Three Daughters: A Novel (57 page)

He didn’t like giving up any of the money when he saw what it could do for his house. He’d had the front lawn completely torn out and resodded. Surrounding the evergreens—where the grass had never had enough sunlight—were new wide collars of pachysandra and impatiens. It was orderly and opulent and satisfying and he found himself going out at odd hours to stare at it. Fixing the lawn had led to replacing the plain white entry door with two hand-rubbed oak ones with etched-glass panels and ornate brass hardware. It had taken the carpenter an entire day to hang them properly, but now the entrance—connected to the street by a new brick walk in a herringbone pattern—looked stately. The new lawn and door made the inside look shabby. The house was sumptuous, but it needed refurbishing. The large living-drawing rooms deserved oversized Oriental rugs and that brought up another point. How could you furnish such graceful, exquisite rooms with ordinary manufactured furniture?

At every step of the refurnishing process, he’d serendipitously discover something crucial about the next step. Just about the time the house was painted he went to an auction and with the help of the doctor who took him picked up a Biedermeier sofa upholstered in peach silk and a hand-painted, black-lacquered Oriental coffee table. The same doctor took him to a private sale of Cissy Patterson’s estate and he left with two delicate pecan end tables with inlaid leather tops. They were expensive but his friend assured him they could only increase in value. The restorer who cleaned the new purchases was expensive and the private trucker who moved them from place to place was expensive, too. Yet he became obsessed with finding ever more precious pieces to make his palace perfect. He was a regular at the Wednesday and Saturday morning auctions held in the Mayflower Hotel ballroom, even though frequently he’d been up working the previous night. It was cheaper to buy things at auction than to patronize the antique shops. He knew he was being selfish in always buying the things he liked, but Star didn’t have strong feelings and she was caught up in her own renovation of the house she had bought with Larraine. He had come to realize that her friendship with Larraine had its advantages. He could work as much as he wanted without feeling guilty that his wife was sitting home resentful and lonely. That was the main complaint of all the other doctors’ wives.

Like everyone else, he had bad moments. A few times he got carried away and bid too much for something and afterward would become dejected. Momentarily he felt out of control because he wasn’t able to stop himself. He caught naps on the cot in the doctors’ dormitory and lived on sandwiches and coffee. Three of his colleagues mentioned that he looked pooped and Tom Haywood kept giving him pointed looks and shaking his head. “You’re burning the candle at both ends, buddy. Who’s keeping that pretty wife of yours company while you’re here slaving away?”

“We make our time together count,” Paul answered. He was glad to be reminded that Tom’s wife had thick legs and a blunt, androgynous face. “Actually, Star’s busy, too. She’s working in real estate.”

“No kidding? And after this pregnancy, no more children?” The question was a rebuke from a father of four.

“There’ll be more children. My wife’s a determined woman. She’ll handle it all.” He was proud of Star, if a little surprised by her ambition. This desire to be in business was a wrinkle he hadn’t expected, but it made her more interesting. She wasn’t just an empty-headed beauty. Anyway, he liked playing the role of the expansive, modern-minded husband.

Tom walked away with a rueful look and although he had bested him, Paul felt depressed and alienated. He had no real friend at the hospital to confide in. And what was there to confide, anyway? How could a man confess to being confused and obsessed at the same time? Many evenings, as he waited for a patient to dilate, he would look out the window at the string of cars on the busy avenue below and yearn to return to his own hometown and be a simple country doctor. He thought longingly of the large family gatherings, the generous quantities of food, the simple eagerness to please any guest. At home he would have prestige without qualification. He was astute enough to realize that without the demands of the clan he had drifted into an amoral life. He had stopped seeing Rita, but only because he lacked the time, not for any moral reason. He was in debt to Rashid for a staggering amount. Not only the mortgage for the house, but also a twenty-thousand-dollar loan for stocks he had purchased over the last few months. What was worse, if anything happened to him, Rashid, not Star or the coming baby, would get everything.

