An Independent Woman (43 page)

“It's up to Barbara,” Philip said.

“Yes, it must be Barbara's decision.”

They talked for a while, and then Eloise asked whether she could go upstairs and be there when Barbara awoke. “If you wouldn't mind, Philip? I'll be quiet as a mouse.”

“Yes, go ahead. I have some things I must do.”

“I'll wait here,” Sally said.

Eloise crept upstairs, went into the bedroom, where the blinds were drawn, and approached the bed. Barbara was still sleeping. Eloise sat in a chair by the bed, clasped her hands in her lap, and prayed silently and tried to hold back her tears.

Eloise sat quietly in prayer for at least half an hour. She heard steps on the stairs; the door opened and Philip looked in, said nothing, and then retreated. A while later Barbara stretched, yawned, and opened her eyes and saw Eloise, and smiled—and then suddenly came awake and cried, “Ellie! I'm not dreaming.”

Eloise clasped her in her arms and kissed her.

“What are you doing here so early?” Barbara asked, completely bewildered.

“It's not so early. It's almost noon. I drove here with Sally. She's downstairs.”

“I thought I was dreaming.”

“No, I'm real.”

“Do you know about me?”

“I know that you're alive and we're going to keep you alive.” She paused and then said, “Yes, I spoke to Joe last night.”

“And he told you the whole thing?”

“Yes.”

“You're going to keep me alive, Ellie?”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh, I do love you,” Barbara said. “What would I do without you?”

“You're not going to do without me. I brought some things with me, in case you want me to stay. But my hope is that you'll come back with us to Highgate. We have that big bedroom on the first floor where Freddie used to sleep. There are no stairs, and you'll have your own entrance. Philip told me that he will be with you.”

“Strange. I was so frightened yesterday—it was so sudden. It was an awful day. But now I feel all right. Nothing hurts very much. I took a sleeping pill and some other stuff, and I feel a little dopey, but I don't feel that I'm dying.”

“You're not. We won't let you die.”

“Oh,' sweetie, I try so hard not to be cynical. Philip doesn't understand cynicism. He wants to be my nurse and lover and cook—where is he, by the way?”

“Downstairs with Sally. He knows how close we are, and he wanted to let us have some time alone. That's why I want you to come down to the winery. You'll be out in the open, with the wind and the sky, and people won't be crowding into this room to see you and say all kinds of stupid things.”

“You mean they won't say stupid things at Highgate?”

“Oh, Bobby, that's not what I mean.”

“Why do I keep on teasing you? Yes, I'll go down to the Valley. I would have asked you whether you could bear to have a dying woman if you hadn't asked me. Help me dress, and then you'll have to help me pack. But remember, I can be an awful nuisance.”

“Let us worry about that.”

Dressed in an old skirt and sweater, Barbara said, “Would you go downstairs, Ellie, and tell Philip and Sally that I'll be down in a minute or two? I want to be alone for a moment. I want to shake the cobwebs out of my head.”

“Can you do the stairs alone?”

“Ellie, for heaven's sake!”

“I only wanted to make sure. Can I do breakfast—or lunch? I brought a cold roast chicken and some veggies.”

“Dear woman—no, thank you. Only coffee and toast. Joe prescribed huge vitamin pills—I don't know why, but doctors feel they must, I suppose.”

Eloise left to go downstairs, and Barbara dropped into a chair. It was a deep armchair, and suddenly she felt very weak and wondered whether she would have enough strength to pull herself out of the chair. It seemed to her that she had felt stronger when Eloise helped her in and out of the shower, but how could such a change have come about in a few minutes? She dozed off again and dreamed. In the dream, she had left Philip somewhere in Oakland, and she was in San Francisco trying to get her car. She had left it in a garage that her first husband, Bernie, had owned. But the car was too small for two, and Bernie promised that he would stretch it. There was a hotel nearby, and she went in to find a telephone and call Philip and tell him to wait for her, but the pages were torn out of every phone book, or were simply missing. She then called information, but was told that no numbers were available. Vaguely she could remember a gloomy street in Oakland where she and Philip had decided to live. But when she went back to the car it had disappeared. Then she awakened.

