Fallen Beauty (17 page)

I opened my own door while Eugen removed my bicycle and leaned it against the oak tree in Marie’s front yard.

“Your payment is in your bag,” he said.

He opened his arms to me, looking for an embrace, but I’d had enough of him, no matter how kind his manners, and I hurried by with only a nod and a muttered thank-you. I did not stop to see if he’d been hurt by my coldness. I cared only about seeing my daughter. He got in the car and drove away, and the minute he was out of sight, I raced up the steps. Marie threw open the door, pulled me in, and slammed it behind me.

“Where have you been?” she yelled, her eyes wild and rimmed in red. Everette darkened the space behind her, his brow furrowed.

“Where is Grace?” I asked.

“She’s upstairs, asleep. Poor thing kept asking all day where you were, and I had to make up lie after lie. I thought you were dead at the bottom of a ditch. I made Everette drive all over Chatham and Spencertown looking for you.”

“I knew she wasn’t dead,” said Everette, lighting a cigarette and walking into the parlor.

“Oh, hush,” said Marie. “He wouldn’t call the police. I begged.”

“And thank God, I didn’t,” he called from the other room. “Do you want to invite more scandal into your sister’s life? Into our lives? I can’t afford more of that.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “So sorry. I wasn’t feeling well all morning. My head ached—it still does—but I wanted to make the delivery so I could get paid. I did, and she did talk awhile. When I left to go home, I felt dizzy and miserable. I pulled off the side of the road to sit for a moment, and I must have passed out. When I came to, I raced home as quickly as I could.”

Marie squinted her eyes at me and looked me up and down. “Then whose car brought you? I thought I heard one stop.”

“I don’t know. Someone must have driven by when I arrived.”

Everette flipped on the radio to listen to
The Eveready Hour
and opened
The Chatham Courier
. Marie watched him through the doorway for a moment, and then pulled me into the kitchen. I was desperate to see Grace, but I knew I had to finish with Marie.

“May I have a glass of water?” I asked as I slumped at the dining table and placed my head in my hands. “I’ve never had such a bad headache.”

“It’s the weather,” she said, filling a glass and placing it before me. “And your worries.”

She pulled out the chair across from me and sat down, resting her elbows on the oilcloth, and not taking her eyes off me. I couldn’t stand the scrutiny much longer.

“You have a lover,” she finally said.

I choked on my drink and coughed and sputtered while she crossed her arms.

“I knew it.”

“No,” I said. “Heavens, no. That’s absurd.”

“More absurd than that ridiculous story about fainting on the side of the road for hours? Your dress isn’t even dirty. Why aren’t there twigs in your hair? Someone dropped you off here.”

I gazed at her, and part of me wanted to relieve myself of the burden of the lies, but I held back. If Marie found out where I’d been, if she knew who had employed me, she might never speak to me again, and I couldn’t bear to lose her. So I continued with the lie.

“No one dropped me off. I don’t have a lover,” I said. “This has been a terrible day, and I still feel awful. Can I please just see my girl? I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Fine. Sleep here. You can have one of my nightgowns.”

I felt so relieved I almost cried. Instead I hugged Marie and apologized for worrying her to death. Then I climbed the curved, narrow staircase from the kitchen to the back of the second floor, where servants must have slept years ago. Everette and Marie had converted the room to a guest bedroom, and the small room between it and theirs would be the nursery.

I peeked in and saw Grace on the large bed curled in a ball around her dolly and sucking her thumb. I crept across the squeaky wood floor and climbed into bed with her. She stirred when I wrapped myself behind her, and she smiled before closing her eyes. I inhaled her sweet scent and fell asleep.

•   •   •

VINCENT

E
ugen has decided that we should go to New York City. He thinks a change of atmosphere will blow away the disturbances between us. I hope he is right.

