Blessings (32 page)

After a while a decision made itself. She went to the telephone and called Peter’s hotel.

“I’ve been thinking, as you asked me to,” she told him. “Tell Jill to feel better and to come for supper—you call it dinner—tomorrow.”

“Oh!” Peter said. “Not at your place?”

“Yes, here, not in a restaurant. The three of us, at six.”

“Jennie, is it all over, then—with him?”

Firmly, quietly, she answered. “It is, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I feel for you, Jennie. I feel for you; believe that I do.

But I can’t help feeling a little gladness too. For Jill. And she’ll be so happy when I tell her.” He was genuinely, almost tearfully grateful. Jennie imagined the smile that opened upward to his eyes and crinkled there. “God bless you, Jennie. I had a hunch we could count on you in the end.”

She put the receiver down on the desk, where a heap of files from the office lay neglected.

You’d better see to them, she said to herself. Go back to work. Get used to the way things are. You have no other choice.

But the ache lay like a stone.

T
hrough Peter’s efforts the little supper, which had begun so warily, turned lively in the end. He added a bottle of wine to Jennie’s simple menu of salad, chicken, and fruit. He flourished a tight bouquet in a lace paper collar. The expansive gesture, so typical of him, made her feel slightly irritable; he acted and always had, she remembered, as if flowers were a cure for every mood, quick cheer and a kind of balm. Nevertheless they did grace the plain table.

Jill brought one of those expensive cakes made of nuts and bitter chocolate that came from European bakeries on the Upper East Side. In contrast to Peter’s jovial manner, she seemed chastened, with the anxious look of someone bringing a little gift to a house of mourning, offering it with a half-apologetic murmur. Peter must have drawn a portrait of disaster, of Jennie in collapse.

It was he at first who led the conversation, carefully steering it away from the personal. He apparently had decided that food was a safe topic, and began to entertain them with anecdotes about a clambake in Maine, snake meat in Hong Kong, and Sacher torte at the Hotel Sacher in Vienna. The last, he said, was overrated.

“Much too dry, I thought.”

Jill had spoken very little, so little that Jennie had begun to think, in spite of what Peter had reported, that she was still filled with resentment. Or perhaps only with apprehension? Now, suddenly, she spoke.

“Mine’s not dry at all. I have a better recipe for it. And, anyway, I always take a cake out of the oven five or six minutes before you’re supposed to.”

Somehow this fashionable young woman with her short black skirt, high black boots, and long scarlet fingernails didn’t fit the picture of one who always took cakes out of the oven.

“Then you can cook?” Jennie inquired curiously.

This time Jill looked straight back. “I’m a good cook. Mom and I take courses together.”

“I think that’s wonderful. It wouldn’t hurt me to do something like that. I’m not much good in the kitchen,” Jennie said, thinking, She unfolds. It’s like turning new pages in a book, a whole shelf of books.

The reply was polite, conventional, a guest-to-hostess reply. “But you can’t be in the courtroom and the kitchen at the same time, after all.”

And Jennie, understanding that the implied compliment was a peace offering, smiled. “No excuse. I could find time if I tried hard enough.”

Peter, seeing that the conversation was beginning to warm up for flight, and obviously wanting to keep it flying, added eagerly, “I see all those files on the desk there. You haven’t told me anything about your practice. Is it general law or do you specialize?”

“Jennie’s an advocate for women, didn’t you know? Poor women, battered women, working women,” Jill said quickly.

It seemed to Jennie that there was admiration in Jill’s tone, and this excited her, and remembering suddenly Jill’s remarks at their illfated lunch about conservation in New Mexico, she responded as quickly. “That’s certainly most of what I do, but I’ve also done some environmental work. In fact, I’m in the middle of a hot fight right now.”

Then fear came, a pang of alarm; if she was in the middle of it, she ought to be attending to it. Four days had passed since George’s death. Assuredly Martin had secured the tape by now and perhaps even had gotten hold of some clues to the death. Why had she not heard from him? She thought in dismay that she should be talking to Arthur Wolfe or with whoever had taken George’s place, and yet how, in the circumstances, could she?

