Happenstance, page 22
In the spring they went to France. He surprised her with the plane tickets, bringing them home one night along with an itinerary. Was it for a conference, something he was researching? No, he said, it was a vacation, just the two of them. Her heart plunged at the thought – just the two of them. She loathed herself in the role of neurotic, grieving woman, and resented him for inventing that role, for making her into an invalid who had to be jollied out of thoughts of her dead mother by being taken on an expensive vacation to France.
The first week went badly. The fervent sightseeing dragged on her energy. Their day at Versailles lingers in memory as an ordeal, wordless and odourless; they had wandered for hours, dully, through dull rooms; the Hall of Mirrors was a blur of smudged surfaces, sending back to them uneven images of disappointment.
Jack’s efforts to interest her in the Gobelin tapestries – he arranged to go on a day when the lecture was in French, not English – had seemed to her to be staged and sacrificial and pathetic, and she resented the doses of gratitude she expended on him for his small acts of thoughtfulness. At meals, sitting in Paris bistros, she dutifully laced her fingers with his and despised him for the readiness with which he responded.
Then they rented a car and drove to Brittany, which was a wild place, wet and reeking in the countryside, prim and dusty in the towns. Through the windshield of the little white Peugeot they watched clouds pile themselves above along rises of land – clouds sooty brown and curled at the edges like soufflés set out on platters of air. It was beautiful; she forced herself to admit it. The sun that fell on the slaty rooftops seemed an older, wiser cousin of the American sun. In the country its pale light fell through the green lace of branches onto narrow fields of mustard and clover, and the shadows brought to mind the blue, intricate pattern of a cloisonné vase in their bedroom at home, a wedding gift from Dr. and Mrs. Middleton; when Brenda mentioned this to Jack, he nodded, as though the same thought had occurred to him simultaneously.
The eiderdowns in the chilly hotels smelled of mildew; the beds were cold and tipped towards the centre, causing them to cling to their separate sides, divided by Jack’s respect for her terrible grief and by her failure to admit to him that she no longer loved him.
The food was extraordinary. Brenda, who had never eaten kidneys in her life, couldn’t get over the delicacy of veal kidney flamed in cognac and served with mustard sauce; she ordered it three nights in a row, and Jack sat across from her, watching this indulgence with hope.
One day, on a narrow back road solidly hedged with green, their Michelin guidebook directed them to a small humped country church made of moss-green stone. It had rounded windows, very small and high up, and a thick oak door which swung open to a damp cave of darkness. But when they dropped a one-franc piece into a metal box, an electric light snapped on, revealing for three ticking minutes an ancient painting on wood over the altar: a scene of villagers in medieval dress, their bodies healthy and rounded with thankfulness. These people were carrying baskets of fruit and vegetables into a church, and, astonishingly, the church in the picture was this church – the church they stood in, only when it was new. The roof was a painted square of clean, yellow thatch; the walls were built of newly quarried whitish stone; the sky was fresh and alert; and the slightly elevated ground around the church looked newly levelled and surrealistically aglow.
When the electric light clicked off, they were left again in darkness, but now the darkness pulsated with colours. Brenda could see the arched roof of the church with its graceful timber-beams, the smoky stone of the old walls, and, beside her, the framed whiteness of Jack’s face. She dared to put her arms around him, and they both, as though given permission, began to cry. It seemed to Brenda that at that moment they were one person, one body.
Her long nightmare, the loss of love, had inexplicably dissolved. Love was restored, for whatever reason. Jack, perhaps, was persuaded that the grieving process had come to its natural end – and perhaps it had, for Brenda was never able to unwind completely the complicated strands of that winter’s despair. Looking back, it seemed to her to be a time of illness; she had been assailed by a freak visitation, and preserved the knowledge that it could happen again.
She thought of sharing this revelation with Barry. It would in a sense help right the imbalance between them: his unfortunate life and her lucky one.
