Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (30 page)

“Why?” he asked quietly. “Why do you feel that way, Chris?”

“Why not,” she said bitterly. “I’m your average, everyday, garden variety of anxiety-ridden middle-aged womanhood. I’ve done my job, it’s over and I can only look forward to long and empty years, that’s why.”

“Somehow,” he said, “somehow your saying that is worse than the, the other thing. That you’re unhappy. That everything we’ve built up hasn’t been enough.”

His arms dangled between his knees. “And that I haven’t known it. I just thought — well, you had a rich life, a fulfilling life. Like me.
With
me. For me it’s been, and
is
, the whole ball game. I never, for a minute, got restless and dissatisfied. Maybe I should have told you that more often. What you meant to me. Mean to me.”

“It isn’t that,” she said tightly. “It isn’t you, Carl. You haven’t failed me, don’t think that, for Christ’s sake. You haven’t done anything but be good to me. It’s true, though, that you have something I don’t, you’re part of the outside world. I’m not.”

“So you went into that outside world and found something else.”

“No. It happened. It was an accident. It could have happened to you.”

“Nothing just happens. It happens because you decide it will happen.”

“Maybe.”

She saw his quick pain. So she wanted to hurt him after all. But it wasn’t cruelty; she absolved herself of that. He would have to know, really know, that she was wretched, that she was up shit creek, not just a petulant protestor, the mad housewife. “I have to know, Carl. Do you want a divorce?”

A prolonged silence. Long enough for her to prepare herself for his answer. She knew, with certainty, that everything would be different if she and Jack were the same age. She had married young — according today’s standards — lived her young life with Carl. It would be painful, perhaps crucifying and a mistake after all, to leave him, but she would be halfway sure, right this minute, that she would do it if she and Jack were in the same time of life.

They weren’t. Those years between them meant far more than just the number of them. Jack himself had commented that she had “gotten there,” meaning financial security, upward mobility, the end of the economic struggle. In ten more years or so it would be the same story for Jack, in all likelihood, the race run, the uncertainty over. Nobody knows my name, he had said. Most people’s names weren’t known, in the way he meant, but Jack Allerton wouldn’t be satisfied with that. He was aiming for literary éclat, either critical or popular, or both. It would be a long time before he achieved that goal, and he needed a young courageous girl who would nourish his drives single-mindedly, share his vie de Bohème with zest and strength.

It was that old bugaboo, the time machine. It was either too early or too late. You could fight a lot of things, but you couldn’t fight time. Forward you went, like it or not, but you could never go back.

“I don’t want a divorce, no,” Carl finally said. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I took so long to answer because I was thinking it over. I took so long because I’m afraid of what you might say when I throw it back to you. I don’t know whether I’m up to it. I don’t want a divorce, I can’t even imagine it, but it’s for you to say too. Christine, do you want it?”

She shook her head. “No.” It was almost inaudible. “No, I don’t,” she said more clearly.

“You’re sure?”

“If I weren’t I’d say so. I’m sure, yes. I hope you are.”

“How can I say it more emphatically?” There was a quick movement of his hands. “My God, it’s not even in the realm of my imagining, Chris. I’m not a complex man, Chris, I’m pretty much a plodding sort, an everyday kind of guy, but I’ve always felt I got the brass ring on the merry-go-round when I got you. Oh, Christ, yes, I want you to stay with me. If you do, I’ll try, try very hard to put everything out of my mind except my love for you. My love and deep, deep concern for your welfare. We’ve got two kids who are almost ready to be out on their own. You don’t think that’s a change in my life too? I’m not getting any younger either, you know. Men have their own hangups, they cut deep. The big prizes are never going to come your way, you know that after a while.”

He put his arms around her, tentative, unsure. “I’ve always depended on you,” he said. “We all have, you’re the star that guides the ship. Asking too much, accepting too much. And now I’ve gotten my lumps. A brick falling on my head when I least expected it. A lot of bewildering things to accept. It hurts. Sure it hurts. You’ve made no explanations and I take it you’re not going to offer any, about what’s been going on, and I suppose that’s the way it’s going to be.”

