New Mercies (30 page)

As I came down Lookout Mountain and saw the lights of Denver spread out below, I realized that I did not know where I was going. The apartment was out of the question. I would have to face David sometime, but not now. With neither suitcase nor kitbag, I couldn’t check into a tourist court. If I asked to stay with Caroline, she would ask questions. The only place for me to go was home to Mother and Henry. I would let myself in with my key and think of something to tell them later.

But as I opened the door of the Marion Street house, Henry emerged from the living room, a cup of tea in his hand. “She’s all right. You mustn’t worry,” he said.

“I couldn’t sleep and thought she might need me,” I said, grateful that Henry had provided me with an excuse. Our aborted trip to the Broadmoor seemed so long ago that I had forgotten Mother had the flu.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Oh, but it’s what I want.”

Henry turned on the hall light and took in my ghastly face and swollen eyes and the wrinkled motoring suit that I had put on in the morning for the drive with Mother to the Springs. The hem was out where the heel of my shoe had caught it at the mountain stop. “What’s wrong?”

I started to tell him that nothing was wrong but knew he would not believe me. “David and I had a spat. He knows I’m here.”

“He must have forgotten, because he’s called three times.”
Henry caught my arm and said, “It can’t be all that bad. Don’t you think you ought to make up?”

“Make up?” I shrieked.
“Make up?”

Henry put his finger to his lips and pointed upstairs to where Mother slept.

“Oh, Henry, we’ll never make up. I’m going to file for divorce.” I made the decision at that instant, knowing that there was no other choice. My marriage had ended when I pushed that light button.

Perhaps Henry called David after I left the house in the morning, because David was waiting for me at the top of the stairs when I returned to the apartment. He was looking even more haggard than I did. He held out his hands, but I could not take them. “Not now. I need a bath.”

“Let me draw one for you.”

“No.” I locked the bathroom door, turned on the hot water, and threw my clothes onto the floor. Then I got into the tub, sitting there until the water turned tepid. I brushed my hair and put on the soft wool robe that David had given me for an anniversary gift. Although the heat was on in the apartment and the sun shone through the windows, I was cold. In fact, I would be cold for weeks, cold to my bones, sitting in the hot sun with a coat on and sleeping in a flannel nightgown under heavy quilts. The warmth never seemed to reach beneath the skin.

David had set cups and saucers on the table in the sunroom, and when I joined him, he poured coffee into the pot that was
part of the Christmas silver service. “Do you want eggs—scrambled eggs or a soft-boiled egg?”

“Is that what we’re going to talk about—eggs?” I asked shrilly.

“Nora . . .”

“What?”

He sighed, and his whole body shook. “What do you want me to say?”

“Oh, well, why don’t we talk about the weather. Or Mother’s flu—or in the excitement last night, did I forget to tell you about it? Or maybe the coffee I spilled on your car seat. So sorry.” I drew in a deep breath, for I had intended to be civil. “Or maybe we should talk about the divorce.”

David drew into himself. “That’s pretty drastic, isn’t it? We can work things out. I promise never to see Arthur again.”

“That is a promise you cannot keep.”

“I can try. We don’t have to be hasty.”

“Yes, David, we do. Our marriage is over. I can’t stand to be married to you, can’t stand to even look at you.”

“But all the years . . .” David had tears in his eyes as he reached across the table for my hand, but I would not give it to him. “Dearest, I’m so sorry.”

I felt a little sad for him then and said, not unkindly, “Tell me about it. I want to understand. You owe me that.” Then, because I could not stop wondering, I asked, “Is it my fault?”

David’s open hand turned into a fist, and he put it into his lap. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you. It started before I even met you, back in college. I thought by moving here, I’d end it. I’ve always had those feelings. You remember when I broke
our engagement. It was because I was all balled up inside and wasn’t sure it wouldn’t happen again.” He glanced up at me pleadingly. “Then I decided that you were such a dear girl and that marriage would cure me. And it did.”

“Until Arthur moved here.”

“Yes, that.”

“Did you ever love me?” It was the question that had repeated itself over and over in my head as I drove through the mountains.

David started to answer, but I interrupted. “No. Don’t say anything. I wouldn’t believe you anyway.”

