A Small Indiscretion (13 page)

I zipped the dress. I pulled on the boots. I arranged the hat on my head and posed experimentally, assessing myself in the mirror.

It was then that Patrick pulled the curtain aside. I straightened and turned away. But he—and Henriette—had already seen me all dressed up, smiling at myself.

Patrick crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. Henriette nodded. They were not smiling, but serious and approving.

“Lovely,” Henriette said.

“I should photograph you in that,” Patrick said.

“It’s a little over the top, isn’t it?” I said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, with an edge of impatience. “It’s only a matter of confidence.”

I pulled the curtain closed and took the clothing off. I put the dress carefully back on its hanger and handed it to Henriette, along with the boots and the hat. Patrick walked outside to smoke a cigarette. Henriette began to write up the order.

I fingered a few things on the racks, hoping Patrick would return.
Or hoping he would not, and that I would come to my senses and ask Henriette how much all this was going to cost. I’d had some idea that Patrick had intended to pay for whatever I chose, or that he would make some deal with Henriette, since they seemed to know each other so well, a discount, or a layaway. Vaguely I’d thought he’d had a plan when he’d told me not to worry.

I watched him outside, taking long drags on his cigarette and leaning against the store window. He was staring up at the vast ceiling of the market, at all that metal and glass, exhaling slowly, leisurely. He seemed to have forgotten about Henriette and me altogether.

Henriette finished writing up the order. I approached the counter and took my wallet out of my knapsack. I removed the credit card my mother had given me for emergencies, knowing there was no guarantee it would actually work, since my mother was more often than not over her credit limit.

Henriette slid the merchandise slip toward me and smiled, her hair smooth against her scalp, making her sharp features even more pronounced. I studied the receipt. How was it possible these bits of leather and felt and silk could add up to such an enormous sum? It was more than I made in a month, including overtime. It was more than I’d spend in a year on clothing, and the bill would be sent directly to my mother.

I snapped the credit card up off the counter. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s too much. But thank you, anyway.”

I walked out the door, right past Patrick.

“What’s the rush?” he called, as he came after me. “I thought we’d go for a drink, and maybe a meal later.”

“I can get a free meal at the boardinghouse. Already paid for. No sense wasting it.”

“What’s wrong?” he said, seeming suddenly truly concerned. “You didn’t like the clothes?”

“I liked them. I just couldn’t afford them.”

“What a pity,” he said. “I won’t be able to photograph you in them.”

“If you can only take my picture when I’m dressed up in thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing then I don’t want my picture taken.”

“Whoa, now,” he said. “Let’s not get our knickers in a twist.”

I was walking as fast as I could, fueled by my humiliation in the store and my indignation at Patrick’s abandonment. But he was keeping up with me easily. It had stopped raining, and as night threatened, the sky was smeared with color. Patrick lifted his camera out of its case and started taking pictures of me.

“You’re very pretty when you’re angry,” he said.

I turned my face away from his camera.

“If you won’t have a drink with me, let’s take a walk, at least.”

So we walked. I was not comfortable walking beside him, but he was clearly at ease. He hummed. He pointed out the sites. Trafalgar Square. A church whose name I’ve forgotten. The Embankment and the Thames. It was dusk. Lavenders and pinks had drained from the sky and collected in the fat clouds, casting their mirror image on the surface of the river. There was a fiery line at the horizon, and the trees were shivering with water from the afternoon rain. I snatched a look at him now and then. He had a narrow face and a broad nose and big ears and curly hair that was almost black. He had a way of walking—his arms swinging energetically, his camera slung over his shoulder—that made me feel we were headed toward fun.

I was to learn that he had a tendency to lose track of time, to get on the trail of something, someplace he wanted to photograph, a derelict corner of London, or a particular Irish pub he wanted to find, or an Indian restaurant. An idea like this might at first seem whimsical, but over the course of the chase it could take on a dark
necessity, and he would become impatient, or even angry, if he could not find what he was looking for, or if, in finding it, he could not have it. In Paris, at Christmas, when we came upon Mary McShane at Montmartre, I imagined he felt that way about her. Never mind the obstacles that might present themselves. Never mind me, standing mute beside him. Never mind Louise. Never mind Malcolm sitting down to rest.

We turned away from the river and came to a pub. We sat down to drink. Time and inhibition fell away. He told me he’d noticed me as soon as I’d arrived at the party the night before. He told me he could almost see the heat coming off me, the sparks. He put his hand on my knee, and we drank until the pub closed.

I don’t remember the journey to Victoria House. I do remember he held my hand as we climbed the stairs to my blue room. We lay down on the bed. I told him I was not on the pill. He pulled a condom from his wallet. The long-awaited event—the loss of my virginity—finally transpired. What did I think of it that first time? I was swept up—if not physiologically, then at least romantically. I was if not adventurous, at least pliable, and as far as I could tell he was not disappointed.

I woke at two in the morning to the sound of rain hitting the window. Patrick was asleep, turned away from me, half covered by the sheet. His clothing was tossed upon the floor—jeans, shirt, blazer, belt, boots—stylish clothes that made an impression even discarded about my utilitarian room. His back was pale and smooth and I wanted to touch it, but I resisted. Already I sensed that to claim him, to take something of him without asking, would be to drive him away.

