The Third Grace (21 page)

Aglaia always thought it was the other way around—that actions arose out of attitude, that the heart dictated the deeds and overcame circumstances. Still, the conversation stimulated her, though its implications were disheartening. “So you're saying there's no point to life at all but bitter futility?”

“I'm saying that life itself is absurd. I imagine Sisyphus as a bloke of today, stumbling under the weight of society's conventions that threaten to crush him, dodging the boulder of morality, stubbing his toe on it. But my goal is to break the boulder of Sisyphus,” François bragged. He lit another Gitane, cupping the flame of his match against the breeze. “I refuse to be sentenced to an existence of boredom, stuck in a meaningless repetition of unthinking tradition.”

“That's easier said than done.”

“But you've broken out of the rut, haven't you? You've become Aglaia.”

She said nothing. François could never know the depth of the ruts she'd worn going up and down the hill of her life. Her boulder wasn't conventional morality but rather family, farm, and faith—and she'd been trying to smash that boulder and escape her Tartarus for years. She might have told him that next, but they came to a cluster of activity under a light standard—a vendor about to close up his stall as a few browsers moved away from his jewelry.

The man sitting at the booth hailed him, “
Bonsoir, François.
”

“
Salut
,
Rémy
.” François turned to Aglaia. “I want to buy you something.” He took her to the stand and fingered a few pendants hanging on a dowel. “This one! It's very bobo,” he said. He slipped off an alabaster disc hanging from a leather thong and gave it to Rémy with a twenty-Euro note. “
É
crivez ceci en Anglais, je vous prie,
” he said, writing something for the man on a scrap of paper.

“
Un autre collier—une autre conquête
?” Rémy bantered with an impudent grin.

François answered with mock sternness,
“
Ça suffit, Rémy. Écrivez
.”

Aglaia's French was too basic for her to understand the interaction between the two men, but she picked up the intonation of Rémy's teasing and François's reprimand.

They watched as the craftsman engraved upon the white stone with his fine drill, then blew the dust away. When it was done, François slipped it into his jeans pocket and said to her, “Not yet. It's too bright here.” So they returned down the alley towards the bar and soon were alone again in the night, holding hands as they walked. When they reached the back entrance, François halted and leaned against the age-stained wall, facing her. He withdrew the necklace from his pocket.

“I've looked a long time for the perfect woman and now you've come back to me,” he said. François couldn't be sincere about this, Aglaia thought, but he quelled her objection by placing his fingertips on her mouth. She tasted them, opened her lips and let her tongue touch the ridges on them.

“When I first met you as a teen,” he continued, “I saw right past your outward resistance to your open heart and vowed right then that you'd let me in.” He turned her hand up and placed the pendant in it for her to examine.

The thin, polished stone lay in her palm, cool and white, with a decorative design on one side and, when she turned it over, a tribute inscribed in her honor on the other:
To my fairest Aglaia
. Elation swelled in her breast while skepticism cautioned that she'd better not read too much into the gift.

“Let me put it on for you,” he said, and fastened the clasp from behind as she held up her hair. “It's only a trinket but it symbolizes a great deal.”

“Does it?” she asked. He stroked the nape of her neck and she tensed against the pleasure.

He turned her around to face him, keeping his hands on her waist. “Yes, a great deal. Your name is Aglaia—I thought you understood.” She didn't, and it must have shown. “Aglaia was the youngest and most beautiful of the three,” he explained, “like you. Back there in Nebraska I told you how beautiful you were as Mary Grace—now as Aglaia herself. Didn't you believe me then?” He gave her no time to answer, and that was just as well because she might have replied that she wasn't sure she believed him even now. But—oh!—she wanted to. He gathered her close to him and burrowed his lips into her hair so that her cheek was pressed against his sweater. “I love your femininity, Aglaia. I love the feminine essence of women.”

She stepped back at his choice of his last word. “The feminine essence of
women
?”

She didn't know, after all, about his romantic life, but judging from the way that waitress Abbey drooled over him, he was no saint. He hadn't offered information on his marital status, either, but then she hadn't asked. She didn't really want to know—hadn't ever really wanted to know that she wasn't his only love. So now, couldn't she finally just give in to him without burdening herself with the thought of consequences? Hadn't she waited long enough?

She was scandalized by her own desires even as she asked herself the questions.

“Don't take me wrong,” he pacified, and he drew her back in to kiss the tip of her nose. “There's only one of you—only one Mary Grace. But like all women, you're complex, made up of many layers. What are the elements of your personhood?”

“What do you mean?” she asked. She was body, soul, and spirit—three parts, one entity.

“I've considered the mystery of women over the years,” François said, taking his time though she was impatient now. He wrapped his arms around her again so that she felt snug in his embrace—almost safe.

