On Beauty (32 page)

The class filed out, everybody a little curious and jealous of Zora's special dispensation. Carl, as he left, punched her gently on
the shoulder with his fist. Sunshine broke out over Zora. Claire remembered, recognized and pitied the feeling (for it seemed, to her, a long shot on Zora's part). She smiled to think of herself at the same age.

‘Zora – you know about the faculty meeting?' Claire sat down on the desk and looked up into Zora's eyes. Her mascara had been ineptly applied, lashes welded together.

‘Of course,' said Zora. ‘It's the big one – it's been postponed. Howard's going to come out all guns blazing about Monty Kipps's lectures. Since no one else seems to have the balls.'

‘Hmm,' said Claire, made awkward by the mention of Howard. ‘Oh, that, yes.' Claire looked away from Zora and out of the window.

‘Everybody's going, for once,' said Zora. ‘It's basically got down to a battle for the soul of this university. Howard says it's the most important meeting Wellington's had in a long time.'

This was the case. It would also be the first interdisciplinary faculty meeting since all the mess of last year had come into the open. It was more than a month away, but this morning's memo had set the scene all too clearly for Claire: that chilly library, the whispers, the eyes – averted and staring – Howard in an armchair avoiding her, Claire's colleagues enjoying him avoiding her. And this was not to mention the usual tabling of motions, blocked votes, rabid speech-making, complaints, demands, counter-demands. And Jack French directing it all, slowly, very slowly. It didn't seem to Claire that, in this vital stage of her psychic recovery, she should have to contend with such intense spiritual and mental degradation.

‘Yes . . . Now, Zora, you know there are people in the college who don't approve of our class – I mean they don't approve of people like Chantelle . . . people like
Carl
, being a part of our community here at Wellington. It's going to be on the agenda at that meeting. There's a general conservative trend sweeping this university right now, and it really, really
frightens
me. And they don't want to hear from
me
. They've already decided I'm the communist loony-tune anti-war poetess or whatever they think I am. I think we need a strong advocate for this class from the other
side. So we're not just arguing the same stupid dialectic over and over. And I think a student would be much more appropriate – to make the case. Somebody who has benefited from the experience of learning alongside these people. Someone who could . . . well, attend in my place. Make a barnstorming speech. About something they believed in.'

Zora's all-time academic fantasy was to address the faculty members of Wellington College with a barnstorming speech.

‘You want
me
to go?'

‘Only,
only
, if you felt comfortable doing that.'

‘Wait – a speech that I'd devised and written?'

‘Well, I didn't mean an actual
speech
speech – but I guess as long as you knew what you wanted to –'

‘I mean, what are we
doing
,' asked Zora loudly, ‘if we can't extend the
enormous
resources of this institution to people who need it? It's so
disgusting
.'

Claire smiled. ‘You're perfect already.'

‘Just me. You wouldn't be there?'

‘I think it would be much more powerful if it was you speaking your own mind. I mean, what I'd
really
like to do is send Carl himself, but you know . . .' said Claire, sighing. ‘Depressing as it is, the truth is these people won't respond to an appeal to their consciences in any language other than Wellington language. And you
know
Wellington language, Zora. You of all people. And I don't mean to get overly dramatic here, but when I think of Carl, I'm thinking of someone who doesn't have a voice and who needs someone like you, who has a very powerful voice, to speak for him. I actually think it's that important. I also think it's a beautiful thing to do for a dispossessed person in this climate. Don't you feel that?'