When I woke again at seven, he was gone. He’d left a note stuck to the inside of the door to my room. There was no salutation or signature, only a few lines from a song:

What did he mean by that note? What did he mean by any of his notes, with their bits of poems and songs? Were they actually warnings? Or was he just playing at being a romantic and winning women?

There are thirteen notes in all. I kept them in a sealed envelope in the hatbox for two decades. I finally read them again last summer after I received the photograph. I studied them for clues, but they didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.

T
OMORROW IS
E
ASTER
. The girls are with your father for a whole ten days. They’ll be in Gold Hill through Easter afternoon, then they’ll fly to Wisconsin to spend their spring break visiting distant Gunnlaugsson cousins. It is still winter there, and your father has promised your sisters ice skating on the lake, and hot chocolate, and sledding. He has promised me that we will all meet here for Easter Mass tomorrow morning, then brunch, before the three of them catch their flight to Wisconsin. I find myself holding my breath, waiting to see them for a few hours tomorrow. And I find myself dreading the week alone. Yesterday, Good Friday, I was already at loose ends without them.

I stopped in at the store and surveyed the water damage. My mother and father had cleaned up the debris as best they could while we waited for the insurance situation to be resolved. But they had not been able to move the tub, or fix the gaping hole in the ceiling, or replace the lights that had been smashed. I did not really care. I had more pressing matters on my mind. As I was locking up, Michael Moss, from the environmentally correct lingerie shop next door, detained me, asking about you, as well as my plans for the store.

I told him that I didn’t have any plans, yet. He said he’d be interested in taking over my lease, if I decided to close my doors.

“What would you do with the space?” I asked him.

“I’d expand.”

“More room for bamboo panties?”

He smiled. “Actually, we’re adding a line of clothing.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I’ll let you know.”

I took a long walk across the city after that, all the way to Russian Hill. I ate an early dinner alone at a restaurant. I went so far as to skip the chicken and order salmon on my salad. Who was I trying to fool? It was the Good Friday offering of an unbeliever, but I can’t really afford the luxury of faithlessness anymore. That’s something I’ve learned: When luck turns, and the chips are down, and you’ve lost something you can’t live without, faith claws its way back. It may be the brand of faith Clara will have this year about Santa Claus—not Polly’s absolute certainty but a nine-year-old’s hanging-on-with-your-fingertips kind of faith. Maybe faith isn’t even the right word. Maybe a better word is hope.

On my way home, I stopped in at Grace Cathedral to light a candle for you. Yes, we’re going to church on Sunday—another offering—but I won’t light a candle in front of the girls, since they don’t know you need prayers, or hope, or whatever it is. They think you’re where you were headed when they last told you goodbye.

There was a memorial service in the church, so I sat silently in back and bowed my head. I didn’t pray, but I thought hard, I hoped hard, that the life that was being celebrated had been well lived. During the scripture reading, I had the feeling I always have when God and death become entwined—that God is stepping in to steal the thunder of a human affair, a glorious union of flesh and blood, the miracle of two bodies making a new life out of love, a strictly human life that, like all lives, can end only in death.

Human love. Human death. What’s that got to do with God?

Outside, I carried on walking. I walked until I could see the sun setting over the bay. The bridge was a gray ghost in the distance. The sky was shifting with golden light, and the wind was full on my face.

I closed my eyes. I felt the memory of the mourners in the cathedral stirring inside me, a hundred human voices raised in song. I stood that way for I don’t know how long, hearing that song and thinking of you and hoping. I hoped with every mothering cell in my body. I hoped with every scrap of power and will, every particle of knowing you, the years and years of you, the joy and hurt, the work and pride, the worry and love. I hoped until it hurt. I hoped so hard I felt it finally turn to prayer.

I
N
L
ONDON
, I turned twenty. I didn’t tell anyone it was my birthday. I was afraid if I told Malcolm, he’d make a fuss, and if I told Patrick, he wouldn’t. The day of the races arrived, and that morning, I couldn’t find the right platform at the train station. I was afraid I’d miss the train, and ended up running, and sweating, and I did not like my clothes, and I did not have a hat. When I finally reached the platform, the engine was humming, and everybody was already on board except Malcolm, who was waiting for me. He took my hand and led me into the first-class cabin. A large crowd from the LDDC was already on board, mostly men, laughing and drinking even though it was only nine in the morning. There was a built-in table of sorts between mine and Malcolm’s seats, a protective barrier onto which a waiter placed two glasses of champagne and a basket of miniature croissants and breakfast rolls. I drank the champagne and allowed myself to forget Patrick and to take pleasure in Malcolm’s attention. Was it a great capacity for love I had then, or only great neediness and greed?

It turned out not to be Ladies’ Day at all. There were very few women in the stands when we reached the track. There had been no need to worry about a hat.

If the drinking on the train had predisposed me toward Malcolm, the drinking that followed seemed to release me from my obligations toward him. I remember entering the elegant dining room of the pavilion, taking not the seat next to Malcolm but the one across from him. I remember standing up to place a bet and being waylaid by a young architect contracting for the LDDC, and forgetting, for a long time, to return to my seat in the stands next to Malcolm.