The Four Temperaments (18 page)

Yet Gabriel did not wish to leave Penelope. The thought of disrupting their life together and his home held no promise of relief. If he were to do that, what would happen to Isobel? Would Penelope even let him see her? Even though he often felt Isobel was something of a stranger to him—guarded so vigilantly by her mother—he didn't want to lose her.

And then of course there was Nel's money. Certainly, as Ruth was fond of pointing out, Gabriel enjoyed the material comforts that Penelope's wealth allowed him. But at the same time, he resented that wealth, because it usurped his own prerogative in earning it. How many architects at his stage of a career could afford their apartment with its expensive furniture or the car he drove?

No, rather than face the pain of upheaval, both psychological and material, he would rather accept Penelope just as she was. But he wanted Ginny too, and he had to find a way to have them both. It was an awful, selfish wish: Gabriel knew this. Yet Ginny didn't mind being part of this triangle, and if Penelope never found out, who, in the end, would be hurt? This was what he told himself in an effort to justify something for which he knew there was no justification. He thought then about his father. It still made him sick to contemplate Oscar and Ginny together. How had Oscar justified it? Though now that he knew Ginny better, he had the feeling that she was the one who decided—for what reason, Gabriel could not fathom—that she wanted Oscar. Because when Ginny wanted something, she got it.

Quite apart
from his guilt over betraying her with Ginny, Gabriel was genuinely concerned about Penelope's increasing emotional turmoil, and he wanted to help her. Not that she would admit she needed help. But Gabriel was aware of the anxieties that held her, most days, tightly by the throat. The cupboards were filled with bottles of the antibacterial soap she ordered in bulk from an organic produce supplier; its vaguely spicy, geranium-like scent hovered over her skin at all times. She talked to herself, quietly, not out loud, but her lips seemed to move in an ongoing, self-referential monologue. She was getting worse. A lot worse. He did a little research on some of her symptoms using the Internet; he questioned people—very casually, of course—at his office. He even called, with some misgivings, his brother Will, who was a cardiologist in New York.

“Hey, Gabe,” William had said, answering the phone in that bluff and hearty way Gabriel remembered and hated. “What's the score?” Still the jock even all these years later, Gabriel thought. But he controlled himself for Penelope's sake. Once he explained what had been going on with his wife, William turned suddenly serious and concerned.

“I'm not really sure,” he had said. “Sounds like she could be manic-depressive. With a little obsessive compulsive stuff happening on the side. There are a lot of new medications on the market now. But you really need an expert opinion. I know a couple of people you could call.”

“I really appreciate it,” Gabriel said sincerely, as he jotted down the names and telephone numbers.

“There's one more thing, Gabriel,” William had said.

“What's that?” Gabriel sat, his pen poised midair.

“She has to want it,” William said.

“Want what?”

“To get help. To get better.”

“What if she doesn't?” There was a long pause during which Gabriel uncoiled a paper clip, stretching out the metal filament into a long, taut line.

“No magic bullets, Gabe. No magic bullets,” William said finally.

Gabriel hung up the phone and stared at the names he had written down. By a crazy coincidence, one of them was named Dr. Giselle Klaubis. Giselle. In the story told by the ballet, Giselle went mad when she discovered her lover, Albrecht, had betrayed her. Went mad and died. Gabriel crumpled the piece of paper and threw it in the trash. Only later did he retrieve it, and tentatively mentioned one of the doctors to Penelope. But he did not mention Giselle Klaubis.

Now, as
he sat, still staring at Ginny's picture, he wished he could download it and the little box of text beside it, but he didn't dare. Somehow Penelope would find it, just the way she found the pointe shoes, the ones he had since buried at the very back of his least-accessible file cabinet. So he regretfully clicked off the image and instead found the scheduled performance dates for the company's stay in San Francisco. He printed out the schedule and folded it into neat thirds, which he then slipped into the outermost flap of the leather case in which he carried his papers. He wanted it to be very visible—he had nothing to hide, after all—to Penelope should she choose to look through his things. And if she did, he could casually mention that the ballet was coming to town, and how much he would like to see it, for old time's sake. How he planned to see Ginny alone he hadn't yet figured out. But just being able to sit quietly in the theater and watch her dance—that thought was enough. The rest of it would come. He didn't know how yet, but it would. He toyed momentarily with the idea of clicking back to her image again, but he did not. Instead, he turned off the machine, and the dozen humming lights behind him, and went home, to his wife and child.

Later that evening, he mentioned the idea of going to the ballet.

“That would be nice,” Penelope mused, looking down at Isobel, who was, as usual, at her breast. “But what about the baby?” The baby. Penelope would not go out for the evening and leave Isobel with anyone; how could he have forgotten? When Isobel was a newborn, they took her with them. Now she was too big and too lively to spend a whole evening in her mother's arms, so Penelope preferred to stay home. “Of course, if you really want to, you can go by yourself,” Penelope was saying. She had shifted Isobel to her other breast and the nipple of the first one, glimpsed quickly by Gabriel before she covered herself, was still wet and shining. “I don't mind. Really I don't.” She looked up at him and smiled.