She tried to recollect the dream, and after a minute or two she gave up, forced herself out of the chair, and went downstairs. Philip heard her and started up the stairs to help her, but she shook her head. “I'm quite all right, darling.” At the foot of the stairs, he embraced her and she clung to him desperately. “I'm so happy you're here.”

Sally was standing behind him. Barbara pulled away from Philip and embraced Sally, whose eyes were tearful and reddened. “Poor dear,” Barbara said, “I slept the morning away and let you sit here and wait for me.”

“How do you feel?” Philip asked her.

“Fine. Where's the coffee and toast Ellie promised me?”

“In here,” Ellie said from the kitchen. “And fresh orange juice.”

Barbara found that she was looking at things newly, as if she had never seen them before, thinking that this was a wonderful kitchen—its windows overlooking the Bay; its shining white cabinets; its big gleaming refrigerator that was always almost empty, she was such a poor housewife; and the solid kitchen table of two-inch birch planks. Did she really want to leave this kitchen? Would she ever see the Bay again, with its sprinkling of white sails and the wind blowing through the Golden Gate? But on the other hand, if she didn't go to Highgate, would she ever see the low, rolling green hills, the vine stems laid out like soldiers on parade, the old stone houses, and the sunsets, and the Valley drenched with silver moonlight? Time was her enemy now. What was it Philip had said, that each moment is forever and all that we have and all we can depend on?

And it was nice to have people around who loved her and cared for her. Like the three people sitting at the table while she sipped her coffee and ate buttered toast. “Why am I eating alone?” she demanded as Eloise set the brown-skinned chicken and the bowls of peas and carrots and potatoes on the table. “Please eat, or that fine chicken will go to waste. I really can't stand all this attention. I'm being thoroughly spoiled.”

“That will be the day,” Eloise said.

“Do you really want me at Highgate, Ellie?” “Unless you don't want me around. We can't all stay here.”

As Eloise spoke the doorbell sounded, and Philip opened the door for Judith, Adam, Freddie, and May Ling, who crowded in to the kitchen. They bore baskets of fruit and wine.

No, Barbara said to herself, this is becoming impossible. With all the funerals I've attended, I never gave any thought to the importance of dying. Eloise is right; the Valley is more practical
.

T
HE VALLEY WAS SERENE AND BEAUTIFUL
. If tourists were still coming there, they did not come over the Silverado Trail, and winter had made a subtle change in the air. It was an old place, as places on the West Coast are measured, and the thousands of acres of stubby grape stands, denuded now of fruit and leaves, did not spoil the landscape. The fruit would come again and the wine would be made again.

There is something special about a place where wine is made; and when Philip and Barbara drove down the road early the following morning, Barbara smiled and laid her head against Philip's shoulder, and asked him why she felt that she was coming home.

“I think you are.”

“As much as I've ever had a home, I guess. Sam Goldberg gave me the house on Green Street, and when I'm gone, it will be yours, Philip. All my things are there—papers, books, and all the rest of it. I brought a copy of the manuscript with me, but I doubt whether I'll be able to work on it. So it will be unfinished—if anyone cares to publish it. I also brought a book of poems that I wrote—still in manuscript. I never told you about my poems. I suppose I was a little ashamed of them. Most novelists are not good poets. There were exceptions, like Thomas Hardy.”

“Can I read some of them?”

“We can read them aloud, if you want to. Some of them. Some of them should simply not be seen, but I can't throw away things I've written. Like finishing a book once you've started to read it. As a little girl, I felt it was sinful not to finish a book I started to read, no matter how boring.”

“Yes, I suffered the same syndrome. We make so many rules for ourselves.”

“Too many. And in the end, what does it amount to, Philip?”

“A great deal, believe me.”

“Sound and fury,” Barbara said.

“There is no death,” Philip replied.

“Ah, dear Philip, if I could only believe you.”

