The Four Temperaments (16 page)

“He used to give perfume to each of his principal dancers. Really good perfume. You know, the expensive stuff. Worth. Dior. Balenciaga. He spent a lot of time shopping for it.”

“He did?” Ginny tried to summon a picture of George Balanchine at the perfume counter of a department store. Macy's, was her first thought. No, tonier than that. Saks. Bergdorf Goodman. “But whatever for?”

“He wanted them each to have a signature fragrance. So he was always looking for new ones. No two dancers ever got the same scent.”

“Why not?”

“He said it helped him keep track of the dancers while he was in the theater. He would walk through the halls sniffing, and his nose could tell him just who had been in what studio, or elevator or wherever.”

“Imagine having Mr. B. pick out your perfume,” Ginny said reverently. “Did he ever pick out one for you?”

“Chanel Number Nineteen,” Althea said. “I still wear it.” Ginny stared, trying to imagine the moment when Mr. B. presented it to her for the first time.

The two women eventually moved from the table to the love seat, still talking, until Althea stood up and stretched. “I'd better get to bed,” she said. “You too. Company class is at nine tomorrow.”

“Why so early?” Ginny stood too, picking up some of the dishes and dirty napkins. She didn't want the apartment to become that familiar old pigsty. At least not right away.

“Extra rehearsals,” said Althea. “We're learning some new things for San Francisco.”

“San Francisco,” Ginny said, thinking not of the roles she would be dancing, but of Gabriel watching her. The mirror again.

“Do you want to room with me?” Althea said, not noticing how Ginny's attention had drifted.

“Room with you?”

“Ginny, quit repeating everything I say or I'll tell Erik you're going a little soft in the head. No more solos,” she teased.

“I'd love to room with you,” Ginny said, snapping back to the present. “It'll be a blast.” But then she was far away again. A blast. Blast of a whistle, blast of a rocket. She was thinking of the town where she had grown up, the way the night sky was lit with fireworks every Fourth of July. She and Mama would walk, along with just about everyone else in town, to the big field by the high school. Lying there on a blanket in the matted grass, Ginny would stare up at the sky, watching how burst after burst of color would explode, bloom and melt away. At the time, she thought she had never seen anything so beautiful. She now knew that those bits of light were like ballerinas, bursting onto the stage with their color and fire, then fading away again, into black. She was that light-filled sky, Ginny thought as Althea prattled on cheerfully at the door, and soon Gabriel would be there in the dark, watching her.

RUTH

T
here was
someone new in Mrs. Goldenfarb's room. Ruth saw her just briefly the last time she visited the home because the new woman was on her way to Physical Therapy when Ruth got to the eleventh floor. Only the back of her small, bent form was visible, culminating in the crown of white braids that reminded Ruth of Lilli. But today, when Ruth began her visits—pushing a heavy metal trolley filled with slightly outdated magazines and dog-eared paperback novels—she stopped at her room first. Her name was printed on a white index card taped outside the door: “Esther Vogel.” Ruth repeated the name a few times, a little trick she used to help her keep the many different names straight. Esther Vogel was seated in bed when Ruth entered, and her concentration was absorbed by the contents of the metal bed tray placed before her. Very carefully and deliberately, she cut her food into small pieces that she then moved to one side of her plate. She didn't actually seem to be eating.

“Hello, Mrs. Vogel,” Ruth said. “Enjoying your lunch?”

“What's to enjoy?” the older woman replied without looking up. “Everything smells like shit. Tastes like it too.”

Ruth sighed. So many of the new residents were angry about being here, and who could blame them? They grew up in a world where their own aging grandparents lived and died at home, cared for by other family members. What sense could they make of this place, with its linoleum hallways, its mural-like bulletin board on the ground floor announcing news of the residents?

“Maybe you'd like something else. You can always have a sandwich if you don't care for the hot lunch. Would you like me to see about getting you one? I think it's tuna today.”

“What for?” Mrs. Vogel said, still cutting and arranging. “It will only taste the same. All the food here tastes like shit.”

“What about something to read then?” asked Ruth. “Here's a new Stephen King novel. And I have the
New Yorker, Cosmopolitan, Vogue
and
Ladies' Home Journal.
”

“Who are you?” said Mrs. Vogel, finally looking up. Her eyes were a pale watery hazel, but her gaze was focused and her expression alert.

“Ruth Kornblatt,” Ruth said, touching the name tag pinned to the pink smock all the volunteers wore. “I come once a week to visit.”

“Why?” Mrs. Vogel asked.

“Because I like to,” Ruth said. In fact, her question took Ruth by surprise and she had trouble framing a reply.