We talked for a long time. The morning sunlight slipped away from the room and was replaced by afternoon shadows. David made a second pot of coffee, and a third. I fixed cinnamon toast, but neither of us ate it. We talked about David’s homosexuality, our marriage, and finally the divorce. At times, I wanted to comfort David—as he did me. He said we could be friends, but we could not. Sometimes, I was so overtaken by rage and betrayal that I could not speak. By the time we got up from the table, my palms were bleeding from where my nails had dug into them, and my hands ached from being clenched.

I agreed that David could spend that night in the guest room, for he had nowhere else to go but Arthur’s place. The irony of that did not escape either one of us. In the morning, David would make other arrangements. We joked that he might rent an apartment from me, and I thought that because we found humor in the situation, we would be all right.

But I was not all right. We worked out the details of severing our marriage, dividing up the furniture and art, the sheets and
the flatware. I did not ask for alimony; he insisted on my keeping the apartment building and the house in Georgetown. Less than a week later, I took the train to Reno for a quickie divorce, staying in a downtown hotel, where women told stories about unfaithful or drunken or useless husbands. But I was silent, confused.

After six weeks in Reno, I appeared before a judge, threw my gold wedding ring into the Truckee River, and returned to Denver, the divorce papers in my pocketbook, shame and bitterness in my heart. I telephoned David to say that the divorce was final. But we did not see each other. I kept to the apartment or spent time with Caroline and my family. Hostesses were careful not to invite David and me to the same events, but as solitary males were preferable to unescorted women, I did not receive such a quantity of invitations. After a while, some of the single men in our set invited me to attend the movies or have a quiet dinner. I turned them down.

One morning, David called and asked if he might pick up the drapes, which I had promised him but had not yet taken down. He still had a key, and we agreed he would let himself in that afternoon while I was out.

David was delayed, however, and when I returned, I found him and Arthur sitting in the living room, drinking tea. I was overcome with anger.

“Hello, Nora,” Arthur said, as if he were making a social call.

“How dare you be here?” I spat the words.

“It’s all right,” David said. “Arthur is helping me with the drapes. You remember he helped us hang them.”

“I never said you could bring him into my apartment again.”

“I thought you wouldn’t be here.”

“Get out.”

“Nora, dear, I’m sorry about all this,” Arthur said smoothly. He wasn’t sorry at all. He had exactly what he wanted—a wife and children at home and now a secret life with David in David’s new apartment. Arthur reached for the box on the smoking stand beside his chair, took out a cigarette, and lighted it. After a puff or two, he placed the cigarette in the ashtray and leaned back in his seat, apparently enjoying our little scene.

I began to shake, so I sat down, for fear my legs would give out.

“There’s no need to be uncivil,” David said. “We’re all adults.”

“Aw, she’ll get over it,” Arthur told him. He saw that his stocking had slipped down, and he pushed up his pants leg while he refastened the sock to the garter.

The gesture repulsed me. “Get over it? Get over that my husband is a damned—”

“Don’t,” said David, interrupting me. “Don’t let’s talk about it.”

“You mean it’s okay for the two of you to do what you do, but it’s not okay for me to talk about it? Isn’t that a bit twisted?”

“Muggs,” David pleaded.

“Don’t you ever call me that.”

“It’s not really wrong, but simply the way it is. There’s nothing any of us can do about it, so don’t be sore,” Arthur said. He had picked up the cigarette again and now blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Buck up, Nora.”

My hands were so icy that I took out my gloves and put them on. Then I shoved my gloved hands deep into my pockets. “Does Betsey think there’s nothing wrong with it?” From the
wary expression on Arthur’s face, I knew that Betsey was no more aware of their homosexuality than I had been a few weeks earlier. “I’ll ask her myself. Yes, I’ll call Betsey, and we’ll have a little talk.”

“Come on, Nora,” David pleaded.

Arthur said nothing, but he gave me a smug look, as if he knew I wouldn’t follow through. He muttered out of the side of his mouth, “No soap,” and then he patted David’s arm. The homey gesture, one I had made so many times myself, made me white-hot with anger. I stood up and removed the glove from one hand and went to the telephone and dialed a number. “Betsey? It’s Nora. Can we get together next week? I’ve something to tell you.”