What troubled him most of all was the fact that he was no longer invincible. He had begun experiencing debilitating headaches and was easily fatigued. He thought both could be cured by more sleep. What was the old saw? A doctor who diagnosed himself had a fool for a patient. If he admitted to feeling ill, he’d be told to slow down. He couldn’t slow down. He was in over his head.

40.

WE HAVE THE ONLY WROUGHT-IRON GARDEN GATE. I KNOW IT WON’T KEEP ANYONE OUT, BUT IT’S A NICE TOUCH.

H
ere,” said Larraine, “I’m not going to let you help me unless you wear this.” She handed Star a paper filter mask that fit over the nose and mouth. “It says right here on the can that it’s not good to inhale this stuff. And don’t you dare climb that ladder. I’ll do the top. You do the bottom. You shouldn’t even be doing this, except I need your moral support.”

“And I need yours. And I want to be here. Hand me that putty knife.”

They arrived each morning at eight to let in the plumber and carpenter. They had—with great excitement and stomach-gripping anxiety—purchased a frame row house behind Capitol Hill in a neighborhood of lopsided sidewalks whose supposed renewal was still a deep secret.

The house had cost twenty-three thousand five hundred dollars. They had put ten percent down and were using the balance of their five-thousand-dollar stake (after lawyer and bank fees, it had dwindled down to twenty-four hundred dollars) to begin renovation. The only hopeful news was that the government was giving them a tax break because they were revitalizing a hopeless section of the city. The house had four floors and, by adding kitchens and baths, they could (according to McKay) create two floor-through apartments and a duplex (really a triplex, if you included the basement, which was half out of the ground) to rent out at a possible monthly rent roll of four hundred ninety dollars, which was one hundred and eighty dollars more than their expenses (not counting money they would owe to tradesmen). On paper it sounded wonderful.

There had been two good surprises (three if you counted the fact that a fifty-year-old wood house had no termites) and two bad ones. The bad ones were the condition of the furnace (dangerous) and water in the basement. But the floors (nice broad pine) and the roof (slate) were sound and viable for the foreseeable future.

Fortunately for them, Mr. Heath, the plumber, was a chivalrous man nearing retirement. He took it upon himself to save two hapless women who were in over their heads. The plumbing bill alone could have put them dangerously in the red. He sat down and worked out a budget. “You pay me in part. You pay the electrician in part. Get your basics in so you can rent right away and get some income. This area’s going to come up in time. You’re within walking distance of the Capitol Building, so your tenants save carfare. That’s a big plus.” He advised them to do all the raw plumbing and install just one new bathroom. On the upper floors, he offered to put in used fixtures left over from other jobs. “It’s your good fortune that everyone wants colored bathroom fixtures these days,” he said. “I have a backyard full of white sinks, tubs, and johnnies.” The used fixtures were in good condition and had many years of life in them. When Mr. Heath offered to wait for the balance of his money until they were on their feet, Larraine was certain that he had a crush on Star.

Anything they could reasonably do themselves they were doing, including the inside painting. America was in a do-it-yourself craze and decorating advice for the layman was plentiful. Each morning, they spackled and taped a room to be painted the following day. They had learned a bitter lesson: preparation was the key to success and simple tricks—setting the cans upside down the night before—could save valuable time.

Once Larraine was settled on the ladder with her tray of paint and her lamb’s-wool roller, she stopped fussing and relaxed. “This is the best part. Instant satisfaction. I love it. This is the best house on the block.”

“That’s because it’s our house. You always love what’s yours.”

“That’s not always true. I don’t love my nose or my nearsighted eyes. But I
love
this house. It has those extra carved doodads across the top that make the building look more distinguished. The garden is by far the nicest.”

“What garden?”

“The one we’re going to plant when we’re finished painting. We have the only wrought-iron garden gate. I know it won’t keep anyone out, but it’s a nice touch. Can you believe we finally did it? I can’t.” Every day she went through the same litany of satisfactions.

