A Slender Thread (16 page)

The phone rang. Margot looked up at the clock. It was just after nine. Oliver went to the phone and checked the caller ID. “Lacey,” he said.

Margot shook her head, indicating she was unable to talk. Oliver let the rings continue, loud and intrusive until the machine clicked on and Lacey's voice filled the room.

“Merry Christmas.” Her voice was bright, pitched with excitement. “Wonderful presents. Love the letter opener.” An uneasy laugh. “I'll call . . . tonight?” There was a pause. Other voices in the background filled the void. “Love you,” she said. The line clicked dead.

Oliver didn't come back to the couch but went across the room and stared out at the river. “I'm sorry about Lacey,” he said softly. “You know that.”

“Let's just get through the winter,” Margot said, pushing the throw aside and going to stand next to him. “I'm sure we'll all get more used to the situation. We'll find ways to cope. Maybe Lacey won't get any worse.” She leaned against him. “I love you, Oliver.” She felt better saying this. “In the spring let's talk about getting married.” She kissed him lightly on the mouth.

“Does that mean yes?”

Margot kissed him again. “For now let's just keep loving each other.” She had no idea what the spring would bring.

 

Oliver turned his collar up against the wind. He was walking to the garage where he kept his car, a nameless business on 108th Street between Columbus and Amsterdam avenues. He had yet to figure out what language the garage attendants spoke. The monthly fee was a bargain, but they only took cash. When he returned with the car, Margot would meet him in front of their building and they would drive out to Scarsdale for the open house. His mother had sold the house he grew up in, and his sister, Nancy, and her family lived a few streets away, but returning to the town always reminded him of going home. Even after all these years, it was never easy.

He crossed Broadway. Hunks of paper, plastic, small bits of unrecognizable debris soared along in the brisk wind. Anything near the top of the wire mesh trash containers on the streets lifted off in the gusts of cold air. Useless. He imagined the taste of grit in his mouth.

Oliver had come home from college one winter break to tell his parents that he had won the Walter Newman Arts Award, given to a student showing exceptional promise in painting. The award came with a stipend to study at the Castello Brunelli, an arts colony in the hills outside of Rome, for three months of the summer.

He had arrived in Scarsdale the day of his parents' holiday open house, having stayed on at college for a few days into the break to finish a painting for a class on perspective. His pursuing a degree in fine arts had greatly disappointed his father. Sam Levin had wanted Oliver to follow in his footsteps and attend the Wharton School for his MBA after getting his undergraduate degree at the University of Pennsylvania. Oliver had been a strong student, and though he was accepted at Penn, he chose to go to the Rhode Island School of Design.

Oliver's concession to his father was to promise to work summers for his uncle's investment company in New York. The summer job involved doing all the boring work that the secretaries hated, but after work and during his lunch hour Oliver visited galleries and museums, soaking up art whenever he could.

He had come home excited about telling his parents the good news. The house was full of people. It was early evening. He threw his duffel into the back hall off the kitchen and went in search of his parents. He had gone to the trouble to wear a sport coat, knowing that his long hair, which he wore in a ponytail, was already a source of controversy. He found his dad in the den talking to a neighbor.

As soon as they were alone Oliver told his dad about the award.

“What about your job with Uncle Stu?”

“He doesn't need me. Besides, another summer filing documents is a total waste.”

“A waste? That's what you think? And you think hanging out with a bunch of would-be artists in Rome all summer isn't a waste?”

“It's not just the experience of working with the artists there, Dad. This is something that really matters for my future.” Oliver stared at his dad. His father was a lawyer in New York who dealt with enormous financial transactions. He was a responsible man. Work was about providing for your family. His father accepted the daily grind of riding the train to the city, hauling yourself up into an office tower, and working at a desk until it was well past dark, only to repeat the process in reverse—the steady pattern that meant a mortgage paid on time, a nice home for your wife, a good education for your children.