He withdrew his arm and sat now with his hands on his knees. “I said it hurts,” he repeated. “Not as much as it will later, on, though. I’m still in the trauma stage. Shock and all that. The real hurt will come creeping up on me little by little, but that’s for me to handle. But divorce? Oh, no. No. I love you. God, you’re as much a part of me as my arms, as my legs, my bicuspids. I’ll lose the bicuspids one of these days, I guess, though I hope not for a long time. But I don’t want to lose you. Not ever, if I’m that lucky.”

“I don’t want to lose you either,” she said. “You’re too much a part of me too.” She nodded. “That’s the God’s honest truth. If it helps any.”

“Yeah, it helps,” he told her, and got up. “Let’s not talk anymore tonight.”

She put a hand on his arm. “Wait.”

He sat down again. She swallowed. “Are you going to trust me?”

A hesitant silence, a quick glance at her. She persisted. “You said let’s not talk anymore tonight. I assume you mean about this, about Rodney’s phone call. Carl, I will never talk about it. It was — it happened. That’s all I’ll ever say. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to accept that. If you can’t, I want to know now.”

After a while he said, “If that’s the way you want it.”

“It’s the only way I can handle it.” She put a hand over his. “Thank you for being a very fine man. I’ve always thought I got the brass ring on the merry-go-round too, Carl.”

He didn’t answer because he was evidently unable to speak. He just returned the pressure of her hand and got up again. She heard him going out of the room. She sat there for a while longer, knowing he had left her to compose herself, knowing too that he had to compose himself as well.

She got up finally, went to the bathroom, ran the tap and splashed water on her face. Cold and stinging. Then she toweled it, stood thinking. That boy, who would have dreamed that Rodney would stumble on her today, see her go into
that
building, who would have
dreamed
? God in heaven, it was just too horrible and bizarre. I must see Clover, she thought dully, I have to talk to someone. How could she tell Jack, what would she say to him? She must get a job, change her hours, get out of this house, this house, this house.

Of course it was over. How could it be otherwise? What could she say to Jack — don’t you understand, I don’t have the impetus any more, I don’t have the stamina, something’s gone out of me?

Mentally, she stood at the front window in Jack’s apartment, looking out at the handsome maple tree, the green of its leaves lightly burnished with the colors of autumn, the row houses across the way, old and gracious, as New York used to be, small-scaled and individualistic. The slender saplings that had been planted earlier in the year flushed with gold that mingled with their tender green. The pistachio-tinted town house farther down, with its six-on-six windows. A street that had come to be part of her life and to which she was going to say goodbye.

How? How could she bring herself to do that?

She undressed, got into her nightgown, crept into bed. She was calmer now, or she was rallying, regaining a sense of proportion. The only decision made was to see Clover, talk to her, ask some advice about looking for work. The rest would be by ear. Tonight’s emotional scene would eventually be simply a part of the past: its impact would lessen, its nightmare quality dim. For all she knew there would be no substantial changes, and she might go right on seeing Jack.

But it could never be the same. The bloom was off the rose. It was messy, it had become public knowledge, and it had lost its loveliness. Just like everything else. Everything always turned sour in the end.

“So you’ve ended it,” Clover said slowly. “Shut the door on it. It’s over, then.”

“It was over the minute Carl found out about it. After that it would have been cheating.” Christine smiled. “That must sound weird. That it wasn’t cheating until Carl learned about it.”

“No, not weird at all. I understand what you mean. Chris, I’m so sorry.”

“Well. Nothing else to do. When I got up this morning, after a very rotten night tossing and turning, I knew it was what had to be done.”

“Easy as that.”

“Easy? Clover — ”

A shrug. “It’s just that from the way you spoke the other day I thought it was something — well, not just your here today and gone tomorrow kind of ado.”

