The Four Temperaments (30 page)

RUTH

P
reparing Gabriel's
old room for Isobel gave Ruth the first real, sustained pleasure she had felt in anything since Penelope was killed. Oscar helped her collapse the twin bed and move the furniture out. Some pieces, like a desk and a chair, she was able to reabsorb elsewhere in the apartment, while others she donated to the Salvation Army, whose cheerful red, white and blue truck appeared the day after she called. Since Gabriel decided to sell all the furniture from his San Francisco apartment rather than ship it to New York (a decision Ruth wholeheartedly endorsed), she dragged her sister, Molly, up to Albee's, a children's furniture and equipment store that had been on Amsterdam Avenue since Ruth's own boys were babies.

At Albee's, Ruth purchased a white crib, rocking chair and bureau for Isobel's new room. Isobel was already too squirmy for a changing table, so instead Ruth splurged on a white wooden lamp made in the shape of Little Bo-Peep; the skirt, which formed the base, was painted with pink flowers, and the shade was of pink-and-white gingham. “She'll hate it by the time she's six,” Molly predicted.

“I'll buy her a new one, then,” Ruth said, undaunted. The lamp was boxed and bagged and came home with her, unlike the furniture, which was not delivered until late the following week. During that time, Ruth was able to have someone scrape, sand and polyurethane the floor as well as cover the walls with the most adorable paper of pink posies. The border that ran around the ceiling showed a frieze of animals drawn by Beatrix Potter: bunnies, kittens, skunks and ducks wearing boaters and waistcoats; pinafores and pantaloons. Oscar had said something about buying Ruth a fur coat this year. But Ruth didn't want a fur coat. Instead, she vastly preferred using the money to create this bower for their granddaughter.

“I do think you're going a bit overboard on the pink,” Molly commented when she saw the whole effect. “There's enough of it in here to gag the poor child.”

“No little girl can have too much pink.”

“Oh, really?” Molly gave her a look, the one from childhood that said, “Don't think you know everything, Miss Bossy Boots.” But she couldn't help laughing, and then neither could Ruth, so they both dissolved in a fit of giggles, hugging each other for support, when Oscar came into the room to see what was going on.

“Uh, it looks nice,” he said a bit uncertainly. Ruth and Molly looked at each other and began giggling again.

Ruth knew of course that Oscar had not been enthusiastic about her plan to have Isobel live with them during the week. Neither was Gabriel.

“I appreciate your offer, Mom,” he had said when she first broached it. “I really do.” Those were his words, but his tone sounded as if she had just placed a large basket of dead fish in his lap.

“Then why not take me up on it?”

“I feel like I hardly know her. When Penelope was here—” he paused, clearly overcome—“she took over. I don't want that to happen again.” Ruth felt proud of him for saying this, and told him so. But, still, he had committed himself to his new job and needed someone to watch Isobel while he worked.

“What kind of baby-sitter will you find?” Ruth asked him. “Can she possibly care as much as your father and I do?”

“Dad wants to do this?” Gabriel said, looking as though he didn't quite believe her.

“He wants what I want. At least about this,” Ruth reassured him. And so eventually Gabriel agreed that Isobel would spend the weekdays with her grandparents and the weekends with him. He had already bought things for her room. His taste didn't run to the pink and frilly, but he picked out some attractive Mission-style oak furniture, a woven wool rug that showed all the letters of the alphabet, and paid someone to paint the walls pale blue with a scattering of white stars.

So Isobel would have a pink room and a blue one, Ruth thought when she saw the blue one for the first time. Somehow, this pleased her enormously. Isobel seemed happy too. She still called for Penelope, especially in the night, and often Ruth or Oscar had to lift her out of her crib, and walk her back and forth in the living room, to calm her down. “I remember this from the first time around,” Oscar said groggily at 3:00
A.M.
“It was bad enough back then.” Still, he did his part. If Isobel really couldn't settle down, Oscar would take out his violin, and standing there in his striped, wrinkled pajamas, he would softly play a lullaby for her. That seemed to work when nothing else did.

Ruth quickly developed a new routine, one that was familiar and yet all fresh and undiscovered too. As soon as it was decided that Isobel would live part-time with them, Ruth called both the nursing home and the hospital and with many apologies and great regrets explained that she would no longer be volunteering her time, at least for a while. She told her friends at the book club that she might need to miss some meetings and her cooking classes were supplanted by others with names like Tots on the Go and Wee Make Music. When her membership at the Y ran out, Ruth had not planned to renew it. Actually, it was Oscar who suggested that they instead take out a family membership, so that either of them could bring Isobel to the pool for a swim.

“I swim up at the lake,” he pointed out. “Why not here? I used to be a very good swimmer. Remember?” Ruth remembered quite well. Their social lives were more curtailed, of course, though they still had the weekends to themselves. And Molly promised to baby-sit if they needed it during the week.

“Just like the old days, Ruth,” Molly said. “R and R.”

“R and R,” Ruth said, smiling. “God, how we needed it!”

So that
was how Ruth came to be sitting in the New York State Theater one Thursday night in November. She had not been to the ballet in many years, not since she stopped taking the boys, though she had always enjoyed going. Somehow, it was just one of those things that fell by the wayside. But Ruth knew that Oscar was quite passionate about performing the Bach Double Violin Concerto again; she remembered how he had given himself over to the music when they had last been at the lake. It seemed to her that she ought to go and hear him play it. But for a reason she didn't care to explain, she mentioned this desire only to Molly, who came over just after Oscar left. Ruth had to hurry because he was late leaving, and she fretted to see that Isobel looked upset—her lower lip quivered ominously, though she did not actually cry—when Ruth went to the door. Even though Ruth was running late, she stopped at a pay phone on Broadway to call Molly, who assured her that Isobel was fine. Ruth could hear her babbling in the background, so she continued her walk toward the theater feeling somewhat consoled.

