The Four Temperaments (25 page)

Althea was
there when it was over, helping Ginny into a taxi back to West Seventy-first Street. The streets were wet; it must have rained.

“No class for a few days. And no
Barocco.
”

“At least the season hasn't started yet.” Ginny leaned her head back against the seat of the taxi. Dr. Singh was as good as her word. The procedure hadn't hurt all that much. At least not physically. But the doctor hadn't said anything about how she was going to feel inside. Which turned out to be much worse than anything she could have imagined. She took Althea's hand and held it tightly. “Thanks for coming with me.” Then she closed her eyes for the rest of the ride.

Several days
later, Ginny made a trip out to Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn. She had wanted to go to Penelope's funeral but knew that it was impossible. The desire remained with her, though, and in response to her question about local cemeteries, one of the other dancers mentioned Woodlawn, in the Bronx. Then Ginny remembered something Gabriel had said, about his grandparents—that would have been Ruth's father and mother—being buried at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn. Green-Wood, she decided, was the place.

The trip to the cemetery meant taking the subway, something that frightened her a little. She still remembered the malevolent face of the boy who took her money on the bus. But she was determined to go, and with the help of an elaborately detailed map and a patient transit worker, she found her way to the R train and then, once she had emerged into the street and walked a little way, to the massive and elaborately worked gates that formed the entrance to the cemetery. The elderly security guard in his gray uniform looked up at her briefly and then back down at the game of solitaire he was playing. Another younger man stood tending a covered cart of flowers just outside the gate. Ginny impulsively bought a bunch, though she didn't know the name of Gabriel's grandparents and had no idea how to find them.

The cemetery was hot and quiet. She walked along the curving, well-tended paths. Century-old oaks gripped the earth tightly with their roots; their thick branches almost seemed to support the weight of the sky. Occasionally, she stopped to read the name on a headstone or look at a statue. A marble angel knelt beside a tomb, head bowed in grief. The angel's carved wings spanned a distance of what must have been five feet.

The day grew hotter and Ginny waved at the swarms of tiny gnats that hovered around her. Words on the stones began to form a kind of hum, a whispered litany:
dearly beloved . . . deeply mourned . . . we will miss . . . eternal rest . . . at God's side at last. . . .
Some of the headstones were new and highly polished; others were weathered and lichen-covered.

So many of the older headstones marked the graves of children.
Heaven's newest angel . . . Unblemished soul.
Although she swore to herself that she wouldn't, Ginny thought of the baby that had been growing inside her, the baby whose life she had decided to end. Her eyes burned and she hurried along the path, as if she could outpace her tears. The last thing in the world she wanted was a baby. So what was she sniveling about now?

She stopped at a stone from another century, its inscription bordered by tendrils of sculpted leaves: Elizabeth Paula Wilcox. Born May 12, 1870. Died August 20, 1899.
Beloved wife of . . . beloved mother to . . .
She wasn't even thirty years old when she died. How old had Gabriel's wife been? Ginny didn't know. But she felt the ragged hole that Penelope's death had left in the lives of all the people who had loved her.

Ginny looked down at the flowers, and pulled a few white carnations from the bunch. Hadn't Gabriel said that Penelope had loved white flowers and would place them in vases all around their apartment? She laid the loose stems across the grave, and propped the rest, still wrapped in their crisp cone of green waxed paper, against another tombstone. Then she bowed her head. The prayer that eluded her in the San Francisco church came easily now. “Rest in peace,” she murmured to Elizabeth Paula Wilcox.

RUTH

R
uth had
forgotten. Even after raising her own three children, and all the time she had put in volunteering at the hospital, there were so many things about caring for a baby that she had just forgotten. Like how heavy a baby could feel when she fell asleep in your arms and you had to somehow carry her and the cumbersome bag with all her essential accoutrements back to the car. How unnerving her crying—when it had gone on for nearly an hour—could be. How exhausted Ruth felt from waking up—at Isobel's behest, of course—not twice, not three times, but four separate times during the night.