“Yes.” Star’s response was a notch less exuberant. “With Rashid’s money.”

“Look, when you’re that rich, you have a direct line of credit to the money vaults of the world. The bank lent him the money and we’re paying him more interest than he is paying the bank, so don’t feel sorry for Ibn Rashid.” She pronounced it
Eebeen Rasheed
and distinguished all four syllables. “He’s nobody’s fool, sugar.”

“I wish it were some other way. He holds the mortgage on our house in Bethesda, too.”

“That’s got nothing to do with us. That’s soul money for his daughter. Stop worrying. Your baby will come out with his forehead all creased. When this house is done and rented, it’ll be fine collateral for another one. I have my eye on the corner one. Besides, you could have cashed in that fur throw he sent as a housewarming present and bought a nice-sized lot.” She reared back and inspected the room. “What do you think? Should we leave the floors light or stain them?”

“Let’s leave them light. Some of these rooms are too dark.”

“Mmm. I guess. Some tenant will probably cover them with carpeting.”

Much of the time they worked silently, each lost in thought. Larraine talked about her life in North Carolina and then would ask Star questions about her background. Their calm, contented voices echoed in the empty rooms. One hot afternoon as she stopped sanding long enough to wipe the perspiration from under her hair and direct her face to the small fan they had brought, Star told Larraine about the day she had met James.

“I don’t find it strange that you tended sheep. I used to feed the hogs myself. You know, if you’re a girl from the Deep South, Washington is in your dreams. It’s the place to escape to and find an exciting man. I always dreamed I’d marry a senator or congressman. I wanted to start out as a secretary at the White House. I thought all you had to do was show up and they’d say, ‘Miss Reardon, come right in. We’ve been waiting for you.’ I was so dumb.” She grunted and stepped down a rung. “So when the handsome horseman rode away from you in the desert you didn’t know who he was?”

Star related how James had gone from school to school with meager information and finally found her. At this point Larraine stopped working and sat back to appreciate such a romantic act. “He held his hand over your mouth so you wouldn’t cry out and give him away?”

“Yes. Not that I would have. I was thrilled to see him. From the beginning I felt we belonged together.” She put down her sandpaper and rubbed her chin with the back of her hand. “Larraine, how could I have been so sure of him and then been so wrong? I still can’t get over that part of it. I still feel as if something isn’t resolved.”

“You’re not over that part or any other part,” Larraine said quickly and then started to run the roller furiously, fearful that she had said too much.

Star, too, got back to work. “I’m a married woman and about to be a mother,” she said flatly.

“That doesn’t mean you can stop your heart from longing.”

“He was my first love. We were so natural together. Like two halves of a whole. He used to play practical jokes on me to make me laugh. I can’t remember ever being so happy.”

“And now?”

“This is just very sane. You know . . . being married is just being settled. I guess.”

“It’s not supposed to be that sane,” said Larraine. “I was so much in love with Chuck nothing else mattered. I wouldn’t have traded places with the queen of England. But look what happened. Life’s unpredictable and there aren’t any guarantees. If some fool drops one of those A-bombs they’re testing at Yucca Flats, we’re all gone.” She came down from the ladder and refilled her pan with paint. “Of course at other times I feel damn grateful to be alive and doing something I like. I wouldn’t mind a man in my life. If you’re single too long . . . well . . . the single women I know are going to classes or taking up a sport so they can meet men. That’s what I should be doing, too.”

The next day when she had settled in with her roller, Larraine said, “Why didn’t you go looking for James? Why didn’t you shake the truth out of him? Even if you wouldn’t have liked what he had to say, he owed you an explanation.”

“My father wouldn’t have allowed me to do it.”

Larraine was dipping the roller into the paint pan and then rolling it across the wall in wide swaths. As she talked she pressed the roller harder to punctuate her words. “Sugar, you’re not going to like what I’m going to say, but there’s something basically wrong here. If the guy was nuts about you, why did he just sit around and let you get away? Why didn’t he move heaven and earth to be with you? And as for you, why did it never occur to you to stand up to your father?”

