Family Happiness (22 page)

“You can send them all lovely kites and model airplanes,” Wendy said.

Polly could hardly swallow. She was suddenly exhausted, and powerfully sad. She wanted to be by herself, alone, in Lincoln's studio, so that she might cry her eyes out and then throw herself on his pillow, which might still smell of him. The family looked to her at these gatherings for cheer, and she had no cheer. Instead she had a stone in her heart. Andreya did not speak. Henry, Jr., grunted or made other loutish noises. Henry, Sr., maintained his imperial silence. It was often up to Polly to keep a conversation going. Henry Demarest was skilled at this, too, but the burden fell to Polly by custom since Henry was so often away.

Where was Lincoln now? Had he found one of his few friends at the opening and gone out to dinner? Had he been spotted by someone he knew and dragged off to a restaurant? Lincoln did not like going out in public. He told Polly that the few times he went out he generally had several glasses of wine too many and then behaved badly. He became cross or surly. He claimed he said beastly things to people. Polly had never seen this side of Lincoln. She tried to imagine it, but she could not. It was undeniable that they saw the best parts of each other. At the moment Polly was too tired to think about the realities of Lincoln's life. So what if he hated children? If his fix on solitude was neurotic? If they could never be together? To be deprived of him for such a long time was so terrible to contemplate, she did not know how she would be able to stand it.

She stood up. “I'm going home,” she said. She knew this was a truly abnormal thing for her to do, but she could not stop herself.

“Darling,” said Wendy, alarmed, “are you sick?”

“No, I'm just tired,” said Polly. “Really, Mum. There's nothing wrong. I think I will come down with something if I don't go at once. I can't keep my eyes open.”

“I'll take you home,” said Henry.

“Please don't,” said Polly. She was beginning to feel unhinged. She had never wanted to be alone so desperately. “You haven't even started your dinner. Andreya can take my salmon home and feed it to Kirby.”

“Polly, this is most upsetting,” Wendy said. “Henry, take her home, please.”

“I don't want Henry to take me home,” said Polly, who was near to tears. “I'll get into a taxi and go straight home. I had a terrible day, that's all. My head hurts. I just want to get in bed.”

No one was used to Polly's having had a terrible day.

“Darling, are you sure you don't want Henry and your father or me to come with you?” Wendy said.

“There's nothing wrong,” said Polly. “I want you all to have a nice dinner. I'm so tired I can't see straight. I'll be quite happy by myself.”

It was clear from the looks at the table that everyone thought something
was
wrong. They looked as if Polly had just announced that she had murdered her children and set fire to her house.

“Darling, really,” said Wendy, fretfully.

Henry walked Polly to get her coat. It was obvious that she had upset everyone, but she couldn't help it. She felt too bereft to sit at the table another minute. They walked outside to get a taxi. Polly shivered. The look on Henry's face was terrible but he put his arm around her.

“Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?” Henry said.

“I'm fine,” said Polly. “I'm perfectly fine. I'm just tired, that's all. Stay and amuse them.”

As the cab drew up, Henry held Polly's arm. He held her very tight. She looked into his eyes, which were perplexed, frightened, and concerned.

“Oh, Polly,” he said sadly.

“I'll be all right,” said Polly. Henry kissed her on the top of her head and she got into the taxi, which drove away.

PART THREE

Eleven

Each year in the early spring, Wendy and Henry made plans to go up to Priory Lagoon to open their summer house, and this year they arranged to take Pete and Dee-Dee with them for the weekend. They liked to get things in order way in advance of the summer and they liked to spend an occasional cold, spring weekend in Maine.

Polly had spent her childhood summers in the Priory house, as had her father, and his father before him. It was a big, odd-shaped clapboard cottage with woods on two sides, and open to the water in front. Because no one wanted to cut down any trees in order to build, Polly and Henry rented a small cottage a little way down the lagoon from an old lady who had promised to sell it to them before she died. Polly loved that her children could have a childhood like her own, and she hoped that Pete and Dee-Dee would bring their children to Priory, too. As for Henry Demarest, Maine reminded him of
his
childhood summers in Wisconsin, full of pines and cold water.