She decided against it, if for no other reason than that it seemed a betrayal to pronounce aloud what had been resolved in silence. ‘We’ve been fairly lucky, yes,’ she was able to tell Barry Ollershaw, gazing across at the crease in his trousers, transfixed by the polished toes of his black oxfords.
‘Well then,’ he said, a little shortly, ‘you’ve been exceptionally fortunate.’
To be kind she added, ‘Of course, there’ve been ups and downs.’
‘Of course.’ He touched her hair.
There was a short silence, and then she asked, ‘What time does your plane go on Thursday?’
‘You mean Wednesday. Tomorrow.’
‘Wednesday? You’re going to be here until Thursday, aren’t you? Aren’t you?’
‘I’m going to Montreal from here. I thought I told you, Brenda. I’m sure I told you. Tomorrow afternoon, around two.’
She sat back, dazed. “You did tell me, but – I just assumed – I mean, the banquet for the metallurgists is tomorrow night, isn’t it? And I just assumed –’
Barry was talking, moving around the room, making himself another drink, saying something about meetings and a government contract, people to see in Ottawa, an appointment hastily arranged and with great difficulty.
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘I’m just surprised,’ she said. ‘I just took it for granted. I just assumed.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
THEY decided to go for a walk since the evening had turned mild. Barry wore his tweed sports-jacket with a turtleneck sweater underneath, and lent Brenda his fleece-lined overcoat, which, except for the slightly too-long sleeves, fit fairly well. She expressed surprise. ‘It fits,’ she said, turning in front of the mirror.
‘I suppose…’ he paused for effect, ‘I suppose that…what’s his name…‘
‘Jack.’ She smiled broadly.
‘I suppose Jack is a mountain of a man.’
‘Yes,’ she said, though Jack was just a fraction over six feet. ‘A veritable tower.’ She indicated with her arms.
‘A bull moose out of the Chicago suburbs. What luck!’ And they both laughed.
We’re laughing at Jack, Brenda thought, flicked by the injustice of it. Jack who was absent and innocent and who had done nothing to deserve ridicule – poor Jack, transformed into an oversized oaf. How could they do it to him? How could she do it?
They walked along gravely, arms linked, down the lit-up city streets, pacing themselves, peering into store windows at displays of perfume, jewellery, books, fresh fruit, bottles of wine, women’s dresses, shoes, furniture.
They stopped at one window to look at an arrangement of living-room furniture that included an expensive checked sofa, a glass-topped end table with trim brass legs, a stone-ware lamp with a wide, pleated shade, and an imitation fire flaring in an imitation fireplace. ‘Nice,’ Barry said. ‘Let’s buy it.’
‘Let’s,’ Brenda said. ‘But can we afford it?’
‘We’ll buy it on time, dearest.’
‘But we’ve never done that before.’
‘It’s time we joined the twentieth century then, don’t you think?’
‘In that case –’ Brenda said.
At a dimly lit place called The Cheesecake Café, they sat at a table by the window and ordered cups of coffee with whipped cream and ground ginger. ‘Lovely,’ Brenda said, glancing around in the darkness at the clean, cool, marble tables and the iron chairs. The cafe was filled mostly with young couples with quiet, oval faces, at peace with the reflected gleam of tiny hurricane lamps. At the table next to theirs, two young men played chess, and Brenda could hear a fragment of their conversation, which was, ‘It may seem cruel but –’
Barry leaned toward her and asked a question, but his words were drowned out by the sudden sound of a siren in the street outside.
‘Pardon?’ she said, and picked up her coffee cup. A fire engine came clanging by.
Barry mouthed something back which might have been anything. A second fire engine rushed past; Brenda saw the long, red gleam of its sides flash across the length of the café window.