When Ruth's own sons had been babies, she had been much younger. And she had help: her mother was still alive, and Molly and she frequently spelled each other with the kids. Molly used to call it the R and R exchange. If Ruth was feeling particularly frazzled, Molly would come over with her daughters and take the whole crew to the playground in Central Park while Ruth stole away to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. There she would spend a peaceful hour communing with the Renoirs and Monets that hung in the upstairs galleries. Then, a muffin and a cup of tea in the restaurant; finally, a stroll through the gift shop to buy some postcards or perhaps a wall calendar. When they switched, Ruth would take the five children to the old Hayden Planetarium, or the Museum of Natural History. Later, when Ruth asked Molly where she had been, she always answered, “Seeing my lover, of course!” They laughed wildly at the thought of it, but all these years later, Ruth wondered if there was something Molly hadn't told her back then. Something that Molly thought placid, dull, stay-at-home Ruth wouldn't understand, or approve of. What was Molly thinking about Ruth now?

At first, everything went smoothly enough. Right after Gabriel left, Ruth looked outside. The day was gray and chilly. How glad she would be to leave this dismal weather behind. Quickly she dressed herself and the baby. Then she grabbed a few of Isobel's things—clothes, diapers and the like—and packed them in her bag.

Ruth and Isobel were alone in the elevator and the doorman seemed to have stepped away for a moment, another unexpected bit of luck. If he were asked later whether he had seen them leave the building, he wouldn't be able to say.

As they headed toward the Hertz rental office—a short distance away—they passed a bank, but Ruth decided to skip it—she would get the cash from ATMs along the way, use the credit card as she needed it. At Hertz, there was a car, a vivid blue Accord, ready and waiting. She opened the trunk, put the bag and the stroller inside. They had even remembered the car seat; it was already strapped into place. Ruth worried that Isobel might be afraid to get into the car—would she remember the sounds of Penelope being hit, not once, but twice?—but Isobel offered no resistance as she slipped her in and adjusted the straps to fit her body. She planned to drive for a while and then stop somewhere outside the city at a playground. She wanted to make sure Isobel had some time outdoors.

And so this was how Ruth found herself, moving at a steady pace along the highway, heading south. The drive began more pleasantly than she would have imagined, given the circumstances. She said the names of the towns they passed out loud: San Mateo, Palo Alto, Pescadero, Santa Cruz. Each name was like a bead on a necklace, and the necklace was the road itself as it spun out, closer and closer to their destination.

As she drove, she found it impossible not to think of Oscar and Gabriel, the twin fuel jets for her seemingly boundless anger. There was an expression her grandmother Pip used in situations like this: “All his
tzechel
is in his
putz.
” When Ruth had asked what that meant, Pip replied, “He thinks with his you-know-what.” That certainly described Ruth's son. And her husband too, the one who brought Ginny Valentine into their lives in the first place. But with every mile of distance she put between herself and her family, Gabriel's transgressions, and Oscar's too, would seem less and less important. Or that's what the new Ruth was saying. All day long, she retained the sense of watching herself. The old Ruth was amazed at the chutzpah of the new one. But it was strangely comforting to feel as if there were two Ruths; the old one who knew so much and the new one who had such energy and daring.

There was a noise from the backseat. Isobel. Ruth wanted to look at her but dared not turn around. “Br!” Isobel said, or this was what it sounded like. At first Ruth thought the child was cold, but since the air felt pleasantly warm, she was confused. “Br!” Isobel repeated, pointing to the window. “Br?” Ruth tried to follow the direction of her outstretched arm without taking her own eyes off the road, and then she saw the flock of birds—pigeons? starlings? crows?—circling above.

