The Four Temperaments (13 page)

“You know we won't be able to see each other very often,” he said, face pressed against her neck. “I have a wife. And a daughter.”

“I don't care about them. I just care about you.”

He pulled his face away, then, and turned her around so they were looking at each other. He was quiet for what seemed like a long time.

“You're such a strange girl,” he said finally.

“How am I strange?”

“I thought women couldn't stand the idea of sharing. Another woman would want me to get a divorce. Get married to her. Give her a baby.”

“I don't want to be married,” Ginny said. “And I certainly don't want to have a baby.” Then she told Gabriel about her own mother, the scholarship she had, and how it all went down the drain. How instead of college, a degree and awards, she got eighteen years of raising Ginny, by herself, with no help from anyone. He was quiet again. Ginny wanted to tell him that there had never been anyone like him for her, that she had no convenient slot into which he could fit. She knew he was not going to be a boyfriend or a lover in the usual sense and she didn't care—she just wanted what they had last night and this morning to go on and on. But she didn't know how to say that. So instead she said, “What about your mother? When she saw us that day?”

“That's okay now,” he said. “I told her that I wouldn't see you again. That there was nothing to worry about.”

“Does she believe you?”

“People believe what they want to believe.” He shrugged. “What they can stand to believe.”

“How about your father? What does he believe?” Ginny was not sure if Gabriel knew about what happened with Oscar before she met him.

“We haven't spoken since Thanksgiving.” Gabriel looked down and fiddled with the blanket binding as if it were the most interesting thing he had ever seen.

“You know about us, then? About Oscar and me?”

“Not really. He didn't tell me anything. I put it together.” He lifted his eyes.

“Does it bother you?”

“It did.”

“And now?”

“What do you think?” he asked, kissing her. “I'll give you my cell phone number and my number at work. You can call me there, only not too often. And I'll call you. Whenever I can.”

“The company will be in California,” Ginny says.

“When?”

“After we go to Saratoga—that's in July. So some time in August, I guess.”

“You let me know where and when. I'll be there.”

Ginny took
a shower. Last night's stage makeup felt as if it were embedded into her skin; it took her a long time to get it off. Then there was her hair, which was stiff and matted with styling gel and spray. When she finally emerged, she put on the terry robe, and then started hunting for her clothes, which had been tossed Lord knows where last night. It was only when Gabriel moved the breakfast cart out of the way that she noticed the rolled-up newspaper on the breakfast tray.

“Is that today's
New York Times
?” Ginny asked.

“I guess so. They must send one up with room service. Why?”

“There may be a review in there. Of the performance.” She reached over, and quickly started looking through the paper.

“I saw you dance, you know,” Gabriel said quietly.

“You did?” She stopped pawing the pages. “You didn't tell me.”

“I know. But I had other things on my mind last night.” He smiled with such charm that Ginny wished they could get right back into bed. “Still, I was going to mention it.” He put his hand under her chin, tilting it up ever so slightly. “I'm hardly a connoisseur, but I thought you were extraordinary.”

“You did?” Ginny knew her voice was squeaky, the way it got when she was happy or embarrassed, both of which she was right then.

“I did. And other people did too. I heard the applause when you finished. I could tell.”

She stood there, foolishly beaming at him.

“Go ahead,” he said, gesturing to the newspaper. “Find the review. You can read it to me if you like.” After a few seconds, she found it. There were some remarks about the staging of the performance, which she skimmed, and some things about the principals who danced last night. Then she saw her own name and read silently, though she could feel her lips moving, sounding out the words, seeing how they would feel when she read them aloud.

Newcomer Virginia Valentine dazzled the audience in her all too brief role as Coffee, a variation she imbued with her own grace and sensuality. Ms. Valentine, who has been with the corps de ballet for just over a year, danced like a demon child. Her extensions were lofty, her pointe work both crisp and cutting. She performed the short variation with such passion, such grace, such attack, that one would swear her pointe shoes were on fire as she danced. This reviewer knows she is not alone when she says she hopes to see more of her in the not too distant future.