‘It must be a big fire,’ she said into the suddenly clamorous air. People were pushing back chairs, getting up from their tables and crowding at the window. From outside on the sidewalk there came the sound of people yelling and running on the pavement. The cashier at the front of the café, a pretty young woman in a long skirt, stepped outside a minute, then came back in hugging her sides against the cold. ‘It’s the Franklin Court,’ she announced in a clear, carrying voice that seemed both shaken and relieved.
Brenda gasped and reached for her coat.
‘Let’s go,’ Barry said.
‘Yes.’ She was doing up the large buttons.
It was only three blocks, and they ran most of the way, dodging crowds of people as they went. The loose, heavy overcoat swished against Brenda’s boots, dragging her down.
‘Watch out for the ice,’ Barry called.
‘We’re almost there. Isn’t it around the next corner?’
‘I think so. There’s the furniture store we were looking in.’
‘I don’t smell any smoke, do you?’
‘There it is.’
‘Look at them all.’
‘Good God.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
The sidewalk and street outside the Franklin was entirely filled with people.
But how orderly they look, Brenda thought, hundreds of people breathing out balloons of frosty air, speaking to each other in quiet tones, calmly stamping their cold feet on the pavement. A chain of police kept the area in front of the main door clear.
‘Probably a false alarm,’ someone told Brenda and Barry.
‘Maybe even a fire drill, though you’d think –’
‘Well, you never know. It could be a bomb scare. Large Irish population in Philadelphia.’
‘They’ve got everyone out anyway, at least they think so. You got to give them credit.’
‘Someone just having a good time, had one too many probably, got carried away.’
‘Conventions –’
‘I was sure I smelled smoke. Didn’t you say you smelled smoke? You said –’
‘We had to use the stairs for crissake. They wouldn’t let us use the goddam elevators. Fifteen floors, all on foot –’
‘The cables in elevators –’
‘That’s right. I read something about that in –’
‘Could be arson. Like in Vegas.’
‘Yeah, but where’s the smoke? You see any flames shooting out? It’s a false alarm, I’d put my money on it.’
‘I just heard the cop over there say it’s a wastebasket fire. One of the top floors.’
‘Twenty-eighth floor, that’s what I heard. Is that what you heard?’
‘Did I ever tell you about the time I was at Cub camp and our tent caught fire?’
‘You were a Cub Scout? Now I find that hard to picture.’
‘One of the counsellors crawled in for a smoke and set the groundsheet on fire. We never squealed on him, though; we loved that guy. I saw him about a year ago. He’s a circuit judge in upstate New York. Still a good guy. And I couldn’t help noticing he still smokes Winstons.’
‘Are you sure? Just a wastebasket?’
‘Sort of an anticlimax. Why is it that every time something exciting happens, it turns out to be a wastebasket on fire. Metaphorically speaking.’
‘Jesus, you mean they got us all out here for –?’
‘Just be thankful –’
‘Is it out? I mean really out?’
‘It must be. They’re coming out now, the firemen. Look over there, behind that policeman.’
‘Boy, they must be teed off, three trucks out and just because some dodo set fire to his wastebasket.’
‘Getting all these people out –’
‘Lucky it wasn’t in the middle of the night. What a panic if we’d had to get out in the middle of the night.’
‘Remember that fire on Long Island that time –’
‘That was a real fire.’
‘People jumping –’
‘A wastebasket. Jesus Christ.’
‘That’s it, folks.’
‘Hey, they’re letting them back in up there.’
‘Hurry up, I’m freezing.’
‘Here, take this coat, why didn’t you say so, for Pete’s sake. You just got over that crummy cold –’
‘I’m all right. You worry too much, that’s your trouble.’
‘It’s my prerogative to worry.’
‘Take it easy, folks, take it easy.’
‘Will you look at that line-up for the elevators.’
‘We’ll never get in. We’ll be here till midnight.’
‘Want to walk up?’
‘Fifteen floors. You got to be kidding.’
‘Probably do you good – burn off a few –’
‘No thanks. And I mean no thanks.’