“It isn’t, wasn’t.”

“Okay, then, it wasn’t easy.”

“
Won’t
be easy. I haven’t — ”

Clover waited. Christine felt her heart thumping painfully. “I haven’t had it out with — we weren’t meeting today, you see.” She cleared her throat. “We will be tomorrow. I’ll have to tell him tomorrow.”

Her smile this time was forced. “Sounds as if I had an appointment for a D and C, with the threat of cancer in the back of my mind. Somehow even that might be easier.”

She took a swallow of her drink. She felt sick, or dying, or she felt as if someone else had died, someone whose death she wouldn’t be able to survive. She lit a cigarette, exhaled. “And then that will be that.”

“For him too? He’ll just say what a shame and then go his way with admirable equanimity?”

First she was hurt, then she was angry. Why was Clover saying things like this? “No,” she replied shortly. “I told you it wouldn’t be easy.”

When she looked up, Clover’s face was soft and kind. “Okay, I wouldn’t for the world try to influence you, Christine. You must act as you must, same as I have to live according to my lights. Why don’t you finish that drink and we’ll order another? Talk away and I’ll listen. I won’t say another word.”

She held up a hand. A few minutes later they had their refills. “What did you mean by influence me?” Christine demanded. “In what way?”

“No,” Clover said firmly. “Just tell me what your plans are now. You said something over the phone about looking for a job.”

“Yes, I’m going to. I’ve been trying to pretend that nothing was very different, even if my children are shooting up and soon to go their own separate ways. So what, I’ve been trying to rationalize, nothing will be very different, they’ll still be under my aegis, in a way, and — ”

She made an impatient gesture. “Pretending and knowing it isn’t so at the same time. Knowing I’d have to face it and do something about it. What else is there but getting out and finding a new place for myself? I’ve been scared about it, but I’m not scared anymore. What I’m scared of is becoming one of those women who dribble their time away buying clothes and wracking their brains trying to find a way to fill their days. I won’t do that. I simply will not. Ergo, a job,”

Then she leaned forward. “First, though, tell me, please, what you meant about influencing me. Are you in some way indicating that you think I’m wrong to end this affair?”

“You said it wasn’t an affair. Just an affair.”

“Of course it’s an affair! For lack of a better word! What else can I call it?”

A grin. “I guess I don’t know.”

“If you think I shouldn’t end it, what would you do?”

“I’m me and you’re you, it’s as simple as that.”

“If you were
me
, what would you do?”

“I’m not you, Chris, so there’s no way for me to answer that question. All I can tell you is that I think if you find something that makes your life a joy, a splendid joy, then you should hold on to it. I think it’s monstrous to kill a living thing, I couldn’t do it, I just couldn’t. To me it would be wrong, far more wrong than cheating, put quotes around that word. I’d pay the price. There’s a price when you deal two ways, but then nothing comes free if you’ll stop to think about it. We’re not junior misses any longer, Chris, it’s
bonjour tristesse
time, we both know that. Carl Jung claimed that it was impossible to live through the second half of life by the same standards that served so well during the first half. Maybe he was right. I’m inclined to think so.”

She lit a cigarette, exhaled the smoke. It drifted upward in small circles, then thinned out. There was the pungent smell of the burning tobacco. “Whatever I do, however, has no bearing on whatever you do. The last thing in the world I’d want is to sway another person, it’s not my mission in life. You have your own strong mind, you’ll act, now and always, as it befits you. I
am
sorry about your dilemma, I can’t do anything about that, but if you’re really serious about work I’ll be delighted to put out feelers. Between Anton and me, we’ll find you something, and it won’t be as a lowly file clerk. I’ve worked with you, I know your caliber. I would say Anton would be the one to come up with something good, really good. You must set your sights high. If by any chance you get placed in Anton’s office, he’ll probably end up working for
you
. I remember how you used to dig in there and put the pieces together — you’re a natural-born organizer. You’ll do fine, kiddo, you’ll do just fine.”