“Well?” said Gabriel. “Aren't you going to read it to me?” But Ginny found that she couldn't. Instead, she handed him the paper and let him read it for himself. He did and then put it down to stare at her again, in a kind of wonder this time.

“Congratulations,” he said tenderly. “It seems that you have arrived.”

When Ginny
kissed Gabriel good-bye, she cried, but only a little. She felt as if she were in mild shock, what with the lack of sleep last night, and what she and Gabriel had done while they weren't sleeping. Then waking up to all those glorious things written about her in the
New York Times
of all places. Wait until Mama and Wes saw that. She took a taxi home to her apartment. Once there, she went straight to bed and, even though she was all keyed up, still managed to sleep, at least for a little while.

When she woke, Ginny found fresh practice clothes and headed for the theater. She had missed company class this morning and hoped she wouldn't hear too much about that. But when she got there, no one said anything about class, and instead she was treated like a minor movie star. Almost everyone had something to say about the performance, the review or both. Even Erik made a point of congratulating her.

Ginny felt no pressure from the review at all. She did feel a bit stiff from missing class, but she gave herself a short, brisk barre and felt fine after that. Of course she had to shower all over again before she got back into the glamorous costume and the makeup that changed her ordinary-looking face into one that held mystery, fire and romance. She heard the orchestra warming up, and took her place backstage. When the time came to dance again, she was ready, sweet Jesus, was she ready.

It went even better than the night before. After all the applause and the curtain calls, there was still the steady hum of excitement she could feel from the other dancers in the company. The one that said, “Now here's someone to reckon with.” Ginny was even asked out to dinner with a group of dancers for the first time since she joined the New York City Ballet, and for the first time she went. She even had fun. So much fun, in fact, that she didn't get back to her apartment building until late, and when she entered the lobby and saw the time, she cursed because she had missed company class once this week already and she couldn't afford to miss it again.

“I'll just go straight to bed,” Ginny decided. She cursed again when the elevator didn't come immediately and, instead of waiting, she hurried up the stairs. The key was already in her hand when she jumped back, as if she had stepped on a wasp. There was a big, dark shape hovering by her apartment door. Ginny didn't know whether to be relieved or more frightened still when she realized that the shape was Oscar.

RUTH

Y
ou mean
he's schtuping
her
? That scrawny, toothy one who was here on Thanksgiving?” Molly shook her head in disbelief. “When he's married to that goddess? Men.”

“I guess it isn't about her looks,” Ruth said weakly.

“And she's a
shiksa
besides!” added Molly.

“So is Penelope,” Ruth pointed out. “If you want to get technical about it.”

“But Penelope is a classy
shiksa.
The other one is straight out of a trailer park. It's a matter of style, Ruth. You know what I mean.”

“Yes,” Ruth said, “I suppose I do.”

Oscar was at the theater tonight and Molly had dropped by unannounced, which was good because Ruth wanted to see her, though she wouldn't have summoned her here. To do that would have made it seem like an emergency, and it felt essential to her, if she was to keep soul and body together, to pretend that it was not.

“If it's not about her looks, then what is it? Her brains?” Molly reached for one of the rugalach she had brought with her in a white, string-tied bakery box.

“I don't know. I don't understand her appeal.” Ruth regretted this as soon as she said it; she hadn't told Molly about Ginny and Oscar yet. She would, because eventually she told Molly almost everything. She just wasn't ready to discuss this particular hurt; she needed to nurse it by herself for a while, like a sore tooth that you run your tongue over again and again before finally breaking down and phoning the dentist.

“So you saw them kissing that day she was here. So what. Maybe they both had too much to drink and got a little frisky. I remember in the old days, when Bernie and I used to have those big parties. There was always someone kissing someone else's husband in the kitchen. It never amounted to anything.” She munched noisily on the pastry and Ruth heard their mother's words, repeated often and with exasperation, “Molly, stop chomping like a
chazzer
and eat like a lady!”

