Random Winds (30 page)

“There’s a girl who could make you very happy, Martin,” she had told him.

Yes, his mother would see that! It had occurred to him lately that Hazel was quite like his mother—except, he thought ruefully, his mother, being of a different generation, was far less forbearing. (She had never asked about Jessie or what had happened. She was a lady, brought up not to mention painful subjects and not to want to hear about them either.)

On a spring Sunday he had taken Hazel to Tom’s house. And afterward Tom and Flo had got onto the subject, too. Why didn’t he marry her? You didn’t find women like Hazel on every street corner! What was he waiting for? But he had fended them off with a feeble joke about Tom’s being Hungarian, like Hazel. He wouldn’t let anyone pin him down, and wouldn’t pin himself down.

Certainly he was doing well enough to support a family—not splendidly—but who except for a glamorous few in this somber decade could think of splendor? He was doing surprisingly well. His name was appearing more and more frequently on the operating schedule at Fisk. He was acquiring a bit of a name. Among the younger general men he had made friends; they played handball with him and hiked in Central Park on Sundays; they referred their patients to him because they respected his work. Also, they approved of his fees, which were surely more reasonable than Eastman’s!

And remembering Eastman’s ornate house, his office with its Circassian walnut paneling and its Oriental carpets, Martin felt a certain satisfaction. His own office in a modest building on a side street was functional. There were no excessive costs to pass on to the patients. He had time to spare for teaching, good teaching, and research. In a cou
pie of years he might even be needing a second man, someone who might want to work with him on his dream of a neurological institute—his pipe dream.

Having drunk the tea, he went back to the living room, closed the bedroom door and put the new record player on very softly. Mr. and Mrs. Moser had given it to him on the anniversary of their daughter’s operation, along with the happy news that she was playing tennis again.

He laid his head back while daylight crept and the Bach
Magnificat
sang. God, to be able to say it all as those old masters had said it! All the splendor, the beauty, the love! One wanted it so, and sometimes found a bit of it, and then lost it.

My life is half over, he thought I’m thirty-seven.

On the bookshelf at his elbow stood a small framed snapshot of Hazel standing in front of a hydrangea bush. She was holding Tom’s and Flo’s newest baby.

“That becomes you, Hazel,” Tom had said and Flo had frowned at him. The frown meant, “Don’t embarrass the girl, for goodness’ sake!” In the eye and ear of his mind, he recalled the day: Tom’s dowdy, cheerful Dutch colonial, the scuffed woodwork, the tricycles and high chairs and all the noise. Why did it ache in him, in him who loved order and serenity and quiet?

In the park where he sometimes walked with Hazel on Sundays, a father and a little boy came to sail a toy boat Other fathers slid and shouted at ball. And he would stop to watch them. Machismo, was it? A man wanting a son? Yes, yes, as old as time, that was! But a daughter, a daughter was—and he thought of Claire again. Not an hour passed on any day without some glancing thought of her. How much of him could she remember? Slipped from his hold, forever lost and gone, like Mary.

The music stopped. Carefully, he slid the record back into its cardboard case. I am overwhelmed with loneliness, he thought. Overwhelmed with it.

Hazel coughed. It was almost six, and she too must rise and go to work. She wasn’t one of that spoiled lot that men complained of, telling in the locker room how their wives nagged when an emergency spoiled a dinner party. No,
Hazel was solid, kind and durable. And in her flesh also, a man could find the oblivion which ends in ease.

She loved a wedding! He smiled to himself. She had invited him to her brother’s wedding; the ceremony had moved him more than he would have thought possible. The bride was nineteen and pale at first under the lace cap, but afterward rosy as a child, and Hazel’s eyes had filled, thinking—how well he had known what she was thinking!

“You’ll have no trouble with the word Obey,’ ” the minister had said, “although it is becoming the fashion to omit it.”

Well, he wouldn’t try to force ‘Obedience’: Hazel needn’t worry about that How glad she would be! And how glad he, to be what he had never been: the giver. Giver, firstly, of material things. And don’t he thought grimly, don’t ever sell that short. Would he ever forget the hard years, his mother’s dread when the bills arrived? No, don’t sell it short, for the peace and calm it brings. So he would be a giver of that peace and calm. Something swept through him, a fine resolution, a purity of hope.