“We'll see,” said Gabriel neutrally, but inside he was throbbing with pure, unalloyed joy. Here he had been so worried about how he would manage this, and Penelope had made it so easy. He could watch Ginny alone. And afterward, well, he would think of something. Gabriel's gaze lifted up and over Penelope's dark head. Through the window he saw the lights of the city spread out below him. Their distant glow gave him hope, and he could feel a plan taking shape inside of him.

PENELOPE

P
enelope still
dreamed of the accident, even all these years later. In her dreams, she was driving down that road again, hands steady on the steering wheel, the August light dappling yellow through the canopy of trees above her. It was her last summer at home; in September, she would be starting her first term at college. Where had she been going that afternoon? She didn't remember. What she remembered and what she dreamed of were the car, the quiet swerve of the road, the light. And the blurred, brown shape that darted from its invisible place by the trees. The shape that materialized into a doe who chose that precise moment to cross the road. Penelope felt, more than remembered, the impact of the deer's body as it slammed against the hood of the car. At that point, she always woke up.

She hadn't been driving that fast, so the deer had not been killed. At least not immediately. She remembered hitting the brakes suddenly and getting out of the car. No sign of the doe, who had vanished into the woods. Looking down, Penelope saw that the hood was smeared with blood. She put her hand to the spot and found that coarse dark bits of the animal's fur were mixed in it. She wanted to atone, somehow, for hitting it, so she ran her bloodied fingers across her cheeks and forehead. Getting back into the car, she surveyed the result in the rearview mirror. Interesting. Like war paint.

“I hit a deer,” Penelope said calmly as she headed for the bathroom to wash her hands, rather sticky now, and her face.

“But you're bleeding,” said Caroline. “Let me see.” Penelope walked past her mother without saying anything else. When she emerged from the bathroom, face and hands newly clean, hair brushed and gleaming, Caroline said nothing, but looked steadily at her, as if trying to assess the extent of the damage.

Penelope wondered
why she had so many dreams of the accident. She didn't dream of her horse, whose death she actually witnessed. Or of her father. She didn't even know what happened to the doe. Maybe the wounds were minor and the animal recovered. Maybe she went on to live a long, long life in the forest, mothering fawn after fawn, delicate Bambi-like creatures who hovered by the side of the road, drawn by some mysterious force to cross it, only to be hit again and again. Sometimes, the dreams ended with Penelope waking in tears; other times, in a frantic sweat.

When she first met and fell in love with Gabriel, she used to tell him about these dreams. He was always so sweet with her then; he would have her lie resting her head in his lap as he stroked the long dark hair away from her forehead in an effort to soothe her. Sometimes she even woke him up in the middle of the night. He never seemed to mind; he always wanted to comfort her. But since Isobel's birth, she found herself confiding less and less in Gabriel. He had become more of an opponent than an ally. On one occasion, he even suggested that she see a therapist. He actually went so far as to get a referral from that brother of his, William, the one who was a doctor back east.

“It might be helpful,” he suggested, as they sat on the soft white sofa, watching the news one evening. Penelope hated the news. Murders, catastrophes, encroaching poisons with which the world was being consumed. But Gabriel liked the news, and she watched to please him.

“Helpful in what way?” she asked.

“You know, Nel. With the washing, for instance. And the tapping.”

“I don't have a problem with those things.” So he had seen her, been spying on her, no doubt.

“You don't?” he asked, sounding surprised. There was a commercial on now, for the kind of industrial-strength detergent whose residue Penelope was sure would forever taint the waters, the soil, the very air they were required to breathe.

“No. You have a problem with them.” She got up. News be damned. “I think I hear Isobel,” she said, retreating to the baby's room. Isobel had not stirred, but remained peacefully asleep. See a therapist. As if Penelope actually
wanted
to stop washing. Or tapping.

Still, she
realized after her conversation with Gabriel that she needed to be more careful. She didn't want him or anyone to know the full extent of her rituals. Or her preparations, which was how she liked to think of them. Preparations for the world, and all the terrifying cruelty it could contain. So she washed when he wasn't there, tapped only on the piece of wood that she kept in a pocket.

After Gabriel
returned from that trip to New York, Penelope decided to buy a new car. She had never trusted the sleek green sports car Gabriel bought after he was selected to build the new extension of an important northern California museum, and so she had been driving their old Toyota. But the Toyota, in perpetual need of repair, was faltering. Penelope thought it was time for a change.

“What did you have in mind?” Gabriel asked when she told him her plan. But they both knew the money—and therefore the decision—was hers.