Two weeks later Wellington College closed for the Christmas recess. The snow continued. Every night unseen Wellington street workers shovelled it back from the sidewalk. After a while every road was edged with grey ice banks, some over five feet high. Jerome came home. Many dull parties followed: for the Art History Department, drinks at the President's house, and at the Vice-President's, at Kiki's hospital, at Levi's school. More than once Kiki found herself walking around the perimeters of these hot, crowded rooms, champagne in hand, hoping to see Carlene Kipps somewhere among the tinsel and the quiet black maids, circulating with their trays of shrimp. Often enough she spotted Monty, leaning against the wainscoting in one of his absurd nineteenth-century three-piece suits, with his timepiece on a chain, bombastically opinionated, and almost always eating – but Carlene was never with him. Was Carlene Kipps one of these women who promises friendship but never truly delivers it? A friendship flirt? Or was Kiki herself mistaken in her expectations? This, after all, was the month in which families began tightening and closing and sealing; from Thanksgiving to the New Year, everybody's world contracted, day by day, into the microcosmic single festive household, each with its own rituals and obsessions, rules and dreams. You didn't feel you could call people. They didn't feel they could phone you. How does one cry for help from these seasonal prisons?

And then a note arrived at the Belsey house, hand-delivered. It was from Carlene. Christmas was approaching, and Carlene felt she was behind as far as presents were concerned. She had spent another spell in bed of late, and her family had gone to New York for a short break so the children might shop and Monty attend to some of his charity work. Would Kiki think about accompanying her on a shopping trip into Boston? On a drear Saturday morning, Kiki picked up her friend in a Wellington taxi. She put Carlene in
the front passenger seat and sat herself in the back, lifting her feet so she didn't have to contend with the ice water swilling around on the floor.

‘Where you want?' asked the cab driver, and when Kiki told him the name of the mall, he had not heard of it, although it was a Boston landmark. He wanted the street names.

‘It's the biggest mall in town. Don't you know the city at
all
?'

‘It not
my
job. You should know where you want go.'

‘Honey, that's
exactly
your job.'

‘I don't think they should be allowed to drive with poor English like that,' complained Carlene primly, without lowering her voice.

‘No, it's my fault,' mumbled Kiki, ashamed to have started this. She sank back in her seat. The car crossed Wellington Bridge. Kiki watched a swell of birds swoop under the arch and land on the frozen river.

‘Are you of the opinion,' asked Carlene worriedly, ‘that it is better to go to a lot of different shops or just to find one big shop and stick with it?'

‘I'm of the opinion that it's better not to shop at all!'

‘You don't like Christmas?'

Kiki considered. ‘No, that's not quite true. But I don't have a feeling for it like I used to. I used to
love
Christmas in Florida – it was
warm
in Florida – but that's not it really. My daddy was a minister and he made Christmas meaningful to me – I don't mean in the religious sense, but he thought of it as a “hope for the best things”. That was his way of putting it. It was a kind of reminder of what we might be. Now it feels like you just get presents.'

‘And you don't like presents.'

‘I don't want any more things, no.'

‘Well, I'm still putting you on my list,' said Carlene brightly, and from the front seat waved a little white notebook. Then, more seriously, she said, ‘I
would
like to give you a gift, as a thank you. I've been rather lonely. And you've thought to visit me and spend a little time with me . . . even though I'm not much fun at the moment.'

‘Don't be crazy. It's a pleasure to see you. I wish it were more often. Now take my damn name off that list.'

But the name stayed on, although no present was written beside it. They tramped though an enormous, chilly mall and found a few pieces of clothing for Victoria and Michael. Carlene was an erratic, panicky shopper; spending twenty minutes considering a single lovely item without buying it, and then buying three not so nice things in a flurry. She spoke a lot about bargains and value for money in a manner Kiki found faintly depressing, given the Kippses' clearly robust finances. For Monty, though, Carlene wanted to get something ‘really nice', and so they decided to brave three blocks of snow-walking in order to reach a fancier, smaller, specialist boutique that might have the cane with the carved handle which that Carlene had in mind.

‘What will
you
do at Christmas?' asked Kiki, as they pressed through the crowds on Newbury Street. ‘Will you go somewhere – back to England?'

‘Usually we have Christmas in the countryside. We have a beautiful cottage in a place called Iden. It's near Winchelsea Beach. Do you know it?'

