Family Happiness (30 page)

“You look pretty gloomy yourself,” Polly said. “What's up?”

They walked down the hall together.

“The wonderful job Spud was interviewed for—remember?” She sighed heavily. “He got it. We're going to California. I've been accepted at both medical schools, just so fate wouldn't let me slip through its net. I found out Saturday. Spud wants to get married.”

“You don't have to,” Polly said.

“I thought you were a walking sandwich board in favor of,” Martha said. “Spud says this is it.”

“Take a deep breath and the chloroform will put you right out,” said Polly. “Where are you going to do it?”

“There,” said Martha. “Both our families are there. How thrilled they'll be. Sold out at last. I never thought I would come to this.”

“It's not so terrible,” Polly said.

“Only sometimes,” said Martha.

“This is making me very sad,” Polly said. “I won't have you in the office anymore.”

“Maybe I won't last long,” Martha said. “I'll come running back.”

“You won't,” Polly said. “Sometimes I think you and Spud are doing things the way they should be done—struggling along, working everything out, and
then
getting married. I think you two will be married for life.”

“Just like whales,” Martha said. “That's what I'm afraid of.”

“If Spud can find someone to perform the ceremony while you're unconscious, you're home free,” said Polly. The telephone in Martha's office rang, and she ran to answer it. As she hung up her coat, Polly thought how strange her life would be without Lincoln or Martha in it. They were the first real friends of her adult life—an elusive painter and a neurotic genius. These were not the sort of friends Polly had ever thought she would make, but she had made them. Some part of herself had reached out and there they were. Some day she would visit Spud and Martha in California. Some day perhaps she and Lincoln might be friends—a long time from now, when things were as they should be.

On Polly's desk was a letter. She could see it from the doorway. It was in Lincoln's hand, and she trembled as she opened it. She did not stop to take her coat off. It said:

Dearest D.:

I will be back Tuesday and hope I will see you Wednesday. Don't call me. Just come down. Lunch will be waiting and if you don't come I will be forced to eat it all myself
.

All yours, L
.

The thought of Lincoln threw Polly into a panic. How was she going to tell him? The truth was very banal: things got better with Henry and it was no longer necessary for her to have a love affair. It was as simple as that. Her heart was beating hard. It was Tuesday. She would have to wait for twenty-four hours or more until she could unburden herself.

Order was metabolic. It was chemical. It was something you were born with a propensity for, and training refined your propensity. Polly's intentions were good—she wanted an orderly, productive life, cheer and contentment for those she loved, a safe haven, a gentle hearth, a sense of security and correctness. Lincoln was the mote in her eye, the thing out of place. She was desperate to make her life work once more, in the even, calm, and joy-producing way it once had. She wanted her life back.

On Wednesday she was full of dread. Not one thing slipped past her notice. She scolded herself for dressing so carefully but she did it anyway. She felt hot and flushed, and her hands were cold. Her legs felt watery. She tried to believe that she was getting sick, but she knew that she was not.

On the bus she was restless. At work she could not concentrate. Her papers swam in front of her eyes. The clock dragged its hands around slowly. At eleven-thirty she put her coat on. It had to be done. She was full of dread. She had never broken off a love affair, or any relationship, in her life. It was an enterprise that smacked of brutality, rejection, and sadness. In the taxi on the way to Lincoln's studio, Polly tried to study her heart, which she was sure was clean and new, dedicated and rededicated to her husband and family. The idea that Lincoln's love for her was now unrequited, that she did not long for him but was dreading seeing him, filled her with sadness.

At the head of his street she annoyed the taxi driver by dropping her wallet on the floor, scattering her change, and giving him the wrong amount. Then she overcompensated with a large tip and fled without properly closing the door. As she neared Lincoln's studio her feet dragged. Her heart lurched. Her hands, in her coat pockets, were damp. She felt like a child afraid to go to school. How awful it was to feel so awful about seeing someone she had loved so much! But then, everything had changed.