Almost, but not quite.

François continued, “I figure every guy wants that ideal woman who will satisfy all his needs. But it's not realistic. No one's perfect enough to satisfy another completely.”

“Well, my parents seem happy,” she began. But her voice was lost in the soft knit of his sweater and he went on talking, which was just as well because, at the bottom of it, he was right. She had to accept his logic that people needed something more than humanity offered. She'd always known that.

“This is where the Three Graces have been most useful to me,” he said. “Together they represent the fullness of womanhood, each aspect of the stone girls corresponding to a characteristic in human girls.”

“Really?” Aglaia tipped her chin up to him. So this was the source of his interest in the Graces all along; they were a pattern to him, a prototype.

“Oh yes. You know, in spite of our sexual experimentation, what men really want is one woman who embodies the attributes of all three. We want Thalia, the girl we can take home to meet the parents and have babies with, but only when we're ready to settle down after we've had some fun and ‘sown our wild oats,' as the saying goes. Partying is Euphrosyne's job, and I see plenty of her kind coming into the bar, always ready for a good time. But Aglaia,” he said, pulling her torso hard against his, “Aglaia is the one who gets to us in the first place. Dazzling goddess, a jewel herself, she's so spectacular to look at that she calls us away from our boyish oblivion and the drudgery of labor. She turns the stony face of Sisyphus away from the earth and up towards the heavens. Aglaia is what all men idolize.”

François's spiel fascinated Aglaia, as much for its poetic whimsy as its self-interest. Her cynicism gained a toehold and she asked herself how many women he'd scored this way. But in spite of his whopping pick-up line, her intellect took second place to her emotions and all she wanted to do was kiss him.

But his lips were in her hair again, one hand running up and down her back, the other unlocking the bar's alley door. She caught sight of her suitcase just inside the room.

“Stay the night with me, Aglaia. Share some of your treasure.” His words thrilled her, and then to sweeten the invitation he covered her mouth with his, parted her lips with his tongue, and she could have thrown herself into him then, could have drowned in him. But the picture of Joel with lacerated fists popped uninvited into her mind—her brother who was willing to shed his own blood for her teenaged virtue.

“I thought you lived clear across town,” she said, but the mild protest was muffled by his lips and her resolve all but dissolved.

“I keep a room here for when I work past Métro hours.” He was easing her over the threshold but she balked at his words, wrenching away in sudden panic.

“Métro hours? You mean the subway
closes
?”

“Of course,” he answered. “It opens daily at five-thirty and the last train comes through here around midnight.” He bent for her again, grabbing both wrists and pinning her against the doorframe in one smooth move. His action was playful but his eyes were flint.

“I have to be at the airport before five to catch my plane!” She struggled to free herself, twisting under his tightening grip.

“I'll call you a cab later,” he insisted. “Come on, Aglaia—let's finish what we started.” She was writhing but he thrust himself up against her, his mouth hard against hers again.

“No, I have to go
now
!”

François jerked his head back and clamped his teeth together, his jaw flexing and nostrils flaring for a split second (so that Aglaia wondered if she imagined it) before he recovered his mask of suave composure—almost indifference.

“Fate is against us,” he said, and he loosened his hold. She yanked her bag from inside his room then grazed her cheek across his so that he smiled. “I'll e-mail you,” he called after her as she ran in the direction of the subway.

She realized as she passed under the flickering light of the neon sign that she'd forgotten altogether about giving François the Bible.

S
eat 27B was empty in the airplane the next morning when Aglaia took her place in 27A. Maybe Lou was stuck in the security line, but Aglaia harbored some hope that she'd miss the flight altogether.

Making her way to Charles de Gaulle Airport on public transit in the dead of night, with a heavy suitcase, had been a bad idea after all, Aglaia admitted now. For the sake of timeliness, she should have taken a taxi as François suggested, but she wasn't thinking straight at that moment and was still struggling to get her psychological bearings.

Once past the airport security gate, she lost all hope of finding a quiet seat, what with the cranky babies in strollers and the keyed-up high-school kids bound for cross-cultural exchange. So she meandered through the duty-free shops instead, her emotions a maelstrom as she stroked the souvenir François had given her, the pendant hanging around her neck. In no time she found herself boarding with the other passengers.

Now that she was buckled in, she calmed the flurry by sorting out the experiences of the past eighteen hours. The intensity of her disillusionment about Lou's treachery in the Louvre was overridden by the magic of meeting François, the flattery of his attentions resulting in her flustered reaction, and her culpability in neglecting to leave the Bible with him. It was a grocery list of feelings and she crossed off the simplest one first: She could always rectify the predicament of the Bible by mailing it to the Tedious Beatnik Taverne for François to open in front of his staff and clientele. The thought made her giggle aloud, giddy as she was with sleep deprivation. The last thing he'd want was that Bible.