She found her way to the house seat—the woman at the box office remembered her from years ago and was happy to oblige—just as the curtain was rising. The mysterious blue light glowed from the backstage wall as the first strains of the music—Oscar's music—began.

The truth was that Ruth knew Ginny Valentine would be dancing tonight. Ginny was the reason for Ruth's secrecy. When Ruth had told Oscar she was no longer angry with him, she was not lying. Nor was she angry with Gabriel. But Ruth had every reason to be angry at Ginny.

Then the music took hold of her, and Ruth let herself revel in it, even closing her eyes momentarily. When she opened them, she saw the row of tunic-clad dancers, moving in their intricate, unfolding patterns on the stage. Though she knew the score quite well, Ruth had never actually seen this particular ballet before and she was stunned by its pure, formal beauty. There was no story here, only the music and bodies, working seamlessly in tandem. To her surprise, she found she preferred its austere clarity to some of the more traditional, drama-filled ballets, lovely as they were. When the second movement began—the “Largo”—Ruth could hear Oscar playing, playing with everything in him. The couple who danced to this sweet, sweet music were both blond, and as lyrical as any dancers Ruth had ever seen. The woman, in particular, had a resonance to her movements, a brilliance of execution that Ruth could not remember ever having witnessed before. Though she was hardly a dance critic, she still felt she was in the presence of something rare and exceptional. Who was she?

In deference to the other people in the audience, she didn't consult the program until the curtain came down and the applause exploded around her. Then she was shocked to discover that the dancer who had so moved her was Ginny Valentine.

It was the hair that had fooled her, of course. That afternoon when Ginny had come into Ruth's home, eaten her food, bewitched her husband and kissed her son, she had not been blond. But she was certainly the same girl—now that Ruth knew who she was, it all fell into place. There were many curtain calls, with wild applause and cheering. During one of them, Oscar and the other violinist came onto the stage. Oscar looked a bit uncomfortable but still very dignified. He took the hand Ginny offered him and bowed to the audience. Then he raised his head and looked at her. All at once, Ruth saw just what Oscar had wanted from her: more than youth or beauty, it was that flame of hers, the spark that ignited when she moved. He wanted to be close to that, to let it warm his hands for a while, even though it would never in fact be his. Ruth almost forgave her then. Everything Ginny had done was suddenly refracted through the prism of her enormous talent: surely a girl who could dance like that had some good in her. Ruth was not the one to find it, but at least she could grudgingly perceive that it might be there.

Later, Ruth couldn't say what made her look away from the stage at that particular moment, and over the railing of the first balcony. Below was a man whose head was in his hands; it seemed such an odd gesture amidst the crowd of applauding fans that it distracted her. Was he ill? Then the man straightened up and Ruth saw that it was her son, who must have come to the ballet tonight to see Ginny. How remarkable that he was there, that the four of them were all there.

During the intermission, Ruth saw Gabriel stand up and walk out of the theater. Would he be back? Ruth stayed in her own seat, feeling instinctively that he would not wish to be seen by her. She studied the program and learned that Ginny had been made a soloist. That was quite an accomplishment, but Oscar had told Ruth, when they were able to discuss such things idly, that Ginny was talented. Well, tonight Ruth had seen the proof herself.

The lights were dimming again and Gabriel's seat was still empty. Maybe that was all he could bear to watch. Then just as the curtain went up, Ruth saw him move past the series of bent knees, to reclaim his post. The next ballet was a new one and unfamiliar to Ruth. She didn't have much concentration for watching it anyway. Ginny didn't dance again, but the afterimage of her earlier performance was still more vivid than anything Ruth now watched.

Surreptitiously, she looked down. Gabriel remained seated and uncharacteristically still; normally, he exhibited a whole range of nervous habits, like tapping on the floor, running his hands through his hair, drumming on a surface with his fingers, shifting in his seat. Seeing him sit so motionless was actually a bit upsetting: it was as if Ginny's effect on him had dulled his responses and robbed him of himself. My boy, Ruth wanted to say, and put her arms around him. Ginny again. But the anger was gone as quickly as it flared. Ginny hadn't done anything to him that he hadn't wanted done. And he was a man now. He needed Ruth's support and love, which would always be freely given, but not her pity. Ruth had to be strong enough to spare him from her pity. He would never know that she saw him there tonight. That was as good a place as any from which to start.

When the ballet was finally over, Ruth didn't even wait for the applause to finish. She hurried out of her seat and toward the nearest exit. The night was chilly and she buttoned her coat against the wind that swept the leaves and litter across the plaza. The musicians usually came out first. Tonight was not an exception. Ruth said hello to the French horn player whose Christmas party she and Oscar attended last year; she nodded to some of the other violinists as they walked by, up the steps and away from the theater. Then she saw Oscar, looking preoccupied and in a great hurry until he saw her and abruptly stopped.

“Ruth!” Surprise and delight clearly illuminated his face. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to hear you play,” Ruth said.

“You did? Why?”

“Just because,” she said. “And it was wonderful. You were wonderful.”

“Thank you,” he said simply as they stood looking at each other.

“And now?” he added, but he was smiling. They had reached the street, still busy even at this cold, late hour.

“And now we're going home,” Ruth answered, and together, arm in arm, that was where they went.

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