A Reckoning (11 page)

“What was it like to be her daughter?” The question had been in the air for some time, Laura sensed, yet it caught her off her guard.

“Heaven and hell,” she answered. “That’s true,” she said, surprised at her own answer. “That’s really it. It was heaven when we were quite small because Mamma did enclose us in a kind of magic charm, and we didn’t mind then that she was acting the part of an adorable mother because she played it so well.”

“Oh, dear,” Ann laughed. “It does make our life now seem pretty dreary by comparison. Colds, tantrums, endless meals to be provided, no Edith Wharton coming to dinner—very little heaven around 4 Concord Place!”

“But it’s real, you see. And somehow Mamma’s life was never quite real.”

“What was the hell?”

“The hell? Hard to say it in words, or even to know. I suppose the hell was never landing.”

“Never landing?”

Laura laughed. “You see, it’s too complicated—how can I say it?—never landing on earth, hard, dirty, ordinary earth. That’s what we longed for.”

“May I ask a pointed question?”

“Of course.”

“Did you feel that you had landed when you married Charles, then?”

“Yes, I did.” Laura lay back with a pillow behind her head. “It was a kind of miracle because under mother’s aegis I might have overlooked Charles—he was neither very rich, nor very brilliant, and only got through law school by the skin of his teeth, but Charles was real, funny, loving, warm. I was literally starving for just that.”

“You must miss him terribly.”

“I did. Well,
you
know, dear Ann, you were such a help when Charles died, but now I am glad I can do this alone. It would have been doubly difficult with Charles agonizing at my side. I couldn’t have borne that.”

“You are an amazing person,” Ann said, her eyes very bright.

“Am I?” Laura laughed. “Most of the time I feel too queer for words. We’re all loons, really, my two sisters are quite impossible, each in her own inimitable way, impossible. And I? I suppose I am possible, which was a relief for my children, anyway.” Here she suddenly sat up “But even so—and we did, I think, make a good open and loving world for our children—only Brooks has come through into happiness.”

“The open world has its dangers, too.”

Again Laura indulged in a silence. It was good to know that she and Ann could talk like this, talk and be silent. In the silence she was thinking about Daisy who appeared incapable of choosing a life, the rebel without a cause, wondering for the millionth time what had gone wrong. She was drawn back from these thoughts by Ann’s getting up.

“I’m tiring you, and it’s time I went. Thanks for the tea and telling me all you did.” As Ann stooped down to kiss her, Laura reached out for her hand and held it tight, looking up into her face, for a second so close. “Dear Ann, I haven’t heard a word about
you.
Sit down a minute. After all, there isn’t infinite time.”

“I really have played hooky long enough—and I’ll come back.”

“But I may not be here in the same way,” Laura said quietly. “We have to face that fact.” She felt it imperative to capitalize on this moment of intimacy. “Everything is now for me these days.”

Ann was silent. She had sat down as bidden, but she looked withdrawn.

“I can guess that these are not the easiest years of your life. I remember at times feeling caught when the children were small, caught and so tired that getting through the day was all I could ask of myself. You seem so marvelously able to do it all, you create such an atmosphere of, how shall I say, ease and joy? Brooks is a lucky man, and I, dear Ann, am grateful.”

But I am blundering about, Laura realized, talking too much, and she lay back and looked at the flowers. The anemones had opened wide, their dark, velvety hearts revealed. “Look at the anemones,” she murmured.

“Yes.” Ann gave a long sigh. “I suppose I’m scared because I feel Brooks is outgrowing me. I can’t share in what interests him most because there simply isn’t time or energy. When he comes home from those long meetings I’m in bed, half-asleep. I feel I’ve become a donkey and he is proving to be a race horse.”

Laura laughed aloud at this. “I really can’t see Brooks as a race horse, A dear Morgan perhaps, docile and biddable.”

“He’s really changed. He’s on fire about conservation. It’s as though everything, his intelligence and heart, his sensitivity to everything natural—you know—as though it all pulled together.” Ann frowned. “I feel mean because I can’t match that fire, or catch it, for that matter. I feel so dull, Laura!”

What was there to answer to this, Laura wondered. The only answer was time—in a few years you will be in another place altogether. But when someone is in acute pain—and she could sense that Ann was close to tears—“time” is no answer at all.

