Man, Woman and Child (8 page)

"Thaf s all right/' she answered blankly. "I was just a little worried."

And she turned and walked back up the stairs. Bob's eyes followed her as she disappeared. For a moment he had forgotten the child. His vacillating emotions were now fixed on what his wife might be thinking and feeling.

Then something touched his hand. He looked down.

"Bob," the little boy said, '^I think I will go to bed now."

''Good. A good idea." Bob bent down and once again the child embraced him. He was too much in conflict to respond.

Oheila darling, what a lovely surprise. I thought you'd be stuck on the Cape for the whole bloody month."

''Thanks. You're the best thing that's happened to my ego this week."

"Lovey, ego-boosting is my middle name."

Well, not exactly. Sheila's former college classmate was now Margo Fulton Andrews Bedford van Nostrand. She was nursing a martini in the patio of Harvest, the new restaurant behind the Brattle Theater, where she had a daily noontime table.

"Is this mine?" asked Sheila, indicating the glass of tomato juice sitting before her.

"Yes. Your usual."

^*I think I'd like it spiked today," said Sheila.

"Good," said Margo, and signaled Perry. "Un-virgin this, please." He nodded and went off for a jigger of vodka.

"Well, how's Bob and the girls?"

"Fine. They all send their love," Sheila answered. In fact, she had told the children she had business at the Press. And had told Bob nothing. "How's Hal?"

"Hal is Hal, to paraphrase Gertrude Stein, and

77

he always will be. That's why I married him. No risk of surprises."

''And how's the gallery?"

''Obscene." Margo grinned. "I mean, it gets more successful every week. Hal is flabbergasted. He really thought it would just be a whim with me and I was too scatterbrained to be anything but a pretty face. Now he says I have a better business head than he does. Anyway, what brings you back to Cambridge? Isn't this your holiday?"

"Yes, but I had some things to take care of. Uh— shall we order before it gets impossibly crowded?"

"Darling, you know I always have their special. Saves small talk with Perry—who, you've probably noticed, has a teeny crush on me. I've ordered for you as well."

"Fine," said Sheila, not bothering to inquire what she would be eating. "Is that a new dress? It's very chic."

"It is, but youVe seen it half a dozen times. What's with you today?"

"Nothing," said Sheila, taking a sip of her Bloody Mary.

"Are the girls okay?" Margo asked.

"Of course."

"Bob?"

"Of course. You already asked me."

"Yes, but I wasn't satisfied with the answer. You look preoccupied, Sheil."

In the long-ago college days, Margo had always talked as if watching herself in a mirror. As she grew older, she began redirecting her considerable analytical gifts to those around her. Narcissism, once her all-embracing way of life, was now merely an occasional indulgence. Sheila was to a great extent responsible for this evolution. Her example had inspired Margo to relate to other people.

^'Come on. Sheila, 'fess up. Is something wrong?"

'Tes."

'^What? Tell me/'

As Sheila removed her sunglasses and covered her face with her hand, Margo could see she had been crying.

"What happened?" she asked apprehensively.

*'Bob had an affair." Sheila said it quietly and quickly and then lowered her head.

''Oh, God, Sheila, I don't believe it. Bob is simply not the type. He thinks he's Adam and you're Eve. He wouldn't. Believe me, darling, I'd know the vibes. Bob wouldn't."

"He did," Sheila said almost inaudibly.

"Come on, I read about this syndrome in Psychology Today—01 was it Passages? It's common at your age.

"Our age" Sheila interrupted with a little smile.

"Well," Margo temporized (she was "midthir-ties" and intended to remain so for some time to come), "women near their forties have this kind of lapse in confidence. They start to imagine—"

"It's not my imagination."

"Oh?"

Sheila raised her head.

"He told me."

"Oh."

Margo looked at her former roommate and, with genuine shock in her voice, added, "This is really upsetting, Sheil."

"I know," said Sheila, who had hoped Margo might be a little less emotional and more dispassionately comforting.

"Listen, they sometimes lie. When I told Frederic I was having an affair with Hal, he told me he was seeing someone in New Jersey—which was a total fabrication. A fictive tat for my very real tit. Can

you imagine. New Jersey?*' And then, upon further reflection, she added, ''Of course. Bob is more mature than Frederic. He's straight as an arrow. Why would he tell you such a wounding thing if it weren't the truth? Sheil, he must be telling the truth."

