The Carousel (11 page)

“What are you looking at?”

“At you. You’re a lovely woman, Elizabeth Grey.”

You wouldn’t turn and gasp at the sight of her, he thought, but you wouldn’t tire of seeing her, either, any more than you would tire of seeing a vase of roses in your room.

“I’m glad,” she said, smiling.

“How did things go in school today?”

“The accountants were there. We’re way in the
black, and we’ve had to close registration for next year. Filled up.”

He heard the pride of accomplishment in her voice. She was entitled to pride. A domestic, gentle woman had learned a profession, taken on a business, and made it succeed under no one’s direction but her own.

And he said, “I’m proud of you. Very proud.”

For a while, until they had finished the ice cream, they sat and discussed the school. After that, Happy had a couple of neighborhood anecdotes to relate and laugh about. Presently she remarked that it was late and they should go to bed.

It occurred to Ian that it had been more than a week since he had made love to her, about two weeks to be exact. Something in her manner as she said “bed” suggested that she might be having the same thought. She was a healthy, vigorous woman.

“Come on up,” she repeated.

After tonight, he could hardly be feeling the clamor of heated blood. Still, if she began it, he would have to accede. A long, long shower would have to come first, though. He was soiled; within himself, he was soiled. And he was very tired. The conflict and the deception had taken his strength tonight.

Yet why should he permit them to? In sudden defiance, he sat up and walked with his arm about her to the stairs. They belonged together. He had obligations, and he wanted to have them.

But there was also Roxanne, a delight that he
could not, absolutely could not and would not do without. Why should he feel conflicted or feel anything but pleasure in different ways with these two different women? The one had nothing to do with the other. Nothing at all.

Later that week, Ian received a telephone call at the office from his father.

“Stop in on your way home. I need to talk to you. It won’t take more than a few minutes.”

When Oliver used a certain clipped manner of speech, one knew that he was not making a request, but was issuing a summons. He was finishing his solitary dinner when Ian went in. The scene was a setting for a comedy of manners, he thought; the white-haired gentleman at the head of the long table, dining by candlelight beneath the portrait of his wife in her white satin evening gown.

“Sit down. Coffee?”

“No, thanks. I haven’t had dinner yet.”

“Ah yes, of course.”

Ian faced the portrait. As strongly as his mother always drew him toward her face, she also troubled him in some vague way that he had never understood. What he remembered of her was her gentleness, a bright spirit that was still spoken of by everyone who had known her. And yet, there was something else there … what? the sadness? He shook his head and looked away. No doubt he was only seeing the artist’s lack of skill.

“I’ve heard some things about you that I haven’t liked to hear,” said Oliver.

“About me? I don’t understand.”

“You don’t? There’s nothing you’ve done that you’re ashamed of?”

Ian, feeling heat rise into his neck, said, “Well, naturally, everybody has done things he shouldn’t have done. But I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Oliver poured cream into his cup, stirred it, lifted the cup, and looked over it at his son.

“Let this be a lesson to you,” he said. “You run into people when and where you least expect to. You were seen in New York a while back dancing at the Waldorf-Astoria with a young woman. Of course, I’m not going to name the person who told me. I’m not saying he meant any harm with his report, either. It may well have been entirely innocent. On the other hand, he might have meant to give you, and me, an oblique warning. Apparently you seem to be on, shall we say, intimate terms with her?”

Ian’s flush had mounted to his forehead. Good God, some damn snooping old fogy might even have been in the elevator when he and Roxanne were going up to their room.

“Father,” he said quickly, “this is nonsense. I was in the city to meet our southwestern distributors. Happy was at her family’s place in Rhode Island, otherwise I would have been dancing with her. The woman he saw me with was—was the
wife of a guy in my class at Yale. We ran into each other in the lobby and—”

Oliver raised his hand. “Stop, stop, I wasn’t born yesterday, Ian, and this wasn’t the first report I’ve had about you, either.”

“What is this? The FBI out following me?”

“No, but as I told you just now, it’s a smaller world than you think. You’ve been seen at road-houses out on the highway, way out where people go to hide. Just casual mention, you know, ‘Oh, we saw your son’—that sort of thing. Casual. Or not so casual. Do you get my drift?”

“I get it, but it’s all wrong. I never—”

Again, the hand went up. “Enough, Ian. I was your age once and there’s nothing new that you can tell me about being young. The difference between us is that I cut out all that stuff when I married your mother.” Now Oliver swung around in his chair to face the portrait. “I was totally faithful to her and never regretted it for one moment. You have a beautiful wife in Happy. Why are you looking for trouble? Shape up, Ian. I mean it.”

This humiliation was unbearable. You couldn’t argue with anything his father had said, nevertheless it was pretty nasty at the age of thirty-five to be reprimanded by one’s father as if one were a schoolboy.

He stood up. “Well,” he said, “I’ve heard you and I’ll keep what you say in mind. Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all. I haven’t enjoyed putting you in
this position, but as you must realize, it’s for your own good. So no hard feelings, I trust?”

“None. Good night, Father.”

Yes, he thought, on the ride home, undeniably Father was young once, but he wasn’t me and I’m not him. He doesn’t understand nor can he forgive because he hasn’t got the same zest for life. Probably he never did have, any more than Clive has, poor guy, whose only women are the ones he buys. Or any more than Dan has. Dan has different zests; you can’t imagine him in that motel. He’s in love with Sally and with trees. Yet he would never condemn me the way Father does; it’s not Dan’s way to condemn people. A good sort. A prince.

Now how to handle this. I don’t want to be on bad terms with Father, and yet I’m not going to break with Roxanne. No way. An apartment, that’s the answer, where we can meet in privacy and comfort. She’ll love it, no matter what she says now. I’ll have it fixed up like a little palace. She’ll love it.

