The Wintering (25 page)

She wanted to explore further, but wandering about the city as an occupation had lagged. She decided to get up at some unknown hour, like six
A.M.
Then, pigeons fearlessly strolled the Village streets. But, sadly, there was no sense of a day beginning. Amy missed grass wet underfoot, the smell of earth, though bits of sky she could see had a moist look, and there were fewer people. A man making flapjacks in a restaurant window decided her to have breakfast there. Hopefully, she tried to joke with the counterman when he set down her orange juice. He returned to the kitchen without his surly expression changing. Never would she be capable of light, bantering chatter, Amy conceded, staring into the juice which tasted like orange soda pop. A young man with a reddish, crinkly beard sat opposite, his blue jeans interestingly smeared with paint. He certainly must be an artist. Amy decided immediately afterward that he had great depth. She had to have courage, for once; direct her life and meet him. Leaning to see the title of the book he was reading, Amy said, “Excuse me, but I see you like Henry Miller.”

Amelia said, “What are you doing in the closet so long?” and came toward it. Having huddled there, Inga came out with her face disarranged, sadly waving the pink straw hat.

“Looking for this,” she said, and would have wondered how Amelia knew where she was, except that Amelia knew everything. “I'm going to sit in the hammock.”

There were limits to things, Amelia thought. The sadness on Inga's face was one. Amelia felt keyed up by the April weather, and though not sure for what, she liked to think for life itself. Birds were throaty in the flowering bushes, her bulbs were coming up, nothing could be sweeter than tuberoses in moist dirt, and there were baby rabbits in the pine copse. Why couldn't Inga turn her thoughts to spring?

“What's the matter?” Amelia said.

“He's going to New York.”

“He always does when a book's finished.” Inga's drawn look was not going to take away her own joy in the day. “Just look at this day,” Amelia said. “Go on and sit in the hammock, don't worry about freckling.”

As Inga put on the pink hat her wedding ring shone in the light. Amelia looked down at her own ringless hand, thinking not only would Inga require increasing care, but that she required, still, too many explanations. She had been irritated, only yesterday, when she mentioned that the old hotel on the edge of town had been a hospital during the war. Inga had said, “The Vurld Var?” She had cried, “The Civil War!”

Inga, without shading her eyes, looked at the day. “In April, where I came from,” she said, “people still ski.”

But skiing was something she had never known, so Amelia had no interest in that. Imagining was not her forte. Then suddenly realizing that imagining was Jeff's business, she felt dumbfounded. She had given his work short shrift all along. Now he was leaving, and she was sorry about both things. Saying what she believed would not help Inga, and Amelia said, “Jeff probably doesn't even know that girl's up there.”

“He'd have found out the same way we did, through the paper,” Inga said.

“He doesn't read the society page,” Amelia said. “The only mention of it was buried at the bottom of that column about her father opening a dancing school. Jeff got those things out for the cleaner. To be put away for the winter.”

“He's packing them now,” Inga said.

“He's always had to go to New York when a book's finished,” Amelia said. She was sorry he had disappointed Jessie again about the garden. And all along, she felt Jeff had not thought enough about going. She ought to be able to delay him.

At cold supper on Sunday night, Amelia said, “Dear Brother, are you going to New York just when you're getting your oldmaid sister off your hands?” The blush of flowers at the windows seemed no more pink than his face, or the ham he was eating.

“Is this an announcement about you and Latham?” Inga said.

“Unless you can think of somebody else for me to marry,” Amelia said.

“This is a surprise. When?” Jeff said, quietly putting down his knife and fork. Handy it was already April. “June,” Amelia said. “Isn't that the month for blushing brides?”

From within the deep twilight in the kitchen, she heard Jessie murmur, “Hmmm-mm.” No one else seemed to hear. Maybe Jessie only thought of the washing and ironing she had done for Jeff, now to be unpacked. Inga must be thinking of the word
unpack
, too; she looked in the land of the living, at last. But did Inga expect to undo in two months what she had spent all these years doing? She probably had little imagination, too, while the girl would be more like Jeff, Amelia supposed.