Henry was off on another trip and would be gone through the weekend, so for the first time in years, Polly would be all alone. At first the prospect attracted her. She thought of walks she would take, solitary meals she would have, and the pile of books next to her bed she would read; of not having to make breakfast; of sleeping late. But as the week wore on and she started to pack Pete and Dee-Dee's suitcases, she began to brood. The idea of coming home to an empty apartment on Friday with a long, lonely weekend spread before her gave her a feeling of panic. There would be no one who needed or wanted her—no one to help or serve, no noise or interruptions.

When she expressed this fear to Martha, Martha promptly invited her to come for dinner on Saturday night. “You can come Friday, too,” said Martha. “I know exactly how you feel.”

At night Polly brooded about her weekend. The children were leaving Friday morning, and so Polly would go to the office. That left Friday night to get through. If she was going to Martha's for dinner on Saturday, she would bake something elaborate for dessert. That would occupy Saturday morning with shopping, and the afternoon with baking. What she really longed for was a friend—a woman friend her own age to have lunch with. The idea of calling Mary Rensberg floated before her. If she called Mary, would Mary find it odd? And if they did have lunch, what would they talk about? The next noon at her office she took a deep breath and dialed.

“Rensberg Antiques.”

“Is Mrs. Rensberg there?” said Polly.

“No. Sorry. She's gone to Brazil. Who's calling?”

“This is Polly Demarest.”

“Oh! Polly! Gracious. This is Mary. I was just ducking customers. I haven't heard your voice in the longest time. How are you? I've got some lovely tables just in, if that's what you've called about.”

“I called to see if you would have lunch with me on Saturday.”

“Saturday. Saturday. Let me see. It looks fine. Why don't you come to the shop and I'll give you a picnic in the back? I'm dying to hear everything about Paul and Beate. It's so nice to hear from you.”

Polly hung up, limp with relief. How very simple it was! Normal people made this sort of telephone call all the time, but Polly did not feel herself to be normal in this regard. It was the easiest thing in the world, and no one thought it a bit strange. Why hadn't she done this years ago? Why hadn't she just gone ahead and made friends with Mary? Would Paul really have minded, or was that something Polly had liked to imagine?

Friday night Polly came home to an empty apartment. In a happier moment, she would have savored her time alone. She would have made a big salad with anchovies—Henry hated anchovies—and red onions, and would have read while she ate. She would have drunk the salad dressing right off the plate, and she would probably have eaten the watercress with her fingers. Then she would have made a big pot of coffee and spent the hours reading, puttering, sipping her coffee, and enjoying herself. But she could not deny it: she was afraid of how terrible she felt.

She tried to push it away, but it would not go away. She went to her desk drawer, where in a back compartment she kept things pertaining to Lincoln. She had a little bound book that contained ten sketches of her. She had a pair of gold earrings he had given her, the silly postcards he had sent to her office, and the silver pin he had won at art school. Polly had given him a gold Saint Christopher medal, which he had never taken off; a picture of herself as a child, in an enamel frame, which he had asked for; and a pottery vase she had made at school as a girl, which he kept his brushes in.

How much they knew about each other! There was not a friend, not an incident of personal history, not a joke or a reference unknown to them. They knew each other's lives back and forth. A love affair, a marriage, a family—these things were built, like houses or like paintings. They were constructed. Polly had opened that drawer simply to touch something Lincoln had touched, but she missed him too piercingly to be consoled. She did not want the things: she wanted him.

The roles of Henry's wife, the children's mother, of daughter, sister, of Lincoln's beloved, dropped away as if they were heavy ceremonial robes. She stepped out of them light, lonely, and functionless.

There was not a person she could go to for help, and that was her own fault. Her pride, her image of herself as a person who ought not to need to seek help, prevented her.

She did not know whom to miss first. This caused her grief; did she really miss anyone, or was it that she could not bear to be alone with herself? She was an unfit mother. Every act she did in her children's behalf—when she tucked them into bed, sewed their buttons, made them cup custard, soothed them when they were sick, and laughed at the wonderful things they said—was fraudulent because in her heart she was corrupted.

