Evergreen (64 page)

The car hummed northward through the glittering cold that Theo loved. Winter had always been his time. He loved sifting snow in gray air; the spare design of branches, so Japanese; the expectation of fires, thick soup and quilts. Crossing the line between Massachusetts and Vermont, he thought that it was not very different from Austria.

He leaned forward, trying to adjust the radio, but the farther he got from the city the more it faded and Mahler’s Ninth was scratched out by static. When he switched it off there were no sounds but the click of the windshield wiper and the clack of the tires.

It would be good to have Ingrid riding along. Her presence was pure ease and had been so for almost a year. Neither her laughter nor her silences demanded anything of him. Once every week he went to the city to teach and, taking the rest of the day and evening off, spent the hours with her. He was so absolutely free there in those two small rooms! She’d have good music playing and bread baking in the oven. The bed was next to the windows where hanging plants, which were the only curtains, dropped their green shade and moist fragrance onto the bed. Sometimes they lay all afternoon listening to music, while Ingrid smoked the sweet cigarettes that he had come to associate with her. When he left he was enlivened for the rest of the week.

But it would have been foolhardy for them to travel and arrive together. You never knew whom you might meet,
although he had chosen this little ski resort because it was out of the way and he had never met anyone who had even heard of it, much less been there.

He had mentioned to Iris, knowing that she would refuse to go with him, that it would be nice to take a few days off for skiing. “There are pleasant things for you to do while I’m on the slopes,” he’d said. “You could take walks around the village and look for antiques.” But she had declined.

“You go, it will do you good,” she had said, with the polite concern one has for one’s friends.

Things were like that between them.

But he could think of no way to change them. Iris’ mood had gradually dimmed. (Clouds drift one by one across a sunny sky; you look up after only an hour or two and are surprised to find that the sky has grown completely dark.) She hadn’t moved out of their room because all the others were occupied; but had instead removed their bed and bought twin ones. She had waited for him to make comment but he had made none. If that was the way she wanted it, Theo had thought angrily, that was the way she would have it. Everything that could be said about what stood between them had already been said, anyway. He remembered having heard stories about couples a generation or two ago, who lived out their lives beneath one roof without speaking to each other. He had never believed it was possible to live that way, but he saw now that it might be. Not that they lived without speaking, Iris and he; they were both far too concerned as parents to inflict anything like that on their children. No, they made decent conversation at the table and went to P.T.A. meetings and local dinner parties with unsuspecting friends. (He almost never went to the club anymore. Iris had been right about that; it wasn’t the atmosphere he really wanted, and his weekly day with Ingrid more than made up for its loss, he thought now, smiling to himself.)

So that’s the way things were. He hadn’t been able to change Iris’ thinking, nor had she changed—but she
had
changed his a little, he reflected. Yes, in an odd way some of her convictions had begun to influence him. Things she had said, dredged out of what tortuous channels, chambers and coves of her mind, had begun to seem true. Or to have some truth in them, at least.

Perhaps she is right and I didn’t really want to be married? Sometimes I think—and I’m sad and ashamed of thinking it—that I really didn’t want to be. I was so tired, I remember. I just wanted rest. Maybe all I wanted was some sunny rooms, a piano in a bay window, birds in the trees outside the window, and there wasn’t any simple, efficient way of having these things without being married. Could that be?

Yet I did want children, another little boy—as if anything could bring back that first one! But these were beautiful children: Jimmy, a bright rascal; sensitive, thoughtful and sometimes difficult Steve; Laura, pink and curly—but how does a man begin to describe his darling, only little girl?

I wish it was enough for Iris that we have all this, and that life is—was—good together. Because it
was
good together! But that’s not enough … she wants something I don’t seem able to give her. I feel—I have felt—sometimes as if I had given coins to a beggar who needs more than I have to give. She wants me to
adore
her. I don’t
adore
her.

Before they were married Iris had trembled in his presence; he had seen that she was in love with him and been very moved. He remembered having thought that he would be so good to her (then perhaps, after all, he had really
wanted
to marry her?), and, in turn, enjoy her quiet ways, the refinement of her face. A lovely lady, she was. Stuffy concept in America, but still valued in Europe, or at least it had been when he had lived there. Reason enough in Europe, the best reason, in fact, for choosing a wife.