“Our marriage has been a see-saw—” Ann went on. “Maybe all marriages are. Ten years ago I was absorbed in the school. I was coming into my own then, and perhaps Brooks sometimes felt I was not there for him, and maybe I wasn’t. Our first child was to solve that and bring us together in a joint enterprise.”

“But that wasn’t what happened?”

“Laurie is a tremendously vital little girl. I must tell you something rather amusing,” Ann interrupted herself, “Charley really wants to be a girl too, and he is very feminine, you know.”

“And nobody is going to worry about that,” Laura said. “Wonderful things are happening, Ann, and one, I think, don’t you? is the acceptance of androgyny.”

“Brooks worries.”

“Nonsense. Charley wants to imitate his sister. That’s natural enough, she is such a power.”

“I sometimes think Brooks and I are more separate and have less of a real union since the children came, and that worries
me
.” She got up and this time put on her coat. “I’ve stayed much too long. Tomorrow I’ll bring the children—we’ll walk Grindle, and we won’t stay a minute. You’ve been an angel. I guess what I really think is it’s damned hard to be a woman, Laura.” She smiled.

“Yes.”

Ella would agree with that statement, Laura thought later, lying in the dusk, unwilling to turn on a light. If a woman marries and has children, she is going to have to give up a large part of her life, perhaps a third, to child-rearing, to homemaking, and this is simply not true for a man, so all the emphasis today on “becoming oneself” only adds to the inescapable conflict.

“I don’t want to settle down.” She could hear Daisy’s passionate outbursts. “I don’t want to lock myself into the prison like you.”

And it did no good to assure Daisy that she, Laura, had never felt like a prisoner, for Daisy simply did not believe it.

Sybille, Laura, Daisy. One extraordinary and destructive woman, one rather ordinary woman, and one maverick. What did it really add up to or mean?

I’m much too tired to find the answer to that, Laura thought. What I need is some music. “And where is Sasha?” she asked Grindle, who was asleep in his bed. “Where’s your cat?”

Chapter X

Daphne had called and was on her way from New York, so Laura’s precious last days before Mrs. O’Brien descended had been seized, preempted by Brooks’s taking things into his own hands. Daphne had called at ten that night, waking Laura to a dreadful fit of coughing, and after the call she had been too angry to sleep. Now it was morning at long last; Grindle was out; she was drinking a cup of black coffee; and in a few hours Daphne would arrive. This was the day Laura had planned to read Ella’s letters and pack them up to be mailed. She had planned the day for that, for music, for reading poetry, for assembling herself before the invasion. To be deprived of it made everything feel disorderly, chaotic, impossible to handle. The wastebaskets should be emptied; she should put on clean sheets and get the laundry ready to go—what would she find to give Daphne for dinner? Or should they simply stagger out in the rain, for of course it was raining, and in a few hours the roads would be soup as the dirty snow melted into mud!

Only Sasha, licking herself at the end of the bed, had her usual air of serenity.

“But I’ve got to move you, Sasha.” Even cat tranquillity must now be disturbed to air the bed and get started.

Making the bed left Laura so weak that she went downstairs and, after opening a can for Sasha and letting her out and Grindle in, lay on the sofa in her wrapper, trembling with weakness and rage. What time was it, anyway? Half-past seven, too early to call Brooks.

“Oh, Grindle,” she groaned. “I’m not fit for anything, not even to get up and fetch you a cheese biscuit. I’m a wreck, Grindle.”

There were the flowers, the anemones still closed back into buds for the night. They had not changed. And for a moment Laura let her eyes rest on them, trying to shut out all the nagging thoughts, “the must-dos,” for their silent beauty. But she felt nauseated, and it is hard to contemplate beauty when you are about to throw up. Laura closed her eyes. Tears slid out from under her lids. It’s hard, she told herself, it’s just plain hard that I am not to have my one last day before it is all taken from me. But somewhere deep down she knew that this kind of self-indulgence was something she could not afford. She must hold onto herself. “Hold onto oneself”; what an odd locution. It meant getting a grip again on that small core of defiant self-assertion that had kept her, so far, from self-pity, she supposed. It meant not giving in, not breaking into a million pieces. It meant forcing herself to get up, take a pill for nausea, and then slowly swallow down a bowl of cornflakes.