She dozed off. It was difficult for Philip to believe that this was a mortally sick woman with only a few weeks of life left to her. He was relieved that she had decided to come down to the Valley; it would be good for her riot to be alone, to be surrounded with people who loved her—and to be surrounded in a normal manner, not with a parade of people crowding into the house on Green Street to pay their respects. How much better it is to die quickly and easily. His thoughts went back to that day in July when she sought him out and asked whether she could speak to him. It was only seven months ago, and so much had happened since then.
It is not often
, he reflected,
that a man and woman in their seventies are given a gift of love
—
passionate and complete love.
He couldn't anticipate her death; she was too alive, too much of this world, and he thanked the God he believed in that through her he had returned to this world from the morass he had fallen into after Agatha, his first wife, had passed away. He recalled once meeting a Buddhist rashi who said to him that no one was alone, that we breathe the air that others exhale, that we are all of the same substance and flesh, that nothing is ever lost; yet at the same time, his heart went out to Barbara. His silent plea was
Please let her believe.

Barbara awoke as they were turning into the gates of the winery. As they drove up to the main house, Barbara saw Eloise sitting in an Adirondack chair and waiting for them to arrive. Trying to hold back her tears, and then bursting into tears, she embraced Barbara, who soothed her as she would a child and found herself saying, “Poor Eloise—you mustn't.”

Eloise dried her eyes and managed to ask, “Was it a good drive? It's such a fine day.”

“I slept most of the way,” Barbara said. “Pity Philip. I've turned him into a chauffeur as well as housemaid and cook. And do you know what, Philip? I'm going to let you unpack while Eloise and I go off by ourselves.”

“That's proper. You've had enough of me for a while.”

Eloise led them away from the main entrance of the stone house to a wing with a separate doorway. “Adam built this part of the house for Josh during Vietnam. It's a nice big room with its own bath and shower. We wanted Freddie to use it, but he had his own room and it was a big emotional thing. Mostly, it's been closed up. I aired it out and we changed some of the furniture and put a new rug in there, and the walls have been repapered.”

It was a beautiful room with French doors that opened onto the patio behind the house, and big white-curtained windows. There was a double bed piled with cushions, a television set, two large, comfortable armchairs, two chests of drawers, and a large closet. Barbara smiled in delight and told Eloise she had done miracles since she last saw it. The box in one corner, Eloise explained, was a small refrigerator with cold drinks and some bottles of wine—“White wine,” she said in a whisper, noticing Adam entering the room with Freddie behind him, both of them carrying the luggage.

After they greeted Barbara she said that she and Eloise were going off by themselves and that they would appear for lunch. She opened one suitcase and took out a thick Irish sweater. Philip reminded her about her medication.

“When I come back. I'm not going to root around for it,”

“Now,” Philip said firmly. “I have it right here in my pocket.” He brought her a glass of water from the bathroom, and she swallowed the two pills and grimaced.

Then she and Eloise left the room.

“Are you sure you're up to walking?” Eloise asked her.

“I am walking. Philip was right about the Percocet—it quiets me. I can't walk for too long, but I think I have enough strength to get up the hill to our place—if we take it slowly.” She opened the door of her car. “Ellie, darling, reach in over the backseat. I have a cane there. I'll hate to walk with a cane, but a little prudence is the better part of valor.”

Eloise retrieved the cane, and they walked along slowly to the path that led up the hillside. It was at least two hundred yards to the beginning of the rise, and when they reached that point, Barbara gave up. “I can't, Ellie. It would be stupid for me to try. I'm so disappointed.” They turned back and found an old wooden bench against the wall of the aging rooms. It was in full sunshine and out of the breeze. They sat down and rested while Barbara caught her breath.

Eloise, for whom chatter was always easy, could think of nothing to say, and finally Barbara asked her, “Do you believe in God and all that goes with it?”

“My goodness, that's a question, isn't it? Yes and no. Not all that goes with it, but I suppose I do believe. I try hard to get to church sometimes, and I suppose it makes me feel good.”

“I read a statistic that ninety percent of Americans believe in God. I don't know why I have to be in the ten percent who don't.”