“Bird!” Ruth said and was rewarded with Isobel's smile. She had never spent enough time with her granddaughter to understand her nascent utterings. Well, that was about to change. Ruth kept stealing glimpses in the rearview mirror, and she saw that Isobel remained cheerful enough, continuing to point and smile. After a while, she grew tired of this, and the steady motion of the car lulled her to sleep. Good. Ruth would drive for as long as she slept, and when she woke, they would stop.

They had just gone through San Luis Obispo when Isobel woke up. Ruth heard her calling “Mama!” and wanted to cry. But she wouldn't let herself. “Buck up, Ruth,” she said out loud. If she started to cry every time Isobel did, they would be in fine shape, wouldn't they? “It's all right, darling.” Ruth soothed her as best she could without touching or making eye contact. “We'll be stopping right away.” And as soon as Ruth spied a place to eat—too bad it happened to be a McDonald's—she glided off the road and brought the car to a stop.

She ordered the chicken nuggets and some French fries. Ruth knew Isobel had never had meat and she worried that it might not agree with her system. Poultry seemed safer than beef. But Isobel wouldn't even look at it; instead, she devoted herself entirely to the fries, which she ate with great appetite, licking her tiny fingers for the residue of salt and grease. Best of all was the ketchup; when Ruth tore off the corner of a little foil packet, Isobel grabbed it right out of her hand and started sucking it. That Penelope's daughter might turn out to be a fast food junkie would have been an amusing irony had things been different. Now it seemed so sad. Ruth brought Isobel back to the counter for another order of fries; Isobel squirmed and struggled in her arms. Her sticky fingers left traces of ketchup on Ruth's face and in her hair. Somehow she managed to order the fries and pay for them too, despite Isobel's wriggling. But she should have remembered how quickly a baby's mood could change: when Isobel saw the new bag of fries, she glowered and knocked them off the tray.

The rest room was foul and the so-called infant changing table dangled from a single hinge, so Ruth diapered her right on the hard, dirty tiles. Then, despite Isobel's loud protests, Ruth cleaned up the child's hands and face as best she could with the cold water from the sink and they were on their way again. Ruth drove around in search of a playground and when she couldn't find one, began to feel anxious about getting back on the road. Today was a travel day, she rationalized.

Back at McDonald's, Isobel was given a small toy with her meal: a pink Beanie Baby flamingo, which seemed to delight her. Ruth was relieved that it absorbed her attention as she hadn't thought to bring any toys—another necessary thing she had forgotten—and she hoped it would last until the next stop. Though she was not sure of where and when that would be. Through the mirror, Ruth could see Isobel shaking it, squeezing it, chewing on it. All seemed well until Ruth heard a cough—more of a choking sound—and whipped her head around. Something was caught in Isobel's throat! Ruth pulled over immediately but forgot to signal and the driver behind her uttered a string of curses in his wake. Frantically, she unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned over. Prying Isobel's mouth open with her finger, she reached in and managed to extract the soggy bit of cardboard—the damn tag!—from her throat. It wasn't lodged in deeply, but Isobel was clearly frightened, and continued to cry. Ruth hurried around to sit with her in the backseat. Isobel cried for a long time, small chest heaving, black hair stuck to her face where it was wet from tears. Ruth listened to the sound of that crying, crying she was unable to stop. What have I done? lamented the old Ruth. The new Ruth had no reply.

Somehow, she calmed Isobel—and herself—sufficiently for them to continue. How could she have forgotten to remove the tag? The baby could have choked right there in the backseat. Ruth berated herself as the miles slipped by. Around dinnertime, they stopped at a motel and went into the Italian restaurant that adjoined it. As Ruth scanned the menu for something Isobel could eat, she saw that liquor was served. Tonight she would order a glass of wine with her meal. She certainly needed it. The wine came first, and though it was not very good, Ruth downed it quickly and ordered another. She was not hungry but ordered some plain spaghetti in the hope that Isobel would share it. When the spaghetti came, Isobel squeezed and rolled it between her fingers, but would not eat it. Nor would she eat any of the salad, buttered roll or Italian cheesecake with which Ruth tried to tempt her. Finally, Ruth asked the waitress for a glass of milk, which Isobel drank without assistance, cheeks sucked in as she gulped.