“You
like
to?” Mrs. Vogel seized on the word. “What is there to like about this place? Or about anyone here?” Ruth didn't respond and the older woman continued: “Well, maybe it's better than some place else you could be, right? Maybe it's like an escape. You come here so you won't feel so bad about your own
tsouris.
You get to see someone who's a lot worse off than you.” She leaned back against the pillows and abruptly pushed the tray away. A plastic cup was jarred by the motion and tipped over, spilling apple juice all over the bed.

“I'll just go and get some paper towels,” Ruth said, glad for an excuse to leave. Mrs. Vogel closed her eyes and said nothing.

The rest of Ruth's visit was soured by the encounter with Mrs. Vogel, despite the warmth with which she was met elsewhere on the floor. Mr. Blustain was happy to get the
New Yorker
s—Ruth had three issues today—and she played several hands of gin with Mrs. Dienstag, who beat her every time. “You're not paying attention, Ruthie,” Mrs. Dienstag scolded as she took the deck from Ruth's hands to shuffle. Mrs. Fishbein was so eager to see Ruth that she actually came to find her in Mrs. Dienstag's room. They played a hand together, and then Ruth walked Mrs. Fishbein back to her own room, where she showed Ruth the package she had received from her granddaughter in Los Angeles: several bottles of nail polish tucked into a small wicker basket and tied with a gold ribbon. “Did you ever see such colors?” she exclaimed, holding the little bottles up to the light. “Sky blue? Lime green? Black?”

“That's what the girls are wearing these days,” Ruth said, remembering that William's wife, Betsy, was sporting those light blue nails the last time Ruth saw her. When was that? Thanksgiving? What an awful day. Maybe Mrs. Vogel was right, Ruth thought. She came here to escape her own problems.

“Well, I could give it a try, couldn't I?” said Mrs. Fishbein. “What do you think, Ruthie? Green or blue? No black for me, though. Not yet. Time enough for that, right?”

“The blue suits you best,” Ruth told her firmly. “I'll paint your nails and we'll take a picture. Send it to your granddaughter. We'll show her that East Coast ladies still have what it takes.”

“She'll be so tickled!” said Mrs. Fishbein and she spread her fingers wide, imagining the effect.

But even after the quiet rewards the morning had to offer, Ruth still replayed the exchange with Mrs. Vogel in her mind on the way home. Why couldn't she have said something that would have broken the spell the woman seemed to cast on her; something kind and wise that would have helped her. Because if there was no point to making these visits to the home, why was she doing it? Maybe Oscar was right when he said that she should spend more time with her own family.

It was this thought that guided Ruth's hand to the telephone later that evening. Oscar and she had been so worried about Gabriel and Penelope that Ruth had scarcely spoken to either of the other boys since Thanksgiving. Of course, Ben hadn't been in New York; he and his new wife left for London before Christmas. But William and Betsy were close enough, in New Jersey, just across the river. It was their number that Ruth dialed.

“Oh, hello, Ruth,” Betsy said, sounding not at all pleased. “Will's not here. He's going to be late tonight.”

“I'm happy to talk to you,” Ruth said, ignoring her tone. “We hardly had a chance on Thanksgiving.” There was a pause, so she kept going. “Someone at the nursing home today had a bottle of sky blue nail polish and it made me think of you. I remembered how pretty yours looked.” Ruth, she berated herself. Is this the best you can do? No wonder your daughters-in-law don't want to talk to you.

“Actually, Will and I have some news for you,” said Betsy, not seeming to have heard this last inane remark. “Good news.” But her voice didn't sound happy. “We're going to China. To adopt a baby girl. We just got the call from the agency and we have three weeks to get ready.”

“Betsy, that's wonderful. We had no idea you were even thinking of adopting—”

“We've been trying for over two years,” Betsy interrupted. “And we can't do it. I mean, Will can, but I can't. And so we're going to adopt.”

“Honey, I'm so happy for you both. Oscar will be too. I can't wait to tell him.” This was a lot of information to assimilate all at once, but it did make many things fall into place. The kind of discomfort she sensed in Betsy whenever the subject of children came up. The way she looked at Isobel. The way she avoided Ruth.

“Thank you.” Why did she sound so sad? Ruth kept wondering. But she herself was not sad, not at all. This was the best news she had heard in a long time and she was thrilled.

“Betsy, let's celebrate. What about you and William meeting us somewhere for dinner? In Chinatown? Wouldn't that be just perfect?”

“All right,” Betsy said, hesitating only slightly. “I'll tell Will you called.” Ruth realized that the conversation was over, and despite the fact that she was brimming with things to ask, she instead said good-bye and hung up the telephone.