Kiki confessed ignorance.

‘It's the most beautiful spot I know. But this year, we must stay in America. Michael's already over, and he'll stay till January third. I can't wait to see him! Our friends have a house we're to borrow in Amherst – just nearby where Miss Dickinson lived. You'd like it a lot. I've visited it – it's lovely. It's very big, though I think not as pretty as Iden. But the really wonderful thing is their collection. They have three Edward Hoppers, two Singer Sargents and a Miró!'

Kiki gasped and clapped her hands. ‘Oh, my God – I
love
Edward Hopper. I can't believe that! He
floors me. Imagine
having things like that in your own private home. Sister, I envy you that, I really do. I'd love to see that. That's
wonderful
.'

‘They dropped around the key today. I wish we were all already there. But I should really wait for Monty and the children to come home.' This last word, said broodingly, brought other things to the
forefront of her mind. ‘How are things at home now, Kiki? I've thought of you a lot. Worried for you.'

Kiki passed an arm around her friend. ‘Carlene, honestly now, please don't worry. It's all fine. Everything's settling down. Although Christmas is
not
the easiest time in the Belsey household,' trilled Kiki, niftily turning the subject. ‘Howard can't
stand
Christmas.'

‘Howard . . . my
word
. He seems to hate such a lot of things. Paintings, my husband –'

Kiki opened her mouth to counter this with she knew not what. Carlene patted her hand.

‘I'm mischievous – I was only being mischievous. So he hates Christmas too. Because he is not a Christian.'

‘Well, none of us is that,' replied Kiki firmly, not wishing to mislead. ‘But Howard's just pretty determined about it. He won't have it in the house. It used to upset the kids, but they're used to it now, and we make up for it in other ways. But, no, not an eggnog, not a bauble shall cross our threshold!'

‘But you make him sound like Scrooge!'

‘No . . . He's not at all
stingy
. Actually he's incredibly generous. We eat ourselves into a stupor on the day, and he spoils the kids with a crazy amount of gifts come the New Year – but he just won't
do
Christmas. I think we're going to stay with friends in London – it depends if the kids agree. A couple we've known a long time. We went there two years ago – it was lovely. They're Jewish, so there's no issue. That's just the way Howard likes it: no rituals, no superstitions, no traditions and no images of Santa Claus. It sounds strange, I guess, but we're used to it.'

‘I don't believe you – you're having fun with me.'

‘It's true! Actually, when you think about it, it's a pretty Christian policy. Thou shalt worship no graven images; thou shalt have no other God but me –'

‘I see,' said Carlene, dismayed by the levity with which Kiki was approaching the subject. ‘But who
is
his God?'

Kiki was limbering up to answer this difficult question, when she was distracted by the noise and colour of a group of Africans one
block along. Taking up half the sidewalk selling their rip-offs, and among them, surely among them –

But, as she called his name, a cross-stream rabble of shoppers blocked her sight line, and by the time they'd passed the mirage had vanished.

‘Isn't that weird? I
always
think I see Levi. Never the other two. It's that uniform – cap, hood, jeans. All those boys are wearing exactly the same thing as Levi. It's like this goddamn
army
. I see boys who look like him just about everywhere I go.'

‘I don't care what the doctors say,' said Carlene, leaning on Kiki as they walked the short flight of steps to an eighteenth-century townhouse, hollowed out to accommodate goods and their buyers and sellers; ‘the eyes and the heart are directly connected.'

In this place they found a cane that was a reasonable approximation of the one in Carlene's mind. Also some monogrammed handkerchiefs, and then the most dreadful cravat. Carlene was satisfied. Kiki suggested they take these gifts to the in-store wrapping service. Carlene, who had never considered that such indulgence might exist, hovered all the while over the girl who was doing the wrapping, and could not restrain herself from occasionally offering her own fingers to press down a bit of tape or help position a bow.