Fifteen

Nothing had changed. One look at Lincoln and Polly knew it. His big shoulders, his pouty mouth, the way he squinted, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the fact that he smelled of cigar smoke and lavender aftershave.

Lincoln saw what was on her face—she was always very clear to him—and he left her alone. He took her coat but didn't kiss her. He walked down the length of his studio and she followed as if she were a guest come to view his paintings. The table was set for lunch: the usual lunch of bread, cheese, grapes, and wine. Polly's throat choked up and her heart melted. She turned to Lincoln. Nothing, nothing had changed at all. She flung herself against him.

Lunch was still on the table. Polly had called her office to say she would be out for the rest of the day, and she had called Concita to say that she had been called away to a meeting, in the unlikely event Concita should call her at the office.

Polly and Lincoln lay in Lincoln's bed. It did not feel like sin to Polly. What she felt was not precisely romantic. It was a feeling of comradeship, as if she had come home to find an old, beloved friend.

“When you came in today I thought it was all over,” Lincoln said. “It was written on your face. I thought my poor heart was going to explode.”

“I thought it was all over, too,” said Polly.

“If you're going to cry, Dottie, you might just want to press yourself against me. I don't mind being all slithery with tears.”

Polly sat up and pulled the covers around her waist.

“It's quite a sight to see you sitting there half naked with your hands folded in your lap like a little child,” said Lincoln, who was leaning on his elbow looking at her.

Polly looked not at Lincoln but straight ahead.

“I thought I had everything fixed,” she said. “It was all so neat: you would get over whatever it is that makes you want to live like a hermit, and I would sort things out at home, and then we would wither away from each other. Oh, Lincoln, I know I oughtn't to talk about Henry, but he was so absent from me. He always had been. It was one of the unexamined things about our marriage. I wasn't unhappy with Henry. I was unhappy about the way things were—maybe that's the same thing, anyway. But while you were gone, we pulled together. I couldn't stand it anymore. He and I have talked and talked and talked. That's not something we ever really did. I guess we didn't feel we ever needed to. As a result I conned myself into thinking that everything I felt about you was the simple result of Henry's being so far away. And maybe it was, but after all, I fell in love with
you
, and now that Henry isn't far away, I'm stuck with my feelings. I still love you. You're the friend of my heart. I never expected my life to be complicated. I expected it to be a safe, straight line. I didn't expect it to be very different from my mother's life. I love Henry and I love you. I know I'm supposed to think it's wrong, but instead I think it's
mine
. It's my destiny, and my complication. I feel like a snake, Linky, as if I've shed my old skin. I'd rather be myself and have gone through all this misery than to be whatever it was I thought I was supposed to be.” She turned and gave him a fierce look. “Now I've made this campaign speech, and I haven't asked you a thing about you. Maybe you want things to change. Maybe you met someone in Paris.”

“Come down here, Dot,” Lincoln said. He pulled her next to him and they lay side by side, leaning on their elbows, the tips of their noses almost touching.

“I thought about all this,” he said. “I know the way I live is weird. For the moment, that's how I live. I like my solitude more than anything else besides you. If I can have you the way I have you, I want it to continue. It's pointless to wonder what will happen. We could both get very sick of this. Things could change. The fact is, I love you, and I want you around me.”

“Oh, Lincoln,” Polly said. “It isn't easy. No matter how I feel, no matter how I feel it's mine, I'm the one who has to live a double life, and I'm the one who has to betray Henry.”

Lincoln was silent.

“I mean, obviously I
can
do this. Oh, Lincoln, I want you so much. I wanted you when I was unhappy and now that I'm happy, I still want you. I know I shouldn't say these things to you.”

“Keep talking,” Lincoln said.