Would I have told her? I want to think it was only a bluff, that my better sense and my compassion would have kept me from doing something so cruel. All my life, I had acted out of love, not hate, but I had never really hated anybody until I caught Arthur with my husband. Of course, I would never know what I might have done. The threat that afternoon just five months ago had been enough. Two days later, David crashed his plane into the mountain.

G
UILT WEIGHED ON ME LIKE
the box of Amalia’s belongings that I carried. After resting for a few minutes, I walked on, shifting the burden in my arms to check my wristwatch, but I had forgotten to wind it, and the hands were stopped at 2:20. The sky had turned ink-colored, and the deserted road, black with shadows now, was less friendly. Wood smoke from burning brush filled the heavy air with an acrid smell. Crows cawed from deep in the woods. A snake crawled out of the green slime in the ditch beside me, forcing me to wait as it slithered across the road. A dead turtle lay in the dirt, crushed by some vehicle. The woods were alive with insects, and gnats attacked my eyes and nose. When I shook my head to get rid of them, something damp and clammy, like a lizard, scratched at my neck, and I dropped the box, grasping at myself, but the thing was gone. The touch remained on my skin,
and I rubbed at it with my hands to rid myself of the sliminess.

The carton lay in the dirt, its contents spilled across the road. A jewelry box had opened, disgorging a diamond that glittered in the black dirt like the eye of a crow. The candelabra was bent, and the glass on the sampler had cracked. I swore a little, gathering up the things and shoving them into the box, while the wind blew leaves off the trees, swirling them around me until my hair and body were speckled with the remains of dead foliage.

As I started off, there was a noise in the underbrush, as if something were following me, and I realized I had heard it before. I stopped, and the noise stopped. I went on, and so did it. Only a human would track me that way. I hurried as fast as I could, my legs aching and my arms limp from the weight of the heavy carton. I looked over my shoulder but saw nothing in the gloom of the trees.

Behind me, I heard the motor of a large car and then two staccato beeps of a horn. I moved as far to the side of the road as possible without stepping up onto the embankment, hoping the driver was not stalking me, too. The car slowed, and there was a second quick honk. I turned angrily to glare at the headlamps, hoping to forestall some masher before he could give a wolf whistle or yell, “Hey, girlie.” The car crawled alongside of me and stopped, and a man reached over and rolled down the passenger window. “Hello there.”

The auto, a bulky Packard, was dark inside. I did not recognize the voice. Then the driver, realizing that I did not know him, said, “It’s Holland Brown. We met at breakfast.”

“Oh.” I was surprised at how relief washed over me. I was not used to being frightened.

Holland put the car into neutral and set the emergency brake, then got out and stood on the running board as he leaned across the Packard’s roof toward me. “How about a lift back to the Eola?”

“It’s not far.”

“If you won’t let me drive you to your hotel, I’ll have to walk along beside you, for the gentleman in me won’t allow you to carry that box one more step.”

“Was that line bred in your bones, or have you learned it since you’ve been in Natchez?” I hoped my words did not sound as abrupt to him as they did to me.

“I’m trying to learn southern manners, and by the looks of things, I’m not doing such a hot job at it.”

Embarrassed by my rudeness, I explained, “Walking along this road, I’ve been imagining all sorts of awful things. You could have been a fiend.”

“No such luck.” Holland Brown’s amusement made me feel better. “That box you’re carrying says ‘Nu-Grape’ on the side—horrid sugary drink, that—but my guess is you’ve got the family jewels in there. You can hold them on your lap, if you think I’ll snatch them.”

The remark made me laugh, because the box did indeed contain the Bondurant jewelry, although I had no intention of telling that to Holland Brown. “It does make more sense for both of us to ride.” Then, to show that I had learned manners, too, I added, “And yes, thank you, a ride would be nice.”

Holland came around the car and took the box from me. “Ye gods! If these are your family’s valuables, they’re made of iron. It’s a wonder you were able to carry them at all.” He put the box
into the backseat and opened the front passenger door for me, then got in on the driver’s side. “I’ll wager you have been out in the country, looking at your patrimony. I’ve been doing the same.” He stuck out his elbow to indicate his rolled-up shirtsleeves as he put in the Packard’s clutch and switched gears. “I’ve been tramping around it, at any rate. I hope your place is in better condition than mine. The land’s sour and parched, and the house burned down years ago.”