We’re lately in love with the Vanderbilt Hotel, on Thirty-fourth and Park Avenue, an impressive three-towered monument in gray brick. As we drive up to the valet, I inhale. Sometimes one needs the fumes and mists of motorcars, subways, and speakeasy gin to dull the senses. Smartly dressed men and women walk in and out of the terra-cotta-framed doors with energy and authority. Here, for a hundred a night, I can enjoy the city in perfect comfort and intoxication, and that is exactly what I plan to do.

“Let’s ring Deems and Mary,” I say. “We need partners in crime.”

“Perfect,” says Eugen.

He walks to the desk to check in, and I stand in the middle of the foyer, gazing at this spectacle of stone and earthen material. The architects of the Vanderbilt understood that gaudy ornament wasn’t necessary for opulence, and that crude material often yields the most impressive transformations.

Eugen escorts me to our rooms, and produces a bottle of 1921 Lanson Champagne. The cork pops. We drink the whole of it in less than an hour. There is another bottle. We take a taxi to Deems Taylor’s place.

“Edna! Gene!” he says, opening the door. He wears his black framed glasses and a huge smile, and we embrace. Mary comes from the kitchen. She is smiling out of politeness instead of joy, which really doesn’t concern me at all. I wave her off, and the three of us recline in the sitting room around the piano, recalling that glorious night in ’twenty-seven when we were at our collective summit.

It was February. Deems and I had nearly worked ourselves to death on a commission from the Metropolitan Opera Company to produce a great American opera. My headaches and poor vision had reached a terrible low, but in my writing shack, I had managed to create a most impressive libretto. The story of
The King’s Henchman
was one I knew well. It was a tale of love and betrayal among friends. It was the story of my heart.

That night, drowning in a gown of red velvet, I was escorted by Eugen, my sisters, and my mother. A young and open Gladys Ficke was there. Elinor Wylie was too, though I barely knew her at the time. I could hardly breathe in the sold-out auditorium, where even standing room had been filled to capacity.

At eight o’clock sharp, the harp began playing, announcing this tragedy of tenth-century England. I watched the very cells of my imagination take full form through the performers onstage, and felt as if I were living a dream. My elation did not cease until the last of the seventeen curtain calls, and the ending of twenty consecutive minutes of applause. No, it lasted even beyond that.

“You sold ten thousand copies of that libretto in twenty days,” says Deems.

“I beat the sales of that shit Hemingway,” I say.

“His
Sun
couldn’t rise above your
Henchman
,” says Eugen.

“His member probably can’t rise anymore, for that matter,” I say.

Deems howls with laughter.

Eugen is shocked. “Vulgar Vincent!”

Mary serves us a sober dinner. How I sometimes wish these simple spouses could disappear. I know it is cruel of me to think it, but they only intrude with their petty insecurities. Do something or don’t, and be confident in it, but don’t sulk.

When we finish our dinner and another bottle of champagne, we go to the piano and sing loud, raucous songs. Mary has loosened up a bit, and joins us. I loop my arm through hers to smooth any hard feelings. Eugen is proud of me for doing so.

But as the hours pass, the drunkenness turns sour. The city becomes too noisy; it is a beast clawing at the window. I begin to feel the intrusion of Elinor’s loss. I can’t ignore her.

“If only Elinor were here,” I say. I see Eugen doesn’t want me to spoil our fun, but I don’t care. I must give voice to this pain. “She wrote the most glowing review in the
Herald Tribune
for
Henchman
. Uge, do you remember when she stayed with us at Steepletop, and you served us breakfast in bed?”

“And we walked and read and picnicked in the hills,” he says, quietly.

I am weeping. There are arms and hands of consolation trying to reach me, but they can never help me. They can never bring me back. Grief has not been tended properly in me. I did not care for it and it has run through my organs like a weed, choking every good and healthy thing.

Eugen has to carry me to the taxi that night, and up to our rooms at the Vanderbilt. I cling to him like a life preserver in this terrible sea that wants to drown me.

LAURA

The sight of the marble’s changing form caused me to stop.

