Fallen Beauty (3 page)

LAURA

My father’s behavior toward me was stiff and formal over the next couple of weeks. I avoided him as much as possible, and spent my free time at the library, sitting in the kaleidoscope of color filtering through the Tiffany stained-glass window, poring over reference books on costuming, and soliciting the help of Mrs. Eleanor Perth, the librarian, for schools of fashion design in the city. She produced a brochure from the New York School of Fine and Applied Arts with information on satellite and weekend classes, and I checked it out, along with a film costuming book.

“I can see the seed of something in you,” said Mrs. Perth.

I started at her observation. Everything in me felt changed since that night, but did I look so different?

“Nothing to trouble about,” she said, placing her hand on mine. “You just have a sparkle. You may keep that brochure, by the way. I’ll send for more tomorrow when the Harlem line comes through.”

Mrs. Perth had worked at the library as long as I could remember, though she didn’t look as old as she must be. She had a mass of hair the color of cherrywood she kept in a loose chignon, and wore trim suits in bright colors. Marie and I agreed that she had the look of one who could at any moment let down her hair, throw off her jacket, and run off in a field of daisies.

Her husband worked as a farmhand at Steepletop, the seven-hundred-acre Berkshire estate in the nearby tiny village of Austerlitz, owned by the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay and her husband, Eugen Boissevain. Steepletop provided an endless source of mystery and speculation for our town. Some said it was a den of sin where bacchanalian parties raged for days. Others said the woman had gone mad and the place was like an asylum.

When Millay’s visitors passed through Chatham, they stirred up the townspeople for days. New cars would arrive with strange passengers—men and women in clothing rich and fashionable enough to grace New York City society pages, or threadbare enough to come from peasants’ closets. Their backseats would be piled high with illegal booze, or if Eugen came to meet them at the train, they’d raid the corner store for victuals, leaving empty shelves and a wake of laughter and smoky, disturbed air.

Their familiarity with one another never failed to shock the onlookers—men in full embrace, women kissing on the lips, all the time in a tumble of limbs, curled hair, and coats draped over one another’s shoulders. Motion and energy were what united these strange gatherings. It was explosive and seemed to stir the town into a frenzy of secret envy and curiosity.

It was rumored that Mrs. Perth had attended poetry readings at the estate, and she was vague enough about her visits to stoke the flames of the town gossips. She seemed to enjoy what some would consider her double life, that of a steady librarian who sometimes escaped her confines to live loose. I knew I envied her for it.

I leaned over the counter and said: “We must keep this a secret. I’m just exploring ideas for the future. I haven’t made any decisions.”

“A girl has got to dream,” she said, and pretended to lock her lips.

I left her with a wave, and started for home, noting the train whistle. So many trains came and went each day through Chatham that the whistles were as common as the sound of wind in the trees or the rushing waters of the Stony Kill. I’d often watch the Pullman cars destined for New York City and wonder what it would be like to hop on board, like the wealthy residents in town, and catch a Broadway show. My father feared the trains. With so many switches in Chatham, there was a long history of railway accidents. As a result, Marie and I had never ridden a train. I suspected, however, my father was more afraid of losing us to the world beyond Chatham than to a derailment.

When I stepped onto the sidewalk, I saw the town priest, Father Ash, on the other side of the road, walking parallel to me, holding his journal tightly with both hands. He carried that book with him everywhere, and could often be seen stopping at a bench to scribble notes to himself. He even carried it with him to the podium on Sundays, and referenced it during his homilies. Judging by the depth and immediacy of his talks, one could surmise he was forever preparing, watching those around him, helping us to make meaning of our small lives in poignant ways. He saw me, and looked at me twice before dropping his gaze to my arms and the books I carried.

How strange we must have appeared, each of us moving in the same direction, but separated by a local street and a universe of experience. Each of us holding books with great personal meaning, but on my face, a dreamy expression, and on his, one of intense concentration. His dark hair and black clothes contrasted with my fair hair and pink dress.