The motel clerk had no cribs, so Ruth brought Isobel into the king-sized bed. Then she piled the pillows alongside her, so she wouldn't roll over onto the floor. Isobel fell asleep but woke crying a short time later. Ruth thought she must be hungry, given how little she had eaten earlier in the evening, but Isobel rejected the cookies and crackers Ruth offered. She was able to get her back to sleep, only to have to repeat the whole cycle—wake, tears, rock—three more times. Finally, Ruth abandoned the idea of sleep for herself, preferring to remain lying on the bed, eyes closed, but all other senses alert and ready.

By the morning, Ruth's confidence in her plan had nearly evaporated. If she could barely get through a single night with Isobel, how in the world could she manage to raise her alone, in a foreign country? Then she remembered that today was the day that Penelope was to be buried. Gabriel would have to go through that without her. And Oscar. But Ruth was doing something important: she was taking care of Penelope's baby when Penelope could no longer do it herself.

Breakfast went
better than dinner had the night before: Isobel ate some scrambled egg, licked butter from the toast, spilled her orange juice and lapped it up right from the table. The new Ruth was smug in her triumph. They got back in the car and kept driving south. Since Isobel had slept so little the night before, she drifted off very quickly. When she woke, she started crying again, not loud, but a low, harrowing keen that sounded as if she was in mourning. Which she was, but didn't know it. “Mama!” Ruth heard her call and, after a while, “Dada!” Ruth stopped the car again, because the sound so unsettled her. What could she do to calm her?

Ruth started singing. She hadn't sung in a long while and mostly she didn't miss it. It had never been her dream to sing opera, or the German lieder that Lilli loved so much; Ruth still remembered her grandmother sitting there, hands crossed on her cane, nodding with pleasure as Ruth sang. It was one of these lieder that Ruth sang now to her own granddaughter, humming when she couldn't think of the words. To her surprise, it stopped Isobel's crying. Her face, which Ruth could see in the rearview mirror, settled itself into a different expression, and though there were still tears on her cheeks, she no longer looked sad. Cautiously, Ruth started up the car, singing all the while.

When she had finished her meager repertoire of lieder, she moved on to something else. Not arias, her voice was not in any shape to cover those ranges. Instead, she reconstructed the songs she sang to her boys when they were little, the familiar ones about the twinkling star, the spider, the farm, the wheels on the bus. When Ruth didn't think she could stand one more moo-moo here, there or anywhere, she moved on to the more sultry ballads and tender folk songs she had always secretly loved, songs that had been recorded by Joan Baez, Judy Collins, Joni Mitchell, Billie Holiday and Aretha Franklin. Ruth would never have sung such songs in front of another adult—she could almost feel Oscar's disdain—but Isobel seemed enchanted by anything that came out of her mouth. Just as Ruth was belting out Aretha's “Natural Woman”—she had really let herself get lost in this—they arrived at the border. Would they let her drive a rented car into Mexico? Ruth didn't know, but prayed there wouldn't be a problem.

The customs official was a young man of Mexican descent; his upper lip was coated with a mustache as fine as down. He looked briefly at Ruth's passport and didn't even ask if Isobel had one. He didn't even seem to check the license plate. Instead he waved them through. The old Ruth couldn't believe how easy that was; the new one applauded. The alternate plan she had formulated, in which she'd pretended to look for the nonexistent passport, hoping the official would let her go through without it, had not been necessary. Had she been stopped, Ruth had planned to drive to Texas and try her luck there. The car, with the window rolled down, grew hot and Ruth saw Isobel squirm. Quickly, she rolled up the window, turned on the air-conditioning and started singing again.