But he hadn’t expected the intensity of her love. Those trusting, worshiping eyes! A man could feel guilty without having done anything. Her soul was in her eyes. All that
grave emotion! It was almost frightening. To be responsible for the survival of another soul!

He frowned. His thoughts had made his head ache, or perhaps it was only the woolen cap that was tight. He pulled it off. If he had met Iris away from the vitality and welcome of her home—the first home he had been in for so many years—if he had met her in an office, say, sitting with pad on knee, her dark, pensive eyes looking past him to the corners of the room—would he have been as easily drawn to her? The truth was: no. Yet, once having known her subtle and resilient mind, her shy pleasure in being with him, he had quite simply wanted to be with
her
. They had slipped into a pattern of understanding, and a common language. It wasn’t that often that two people were able to walk so easily in the same rhythm through the world, including the rhythm of sex.

They had had all that, and yet he was unable to talk to her about this obstinate, fixed idea that he must feel for her and toward her in just such and such a way, just so and so and in no other way nor for anyone else, either present or past.

Women!
But not all women.

That first time with Ingrid she had told him, “You have the body of a dancer or a skier. V-shaped, tapering from the shoulder to the hips. Especially marvelous for skiing.”

Theo had been amused. “I happen to be fairly good at skiing.”

“You see? I could tell. So different from a boxer’s body, for instance.”

“You’re an expert on male bodies?”

She’d laughed. “I’ve seen enough of them!” And when he didn’t answer, “You’re not shocked?”

“Of course not. Just surprised. You don’t seem to be—”

“A tart? But how provincial of you! Does one have to be vulgar to take pleasure in what was made for pleasure? Must sex be either sanctified or else damned?”

“I don’t know. But most people, especially most women, see it that way, don’t they?”

“It’s a simple pleasure, that’s all, that’s what I believe. Like wine or music. When you tire of it you change the brand, or turn off the record.”

“I hope you don’t tire of me too soon,” he had remarked another time. They were eating fettuccine Alfredo. She had a wonderful appetite. That was another thing that made him feel good to be with her. She wasn’t always whining about calories the way most women did these days, and how she’d have to starve all next week to make up for tonight. The fettuccine kept slipping off her fork and she began to laugh. Then he laughed, and it had all been so completely silly. He hadn’t laughed with such foolish high spirits in—how long?

“I don’t expect to tire of you,” Ingrid had said franky. “I still love Beethoven and if you don’t believe I still like Château Mouton Rothschild, you can try me.”

“All right, I will,” he had answered and summoned the wine steward.

Then she had grown serious. “But when you tire of me, do me a favor, will you? Call me up and tell me so. Don’t lie and make considerate excuses for not keeping dates. Don’t try to break it to me gently. Just say, Ingrid, good-by and it’s been great, but good-by. Will you do that, Theo?”

“All right, but I don’t want to think about it. We’ve just begun,” he’d said.

Still, the freedom, the freedom, like an invigorating breeze! If women only knew!

He had been able to talk to her about Liesel. For the first time he had been free to spill everything out, with no modesty, with no hesitation. Everything. And Ingrid had carefully listened. He had talked for hours while she lay on the bed, smoking cigarettes. He had talked and talked. He had told how, at first, he hadn’t been able to believe in the death of Liesel or their child; how once, in a London restaurant during the war, he’d heard a woman at a table behind him speaking with a foreign accent, an accent he’d fancied Liesel
would have had
if she had known how to speak English. He had made an excuse to get up from the
table and look at the woman. That was how mad he had been!

He had even recalled that young chap in London whose wife had been killed in the bombing of their house and how he, Theo, holding the fellow’s hand, had sworn to himself: No, it’s crazy to love and make yourself so vulnerable. I don’t ever want to be so vulnerable again.

