After the Fire (8 page)

“A washcloth soaked in ice water will help,” Gerald said.

He was standing in the doorway. Perhaps her slight fumbling had awakened him, or perhaps he had only pretended to be asleep.

“I'll tell you what will help. My return to the place from which you so joyfully took me. What is that poem of Robert Frost's? ‘Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.’ But it will only be temporary. I can manage alone. I and my baby can manage. We don't need you.”

“What time does their flight get in tomorrow?” he asked, ignoring her words.

“Ten-fifteen. Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters. You can't go looking like this, and you can't let them stand there waiting.”

“It's not your problem. They're my parents, and I'll go for them.”

“That's ridiculous. I left the morning free for their visit.”

“Oh, you care so much about them, don't you?”

“I want to give you another hour and a half to get your face back to normal before they see you.”

“What are you saying? That you think this horror can be kept secret?”

“To begin with, it isn't a horror. It's a thing that can be discussed with reason if you'll only try. But we don't
have to greet them with it the minute they set foot at the door. That's all I'm saying.”

“Don't lecture me. I hate that harsh voice. If it weren't for the baby that's growing in me, I'd want to die tonight, or murder you.”

“Hyacinth, will you listen to me? And for God's sake, for the thousandth time, will you throw the goddamn cigarette away? I'm sick of seeing it.”

“Then don't look at it. Let me alone. I don't know you. I don't want to know you.”

There was no other place to sleep than in the bed. The night had turned chilly and, shivering from dampness and tension, she lay long with open eyes, watching light flare in and out as clouds moved over the moon. Whether he slept or not, she neither knew nor cared.

Yesterday's asters, retrieved from the floor, were on the table. On either side of them stood the crystal candlesticks that Jim and Francine had just brought. Hyacinth had made her father's old favorite chicken-and-shrimp dish. She had iced the celebratory champagne, and Gerald had poured it. Francine had reported on all the brothers and their children; in her scarlet blouse and her pearls, she glowed. She never has any trouble, Hy thought. It was all very familiar, all very cozy. Or to be accurate, it would have been so, if she had not still been wavering between telling them now or waiting to write or telephone them later, after they were home.

Conversation ranged from their grandchildren who, like most grandchildren, were extraordinary, to George's
transfer back home from Singapore, to Paul's new house. Jim did most of the talking. Francine, unusually quiet, seemed to be glancing more often than necessary at Hyacinth.

“We were thinking,” Jim said, “only beginning to think that our house is getting too large and empty for us. Of course, I love my garden. We both do. But if we could find a smaller house with the same outdoor space, and if maybe you folks when you come back east were interested in our house, we might do something about giving it to you.”

“It's a beautiful house,” Gerald exclaimed. “An incredible gift!”

“It's far too early to talk about it now.” Francine's intervention was pleasant and practical.

“Well, of course,” Gerald said. “Right now I'm in another world.” And he launched into an account of his daily routine, which appeared to interest them. He spoke in his usual vivid fashion.

“It was a totally unnecessary accident—no seat belts. He went through the windshield on the passenger side. I can't begin to describe his face. Can you imagine, a whole life psychologically transformed after that? A young man with everything to live for? You can believe I was shaking in my shoes when Grump—that's Malcolm Grumboldt, chief of the service—told me to take over. Of course he was right at my elbow, and he would have stopped me in a second if I'd been doing anything wrong. But thank God, it went well.”

“Don't know how you do it,” said Jim, admiring his son-in-law. “When was this?”

“Yesterday afternoon.” Gerald smiled. “My nerves were still twitching, even when I got home.”

And that, thought Hyacinth, is for my benefit. Shall I say it now?

Francine was still examining her. “Is there anything wrong with your eyes? They look awfully tired or swollen or something.”

No, not now.

“I seem to have developed an allergy. It's nothing much, just comes and goes.”

“Oh, tell them,” Gerald intervened, as if he were coaxing. “All right then, if you won't, I will. Hyacinth is pregnant and hasn't been feeling one hundred percent.”

Her startled stare asked him what trick this might be. And then came the gasps of delight.

“Darling!” cried Francine. “Why didn't you say anything? Why, that's marvelous!”