Next she considered François's come-on and her own responsiveness. In the harsh light of day, she was relieved the situation hadn't progressed any further last night. The whole thing in retrospect was tawdry, she argued. But François had wanted her—there was no denying that!—and she still tingled at the thought of being so desired. He promised to write, and regular flights connected Denver to Paris. It was a small world and possibilities, however slim, existed for a future with him. In the meanwhile, she could spend many hours reliving that kiss and his lusty proposition and her own hot-blooded response.

However, there was the issue of his hedonistic philosophy regarding women. Honesty now forced her to concede that, even as a love-struck farm girl, she suspected François all along of infidelity. Wasn't that part of his attraction? It was never his
loyalty
that drew Aglaia to him, certainly, but rather his dangerous knowledge of what she wanted when she didn't even know herself. Back then, as a teen, she hadn't entertained curiosity about rival girlfriends' identities, and even now she didn't see the point. As François had told her, Aglaia was the fairest after all.

She tucked her chin into her chest to study the upside-down inscription on her necklace and its gold-etched design—a stylized circlet with an angled slash through the top like the stem of a fruit. It was very pretty; she already cherished it.

The flight attendant locked the cabin doors and still the place next to her was empty. Lou would not be on the flight, then, and Aglaia was free of her muzzling encumbrance! Besides not having to deal with Lou's bossiness, the extra seat would make the long flight home more bearable.

She squeezed a blanket in behind her lower back and covered herself with the second one. As the plane taxied to the runway, she reviewed her trip as a whole.

The past five days in Paris were a whirlwind, and not all bad, she granted. The main point of going in the first place was to deliver the costume as a representative of Incognito, and she'd been successful in that—Eb would be pleased.

In Paris, she saw many famous sites, and she shopped and feasted and learned some new French words. She stood within the splendid light of stained glass windows and in front of her precious Three Graces. She could take satisfaction that a life-long aspiration had been fulfilled. Maybe the time had come to put memories and questions of faith and even romance (that blessed kiss!) behind her and to get on with living in the present, she thought.

But the appraisal of her trip brought up the question of her vocation and of Lou's pestering her to consider the PRU offer. She might soon have a choice to make between Incognito and the university. On the one hand, Eb MacAdam had taught her everything she knew about garment design and construction, and she almost certainly had a future in management there. Besides, even if he was a bit extreme in the religion department, Eb cared about her—Aglaia even suspected he prayed for her. On the other hand, prestige could be hers in the echelon of the arts world if she ended up employed by the university—if in fact what Lou promised her was true. And if she could ever stand being in the company of that woman again.

Aglaia yawned even as the force of the plane broke gravity and pitched itself upwards against the hand of God, pressing her into the seat with its force. Perhaps it was the combination of dead tiredness and the exhilaration of flying that reminded her of Eb reading Milton aloud in his study last week as she sewed with her office door ajar—reading in a somber voice the story of Beelzebub hurled headlong and flaming from the never-ending sky, with hideous ruin and combustion, down to endless perdition.

“Naomi, what in the world are you doing here?”

Aglaia was confused. It was early morning; she'd just picked up her luggage from the carousal and passed through border control to find the other woman in the crowd on the arrivals level. Naomi should have been home in Tiege, not at the Denver International Airport a state away. Aglaia squeezed her eyelids together to wring some moisture into them; they were gravelly after the flight despite the rainclouds the plane dodged on descent. She noticed the bluish smudges under Naomi's eyes as she rushed over and hugged Aglaia soberly.

“Don't get upset, but I have some bad news.” Naomi let her digest this statement before going on. “It's your dad. He's had a heart attack.”

Aglaia's own heart thumped hollowly and she sucked in air.

“It's okay. He's stable for now,” Naomi said, reaching out for Aglaia's hand. “It happened yesterday—Friday. We called your boss and he tried to catch you at the hotel in Paris, but you'd left already. Meeting you at the airport was the best thing for me to do.”

“But you came here all the way from Tiege just to tell me? That's almost four hours away.” Aglaia was disoriented. She should ask more about Dad—she was sick for the details—but for some reason her head got stuck on the logistics of transportation. It wasn't surprising, really; the distances between major towns and the shortage of rural medical services made every countryside dweller conscious of geography.

“No, I spent last night at the hospital with your parents in Sterling,” Naomi explained. Aglaia was sorting it out now; it made sense for Naomi to continue driving on into the city this morning to catch her at the airport.

“But how did it happen—the heart attack?”

“Henry was working in his shop fixing the combine,” Naomi said, “and Tina saw that he was wobbly when he crossed the yard to the house. She phoned us when he admitted he was having chest pains and Byron rushed right over. He tried to load Henry into the truck, but your dad wouldn't agree till Byron sweetened the deal by suggesting that they attend the calf sale at the auction mart after finishing up at the hospital. As if there was any chance of that!”