As we turned on Main Street, he slowed his step as Agnes Dwyer and her daughter, Darcy, walked toward him. Could it be that he didn’t want to speak with them? The church and community respected Agnes and Darcy, who had married a doctor from the hospital, Daniel Dempsey. In many ways, our small society revolved around them.

I wasn’t interested in polite conversations while undergoing their silent scrutiny, so I quickened my step and pretended to take great interest in the facades of the houses and storefronts I’d passed thousands of times. The buildings stood in an orderly line of Colonial dwellings with stately chimneys, leaded glass, and flags announcing patriotism, loyalty, and dedication. I inhaled the sweet aroma drifting from the Candy Kitchen, waved to the firemen outside the station, and waited for a train to pass before I finally arrived home, deposited my acquisitions under my bed, and returned to the store downstairs.

My father had left a note that he was delivering firewood to his friend, the oculist Dr. John Hagerty, and I wondered where Marie had gone. I grew impatient to talk to her, but she was forever in and out of the shop, meeting her new beau, Everette Clark, and talking incessantly about him when she wasn’t with him. Everette had moved to Chatham in his teenage years, but was five years older than we were, so we hadn’t known him well while growing up. He now served on the town council, and had higher political aspirations, according to Marie, who had no doubt he could be president someday.

The day passed slowly, with only a few new orders—a set of window valances, a new church dress, some mending. My father came and went on errands and handyman jobs. I kept imagining someone new and interesting would come through the door with a unique order, but was only greeted with the usual townspeople. Just as I was about to turn the sign to
CLOSED
, however, Darcy walked in without her mother.

Her visit was inevitable, I supposed, but I had been dreading it. Agnes had recently commissioned a christening gown for her first grandchild, but the gown would not be needed. By all accounts, Darcy had had a miscarriage, her second. Marie had heard the churchwomen whispering about it at the last bake sale, and reported it to me at once. I couldn’t help but flick my gaze to Darcy’s stomach, but looked away and mentally chastised myself. She stood stiff as an oak.

“I’ve come for the order my mother placed.” Her voice was icy, and held a challenge. It almost sounded as if she dared me to ask why she still needed it. Her strength in coming to pick it up impressed me. I had planned on eating the cost and putting the little ivory dress away for a future customer. Darcy did not usually evoke my pity, but as someone who had succeeded at everything she’d ever set out to do in life, she must have found her failed pregnancies particularly hard to bear.

“Certainly,” I said, hurrying to the storage closet to get the gown.

I brought the small box to the counter and placed it in front of her.

“No charge,” I said, quietly.

Something flickered in Darcy’s eyes, but then she narrowed them to slits, and her cheeks blazed red. I suddenly felt terrible for acknowledging something I should not have known.

She stared at me until I had to look down, and she reached into her pocketbook. Darcy slammed a five-dollar bill on the counter, picked up the box, and stormed out of the shop, passing Marie on her way in.

“Hello, Darcy,” Marie said. She met no response and widened her eyes when the door closed.

“She wanted the christening gown,” I said. “I told her there was no charge. It must have made her angry.”

“Oh,” said Marie. “I don’t imagine Darcy wants anyone’s pity, though she deserves it. A sad thing to lose a baby.”

We watched Darcy as she hurried out of view, and then Marie turned back to me, her face transformed with delight.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I think he wants to marry me!”

I passed the rest of the evening listening to Marie’s speculations about why Everette had winked at her when he said he’d be spending the weekend in New York City. I tried to caution her: They hadn’t been dating long, and shouldn’t rush into anything, but my words fell on deaf ears and made me feel guilty because I knew they came more from the dark jealousy inside me than from my concern for Marie, though that was abundant.

Everette was a politician. His manners and dress were impeccable, his words always perfect but his sincerity somewhat lacking, his handshake too firm. I personally never trusted a man who took that much care with his hair, but Marie had laughed that off as nonsense. I might have sounded silly, but I didn’t like the importance he placed on appearances. I could imagine it would be hard to be married to a man like that. But Marie wouldn’t hear a dark word against him, so I had stopped uttering them. She had made up her mind, and I would have to accept it.

