A Hundred Summers (29 page)

“Sneak into your apartment and find your birth certificate?”

“Something like that.”

Nick’s hands rest on the steering wheel. “Lily, by now your father will have read the note. Everything will be in an uproar.”

“They won’t know where we’ve gone.”

“But Lake George is the obvious place, isn’t it?”

A tiny flake of snow staggers through the air and lands, as if in afterthought, on the windshield.

“Let’s just go,” I say. “We’ll figure everything out. Once we’re there together, everyone will have to go along with it. We can have them telephone down to the records office in New York. I’m sure they do that all the time.”

Nick taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “If they can’t, though? If we have to wait?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if we’re up there together, and we can’t get married right away. Do you mind?” He turns to me with an earnest weight to his face, almost pleading.

“Oh. Yes, I see.”

Nick picks up my hand. “Should we just turn around and go back? Try again another time?”

“No!” The word catapults from my throat. “No, Nick. Let’s go. We’ll . . . we’ll figure it out when we get there. It doesn’t matter.”

“Everyone will talk.”

“I don’t care about that. Let them talk. Don’t you see, if we’re up there together, there’s nothing my parents can do, is there? They’ll
have
to accept you.”

My words swing back and forth, back and forth, in the center of Nick’s silence.

He removes his hand from mine and curls it around the steering wheel. His voice shifts into an entirely new register, low in his chest.

“
Have
to accept me? What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean . . . you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I get it, all right. If I’ve already gone to bed with you, if I’ve already despoiled their virgin daughter, they’ll
have
to approve the black wolf entering the fold. Have I got it straight?”

“Don’t put it that way.”

“Why not? That’s what you meant, isn’t it? Maybe I should make you pregnant while I’m at it. That would seal the deal efficiently, wouldn’t it?”

“It might,” I say defiantly, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “It just might. Why don’t we get right to it, then? Right here in the car? What are you waiting for? The sooner the better.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Nick holds himself still, his large frame hunched over the wheel, staring onto the flat frozen plains outside Albany. “That’s just rich,” he says, and turns the ignition. “The honorable son-in-law. Just rich. Won’t they adore me.”

The car rumbles beneath me. He lets it idle for a moment, warming up. The silence between us stretches as tight as a backstay, so tight I’m afraid to speak for fear of snapping everything altogether.

At last he releases the clutch and backs out of the parking lot.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Lake George, I guess.” He checks for traffic and pulls out on the highway with a mighty roar of the Packard’s engine. “God forbid we should disappoint them all.”

BY THE TIME
we reach Lake George, it’s nearly seven o’clock in the evening, and the snow is falling heavily. “I stayed here once with my parents,” says Nick, peering through the windshield into the swirling darkness. “A big old hotel, right on the lake. I’m sure they’ve got rooms.”

His eyes are heavy, his face is heavy. He’s exhausted. One highway was blocked off, and we had to backtrack and take a more circuitous route, nearly running out of gas before we found a lone service station. The falling snow reduced our speed to a crawl. I could see how tired he was and begged him to allow me to take over, but he refused. “You don’t even know how to drive,” he said.

“Yes, I do. I used to drive my father’s car right up Seaview Neck and back.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not good enough. Not on these roads. Don’t worry, I can manage.”

We stopped for lunch, where Nick drank about a gallon of coffee, and still I can feel the waves of fatigue rolling off him. “Is it close by?” I ask.

“Should be.” He turns a corner, and the Packard slides out from under us for a dizzying second before Nick brings her back under control.

“I’m sorry.” I unclench my hands from the edge of the seat. “This is all my fault. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It’s all right, sweetheart. We’re almost there. We’ll have a hot dinner and a hot bath and be good as new.”

The hotel is enormous, a grand resort the way they used to build them. The lobby opens around us in a carnival of pillars and plaster, of red velvet settees and carpeting worn with paths. A restaurant lies to the left, the mahogany-lined bar dead ahead. To our surprise, every corner crawls with guests.