The house was invaded by a slow green twilight with a quality that could kill, it was so beautiful and so intense. Amelia suddenly felt the newness of aching over nebulous things, like love and growth and loneliness. Everyone sat still, their faces around the table struck newly by the yellow-green light. Though each might want the moment broken, Amelia knew she was the only one crass enough to do it.

“I hope you'll be here for all the festivities, Jeff,” she said, wondering what possibly they would be.

“Of course,” he said, putting down his napkin. “I must see my little sister married. I'll give her away, gladly.”

Inga's eyes, watching him leave the room, turned the light startled blue of the Dutch iris, just beginning to bloom. Amelia's ample chest heaved as she sighed and wished she might console everyone in the world at once. Who did not need it? But finishing her custard, she felt a sense of satisfaction like a cat having eaten, figuratively licked her paws. She thought of Latham's first wife, Idabel. The way she had their house arranged would be all right with her, and they would keep Marguerite, the Negro woman who lived out back behind the house. Latham seemed fond of her, and she had been with him almost as long as they had had Jessie.

“Let's sit on the porch,” Amelia said. “And enjoy the evening.”

Inga lay in the hammock. She had a look still somewhat lost, but happier. Among the evening sounds, they heard Jeff thumping upstairs, taking his suitcases back to the attic. Amelia listened and felt confident that tomorrow evening, after Latham had had his little drink before dinner, she could persuade him he had proposed.

And when they were at dinner, she thought never had anybody seemed as picked up by a drink as Latham. The nice thing was he never seemed to need a second drink. “Latham,” she said, “I've been thinking. And you're right. We ought to get married.” She said consolingly when he looked up that they would have to wait till June. She had legal things to get straight and would need to buy a few clothes. She spoke so rapidly on and on that Latham kept looking confused. Amelia never gave him time enough to ask himself when he had suggested getting married. She thought his strong point was that he would do what she wanted, without fuss.

When she got home, that night, she gave his hand a good squeeze.

“Now, you just behave yourself,” she said, “or I'll put the wedding off even longer.”

Latham went along the path between his house and Marguerite's cabin behind it. Her light was on, and he gave their signalling knock. “Come,” she said. When he told her, Marguerite agreed there was no sense his staying alone in his great big house. “Miss Almoner might turn out to be a good woman. Sharper than Miss Idabel?” she asked. Latham said he had thought before of cutting a door to the cabin, which could not be seen from the house. He would do it. Marguerite, complacent, agreed. No other change was about to take place in her life.

Deftly, he filched a dime tip from beneath another customer's saucer and set it as payment by his coffee. He looked up at the blonde who had spoken and saw that she had not noticed. “Yes,” Tony said. “I like Miller. Why; do you?”

The worried look already on Amy's face deepened. She could give no definite answer. Twirling a piece of hair around her finger, she said, “I've never been able to decide whether I do or not.”

They introduced themselves. Amy tried to tell Tony her feelings about Miller; but partly out of nervousness at having spoken to him first, she was not clear. Tony, unnoticeably, was looking at her clothes, the scrubbed quality of her face, and guessing that she had not been in the Village very long, he labelled her Southern and high class. He had seen her wallet was loaded when she paid for her breakfast and moved over to the stool next to her.

They agreed the coffee here tasted like the bottom of a bird cage, but shoved their empty cups toward the surly attendant, who filled them again. When Amy reached for sugar her arm accidentally brushed Tony's. His arm was covered with curly reddish hair, which had little flecks of paint beneath them. She had found out he was a painter. This accidental brushing against him sent a shivery thrilling feeling through her. She had a nice sensation, but also one as if something with light legs, like a spider, had run along her arm. Tony thrust his face so close she could smell coffee on his breath, asking what she did.

Unless you had published something, Amy felt you should not call yourself a writer, though in the Village that seemed not to matter. People announced professions, even if they only dabbled in them at home alone. Tony had said, he had never exhibited any paintings. Amy, however, was hesitant saying, “I'm a writer. I mean, I want to be a writer, but I don't write much. I haven't published anything.”

“Who has?” Tony asked nonchalantly.

“But I'm looking for a job,” she said.

“Why? You don't have to have one, do you?” His eyes insinuatingly travelled her from head to toe.