That night while I finished washing dinner dishes with Marie, my father sat on the front porch smoking his pipe. He came inside and went up to bed earlier than usual, and Marie and I exchanged troubled glances.

“He’s really holding on to this grudge,” she said.

“I’ve apologized and haven’t been out of his sight since that night. I don’t get the impression he wants to talk any more about it, and I wouldn’t know what to say even if he did.”

“Just give it time,” said Marie. “He’s upset because he sees we’re growing up, and eventually, he’ll be alone. It’s a hard thing to have to face.”

My thoughts returned to the design school brochures. Marie chattered along as we cleaned our way upstairs and I daydreamed about the Follies. When she finally went to bed and fell asleep, I crept downstairs, lit a candle, and completed the application for the school. My fantasies had included Marie coming with me, but now it seemed that I’d be alone. All of the flutters of excitement I’d felt about my idea became anxiety. I told myself that was normal, and slipped the envelope into my purse to post the next day.

The rest of the week passed slowly and with unease, and even the flurry of graduation dress orders didn’t lift my spirits. My father’s behavior was still cool; Marie was either gone or preoccupied with Everette. I longed to reach out to my lover, but counseled myself that if he wanted to see me, he’d find a way. Every hour that he did not increased my hurt.

When Sunday arrived, something in my father seemed to shift. After church, he surprised me by looking up over the top of his copy of
National Geographic
and announcing that he wanted to hike Bash Bish Falls before the big thaw.

“John Hagerty plans on motoring to the area with his wife for a luncheon with his family,” said my father. “He said they could give us a lift up and back.”

“We should probably wait until after the thaw,” I said. “It’s dangerous up there, especially this time of year with all of that half-melted ice.” Never mind that I would be able to think only of what I’d done there, and the idea of visiting that spot with my father made me ill.

“It will be good for all of us,” he continued, never taking his eyes off me. “We should get out for some fresh air.”

“I don’t want to go,” said Marie.

“Why not?”

“Because Everette wants to take me to a picture at the Crandell Theater.
The High School Hero
with Nick Stuart and gorgeous Sally Phipps is playing, and I’d like to say yes. If it’s all right with you, that is.” She widened her eyes like those of a Kewpie doll.

At the mention of Everette, I stiffened. Marie had no idea what it was like to have to hide love, the way it cast a shadow over every moment of the day, the way one wore its absence like grief. One sometimes forgot, but then would suddenly remember, and the pain and anger would return.

“That’s fine,” my father said. “I appreciate your asking my permission.”

He turned on me a steely gaze that made me want to crawl under the table. Why did he have to torture me? I’d rarely disobeyed him before the night of the Follies, whereas Marie had gone her own way countless times. It wasn’t fair that one indiscretion brought my father’s anger upon me so harshly.

“We have all of those graduation dresses to make,” I said. “We’ll never get them done if we don’t work through Sunday.”

“I’ll work later into the night,” Marie said.

“Don’t give her trouble, Laura,” he said.

Marie stood, dropped her sewing on her chair, and climbed the stairs to primp before her date. My father walked to the closet and pulled out his hiking boots, his thick coat and hat, and his walking stick. He tied his snowshoes with a leather strap and flung them over his shoulder. I stood and walked to the kitchen to pack a lunch for him, muttering my frustrations under my breath. When I returned to the front of the shop, Marie had already left to meet Everette. I was glad I didn’t have to see her fawn over him, or the way they could waltz out the front door to Main Street, holding hands.

I held out the pouch to my father, and he fastened it to his belt under his jacket.

“There’s cold ham and cheese, and carrots,” I said, not meeting his eyes.

“Laura,” he said, lifting my chin, “I’m harder on you because you’re better than your behavior that night.”

I looked up at him and felt like crying.

“I think of your mother,” he said. “I worry that I’m not doing right by you girls.”

I found my voice. “You are.”

“I try,” he said. “But it’s hard.”

My father’s forehead creased, and I could see his pain and discomfort over being at odds with me. It made me wish I could tell him about my love and get his advice, but that could not be so. He left me with a hug and a wave out of the side of Dr. Hagerty’s Ford.