He opened the bedroom door. Full daylight lay now over the bed. Her face was half buried in the pillow, but she heard him come in and stirred, and gave him her lovely, curving smile. He laid his cheek on the warm, spread hair.

“Wake up,” he whispered. “Wake up. I want to ask you something.”

Nineteen thirty-seven was the darkest year, the lowest year, when the stone struck the bottom of the well and sent a dismal echo. Jessie sat before the desk where bank statements, tax bills and accountants’ reports were spread. Oh, the darkest year, in which Father’s heart had finally given out and the Websterware plant, after three-quarters of a century, had closed its doors!

She raised her eyes from the papers to rest them, having been at the desk since morning. A monotonous winter rain poured from the somber sky, pitting the broken ice and mushy snow on the lawn. Where the snow washed away, soaked earth lay exposed like soft brown pudding. This was the fifth month of winter. It had come early, yet when had it not come early in this part of the world? And she thought, looking out upon the bleak day, that June could never have been in this place and would never come to it again.

Place where I was born, you have grown cold to me. You have a stranger’s face. Once I belonged here and was intimately known (in London, or any other place, I was a sojourner, an observer). The genteel, passing on a Cyprus street, looked considerately into my face and never allowed their eyes to fall upon my crooked shape. The workmen in my father’s factory would quickly tip their caps and turn away. Now they are unemployed and don’t tip their caps, certainly not to me. My taxes are in arrears. There is really no excuse, Depression or no, for the mess we are in, Claire and I. Something could have been salvaged! How many times I told Father, I warned him, to cheapen the line to fit the times! Who buys copper pots, fit for the kitchens of aristocrats, in times like these! Better if he had given more thought to business instead of ranting these last years about Martin and my sister!

I remember the night I couldn’t stand it anymore. I told him I wouldn’t listen to another word and when he kept on, I threw a lamp across the room. I had never done a thing like that in all my life and I despise vulgarity, but I did it.

In the morning Father said, “I hope you will apologize.”

The pieces hadn’t yet been swept away. It was a hideous lamp, a Greek goddess with a fixture growing out of her head, ugly and expensive, like everything we own. Yet when I saw it shattered on the floor, I was terribly ashamed. But I would not apologize.

“No,” I said, “I was driven. You drove. I’ve told you I don’t want to hear any more about Martin.”

And Father at last was silent.

I feel so sorry for Martin. Isn’t that strange?
Sorry for him? Sorry for Fern?
But I knew about them from the very first, that’s the reason. When they stood together in this dim house, in the corner next to the potted palm, I knew. When they came walking out of the orchard at Lamb House, I knew again. They might not have known, or wanted to, but I did. Those eyes of hers! Lapis lazuli, someone said. Just two eyes after all, and if they had been brown or gray, would that have made a difference?

Still, it would have been no good for Martin and me even if Fern had not existed. Oh, we would have stayed on and eked out a life, but what good would it have been? I’m too proud for that Does it seem strange that a woman who looks like me can indulge herself with pride? Pride’s a luxury, isn’t it? But that’s the way I am.

Yes, I cried my tears in the beginning, cried in bitter shame, in outrage and loneliness, even in despair: what was I to do with my life? life, though, has a way of answering that; grief passes as other trouble comes to take its place.

So: I don’t hate, but I don’t love anymore, either. Let them live and prosper, far from me. Certainly my sister prospers in her English garden. And Martin? Well, let him make of his career what he can, and he will probably make a good deal of it.

But the child—the child is mine.

Across the hall, Aunt Milly had been fiddling with the radio. What ever could she have done with her time before the thing was invented? Kate Smith’s hearty voice cheered her; Amos and Andy amused; the tribulations of King Edward and Mrs. Simpson enthralled her. Now, though, she switched it off and came to the door.

“Jessie, aren’t you through yet? Why don’t you give yourself a rest?”

“I have to go over these figures before the tax people come.” She felt a wry smile stretching her cheeks. “They’re coming here instead of my going to the town hall, as I rightly should. Deference to my crippled state, I suppose. Or else in memory of the glory that was once the Meigs’.”

Aunt Milly’s rosy old face puckered. “Jessie, I wish you’d let me help out That’s why your uncle sent me up this week, to see what we could do. We can’t do a great deal, it’s true, we’ve been hit like everyone else, but I’m sure we could manage something.”