By eight o’clock the black mood was fading. She had not thrown up, but she was still angry enough to call Brooks.

“Hi, Mother.”

“I asked you not to tell anyone, Brooks.”

“I know,” there was a slight hesitation, as well there might be. “But, Mother, you have to think of other people, for God’s sake. I only told Daphne, your sister.”

“I told you I wanted my own death my own way, Brooks. What right have you to butt in like this? It simply means that you are not to be trusted. I’m very angry.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. Listen, Ann wants to speak to you.”

“Laura,” Ann’s voice came through, “I realize this is hard for you, but—”

“These were my last two days before Mrs. O’Brien comes. It’s not fair.”

Laura had the strange perception that Ann and Brooks were talking like parents and she like a recalcitrant child. (“It’s not fair,” the cry of childhood!)

“We should have thought of that, shouldn’t we, Brooks?” Ann did seem to have a glimmer of understanding. “How can we help? Would you like us to ask Daphne over for supper?”

“Never mind. What’s done is done. I’ll manage.”

Brooks came back on the phone. “Mother, I just felt it was too great a responsibility for me alone. I’m awfully sorry if I bungled things. Please try to understand.”

“Maybe it’s all right,” Laura said grudgingly. “Daphne can tell Jo, Ben, and Daisy, when I feel it’s time. Daphne, not you, Brooks. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mother.”

It was all right with Ann yesterday, Laura thought, but she is not family. Why was it that family seemed such a threat, a threat she simply couldn’t handle? People at one remove—Harriet even, a perfect stranger—yes. Family tore the nerve. Yet even as she asked herself the question, Laura knew that she would be glad once Daphne was there. She had better get dressed now and be ready.

Putting on a soft pink shetland sweater and gray slacks and tying a Liberty scarf around her neck, Laura met herself in the mirror several times. Lately she had avoided the mirror. Her appearance was perhaps important to other people—she must not allow herself to look like an old rag bag—but in her own mind appearance was becoming quite irrelevant. Still, it was a shock to see that a veil of wrinkles was taking over her face. I’m becoming an old woman fast, she saw. She slipped a belt around her slacks to hold them up, for she had lost weight.

“Hope lies to mortals
And most believe her
But man’s deceiver
Was never mine.”

She murmured, and that sounded like Housman, but she couldn’t quite remember. Daphne would be shocked by how she looked. Dear old Daff who had been given extraordinary beauty and couldn’t have cared less, or rather actively tried to protect herself against what she believed was a curse, a kind of albatross around her neck. “It’s like being an empty bottle. No one cares about what is
inside,
men don’t care anyway.” But the fact was that young men had been terrified of Daphne. Dear old Daff was, underneath a highly cultivated crusty exterior, horribly sensitive to what was going on in other people, and even more in animals. Daff would get a shock.

But the meeting, when the doorbell rang an hour earlier than expected, was of course not at all what Laura had imagined. She opened the door and was immediately struck by how awful Daphne looked, in a dirty trench coat, her gray hair tousled and her intense blue eyes surrounded with great dark circles.

“Laura darling!” Laura didn’t have to say anything, she was enfolded in Daphne’s arms. “I couldn’t wait—I took an earlier plane, didn’t sleep a wink.”

“Where’s your bag?” Laura asked, brushing the tears away with an impatient gesture.

“Oh, I left it on the step.”

By the time the bag had been brought in and Daphne had taken off her trench coat, Laura was quite aware that the tears that had taken her by surprise like a fit of coughing had spurted out because she could not get used to Daphne being so old. When she thought of her sister, the person she thought of was twenty or thirty even, but never fifty-five!

“Are you all right, Daff? I must say you look awful. Let me make you some coffee.”

“All right? How can I be all right when I hear from Brooks that you are dreadfully ill. All right? Laura, you are a monster not to have told me yourself.”

They were leaning on the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee to heat up. Daphne leaned over and laid her hand on Laura’s shoulder, and looked so penetratingly at her sister that Laura felt her eyes as tangibly as her touch and turned away to look out the window at the sturdy row of pines at the end of the field.