“Well, that's what I thought too. But then he told Penelope that he was going to Santa Barbara to visit clients and it turned out that he was here. In New York.”

“How do you know?”

“Penelope called here. She was very upset.”

“So you think he's seeing her? This what's her name, Gina—”

“Ginny,” Ruth corrected. “I'm sure he's seeing her. Why would he lie, unless he was doing something he didn't want Penelope to know about. And what would that be, other than—”

“Schtuping that girl.” Molly sighed. “You're probably right, though it makes no sense. Still, he might get over it quickly. Penelope just has to sit tight and wait for him to get tired of her.”

“Molly,” Ruth said, feeling a little annoyed at how obtuse her sister was being. “Molly, we both know that Penelope is not the type to sit tight and wait for anything like that. You should have heard her on the phone.”

“All right, then. So she's angry. Can you blame her? But she'll calm down. She has the baby to think of. Look at it this way—” she paused to pop another piece of pastry, whole, into her mouth—“even if she did leave him, she'd have to reconsider. After all, how many men are going to want the trouble of a baby that isn't even theirs?”

“She might go home to her mother's in Connecticut,” Ruth said. “I'm sure Caroline would have her back.”

“Well, and if she did? Would it be so terrible? Everybody gets divorced now. Gabriel would get married again. She might too. You would get to see Isobel, I'm sure. Divorce isn't such a dirty word anymore. We're just behind the times, you and I.”

“And I intend to remain that way,” Ruth said firmly. “Divorce is fine for the two people who are doing it. But it's not fine for the children.” Ruth remembered the phrase “broken home” from her own childhood, and remembered too the sense of shame and sorrow it conveyed. “You have to forgive her,” Ruth's mother would say of a playmate who had, in her opinion, behaved badly. “She's from a broken home.” Somehow, even all these years later, the words seemed apt. From the child's point of view, divorce—that abstract, impersonal word—meant something broken, shattered, beyond repair. Ruth had no intention of sitting by and watching it happen to Isobel.

“I don't see what you can do about it,” said Molly. “You can't send Gabriel to his room anymore. Or take away his allowance.”

“Maybe I can't do anything,” Ruth conceded, “but I am certainly going to try.”

“You're meddling,” Molly warned.

“Molly, you don't know her!” Ruth burst out. “If they get divorced, Penelope will never let us see Isobel! We'll lose her, don't you understand?” Molly looked at Ruth wordlessly, then reached out to hug her.

When Molly
left, a short while later, there were only two pieces of rugalach left. Ruth decided to save them for Oscar and she retied the string on the box. She called two of her friends from the reading group, but neither one was home.

Then she found herself looking around, as a stranger might, at the apartment, the place she had called home all these years. She could still feel calmed by the cleanliness and order: the floors that were washed weekly with Murphy Oil Soap, the surfaced dusted, cushions on the sofa and chairs freshly plumped, beds made and folded towels neatly stacked in the linen closet. When her sons were little, she used to despair of the clutter they created in their wake: dirty socks and underwear, Popsicle sticks, cookie crumbs, wet towels, treasured rocks, toys and candy wrappers they left behind. She asked them to pick up after themselves, of course, and when asking failed, she nagged, scolded, threatened, cajoled and at times shouted. None of it did any lasting good. Now they were all married, and their mess was someone else's to contend with. Ruth's own little corner of the world was tidy and within her control. Or so she would have liked to think.

Glancing up at the clock, Ruth saw that it was still early; Oscar wouldn't be home for nearly two hours. She brewed a pot of herbal tea, and brought it over to the low table by the couch.
All About Eve
was on, and it suited her mood exactly. She slipped off her shoes, and drew her feet up as she clicked the remote control. Even though she had seen the film many times before, she still laughed when Thelma Ritter compared the pile of fur coats in the bedroom to a dead animal act and when Marilyn Monroe pointed out that somebody's name might be Butler. Sipping the fragrant tea, Ruth watched the screen and waited patiently for her husband to return.