"He is.''

"But why? YouVe always been so happy." Margo looked at Sheila's weary face.

"The honeymoon is over, Margo." She could not help sounding bitter.

"Sheila, this is absolutely shattering," said Margo, implying that the news was also shattering her few remaining illusions. "Who the hell did he fall for?"

"She was French."

"Ah, I might have known," said Margo, too upset to notice Sheila's use of the past tense. "It would have to be a frangaiSy wouldn't it?"

*'Frangaise/' Sheila quietly emended. It was a reflex. She had regressed to the state of copy editor.

Margo sat silent for a moment, not knowing how to respond. At last she said, "I'm really sorry, Sheila."

Then Sheila gave voice to her greatest agony.

"They had a child."

"That's impossible. Are you sure?"

"Yes. Very."

"Oh, Christ," Margo said as quietly as she could manage, and then, "But why?''

"Bob claims he didn't know."

"Do you believe him?"

"Yes. I think I do."

"Well, what's the French creature's excuse?"

"I don't know," Sheila mumbled. "She's dead."

"What?" Now Margo was totally confused. "You'd better tell me everything. From the beginning."

As she recited the events in sequence. Sheila grew more and more angry. This is so monstrous. What am I doing in this nightmare? Margo took it all in, her eyes widening. When Sheila got to Nicole's death and Bob's confession, Margo could no longer suffer in silence.

"God, Sheila, this beats everything Fve ever heard. I thought Bob was perfect."

''So did I," said Sheila sadly.

There was a pause. Neither woman knew quite what to say.

*'Well," said Margt), desperately trying to find a bright side, "at least you don't have to worry about losing Bob. Did she call the child Beckwith?"

"No."

"Well, maybe you could pretend it's World War Two and Bob was a GI in Europe and—"

"And?"

"And let the matter drop. A lot of women did in those days."

"I can't. Bob wanted to see the boy."

Margo was offended. This was an unconscionable breach of propriety. "God, men are pathetic. They really get off on the idea of boy children. I hope you put your foot down, Sheila. Him or you."

"That's precisely what I didn't want, Margo. If I made him choose, there'd always be a chance Fd lose him."

Margo eyed Sheila with mounting anxiety.

"What the hell did you do?"

She told Margo the rest of the story.

"Sheila, you are stark, raving mad."

"On the contrary, I'm stark, raving realistic. I have the girls to think about."

"But in your own home, Sheil. Where can it lead?"

"Look, we made a bargain. One month and the

boy goes back to France. There are some people trying to make arrangements for him. Better thirty days of suffering than a hfetime of uncertainty."

"But how the hell can you stand it?"

Sheila shrugged.

"I don't know. Sometimes I can't. Sometimes when we're sitting there at night pretending to listen to Bach and pretending to read and pretending that everything is the way it always was, I feel such rage that I could kill him—"

''Maybe you should," Margo interrupted sardonically.

"—and yet there are other times when I feel I need him more than ever. Strange, isn't it? Even after what he's done, he's still the only one who can really comfort me."

Margo looked at her and shook her head. "I can't understand you, Sheil."

"Neither can I," she replied. "But love and hate don't seem to cancel each other out. They can coexist and drive you mad."

Margo shook her head again and sighed.

"And do you really believe that it'll be all wrapped up neatly at the end of the month?"

"Yes. That was our agreement," said Sheila. But in her heart she feared that Margo might be right. She was no longer sure of anything.

"What do the girls think?"

"We didn't tell them who he was. They think he's cute."

"Is he?"

"I don't know."

"Don't you look at him?"

"As little as possible, frankly. And when I do, my only reaction is 'What did she look like?' Am I crazy, Margo?"

"No, darling," she answered, reaching across the

table and touching Sheila's hand affectionately. "You're the wisest woman I know. If Hal ever did that to me, the only thing I could do is go out and have an affair or shop. Or both. I'd never have the strength to face it the way you have. It's a gamble, but knowing you, you'll shame Bob into line with your generosity. Now, can I help?"

