Private Life (40 page)

gone off to San Francisco for the day to look at sites from the 1906 earthquake. Andrew

still considered himself an expert on that earthquake.

Three or four mallards floated on the pond; a couple of crows were pecking on the

bank. An egret stood solitary at the edge of the water. After they had set out their

blankets and the picnic, one of the adult coots came walking down the hill, followed by

four of the chicks. Out of the water, the chicks, still gray and fluffy, were huge-looking,

because of their feet and legs. She pointed them out to Pete and Mr. Kimura, and they

watched them, while she and Naoko and Mrs. Kimura chatted among themselves. Not

long after this, the other parent appeared, with the other three chicks in tow, and all of the

chicks now swam busily all over the pond, into the rushes and out again, sometimes still

getting a bite to eat from Mama or Papa, other times straying off. Mr. Kimura squatted on

the hillside, watching, occasionally removing his straw hat and putting it right back on.

She offered him her glasses, but he shook his head. When the rest of them gathered about

the blanket for their picnic, he joined them for a bit, but then went back to the hillside.

Naoko and her mother gossiped with Pete. They related a recent birth of twins, two girls,

that Mrs. Kimura had overseen. She suspected that the two girls had two different fathers.

Yes, she said, it was rare but possible. One of the twins was distinctly American-looking,

and Mrs. Kimura was waiting to see if the Chinese husband would cause a scandal. Pete

told them about a horse he was training, who could not be made to gallop past a certain

spot on the track where the grandstand cast a dark shadow across the homestretch. "This

morning, he stopped dead and reared up. The lad slid right down over his haunches, and

it took ten minutes to catch him." Margaret described Len and his project. Pete said,

"Fellow's after something."

"But what could that be?" exclaimed Margaret. "What does Andrew have that

anyone wants?"

"Money," said Pete.

"If that's his game," said Margaret, "then he doesn't know Andrew."

Pete lifted an eyebrow.

All around them, the summer grasses waved in the breeze--golden but not yet

dried out. A few retiring blossoms nestled in the grasses. The ground was dry. Mrs.

Kimura said, "Have this bird in Japan. I think is called
'oo-ban.'
But I never see picture of

it."

One of the adults walked up on the bank, followed by three of the chicks.

Suddenly the adult turned and pecked the third chick hard on the top of the head, and then

picked it up by the back of the neck and shook it and dropped it. The chick flopped about

in confusion, and the adult and the other two chicks headed out into the water to swim.

The chick who had been attacked staggered about a bit, as if stunned, then shook its head

a couple of times and fluttered its wings.

"That looked like exasperation," said Pete.

Margaret said, "It's been a long couple of months."

Pete

laughed.

"You don't expect animals to be exasperated," said Naoko.

"I do," said Mrs. Kimura.

They took a walk around the pond, and Pete pointed out what he thought was the

nest, a boatlike structure made of grasses, about a foot long and not quite so wide. Mr.

Kimura pointed out small lizards and mice, a feral orange cat, a heron on the branch of a

tree. Everything they did was simple, moment by moment. A breeze came up that was

fragrant, though cool. The blanket had to be secured with stones. She had forgotten forks.

But there was something about this picnic, some fleeting, perfect comfortableness, that

impressed Margaret with the notion that it might be the high point of her life. In the

instant she thought this, it didn't seem such a bad thought.

Three days later, Naoko came to the island bearing a small scroll painting, about

fourteen inches wide and twelve inches tall. The expanse of the pond stretched across the

paper, greenish gold, and the golden hill rose above it. On the surface of the pond, the

adult coots were swimming. The larger of them turned toward the viewer, her eye bright

and her white beak in the act of grabbing something off the water. Two chicks

accompanied her. The other adult was closer to the bank; two chicks were on the bank.

To the left, all the way across the water, another chick was larking about, swimming fast

enough to make ripples. Perched on a tree branch that leaned over the pond was a crow,

its beak pointing toward the coot chicks. It was beautiful and economical. The only bits

of real color were the red heads of the chicks, a small butterfly, and the red seal that was

Mr. Kimura's signature. She made Naoko take forty dollars.

It was that night that Margaret dreamed of Pete, of Pete and Dora, embracing,

framed in light, but not, she realized when she woke, the light of a hallway or gas lamps,

or even a doorway, but, rather, some sort of a forest light, dense tree cover giving way to

a path. In the dream, she was happy and excited, but she also had the sense that she was

not in the dream, except that Dora was wearing one of her dresses, her favorite gray crepe

de chine with a black belt and a black collar. Even so, in the dream, Dora was weeping as

she had that night, the night of the bombing, weeping as though she knew what was

coming and that she would not survive. Except that she had survived. It was a strange

dream.

SHE had the picture framed. Both Andrew and Len noticed it and complimented

it. Len said, "Did you paint this yourself, Mrs. Early?"

"No,

I--"

"You know, I must say that Captain Early is a dab hand with a pen. His drawings

are exquisite."

"Yes,

he--"

"The layman can really get the sense of what he is going for, as far as his ideas.

It's a rare thing in a physicist."

"An

astronomer."

"Oh, madam, far more than that now. Far more."

"How is your book coming, then?"

"Well, of course, it has expanded. I knew that would happen when I proposed

coming out here, but it has expanded
downward
and
backward
. When I think of what I

had before, or what I was thinking, it seems literally flat to me. This is much more

exciting."

"What has it been? Almost eight months now?"

"Oh yes. But I have nothing pressing drawing me back to Minnesota, and now,

with the fall coming, it's very hard to leave California, isn't it? Very hard, indeed. Much

bigger when you get here than you thought it was going to be."

"Isn't that true of every place?"