“Classic,” Aglaia said, shaking her head. Dad was a typical farmer—proud, self-reliant, and hating the spotlight. He'd need that empty promise to justify the cost of the gasoline to town.

A smile softened the corners of Naomi's mouth. “Anyway, that convinced him. Your dad is one tough guy. The pain was much worse than Henry let on and the doctors said he barely made it.”

Aglaia didn't know what else to say, but they were walking fast now and words weren't expected. They strode out the exit towards the adjacent parking lot. The back bench seat of Naomi's old Ford truck was taken up with children's toys, a baby blanket, and a toddler's seat.

“Sorry it smells like a wet dog,” Naomi said, “but it'll still get us back to Sterling by early afternoon. Then I need to head home. Byron's stressed out with harvest and the baby's coming down with something.”

Naomi drove for the first twenty minutes and reported on the status of Tiege's crops—that the late seeding and then the searing heat had stunted the growth of the grain, and now the rains were playing havoc with the swaths lying in the field—and how Henry probably worried himself into this heart attack in the first place. Aglaia didn't break in until they stopped for gas and some fast food.

“Let me take the wheel. You're exhausted,” she offered, though she wasn't perky herself after the transatlantic flight. But driving the beater would be easier than remaining a passive passenger.

Naomi had been rambling, overloading her with the minutiae of life in Tiege—about the roads being cut up because of the rains, and that the local grocery store ran out of coffee three days ago so that everyone was loading up on cola to keep awake. The way she went on, Aglaia thought, it was as if she expected the government to declare a national disaster. Yet somehow Naomi's outpouring was calming. The rhetoric of the farmer at harvest was the same every year, when the annual income for massive operations and small family ventures alike was at the mercy of the weather. Naomi didn't quiz her about the trip to Paris, even when Aglaia handed over the box of fine French
bonbons
—a thank-you gift for taking Zephyr out to Mom and Dad's while she was gone. Aglaia didn't need to use the excuse she'd gotten ready to deflect any possible questions about François, either, because Naomi wasn't asking and, in fact, was maybe avoiding the subject.

And so, by noon Naomi was hunched up against the passenger door and Aglaia, in the driver's seat, was cruising northeastward on the interstate, listening to the radio, her fingers dialing through the available stations and getting nothing but static because of the atmospheric conditions. She eventually made do with a cassette already in the tape deck—churchy, but at least it was peaceful—as she finished off her drive-through burger and bunched the foil bag into a slot beside the ashtray, promising herself she'd throw it out later.

So much for her plan to get right back into her routine of work and the solitude of her city apartment, Aglaia thought. She was being selfish—perhaps she was still in shock over the news about the heart attack. But things were changing in a direction she didn't like. She didn't like the thought that, given her dad's hospitalization, she might be expected to act like a normal and loving daughter—whatever that was.

She hated hospitals with their antiseptic reek of death, but her reticence to see her father was more than that. What did she plan to say to him, all hooked up with tubes and lying inert under the sheets? They hadn't spoken much in the years since she left home, father and daughter. She evaded discussion during her rare trips back to the farm, always restricted to a couple of days during which she occupied herself with wrapping gifts to put under the tree or helping Mom bake hot cross buns while Dad kept busy with chores—plowing snow or fencing. Somehow her bond with her mother had never been totally severed, but with Dad it was different. There'd been a more complete break, with no sharing of cookbook recipes to smooth over the rough spots. When Dad had something to say, he always came straight to the point. What would he say to her today? Words of his from the past streamed into her mind.

“Saw you out at the burning barrel this morning, Mary Grace,” her father says on the day after graduation. It's suppertime. She hasn't told them yet that she's leaving.

“Just getting rid of stuff I don't need,” she mumbles around her mouthful of smoky ham. Then, to put off further conversation, she stuffs in some more
Varenikje.
It's her favorite dish—doughy boiled pockets filled with cottage cheese and smothered in cream gravy. She'll miss Mom's cooking.

“You took the old suitcase out. Going somewhere?” Dad asks.

There's no use trying to hide it. Mom starts to sniffle.

“I've got to leave, Dad. I can't stick around here anymore.”

There's no talk at the table for a good ten minutes after that, while they sop up their plates with heavy brown bread and finish with rice pudding, sweet with raisins.

“I need you,” Dad blurts. “With Joel gone, well… I don't know if I can do it without you.” He's looking at her with his bleary, sad eyes.

It's the only time he's ever asked her for help, maybe the only time he's ever asked anyone for help. Sure, she's had her chores, has taken part in operating the place since she was a kid. Now he's asking for something else. He needs an heir.