‘Wait’ll the kids hear we walked up fifteen floors.’
‘Do you want to walk up?’ Brenda asked Barry.
‘Twenty-four floors? We might as well; we’re never going to get up any other way.’
They found the stairwell filled with people, climbing, puffing, leaning on the railing, moaning obscenities, calling encouragement. The cinderblock walls rang with noise. Brenda was reminded of certain spontaneous Elm Park parties she’d attended – all this gaiety, all this celebratory good-nature and exertion.
She and Barry rested on the eleventh floor, sitting on the far edge of the steps while people thronged past them. They rested again on the twentieth. ‘I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow,’ Brenda said, and rubbed the back of her legs.
They leaned on each other, laughing. They were still laughing when they opened the door to Brenda’s room and discovered a man and a woman standing by the window still in their coats, their hands joined. The man looked heavy, startled, but motioned broadly at them like a genial host. The woman smiled a wide welcome. She had a lively face, a red mouth, long untidy blonde hair. ‘So,’ she cried, ‘we meet at last.’
Where have I seen this face? Brenda asked herself. But no, the smiling face was the face of a stranger. It was the coat that was familiar.
‘How do you do,’ the woman said, coming forward, her arm out. ‘I’m Verna.’
Brenda for a minute couldn’t think of anything to say except, ‘I think that’s my coat you’re wearing.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
STORTON McCormick is a man with good eastern manners and a well-fitted suit that is so dark it’s almost black. He speaks resonantly, like a radio announcer: ‘Barry Ollershaw, I know that name, of course. You’re from Canada, right? And Mrs. Bowman, so nice to meet you, sit down, both of you.’
Verna is all apologies. She takes Brenda aside and says, ‘You must think I’m a thief, walking off with your coat like that. But there it was, hanging there in Stort’s room, and we had had such a fabulous night, a colossal night, and in the morning Stort said to me, let’s go out there and roll around in the snow. Not literally, of course. Well! Then, on Monday morning he got a call from his office – some kind of emergency – so he said, come to New York. So I said, why not? I’ve spent my whole life saying no to things. A Catholic girlhood, Baltimore, nuns. We took the train. Wonderful. More than wonderful. I can’t believe I’ve known this man for only, what? Three days, well, four if you count today. We met on the elevator, can you imagine? Awfully corny, but –’
‘I’ve got your blue ribbon,’ Brenda tells her. ‘You won first prize, did you know?’
Verna gives a shriek, twirls like a gypsy, then unzips her blue-and-red case and takes out a bottle of bourbon. ‘I travel equipped for celebrations. I never want to miss out on another celebration, never. I’ve missed too many of those.’
They find four glasses. ‘Here’s to the quiltmakers of the world,’ says Storton McCormick.
‘Here’s to the International Society of whatever-they’re-called,’ says Verna, clinking her glass with Brenda’s.
‘Here’s to us,’ says Brenda.
‘To us,’ Barry says, rising to his feet. ‘To this night.’
* * *
—
For most of the night the two of them stayed awake talking in Barry’s room. (It was decided after a single round of bourbon and water that Verna and Stort should remain where they were for the night.)
Should they share a bed? They discussed it, first lightly, then solemnly, then lightly again. They ordered a tray of sandwiches and coffee and got undressed.
‘This ridiculous nightgown –’ Brenda said, and made a face.
‘What about these?’ Barry pulled at his pyjamas. Beige with brown piping. ‘Christ!’
‘I suppose that Verna must think we’ve been –’
‘I’m sure she does.’
‘The trouble is I can’t disconnect,’ Brenda said. ‘I don’t mean just marriage vows. I mean my whole life.’
Barry reached for another sandwich and said in a grave voice, ‘You mean the philosophy of living for today isn’t yours.’
‘It’s such a cliché. Someone goes away for a week, and what happens? It’s so predictable. And I hate to think that just because a thing is possible, it has to be done.’