“So you think you're going to be an artist?” Sam Levin's shoulders dropped. “Where's the security in that?” Oliver knew that in his father's mind the four years at RISD were for getting the art enthusiasm out of his system, as if Oliver's passion were an adolescent phase that he had to work through before turning to business. His dad leaned against the edge of his desk as if he needed support.

“This prize is an honor, Dad. I thought you'd be pleased.”

His father pressed his lips together. Art didn't matter to him. There were no real paintings in their house, only a few reproductions his mother had bought, and those were chosen to match the furniture, like the ship painting that hung above the blue sofa in the living room. All tasteful and unremarkable. Oliver shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting for his father to speak.

“Let's drop it for now,” his father said at last.

“Dad, I'm an artist. Nothing will change that.” Oliver had to paint. It was that simple. It wasn't like working for a bank or an insurance agency. It wasn't a job. It was more than a career. Art had chosen him and not the other way around. He knew he faced a life fraught with instability.

His father shook his head. “I need to get back to our guests.” He walked out of the room, leaving Oliver behind. If only his dad had argued with him and given him the chance to fight back. Once alone in the den, Oliver sank down onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands. His father's distance made him strangely furious as well as sad. Nothing Oliver did in the years following—stellar reviews, one-man shows, a plum job teaching at Columbia—nothing seemed to please his dad or change his opinion of his son.

Now Oliver stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. Would his father finally consider him a success if he were alive today? A bus with a few lone passengers whipped by. Hannah Greene and June Wallace had come to his studio a couple of days ago. He'd shown them the two canvases he'd finished. They had been cordial and admiring, but they seemed pressed for time, making the excuse of the holiday rush. Oliver hadn't sold a major painting in almost a year.

He walked the final blocks to the garage. He mustn't let his mood spoil the entire day. And Margot. He needed to remember what she was going through with Lacey. A single piece of newspaper blew across his path, lifting in the wind.

 

“You're looking glum,” Margot said as she got into the car. She waved briefly at Hector, the doorman. “Your mom will be glad to see you,” she said. “And I promise, no more tears today.” She reached across the seat and touched his arm.

Looking reluctant, Oliver turned onto the West Side Highway heading north. The Hudson River was almost black in the waning light. It was four in the afternoon. Margot was looking forward to seeing Oliver's sister. She had three of Oliver's paintings in her house and she loved to dote on her brother, “the famous artist.”

Oliver's marriage proposal had caught Margot off guard. Like the beautiful necklace she had put carefully away in the velvet box, she tucked his proposal away in some part of her heart, to bring out later at an easier time. Lacey's illness and her family were what mattered now.

Margot's happiest Christmas memories were of times she'd spent with Lacey's family in New Castle. Lacey saw to every detail, making sure no annual ritual was forgotten, that everyone around her was looked after and loved. Lacey had had to learn how to do this early in her life.

One Christmas in Concord when they were still girls, their mother had become increasingly despondent as the holiday grew closer. There were no signs of festivities ahead. No decorations, no apparent shopping trips for surprises, no writing of cards. Margot, about ten at the time, remembered thinking it odd how the unread mail piled up on the hall table. Her father carried the mail to his desk on the weekend and must have read the cards and paid the bills and dealt with whatever was necessary. That Christmas Eve Margot's mother said she must be getting the flu and went up to bed shortly after lunch. A roast beef, frozen solid on the kitchen counter, needed somehow to be thawed and cooked. Grandmother Winkler was coming to dinner.

Lacey, then fourteen, had told their dad not to worry. With Girl Scout–like practicality and good cheer, she took
The Joy of Cooking
from the shelf and busied herself with the preparation of Christmas Eve dinner. Margot set the table and went up to her room to make elaborate place cards from construction paper, ribbon, and glitter.

All afternoon their mother's bedroom door remained shut. At five their father went to pick up his mother. Granny Winkler arrived with presents for her granddaughters and somehow they all muddled along, no one speaking of Helen, who remained behind closed doors. The roast beef was stringy and tough, the mashed potatoes lumpy, and the peas almost mush. Still, everyone praised Lacey for the wonderful meal. Fortunately, their grandmother had brought along her favorite dessert, sticky toffee pudding, the signature dish that her own mother used to make.

