“Yes, I guess you do forget when you climb into bed, or wherever it is that you have your fun.”
“Go on. Some people do enjoy torturing themselves, don't they? You must be mighty insecure to shake like a leaf because your husband is friendly to some young woman. And in this case, a hardworking young woman
who took good care of your children. Well, you always were insecure. Too bad you had such a beautiful mother.”
She could not speak, nor could he. The cruel blow, the unspeakable, now spoken, had horrified them both. He looked stricken.
“I'm sorry, Hy. I didn't mean that. It isn't true. It was crazy. But you made me angry. This is all crazy. I'm sorry, awfully sorry.”
Biting her lip, Hyacinth controlled herself. “Get out. Go to her, or to anybody. Go anywhere. I don't care.”
“Yes, yes, let me out of here, too.” He clapped both hands to his head, groaning, “Take a walk, take a ride. Anyplace.”
An hour later, having settled the hastily summoned baby-sitter, Hyacinth went to the garage. Gerald's car was gone. Very likely he had fled to the office; there was no safer place for them to meet than in their familiar surroundings after dark.
In her pocket she had his duplicate key ring, with which to silence the burglar alarm. In her handbag was a miniature flashlight to guide her up the stairs to the room where they would most likely be. On her feet were the sneakers that would not spoil the surprise.
Half a block away, where it could not be seen from the building, she parked the car beneath the cover of trees. The short street that was so cluttered by day was now vacant and so quiet that her tread on a twig was alarming. Like cotton batting, clouds smothered the night sky. The scene was as eerie as something out of Sherlock Holmes.
A weak beam from the streetlamp fell upon the graceful facade of Arnie's “little gem.” For a moment or two, with the key in her sweating hand, Hy stood facing it as if to make a final decision; then having made it, she mounted the shallow steps to the entrance and turned the key.
The main hall was without any obstacles that could cause a noisy bump or stumble, so that she moved easily and without sound to the room where they were most likely to be. It was vacant. Aware of her hammering heart, she went from room to room, through consulting rooms, surgeries, record rooms, X-ray cubicles, everywhere, keeping the flashlight low to the floor. Where were they then?
At
her
house, most likely. But she lived with a sister. Yet what difference would that make? The sister might well be no better than she.
She!
I never harmed her. I was good to her, yet now she takes my husband. She destroys me. My children. My home. My life.
A dreadful rage such as Hyacinth had never known now swelled in her chest. It seemed to be flooding her with hot blood whose salty taste was in her mouth. Think.
Think
. Up and down she walked, back and forth, trying to focus her thoughts on some sort of action. She lit a cigarette, and then another one, and kept on pacing.
Here was the desk where Sandy sat. Here were her tidy tools: the telephone, a lamp, the computer, and a glass paperweight enclosing a glass Eiffel Tower—souvenir from Paris, from Gerald. As patients came and went, his door would open upon a view of her. Would
they acknowledge each other's presence, or pretend not to? Most probably they would pretend indifference, for Gerald was not one to risk decorum.
The center drawer of the desk was ajar. This was where women in offices kept personal belongings: a spare lipstick, mirror and comb, tissues, and even sometimes precious letters that they wanted to have with them. She rummaged, and yes, there at the back lay an envelope fastened with a rubber band. Inside was a bundle of little notes, addressed in Gerald's writing and sent to
her
home.
In the narrow beam of the tiny flashlight, his backhand script was bold.
Sandy, you don't know what you do to me. I walk these streets every day thinking of you. Why aren't you here with me? Another cathedral, a miserable rainy night in a godforsaken country inn, and a big bed without you in it.
Hyacinth went mad. And strangely, in her madness, she directed her hatred toward Sandy—not Gerald.
Yo u were in my house for two weeks. You saw my beautiful children, you went snooping through all my things!
she cried.
My clothes, my books, my mail. All my secrets, my private ways. You and he have been laughing at me, and oh how you'd love to take my place, to live my sweet life! If you can, you'll do it, you'll work, you'll eat away like a termite.
Hyacinth's arm whipped out into the air. It struck the desk lamp and smashed it to the floor. It swept over the surface of the desk and cleared it of papers, paperweight, telephone, and computer. All came crashing to the floor.
In Gerald's room she repeated the destruction, a paltry revenge for insult, for what he had done to her very existence as a woman. And with a spreading smile, she stood there surveying her work, imagining his face— their two faces—when in the morning they would see this wreckage.
Then fear came. If they should enter now and find her here—no, she was not prepared for that. And she fled. Down the hall she raced, down the outer steps, where she stumbled and fell on the grass, dropped her handbag, scooped up its contents, and with a painful, bloodied knee, limped to the safety of the car.
Except for the living-room lamp, where the babysitter was reading, the house was dark. She paid the girl, answered a question about the injured knee, and learned that the children had been long asleep. No, Gerald had not come home.