‘Ah – a Hopper,' said Kiki, pleased at the coincidence. It was a print of
Road in Maine
, one of a series of poorly reproduced lithographs of famous American paintings meant to signal the classiness of this store in contrast to the mall they'd just been in. ‘Someone's just walked down there,' she murmured, her finger travelling safely along the flat, paintless surface. ‘Actually, I think it was me. I was moseying along counting those posts. With no idea where I was going. No family. No responsibilities. Wouldn't that be fine!'

‘Let's go to Amherst,' said Carlene Kipps urgently. She gripped Kiki's hand.

‘Oh, honey, I'd love to go some time! It would be such a treat to see paintings like that, not in a museum. Wow . . . that's such a kind offer, thank you. Something to look forward to.'

Carlene looked alarmed. ‘No, dear,
now
– let's go now. I have the keys – we could get the train and be there by lunch. I want you
to see the pictures – they should be loved by somebody like you. We'll go right away when this is wrapped. We'll be back for tomorrow evening.'

Kiki looked out of the exit doors at another sidelong sweep of snow. She looked at the sunken, pale face of her friend, felt the wobbling hand in her own.

‘Really, Carlene, another time I'd love to go, but . . . it's not really the weather – and it's a little late to start out – maybe next week we could organize a trip, properly, and . . .'

Carlene Kipps let go of Kiki's hand and turned back to her present wrapping. She was annoyed. They left the store soon after. Carlene waited under an awning, while Kiki stood out in the wet to hail a cab.

‘You've been very kind and helpful,' said Carlene formally as Kiki opened the passenger door for her, as if they were not both getting in the same cab. The ride home was tense and quiet.

‘When do all your people get back?' asked Kiki, and had to ask it twice because it was not heard, or there was a pretence of not hearing.

‘It will depend on how long Monty is needed,' replied Carlene grandly. ‘There is a church there that he does a lot of work with. He won't leave until they can spare him. His sense of duty is very strong.'

Now it was Kiki's turn to be annoyed.

They parted at Carlene's house, Kiki choosing to walk the rest of the way back. Pushing through the slush, she was struck by the growing, upsetting conviction that she had made a mistake. It had been stupid and perverse to greet such passionate spontaneity with complaints about the weather and the hour. She felt it to be a kind of test, and now she saw she had failed it. It was exactly the kind of offer Howard and the kids would have thought absurd, sentimental and impractical – it was an offer she should have taken up. She spent the late afternoon in a snappy sulk, testy with her family and uninterested in the peace lunch (one of many of the past few weeks) that Howard had cooked for her. After the meal she put on her hat and gloves and walked back round to Redwood Avenue. Clotilde
answered the door and said that Mrs Kipps had just left for the Amherst house and wouldn't be back until tomorrow.

In a bit of a panic Kiki jogged as best she could to the bus stop; gave up on the bus, walked to the crossroads and managed to hail a cab. At the station she found Carlene buying a hot chocolate and preparing to board the train.

‘Kiki!'

‘I want to come – I'd love to – if you'll still have me.'

Carlene put one gloved hand to Kiki's hot cheek in a manner that unexpectedly made her want to weep.

‘You'll stay over. We'll eat in town and spend all tomorrow in the house. You're such a funny woman. What a thing to do!'

They were just walking arm in arm up the platform when they heard Carlene's name cried out several times: ‘Mum! Hey, Mum!'

‘Vee! Michael! But this is . . . hello, my darlings! Monty!'

‘Carlene, what on
earth
are you doing here? Come here, let me kiss you, you silly old thing – what about this! So you're feeling better, then.' Here Carlene nodded like a happy child. ‘Hello,' said Monty to Kiki, frowning as he did so, and shaking her hand briefly before turning back to his wife. ‘We had a New York nightmare – the
incompetent
running that church – it's either incompetence or criminality – anyway, we're back early, and very pleased about it – not a chance Michael's getting married in that place, I can tell you
that
– not a chance – but what are you –'