Gerald said, “You women, so they tell me, like to keep it secret until you're sure everything's all right.”

Then came that dreadful, uncontrollable flush again. It burned its way up Hyacinth's neck. What did he mean by this? She waited for him to go on with an account of their quarrel, their fight, their break. But he did not.

Jim, rising to kiss her on the forehead, became emotional. “There's something about a daughter's having a baby that's different somehow, although it shouldn't be, I guess. Oh, your grandmother will be so pleased to be a ‘great’ again.”

Francine, having kissed Hy, remembered to kiss Gerald, too. “Lucky baby,” she told him. “Not everyone's child these days has such good parents. Now, Hyacinth,
will you let me buy the layette? I love to shop for baby things.”

She loves to shop, period. What am I supposed to say now?
Hy sat there in dismay.

“Now you'll really have to stop smoking,” Francine said. Her smile was loving. It had been a long time since she had, even casually, criticized anything about her daughter, her hair or makeup or smoking. And Hyacinth understood that that had been because she was so pleased, so grateful that the marriage had turned out to be wonderful after all.

Gently, sick at heart, she replied, “Of course I will. I threw away every cigarette in the house the moment I knew. I intend to take good care of this baby,” she added, with a straight look at Gerald.

Then there were questions about finding another apartment, about getting a larger car to replace the little red one, and whether to buy or lease it—an hour's worth of kind and loving questions.

“We have a long time to wait,” Gerald said at last, “although Hyacinth has already made some preparations. Where's the panda? Go get it, Hyacinth.”

So she had to bring out the clumsy thing that that morning she had stuffed away on the top shelf in the hall closet. Humming and singing the “Blue Danube” waltz, Jim circled the room with the panda, and everyone except Hyacinth laughed, everyone except Hyacinth had more champagne, and everyone said what a wonderful day this was, until it became time to take the parents back to their hotel for the night.

“Come ride along, Hy. We're flying home early in the
morning, and we won't be seeing you for a while,” Jim urged.

But Francine contradicted him. “Let Hyacinth stay here. I think she's tired.”

“I am, a little.” I'm not tired, Hy thought. I'm torn to pieces, that's all.

She was putting the cream cake into the refrigerator when Francine followed her with a question.

“Are you all right, Hyacinth?”

“Why, yes. Yes, I'm all right.”

There, as always whenever Francine was resolute, were the two vertical lines between her eyes.
No, not now. Write to them.

“You and Gerald—you get along well together, don't you?”

It was a mother's prerogative to ask, wasn't it? And some sort of answer was required, wasn't it?

“Oh, we have our little spats,” she admitted.

Francine was judging her. For a moment she seemed to hesitate. Then cheerfully, she agreed. “Little spats. Yes, it would be pretty queer if one didn't.”

Hy was in bed when Gerald came back and stood in the doorway.

“What was the meaning of that talk at the table?” she asked as she sat up.

“That I had been thinking things over and realized that I was terribly wrong. I'm ashamed, and I'm here to apologize.”

“Yes? What changed your mind so suddenly?”

“It's not sudden. It was my first response yesterday
that was sudden. There wasn't any thinking behind it, no thinking at all. I'd had a hard day, as you heard. I was tired, which is no excuse. I couldn't possibly, now that I think about it, couldn't possibly have meant what I said. That's why I'm apologizing.”

He looked as if he were in pain. Everything was all mixed up. Her eyes began to fill, and she didn't want
that
business all over again. Angrily she wiped them with the back of her hand.

“I've made you suffer,” he said.

“That's true.” When he moved toward her, she put up her hand. “No, not yet. Do you really want this baby? Because if you don't, you know, I'm going to have it anyway. Without you.”

“I'm ashamed,” he repeated. “Hy, please. Please understand. I beg you. I panicked. I was thinking about time and money and everything. But now, yes, I do want it. All the way back from the hotel just now, I've been thinking how we'll manage it. There's space enough in this room for a crib. He—she—won't be much more than a year old when we leave here, and then we'll have plenty of room. The carriage can go in the hall. It'll be a tight fit, but that's not important. Oh Hyacinth, forgive and forget! Please, darling, you can forgive it and forget it. You know you can.”