"Is it?" It was true that Len had expanded since his arrival, both in size and in

self-importance. It was as if he and Andrew were inflating each other.

Andrew said, "This picture looks like California."

"It

is."

"But in a Japanese style."

"I commissioned it. From Mr. Kimura, who did the rabbit." He glanced over at the

rabbit. "I paid him forty dollars." He did not seem pleased. She said, "Pete was there. He

said forty dollars was a fair price."

Andrew sniffed and put his hands in his pockets, but his expression lightened. He

said, "Good investment, then?"

"Pete

thinks

so."

He stared at the picture for another moment, said, "Well, then," in a conciliatory

way, and went back to his study. Pete's name worked like magic with Andrew. Len was a

mere acolyte; Pete, an equal.

Then there were only five chicks. She counted them several times and walked

about the pond, looking for the other two. She was surprised at how distressed she felt.

That night, she even awakened thinking about it. But the next morning, all seven chicks

were there, swimming and eating. She was reassured.

The next morning, she opened the door to Len and told him Andrew had already

gone up to the observatory, but Len followed her into the kitchen and said, "Mrs. Early,

I've noticed what a generous person you are."

"Thank you, Len."

"And you seem to be able to keep your own counsel."

"Do

I?"

"Yes,

ma'am."

She

waited.

Len was looking at his shoes. "I wonder if you might help me with a little matter."

"Captain

Early--"

"I suspect this matter would be disturbing to Captain Early, given his straitlaced

views."

She wiped her hands with the dish towel and hung it up.

"My landlady says that she is going to sue me for breach of promise."

"Breach of promise! Did you make a promise?"

"Only in the sense that I was lonely and found her daughter a sympathetic listener.

She is very interested in astronomy and physics, and everything about the universe. We

talked only about that."

"Truly?"

"She's a--she's a--she's a plain girl. And possibly no man has heretofore talked to

her about anything at all. One night, we talked until very late, and I, ahem, I kissed her.

Could you come with me to the house and talk to her? She would respect you. Perhaps

my side could get explained."

"What is your side?"

"Well, Mrs. Early, my side is that I'm already married."

She eyed him, the perfect example of the fact that almost any man could procure

himself a wife, no matter how unprepossessing he happened to be. Len could have

procured himself two had he been more daring. "You came here eight months ago. What

is your wife doing?"

"She lives with her mother. I hadn't meant to stay so long--only for the winter. But

Captain Early is very involving. Every time I say I'm finished with gathering material, he

has a few more things that he simply must communicate. When I'm in his--orbit--I feel

the--uh--gravitation of my other responsibilities fading."

"Didn't you tell me that you were unmarried? I mean, when you first got here."

"I don't believe I said anything about it. Our marriage has been ... difficult." He

looked her in the face. "Many are." Then he lowered his gaze and said, "I believe the

separation has clarified ..." His voice trailed off.

They went out to the Franklin. He moved toward the driver's door, but she

stepped in front of him.

"Oh, goodness," he said, startled, "of course not." He went around the back end of

the car.

Len's boarding house was on Carolina Street in Vallejo, up a steep hill. It was a

nice enough bungalow-style house, large but a bit rundown, weeds beginning to claim

parts of the front yard. The landlady was a Mrs. Branch, and the daughter, who looked

about nineteen or twenty, was named Helen. She reminded Margaret a bit of herself at the

same age. Mrs. Branch opened the door at their first knock. "You're Mrs. Early, then?"

"I

am."

"Leonard works for your husband? I told Helen not to trust him, but she wouldn't

listen, same as always."

"Len

works

with
my husband, not
for
him. Len has his own project."

"I'll

bet."

Mrs. Branch backed up reluctantly and allowed them in. Helen led them into the

parlor. A couple of boarders could be heard scurrying up the stairs, and then running

about the landing. She and Len sat down without being invited. Helen pushed her hair out

of her face. The girl's skin was bad, but if she wore a pleasant expression, she could be

attractive, Margaret thought, and a moment later, when the girl looked at Len, the look on

her face did get more pleasant.

Margaret said, "I understand, Mrs. Branch, that Len hasn't been entirely

forthcoming about his situation."

The woman's visage darkened.

"He does have something to tell you."

"What might that be?" said Mrs. Branch.

"Well, I'm married already, that's what," said Len. Helen gave a little gasp. Len

glanced at her and went on, "And I never forget it, so I didn't make any promises, no

matter what Helen has been telling you. I did kiss the girl, for which I apologize. But ..."

He trailed off. It occurred to Margaret not to believe him, but she chose to ignore that

impulse.

"Isn't that a fine kettle of fish," said Mrs. Branch.

They all looked at Helen, whose eyes widened as her cheeks reddened.

Margaret understood right then that the girl was with child, though she didn't

know what gave her that impression. She decided to ignore this intuition, too--whether

Len was lying to her or Helen was lying to her mother was something she, at least, would

never know. Len looked pettily triumphant, as if to say, Try and catch me.

"Is
he married?" Mrs. Branch spoke pointedly to Margaret.

"Here's a picture of my wife," said Len. He reached into his breast pocket and

pulled out a photograph. It showed him without his mustache, standing beside a roundfaced young woman in a black hat. He had his arm about her waist. She wore a gardenia

in her lapel. "We've been married for seven years."

He turned it over. On the back were the words "Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Scanlan,

just married, May 4, 1921." The ink was a bit faded.

"Have you got any children?" said Mrs. Branch.

"I'm sorry to say that we haven't been that fortunate," said Len. His manner was

utterly guileless, as if this fact was not quite Mrs. Branch's business but he was willing to

answer. Now a bit of alarm began to replace the indignation in Mrs. Branch's face as she