She beamed. “Soon as I get back to the office I’ll call Anton, tell him to get on his stick.”

“I just don’t know how to say thanks, Clo. Please don’t pressure him!”

“I won’t need to. He’ll come through without fail, one of my friends is the same as asking for myself. Take heart. Now finish that drink and let’s get our order in. Old Clover will put that smile back on your face, if she has to die trying.”

They said goodbye outside the restaurant an hour later: Christine spent the rest of the afternoon walking. It was mainly to tire herself out; she wanted very much to have a little sleep tonight. Last night had been a horror, falling off and then waking almost immediately, the whole sordid business rushing back into her mind. So the best thing to do was walk until your legs gave out, just put one foot in front of the other and trudge ahead. Like some old army mule.

One morning you got up and all was fine and dandy, next morning it was a sinkhole. You couldn’t believe how fast it happened, the transition from perfect to execrable. It was unreal, but then it seemed to Christine that just about everything outside of making a meatloaf or taking a bath or dusting off a surface or planning a week’s menu was unreal, that only the homespun little tasks of a day had any reality. The rest was
True Confessions
, cheap and trivial and luridly illustrated.

She walked down to Thirty-third Street, passing the Greek Orthodox Church, with its gilded dome, and the sprout of new highrises, then turned and walked back uptown. She wanted very much not to go home for the dinner hour, so as not to sit opposite Carl at the table and try to make conversation-as-usual with all of them. But she couldn’t do that: if she did, Carl would think she was with “the other man.” When she came to Jack’s street she slowed up. She realized that she had turned off First Avenue in order to walk back up to Third, that it had been a compulsion to look up at that street, to see his house, and maybe Jack would be outside, waiting for her.

He was, of course, not standing there, and she went on. It was almost six when she passed through the lobby of the Colonnade, with a nod to the concierge, then rode up in the elevator. “Hi, Jimmy.” The apartment was quietly humming. Both the kids were at home, sounds issuing from behind their doors. She didn’t bother changing her street clothes but set about attending to the evening meal. A short time later Carl came home, his key in the lock, and shortly after that he pushed through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

She stiffened, feeling a quick hostility, even hatred. “Hello, darling,” he said. “How was your day?”

“Uneventful. I didn’t sleep very well last night. Neither did you. How was your day?”

“About as usual.”

He opened the fridge, but then closed it right away. She was at the counter, chopping up shallots. She felt a hand on her shoulder, then his lips on her cheek. “Hey,” he said. “Can I make you a drink?”

“Oh. Well, no. Thanks, dear, but not tonight. Go ahead if you want one, but we’re having a pretty robust red wine tonight with the beef.”

He still stood there, making her edgy, uneasy. He touched her shoulders lightly, just the faintest of pressures. “I love you so much, Chris,” he said. Then his hands dropped.

She wanted to say she loved him too. It was certainly called for. Only she couldn’t. Not at the moment, because the only thing she felt right now was a wild desolation, a sense of total defeat. She nodded, sweeping the chopped shallots into a bowl, and Carl went out, the door swinging behind him.

So much for that. It was a truce for now, but she knew enough about people — and particularly her husband — to be grimly sure that no matter how understanding, or tolerant, or generous Carl was, it remained that nothing could ever again be as it had been, that there might not be censure but there would always be doubt, and that from now on there would be an invisible barrier between them, a Berlin wall between two parts of the same country. A similar division probably occurred in nine out of ten marriages and was, she supposed, only to be expected.

• • •

It was an evening on which she and Anton were not meeting, since it was one of his “at home” nights. He would call her later on, just for a hello and only for a minute or two, that was, if the opportunity presented itself. It didn’t matter, really. Just knowing he was in her life was enough. In her life, alive and hearty and supportive. Dear, darling Anton. Clover walked home as usual, a grocery list in the pocket of her jacket. Not much, just milk and Boston lettuce and salted nuts and some Peppridge Farm goldfish. She would have to pay by check, as she had neglected to go to the bank for a cash withdrawal. Let’s see now, she would wash her hair tonight, get that done for the weekend.

