Authors: Belva Plain
She didn't argue. The simplest thing was to accept the food because it would be thrust into her hands anyway. So she gave thanks, got into the car, and drove slowly down the street, unsure of where to go next.
A sense of defiance, lonely and chill, overcame her. In no mood to go home, in no mood to see any friends, she stopped the car in front of the library. It was as good a place as any in which to hide out for the rest of the day.
When Hyacinth went home, Francine's car was not in the garage, and that was a relief, however temporary. Dad was probably in the garden planting spring bulbs, and since she did not feel like talking to anyone, that was good, too.
Upstairs in the room that had once belonged to George and was now her studio, she closed the door and surveyed her work. For some minutes she stood, trying to see it with impartial eyes, to judge proportion, perspective, shading, brushwork, all of it. Every teacher had praised the snow scenes; studying them now, it seemed
she had truly gotten the feeling, the dreamlike silence of falling snow. She looked again at the portrait study of her father. It was
true
. It seemed to her that she had caught the essence of him.
Ever since the chemical plant had been downsized, forcing him into retirement, he had grown older and quieter. He had always been quiet, but now his eyes were heavy-lidded, even when he was cheerful. Yes, it seemed to her that she had caught the essence of him; here he was, ready to be framed.
And suddenly came revelation: Her work was good! Whatever else might befall her, her work was her strength. It would take her freely through the world. It would be foolish to let anything sap her confidence in herself and her future. Why then had she wasted this whole day in sorrow?
From the yard below, there sounded the whir of the old hand mower that Dad employed to tidy edges. She called down to him.
“Hey Dad, I'm home.”
“I thought I heard the garage door. Your mother's still out. Where've you been all day?”
“Places. I stopped at Granny's, and as usual, she gave me food. That chicken thing with shrimp that you like. And I'll make a tossed salad.”
“No, we don't need one. You work hard all week. Take the day off.”
“For heaven's sake, a salad's no work.”
“Okay, I'll set the table on the porch. There'll be just enough time to eat and finish before dark.”
Plainly, he enjoyed these domestic moments with his
daughter. She sensed that the shrinkage of his family— George at a bank in Singapore and the two married sons in business together on the West Coast—was more painful for him than he would admit, even to himself.
When she had assembled the customary heap of greens, to which she added some unexpected sprinkles of strawberries and chopped walnuts, she placed it in a handsome Wedgwood bowl that was kept in the dining-room cabinet for display. Dad's eyebrows made two startled Vs when he saw it.
“Using that?”
“Why not?”
“Well, it's a treasure, an antique—”
“All the more reason to enjoy it ourselves. I believe in everyday pleasures, not in keeping them for company. Isn't it a pleasure to look at that perfect blue?”
Dad was silent for a moment. “The man who gets you is lucky, whoever he is,” he said then. “Smart, successful, independent, and still domestic enough to make a person want to come home and stay.”
Now Hyacinth was silent. Had she not decided, and had Granny not advised her to say nothing? Yet now, of their own accord, her words flew. “ ‘Whoever he is’? You really do know who he is, don't you? I heard you both last night, Dad. Or I should say, I heard Francine. I didn't mean to listen, but I couldn't help it.”
“I'm sorry. Awfully sorry.” Dad sighed. “I didn't agree with her, as you heard.”
“I should hope not. She said horrible things.”
“But still, listen to me. Your mother's opinion is
worth respect, no matter what. It comes with the best, most loving intentions. I don't have to tell you that.”
“It was cruel. It was nasty. Wanting money and chasing after women—she doesn't even know Gerald, for God's sake. She was so vehement. You said so yourself. Vehement, you said.”
“All right, I did. But try to understand that she's only expressing her fears. She sees you possibly making a mistake. She's a mother, protecting her child.”
“Child? Me? Twenty-one years old, self-supporting, in a wonderful job?”
“All true. But you haven't mentioned that you're also rather stubborn, Hyacinth.” Dad's smile was a bit rueful.
“When you know you're right, you have to be stubborn. I'm defending Gerald. He's being misjudged, and I love him.”
“Well. Just don't be too much in love too soon, if you can help it. Time takes care of many things.”
