The Four Temperaments (20 page)

RUTH

W
hen Ruth
packed for the trip to New Hampshire, she brought along all the novels of Jane Austen, which she had not looked at since she was a girl. She no longer had the books from all those years ago—her mother was not a keeper—but she found almost all of them in trim Penguin paperback editions at the local Barnes & Noble. The only one she couldn't find,
Northanger Abbey,
was available at the library. When she arrived at the cottage, Ruth unpacked the books first thing and set them in a neat pile on a table right by the flowered wicker sofa on the wraparound porch. It was there that she sat every day with one book or another in her lap. Now and then, she looked up from the book to the lake, mostly to register the changes that light, air and clouds had wrought across its surface. She cooked some, but only casually, and listened to Oscar's practicing, which seemed to her more haunting, more nuanced than anything she had heard him play in recent memory. One day, they drove to Portsmouth; another, to Kittery. It seemed to Ruth that Oscar was more solicitous, more tender than usual. As if he were still trying to repent.

The mostly pleasant rhythm of their days was abruptly shattered shortly before they were scheduled to go back to New York, when Oscar put the piece of paper—the one about the ballet company traveling to San Francisco—into Ruth's hands.

“She'll be there. And he'll be there,” he said.

“Maybe he doesn't even know the company is in town,” Ruth said. “He told me he was finished with her.”

“That's not what she told me,” Oscar said. “And even if she had, I'd think she was lying.”

“You talked to her?”

“I asked her to stay away from him.”

“And . . .?”

“And she told me she wouldn't. Or couldn't.”

“Couldn't?” Ruth repeated. “Doesn't she understand the trouble she'll cause? Doesn't she care?” Ruth handed the paper back to Oscar. “Maybe we should go to San Francisco. Right away. Leave the cottage early, book a flight—”

“What for?” Oscar said. “Even if they're together in some motel room, what can we do about it? Storm in and tell Gabriel to put on his clothes and go home? Tell Penelope not to mind?” He put his head in his hands and was silent. Then he said, “It's out of our control now, Ruth.”

So they didn't pack up and go anywhere, at least not until the end of the week. But the rest of the time felt ruined beyond repair. It rained heavily for two days; the weather turned cool and they stayed indoors, watching the needles of water that poured down onto the roiled surface of the lake. Oscar tried to make a fire, but the chimney was stopped up. The smoke that filled the rooms was so bad that they had to go outside and sit in the car, feeling cranky and exiled.

When the rain finally ended, Ruth and Oscar decided to drive north, toward Concord. On the way they stopped for lunch, but on the trip back, Oscar felt sick and had to get out of the car to throw up. Ruth was grateful when it came time to pack up and leave New Hampshire.

Back in New York, the weather was steamy, but Ruth didn't mind. She took her time unpacking. At the hospital, she held the babies in her arms and thought of her granddaughters, Isobel and Hannah, both far away at the moment. The residents at the nursing home were, for the most part, glad to see her. Ruth noticed that Mrs. Vogel was no longer there; one of the nurses reported that she had died earlier in the month. The room's new resident, Mr. Plotkin, asked if Ruth could get him copies of
Playboy
or, better still,
Penthouse.
Old ones, new ones—he didn't care.

Through all of this, Ruth felt as though she were waiting for something to happen. And she was not wrong. Around 4:00 one morning, when Oscar was sound asleep and she had gotten up to go to the bathroom, the phone rang. She stared at it before answering, because she knew, she just knew, that she was about to hear something awful.

“Ruth? Is that the phone?” Oscar called sleepily. She picked up the receiver cautiously. At first, she heard what sounded like static. Then she realized that it was crying.

“Mom?” said Gabriel after a moment. “Mom, I think you and Dad should fly out here right away.”