And she said in a bleak voice, the words escaping involuntarily, “George was buried yesterday.”

Puzzled, Peter inquired who George was.

“No, I haven’t lost my wits,” she said. “I was only thinking aloud.”

Now it was natural for her to explain about George. So it was that, without divulging names of either people or places, Jennie began to tell the story of the Green Marsh.

The other two were fascinated. And to Jennie’s ears it seemed that a fervor had crept into her telling, as if she had been recounting or pleading the case of a child or woman who had been treated without justice or care. Wordlessly Jill and Peter finished the meal, helped to clear the little table, and took their coffee into the living room with Jennie talking all the while.

“I’m very torn. I’m seeing this work of conserving nature as important, as important as my work with women’s rights. If we don’t stop devouring our lakes and hills for profit, there won’t be any rights left for women—or for men, either—will there? Oh, if I were rich, I’d just buy land and buy land and give it away to the state to keep! That place is so beautiful, it makes your heart ache to think of what they want to do with it.”

“I know what you mean,” Jill said indignantly. “The papers at home are always filled with the same kind of news, a lot of angry litigation over zoning and water rights. And what do you think of them cutting redwoods in California? Trees that have been growing for a thousand years! It makes my blood boil.”

Peter made a gesture of discovery, as if a new idea had surprised him. “I’m sitting here thinking: Wouldn’t it be great if we could meet out West some summer, up in the California redwood country, or even down in Santa Fe, maybe, and rent a jeep to go exploring?” He glanced at the other two. “Maybe it’s impossible … I don’t know. I just thought …”he finished somewhat wistfully.

And Jennie thought, You’re moving much too fast. It was typical of Peter, but the motive was praiseworthy, and it was wonderful that they were all really able to talk to one another by now, instead of at one another.

This was no surface chatter, it had substance; and Jennie began to feel her muscles shedding tension. Her shoulders relaxed, and she leaned back on the couch. Jill’s hand lay near hers; the narrow, pretty fingers and bright nails were somehow touching in their contrast to the girl’s sober words.

“And can you believe somebody actually wants to build a shopping mall on a Civil War battlefield? They’re messing up the Arizona desert, there’ll be nothing left… . Listen, Jennie, you’ve got to stay in this fight. You’ve got to.” Jill’s eyes flashed boldly.

Something stirred in Jennie, a quickening of pride and self-respect. The events of the past few days, her behav—

ior, her failure—all had diminished her; it had been so painful to be inadequate and small, rejected, in contrast to these two. Now she had spoken to them with authority, and they had listened.

“I surely want to stay in the fight,” she replied, then had to add, “Though it may not be possible to stay in this particular one. But there’ll be others.”

“Why not this one?” Peter asked.

“There are reasons too complicated to go into.”

“Just answer this much: Would there be any danger in it for you if you did go on with it?”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“It’s so awful, what happened to that man in the car. Do be careful,” Jill warned.

The girl really likes me, Jennie thought. There’s a note in her voice that isn’t fake. She means it.

“I’ll be careful.” She smiled at Jill, thinking, A few days ago I wanted to die. Now I don’t. Mom lost everyone during the Hitler years, yet she lived, didn’t she?

Jill smiled back. Peter had a peaceful, satisfied expression. For just a second it occurred to Jennie that the three of them looked like a family settled back for a quiet evening at home after a good dinner.

Such queer twists and turns! She’d felt so much righteous rage, and now she was thinking how kind Peter was, how warm Jill was.

Jill looked at her watch. “I’ve a history quiz tomorrow and I’m behind in the reading. I really should do some work tonight.”

Jennie stood at once. “Of course. Peter, you’ll get a taxi for her.”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll ride back with her.” He put his hands on Jennie’s shoulders, turning her toward himself. “I want you to know this was wonderful tonight. Wonderful.” He shook a little with emotion. “We’ll never forget it, any of us.”

“No,” Jill said. She hesitated a moment before saying quietly, “I’m sorry you’ve had so much trouble, Jennie. And I know it’s because of me.”