“No. Thank you, but no, Aunt Milly. I’ve got to stand on my own feet Temporary help wouldn’t solve anything, anyway. I’d only be worried about paying you back.”

A car door slammed and Jessie peered out the window.

“They’re here. Two of them. Donovan’s from the tax office and the bald one’s Jim Reeve, the new mayor.”

“Would you like me to stay for moral support?”

Jessie shook her head. Poor Aunt Milly, whose very maids had always ordered her about, to give support?

“No, dear. You go read in the parlor. This won’t take very long.”

“After all, you’re now two years in arrears,” Donovan said. He had the placid manner of the overfed, but his voice was not as mild as it had been half an hour earlier.

“I suppose I’m the only one in town who is!”

“Of course not But that’s got nothing to do with this case.”

“Naturally,” Reeve added, “there are plenty who’ve fallen on hard times. But sooner or later they’re bound to go to work again and be able to pay up. In your situation, though—”

Jessie felt herself stripped naked before these men. Sweat gathered under her arms and on the palms of her hands. Four generations of Meigs had lived in this house, and during all those years no men such as these could ever have been invited to sit down in the parlor. Yet now, in the arrogance of their picayune power, they had come to tell her they had the means to confiscate the house itself! And enjoyed the telling too, without a doubt! Donovan, whose nails were dirty, was unconsciously picking at the brocade braiding on the sofa, loosening the strands. She opened her mouth to chide him and stopped; the thing was hideous anyway.

“I will not let you sell my house for taxes,” she said instead, surprising herself.

“Now really,” Donovan began, “we came here to talk sense. We don’t want to argue. This is no pleasure for us, I assure you.”

“Oh, it’s a pleasure for you, all right! You can’t flimflam me! It’s the best fun you’ve had in a long time. But let me tell you something. I’ll burn the house down before I let you take it away.” She caught her breath. “Don’t look so amused. I know quite well I’d be arrested for arson. But that wouldn’t help you, would it? And what worth is a vacant lot in these times?” She turned to Reeve. “Listen, I happen to know you’ve had your eye on this house. You’d like to live in it.”

Reeve had a nervous twitch and now his eye jumped. “I don’t know where you could’ve got that idea. I never—”

“Come on, come on. Let’s not waste each other’s time. This is a small town and word gets around. I know your wife wants this house. Very well, then. Give me a fair price, and she can have it.”

There was silence. Donovan lit a cigar, and Reeve stared down at the floor. Then he asked. “What’s a fair price?” His eye had gone quite wild and there was a hot flush on the crown of his head.

“Twenty-eight thousand dollars. That’s what the Critchleys got down the street. Theirs is a twin house to this one.”

“That was a year ago. Prices have fallen since.”

“Twenty-eight thousand dollars,” Jessie repeated. “Less the back taxes.”

Then Donovan said, “You’re forgetting. We can take the house for taxes and put it up for public sale.”

He owes Reeve a favor, she thought instantly.

“Public sale!” she said with scorn. “You don’t expect me to believe that? You think you’ll get the house for half-nothing, don’t you?” She lowered her voice. “Listen here, my great-grandfather gave employment to half the people of this town. Where did your father work, Mr. Reeve?”

Reeve smiled slightly. “At Webster’s.”

“And your grandfather?”

Reeve sighed. “At Webster’s. What’s the point of all this?”

“The point is that you wouldn’t be mayor, you probably wouldn’t have gone beyond the eighth grade, if it hadn’t been for that job. You’d be raising potatoes, and you wouldn’t have the faintest chance at a house like this.”

Donovan took out his pocket watch. “You still haven’t got to the point.”

Jessie breathed deeply. “Well, I’m getting to it You either give me a fair price for this house, or I go to the newspapers and tell them you’ve got a private deal to take it for taxes and buy it cheap yourself. Then you’d have to put it up for public sale, and I’d get a decent price after the tax lien had been paid. And you’d have a lot of explaining to do.”

Donovan put his watch back in his pocket and looked at Reeve with a silent question. Jessie stared out the window, watching the rain, listening to its thirsty gurgle in the gutters. Maybe it won’t be so bad to get out of here, she thought. Except that, for the life of me, I don’t know where I’ll go.