As for Henry, now that he was away, she realized that in some way he was always away. This made her angry in her adult heart. In her child's heart she said: If he loved me, he would not be away.

If you let the tiniest crack appear on the surface of things, some one-celled something might slip through and begin, imperceptibly, to grow. One morning you woke up and the house was covered with it. Polly felt she had woken up from a comfortable sleep and found everything—Henry, her family, her place within it, her sense of herself—all askew.

She walked to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and covered her face with her hands. Missing Lincoln caused her a physical sensation, like pain that takes the breath away.

“I must not let this get out of hand,” Polly said out loud. “I must get after myself. I should
do
something.” But there was nothing to do. Her orderly house was in perfect order.

She made herself some scrambled eggs and a cup of tea. There was no point reading anything serious—she could hardly concentrate. She skimmed three magazines and the morning paper with amazing speed, reflecting unhappily that time is the enemy of an anxious person. There were two things she dreaded: a call from her mother, and a call from Henry. To head the one off at the pass, she called to Maine.

“Hello, darling,” Wendy said. “It's cold up here. We went to Ronnie's Clam Box for dinner and the children went straight to sleep an hour ago.”

“Ronnie's open early this year,” Polly said.

“His wife appears to have left him,” Wendy said. “He looks awful. He has that nice sister of his—Denise, who's married to Vern at the gas station—helping in the kitchen.”

“Denise is the wife, Mum,” Polly said. “She's Vern's sister. Dianne is Ronnie's sister.”

“Darling, how can you expect me to keep these things straight? You know, your father and I think you ought to have come up with us. You don't have anything else to do.”

“I'm fine where I am,” Polly said. “I'm having a little vacation. I have plenty to do.”

“But, darling,” said Wendy, “you could have been with us. What will you do all by yourself?”

“I'm having lunch with Mary Rensberg tomorrow and Martha invited me for dinner.”

“Which one is Martha?” Wendy asked.

“Martha Nathan, Mum. From the office. I've told you about her.”

There was a slight silence which made clear to Polly that Wendy did not see having lunch and dinner with friends as anything important to do.

“Now, this Mary Rensberg,” Wendy said. “Where on earth did she come from?”

Suddenly Polly was embarrassed, and reluctant to admit that she had made this date herself.

“We ran into each other on the street,” she lied.

“Hmmm,” said Wendy. “Won't that be a little awkward? After all, your brother jilted her.”

“Mother, he did not. Mary would never have married him.”

“Darling, she certainly would have,” Wendy said. “Look what she's come to. Charlie can't have done very decently by her. She keeps that little shop, after all.”

“That little shop is extremely successful,” Polly said. “Henry and Andreya got a gorgeous table from her.”

“I'm sure they did. With the money they got selling Grandfather's really
good
things.”

“I think Mary does very well,” Polly said. “Believe me, she never would have married Paul.”

“I'm sure you're wrong,” Wendy said. “I think she was dying to marry into the family to show up those ghastly Rensbergs.”

“She wasn't,” Polly said. “Never mind. Is it muddy up there?”

“Clear and gorgeous and cold, but not muddy. Your father is going to get the boat in shape tomorrow and take the children for a little spin around the lagoon. And you? Tomorrow night that little friend of yours is coming for dinner?”

“No,” said Polly. “I'm going to her.”

“Well, darling,” Wendy said. “I'm sure you'll have a lovely weekend, but you really ought to have come up with us.”

An hour later the telephone rang. Polly looked at the clock. It was too early to be Henry, who always called late. Her heart rose up: perhaps it was Lincoln. But it was a wrong number. If I can only last until ten o'clock, Polly said to herself. To go to bed this early is a sign of something awful, but it is perfectly normal for a tired person to go to bed at ten o'clock. She put her head down on the kitchen table and began to cry. All she wanted was for Lincoln to call her, but she had told him not to. And if he did, it simply meant that they longed for each other and that was wrong. There was just no end to it.