She felt as always ashamed of not being poor. Those piercing, fathoming eyes would know if she lied. Amy lowered her head to mumble, “No.” Bending over his arm stretched along the counter, Tony swung an indolent leg. He looked at her from this half-reclining position. “Why,” he said, “do you want a job if you don't have to have one?”

Not really knowing, Amy shrugged. “Isn't that just what people do?”

“Not here,” he said. “Where you came from, probably. But didn't you come here not to be like them?” He motioned a boneless-looking hand toward the street. Activity had begun, and people hurried as if toward shelter down toward a subway entrance and disappeared. Amy, having twirled around on her stool to look out, now twirled slowly back to face the counter. She felt lazy sitting here with nothing to do. But of course she said, “God, no, I don't want to be like them.”

“Then forget a job.” Tony seemed about to beat his chest. “I'm a writer, too,” he said. “I'm writing a poem about Queen Elizabeth. She kills me. I don't know why. It begins, Oh Queen!” He threw an arm wildly into the air, but grinned. “That's as far as I've been able to get.”

He laughed at himself, which made him all right, Amy thought, grinning back. She could not criticize him when she never finished anything, either. But, frantic, she thought it was too easy to live as Tony did. Something was wrong, and she looked around as if she might see exactly what.

“The whole publishing bit is a racket,” Tony was saying. “Try to get an agent, for instance. You have to know somebody first. Then, you don't need an agent.”

“New people are discovered,” Amy said shyly. “I know one writer who made it on his own. He says the thing to do is work hard.”

By being decisive, Tony reduced her to silence. Success came from knowing the right people, he insisted. At that moment, several people, who looked like bums, paused outside the front window, waving to him. Appearing drunk, they were much older, but Tony greeted them like friends. All this impressed Amy, who felt in herself such an inability to mix. She gave Tony a look bordering on admiration.

“Why don't you write something sexy?” he said, turning from the window. “That's the only way to make any money.” When Amy was silent, he drew his eyebrows together, looking at her from beneath them. “What's the matter? Don't you know anything about sex?” He noticed that she leaned forward against her arms, seeing him glance at her breasts. Probably scared to death of getting laid, and wanted to be, he thought.

Amy, twisting a strand of hair around one finger again, made her smile enigmatic, which Tony guessed. He kept on swinging his leg indolently and waiting for an answer. To avoid one, Amy looked out the plate-glass window, as if distracted by something beyond it. She succeeded in drawing Tony's stare past her. He saw nothing of interest in the street.

Amy's heart ached for the blind newsman with a scruffy dog, and for all the worn-looking people going to and from the subway, who must have boring jobs. Yet, here she sat lonesomely, and what then was the answer? The counterman might be surly because he had such terrible acne; why wouldn't his parents have taken him to a dermatologist? She thought about the people she had seen first going down into the subway, now emerging uptown into various lives. Tony seemed content, pulling paper napkins out of a holder. It terrified her that, having so much time left to live, she had no idea what was to happen. Naïvely, she fell back on what represented constant security, that her father and Jeff would always be there for her to go to. She thought again of the subway travellers, looked out at people on the street, at those inside the restaurant. Here we all are, she thought, which posed itself as the possible opening of a novel. She folded her hands neatly into her lap. Tony paused a moment before pulling out another paper napkin.

“Well,” Amy said, filling the pause, “here we are.”

“We'd better go,” Tony said, looking around. “People are beginning to wait for seats.” He got up, poking fingertips into the diminished pockets of his shrunken jeans. He had no change. If Amy could pay for his second coffee, he would pay her back later. She gave that no thought and put down the money. On the street, she was thrilled when Tony spoke to several well-known Village characters who had intrigued her from a distance. She thought Tony humane and longed herself to be a great humanitarian, but was too shy to speak to people. He would have made friends with the people in the Fourteenth Street cafeteria. He would have had a ready joke when the counterman spoke about her stockings. Sunlight, blustering thinly down upon them in the crevices that were streets, gave Tony's heavy-lidded eyes the pinkish tinge of a rabbit's. Exhausted, he could hardly keep his eyes open. He had been up all night painting.