I pushed Grace in her pram to the library to return our fantasy books—Grace’s fairy tales and my collection of pictorial costuming books. Grace noticed the sculpture too. The rock had a shape, a definite outline that was more something than nothing, more a figure than an inanimate object. The tools Gabriel used were finer, more precise, as were his motions. He wielded a tiny hammer and a chisel, and made long vertical lines around the base of the slab. The piece he carved stood taller than his ample height by more than a foot. A stepladder rested on the grass to his right, but he didn’t need it at the moment since he was concentrating his energy on the bottom portion of the rock.

Down he chiseled, his vertical lines at irregular intervals along the bottom half of the slab, until he switched hands and slashed a horizontal line across the lower portion. His action and the result were jarring and seemed out of sync with the rest of his creation, but I knew better than to judge. If I’d been designing a dress, I would have crumpled and crossed out a half dozen pieces of paper by now. Rock wasn’t as forgiving.

Several townspeople stood and watched him from different vantage points. He rarely noticed any of us. His concentration was singular. Grace, now used to him, had lost interest and turned her attention back to the book in her lap. She didn’t call out to him, so he did not address us as we passed. I felt a curious sinking in my chest, and realized I was disappointed not to talk to Gabriel.

As we neared the library, I was in a state of distress. For two years, Grace and I had existed in our small sphere. We had learned to get on by ourselves, mostly, and I had learned to live with the dull ache in my heart over my lover’s abandonment. Now our quiet was disturbed, and I didn’t know what to make of it. I was further annoyed when we ran into Darcy Dempsey leaving the library as we entered. When her mother wasn’t around, she smiled too brightly, stood too close, spoke too loudly. She always mentioned my father’s sad end and how terrible it must be for me and my sister. Her words never seemed intended to bring consolation.

“Girls,” she said. “It’s always so nice to run into the beautiful Kelleys.”

Grace adjusted her glasses and stared up at Darcy with curiosity, but she did not speak. I wondered if she felt the same way I did about Darcy, who crouched down and looked at Grace’s book—
Hans Christian Andersen Tales
.

“I had a book like this when I was a girl,” she said. “I only wish I had a little girl of my own to share it with. Your mother is so lucky to have you.”

I felt uncomfortable with Darcy’s words, knowing she had miscarried. Since she still did not have any children, it was possible she’d had more troubles. And her statement that I was lucky seemed sinister. Lucky to be an unwed mother? Lucky to have the scorn of half the town, led by her mother, Agnes? Yes, I knew I was blessed to have a child, but I was not lucky. Did Darcy mean to inflict wounds or was she unaware of how her words sounded? No, I couldn’t believe she was innocent.

When Grace did not respond to her, Darcy stood to face me.

“Mother told me about her generous order for robes,” she said. “It’s wonderful how the church takes care of you.”

“Yes, I’m very
lucky
,” I said.

“I just hope you can maintain such a quality standard in so short a time. I hate to say it, but it would be so much easier if they just ordered premade robes. Times are changing.”

“They are, so every moment I spend standing out here is a moment when I’m not working on your mother’s robes. Excuse me.”

I pushed past her and returned the books to the desk. Mrs. Perth gave us a small wave from the fiction shelves and recommended a new mystery. I allowed Grace to pick up several picture books, and then we started for home. When we arrived, a telegram from Millay waited for me.

•   •   •

M
illay requested I return to her as soon as possible to design costumes for her spring and summer reading tour. Her new book of poetry would be released then, and she was planning an extensive tour of readings throughout the country. I needed to read the sonnets, she said, so I would know what colors and styles she’d want. Would I do it? Would I come?

The telegram seemed to weigh more than the slender paper on which it was printed—almost as much as a bag of coins. I looked at the fireplace with the heavy thing in my hand as a parade of gowns, cloaks, and dresses moved through my mind in black, royal blue, and scarlet. I could almost hear the swish of the material. Then the bell on the door rang, and I rushed to hide the telegram in the top desk drawer.

Everette entered, and his eyes followed my hands to the desk.

“Have a moment?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said, feeling odd that he was here without Marie.

He glanced around the room. “Where’s Grace?”

“Napping.”

He took one more look around the store, and then he spoke. “You’ve made a nice life with Grace here.”

