Blessings (29 page)

Jill answered, this time including Jennie in her remarks by giving her an intense, almost a challenging look. “It wasn’t only that. It wasn’t especially that I wanted to be there, only that I wanted to know why I couldn’t be there. Why I must never get in touch with you but wait for you to call me. You’ve built a wall. It felt like—it feels like—the Berlin Wall.”

Yes, Jennie thought. And I, like a Berliner, am trapped behind it. Caught. Locked in. And once more, moderately, with obstinate patience, she tried to present herself as a person with rights.

“Sometimes I think that privacy’s becoming a lost privilege. Why shouldn’t it be enough to say that I have my own reasons?”

“In the circumstances it’s not nearly enough,” Jill said sternly. “You wouldn’t say it was exactly a loving wel—

come that you’re giving me, would you? I know the committee people—Mr. Riley and Emma Dunn—told me it wouldn’t be easy. They said I should be patient and —and I think I have been, but I never expected anything like this.”

For an instant Jennie dropped her forehead into her hands, which were cold on her aching eyeballs.

“Ah, you won’t see. … Is it impossible for you to take me as I am?”

Very softly Peter asked, “Let me ask you something frankly, Jennie. Are you perhaps married? With children? Is that it?”

She raised her head. “No. No to both.”

“Then you’re free, like me.”

The room was hot, and although not crowded, it still gave Jennie the sense of too many people crowding in. She felt dizzy; perhaps in her agitated state the half glass of wine was doing it.

“Then you’re entirely free,” Peter said again, this time in a rising tone, a question.

Jennie was sick. It must have shown in her face, because Peter broke off to stare at her. I can’t take any more of this, she thought. They’re people who can’t be trusted. I never could tell them the truth. They would harry and harass me until Jay found out.

They will do it, anyway.

Overcome, she now had to flee from them, had to get out, to shut a door behind her. She stood up, seizing the suit jacket that hung on the back of her chair.

“I can’t stay,” she said brusquely. “I can’t. Don’t you see I’m sick?” And repeating, “Sorry, sorry, I can’t stay,” she left, almost running, racing through startled strollers in the vast lobbies, just as her daughter had run from her that other day.

On Park Avenue there was snow in the air. Low clouds above the skyscrapers were stained rust-brown where the city flung up its lights. I’d like to get on a plane and fly beyond those clouds, she whispered to herself; I’d mount and soar and fly to any place at all. Instead she got into the first taxi that drew to the curb, opened the windows to inhale the sharp wind, gave the driver a bill, and, without waiting for change, raced up the stairs to her refuge.

The bedroom was untypically neglected. She had dressed in such haste, in order not to be late, that her workday clothes were not put away and now lay where they had been dropped: a skirt on a chair, a blouse on another chair, shoes in the center of the floor along with the overturned contents of her briefcase, which had fallen off the bed. Scattered papers trailed on the bed and the floor. She scuffed through them without picking them up, pulled off the bedspread, flung her outer clothes away, and, in bra and petticoat, threw herself down on the bed.

The room was a prison, yet there was no place else to go. She turned and turned on the mattress. Demons, winged and black, plucked and clawed: the old, simple man lay dead on the frozen road among dark trees; Peter and Jill nagged and probed and wouldn’t let her go; Enid Wolfe appraised her with level, steady, analytical gaze… . The demon wings, bat wings, fluttered, and the hands were alligator claws.

She leapt from the bed. If nothing else could drive them off, maybe whiskey could. It wouldn’t take much to get the ginger-ale woman drunk. She had never in all her life been drunk.

Filling a fruit-juice glass, as if she had a July thirst, with the Chivas Regal that was kept on the shelf for Jay, she swallowed it and shuddered. Awful stuff! Burning rubber! It singed her mouth, ran to her head, and flamed its way down to her feet. It was like being struck by lightning, or hit by a truck.

Barely able to walk, she clung to the walls all the way back to the bedroom, where she managed to turn off the phone and the lamp before falling again across the bed.

Something was ringing. It sounded far away, as if some pests on the street were making merriment with a damn-fool bell.

“Oh, God Almighty, will you stop that?” she mumbled. Her lips felt thick, her mouth dry, and it was too much trouble to open it.

Suddenly she understood that the ring was close; it was in the apartment, her own doorbell.

“I’m sick of this,” she said aloud. The room swayed when she sat up and spun as she stumbled toward the light that burned in the little foyer.

“Who are you? What the devil do you want?” she cried, pulling so hard at the door that it slammed against the wall.