She began to research cars. Their safety and their fuel emissions. Their gas consumption and their maneuverability. She logged on to the Web site of
Consumer Reports,
downloaded and printed back issues. The Insurance Institute did crash tests that simulated cars hitting walls; she studied their reports as if committing them to memory. As Gabriel sat watching the evening news, Penelope spread the pages around her, forming a giant fan on the living room floor. She crouched in the center, marking and cross-referencing. Gabriel offered his comments and occasionally a suggestion, but mostly he seemed happy to let her select whatever she wanted.

Then there were the visits to showrooms, the protracted conversations with car salesmen, the numerous test-drives. Gabriel had offered to watch Isobel during this process, but Penelope insisted on taking the baby with her to each and every test-drive. Securely strapped into her car seat, Isobel enjoyed the activity. Her hands, clenched into small fists, beat the air around her; her feet in their white cotton socks kicked merrily.

Although Penelope told this to no one, she felt certain that Isobel could actually help her choose the right car. Not that the baby would be able to articulate her choice in words. But Penelope was convinced that when Isobel's energy was right, she would be able to feel it. They were that much in tune with each other.

Early on a cold, foggy Sunday morning, she dressed Isobel warmly in a knitted cotton sweater and cap, tucked a soft blanket around her legs. They had an appointment to test-drive a Volvo station wagon. Penelope was closing in on her target; it was either this or a Mercedes. She didn't really think she would buy a Mercedes, though. Too expensive, too ostentatious. But she hadn't fully settled on the Volvo yet either. She had read some good things about the Subaru Outback, a vehicle known for its modest gas consumption and overall reliability. But the Volvo had the side curtain air bags, to protect that tiny skull, in the backseat. She would have to see.

Gabriel drove them to the dealership. “Do you want me to go with you? Or to wait?” he asked.

“That's all right,” she said. “The salesman promised to drive me home.” She had talked to this particular salesman on the phone four times already; sometimes, she woke up in the middle of the night with a question that she wrote down so she could ask him as soon as it was morning. He was eager to make this sale, and the offer to drive her was part of that eagerness. But there was also something else that Penelope didn't want to tell Gabriel. If Gabriel was in the car with her, she was afraid that she wouldn't be able to sense Isobel's energy. The connection between mother and child might be somehow impeded or clouded. So she leaned down to the open window of the car, where his breath made soft, white puffs in the chilly air, and lightly kissed him. Then he was gone.

“Mrs. Kornblatt?” Penelope turned around, and there was the salesman, arm already outstretched, ready to wring her hand in greeting. They were all this way; they must have studied at the same school. “Be firm, yet friendly,” she could imagine them being instructed. “Make the customer feel confident in your confidence.” This one was a bit older than she was used to, with strands of thin, graying hair hopelessly combed and plastered over his mostly bald head. His glasses had thick, black frames. His nose was shiny.

“Car's right here,” he told her. Penelope turned to see the car—white, of course, with a tan interior—that was waiting on the lot. As it happened, white turned out to be the safest color for a car. Statistically speaking, that is. Even Gabriel seemed impressed when she showed him the figures. “Are you and the little lady ready?” She looked down at Isobel and extended her finger for the baby to grasp.

Penelope liked the feeling the car had in her hands; solid, yet pliable. “Mind if I take it outside the city a little ways?” she asked the salesman, whose name was Burt.

“Anywhere you want,” Burt said affably. “You're in the driver's seat.” He chuckled at his own wit. Penelope kept her eyes on the road. The traffic was light and she was able to leave the city behind quickly.

She liked how the car handled on the highway; the acceleration was smooth and quiet. Now she wanted to find a winding back road, so she could get a sense of the way it handled the curves and dips of a more circuitous route. Burt kept up a steady stream of patter; Penelope caught certain phrases like
sunroof
and
fully loaded.
He had obviously been schooled on what features appealed to the gals. Penelope gave him an occasional tight smile or nod, but mostly she concentrated on the car and the road as it ribboned out in front of her. The fog drifted down through the still-bare tree branches. At the side of the road, Penelope saw a large male deer and although she slowed down, her heart accelerated, as if she, or the animal, were in great danger. But the deer remained immobile until she passed.

Burt twisted his head around. “Smart buck,” he said to himself as much as to her. “Just a few seconds earlier and he'd have been roadkill for sure.”

“Why did you say that?” Penelope asked quickly. The deer startled her; his antlers looked like beseeching, bony arms.

“This baby is built like a truck. You don't want to get in its way.”

Penelope checked the rearview mirror. She could just see the deer as he moved, slowly, sedately, into the group of naked shrubs at the far side of the road. Isobel's eyes caught hers in the small rectangle of reflective glass. The baby wrinkled her nose and let out a squeal of laughter when she saw her mother's face. The deer. The child. Yes. The signs she was waiting for—there they were. Everything was right with the world. The car, pure and gleaming white, was built as sturdily as a ship. It would glide through the swirling waters of their lives, keeping them safe.

“We'll take it,” she said, turning her beautiful and radiant face to the salesman.