Given time, thought Hyacinth, a cut heals. The injury that first bleeds red becomes a white scar and ends as a faint indentation in the flesh.

Her boy was born with no trouble at all before the dawn of a fine June morning. After a welcome sleep, she
awoke to feel noon; the sun glittered and the public golf course in the park across the road was already filled. People dressed in primary colors were dots on the green as in a Brueghel landscape, she thought with pleasure. Close to her window, a locust tree was dripping a rain of creamy blossoms. And in the nursery down the hall slept a husky baby with a crown of black hair.

“A handsome boy,” the nurse said when she brought him into Hy's room. “He looks like his father already.”

“Gerald, Junior,” said the father. “We'll simply call him Jerry, with a J so there'll be no confusion.”

The name was not Hyacinth's choice, but as she of all people had to remind herself, what's in a name? The important thing was that Gerald was already rejoicing in his son. He was jubilant.

“Look at him! Look at the long legs! And what a pair of shoulders. A beautiful head, too, for a newborn. You can see the bone structure even now.”

As Hyacinth fed the baby, Gerald sat there watching the process while shaking his head as if in disbelief.

“Mother and child. What a picture. The most common sight in the world, yet always new, always a miracle. Well, I hope life will be good to him. Your parents were thrilled, weren't they?”

“Oh, yes. Francine had been wanting a boy, after all my brothers' daughters.”

“I think I've got some real news for you, Hy. Grump—excuse me, I guess I really should say Dr. Grumboldt—knows we plan to go back east, so he gave me a contact that might be just the thing. He's a tremendously successful man who did a residency here ten or
twelve years ago. He's got a crazy name. Listen to this: Jack Arnold Ritter-Sloan. Anyway, he's a very nice guy, Grump says, good-natured, easy to get along with, a real business-getter besides being a top-notch surgeon, bit of a spendthrift but that's his business. In short a very bright guy. Grump wanted to keep him here, but he just suddenly decided he wanted to leave, and he up and left. Now he's so busy back east that he needs an associate. Top-quality only, Grump says, and I might be just the right man.” Gerald paused. “Let me tell you, Hy, Grump doesn't often give compliments.”

Her mind went back to the day when she had given a lift to a forlorn young man alone on a hill in the driving rain. New mothers tend to be overemotional, and I, she thought, was overemotional to start with. She had to smile at herself.

The months rolled around the calendar, and things happened as things do, while big changes loomed ahead like tumbled summer clouds in a blue sky. Jerry laughed, rolled over, sat up, crawled, and stumbled on two feet. He was strong, vigorous, and sweet. He throve. When his eyes flashed mischief, as they often did, he was more than ever a duplicate of his father. Often Hyacinth, as she watched over him, reflected on what his advent had done for his parents. She had never thought that, except for some minor vexations and a few crucial hours in the past, she and Gerald could ever know greater harmony in marriage. But this tiny boy, this life that was half his and half hers, had brought it about.

Gerald was comical. He bought every conceivable toy from age six months, up to a bright blue three-wheeler that Jerry would not be able to use for at least two years. He bought a cowboy hat and western jeans the size of a dinner napkin. For Hy's birthday, he surprised her with Jerry's photograph in a handsome old frame. And for Jerry's first birthday, he corralled every doctor who had a toddler for a cake-and-ice-cream event on a great lawn in the park.

“I want him to have everything I didn't have,” he said.

The apartment was cramped. All their fine presents, from Granny's handmade rugs to Francine's ornaments, were put away for safety's sake. One could barely move around without stubbing a toe or bashing an elbow. And it was all wonderful.

Somehow Hyacinth was still able to do a little painting while Jerry napped in the afternoon, or in the evening after his bedtime. Far from being worn out, she was exhilarated. She painted cottonwood trees, with a distant skyscraper rising alone on the vast flat land, and she made a pen-and-ink sketch of the apartment house so Jerry might have a memento of his first home.

She even sold some paintings. The best of her work was a copy of the photograph, the gift of her friends at the museum back home, of Ernest Shackleton's stranded ship in Antarctica.