Much later that evening, after their dad had taken Granny Winkler home, he returned to find both daughters doing the dishes. Margot stood at the sink while Lacey dried. Hot, soapy water trickled down Margot's arms. She reached into the water to remove one of the crystal water goblets and blew at the puff of bubbles on the rim of the glass. The bubbles did not lift off into the air as she had hoped. Instead, as she raised the glass higher to blow again, it slipped from her hand and crashed onto the stone kitchen floor.

“For God's sake!” her father yelled. “This isn't helping.” He pulled a terrified Margot away from the sink and sent her upstairs to bed.

Margot lay in bed sobbing at the injustice of her father's rebuke. Her father was angry, her mother was sick, and there was no Christmas tree that year. She cried from being scolded, from being sent to bed, from knowing that there might not even be presents in the morning. Then, hopeless and alone in the dark, she heard the door of her room open. Lacey appeared and tiptoed over to her bed. She stroked her little sister's back and said, “There, there, it's okay, Magsie. I love you. You'll always have me.”

Margot understood now the stress her father must have endured. His lovely Helen Lacey, the soft-spoken girl from South Carolina, suffered from alcoholism, maybe depression as well, and there seemed to be nothing he could do to help her. During those years Phil Winkler must have been angry at his wife, at his predicament, at the entire world.

Many years later, when Margot and Lacey talked about their mother and some of the difficult times, Lacey made light of it, saying that it hadn't been as bad as all that. Lacey claimed she had no recollection of that particular Christmas Eve meal.

 

Oliver pulled the car into the driveway of his sister's house, a large stone Tudor, undoubtedly worth a lot with its big lawn, stately trees, and proximity to the city. Nancy and her husband, Ken, had bought their home when their two children were small and they had watched their kids grow up here. Their sons, one still in college, the other in business school, would have made Oliver's father, their grandfather, proud. They were nice young men, too. As Oliver and Margot walked up to the door, Oliver thought about what it might be like to have sons, throwing a ball around on the lawn and going to sporting events.

Coming here, to the town where he had grown up, always filled him with doubts. Would he be any happier now if he'd gone into business, lived in Scarsdale, had a secure life? He missed Jenna today. His daughter was in Phoenix for a few days with her mother, the annual reminder of a painful divorce.

Margot pressed the bell. A moment later, Nancy was pulling her into her arms.

“Welcome, you two.” Nancy smiled and kissed Oliver on the cheek. Her dark hair was thick and springy, cut in short curls and graying slightly, like her brother's.

Margot greeted Nancy warmly and handed her the bag of fancy foods that they brought every year as a gift, including a box of Nancy's favorite chocolates. “Not a painting for me this year?” she joked, looking beyond them as if they might have carried a big wrapped present with them. “College tuitions are draining us. We can't afford any more of your masterpieces.”

“Hang in there,” Oliver said. “My prices may plummet any day.”

Margot gave him a quick look, more like a warning. They took off their coats and Nancy signaled for one of the helpers hired for the party to come and take their belongings upstairs.

“Mom's in the living room,” Nancy said. “Stuck on the sofa next to Mrs. Keller. Let me warn you, she's gotten a bit dotty. No, not Mom,” she added, as if sensing her brother's alarm. “Ken and the boys are in the family room. They're taking turns tending bar, if you want something. The servers are passing wine and eggnog.”

Margot thanked Nancy and took Oliver's hand. They wove through the group of neighbors and friends, making their way across the living room toward Oliver's mother. Margot accepted a glass of wine from one of the servers on their way, but Oliver decided to wait.

“I was wondering where you were,” Janet Levin said. She smiled up at her son as he bent and kissed her cheek. Her hair, brushed and sprayed into an immaculate bubble, tickled his face as he drew back.