I did not answer him. I suppose I would have called it nice when business was strong and the electricity wasn’t turned off. But even on those nights, I had no company except her chatter, no one to talk to about raising her, no one to consult about whether I should allow myself to work for Millay.

Everette walked over to the mantel and looked at the wedding portrait of my parents—a serious and formal representation of two people who were neither serious nor formal. I wondered when the picture had been taken. My father would have been better in a photograph in the outdoors wearing snowshoes and framed by the sagging branches of snow-covered trees. My mother— Well, I’d hardly known her, but I could still conjure the music of her quick laugh, and her even quicker temper. But that thought slipped away as quickly as it had occurred to me.

“If I asked, would you tell me where you really were the other day?” said Everette.

“I’d tell you what I told Marie—I made a gown for an old woman.”

“Who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I care about you, and I don’t want you to invite any more trouble into your life.”

“Do you mean my life or yours?”

“Ours.” He turned and looked at me. “I saw Eugen drop you off in that rainstorm weeks ago.”

Damn.

“I got stranded in the rain after Grace was sick,” I said. “I let them drive us home to get her to shelter.”

“And then you took that woman on as a client.”

“No—”

“It’s no use lying to me. I won’t tell Marie, but sooner or later, she’ll find out. And when she does, you will lose her.”

He’d spoken aloud the very words I’d known deep in my heart.

“What am I to do?” I said. “I need money to support my daughter. Half the town won’t patronize me because they don’t want my stain. The other half is already migrating toward the bigger stores and mail-order catalogues, if they can afford new clothes at all.”

“I don’t know the answer right now,” said Everette. “I only want to warn you to be more careful. And also, to tell you that Millay is a witch. She takes power over you. If I could, I’d try to find a way to run her out of Columbia County.”

I could see that he didn’t blame himself for their dalliance. He blamed Millay as Adam had Eve in the garden, as my lover left me alone to deal with the consequences. Why did it seem that no man would take responsibility for his actions?

I was disgusted with Everette when I knew he wanted my gratitude, my esteem, my praise of his assessment of Millay. I felt oddly protective of her when he’d condemned her with the same words I myself had thought again and again. Hearing them spoken aloud, however, confirmed more about the one judging than its subject. My thoughts returned to the telegram.

“Thank you, Everette,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He stared at me without a smile. His eyes darkened, and a passing cloud shadowed the room. On his way out, he let the door slam. In a moment, Grace cried for me, awakened too soon from her nap.

•   •   •

VINCENT

H
is murder of me is torpid, almost languid.

He doesn’t hire the sharpest swordsman for my execution. There is no gun to my head, no knife to my breast, no quick poison.

No, George is a vine that has slowly crept up me, winding its way about my legs, my breasts, my heart. Its tendrils reach into my nostrils, my mouth, my ears, rendering me insensate so I am unable to enjoy a simple walk through my garden, a drink, a poem. His vine mingles with the weeds of my grief for Elinor, chaining me like a prisoner in this dungeon. I can barely move my hands to write; but write is what I must do. I must put this pain on paper to honor the process, to show future lovers the way, to reinforce that anguish is better than sterility, experience better than bareness.

When I think of 1929, and how George loved me so well, and our art flourished for it, I know it was all worthwhile. Our mutual adoration allowed us to serve our vocations to poetry, so even if we kill each other in this death of our love, the precious words will remain.

I come from the country and I live in the country, so I know the future, the cycle, the seasons. Any fool can tell you that autumn follows summer, that the short, dark days follow the light, that the trees will lose their coverings. How could it be another way with love or beauty, profession, health? It all spins on the wheel, so that even in the golden, glorious days of vigor, the shadow of death covers all, and we cannot know the high without the low, the sun without the moon, the good without sin.

Eve has long been crucified for her great folly, for showing us what sin was, but without it, could we know beauty? Can we fully appreciate the summer without the winter? No, I am glad to suffer so I can feel the fullness of our time in the light. Don’t ever take the dark away if, without it, I cannot feel the light.