They all
agreed to meet for dinner at the Red Dragon Inn, on Mott Street, one night when the ballet company was between seasons. As Ruth and Oscar ascended from the subway station, the air felt warm and moist; even humid. Not truly spring weather, but not winter either. Ruth was glad for the change. They all needed one, she thought, as she walked through the crowded streets, holding on to Oscar's arm. There was going to be a new baby in the family; that would be something good to focus on. God knew she needed it. They picked their way through the shop vendors, whose wares spilled out onto the sidewalk, and the true itinerant merchants who set up with tiny folding tables and blankets just inches from the curb. Eels and skinned ducks, persimmons and embroidered slippers, lobsters, fans, key chains, watches, sweatshirts, suitcases. So many things in so small a space.

As always, when confronted by such an array, Ruth wanted to buy something for someone. Wouldn't Ben's new wife like a padded silk jacket with silken frogs in place of buttons? What about those painted hand fans? Surely some of the ladies at the nursing home would like those; they're always complaining that the rooms are overheated. But Oscar said there was no time to stop, so Ruth clutched her handbag tightly under her arm and hurried alongside him, until they reached the restaurant.

William and Betsy were already there and hugs and kisses were exchanged all around as they took their seats. Large, plastic-coated red menus were placed in their hands almost immediately, so all conversation centered around the food for a few minutes. It was only when the order was taken and the menus swiftly whisked away that Ruth could sit and look at, really focus on, her middle-born son. He was tall—all Ruth's boys were tall—with dark brown hair and eyes. His looks were neither astonishingly good nor displeasing, though she did notice that he had put on a few pounds. No matter. Seated next to his wife, holding her hand as he talked to his father, he looked happy.

William had always been the defiant one. Ruth was ashamed of herself for thinking this way, especially after so many years. She could remember how her mother did the same thing, sorting her children into neat categories, like the mail or the bills. In her eyes, Molly was the one with bad manners and a good head for math; Ruth was refined but reticent and retiring; a wallflower to Molly's showy blossom. She vowed she would never define her own children this way, like so many butterflies, fixed and immobile under the scientist's stark pin. Yet she'd done it anyway, despite her best intentions.

Gabriel, the eldest, was both clingy and remote, the sort of child whose kisses seemed rationed but who was apt to burst into tears even when she left him merely to go check the mailbox in the lobby. Ben was the cuddler, always climbing into Ruth's lap, or snuggling up beside her on the sofa. “Mommy, your skin is so soft,” he would say; “Mommy, my toes are cold—will you rub them?” How Ruth loved that. But Willy was the one who said no before he said anything else, and it seemed to her that once he started, he didn't stop saying it for the next twenty years. Ruth heard no at bedtime, bath time, mealtime and everywhere in between. He said no to haircuts, to homework and to music lessons, and though she managed to prevail in all of these things, more or less, it was never without a struggle. Finally, when he got too old for his parents to tell him what to do, all the nos seemed to melt away, and he had been transformed into a successful and prosperous doctor. “Though how he got through medical school without telling his professors no to every exam, quiz, paper and report is a mystery to me,” Oscar used to say.

“So tell
me about China. About our new granddaughter,” Oscar said now, while William smiled and Betsy looked anxious.

“She's seven months old. Black hair—of course. But her face, Dad, wait until you see her face.” William pulled a picture out of his pocket. Ruth and Oscar peered down to look. Ruth saw an Asian baby in a knit cap and bulky, dark clothes. She had a full, round face, and a small, serious mouth. Ruth stared at the photograph and then touched the precious image captured within it. Her new granddaughter.

“We're going to call her Hannah,” William added.

“Hannah,” Ruth repeated. Hannah was her mother's name. Then she turned to Betsy. “She's beautiful.” Instead of answering, though, Betsy burst into tears. Oscar and William looked alarmed and the waiter came hurrying over, but Betsy, her head still bent over her blouse, waved him away.

“What's wrong?” asked Oscar and William, nearly in unison. There was no immediate response, but when Ruth offered her a packet of tissues from her purse, Betsy took one and began to dab at her wet eyes and cheeks.

“I'm so sorry,” she finally said.

“Sorry for what?” William said.

“I didn't mean to break down like that. It's just that we haven't told you”—she gestured toward Ruth and Oscar—“about what the last two years have been like. Wanting a baby, trying to have a baby, enduring every damn treatment under the sun and
still
not being able to have a baby. And then watching Penelope and Gabriel have Isobel just like that! It's been really hard.”

“But now we are going to have a baby,” said William with a quiet authority that made Ruth proud of him. “We're going to China. In two weeks. And we're bringing her home with us.”

“I know. And I'm happy about it, I really am.”

“Then why . . .?” asked William. Oscar and Ruth were silent; they had nothing to say here, they were outsiders, intruders even.