In the grocery store, getting herself a cart, she revised her thinking. As long as she had to write a check she might as well do the bulk of next week’s shopping, rather than simply fill in on immediate necessities. She walked up and down the aisles, pushing the shopping cart, inwardly humming. It was autumn, which was her favorite time of the year, and the limpid light of outdoors filtered in, competing with the fluorescent overhead bulbs of the supermarket. Winter would make its appearance one of these days but not for a long while yet. Meanwhile, after an unusually even-tempered summer, Manhattan was enjoying an unusually rich and golden fall. Who could ask for anything more?

At the checkout counter Geraldo, the friendly Chicano boy, asked after Anton, who was thought to be her husband. “And how is Mr. Martinson?”

“Fine, thanks. Goodness, did I buy
that
much? I wonder when double-digit inflation will become triple digit?”

“Maybe soon,” he said fatalistically. “Terrible.”

“I’d hate to be on a fixed income.”

“You gotta be a millionaire.”

She staggered home with two heavy bags. Fortunately her building was only a step away, just off Madison and about a third of the way down the street. She had to put both bags down in order to open the entrance door then, angered, found it was off the latch anyway. Some people were born stupid, didn’t take even the most rudimentary precautions, just let the door swing to instead of slamming it shut. She really must tell the super to instruct the tenants about things like this.

She hefted the grocery bags and went inside. Paused for a moment: the woman on the street floor was playing the piano. Her hours were much like Clover’s; they left very often at the same time in the morning and frequently arrived home simultaneously. She was a pleasant woman, not in the first blush of youth but attractive, well dressed and casually friendly. She also played piano very well: tonight it was a Brahms Ballade, one Clover particularly liked.

Sounds nice, Clover thought, and started up the the stairs. Her apartment was on the second floor, which Anton called the
premier étage
, which it was in a European flat, the ground floor being the
rez-de-chaussée
. Anton was not only fluent in French as well as German, he was inclined to fall back on Gallic terms far more frequently than his native tongue. “Let’s make a
saut
” he said, when he meant let’s make a quick stop at this place or that place. She liked such cosmopolitan sprinklings, had added quite a number of them to her own vocabulary.

She also liked to return home after her day’s work, as she was inordinately fond of her apartment. It was in the rear, with a southern exposure and an open-to-the-sun terrace, on which there was an umbrella table, four Deauville chairs and a glider. For as long as the weather permitted she and Anton dined out there. It was a lovely addition to have and a great place for sunbathing. There was also a little grill, where they broiled steaks or chicken parts.

She was humming aloud now, very mellow and chipper. It had been a long day but a profitable one, with a new client who was obviously well-heeled and who promised to be good for some lengthy European trips. I
am
doing well, she reflected, glad she had started in travel early rather than late; it would be difficult to establish oneself in these more precarious times.

She could probably find a niche in the business for Christine, for example, but it would be hard going for a newcomer at this point. Better by far for Anton to get Chris settled, which he had faithfully promised to do when she called him this afternoon. It would be dandy if he could find her something in his own firm: if Chris located in the Genesco Building she and Chris would be near each other; they could meet for lunch now and then. It would be a bonanza for both of them.

Poor Chris — she had looked so sad today at the restaurant. Sad and pale and oh, so tense. Imagine that boy, that Rodney, finding out about it, Chris getting a kick in the pants from someone she had been so kind to. What she must be going through.

She set down the shopping bags in front of her door and put the key in the lock. She was wondering belatedly if she had enough shampoo in the house for her hair later on and then, with a horrid shock, felt the knob turn of its own accord. Not with the key but all by itself: the door simply swung open, slowly and eerily, and she stood transfixed, not immediately comprehending.