“Peter. It’s Peter.”

She blinked, not sure she understood. “Wha-what are you doing here? Peter? You?”

He stepped in, closed the door, and locked it.

“You scared the hell out of me! I didn’t know what was happening to you. But I had to pay the bill before I could rush after you.” He was out of breath. “And you’d just disappeared! So I put Jill in a taxi, had to scrounge around for a taxi for myself, and—and here I am. How are you? Are you all right?”

“So … you see how I am. Fine. I’m just fine. Just.”

He came nearer, to stare at her in astonishment.

“Jennie, for God’s sake, you’re drunk!”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She began to laugh. “I can’t stand up. I guess I’ll have to sit on the floor.”

“No, no.” He caught her just as her legs gave way; her bones were melting. “Come on. You’re going to bed.”

“I was in bed. Damn you for getting me up! Now I’ll have to cry again.”

He shook his head. “What have you been drinking?”

“I don’t know. Lemonade. Mouthwash.” She giggled and wept. “Oh, I’m sad, so sad. You can’t know how sad I am. Nobody knows.”

He was holding her. Strong hands under her arms held her upright. He spoke gently, “I’m sorry, Jennie. But let’s get you to bed. You’re not used to drinking, are you? Still the ginger-ale girl, are you?” Half carried, half pushed, she was being led toward the bed.

“Ginger-ale girl. Sure. That’s me. All the time.”

“This crazy bed … Papers and pocketbooks and shoes all mixed up in it … How can you lie in a bed like this?”

“None of your business. Mind your own business. Keep out of my pocketbook.”

“I’m not in your pocketbook. Look, I’m putting everything on the chair. Look.”

But propped up against the headboard, she was looking directly at the mirror over the dresser. Her eyes wavered over a watery shape, gaped at puifed cheeks and smudged mascara, at a transparent half-slip and at one round breast that had escaped from the lace brassiere.

“I’m a mess. Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord, I’m a mess.”

“You won’t be a mess in the morning, after you’ve slept.” He pulled the blanket over her naked breast. “Seriously, Jennie, I have to tell you, you shouldn’t open the door without knowing who’s there. Don’t you know that? Don’t you know what could happen?”

“I don’t care. I don’t care, don’t care, don’t care, don’t—”

“All right, that’s enough. Here, let me straighten the pillows. Now lie back and sleep. I’m going to go stretch out on your sofa.”

“No you’re not! You can’t stay here. Get out!”

“I am definitely not going to leave you in this condition.

In the morning you’ll feel a whole lot better, you won’t believe me when I tell you about this, and you’ll even laugh at yourself. Then we’ll talk about things, and after that I’ll get out.”

“I don’t want to talk about things with you. I want you to leave me alone, you hear me? Go away. Stay away.”

“I’m going away, as far as the other room for now. Okay, I’m turning your light off.”

“Leave it! I have to get up, go to the office. I’m a working woman.”

“Jennie, it’s Monday night, a quarter to ten, and you’re going to sleep this off the rest of the night.”

Darkness dropped down again. It was warm, warm darkness, like tropical air. You don’t know anything about tropical air, Jennie. You don’t know anything, don’t want to know anything. Peter’s here, and isn’t that funny? I’m laughing, it’s so funny. I’m crying. Oh, let me sleep, all of you, everybody. Get out of my life.

She woke. Again she had no idea how long she had been sleeping, but this time, although terrible knives and hammers were savaging her head, consciousness was a little clearer. She knew what had happened and what was happening. Peter was on the couch in the next room, and beyond him, someone was at the door ringing and pounding.

She sat up. The light went on in the living room. Stocking feet slid over the bare floor where the rug stopped, moving cautiously over the creaking board toward the door. She had a subtle awareness of relief at not being alone. Those men … looking for the tapes … Nonsense … not nonsense.

Peter called out, “What do you want?”

“Take that chain off the door and let me in or I’ll have the police here in three minutes,” Jay shouted.

Jennie’s heart stopped.

“Who the hell are you? I can have the police here in three minutes myself.”

“What have you done to Jennie? Damn you, take that chain off, I said!”

“Damn yourself! I haven’t done anything to Jennie. She’s asleep in bed.”

And Jennie was whimpering into the dark: Take hold of yourself. The moment’s come, it’s here, not even in the way you feared, but worse, so much worse. She turned on the lamp. Her brassiere had come loose and fallen off; the half-slip was wrinkled over her thighs. In her dizzy haste she looked for a robe and couldn’t find one; throwing on the suit jacket that lay on the chair and holding the skirt in front of her, she ran to the living room.