“I couldn’t. He expected certain things from me.”

“Like what? Your life? What kind of love is that? Would you expect that baby inside you to fulfill your needs? Why bring a slave into the world?”

“My father’s word was law. It didn’t matter to him how much I loved James.”

“You may have loved James, but he wasn’t the most important man in your life. Daddy was.” Star was quiet. “Mad at me?”

“No.”

“Still my friend?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then I’ll say one more thing that’s on my mind. There are some women in this world—quite a few—who don’t know who they are until some man tells them, and for this they are eternally grateful. You’ve let three men decide that for you and you’re loyal to all three.” Silence. “Now you’re mad at me for sure.”

“No comment.” A few minutes later, she said. “How about this? No man told me I could buy a piece of property and fix it up and rent it out.”

“Touché. And doesn’t it feel good?”

“Mmm.” She didn’t add that from the time she could talk and understand, she had been prepared to be in business. Her psyche had been methodically primed, and if there was anything to all the theories going around, nothing on God’s earth could have kept her from going into business.

“Suppose James walked in right now. Suppose there was some horrible misunderstanding that kept him away and he suddenly found you and begged you to get a divorce and go with him. Would you go?”

“That’s not going to happen, so it’s silly for me to answer,” she said stiffly.

“You never know, sugar. Life can double back on you. You just never know.”

In the spring of 1956, the nation’s children were being inoculated with the new Salk poliomyelitis vaccine and
Beat the Clock
made the top ten most popular TV shows.

The fortunate few who had summer homes along the Delaware shore began to air them out and bring them to life. The horsey set—including the Walker clan—had left their tidewater mansions and migrated northwest to Bowie, Maryland, for the racing season.

During the spring that he was courting the Halabys, Rashid had bought a working horse farm southwest of Baltimore that included a large farmhouse right out of Kansas. The compound was a feast for city eyes—lushly green, neat, repaired and painted and smelling of hay and horses. The main house, full of wicker and starched curtains, was both restful and gracious. Well away from the house, where it couldn’t compete with the rural scene, was an oversized natural pool that incorporated part of a lake. Rashid, too busy to make much use of it, offered it to Star during August. “Go and get away from this heat. It’s not good for you or the baby.”

She had gained thirty pounds and the baby was very high, so she couldn’t walk twenty yards without sharp rib pains. She felt the urge to urinate every fifteen minutes. Besides, she and Larraine were ready to advertise their apartments and meet prospective tenants. The last thing she needed was an hour-and-a-half ride to a strange house, a strange bed, and a strange bathroom, but she went anyway because Paul looked awful and he had promised to come on the weekends.

Later, she would remember that summer as one when Paul would get up early and begin building something right away, sometimes still in his pajamas. She’d find him measuring shelving or planing a cabinet door. Tools would often break or malfunction just at a crucial moment when a project was going over the major hump. “Maybe I can go out and get it fixed,” she would offer. She felt sorry for him.

“I don’t think you can.”

One day she took a malfunctioning drill to three fix-it shops but none would agree to repair it in less than two weeks. It was a good idea to lure him away to a place where he had to relax.

She couldn’t have predicted that she’d feel happier at Mara Farm than she had since coming to Washington. Ned Risley, who managed the farm, was pleasantly surprised with her knowledge of horses and invited her to share in any activity that suited her.

“Paul?” He was lying so still that she assumed he was asleep. He had lain by the pool most of the morning and she was afraid he’d get too much sun. “Sleeping?”

“No. It feels so good just to lie here.”

“Mr. Risley—the manager—he wants to know if he can take us to the yearling auctions.”

“Star, I don’t want to move.” He sounded worried that she would insist. “Why don’t you go ahead? Do you mind?” He spoke without opening his eyes. He barely moved his lips or his head. She’d probably do him a favor by leaving him alone.