“I feel I've come out of one unhappiness and into another. Nothing ever seemed very clear to me before—just relatively smooth sailing. I love Henry. I am so used to difficult people that I never realized how difficult he was to be married to. My father is difficult and my mother never uttered a word about it—of course, she's hardly easy herself. Well, I love Henry, and I know that I still have to be connected to you. I ask myself who I am that I deserve the love of two men. I think I'm spoiled and selfish and full of entitlement. Why do I think I can get away with betraying my husband? Why am I entitled to have a love affair?”

Now Lincoln sat up. He was furious.

“What about Henry's betrayal of you?”

“Henry hasn't betrayed me,” said Polly.

“Oh, yes, he has,” said Lincoln. “Your entire family betrays you. I'm not so stupid that I don't know a person who's starving for affection. You were a neglected and love-starved person when I met you, and your spirit has been starved by those loathsome people whose only triumph is that they produced you or were lucky enough to have you marry them.” Lincoln looked at Polly bleakly. “You're going to end up hating me for saying these things.”

“Keep talking,” said Polly.

“I hate Paul. I think Beate is just plain unkind and insensitive. I'd hate your brother Henry, except he's such a dip. I think it's a good thing Andreya pretends not to speak English or else we might find out what a jerk she is. Why should a lovable person like you worry about being lovable? You fetch and carry and worry, and they get the good of it. Your parents want to keep you off balance, so that you will always be their perfect little Polly, ever striving to be kinder, better, and more repressed to make sure they'll all love you. What do these people do for you? Do they know you? They give you a little pat on the back and you think the doors of heaven have opened up.”

Now Polly was silent. She looked at Lincoln with a kind of hunger. He was all hers—the first thing she had ever had of her own. He was her champion, the person who spoke against others in her behalf. The world Polly lived in was a made world. She had been born into most of her serious relationships. The one she had chosen—Henry Demarest—was a choice very close to home.

But Lincoln was her own. She had gone out and found him, all by herself. He was the first and only serious relationship she had ever had outside her family. He was her secret, her treasure, the thing she did not have to share. They had had to make up everything themselves. And so, as Lincoln said, Polly had been Bennettized, and he had been Solo-Millered. They knew each other from a private angle to which only they had access. There was no larger context for their friendship but friendship, which is the lot of strangers who fall in love. It was an entirely volitional relationship, and it lived outside the law.

Polly had never dreamed of a life like this. Her goals had been modest and in line with what she felt destined for: a husband, two children, a strong family, and a month's summer holiday in Maine. Once she was married, her life had been so accomplished that all she had to do was live it. But it turned out that life was not a straight path. You woke up on the wrong side of the law with the right set of feelings. How had she ever conned herself into thinking that she could give Lincoln up? She knew very well what her feelings were and they did not fit into her neat life. They did not incorporate with anything else. They made her life more difficult and often brought her terrible pain. But that came with the territory. She loved him.

She ate her lunch wearing only her slip. These slips endeared her ferociously to Lincoln. They were old-fashioned full slips made of cotton. Their soberness and the setting Lincoln saw them in were so poignant a combination that he often felt a little silly with love and found himself grinding his teeth. Now Polly sat at his table, her hair mussed, looking like the model in the studio, the girl who came to have her portrait painted and then fell madly in love with the painter. They sat quietly. Lincoln was very happy to smoke a cigar and sketch Polly as she sat drinking her coffee contentedly.

It was surely not right to feel this happy, but it was also undeniable. The air outside was smoky with spring rain. The street was gray. The warehouses across the street were wet. Polly put down her cup. The pure feelings one had in adult life were complicated and mitigated, and they were dearly paid for, but worth everything they cost.

Late in the afternoon, when she was dressed to go home, Lincoln gave her the letters he had written to her in Paris but had not sent.

“I thought I was losing you,” Lincoln said. “I had such a lonely little hotel room, but it would have been so cozy if you had been with me. It was an attic room with a square bed and a red comforter. It rained almost every day. I would come home at night tired out from hanging the show, or scared at the idea of the show, and I would lie in bed and think of you in your bed on your side of the Atlantic, reappraising us. I thought when I came home I might not find you.”