Bury your differences, smooth them, and eventually they will disappear. Platitudes. A nice way of saying nothing.
“I hope you won't let your indignation run away with you, Hy. It would only lead to argument and would solve nothing. Certainly not right now, while the fire's still hot.”
“I know, I know. Granny said the same thing. I'm not foolish. I don't want a fight. In some ways, I'm a lot like you.”
“If Gerald is the man you say he is, and I believe he is, your mother will believe it, too. Just don't be in a
hurry.” Dad looked at his watch. He wanted the discussion to end fast, before Francine should appear. “Anyway, you're not getting married tomorrow, so there's no rush,” he was saying, just as Francine came out onto the porch.
“I'm late,” she said. “I didn't expect so much traffic going home. And the fashion show took forever. What you have to endure if you want to raise money! We cleared sixteen thousand dollars, believe it or not, for the children's hospital. I really knocked myself out over this luncheon, I can tell you that.”
“You don't look knocked out,” Dad said. “That's a nice outfit.”
The gray tweed suit was simple and would have been quiet were it not for the jade green scarf so skillfully fastened over her neck and shoulders. When she raised her arm to push a black sweep of hair from her forehead, silver bracelets glistened. Framed by the doorway, Francine made a picture. Hy gave it a title:
Woman with Silver Bracelets
. For all her modern dress and manner, she also had the poise and polish of what Sargent would have labeled
Portrait of Francine
.
“My goodness, what a beautiful table! And the chicken dish—it looks like your mother's, Jim. Or is it yours, Hy?”
“No, Granny's. I was there this morning.”
“Well, this is a feast. The food was awful today, so I'm starved.”
Loquacious as always, Francine spoke brightly, gliding from one topic to another, certain that they were waiting to hear her.
“I don't believe it's been two years since Tom's wedding. Did I tell you that Diana phoned yesterday to thank us for the anniversary present?”
“I forget what we sent,” Dad said.
“A copper coffee urn, really stunning. Large enough to serve fifty cups. They're giving a lot of parties to help the business. I'm so proud of Tom. It's a good thing, too, that Diana is very sociable. Which reminds me, Hyacinth, I passed Martha's house and saw a truck unloading chairs for the party. Her mother was at the lunch today. She said they expect a houseful. What are you going to wear?”
“I'm not going.”
“Whyever not?”
If a voice were a ribbon, Hy thought, you could distinguish the threads in those words: alarm, impatience, and a trace of exasperation.
“It'll be nothing but a great big bash, and I never like them.”
“But you need friends, Hyacinth.”
“Don't I already have plenty?”
“But these are particular old friends. They're neighbors. And you've known Martha since grade school. How can you snub her now?”
“I'm not snubbing her or anybody. Do you think she cares whether I come or not?”
Francine pushed the half-eaten dessert away and returned her voice to gentle patience.
“Maybe she does care. You don't want to hurt her feelings.”
Hurt her feelings! Impossible! Martha moved as
smoothly through the world as if she were gliding on ice. In an odd way, come to think of it, she resembled Fran-cine herself. She could be her daughter.
“I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings. But I have other plans, so I couldn't accept anyway.”
Nobody spoke. Dad, watching this exchange, poured another cup of coffee and stirred it uselessly until Fran-cine did speak.
“I thought I heard something when I came in about ‘not getting married yet.’ If it's true, I'm glad about it, but does it have anything to do with turning down Martha's party?”
“Yes, it does.” Hy spoke steadily. “I would rather be with Gerald.”
“Well, take him to the party.”
“It wouldn't work out. He doesn't fit with that crowd.”
“Why not? What's wrong with ‘that crowd’? They're perfectly decent young people as far as I can see.”
“I never said they weren't decent.” The reply was sulky. Feeling cornered, Hyacinth would have liked to walk away.
“So? I don't understand all this.”
“It's hard to explain. It's subtle. Subtle differences among people, that's all.”
Oh, can't she see that all I want—we want—is to be alone? We hardly ever have any alone time. No place except a seedy motel. And you talk about Martha's unimportant party.