GABRIEL

A
t first,
Gabriel didn't recognize Ginny. He looked from her name in the program to the stage and back again several times. Then he realized it was the hair, which at first he took to be a trick of the light or maybe a wig. But then he looked through the opera glasses he had recently purchased and saw that the hair was real, and that it had been dyed. He loved it. Not that he had any particular attraction to blondes; in fact, he had always been drawn to women with dark hair, like Penelope. But this was so in keeping with the electric nature of Ginny's soul that he couldn't believe she hadn't always been blond. Gabriel stared at the stage. When her variation ended and she skittered into the wings, he felt as though a light had been extinguished. He looked down at the program again, searching for her name again. He didn't recognize the ballet—it was something new, by a Scandinavian choreographer—and he didn't much like it. But when Ginny was dancing, there wasn't anything he wouldn't watch.

It hadn't been hard coming here at all. Penelope actually laid out his clothes for him, solicitously brushing lint from the shoulders of the jacket. The only vaguely unsettling note came when she was standing at the door with Isobel riding on her hip. “Maybe you'll find the dancer whose pointe shoes you have. Like Cinderella,” she said lightly, but the remark made Gabriel's stomach clench with anxiety. What a shit he was. In a way, he hated himself for going to the ballet tonight, but he knew he was going anyway. Hating himself was part of the price for his connection to Ginny. He was willing to pay it.

“I doubt it. Whoever that was is long retired by now. She probably has three kids, an SUV and a house in the suburbs.” She laughed. The tense moment passed and he gave her a quick kiss good-bye. Then he took the elevator down, got into his car and drove—easily, swiftly—to the San Francisco Opera House. He had actually bought Penelope a ticket, in case she changed her mind at the last minute. Not that she would. But Gabriel thought it would look better if he seemed to want her company. She took the ticket from him and put it in her desk, with the bills.

“Should I wait up?” Penelope asked.

“If you want. Though Jeff and his wife will be there. I told him we might have a drink afterward.” Jeff worked in Gabriel's office and had said nothing about attending the ballet. But he wanted to buy himself a little time with Ginny. Penelope looked as if she wanted to wait up for him, though, so he added, “I'll call you and let you know, okay? You won't be able to call me. I'll have the cell phone turned off during the performance.”

“Oh, right,” she said. Then she turned to Isobel.

Gabriel parked
his car in the underground lot beneath the theater, and then made the ascent to the opera house and to his seat. He had been here only once or twice before, but never with the excitement or the sense of expectation that he felt tonight. He sat down and placed his elbow on the armrest of the empty seat beside him; it was a tangible reminder of Penelope. He knew how careful he had to be; if she found out about Ginny, she wouldn't forgive him again. Which was why he told Ginny that he couldn't spend much time with her tonight—going to a motel was out of the question. But he planned to see her after the performance, when he could at least be with her for a little while, hold her hands, put an arm around her thin, tensile shoulders. Then tomorrow he could find a way to meet her. He knew she had a ballet class in the morning, but maybe she could meet him back at her hotel around noon. Her roommate was the ballet mistress, and Ginny said that she would be gone all day. That would work for Gabriel too, because Penelope didn't call him often at the office, and, anyway, he could forestall it by calling her first and mentioning that he was on his way out to lunch. Lunch was not likely to arouse her suspicions, since she knew he went out nearly every day.

After the intermission, Ginny did not dance again, so Gabriel had a hard time concentrating on the performance. He fidgeted and tried to calm himself with thoughts of Ginny sitting in the dressing room, changing her clothes, perhaps, or combing out her long, newly blond hair. He was tempted to find his way down there now; if he gave the usher a note, she might be able to come out and meet him even earlier. Suddenly, this seemed like a very good idea and to the extreme annoyance of the other people in the row, he got up and pressed his way past them.

In the empty lobby, he took a paper schedule and wrote a hurried note to Ginny. Then he found an usher who was willing to deliver the note for the twenty-dollar bill that Gabriel gave him with it. A few minutes later, the usher returned and Gabriel followed him down two flights of stairs and through several wide, brightly lit corridors. Finally, they arrived at an unmarked door. Gabriel knocked gently. The door opened and there she was, all painted like the last time, only now her hair—still bound tightly in its austere bun—gleamed even brighter than her glowing face.