Once in bed, she was seized with a queer sensation. It was as if, after painful effort, she had triumphed, as if she had reached the top of a mountain and now, looking down, saw how far was the fall to the bottom, how far and dark. What was to come next? With this queer sensation pressing in her head, on her bruised knee, and all through her exhausted body, she lay waiting for something to happen.
Night sounds woke her, first crickets and then the ringing telephone. It was on Gerald's side of the bed, but he was not there, so reaching and fumbling in the dark, she grasped it and took a message. If he had come home, he must be in the spare bedroom, so she went there at once.
“Get up. There's a fire. Arnie just got the call.”
“What? What?” Gerald mumbled.
“A fire. The office is burning down.”
After breakfast Hyacinth took the children to Moira's house and drove to the office. The scene was a total confusion of sight-seers and vehicles. These, along with fire engines, the fire chief's car, a police car, and an ambulance, jammed the narrow street. The elegant building was already a sorry reminder of what it had been, its stone walls erect but blackened, all wood trim gone, window glass shattered, and the fine wood-shingled roof collapsed.
Well, now they'll never know what I did to the desks, she thought, and was instantly sorry because poor Arnie was standing there on the sidewalk looking at the ruin of his “little gem.”
“Oh, Arnie, what a pity! However did this happen?”
The air was clouded with smoke and filled with its scorching smell. Blinking with reddened eyes, he gave her a look of helpless defeat, so that she had a second's thought: If he were a woman, he would weep openly.
“Does anyone know—I mean—is there anything left?” She hardly knew, in the face of his pain, what there was to say.
“No, nothing left. Just junk. Pieces. The place is a shell. And nobody knows anything, except that the fire alarm didn't go off. They're still poking around inside trying to figure it out. Maybe a short-circuit. Probably. Gerald's in there now talking to people. I had to go out
and get some air. The smoke smell sickens you. Well, there's no crying over it, is there? Done is done.”
“You were so proud of it,” she said gently. “It was a really, really beautiful building.”
“It should have been, considering what I paid the architect. I got one of the best in the country. Wanted something classy, nothing gaudy, because this is that kind of town. Couldn't trust my own taste. The fact is, I'm not like Gerald. I don't have any taste, and I know it. Right, Hy?”
“Right about what?”
“That I have no taste. Come on, Hy, level with me. You know what I am, and I know you know it.”
Putting a hand on his arm, she kissed his cheek. She could have cried for him, and for much, much else besides.
“You can have it rebuilt,” she said. “Can't you? It's insured.”
“I don't know. Gerald and I have been thinking anyway about that Florida business, and maybe this will give us the push we need to sell this practice and make the move. Fortunately, all our patients' records were in fireproof cabinets,” Arnie added.
“Florida? Move to Florida?”
“Hasn't he told you? I guess he wants to surprise you. We have a chance to buy a practice. Big. I mean big. Makes us look like pikers. Real old guy is retiring. We think we can swing it.”
She was shocked, and said so.
“Oh, but you'd like it, Hy. No hard winters, good
private schools for Emma and Jerry if private schools are your thing, and a house can be gotten, too, a great house near the water. I surely don't want a house, so that'll be for you.”
He was waiting for a comment, but since she was unable to muster one, he continued.
“There's a load of cosmetic surgery down there. You'll be able to put plenty aside for the kids so they can stay dry if there's ever a rainy day. Not a bad idea, is it?”
“No,” she said weakly.
Changing the subject, Arnie resumed, “This was a three-alarm fire. Can you believe it? When I got here a little after two, the smoke looked like a burning city, gray and red, like a bomb attack. They were in there fighting till maybe seven o'clock. You have to hand it to those men. One of them broke his arm, and there are two in the hospital. Smoke inhalation. Bad stuff.”
Hyacinth looked up at the charred walls. Problem had been piled upon problem. Rage and grief had already overwhelmed her, and now there was this further twist of fate. She was still staring at the walls when Gerald came down the walk.
“It's a war zone in there,” he said, addressing Arnie. “I don't think that one of those two men is going to live. The whole floor collapsed, and he went down with it into the flames.”
Arnie shook his head. “What the hell could have done this? I've heard that rodents, mice or squirrels, can gnaw a wire and set off a fire.”
“It wasn't necessarily electrical.”
“No? What then? Where did it start?”
“They can't be sure, but possibly, or even probably, in my room. When they arrived last night, there was evidence of some sort of disturbance there. Stuff overturned on the floor. Or so somebody thought. But it's hard to tell.”
“But who could have gotten in? The burglar alarm never sounded.”
“Don't worry, they'll be looking into that.”
Gerald had still not acknowledged Hy's presence. Now he said grimly, “You might see whether anything is needed for that poor fellow or for his family, Hyacinth. There's a little boy, and a pregnant wife. Here, I've written the name.”