“Subtle differences. Yes, there are. And you are wasting your time by giving all of it to one man. You need to
get out more among groups and observe those subtle differences, instead of spending every free hour with him.” Francine was losing her struggle against impatience.
“On Gerald, you mean.” Now anger rushed back. “You might as well know that I heard everything you said last night.”
“Oh, Hy, you promised!” Dad cried, putting the cup down so forcefully that coffee slopped onto the table.
“I'm sorry you did,” Francine said. “I'm truly sorry. But I can't help what I feel. I'm not telling you never to see Gerald. I'm only afraid you will get too deeply involved. I may be all wrong, but I don't think so.”
There went the worry lines on her forehead again. They were absurd, theatrical and absurd.
“I already am deeply involved,” Hy said.
And now their eyes joined in a long significant look. Each was recalling an afternoon's encounter no more than a month ago.
“I have to ask you, Hyacinth,” Francine had said then. “You'll say you're twenty-one and it's your life, which is true, yet parents don't lose interest simply because a person is an adult. But are you sleeping with him?”
This had been the ultimate humiliation. “Not yet,” she had lied, and enjoying the freedom to taunt a bit, however politely, she had added, “Not yet, although he wants to.”
“Of course he does! And of course you are! Just don't let him play with you! You may be twenty-one, but you don't know everything. Sex isn't a game.”
Hyacinth said fiercely now, “This talk is all about
your hating Gerald, Francine. That's all it is. I can't believe the things you've said. It isn't like you to be so unkind.”
“I never said I hated him. You are so stubborn, Hyacinth!”
“Dad's already told me that once today.”
Francine glared at Hy. “Well, you are.”
“Weren't you stubborn when you were in love with Dad?”
“There is no comparison, Hyacinth. None at all. We knew each other well. Our families knew each other. We were part of the same community. There was nothing sudden about the affair.”
Hy kept looking at those tiny vertical lines between her mother's delicate eyebrows; they were the only lines to mar her perfect skin.
Skin like milk,
Dad always said.
She's always so sure she's right, Hy thought, replying quietly, “It's not the suddenness that you mind. It's that Gerald's not ‘part of the community.’ It's that he lives alone in a room in Linden.”
Francine gasped. “Is that your opinion of me? If it is, you should be ashamed. Are you hearing this, Jim?”
“I am. Yes, that was unfair, Hyacinth. The last thing anyone could accuse your mother of being is a money snob.”
Well, probably it was unfair and untrue. And yet the things she had said about Gerald and this house—
She apologized. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it. I'll only say that for some reason or other, you don't like him. And that is totally, unforgivably mean of you.”
For a mother and daughter, they were too often at odds with each other. Now they were at an impasse.
Once again it was Dad who broke through the tension. “You're both letting your emotions run away with you, and that's a great pity because you are both reasoning people, and you love each other. So here's what you do. Both of you, drop the subject. Right now. I don't want to hear it again, and I mean that. None of us really know the young man all that well to have any worthwhile opinion. You may tell him, Hyacinth, that we would like to see more of him. If he's sincere, he'll welcome the invitation. And now let's finish this pie in peace.”
T
hirty miles one way to see an art movie,” Francine asked. “Is it worth it in such weather?”
The objection was pleasantly spoken, and coming as it did after two or more weeks of calm, it was pleasantly received.
“It's only rain.”
“Look out of the window.”
A violent wind racked the trees, whipped the lowest branches far enough to graze the ground, and snapped them back.
“It's the last day,” Hy said, “so it's our only chance to see this picture. It's supposed to be marvelous.”
“You have to drive so far out of your way to pick him up in Linden.”
“Because I'm the one with the good car. We can't depend on his. Don't worry about me. It's not as if they're expecting a blizzard. We'll take our time getting there,
have something to eat after the matinee, and be home a little late.”
On the screen, a pair of lovers stood watching a sailboat approach the curve of a blue-green bay on the Tyrrhenian Sea. They were standing close, hand in hand. A breeze blew the girl's cotton skirt above her bare knees.
Gerald pressed Hy's hand. “Let's get out of here. We don't need to wait for the end, do we?”
“It's so beautiful,” she whispered. “I like to see the fade-out.”