He told how, after the encounter with Franz, Liesel’s face, which had faded, now returned and hung in the air before his vision, clear in every detail: the white scar where a cat had scratched her neck, the crooked tooth about which she was self-conscious, the fact that her lashes were dark and her brows blond. That face had been before him all the time,
all the time!
Sometimes he had welcomed it, aware how much he had been longing for it; sometimes he had covered his eyes and cried out, “Go away! Stay away from me! Go away!”

He had told Ingrid all of that and, in the telling and her hearing, had found relief, a softening, and ease.

He did not ever speak of Iris and Ingrid never asked him to. So much was understood between them! She quenched his thirst, appeased his hunger and was herself satisfied. They could let their minds go empty in a tide of sleep after joy and no worry about what anybody
wanted
or
needed
. Care-less woman! Woman-without-care!

Iris would never understand anyone like her.

Nor would my father-in-law, Theo thought grimly. He would want me stoned to death. Endless love as long as you don’t transgress; no mercy if you do. The only reason he forgives me for my irreligion is that I’m a doctor. The thought amused him momentarily.

“Your work is holy. You do holy work,” Joseph said often.

Well, in a sense there’s truth in it, if you want to stretch the word “holy” a bit Theo lifted his hand from the steering wheel, flexing it inside the glove. An intricate weaving of fragile bones, and what it could do! He was proud of the
work he could do, and also humble about it. Holy? Well, perhaps.

But then, all labor is holy and the body is miraculous. Labor of bent backs on mountain slopes, tension of dancers or players of the violin. What a mechanism, man! A brute at worst, and at best a self-centered, pleasure-seeking organism.

And yet, why not? As long as we don’t hurt one another! (I’m not hurting anyone, am I?) Just let us flourish for our little time with our small greeds and our small sins, and die without struggle when our time is over.

“What will you do with your life?” he’d asked Ingrid one day.

“I don’t know. And that’s the beauty of it! To enjoy the beauty of it! I like my work. I like being healthy and young and I shall try to stay both as long as I can. Also, I like music and good food. And I like you. I like you very much, Theo.”

“I’m glad,” he’d said.

“But I don’t want to own you. Don’t be afraid. You can get away any time you want. Because I don’t want to be tied either, you know.”

And it was for just that reason that he had no wish to get away. Wise woman! Perversity of man!

He came now to the fork off the main road and stopped to look at the map. Right for five miles at the fork, past the general store.… His heart began to pound with anticipation, a nice, painless pounding. The car crept up the mountain. There were few tracks. The road hadn’t been traveled much, so the place had been well chosen, after all. He drew up at the inn, which was set in a stand of spruce. There it was, her little green car. She’d got here ahead of him; she drove like a fury.

The snow was firm and deep. It wasn’t too cold. With luck, there would be some sunshine in the morning. Meanwhile there were food, a fire, a bed and a gay, strong, wise, sweet girl.

*  *  *

Weak February light fell on the rug near the window and over Iris’ hands, which were holding a book she wasn’t reading. She was just sitting there, Anna saw, looking out at the weather. She tapped at the open door and Iris turned around.

“Hi,” Anna said cheerfully. “I’ve got my marketing chores over with and I thought I’d take a walk. I needed some exercise.”

It was the best excuse she could think of for this unusual forenoon visit. The truth was that she had detected, running through their mundane telephone conversations of the past few days, a new and alarming depression of the spirit.

“Well, sit down. Do you want some lunch?”

“Thanks, no, I’ll not be staying that long.” She sat down, perched rather tentatively on the chair, and wondered how to comment or what to inquire. It was always so difficult, with Iris, to find the reaching word.

“If Nellie doesn’t shut off that radio in the kitchen,” Iris cried suddenly, “I shall go mad, or go in and smash it.”

“Too bad you’re not up in Vermont with Theo. You really need a little change, Iris. It gets on a woman’s nerves, being constantly with children, and no relief.” Platitudes, for lack of the truth.

There was no answer. And Anna said softly, “Iris, a moment comes when we have to cut through our reserve. I’ve known for a long time that you’re in trouble and I’ve been too polite, too hesitant to ask. Now I’m asking.”