It was a piteous appeal. The proud young face seemed to recede into what it must have been in the childhood Jennie had not known, wistful and moody, with darkly circled eyes and mobile lips ready on the instant to quiver into anger, grief, or laughter. Who among her ancestors had bequeathed this volatile nature?

“Oh,” replied Jennie, purposely vague, “causes go way back. There’s never any one cause.”

“But I’ve ruined everything for you. I know I have. I told Peter so.”

“I’ve had my part in the ruination too,” he added glumly.

There was no possible answer except assent, yet nothing was to be gained by adding blame. All were at fault, each in his or her own way. So Jennie made a small gesture of dismissal and, needing to say something, said only, “Let’s look ahead if we can, not back.”

Jill spoke. “I wish I didn’t have to leave when there’s still so much more to be said.”

“Maybe you two can get together some afternoon soon,” suggested Peter.

Jill said quickly, “I could do it tomorrow. My last class is at one.” She was eager. She wanted to cement the new relationship in a hurry. “We could go anywhere. The museum, the Metropolitan. We could look around a while and have tea.”

Jennie had planned to go back to the office. She had hidden at home, licking her wounds, long enough. Dinah had been calling with messages. She ought, furthermore, to be checking with the district attorney. It puzzled her that she had heard nothing about the case.

But in the face of Jill’s appeal, what difference could one more day make?

“All right. We’ll meet at the front steps, just inside the door if the weather’s bad.”

She heard them walk downstairs, and on impulse ran to the window to see them emerge from the building and walk away to the avenue. And again there came that odd sense: We are linked, joined, we belong. The feeling darted, pricked a little hole in her head, and fled. Yet she still watched, craning her neck until they were out of sight.

The dark blue night sky raced above the city; windblown clouds billowed, hiding the stars. Mesmerized by the moving sky, she reflected, We should look up more often. It chastens and puts things in proportion. At least while you’re looking at it, she thought wryly, and was about to pull the blinds down when something caught her attention. A man was standing in the light of the streetlamp, peering up at the house. Was it absurd to imagine that he was watching her window? Of course it was. He had only paused to turn up his coat collar. Then he went, walking toward the river.

My God, my nerves again. They’re shot, Jennie thought, whether I want to admit it or not.

She wanted to keep her mind on Jill, but it kept wandering. They looked at an Egyptian statuette, four thousand years old; man and wife stood together, she with her arm around his waist and he with his arm around her shoulder. Timeless, endless human love! And a terrible resentment flared in Jennie, driving the blood into her cheeks and throbbing in her temples, so that she had to force herself to speak normally.

“Well, have we had enough? I could use a chair and some tea.”

“You’re tired? Have I made you walk too much?” The girl was anxious; this was genuine concern, just as on that first night when she had thought Jennie was about to faint.

“No, no, of course not. I’m not an invalid.” Then, as if she had sounded impatient, Jennie added quickly, “You’re such a kind person, Jill.”

“And so are you.”

“I try to be,” Jennie said seriously.

“Well, you are. I know that, now that I understand more. I truly do, and I want you to know that I do,” Jill replied with equal seriousness.

Jennie ordered tea and sat for a while gazing over the surrounding tables and heads. If there were a window, Jill would be looking out of it, Jennie thought. I am really learning her ways; she likes long necklaces to play with; today she’s wearing two strands of burnt-orange enameled beads, probably Burmese or Indian, smooth to fiddle with and click together.

All at once Jill said, startling Jennie, “I’m glad you like Peter again.”

“What makes you say I do?”

“You’re not angry at him anymore, and you were terribly angry when he first called you.”

“There’s a big difference between just not being angry and actually liking someone.”

“But you do like him, I could tell last night.”

“It was just that we were having such a nice time.”

“More than nice. It was beautiful. Didn’t you think it was beautiful?” Jill insisted.

The girl’s ardor disturbed Jennie. Slowly she stirred her milky tea and considered a moderate reply.

Finally she said, “It’s good that we did it.”

“But wasn’t it astounding? I mean, think about it! We were like a family. We were a family.”

When last evening the same thought had sped through Jennie’s mind, she had dismissed it as an exaggeration. Now the thought alarmed her.

“You already have a family, Jill,” she said firmly, as if to sound a warning.