“We have a big New Year’s party here every year,” says the clerk. “Fills us right up. Do you have a reservation?”

“No,” says Nick. “Anything is fine, so long as there’s a bed.”

The clerk’s eyes narrow with doubt. He looks over his floor plan, clicking his tongue.

Nick leans forward. “Look, my wife and I are here on our honeymoon. We’ve driven a long distance today. Surely something can be arranged?”

The clerk looks up and sends a single skeptical eyebrow arching into his forehead. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. . . . ?”

“Greenwald.”

“Greenwald. Again, congratulations.” He glances at my left hand with a discreet flick of his eyes. “But I’m afraid we have no rooms. Perhaps you might choose to make a reservation in advance, next time.” He awards us a gleaming smile.

Nick’s right index finger taps the wooden counter in a deliberate rhythm. With each strike, I can feel his anger mounting.

“Nick, perhaps the man can suggest another hotel nearby.”

“Just a moment, darling. May I have the favor of a private word with you, sir?” Nick says, with steely politeness.

The clerk’s throat moves up and down. “Certainly, sir.”

I lean my elbow against the counter and watch them slide away, speaking in hushed tones. Nick’s body tilts toward the clerk just slightly, so that his head overhangs the counter in a fierce profile. I recognize that expression. It’s the same unstoppable face he wore the moment I first saw him. As he speaks, the clerk seems to shrink into his neat white collar, nodding and working his mouth.

Across the lobby, a grand piano strikes up “Thinking of You.” A woman in a long midnight-blue dress leans against the ebony and begins to sing in a sultry half-drunk voice.

“Mrs. Greenwald?”

It takes me an instant to realize that the clerk is addressing me.

“Yes?” I ask, turning.

“It seems we have a room available after all. Will there be any luggage?”

“No. No luggage.” Behind us, the singer pours out her heart.

So I think of no other one

Ever since I’ve begun

Thinking of you

Nick is signing the guest book with bold movements of an enamel fountain pen. I glance down at the page.
Mr. and Mrs. Nicholson Greenwald, New York City,
it says, in Nick’s slanted black handwriting.

“We’d like dinner sent up to the room,” says Nick, laying down the pen and looking the clerk in the eye. “Prime rib, a center cut, if you’ve got it, and your best claret.”

“Sir,” says the clerk timidly, “we cannot offer wine. As you know.”

“Of course not. My mistake. A pitcher of water, then. Ice water. What would you like for dessert, darling?”

I clear my throat. “Chocolate cake?”

“Chocolate cake for my wife,” says Nick. “In half an hour, please. No later. We’re very hungry.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” Nick picks up the key and holds out his arm for me. “Mrs. Greenwald? Are you coming?”

I loop my mink-covered arm through his. “Oh, I’m coming, all right.”

Our room is on a high floor, at the end of a long corridor clothed in faded crimson. Nick reaches for the knob and unlocks it, and before I can even think to gasp, swings me up into his tired arms.

“But we aren’t married yet!” I protest, as he carries me over the threshold.

“
Shh.
If driving sixteen hours upstate through a snowstorm doesn’t constitute a marriage vow, I don’t know what does. Anyway, welcome home, Mrs. Almost-Greenwald.” He flips the light switch with his elbow.

I slide out of Nick’s arms and look around. Despite the dim glow of the light overhead, the room sits in a persistent winter darkness, faintly musty, the curtains closed snugly over the windows. Nick takes off his coat and slings it over a chair, and wanders over to the window to push aside the heavy draperies. “You can’t see much, but the clerk assured me we’re overlooking the lake. I guess we’ll find out in the morning.”

“The snow should be finished by then, don’t you think?” I join him next to the window and look out. There’s nothing to see, only the blurry flakes driving past the glass and the faint white shadow of the landscape beyond, reflecting the light from the hotel. Our faces float in front of it all, bemused and spent.