Peter, in undershirt and trousers with belt unbuckled for comfort, was still at the front door, through which, in the gap where the chain had been loosened, there appeared the frantic face of Jay.

Jennie’s voice was broken. “It’s all right, Peter. Open the door.”

Jay entered. He stared first at Jennie, who was holding the skirt like a screen, then at the disheveled man and back at Jennie.

“Who is this? Jesus Christ, what’s happening? Has he hurt you?”

“No, no. He’s a friend. It’s all right.”

“All right? A friend?”

“Yes, I mean, it was unexpected, he just came. I didn’t know he was coming, and so—”

A wave of vertigo unsteadied her, and with knees buckling, she crouched against the wall. Jay pulled her up. Holding her by the shoulders, he examined her intently.

“You’ve been drinking, or someone’s given you some—

thing.” He whirled around at Peter. “What’s going on? Who the hell are you? What have you done to her?”

Bewildered, with his customary flush mounting, Peter fumbled. “Peter Mendes is the name. And it’s true, I’m just a friend, Jennie’s friend from Chicago.”

In her weakness, hysteria took hold of Jennie. Peter looked so funny, with his hair all mussed and no shoes; while Jay stood in his dark suit, white shirt, and foulard tie. She made a sound like a giggle, terror and tears in a giggle.

Jay shook her gently. “Jennie, for God’s sake, talk to me! I’ve been wild with worry all evening. There was no answer on the phone. I called your office and a woman in the next office said you hadn’t been there since half past five. With muggers on the streets and what’s happened to George—” He stopped, looking puzzled. “You knew we had to talk tonight, and you broke the date. It’s the second time you broke one—” He stopped again. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking I’ve gone crazy here. I think I’m not seeing what I’m seeing. You’re naked!”

Through the open door, the bed loomed like a sultan’s pleasure couch; tumbled in quilts, with both pillows crushed, it dominated the cramped little room. The three pairs of eyes, as if directed by the same thought, now focused on that bed.

Jay’s face was as bleached as the other man’s was reddened.

“You,” he said queerly, “is it you I’m seeing, Jennie?”

“Please, just let me tell you—”

“Yes, tell me why you lied to me about having a client. Tell me what’s happening here in the middle of the night.” His voice was rough, close to tears. He panted and trembled. “On the other hand, maybe you shouldn’t bother to tell me.”

She ran to him and, raising her arms to plead, forgot the skirt, which fell to the floor. When she bent to pick it up, the jacket parted, revealing her breasts. Jay pushed her arms away and turned from her.

The most tragic situation could be partly ridiculous. Wasn’t that strange? And stranger still that in this most awful despair a person can stand apart and see herself, beaten and ridiculous.

“Jay, hear me.” Her words tumbled askew from her mouth, and she began to weep. When her hands flew to her face, the skirt dropped again, revealing her in the transparent petticoat.

“Is this you?” Jay repeated thickly, as if he had been stunned.

“You have to excuse her,” Peter said. “She never drank before. She was upset. She’s not herself, not the real Jennie.”

Jay looked at him. “And I take it you know who the real Jennie is?”

“I knew her a long time ago. We had some things to talk about.”

“Ah, yes. So you did. I see you did. Plenty to talk about.”

With arms straight at his side, like a soldier at rigid attention, Jay stood. Only his hands moved, clenching into fists, loosening and clenching again.

“If someone told me my father had set fire to our house or my mother had robbed a bank, would I have believed it?” He spoke to himself, as if he were alone. “Oh, my God, when white is black and black is white, then anything can happen. Anything at all.”

“Jay …” She wanted to speak, but horror grasped her throat and no words came. She was aware that she wasn’t functioning as one ought to function, and yet her mind seemed to be working right; the contradiction was bizarre.

Jay moved to the door, which was still open to the public hall, and looked back across the room. Jennie had a swift perception: He had the expression of one who is leaving his home for the last time, printing it on his memory, or—could it be so?—of one who, with contempt, is casting away all that he had ever known of a place. There was a stillness without speech, a very brief stillness, only enough for the chiming brass carriage clock on the desk to strike the half hour and then to encompass the tinkling vibration it left in the air. In the brevity of those few moments an image, not even a thought, rather a shred or a fragment, flashed in Jennie’s mind and dissolved: the coach, the white horses, the glass slipper, and all the brightness dissolved.