“I'm so glad you thought of coming early,” she said. “I missed you.” She wrapped her arms around him and he stood there feeling the heat from her small body. Then he pulled away, suddenly aware that they were standing in the hallway and someone might walk by. “Come in for a minute,” she said, and pulled the door shut. “I don't think anyone will be down for a while.”

Gabriel looked around the dressing room with costumes hanging upside down—Ginny told him that this was how they were stored—and its row of built-in dressing tables and lighted mirrors. The tables were densely covered—he could see tubes, jars, packages of cotton puffs, Q-Tips, hair spray, combs, brushes, bobby pins.

“Which one is yours?” Gabriel asked, and Ginny sat down on the small stool in front of one of the mirrors.

“Do you want to wait while I take my makeup off?”

“Leave it on,” he said. “I like the way it looks. And your hair too.”

“I'll take that down now,” she said. He nodded, and watched while she deftly extracted the bobby pins and uncoiled the tightly wound bun until it was a shining ponytail, snaking down her back.

“Let me help,” he said and moved behind her. He gently loosened the elastic band from her hair, and when it fanned out around her shoulders, he leaned his face down into it. He felt himself grow hard and wanted to push her forward, pull up her dress, right there, right then. But she was pressing something into his hand, a hairbrush, and he began instead to brush her hair, watching it become even more smooth and glossy under his even strokes.

“
Mmm,
that feels so good.” Gabriel stopped brushing and leaned over to kiss her neck. He was reaching for her zipper when he heard a sound outside. Ginny must have heard it too because she got up quickly and reached the door before it opened. One of the other dancers moved past Ginny into the dressing room. She looked curiously at Gabriel but Ginny had him by the hand and out the door before they could even be introduced.

“What about your coat?” he asked. They stopped walking. Ginny was wearing a tight, beaded red dress with a matching jacket. Gabriel thought it looked really good on her, especially with her blond hair. But the jacket was cut so short and high it would do nothing to protect her against the damp, foggy air outside.

“I left it in the dressing room,” she said and they both knew that she didn't want to go back.

“Here, take this,” he said, shrugging off his jacket and handing it to her. Of course it was much too large, and its masculine boxy shape made her look unusually delicate. She put her hand in the pocket and pulled out a small gold box.

“For me?” she teased.

“Actually, it is.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice.

“Go on, open it.” She did, and lifted out a silver charm bracelet on which dangled two tiny silver charms. One was a pair of pointe shoes; the other was a crown. Gabriel had found the bracelet in a jewelry store near his office; he selected the charms there too. He knew they were tacky—he could imagine Penelope's disdain of such a thing—but somehow the silly sentimental gift seemed right for Ginny. Still, she hadn't said anything. Maybe he had miscalculated. “I hope you like it. The charms, well, they seemed to fit.”

“Like it? I love it,” she said softly. “How did you know about the silver slippers?”

“What about them?”

“Oh, I had a pair almost exactly like this, ages ago. It was a pin my mother bought me. Not nearly so nice as these slippers, but I loved it too.”

“But you don't have it anymore?”

“I lost it. I don't know how. And now you've given them back to me, only better.” She raised her face and he bent to kiss her.

“We should go,” she said finally. “Maybe you could drive me back to my hotel. And when we get there we'll sit in the car and kiss good-night, like teenagers.” Gabriel thought that she was not so far away from being a teenager, but didn't say it. They left the theater through the stage door, and walked back to the underground parking lot.

When they reached Gabriel's Audi, he looked at his watch. “You know, it's not that late,” he said. “I have a little more time than I thought.”

“Enough time to go to the hotel?”

He shook his head. The hotel was even farther from his apartment than the theater. “Isn't there someplace closer?”

“What about right here?”

“In the garage?” She wasn't serious.

“In the car. The performance isn't over for a while.” Ginny got in the car and first shrugged off Gabriel's jacket and then her own. He watched while she reached around to unzip her dress and pull it over her head. She was serious, all right. He quickly opened the door and joined her in the cramped backseat. “Take your shirt off,” she instructed and Gabriel began undoing the buttons. “We don't have a lot of time.” He pulled her close then, her small, pink nipples cool and smooth against his bare skin.