“It’s a beautiful spot,” says Nick. “We were here in the summer, and it was lovely. The lake goes on and on.” His voice hangs in the air like a leaden weight.

“You’re exhausted.” I put my hands at his waist, underneath his black tailcoat, and turn him around to face me. “You’ve been up all night.”

“I’ve done it before. I’ll be all right.”

My eyes ache, looking up at his familiar face, at the tiny prickles of his beard emerging from his jaw. “I didn’t mean to rush you like this. I didn’t mean to make you . . . We should have waited, shouldn’t we, until June, until after school was out. . . .”

Nick’s hands rise up to envelop my face. “What are you saying, Lilybird? Don’t say that.” He bends to kiss the tears from my cheeks. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Imagine the story we’ll have for our kids one day. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the universe right now, than in this room with you.”

“But what do we do now? There’s the rest of the year, we have to finish our degrees, and . . .”

“Don’t worry about that. Don’t worry about any of it. We’re together, that’s what matters. What’s a few months? What’s a little blowup with our families? We’ve got fifty or sixty years to go, Lily. This is nothing.” He touches his forehead to mine. “Actually, this is everything. It’s our beginning. Start with a bang, that’s the thing.”

I laugh through my tears. “We’ve done that, all right. Now, go take a bath before dinner comes up.”

“No, you go first. I can wait.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ve been driving all day. You must be as stiff as a board. You take the first bath, and I’ll make sure your dinner is all laid out and ready when you come out.” I give him a nudge. “My first wifely duty.”

Nick draws back and waggles his eyebrows. “You could always join me.”

“If you get lonely, I’ll toss you a rubber duckie.”

He gives me a last kiss and disappears into the bathroom. The hiss of running water seeps past the door, and then the soft thud of his movements. I busy myself about the room, turning on the lamps, hanging up Nick’s coat, reading all the notices. There’s not much to do. No luggage to unpack, no clothes to change. Next to the wall, the bed waits promisingly; a honeymoon bed, sized for two. The counterpane is tucked up around the pillows.

I hesitate, contemplating the corners and dimensions, as if it’s a wild animal standing in my path.

The radiator groans in the corner, making me jump. My skin flushes with warmth beneath the heavy mink coat. I slide it off my shoulders and hang it in the wardrobe next to Nick’s sober wool, and then I go to the bed and turn down the bedspread with businesslike movements, fluffing the pillows, straightening the sheets, as I have done a thousand times before with my own bed in my own room, at Seaview and Smith College and the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Nearby, behind the bathroom door, Nick’s large body is by now settling into the steaming water, making it slosh along the enameled walls of the tub. Does he have soap in there? Should I ask? Knock, or poke my head through the door?

I cannot bring myself to do either. A rap sounds on the door, and dinner arrives in silver domes on a small wheeled table covered with a white tablecloth. The waiter arranges everything with great care, silent as the grave; he pulls out a bottle of wine from under the tablecloth and uncorks it with a gentle pop. When he’s finished, he straightens and looks at me expectantly.

A tip. Oh, God. I didn’t bring any money with me.

“Just a moment,” I say.

I knock on the bathroom door and open it a crack. “Nick,” I whisper, staring at the floor, “dinner’s here.”

“Hmm?”
His voice is sleepy.

“Dinner’s here. He . . . I’m sorry, he needs a tip, and I didn’t bring anything . . .”

The sound of dripping water, as if Nick is lifting his head. “Oh, damn. I’m sorry, sweetheart. My clip’s in the inside pocket of my coat. Take whatever you need.”

I close the door, go to the wardrobe, and work my hand inside the liquid silk lining of Nick’s overcoat until I find a hard lump. I slide it free. The gold clip is stuffed with bills, large bills, hundreds and twenties. Perhaps this is what the hotel clerk found so persuasive.
Take whatever you need,
said Nick, casually, offhandedly, the way married couples do. I don’t feel casual at all. I finger through Nick’s money until I find a dollar bill, then remember the contraband claret and select a five and fold it into a discreet rectangle.