"How?"

"However you want. God knows you've seen me through enough crises. I'll come down—"

"No, it's bad enough I have to go back."

"Do you? Can't you stay a few days with Hal and me?"

She shook her head. "Margo, you're a friend. But Fve got to face it."

"God, I envy you," said Margo.

It was hardly the conclusion Sheila had expected.

"Why, for heaven's sake?" she asked.

"I wish I could love a man as much as you love Bob."

"Thanks, Margo. Thanks for understanding."

u

i HE SUN WAS SOFT AND WARM. GenTLE WAVES

nuzzled the shore of Cape Cod Bay. The httle boy was sitting by himself, one of Bob's baseball caps on his head, a book in his hands.

"Hi, Jean-Claude."

He looked up. It was Paula Beckwith. "Hello."

"Whatcha reading?" she asked, peering at his book.

''Histoire Generate—"woild history," he replied.

"Wowl You must be very intellectual."

"Not really." He smiled. "Would you like to sit down?"

Paula plopped onto the sand as she answered, "Sure." She quickly settled in for a friendly chat.

"What's new in history?" she asked.

"I am reading about Vercingetorix."

"What's that?"

"He was the first French hero. He led a revolt against Julius Caesar."

"I've heard about Julius Caesar, I think. What happened after that?"

"He ended badly. Caesar had him strangled."

"Ugh." Paula clutched her neck in empathy for

the valiant dead man. "Do they let you read that kind of stuff in France—gory, I mean?"

Jean-Claude shrugged.

''Are there pictures in that book?''

"Yes."

"Is there one of the strangling?"

"Uh-no. Vm sorry."

Paula pondered for a moment. "We take hygiene next year/' she said.

"What is that?"

"Do you know what 'sexual education' is?"

"I think so." He wasn't quite certain and didn't want to admit it.

"Do you have that course in France?"

"Fm not sure."

"Well, do you know where babies come from?" she asked, enjoying the thrill of grown-up dialogue.

"Uh-yes."

"WTio told you—your mom or your dad?"

"My mother. She was a doctor."

'Teah, I know. How come your dad didn't tell you, though?"

Paula had innocently trespassed onto Jean-Claude's most private anxiety.

"My father was not there," he said, and hoped she'd change the subject.

"You mean he was dead already?"

"What?"

"My father said your father was dead."

"Oh," said Jean-Claude, wondering why Bob's version should have contradicted what his mother had always told him. "Well . . ." His voice trailed off.

Meanwhile, Paula was preparing to probe deeper.

"What's your favorite color?" she asked.

"The color of the sea," he answered.

"But ifs not one color. Sometimes it's green and sometimes it's blue."

"Well," he replied, "thaf s what I like."

"Cool," said Paula. "You're a really fascinating person, Jean-Claude."

"Thank you. You are also."

"Really? Do you really think so? Hey—was that French you were speaking on the phone just now?"

"Yes," the boy replied, a trifle uneasy.

"It sounds terrific. Fm gonna start it in sixth grade. Then Fll be able to visit you sometime."

"That would be very nice."

"Yeah," said Paula, happy to receive the invitation. "Uh—were you talking to a friend?"

"Yes."

"Boy or girl?"

"Neither."

"Your dog?" She was serious. Jean-Claude laughed.

"No, an old friend of my mother's. Louis Venar-gues. He was mayor of our village for many years."

"Wow," said Paula. "What does he talk to you about?"

"Oh, this and that. He says he will call every week to ask me how I am."

"Gee, I wish I had a friend like that."

The boy looked wistful and his eyes were saying, You have parents. But Paula didn't notice. In fact, just then she bounded up as swiftly as she had plopped down.

"Hey, I gotta help Jessie cook."

"Oh," said the boy, who now was not anxious to be left alone again. "What are you cooking?"

"Stuff," said Paula.

"What kind of stuff?" he inquired, showing serious interest.

"We're making dinner to surprise my mom when she gets home. You wanna watch?"

'Tes/' Jean-Claude rephed, and leaped to his feet.

As they started toward the house, side by side, their arms occasionally brushed. And Paula Beck-with inscribed the joy she felt upon a special page of memory. To prize forever.