At the thought, Ian began to whistle, and he whistled all the way home.

June 1990

C
oming home after a periodic visit without Tina to Dr. Vanderwater’s office, Sally was comforted. Or, she asked herself, feeling at the same time guilty of being ever so slightly doubtful—ever so slightly—was it a case of needing to be comforted?

“Feel at ease with your child,” the doctor had reiterated. “Your tension can be communicated, so if the child wants to tell you something, it holds her back. For the child to be at ease, you have to be. The household has to be.”

Well, of course. It was elementary. And goodness knew their household was cheerful. It was the home of games and songs, of Dr. Seuss and Winnie-the-Pooh, a veritable kindergarten-at-home. And how Dan did it with everything that was on his mind, all the mess at the office, she did not know.

“Don’t you feel the improvement?” the doctor had asked.

It had been difficult to sit there and deny improvement when actually she was uncertain about it. Last week at a birthday party Tina had been a model guest, quite charming, so that one of the mothers had remarked to Sally upon Tina’s “sunny disposition.” So maybe there really was improvement.

“She’s playing upstairs,” said Nanny when Sally went in. “The yard’s still soaking wet after last night’s rain.”

From the big sitting room, where Dan had a desk and Sally had another at which to conduct her recently neglected business, came the tinkle of a waltz. Upon a table in the center of the room, stood the source of the music: the heirloom, the treasured silver carousel.

“What on earth? What’s that doing here?”

“It’s for me!” cried Tina, exulting. “For me!”

“Honey, it can’t be. This isn’t a child’s toy.”

Indeed, it was not. For a long while Sally had not observed it up close and had forgotten how exquisitely it was made. No two of the horses that rose up and down as they circled were alike. They pranced or they trotted, heads were held high or bent low, and one even seemed to be looking over his shoulder. The tiny couple on the seats, he so neatly suited and she in the bonnet and wide skirt of the Second Empire, could have been worked by Cellini. Only an expert could estimate the value of such a piece.

“Who brought it here?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

Nanny knew only that the chauffeur from Hawthorne had brought it. There at the main house, the people thought only that Mr. Clive had ordered it to be delivered.

Clive was terse on the telephone. Probably she should not have disturbed him at the office.

“It’s a present from the house, that’s all I know, Sally.”

“Where’s Uncle Oliver?”

“Father left last night for a weekend in Boston.”

“I don’t understand,” said Sally. “What are we supposed to do with it? Tina thinks it’s for her.”

“It’s a present. What’s the fuss? Time we got rid of stuff from the Big House, anyway. The place is cluttered up like a museum. I have to go, Sally. Sorry. I’ve got calls waiting.”

For the rest of the short afternoon, Tina fussed with the carousel, creaking out “The Blue Danube,” and could not be lured away.
River so blue, da da, da da—

It was unbearable, and Sally retreated to the bedroom. The light on the answering machine was blinking red as frantically as if it could know the urgency of the message. Sally knew. It would be Dora Heller again. Dora was the editor-in-chief of a major magazine, and this would be her third call in a week with perhaps the most exciting offer Sally had ever received. They were planning an issue to be almost entirely devoted to the life of
a great author, a man nearing ninety, who had been born in the Appalachian outback and was known all over the world. Would Sally do a series of photographs for the magazine, Dora wanted to know.

And Sally’s heart had risen. She had thought quickly, a session in New York, rising early and taking the latest possible plane, would involve one night at the most away from home. It could be done, and she would love to.

But no, the author was not prepared to travel. He was to be photographed at home, near Atlanta. And then Sally was to travel, to follow the path of his life, with car and driver provided, naturally, to his mountain birthplace, then to the school near the Florida line where he had briefly taught. In short, they would need a week of her time. And her heart had sunk.

She picked up the phone and dialed the number. Dora’s voice on the other end of the line was almost incoherent.

“Sally! I’ve been waiting for an answer, to tell me that you’ve changed your mind. I can’t believe that I’ve been hearing you right. This is a plum of plums. I fought for you. There were other names, you know that, but I dragged out every sample of your work that I could find and convinced them that you have the style and feeling that we want. You absolutely must say yes, Sally.”

“I can’t, I have some problems here, and I can’t leave. It’s too far and will take too long. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sick, I hope.”

“No, not sick.” Then she knew that she sounded weak and was being too mysterious. And putting strength into her voice, she added, “Nobody’s sick, we’re not getting a divorce or anything. It’s our little girl who’s having some problems, and so—”

“Not too bad, I hope?”

“Oh no, but I can’t. I really can’t, Dora. Please don’t beg me.”

“I’m sorry, darling. Really sorry. Well, another time.”

River so blue, da da, da da—

“What’s going on?” demanded Dan, coming in with his tie loosened and flung across his shoulder, so that she saw at once that he was in one of his rare bad moods. “What’s that thing doing here?”

“The carousel, you mean?”

“What else can I mean?” When Sally repeated Clive’s remark about clutter, he said, “So they make a dump out of this house.”

“That doesn’t sound like you. I’m sure it was well meant.”

“Well, okay, but the thing’s worth a fortune, and Tina will only break it.”

“I don’t think she will, but I’ll admit that ‘The Blue Danube’ is driving me a little crazy.” And seeing that Dan had flung his jacket on the bed and had sat down with a groan, she said mildly, “She’ll get tired of it, and then we’ll hide it someplace or try politely to return it. It’s not worth getting yourself upset over.”

“That waltz will drive me crazy too. The damn thing’s too loud.” He got up, and opening the door, called, “Tina, turn that thing off, please.”